Continuing on from part 1 which was published in December …
On the third date I invited him in for a nightcap. When I handed him his whiskey I curled my arm about his waist, but carefully so as not to dislodge a delicate limb. I had to get the party started.
And he kissed me. Woohoo! We’re on the train! I could taste the tiramisu we’d shared at the Italian bistro, and thought, so Italian food it is for the rest of my life. Was I being too keen?
Despite my eagerness, he was very gentle. Oh Lordy, I thought, he’s a gentle one. If I’m too aggressive will his tongue fall out?
This made me giggle.
What?’ he said.
Poor lad, he can’t read my mind yet.
‘Nothing,’ I said. I gave him a dewy-eyed smile and leaned into him again. But as soon as our lips met I burst out laughing.
‘What is it?’
I leant back, but kept my arms about his waist, hoping my smile was reassuring as I gazed into his bright eyes. He probably thinks I’m a smiling idiot.
‘What is it?’ he repeated.
I bit my lip, and said, ‘This might sound like a stupid question, but – and I had to smother another rising giggle – has your tongue ever fallen out?’
He pulled my hands from behind him and stepped back in laughter.
‘Oh God, no!’ He laughed some more. ‘Only a Collapser would think of that! Why, has yours?’
I grinned and shook my head. ‘In all the licking I’ve done in my life I have never lost my tongue.’
‘And what have you licked in all your life?’ he said, raising a smiling eyebrow.
‘Ice cream, stamps, peanut butter off spoons, is the answer I’ll give you,’ I said. ‘But my tongue is safe and sound. Maybe if I stuck it in a vacuum cleaner –‘ and then I gagged at the thought. ‘Yuck, imagine having to tape it in and eat a meal.’
‘Oo’d be eagig iv a mowv foo of tape,’ he said. Yep that was funny, in my book anyway. (In fact anything’d be funny on the first night with this Mediterranean hunk).
So I said, ‘Let’s find out.’
I took his hands in mind and waggled my tongue at him. Yep, I’m an idiot, I thought, standing here wagging my tongue at him like a winsome puppy. No dignity. But thankfully he leant in and wriggled his tongue back at me. Which means he is as desperate as I am. Yes! So we stood there, giggling like children, open mouthed, wagging tongue on tongue, making gargled sounds to top it off.
Then suddenly he drew me to him, put his hands about my neck and kissed me firmly. Oh sweet heaven, that’s more like it, give me some man. I met his passion (now there’s an olde worldy phrase, no?), confident I was lingually secure.
Mid osculation, I directed him to the bedroom where we kicked off our socks and shoes and went for his shirt button: he went for mine. When his was off, I ran a hand over his exposed chest. Oh Lordy double plus, it’s silky smooth, hard and almost hairless. Naturally so or does he wax? I’d like to see that, see a man go through what we do, just to get his reward. Twinges in my loins at this stage, some seriously growing wanting. Enough to make me unclip my bra and release my girls to his gaze. Come on, touch them, they’re beautiful, yes! He touched the right one gently. Oh my goodness, stop being a featherweight. I grabbed his hand and pressed it hard on my boob.
‘They don’t fall off either,’ I said. He smiled.
Pants were next. I ripped his off. Belt, zipper, dragged them down along his muscular thighs oh my lord, those muscular thighs. Then he undressed me, and we were standing face to face, clad only in undies and duct tape. I slipped off my knickers and stood before him. For the first time for a long time – in fact forever – I realised, I felt emboldened and confident. Here was a man who could appreciate my condition, and who wanted me. I was proud. I was about to jump him when he said,
‘Tape on or off?’
That I hadn’t thought of. Was there a risk? Would we fall apart mid passion? Body parts scattered in a weird bedroom demolition derby? Dammit, I wanted nude.
I was about to reach for the tape on my shoulder, but his hand grabbed mine.
Oh boy, this is new territory. I stood there, feeling like a wounded bird as he tenderly pulled the tape from my shoulder. He was Mr Gentle again, but this time I felt cared for, treasured even. There was no rasping of the skin, no stretching or aching about the tape. When it was off he crumpled the tape into a ball and flung it across the room. I thought he’d start on my other shoulder, but he lifted my arm high to free up its movement, and ran his fingers along its length up to my wrist.
Oh sweet torture. He was controlling me, and never did I want it more. My knees shook and I started breathing heavily. I desperately wanted to kiss him again, but by then he had started on the other arm. And when he lifted that one I was gone. My mind sank in a whorl of delight. My cunt was on fire. Take me take me take me.
