Blind Love


It has been a long day for you. Your students frustrated and antagonized you to the point where you very nearly wanted to strangle each and every one of them, even the good ones. But you maintained your composure, partly because, as you struggled through your day, you recalled that morning.

You had awakened to the feel of my fingers tickling the full, soft nest of auburn hair around your sex, stirring you from sleepiness to arousal. Still with closed eyes, you pulled my fingers from you and sucked on them while pulling me over you. We had made love tenderly, sighing and moaning as I rolled atop you, inside you. Unlike the night before, which was torrid and feverish, our lovemaking that morning was soft and gentle. Even though your passion is often so overwhelming as to be almost desperate, you still enjoy my tender touch.

Missy Higgins plays on the radio as you drive home. The moody, haunting melodies and soulful words make you smile. Missy's music means something special to us.

Something flutters in the pit of your stomach as you head up the walk of our house. Each step toward the door seems to leave some of your dreariness behind. A smile crosses your lovely face as the door opens and you see me, holding a cup of tea for you. It has become a welcome-home ritual. As I am finally a published author, I spend the majority of my day at home.

We meet with a smoldering, passionate kiss. Since the wedding, our desire and love for one another has only grown. The feel of your lips on mine, the taste of your breath, brings forth an immediate reaction from me. I am as easily aroused as you, it seems.

You set your car keys and handbag upon the counter, and we retire for a few minutes on the rear deck. You enjoy your tea and the first cigarette you have had since your lunch break. I tell you of the progress I have made on my latest novel; you share the excruciating details of your day. I give you a mischievous look as I casually mention that I have a surprise for you.

You smile back, cheeks colouring slightly, the full lips of your sexy little mouth starting to swell with arousal. I love how they do that, like some silent beacon letting me know when you are feeling randy.

"Where is it?" you ask in a breathy voice.

My eyes glitter in the afternoon sun of this late April day. "In the bedroom," I say.

Your own eyes glow. I can tell you are getting more turned on by the moment. Your breasts rise and fall beneath your blouse; you once told me that you thought they were too large for your slender body. I think they, like everything else about you, are adorable.

The tea and cigarettes are done. I rise and hold out my hand for you, leading you back through the house to our bedroom. Oh, what memories we have already made in this room . . . not to mention all the others. I wonder if you ever think about that humid, sweaty summer afternoon, when I settled you upon the kitchen table, holding your legs wide apart as we fucked (sometimes we make love, but many times, we fuck) until you erupted over and over in orgasm. We had invited some friends over later that evening, and dined upon the same surface which had trembled beneath our writhing bodies. You told me later that night how kinky that was.

But at the moment, your attention is focused upon the display I have prepared in our bedroom. The covers of our large king-sized bed have been pulled down, exposing the cool silk sheets we sleep on. It is the light blue set, today. At the edge of the bed sits a small basket, draped with a large handkerchief, disguising its contents. A bottle of champagne sits in ice in the chiller beside the bed. You giggle at the sight.

"Did you make us a picnic in bed?" you ask as I stand behind you, reaching out to caress your sides, your torso. You sigh, pushing back against me.

"In a way," I whisper, kissing the edge of your ear. "And you are the main course."

You tremble at my words, give in to my touch. We have had so much time to learn what the other likes when it comes to lovemaking, that I know just where – and how – to touch you. I hear soft gasps escape your lips as my hands wander up and down your body, pressing through your clothes. Your heat grows inside you like kindling igniting a bonfire. Faint moans choke in your throat.

I nuzzle and lick your neck, gently nipping at your firm flesh there as my fingers begin tugging at the buttons of your blouse. You gasp as, at last, I disrobe you. Had it been up to you, I know, our clothes would have been literally torn away by now and our home would be filled with your cries. You ache for release, for that glorious rush, the feel of me inside you.

But I want to take my time.

You understand this, and accept this, because you know, no matter how much I tease and torture you, I will eventually satisfy your every libidinous need. Still, you cannot help but quiver with frustrated desire.

Your blouse falls away, and my fingertips trail up from your waist to the undersides of your heavy breasts. I cup them gently, just holding them, my fingers moving imperceptibly as I suck along your neck. I take the lobe of your right ear between my teeth and bite gently. You gasp, a loud impassioned sound, pushing insistently against me. You can feel my erection through my jeans.

