"Max…"
Her voice turns hoarse, weakening, almost painfully sweet. It's not just a name. It's her cry, her plea, her desire. And I respond without thinking, without stopping, dissolving in her reaction. My heart pounds loudly, like a drum, from excitement and tension—because every movement of hers, every sigh, reflects what we're doing, and I can't get enough.
She arches, gritting her teeth as my lips brush her neck. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, squeezing, and I feel her body tense in anticipation. I keep going, not giving her the slightest chance to catch her breath. Her skin burns like fire, driving me mad. Her reactions—every tiny motion—are pure ecstasy to me.
I continue, speeding up, feeling her body tremble under my hands, her breath growing ragged and wild.
At this moment, there's nothing but the two of us—these electric sensations, these feverish kisses, these unspoken words conveyed through touches and gasps. Time seems to stop, leaving us alone in this frenzied, unrelenting rush.
"Max, wait… Max…"
Her voice comes out as a whisper—shaky, uneven—but there's no real strength in it to stop me. Not a single movement to push me away—just those words, escaping on a weak exhale, as if she isn't even sure she wants me to stop.
I pull back slowly, feeling her body instinctively follow my lips for a split second—unconscious, reflexive, as if unwilling to let go. Licking my lips, I still taste her—sweet, with a faint bitterness of arousal.
My heart hammers violently as her fingers, trembling with impatience, clutch the fabric of the blindfold. The air thickens with tension—heavy, sweet, almost tangible. And then… a sharp tug, and what's revealed before me steals my breath.
My Katrin.
She lies sprawled like a nymph, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp. Her skin, usually porcelain-cool, now burns with a deep flush—as if wine had been poured beneath it, seeping through the finest silk. Every kiss, every bite has left its mark—crimson clouds scattered across her shoulders, collarbones, the delicate curve of her breasts.
I can't look away.
Her nipples, hidden from me just moments ago, now glisten, wet from my touch. They stand taut and sensitive, like ripe berries glistening with dew. Saliva trails slowly down them, and I watch her body shudder at every breath I exhale, every whisper I leave on her skin.
And then… she looks at me.
Her eyes—dark as a storm-laden night—burn with shame and desire. They mirror what pulses in my veins: hunger, impatience, madness.
My hand reaches for her involuntarily, fingers trembling just shy of her scorching skin. The distance between us is negligible—mere centimeters—but it's agonizing. Every cell in me screams to touch, squeeze, take.
And then I feel it—my cock, already aching with tension, hardens completely, as if forged from steel. The throbbing in my gut becomes unbearable, blood roaring in my temples, my mind reduced to a single thought:
"She's mine. All of her. Now."
I want her to the point of insanity.
I freeze.
Why does she do this? Why now? Why so easily… yet so terrifyingly?
The thought cuts through me like a blade—cold, sharp. Sudden vulnerability, nakedness—not just physical, but emotional. Her gesture could mean anything: "Stop" or "I want you to see me. All of me." But her eyes seem to say more than she's willing to admit.
My body, locked in tension, screams at me: Don't stop. Blood pounds in my temples, syncing with her racing pulse. My chest feels hollow yet filled with molten desire. My cock throbs, demanding more, my skin burning where it last touched hers.
But.
No.
The chill her gesture brings is stronger than any urge. I won't cross her boundaries. If she says "stop," I step back—even if my heart tears apart, even if desire claws at me like a beast in a cage.
Silence floods the room, draping over us like a heavy, invisible veil.
Only our ragged breaths disturb it. Mine sounds hollow in my ears, each inhale laced with longing. I want to scream, cast aside all doubt and just take. But I can't. I won't. I don't know what happens if I cross a line she might not even realize she's drawn.
Then her voice—calm, almost casual, but with a faint tremble, like a crack in smooth ice:
"In the nightstand. There's lube, just in case… and condoms."
I don't move. Not because I don't want to. But because I need to be sure.
My gaze locks onto hers, searching for truth—not the kind spoken aloud, but the one hidden in the depths of her pupils, the tremble of her lashes, the faint quiver of her lower lip. I know she's hiding something, and it terrifies me, but I can't look away. I need certainty—in every gesture, in every part of her being, in whether her words are genuine or just a reflex. I'm searching for an answer she might not even understand… or one she understands all too well.
"Do you really want to continue now?" My voice is quiet, but every word is sharp, like the strike of a blade—carrying all my uncertainty and yet also my resolve. "If not, I'll stop. No pressure. Your choice."
No jokes, no hints of coercion. Just seriousness.
Katrin doesn't look away. Her eyes burn—not just with arousal, but with determination. It's a fire I've never seen in her gaze before, one that makes me realize this resolve consumes her entirely. She's ready to go all the way—not just physically, but emotionally.
"If I weren't sure, I'd have stopped the moment I took off the blindfold."
A faint smile touches her lips—not playful, but warm, knowing. She doesn't need words to convince me. Every movement, her tone, her expression speaks far more. Maybe even more than I'm ready to understand in this moment.
"Let's do this."
And those words are enough. Nothing else needs to be said. We both know nothing will be the same after this.
"Lube, if there's not enough natural wetness."
Her voice is soft, steady—there's no trace of embarrassment, just a gentle, almost maternal care, with a faint smirk at the corners of her lips. She doesn't push. She doesn't rush. Her words wrap around me like a warm blanket: You're safe.
The moment stretches, thick with her presence. I'm nervous, but her calm steadies the storm inside me. There's a quiet confidence in her voice that tells me everything will unfold naturally, without pressure, without mistakes.
"I think you'll know what I mean if it doesn't go smoothly."
Her eyes meet mine, holding understanding. She sees the tremor in my fingers, the rapid pulse beneath my chest, and doesn't judge. She's ready to help—but only if I need it. That patience, that quiet readiness, seeps into me. I can be myself, I can falter—and she won't condemn me.
"You can handle the condoms yourself."
A hint of humor sparks in her gaze, lightening the tension. You've got this. And somehow, that small acknowledgment steadies my racing thoughts.
"I'll take your pants off."
My fingers brush the waistband of her jeans, and a shiver runs down my spine. Time seems to halt. My own hands tremble as I fumble with the zipper, clumsy against the metal fastener. But Katrin doesn't flinch. She lifts her hips slightly, guiding me, making the act effortless.
The jeans whisper to the floor. Nearly bare, nearly revealed—not just physically, but emotionally. The last barrier—her panties—slides down her skin, catching briefly on the curve of her thigh, as if reluctant to let go. And then she is fully unveiled.
Her skin glows under the lamp's soft light, flushed, alive. Every freckle, every curve, every subtle tremor of breath is vivid, painfully real. Her breasts rise and fall, nipples taut and sensitive. Her hips part with an unspoken invitation. My mind narrows to a single, desperate thought: to be with her, to be as close as possible.
Katrin leans back, watching me—unashamed, unhidden. Her gaze is molten, magnetic, pulling me toward her like a force I cannot resist. I'm yours, it whispers. You're mine.
"Missing some music, aren't we?" I attempt a joke, an echo of lighter times.
"You don't need music. Or dancing."
Her lips hover near my ear, breath hot against my skin, sending shivers through me. "You're intoxicating enough as it is."
She trembles—not with hesitation, but with tension, holding back, waiting. I feel every pulse of desire, every spark poised to ignite.
The rest falls away—our bodies, our breath, the heat that coils between us. Nothing exists but this moment, skin on skin, heart to heart, time suspended, filled only with her presence, her pulse, her warmth. Every sigh she draws is a melody meant only for us.