Chapter 16: The Blindfold Experiment
The thick silk blindfold bit into the bridge of Paul’s nose. Darkness, absolute and smothering, pressed in. He knelt on the plush rug beside Odette’s unmade bed, the scent of her expensive perfume – that familiar bergamot and vanilla – mingling with the clean linen smell. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, palms damp. Every other sense screamed. The low thrum of jazz from Odette’s vintage record player. The distant, muffled sounds of London traffic five stories below. The frantic hammering of his own heart against his ribs.
"Comfortable?" Odette’s voice, close and amused, cut through the void. Her fingers brushed his jaw, making him flinch. "Don’t speak. Just nod."
He nodded. The silk scraped his skin.
"Perfect. Remember the rules. You kneel. You serve. You do not speak, not a word. Not even a moan, unless I command it." Her tone was light, conversational, as if discussing the weather. "You taste. You listen. You wonder. But you do not know. You may never come to know who used you tonight. That’s the point, Paul. Delicious, isn’t it?" Her fingertip traced his lower lip, a casual possessiveness that sent a jolt through him. "The first will be here soon. Be good." Her footsteps retreated across the polished floorboards.
Silence, thick and expectant, settled. Then, the soft chime of the apartment doorbell. Muffled voices. Odette’s bright laughter. A lower murmur he couldn’t decipher. More footsteps, approaching. He braced himself, every muscle taut. The scent shifted – a wave of something warm, spicy, like sandalwood and amber, overlaying Odette’s perfume. He cataloged it frantically, uselessly: Perfume. Expensive. Not floral. Oriental?
Knees appeared in his field of non-vision, clad in soft fabric that brushed his bare forearms. The air stirred as she settled before him. He could feel the heat radiating from her body. No words. Just the rustle of clothing. Then, the unmistakable, intimate scent of aroused female flesh bloomed, rich and musky, cutting through the sandalwood. His breath hitched. The scent was unique, unlike Odette’s sharper tang or Camilla’s earthy sweetness from the cafe.
Hands, cool and soft, guided his head forward. He resisted for a fraction of a second, a primal recoil against the unknown, then surrendered, letting his face be pressed into the yielding warmth. He recognized the topography instantly – the swell of the outer lips, the softer folds beneath. His tongue moved automatically, seeking the source of that heady scent. He found the hood, circling gently, feeling the small hardness beneath. A sharp intake of breath above him. His world narrowed to sensation: the silken texture, the slickness, the salt-bitter taste exploding on his tongue, complex and layered. He worked with focused intensity, the way he knew pleased, his tongue flat and broad, sweeping and circling. He heard a low, shuddering sigh, felt fingers tangle roughly in his hair, holding him firmly in place. Not Odette’s grip. Stronger. Demanding. He lost himself in the rhythm, the taste, the rhythmic clenching of muscles against his mouth. She came silently, a series of powerful tremors against his lips, flooding his mouth with the distinctive tang of her release – deeper, muskier than Odette’s. The fingers in his hair tightened painfully, then released. The warmth receded. The sandalwood scent faded as she moved away. Only the taste lingered, metallic and intimate.
He stayed frozen, kneeling, breathing hard through his nose. The blindfold felt tighter. Who? Someone Odette knew from the chambers? A client? A stranger she’d met at a gallery? The anonymity was a physical weight.
"So efficient," Odette murmured, her voice drifting from somewhere near the door. "He's surprisingly adept, non?" A low chuckle, not the first woman’s.
More murmurs. Another chime? Or just movement? The darkness played tricks. The air changed again. This scent was cleaner, sharper. Lemon verbena? And beneath it, something faintly medicinal, like tea tree oil. Simpler. Younger? The knees this time were bare, cooler skin brushing against his arms. Jeans? Denim scraped his wrist as she positioned herself. No preamble this time. Hands gripped his head – smaller hands, fingers digging in – and yanked him forward. No teasing exploration. She ground herself against his face, demanding pressure. The taste was different immediately – brighter, tangier, less complex. Almost bracing. He adjusted, pushing his tongue deeper, using the flat of it firmly against her. She gasped, a short, sharp sound. Not silent. Her hips jerked against his mouth, seeking friction. He felt the ridge of her clitoris pressing hard against his upper lip. He focused there, flicking rapidly, the way Odette sometimes demanded when she was impatient. A choked cry escaped her, followed by a gush of wetness, tasting clean and sharp, flooding his mouth. She held his head locked against her for a long moment, trembling, then pushed him away roughly. He heard her stumble back, breathing raggedly. The lemon verbena faded quickly.
