Chapter 1: The Blindfold and the Stranger's Mouth
The silk of the blindfold is cool and absolute against your eyelids. The world is reduced to sound, scent, and the desperate thrum of your own pulse in your ears. The cuffs are soft, lined with fleece, but their hold is undeniable. You pull against them once, twice, testing. They’re good. Solid. Anchored to the bedposts with a satisfying finality.
A shiver, half fear and half wild excitement, dances down your spine. The scent of jasmine from the candle Aaron lit fills the warm, still air of your bedroom. You hear the rustle of his clothes as he moves nearby.
“Still okay?” Aaron’s voice is a low murmur, close to your ear. His lips brush your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, the word sounding thin. “Just… nervous. What’s the plan tonight?”
He chuckles, a warm, familiar sound that usually melts your anxiety. But tonight, it feels like a promise of something unknown. “The plan is for you to feel. To not think. To just let go and accept whatever happens. Remember what I said?”
Your mind flashes back to a lazy Sunday morning, tangled in sheets, his hand idly tracing patterns on your thigh. ‘One of these nights, when you’re all tied up and pretty for me, I’m gonna bring you a present. A new cock to play with.’ You’d laughed, swatting him, a flush spreading across your chest. You’d thought it was dirty talk, a fantasy spun in the safety of your daylight world. A part of you, a secret, hungry part buried under years of nice-girl conditioning, had thrilled at the idea.
“You were joking,” you say, but it comes out as a question.
“Was I?” He kisses the hinge of your jaw. “Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” The bed dips as his weight leaves it. You hear his footsteps cross the room, the click of the bedroom door opening, the soft tread down the hall.
Silence swallows the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the candle wick. You’re adrift in the dark, your hearing straining. The faint hum of the refrigerator. A distant car. Your own breath, coming a little quicker. You pull at the cuffs again, a reflexive check. They are good. You are secure. This is what you wanted, the thrill of complete surrender, of not having to make a single decision.
Then, a sharp, foreign sound pierces the domestic quiet.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell. Your body goes rigid.
Who the hell is at the door at 9 PM? A delivery? A neighbor? Your mind, already buzzing with adrenaline, scrabbles for normal explanations. You hear Aaron’s footsteps again, quick and purposeful, moving past the bedroom door toward the front of the house. The hollow sound of the front door opening.
Muffled voices. A deep rumble you don’t recognize. Not a delivery person making brief, transactional noise. This is a conversation, too low for you to make out words. Your heart kicks against your ribs, a frantic drum. This wasn’t part of the script. Aaron’s friends didn’t just drop by, not when he knew you were…
The reality crashes into you, cold and stunning. He wasn’t joking.
The voices stop. Footsteps return, but heavier. Two sets. They stop at the bedroom door. The air in the room changes, charged and thick, like before a storm.
“Master?” you whisper.
“I’m here,” he says from the doorway. His voice is calm, steadying. “Just relax. Remember, just feel.”
Another person enters the room. You can sense the displacement of air, the subtle new presence that makes the space feel smaller, more intimate. A scent, faint—clean soap, a hint of leather, something unfamiliar.
“She’s perfect,” a man’s voice says. It’s deeper than Master's, slightly rough around the edges, with a soft, southern draw accent you can’t quite place. It’s a voice that belongs to a stranger standing in your bedroom, looking at you while you’re bound and blind.
The fear is a live wire in your gut. But beneath it, coiling and insistent, is that other thing. The excitement. The terrifying, shameful curiosity. It’s real.
You feel Master sit on the edge of the bed, his hand coming to rest on your stomach, a point of familiar contact. “Pet, this is our friend from fetlife. He’s from Conway. He’s here to give you your present.”
The man from Conway takes a step closer. You can hear his breath now. “Hello, beautiful.”
His voice is closer now. The drawl wraps around the words, making them sound intimate, possessive even. A cool draft whispers over your skin as the comforter is pulled down your body, leaving you exposed from the navel down. The air kisses your thighs, your mound. You flinch, a small, involuntary jerk against the cuffs.
