Wordmongers' Masque
I had been sitting in the metal chair long enough to warm it with my bare flesh. Purple silk braids bound my wrists and ankles. My eyes were wrapped in a sash of the same fabric.
The surface of my skin nearly reached out into the room as I tried to discern who was there with me. My sense of smell sorted through the ambient odors to note a new fragrance -- masculine -- with a tinge of citrus, cloves and vanilla.
I could feel the weight of his eyes as he inspected me -- who ever this man was. He might not identify himself by voice or touch, but his scrutiny was deep. I felt it like a fingertip pressing into the top of my thigh to where it dipped down into the warmest spot on my body. I felt it slip into me like a latex-gloved finger.
Through the purple blindfold I could make out the suggestion of presence. From the inside of my eyelids I now saw evidence of him like a full-spectrum heat sensor -- the center of his desire blazing red-hot in the black field of the room.
I resented his inspection, the ropes and the blindfold. Who was he? Why must I be the one to bear the exposure, with no clues?
I felt him shift his weight then disappear from my sensors. For a second I felt his breath on the back of my neck, then it registered that he was gone from the room.
I wondered if someone was eventually going to untie me or if I was bound to stay this way, forever.