Then he moved back a bit so that he could look up into my eyes.
His expression was still serious and intense. So different from me. A big wide smile made its way onto my face. In spite of that difference, we connected. In a place with no passports or personal identities. Who cared what his profession was?
We kept looking at each other.
Simon kept up the rhythm. He knew my song by heart.
My vagina tightened – again in a different, unexpected place. Every nerve from the bottom of my stomach to the back of my butt vibrated inside. Like hidden threads of fire underneath an old volcano, smouldering away the centuries, covered by ash and stone, until, one day, someone ignites them and then – oh, then.
I could feel the magma rising through its secret paths. My body was dancing on a sea of flames.
I did try to stand firm on my four-inchers. Pretty, yes. Simon had liked them at first view, high on the promontory of Nepenthe, when I crossed my legs on the rough rustic bench.
Standing still, of course, denied those internal tremors their release. They had no choice but to double up on themselves. The tension grew. My fingers twirled into each other, I had to hold on so hard. These fault lines must explode at some point. Have to. Come on. Don’t you know this, in California?
Simon smiled at me, a little absentmindedly. He was still focused on his great work. Could he read me through my skin? Could he feel the trembling inside me, with those sophisticated fingers?
Another sigh came out of me.
Simon nodded. Was this the sound of a good instrument?
I tried to imagine myself as a big cello, or (they would have liked this at Esalen) a Javanese gong. But what came into my mind was a picture I had seen of that strange nineteenth-century device, the glass harmonica.
It was loved by Victorian audiences who sat, fully dressed in layers of underwear, with thick fabric on top, watching a blind young girl, herself completely covered up to the top of her neck, stroke tenderly, with naked hands, a series of slippery revolving glass rings, assembled in a long, huge phallic contraption. The glass harmonica produced high, eerie sounds, like ghosts demented by denied desire, or, as the writers of the time liked to phrase it, like the voices of disembodied angels.
Stripped of Victorian trappings, the glass harmonica is an unashamedly erotic instrument. And as Simon applied himself to me, I started to feel like that great spiral of cylinders itself, responding with internal vibrations to the virtuoso’s every touch.
A touch that now sent my vagina into a huge tremor, starting deep inside and rippling out in all directions. My inner lips parted to let the clitoris head slip out. My hips opened.
I started shaking in earnest now.
My spine buckled and heaved. I had to spread out both my arms to grasp at empty air for balance. My whole body shook with wave after wave of grand orgasm.
At that point I decided that my feet could no longer carry me. I finally let go and allowed myself to collapse onto the bed.
For a moment, as I fell back, I didn’t know if anything would hold me up. If I would fall into nothingness. If I would crash onto the floor. If a door into interstellar vacuum would open up and I would fall through, backwards, like Alice on Fire …
My landing was soft. My head bounced a bit, but my shoulders were met by an accommodating mattress. I felt dizzy, but not unpleasantly so. The wave of orgasms rolled over me. I rode that wave. I felt as if the world had splashed out on a free flight to the nearest supernova system.
Simon dived after me.
He pushed my legs down, not without once more admiring the elegant line of my four-inched feet.
He then took the long silk strips that were lined up next to where I lay and wound them around my ankles. Was there no end to his artistry?
I just lay there, warm and soft, spent but still alert.
And he took his time.
First the deepest black, right across the top of my feet. Soft and wide, but very firm when pulled together. Didn’t I read somewhere that silk is strong enough to catch a falling plane? Or something? I must ask Simon, if I remembered.
Then came the next strip, lighter in colour but equally strong. Simon went halfway up to my calves, winding one strip through another. The result, as far as I could see if I lifted my head, the only part of me that I was willing to move, was very stylish, like a black and white photograph.
The result for me was renewed arousal. All the way up from my feet, but this time fast and powerful. I wasn’t sure if it was possible to come just from having my ankles bound, but it seemed that I was going to have a chance to find out.
‘Simon,’ I said, ‘I love it. I love what you do.’ To my own ears, my voice sounded dreamy. Perhaps a little slurred.
But Simon understood me.
He reached up to stroke my cheek. Touched my best bra.
Then he returned to his work. Every tug of the silk strips was answered by renewed tension between my legs.
A few times he looked up at me, again with this intense, focused expression as if he could see something in me that I didn’t yet know.
Like the designer of an instrument, aware that every little curve will affect its resonance. And of course the tension of the strings will have to be tweaked just right. Even if it hurts a little.
Was Simon maybe the one who tuned the guitars for that famous American band? Listening to the vibration of a single note, eyes closed, head cocked to the side …
And then I wished it was not so slow. I wished he would move on, move up, move all over me …
And he did.
My ankles were now firmly bound, to each other, to the bed.
Simon carefully teased out the folds of the wide red skirt (I knew by then he would never tear such beautiful material) and arranged it in a glorious circle around my naked body.
I felt the welcome pressure of his body on mine. His shirt brushed my skin, smooth and cool. His pants a little rougher. Hot flushes ran over all my body. Yes. Gravity still worked.
I lifted my shoulder to help him spread out the fabric all round.
I felt as if I had wings. Deep-red silken wings of lust.
I threw out my arms. Simon kissed my wrists, then bound them quickly to the edges of the bed. I felt the soft caress of the exquisite silk strips. His movements were confident. No need for trial and error. Once you’ve tuned an instrument, I suppose, it gets easier to get it into shape.
He tugged on the bonds to make sure they were both secure and safe for me. My lungs had no choice but to expand.
I sighed with satisfaction.
Moving slowly on top of me, Simon put his arms around my neck and gave me a deep, deep kiss. I kissed him back.
His tongue was just as good at exploring unexpected delights as his fingers. He advanced and retreated, he licked and pushed.
Then he allowed me to respond. I tried to suck at his tongue. He let me, then he moved away. Then covered my face with little quick kisses. Then slipped his tongue back in. We savoured each other’s flavour. Then just stopped all the tricks and gave it up in one big, breath-stopping, deep, deep kiss. Then relaxed and lay still, embracing each other.
His shirt stroked my naked skin. All my body was aroused.
‘Are you ready to play?’ Simon said.
‘Yes,’ I said. Not as loudly as before, but with even more enthusiasm. Now I knew what he could do!