Blind For A Day

She’s got those bandages over her eyes post-surgery, trapped in the dark, and her husband doesn’t wait a damn second. He sets up right away—scuffing his chair, dropping his voice real low so the sound hooks into her ear and slides straight between her legs. Every rustle, every gulp, every thick breath he takes is calculated to land south. Soon enough his hands are on her, bold and cocky. Fingers drag her shirt up so he can stroke the soft warmth of her stomach, circle her nipples till they stiffen, slide lower and cup the heat between her thighs. He palms her like he owns every crease, every slick inch. When she spreads for him, two thick fingers slip inside, push, curl, work her with a steady knuckle-deep rhythm while his thumb strokes her clit. He keeps talking—purring filth about how wet she feels, how fucking tight, breathing praises into her ear while his free hand roams the round of her ass, tracing along the crack, teasing that tighter hole just enough to make her jolt. Not rushed, not gentle—just skin on skin in that blind, loaded silence, turning her empty dark into pure tactile sin.