Three days passed.
No message. No clue. No trace of him — only the aftershocks still echoing through my body every time I sat down and remembered the feel of that tree against my belly… and the stretch of him inside me.
I thought I might have dreamed it — if it weren’t for the bruises on my hips and the way my thighs still trembled when I pressed them together.
Then, on the fourth night, another message:
“Pack a blindfold. Be ready at 9pm. Same trailhead. Don’t speak.”
My heart hammered. I packed the blindfold and nothing else.
At 9pm sharp, I stood at the edge of the trees. It was darker now, the woods humming with nighttime sounds. I didn’t hear him arrive — I just felt his hand on the back of my neck and the warmth of his breath as he whispered:
“Blindfold. Now.”
I obeyed, wrapping the soft silk across my eyes, my vision gone in an instant. He took my hand and led me through the woods in silence. I didn’t stumble. I trusted him. I wanted the not-knowing. I craved the vulnerability.
After what felt like forever, I heard a door creak open and we stepped inside. A cabin. I could smell the wood, the faint scent of fire smoke, and something else… leather, maybe?
“Strip,” he said simply.
The air hit my skin in waves as I peeled everything off. I stood in the centre of the room, naked, blindfolded, heart pounding in my throat. Every sense was electric. I heard him moving — slow, deliberate — like he wanted me to wonder what he was picking up.
Then the first touch came — the sting of a riding crop across my inner thigh.
I gasped.
Another slap — this time across my arse. A firm hand followed, rubbing the skin gently before gripping it tight.
“You’re mine tonight,” he murmured, voice rough with need. “And you’ll take whatever I give you.”
He tied my wrists together above my head, the rope coarse but not cruel, and attached them to a hook I hadn’t noticed before. I was suspended just slightly — not enough to hurt, just enough to make me feel it. Exposed. Presented.
His mouth was on me next — biting, licking, claiming every inch of my skin. When his tongue finally found my pussy, I sobbed. I was already wet, already dripping, just from the sound of his voice and the promise in his silence.
He edged me with his tongue until I was shaking, whispering filth between licks:
“Look at you. Begging with your whole body.”
Then he stopped.
I whimpered in protest — and earned another sharp crack of the crop.
“Patience.”
I lost all track of time. He teased, denied, tormented. Ice cubes on my nipples. His belt around my thighs. A vibrator strapped between my legs, kept just low enough to make me ache without release.
He brought me to the edge so many times I lost count. Sometimes with his cock inside me. Sometimes with his fingers knuckle-deep. Sometimes with nothing but his voice, low and commanding, feeding the fire between my legs until I thought I’d explode.
Finally, when I was near tears, trembling, broken open and begging:
“Please, please, I can’t… I need—”
He slipped behind me, untied the ropes, pulled my hips back, and whispered:
“Now.”
He pushed into me — hard, deep, filling every part of me at once. There was no holding back. He fucked me like he needed it to survive, one hand gripping my throat, the other teasing my clit just enough to tip me into a screaming orgasm that shattered me completely.
I came so hard I collapsed, only his arms keeping me upright.
When he finished, he stayed inside me, panting, kissing the back of my neck, murmuring things I barely heard but felt.
Then, still blindfolded, I was lifted, cradled, laid gently in soft blankets.
“You did so well,” he said, brushing my hair from my face.
A kiss. A blanket. A hand around mine.
And darkness. |