Paul swallowed, the combined tastes a confusing cocktail in his mouth. His jaw ached. He felt dizzy, dislocated. Two. Two strangers. Their pleasure extracted, their identities hidden. He was an appliance. A skilled, anonymous appliance.
Odette’s perfume enveloped him as she approached. She didn't touch him. "Halfway," she announced brightly. "Doing well." Her casual critique stung. "Number three is eager. Playtime’s over. She likes it… focused."
The third scent arrived like a wave. Rich, deep, unmistakably her. Jasmine. Heavy, narcotic, almost overpowering. And beneath it, the undeniable, thick, humid scent of potent arousal. It filled his nostrils, thick and sweet. This one didn't kneel immediately. He felt her presence, a warmth radiating close to his face. He sensed her leaning down. Her breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint, brushed his ear.
"Odette says you remember tastes," a voice murmured, low, husky, educated. A voice he had no recognition of. "Remember mine." Her tone held a challenge, a dark amusement. "You’ll be tasting it again, often."
Then she was there. No guidance. He felt the softness press against his lips, already slick. He opened his mouth instinctively. The taste was immediate and overwhelming. Intensely sweet, cloyingly so, with a deep, musky undertone that coated his tongue. Unique. Unmistakable. She sighed as his tongue found her, a sound of deep satisfaction. She moved against him slowly, languidly, controlling the rhythm completely. He followed, licking deep into her folds, swirling around her entrance, finding her clit and applying steady, rhythmic pressure. She moaned, a low, continuous sound that vibrated against his mouth. Her hands cradled his head, not gripping, but holding him possessively. She took her time. Minutes stretched. Her sighs grew deeper, her hips rolling with deliberate slowness. The taste was everywhere, filling his senses. Jasmine and salt and her unique, overwhelming sweetness. When she came, it was a slow eruption, a pulsing release that went on and on, drenching his chin, dripping down his neck. The taste intensified, metallic and floral and thick. She held him there, shuddering, whispering something unintelligible against the top of his head. Then, slowly, she withdrew. The heavy jasmine lingered, clinging to him.
Silence. Thick, heavy silence. Only his harsh breathing. The jazz still played, mockingly cheerful. He felt exposed, used, dripping. The blindfold was soaked with sweat beneath the silk. The tastes warred in his mouth – sandalwood, lemon verbena, overwhelming jasmine, the salt of sweat, the metallic tang of releases.
Footsteps. Odette’s lighter tread approached. The scent of bergamot washed over him, cutting through the jasmine. Cool fingers touched the knot of the blindfold. She pulled the silk away.
Light, even the dim lamplight of her bedroom, was a physical assault. Paul blinked, eyes watering, trying to focus. Odette stood before him, smiling down, her green eyes alight with triumph and amusement. The room was empty but for them. The three women were gone, vanished as completely as if they’d never been.
"Stand up," Odette commanded, not unkindly.
His legs trembled violently as he pushed himself up. He almost fell. She didn’t reach to steady him. She circled him slowly, inspecting him like a curator examining a sculpture. Her gaze lingered on his glistening chin, the damp patches on his t-shirt collar. She stopped in front of him.
"Well?" she asked, tilting her head. "What did you think of your afternoon tea?"
He opened his mouth, but only a dry croak emerged. He cleared his throat, tasting remnants. "I... I don't…" He couldn't form the thought. Who were they?
Odette laughed, a bright, clear sound. "Exactly! You don't know. And you never will. That’s the beauty of it." She stepped closer, reached up, and ran her thumb through the dampness on his chin. She brought her thumb to her own lips, licked it slowly, deliberately, her eyes locked on his. "Mmm. Jasmine. Bold choice." She wiped her thumb on his shirt. "You did adequately, Paul. For a first trial run. Number one enjoyed your thoroughness. Number two found you… acceptably direct. Number three," she smirked, "was very impressed. Said you have a talented tongue. She’s already asked for next Wednesday."
Paul swayed. Next Wednesday. Another face in the dark. Another taste to remember but never place.
"Now," Odette said briskly, turning towards her en-suite bathroom. "Go clean yourself up. You’re dripping on my rug. And Paul?" She paused at the doorway, looking back, her expression suddenly serious, almost predatory. "Don’t get too comfortable cataloging those tastes. My calendar is filling up faster than I expected. Variety really is the spice." She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him alone in the scented, violated silence, the phantom sensations of three strangers still burning on his skin and his tongue. The record player clicked. Silence.