And you must be wondering: If you're so hard, why don't you just bend me over and fuck me? Just shove your cock up inside me, either hole, I don't care! Don't you know how much I need it?

But my slow torture continues. Indeed, it is only beginning. Still kissing your neck, my hands slide around your narrow body and deftly free the clasp of your brassiere. You sigh as your firm mounds are released. The undergarment falls to the floor. Your nipples are dark and stiff, begging for attention. Teasingly, I brush my fingers across them, but only for a moment. You moan, writhing slowly. The fire inside you is burning now.

My hands move down your taut abdomen to the tops of your professional slacks. You are whimpering as I pull down the zipper slowly, tooth by tooth. My slow, deliberate movements are making you impatient. My hands move up to the waistband of your slacks, thumbs hooking beneath them and the thin material of your panties. You sigh, open-mouthed, wanting to be naked for me.

In a sudden move that makes you gasp, I fall to my knees, jerking your slacks and panties all the way down. The abruptness of my movements startles you, making you cry out. Suddenly, you are nude, and I am behind you . . . .

You feel my breath upon the firm cheeks of your ass, the light touch of my lips along the smooth flesh. It makes you whimper again. I know what you want me to do: you want me to push my face between your lovely globes, to taste you, probe you, make you shudder in ecstasy. You know I love the sensation of my tongue lapping and tickling your slick lips and puckered anus almost as much as you do.

Instead, I place two small kisses on your buttocks, one for each, as I remove your day shoes. I push back up to my feet. You make a sound that voices your temporary disappointment.

I step around before you, letting you see me. It makes you both aroused and intimidated that I am fully clothed and you are totally nude. My eyes admire your body for the thousandth time. The narrowness of your hips and the fullness of your bosom are an exciting, erotic contrast, as much as your pale skin and dark, reddish-brown hair. Your blue eyes are fierce and glowing with lust and love.

I lead you to the bed, and lay you down, settling beside you. Your hands wander to my body, pulling on my clothes; you want me naked as well, I know. We kiss deeply, lovingly, sharing our breath. Your body rolls gently as you anticipate what I have planned.

I let you pull my shirt from the waist of my jeans, and I sit up a moment beside you, taking the garment off. Your eyes drink me in, following the lines of the tattoos that grace my arms and chest. You were somewhat intimidated by the work the first time your eyes saw them, but you have come to love the tattoos as much as you love the man who wears them.

Your hands search out the firm bulge in my jeans. You want to feel the real thing. The coarse denim frustrates you as you grope. You tug at the button, but I stop you. You give me a pleading look, but I just smile and kiss you again. I suck your tongue as it thrusts into my mouth.

I reach over your body, and for a moment, you think I am going to lie atop you. Your legs part, sliding across the smooth surface of the silken sheets. But then you realise that I have taken something from beneath the pillows. I hold it up before your face, as my own holds a mischievous look.

You look upon it, eyes widening. It is a soft, red velvet sleeping mask. You tremble slightly, then slowly nod. We had once, long ago, discussed sexual fantasies, and blindfolding you had been the first on both our lists. A shiver travels through your body as you realise this fantasy is about to be fulfilled. Lifting your head, you let me settle the device over your eyes, securing the band behind your head.

Your sight vanishes. Not even the slightest bit of light penetrates the mask. You have no hope of seeing what I do, not unless you reach up and take off the mask.

But I have thought of that, as well.

You feel my lips along the side of your face, trailing to your ear. You are unbearably hot and desperate at this point. Your breath is ragged as it flows out of your lungs.

"I love you, Lisa," I tell you in a passionate whisper.

"I-I l-love y-you," you echo, your voice stammering.

"Do you trust me?"

You moan, your pouting lips working a moment as your body undulates with need. "I-I trust you," you whimper.

"Remain still," I say. You feel me move on the bed, leaning over you. Your hands roam over me as I reach down past your feet. I push your left leg out away from your body, toward the corner of the bed, straightening it. You feel something very soft and silky slide around your ankle. A band of cloth, you realise. I tie it securely, but not too tight.

