It's our anniversary weekend, and I can't wait to see what you've planned. I come home to find my bags packed and ready to go. After kissing me, you blindfold me, lead me to the car, and we drive off. I feel the road twist and turn, with moments of brief hills and my stomach drops. I hate that.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we round yet another curve.
"Can't tell," you reply in that thick Spanish accent. "But we will be there soon."
Shortly after, we come to a stop and I wait for you to open my door. I hate being blindfolded, but love the mysterious aspects of this all the same. I sniff the air. Fresh, country, clean, maybe a hint of saltiness.
"Are you going to tell me where we are?" I ask because I'm so damn curious.
"You'll see soon mami," is your reply.
With you guiding me, we walk inside and I hear the crackling of a fire. Whose house? I wonder.
"Before I remove the blindfold, I am going to do something to you," my love whispers in my ear. "But first, sit here." He helps me sit on a couch of some sort. What could this man have done? What is he planning?
He comes back some time later humming a sweet Spanish song. He picks me up and instantly I put my arms around his neck. There is no fabric touching my arms. Curiously, my hands touch him. He's naked. He's stepping carefully---stairwell, I'm guessing-- and before I know it, he places me on a high, plush surface. A bed.
"Baby," I whisper and I don't know why. I'm enjoying this whole situation.
"No, no. Shh." His hands go to my waist and unzip my skirt. It slips down my legs and over my feet. My stilletos are still on.
"Keeping the stilettos on," you say, reading my mind. Still can't understand how you do that.
My silk blouse is removed. Underwear slides down. Bra stays on.
And it begins.
He takes my arms, place them over my head. I feel fabric on my wrists. I'm tied to the posts. More scarves around my ankles.
"I'll be back," his voice trails down the hallway.
He's back in no time. "What did you get?" I whisper.
He answers me by placing something icy cold on my thigh.
"Shit," I whisper. "You got popsicles."
"Si," he answers. "Cherry flavored."
I feel the popsicle as it goes up and down my legs, to the inner part of thighs, up my stomach. He kisses my thighs while his hands are busy with the popsicle. Lips on the ones between my legs. Popsicle circling my breasts. Melting on my flesh. His tongue parts those lips, finds my rosebud, and gently takes his time with it. I sing him approvals. My voice rises and rises and rises. I hear him unwrap another popsicle, then he says, "I hope you're ready for this."
"Oh shit," is all I can say.
He mounts me, automatically my legs wrap around his strong, tight body. The popsicle enters my mouth at the exact moment his flesh enters me. I suck as he strokes. More sucking, more stroking. My orgasms are so exhilarating, so fulfilling, so extraordinary--with a popsicle in my mouth the moans are deeper and longer. I clamp him tighter and he strokes faster.
We come together.
"Happy anniversary," he whispers.
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