Begging For Blindness

The first time he used a blindfold on me, I had no idea what to expect. He stood me naked in the center of a room and slipped it over my head. It was leather and fit snugly—no chance of seeing through any stray cracks. He walked around me and was talking quietly, asking me questions in a rapid-fire manner, changing directions on me—I didn’t know what was coming next, or where it was coming from. He didn’t touch me—not for a long time, but he would blow a cool breath down my neck that made me shiver, or I would hear his voice and feel his hot wet words on my ear. By the time he finally did touch me, I was trembling and wet, shaking from the unknown and unexpectedly liking it. He ran a casual finger along my collarbone, so lightly I wondered if I imagined it. Then he ran both his hands down the length of my body, dipping between my thighs to see if I was wet. I was. What followed next was this onslaught of physical sensations and feelings and I didn’t know and couldn’t tell if it was him inside me, or his hands, or a dildo or anything. I came and came and cried and screamed until I thought I would pass out. He laid me on the floor and took the blindfold off and looked at me with love and tenderness and held me. And a day later, I begged him to do it again.