“Shhh,” Aaron soothes, his hand stroking your side. “Just feel it. You’re doing so good.”
You hear the soft thud of knees hitting the floor beside the bed. The presence of the man is overwhelming now, a wall of heat and intention near your hip. His hands, large and calloused in a way Master’s are not, come to rest on the insides of your thighs. His touch is firm, impersonal. He’s not caressing you; he’s positioning you. He pushes your legs apart, widening you until the stretch burns slightly in your inner muscles. You are utterly open, completely displayed.
A whimper escapes your throat. It’s a sound of pure vulnerability.
“Look at this pretty pussy,” the man murmurs, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “All wet and waiting. You knew, didn’t you? Knew you were gonna get a surprise tonight.”
You shake your head ‘no’ into the blindfold, but the denial is weak, a reflex. The slickness between your legs betrays you. Your body knew before your mind accepted it.
He bends down and starts licking your pussy.
The contact is electric, a shock of pure sensation. His tongue isn’t teasing or exploratory. It’s broad, flat, and demanding. He laps at you once, a slow, thorough stroke from your opening all the way up to your clit, gathering your wetness. He groans, a low, masculine sound of approval that vibrates through your core.
“Fuck, she tastes sweet.”
Then he eats you like he’s starving. There’s no art to it, no delicate flicks. He buries his face in you, his tongue spearing deep inside, fucking you with it before swirling hard around your clit. The pressure is immediate and intense. It’s not about your pleasure; it’s about his consumption. The sound is obscene—wet, sloppy, and relentless. You can smell yourself on him, a musky, intimate scent mixing with his soap.
“Oh god,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed. The cuffs bite into your wrists.
“That’s it,” Master encourages from somewhere above you. You can hear the rustle of fabric, the click of his belt. He’s watching. Getting off on this. The thought sends another confusing bolt of heat through you.
The man’s stubble scratches the tender skin of your inner thighs as he works. His nose grinds against your clit with every thrust of his tongue. It’s too much, it’s rough, it’s everything you never knew you wanted. You’re panting, little desperate breaths that seem to have no effect on the oxygen in the room. Your hips buck, trying to meet his mouth, trying to escape it, you can’t tell.
He pulls back for a second, breathing heavily against your soaked flesh. “You gonna come for me, beautiful? You gonna come on a stranger’s tongue?”
“I… I don’t know,” you choke out.
“Yes, you do.”
He doubles down. One of his hands comes up, his thumb jamming against your asshole, applying a crude, shocking pressure while his mouth resumes its assault. The dual sensation, the filthiness of it, shreds the last of your control. The orgasm rips through you with violent, unexpected force. It’s not a cresting wave; it’s a detonation. Your body seizes, a silent scream locked in your throat as you shake apart against his face. He doesn’t let up, licking you through it, drinking every twitch and pulse until you’re sobbing from overstimulation, tugging helplessly at your bonds.
Only then does he stop. You hear him stand, his knees cracking. The sound of a zipper. Harsh, fast. A tearing open. The condom wrapper hits the floor with a plastic crinkle.
“Turn her over,” the man says, his voice thick, void of that slow drawl now. It’s pure gravel, pure need. “I want that big ass in the air.”
The command hung in the jasmine-scented air, raw and absolute. Your muscles, still fluttering from the orgasm, locked tight. Before you could process the order, you felt Aaron’s hands on you.
His touch was different now.Efficient. He wasn't your lover in this moment; he was an accomplice. His fingers hooked under your hip, turning you onto your side, then he gave you a firm, guiding push until you were on your stomach. The soft fleece of the cuffs twisted, pulling your arms above your head at an awkward angle. The bedspread was rough against your cheek. Your heart hammered against the mattress.
You felt exposed, rearranged for someone else’s use. The weight of the man’s gaze was a physical pressure on your bare skin, centered on the curves of your ass. You squeezed your eyes shut beneath the blindfold, the dark somehow deeper.
“Lift her hips,” the stranger said.
