She ties him to the bed, face up – cuffs on wrists and ankles, spread-eagled, open for her, helpless, hard, exposed.
Then, a blindfold.
She hasn’t used one for a while, the darkness scares him, she can see it in the way he shies away from her hands, trying to sink into the bed, the way he licks his lips (she watches his tongue slip out of his mouth and lap nervously at the sides of his mouth, it makes her stomach lurch, her mouth opens slightly, almost involuntarily, she hears her own breathing, her eyes on his lips, she shakes the thought loose, kissing would be too familiar to him, too comforting, it is not what she wants).
She moves around the room, getting things ready, she takes her time, keeping an eye on him, she can feel the fear growing in him, she can taste it, it makes her smile.
Sounds of zippers, rummaging in bags, crackling plastic, soft footsteps, her swish as she passes the bed, the slight movement as she places things beside him.
His breath is coming quicker now, shallow, he is trying to be silent so that he can hear her, place her in the room. She knows that his heart is racing by now, that he wants to be touched so badly that his skin aches, that he desperately wants it to start, whatever *it* is, that he can’t bear this empty space between now and then.
He starts to squirm.