We open with inspiration from Deathless

Under the blindfold you hear the brûlée snap under the spoon. The clink of the metal on the glass, and again the subtle pressure of the spoon on your lips. The custard is rich and thick, with the shard of sugar a perfect textural counterpoint. Your tongue slides the flavor around over and over before you swallow.

The wineglass touches your lips and you sip, a viscus Canadian ice wine, sweet and flavorful, deep red, full of after notes.

The evening has gone this way. You saw the repast as you sat in the chair, catalogued what you could while I wound the straps round and round your calves, binding each to a leg of the chair. Then your forearms, again the straps almost tight enough to block circulation, certainly tight enough to hold you immobile. Then the straps around your chest, pulling you to perfect posture against the old oak, feeling the carvings on the hardwood chair back pressed into your spine. Then the blindfold.

Then the food. One slow mouthful at a time of caviar. The buttery brine of the eggs, salty and delicate popping against your tongue. Then a sip of the wine, Blanc de Noir, to match the taste. Three spoonfuls, then four. Then no more.

A light sorbet to cleanse the palate. Just a spoonful.

Then the kale, creamed and just a touch bitter, rich beyond belief, with shards of bacon in it. A light white wine between each sip.

With each sorbet you feel your mind racing, your heart pounding about what might come next. What had you seen?

The roasted marrow on toast, with a deep blood red, extremely dry.

The cool lemon clears your tongue but not your mind. You can feel the pulse, but it seems bound as you are the blood has only one place to go.

The unagi, grilled and perfectly smooth, with a saki.

The lemon. You moan with pleasure at it now. Even that delicate touch feels like it's everywhere you would wish to be touched.

The duck confit, rich beyond rich, with the effervescence of champagne to brighten it up.

It's indescribable. The want for what is next.

Every decadence in the world, four spoonfuls of each, just enough to taste, until you are replete, sated and spent, with the fourth spoonful of brûlée in you.

You feel your hands tingle back to life as the straps are unwound, then your feet, which you don't trust to hold you.

I lift you, still blindfolded, and place you in your bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets caressing you. When the blindfold come off the room is pitch dark.

I whisper in your ear "would you like to move from taste to touch?"