Aaron’s hands slid under your stomach, hoisting you up onto your knees. The position was profoundly submissive, your back arched, your ass presented high in the air. A cool draft kissed your wetness. You trembled.
Then he touched you
It wasn’t Aaron. It was his hand. The man from Conway. His palm was wide and warm as it settled heavily on the swell of your right buttock. He didn’t squeeze or caress. He claimed. His fingers dug in slightly, testing the give of your flesh, before his hand smoothed down over the curve, a slow, possessive stroke that mapped your body for his pleasure. His thumb traced the crease where your ass met your thigh, a blunt, intimate exploration that made you gasp into the bedding.
“Perfect,” he growled again, that single word loaded with base approval. His other hand joined the first, both now gripping your hips, holding you steady. You were an object in his hands, and a fresh, shameful rush of heat pooled low in your belly.
You heard him spit. The wet sound was obscenely close. Then you felt it—a cold, slick dollop landing directly on your hole. You jerked, a shocked noise escaping you.
“Easy,” Master murmured, his voice closer to your ear. One of his hands came to rest on the small of your back, a token of comfort. He was staying. He was going to watch this, too. The realization sent a dizzying cocktail of arousal straight to your core.
The stranger’s thumb, now wet with his spit, pressed against your asshole. It was an insistent, circular pressure, not asking, but announcing his intent. The muscle, tight and unprepared, resisted.
“Relax, baby,” the man drawled, but his tone held no patience. His thumb pushed harder, breaching just the first, tight ring of muscle with a sharp, burning stretch. You cried out, a sharp “Ah!” muffled by the mattress.
He worked his thumb in shallowly, the invasion dry and searing despite the spit. It was a crude stretch, a preparation. He twisted it, fucking you with just that digit, opening you up. The burn was intense, shocking. You panted, your fingers clenching into useless fists above your head.
He removed his thumb, leaving you feeling strangely hollow and exposed. The air felt cold on that newly opened space.
You heard the rip of another condom wrapper, the rustle of him rolling it on. Then, the blunt, undeniable pressure of his cock, not at your entrance, but higher up, against your untouched hole. The broad, slick head nudged insistently at the pucker he’d just stretched.
“No,” you breathed, the word instinctive. “Master, I—”
“Shhh, pet. Take it. You can take it.” MAster's hand pressed down on your back, holding you in place. His reassurance was a cage. “It’s your present. Just feel it.”
“C’mon, sweetheart,” the stranger grunted, his voice strained with effort. He leaned his weight into you. “Open up for me. Gonna make this fat ass mine.”
The pressure intensified, a slow, impossible force. It was too much. You were too tight. A strangled sob broke from your throat as the burning stretch became a tearing fire. You felt yourself splitting open, the rigid crown of his cock forcing its way past the resisting muscle with a brutal, pop. You screamed, a raw sound of pure, shocking pain, and absolute pleasure.
He was inside.
He didn't pause. He let out a low, animal groan of satisfaction and drove forward, burying his thick length deep into the tight, seizing channel of your ass in one relentless thrust.
The world dissolved into white-hot pleaseure. It was a fullness that bordered on rupture, a deep, brutal invasion that stole the breath from your lungs. You writhed, but his hands were vices on your hips, holding you impaled, forcing you to accept every inch.
“Fuck… fuck… like a virgin,” he panted, his hips flush against your ass. He didn’t move. He just let you feel it, the sheer, overwhelming occupation. The pain was a live wire, but beneath its sharp shriek, something else hummed. A filthy, complete fullness. A submission so total it circled back into a kind of power, and you loved it.
He began to move.
Slow at first, a shallow, grinding withdrawal that made you whimper, then a hard, deep slam back into that burning tightness. His rhythm was punishing, not a fuck but a taking. Each thrust jolted your entire body forward, your bound wrists taking your weight. The slapping sound of his skin against yours, the wet, filthy sound of your body yielding to his, filled the room. The jasmine scent was gone, replaced by sweat, sex, and pain.