You moan, understanding what I am doing. Even before I have the chance to pull on your other leg, you are extending it out toward the other corner. I chuckle at your readiness to begin this fantasy. I affix the tie to your right ankle. I pause a moment, admiring your body with your legs so widely splayed. You are obviously wet; you can feel it, and I can see it. And more than that . . . your heavenly aroma fills the air.

Then I move to your arms, pulling them up and crossing them above your head. That makes you frown; why cross my arms? I tie silk bands about each of your wrists, the silk lengths attached to opposite corners of the bed. You sigh deeply, all at once frightened and intensely aroused at being helpless before me.

Your pleasure is at my mercy.

The bed shifts as I slip from it. You hear me leave the room. I am gone for several minutes, making you wonder what I am up to. Your anxiety builds; you pull on the ties that bind you. They yield slightly, but remain firmly secured. You could not move if you needed to. Thoughts flash through your mind: what if there's a fire? Or someone breaks into the house? Oh, my God, what would I do?

You cry out, startled, shocked, even frightened as you feel something warm dribble onto your body, just above and between your breasts at the base of your neck. The steady stream of whatever the fluid is meanders down toward your sex, then stops abruptly. You smell the sweet, sharp aroma of cinnamon.

Tentatively, questioningly, you call out my name.

The bed shifts again as my weight settles upon it. "I'm here, darling," I whisper.

You sigh with relief, then moan as you feel my hands settle onto your body, into the puddles of liquid on your abdomen. You deduce then that the liquid is oil. You writhe and sigh and groan as I massage it into your skin, starting at your lower abdomen. My fingers brush the edge of your soft, thick pubic hair, move back and forth firmly across your belly, then up your torso. You would have preferred that I had gone south instead of north. But the feel of my hands upon you is still satisfying, quelling, for the moment, the bonfire that is now blazing within you.

A long, drawn-out moan escapes your lips as my hands firmly cup and stroke your breasts, rubbing the oil in. You pull at your bonds, wanting to touch me, but you cannot. You can do nothing but let me have my way with you.

I roll and squeeze and knead your luscious tits – you love it when I use dirty words during lovemaking – pushing them against each other, pinching, tweaking, pulling on your stiff nipples. Your back arches, and your jaw works as you pant beneath me. I have not even touched your pussy yet and you are already dangerously close to orgasm.

My hands finally slide up to the base of your neck, smearing the oil into your skin. The aroma of cinnamon has overpowered even your own sweet, musky effluence. You breathe in deeply. You will never again smell cinnamon without thinking of this experience.

I trace random patterns with my fingertips up and down your body, from the tops of your thighs to your shoulders. Your skin tingles as nerves come alive. Your hips roll slowly as your passion mounts. You want me, need me, to touch you there. But though I tickle your pubic hair with my fingers, I avoid your pouting pussy and swelling clitoris.

You are sighing in heat, back arching now and then as my hands massage up and down your lean, strong legs. Your muscles quiver beneath the skin. You reflexively try to lift your legs, perhaps to wrap them around me, but the silk ties hold you in place.

"Oh, God, please," you moan. "Something. Do something. Anything."

But I continue moving down your legs, squeezing your calves gently. My massages usually make your body relax, but this time, it makes you tense up even more. Then you notice that you feel the head of my penis touching your leg now and then as I move, and you realise that I am naked. A moan escapes your lips.

After several minutes of the massage, you are burning with need, your face and breasts glowing. I wish you could see how stiff your nipples are, how swollen and shinning is your pink clitoris.

Then you feel a stream of air being blown upon your pussy. You gasp and writhe at the sensation. Your sense of touch is so heightened that it feels almost like the tip of a cool tongue, tickling your button. Sensing that my face is close to your literally dripping cunt, you lift your hips, trying to make contact. But I pull away, making the bed move slightly.

"Damn it," you complain, lowering your ass back to the bed.

Then you feel something soft and gentle gracing your right nipple, and the unmistakable presence of my tongue. A grateful moan escapes your mouth. You writhe as I lick, then suck it, then . . . oh my god, you think, gasping passionately, yes!!!!

My teeth capture the sensitive nub, squeezing it firmly. I slowly increase the pleasure, biting into your nipple. I feel it throbbing as I lash my tongue across it. You push your breast against my mouth, your body quaking. One of my hands slides down over your slick, oiled body, over your hip, along your trembling thigh. My fingers tickle up and down your inner thigh, moving close enough to your beautifully hairy cunt that they stir the auburn wisps there. Your pussy makes a wet sucking sound we both hear.

