Again: “Olga, I need your answer. Do you understand me?”

You manage to give your voice just enough breath to say, “yes”.

………….

You feel his hand graze your shoulder. Your skin jumps at the touch, both unexpected and anticipated. With your eyes covers, your mind becomes completely immersed in the moment, your senses come alive. The touch of his hand, the sound of his breath falling on your neck, the smell of his cologne. How you got here, what happens next are questions you can’t even form in your mind - everything but the moment is pushed aside.

“But for now, Olga..”, he whispers in your ear. Your lips part, your breathing stills as you stand there, a trembling statue.

“.. you will suffer the touch of my hand,” - you feel the back of his fingers trace gentle lines up your neck - “my whispers in your ear,” - tiny hairs on your neck stand up as if the air were charged by an approaching storm - “, the caress of my lips.”. His lips brush against your ear lobe. You exhale, you shudder.

You feel his fingers slide around your neck as he moves in front of you. Your eyes pull at the ties binding them, the white silk blindfold, trying to will themselves free.

Your skin trembles under his touch, feeling his hand moving down your décolletage, too slowly, the touch, too light. The capillaries in your skin swell as your body tries to extract every morsel of pleasure from his touch.

After what feels like minutes, he speaks. “Two simple straps are all that separates you from my touch”. His hand slides over to your spaghettini strap. You feel his finger slide under the strap, pulling it from your skin. You’re dizzy, faint - your dress feels like a binding suffocating your skin but the thin fabric is the only shield for your vulnerability.

You feel the strap slide aside, falling off your shoulder. You feel the dress slacken on your skin, your shoulder bare. His hand returns to your neck as you feel his other hand slide under the last strap holding up your dress. “Please!”, you hear the screaming in your mind. The struggle between your fear and your anticipation shifts. You want him to see you, to touch you. You’re aching, burning.

With a flick of his finger the strap falls from your shoulder, a pull from his hand and the dress falls free from your breasts, your nipples sensitive to the brush of the fabric sliding over them.

The dress falls to your feet. You stand there. Waiting. Your skin reaches out for his touch; your ears, his voice.

You are exposed, bare. You feel turned inside out as you know that he’s standing there, his eyes caressing you.

“Step out of the dress; turn around.” You take a moment to understand, your mind moving slowly. You do as he says but you know you’re nothing but a puppet on strings - strings you gave this unfamiliar voice as you walked down the hallway, as you headed to room 1712.

Your back to him, you once again feel his breath on the nape of your neck. The back of a hand traces the arch of your back, another slides under your forearm and fingers dance under your ribs. You stomach twists and flips at his touch; your breath in short gasps.

You again hear his mouth near your ear and his lips touch your ear but the touch is more insistent this time as they tug at your earlobe. His hand falls down your back, a finger sliding under your panties. “You’re wearing the panties I sent you”. No hint of approval, a matter of fact observation. His fingers slide over your cheek just under your panties following the line down and closer to you, his other hand sliding up your ribs, between your breasts. You feel his wrist rub over your swollen nipples. Blood pulses inside you. You can hear your heartbeat pushing heat into your sex. You swell, redden, moisten, your body responding to the strings being pulled.

He lets go of your earlobe and moves his lips closer to you. “Take them off, Olga”, he whispers. Dulled, your mind momentarily struggles to understand. Eventually you realize what is being asked and slide off your panties. You feel his leg slide between yours as he holds them to the floor allowing you to step free of them. You try to push into his thigh wanting to feel the pressure against your swollen labia. “No, Olga”, his voice like that of a man spurning his daughter. He withdraws his leg, he steps back. You whimper.

Moments pass as if days. You’re alone. Naked. Swollen. Thirst. Hunger. Need.

“Olga”. Your name. A command.

“You fancy yourself the spider, toying with the flies who so willingly ensnare themselves in your web”. A pause. You hold a captured breath. “I am no such fly”.