“Look at that,” Master whispered, his voice thick with arousal. “Look at you taking it. Taking a stranger’s cock in your ass.” The words, and the cock in your ass, brings you nearly to orgasm.
The man’s pace quickened, his breathing a harsh rasp in your ear. He leaned over you, his chest hot and sweaty against your back, his hands moving from your hips to your shoulders, driving you down into the mattress with every piston-like thrust. The bedframe began a rhythmic, frantic creak in time with his assault.
“You like that, don’t you?” he grunted, his mouth near your ear. His accent was gone, stripped down to guttural need. “You like getting your asshole wrecked by a man you don’t know. Tell me you like it, you filthy bitch.”
Tears leaked from beneath your blindfold, soaking the fabric. It hurt. But your body, traitorously, was responding. Your cry out, "Yes, take my ass, make it yours. I love letting strangers fuck my ass."
He fucked you harder, deeper, losing all rhythm in a frantic drive toward his own end. His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back. “Gonna come in this tight ass,” he snarled. “Gonna fill this condom up for you. Your souvenir.”
His thrusts became short, brutal jabs. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, his body shuddering violently against yours. A guttural roar tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadorned release. You felt the rhythmic pulsing of his cock inside you, deep in that forbidden place, even through the latex. It went on and on, a climax that seemed to drain him.
The thought detonated the coiling tension inside you, the white-hot pleasure-pain wire he’d strung so tight inside you. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t a release you controlled. It was a brutal avalanche, a second-hand climax ripped from you by the sheer, obscene fact of his possession.
Your body seized, a violent, bucking shudder that tried to throw him off. A choked, broken sound was ripped from your throat as the orgasm slammed through you, concentric waves of fire spreading from that used, burning hole out to your fingertips, your toes, blurring the edges of the world into a blind, screaming static.
Your cunt, neglected and dripping, clenched on nothing, gushing a hot rush of fluid that soaked your thighs and the sheets beneath you. You loved it. You loved the mess. You loved your ass being taken. You came because he did.
“Holy shit,” he mumbled into your shoulder, feeling the violent contractions that still gripped him inside you. “You’re fucking coming. Jesus Christ.” He sounded awed.
He stayed buried in you for another long minute, until he softened and slipped out with a wet, obscene pop. The immediate emptiness was a shock, a cold draft rushing into the space he’d occupied. You slumped into the mattress, a boneless heap of used flesh, every muscle trembling.
You heard him stand, his footsteps unsteady as he moved away. The bathroom light clicked on down the hall, the door shut. The sounds of him cleaning up.
Silence, except for your ragged breathing.
Then, Master's hand was back on your spine, his touch gentle now, tracing the knobs of your vertebrae. “You did so good, pet. So unbelievably good. Are you with me?”
You could only manage a weak nod, your face still mashed into the bedspread. Tears of overwhelm, of completion, of something too complex to name, soaked the blindfold.
His fingers found the buckle of your wrist cuff. The click was loud in the quiet room. One hand was free, then the other. Blood rushed back into your aching wrists with a sharp, prickling pain. You didn’t move them.
He rolled you over onto your back. The movement made you gasp—the soreness was immediate, deep, and absolute. He He left the blindfold on for now.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered, brushing the hair from your face. You could hear the stranger from Conway getting dressed. You were so tempted to peak. But as you were debating it.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” he said to Master, his drawl back in place. You could feel his eyes cut to you. “You’re something else, darling. A real natural.”
Aaron walked him out. You heard the muffled goodbyes at the front door, the click of the latch.
The house was silent again. Truly silent.
Aaron came back, shutting the bedroom door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed, removed your blindfold and looked at you. The air was thick with the smell of sex and the cooling jasmine candle.
“So?” he asked, his voice quiet. “How do you feel?”
You stared at the ceiling. Your body felt like a crime scene. Every nerve was a live wire, buzzing with the aftershocks. The deep, throbbing ache between your legs was a constant, filthy reminder.
You turned your head to look at him. Your voice, when it came, was hoarse, scraped raw.
“When’s the next one?”