Then he did my neck.
I tilted my head back to facilitate his access and the waves of surrender coddled through my whole body. With exquisite tenderness he held my skin and began unlacing the strands of tape. His hands met each other at the nape of my neck to pass the material delicately about me. Like a man lacing a necklace about his lover’s neck, but far, far better. I could smell him. I was so close. His cheek brushed mine.
I just melted in a hot and visceral fire. No one had ever done this to me – for me. When the tape was off he softly caressed the freshly exposed skin of the neck, so I kissed him. His hands were on my neck. I thought I’d hate that, but his touch was almost imperceptible, and I became sublimely vulnerable, wholly captivated by his caring presence.
I went to kiss him, but he dodged me and placed his hands on my sides and laid me on the bed. I was his sacrifice, his bounty, his pleasure. I had only desire. I whimpered, and giggled.
But he ignored me and slowly unwound the tape from my thighs. Oh god, I was so horny. I wanted him to touch me, there, grab me, feel my heat, so I arched my back to lead him there, but he still ignored me, and when the tapes were off he manoeuvred my legs to explore their freedom, lifting them, moving them as a therapist might a patient.
I felt totally naked now, more so than just a woman with no clothes. I was wholly and utterly prepared, cossetted, rarified. Lust ached in me, the desire to purge, to contain and exhaust.
I groaned and leapt up to demand he take me, but he put a finger to my lips and said, ‘Now you do me.’
Damn! I’m there, lover boy, I’m ready and still you hold out. Foreplay had never been like this.
Frustrated, wanting, I clawed at his tape, ripping off strips in eager handfuls.
‘Easy, woman,’ he yelled. I ignored him, and ripped off the tape.
His breath was vibrant on my face as I attended to his neck. I noticed as I had many times how slender it looked, but got distracted by the grist of chin stubble that stoked the heat in my groin. This man is so hot. I kissed him when his neck was bare, and smelled his hot tang of maleness. I couldn’t stand it. I jumped on to the bulge in his pants to alleviate the ache inside me, and, panting, tore off his thigh tapes, indifferent to his cries of pain.
‘Now!’ I demanded breathily as I balled the last of the tape and flung it across the room. ‘Let’s see what’s under here!’
The cheeky bastard just lay back on the mattress and flexed his beautiful pecs as his arms stretched behind his head. ‘Help yourself.’ He had a broad and lascivious grin.
I grabbed the hem of his underpants, and was about to pull them down, but a thought burst in my muddled brain.
‘Are you – ?’
He grinned back at me.
‘Do you have to – ?’ I said.
He nodded and turned his eyes towards his groin with his huge smile.
I levered off his pants and marvelled. It was a rigid and beautiful column, architectural in mien, affixed to the pedestal of his abdomen by a crown of brilliant blue tape. It was a deep royal blue, a Renaissance twilight, majorelle, against the hairless undercarriage of his abdomen.
I stared up at him, wide-eyed.
‘I keep it bare down there,’ he said. ‘Tape doesn’t stick so well to hair. I don’t usually tape it, but took the precaution – and he sat up and kissed my hand which sent me into a minor paroxysm right there – in case I lose control.’
Oh god, hurry up and lose control, I thought. But I said,
‘Does it really come off?’
‘It can,’ he said.
I squealed with delight and clapped my hands.
‘You have a detachable penis!’
‘It’s a silver a lining to being a Collapser,’ he said.
‘It’s every woman’s fantasy,’ I said. ‘Can you still feel it even though it’s off?’
He nodded, and I flung my head back in glee. ‘That’s wicked. I could put it in the fridge at work and take it out while you’re in a big meeting in the office next door, give you remote head!’
‘A new kind of Mr Potato Head,’ he said, and I roared with laughter. Then he said, ‘But back to now, tape on or off?’
I grinned and ran my nails fingers along its length, smiling as I saw him catch his breath.
‘On,’ I said, ‘I want some action.’
In what followed I lost an arm, and somehow at various intervals – something that he said had never happened before – he dropped a foot and three fingers. At one stage in the night he stopped and said, ‘Do you have any tape? It’s got loose.’
I took him to the bathroom and ogled him as he applied fresh tape. Then we resumed, and spent the wee hours catching up on years of forced celibacy and failed attempts, revelling in our newfound abandonment.
When I awoke late the next morning, I stared at his sleeping form and knew that he would move in.
He did, three weeks later.
And was infuriating to live with.
* * * * * *
Photo courtesy of Darry Low via Unsplash