I engulf the entirety of your nipple, sucking, tugging with my mouth, biting it, even chewing it. The sensation is more than you can bear. Your body bucking on the bed, your breath escaping your mouth with fierce puffs, you erupt, cumming hard, gasping and whimpering as you finally feel release.

I keep sucking and biting your nipple all through your orgasm, loving those sexy, girlish sounds you make. I wish you could see your own face when you orgasm. It would probably make you cum again, witnessing the raw passion and satisfaction that is revealed.

In the midst of your orgasm, I move my hand up to press against your pussy, feeling it twitch and throb and gush against my fingers. You cry again, rolling your hips desperately. I feel your pulsing clit rubbing against my palm. Your saturated lips part and all but suck me in, and for a moment, I thrust my middle finger up inside you, feeling your heat, your tightness. You nearly scream at the penetration.

I raise my head, releasing your flushed nipple, and jerk my hand away before you can cum again – at times like this, one orgasm is as quick to follow another – making you cry in frustration. You lift your hips, seeking my hand with your pussy, but you can only move so far. With a deep huff, you let your ass fall back to the mattress once more.

"Please," you beg. "Don't stop."

You hear me chuckle again. Not being able to see me, what I am doing, is maddening to you. But you have rarely been this hot, this turned on. You revel in the idea that you are my sexual plaything.

My fingers grace your lips, slick and pungent with your own orgasmic fluid. Eagerly, you suck on them as I push them into your mouth. Your lips and tongue work back and forth as if you are sucking a small cock. You smack your lips, gasping, loving the taste of your cum. You know it always turns me on when you taste yourself.

I pull my hand back, your tongue chasing my fingers as you lift your head from the mattress. But again, you are denied. You huff in frustration, falling back. Body massage, nipple sucking, fingering . . . it is all nice, but you want to be fucked. You want cock. You want something inside you.

You hear a strange noise, a crystalline tinkling, followed by a wet sloshing sound. It makes your brow furrow in confusion. You feel my body beside yours, reclined upon the bed, my erect penis against your thigh. Then you feel something else . . . .

You sigh deeply as something cold and firm rubs against your little clit. You buck your hips, pushing them up. The contrast of your heat and the object's near-freezing temperature makes your clitoris spasm. Your body shakes as you moan. Your hips undulate, trying to capture the object with your desperate cunt. You don't care what it is, you just want it inside you.

The firm, round object slides down, along your slick lips. In your mind, you hear a sizzle as your overheated pussy presses against the chilly, knobbed surface. You try to spread your legs wider, but the silk ties limit you. You grunt, gasp, digging your heels into the mattress, pushing up. The broad head of – whatever it is – slowly enters you. You sigh deeply, finally penetrated. Whatever it is, it fills you up as it steadily pushes inside you and eases back and forth. Cold drops of water drip along your pussy lips.

The pleasure is so total that you don't care what I am fucking you with. You know it is not my fingers, or my cock, but it is thick and smooth and oh so slick . . . .

You buck and heave, eagerly fucking the object as I hold it still. You feel it get broader the deeper you push against it, and realise suddenly that it is the champagne bottle that is plunging deeply into your cunt.

"Oh, you kinky boy," you hiss as you keep bouncing your hips up and down.

Then suddenly, just as you are on the edge of orgasm, the bottle slips free from your swollen pussy with a loud, wet sound. You cry out, almost angry.

"Put it back in!" you cry. "Fuck, I'm so close!"

"But it back in?" I ask with a maddeningly calm voice. "Like this?" I ask, and push the bottle back into your seething cunt.

You sigh deeply. "Yes," you moan, then wince as the bottle vacates you again. "No!"

"Well, which is it?"

"God damn it!" you exclaim. "Put that thing back inside me or I'm never fucking you again!" You almost sound like you mean it.

I chuckle. "Well, we can't have that," I say, and shove the bottle deep into your needy cunt. I settle my free hand upon your abdomen, keeping you down, and pump the bottle back and forth rapidly, making the contents slosh around inside. Your pussy squelches wetly around the smooth, cold neck.

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