She looks beautiful when wearing a blindfold. He knew that she would, of course. Most women do. But there’s something particularly wonderful about the way Jenna holds herself when her eyes are covered. She keeps her arms by her sides, but he can see she wants to raise them, to reach out, to scan the space around her. He can see that she’s afraid, and that turns him on more than almost anything else.

He paces around her and inhales her wonderful scent. Her perfume. She smells glorious, almost too good for words. A bodily musk tinted with the lightest hint of perfume. He drinks her in, and then trails his fingers across her naked stomach. She gasps, and flinches from his touch, drawing away.

“Now, now,” he says sternly. “Be still. Remember?”

“Sorry, Sir,” murmurs Jenna. Next time he lets his fingers brush against her skin she doesn’t flinch. She stands perfectly still, but he can hear her breath catching in her throat. On an impulse he leans in and kisses her hard on the mouth, claiming her lips and tongue, tasting her, exploring her. She seems almost to melt against him, pouring herself into the kiss.

Then he pulls back, suddenly, sharply. Leaves Jenna swaying in the middle of the room, unable to see him. He paces around her, calmly and quietly, stepping softly so as not to give her even the slightest clue as to his next move. He enjoys this – the power he has over her. The beauty in her vulnerability.

He has been teasing her now for almost half an hour. She is visibly wet – her juice soaking through the thin material of her panties. Perhaps it’s time. Yes, he decides on a whim. It’s time to play. And so he moves into her, takes her in his arms. She squeals in surprise as he picks her up and carries her back to the bed, dropping her down onto her back.

She still can’t see, of course. And he knows that this must be terrifying to her. And that he could do anything. The thought fills him with a pulsing sense of desire, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s on her. He rips away her panties, pushes her legs apart. She arches against the bed underneath him, and he is hard. He frees himself from his clothes, then grabs her wrists and pins them with one hand. With the other he strokes her hair.

He is hard. So hard it’s almost painful. The tip of him quivers an inch from her. He stays there for a second, savouring the moment. Then eases forward and sinks himself into her. She groans and shudders as he penetrates her, and he holds her tight against the bed. She is his. She belongs to him, and he will remind her of that with every single stroke.


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