Blindfolded Hotel Surprise

The upscale hotel bar smelled like orange peel and cold stone, all low light and the soft clink of glass. I walked in on heels that made my calves ache the way Errol likes, the black dress he had chosen skimming high on my thighs. I am twenty-eight. My husband, Errol, is thirty-four, and he had promised me an evening of erotic games, the kind we plan in whispers. Meet me at the bar, his text had said that morning, and I had spent the drive over with my thighs pressed together, already thinking about his mouth.

He was not on any stool. I stood a moment too long, scanning the quiet room, my pulse ticking in my throat. The bartender looked up, brass nameplate reading Katarina, wiping a coupe glass as if wives walked into her shift already flushed. "Rosa?" she said, and slid a cream envelope across the zinc. "Your husband left this. He said to put it in your hand and let you do the rest."

My fingers were not steady. I broke the seal and found a room key card, cool and heavy, the sleeve stamped 814. Nothing else. Just the key, and the rush of nervous excitement that climbed my chest and dropped hard between my legs. He had arranged something. Of course he had. We had spent weeks talking about this in our apartment, his hand on my belly while he told me he wanted a lock, a mirror, time, and me following his notes until I was shaking. I had said yes. I had said please.

Standing there with the card biting my palm, I felt myself get wet, a slow warm soak into my panties, the hair of my cunt dampening, my clit giving one greedy throb I had to breathe through. "Thank you," I said, and my voice came out rougher than I meant. Katarina tipped her chin toward the elevators. "Eighth floor. Enjoy your night."

I did not run, though my body wanted to. The elevator was mirrored and too slow, my reflection flushed at the throat, lips parted, nipples tight against the thin dress. I watched myself and thought about his hands. The corridor on eight was carpeted and silent, and with every step the anticipation worked deeper. I could feel the slickness when I walked, the soft cling of wet cotton against swollen lips. My nipples ached against the dress the whole way up, a shameless little warning of how far gone I already was. By the time I held the key card to the reader outside suite 814, I was aching, and I pushed the door open on cool air and something sweet, already so wet the smell of whatever he had waiting nearly undid me. I smiled at nothing.

The suite was all cream linen and a wall of windows blurred by sheer curtains. A low table held a silver bowl of dark shining berries and a plate of sticky sweets. On the bed, centered like a gift, sat a handwritten note in Errol's sharp script, and beside it a black silk blindfold.

I picked it up with hands that shook. Get naked. Stand in front of the mirror. Put on this blindfold. Finger yourself. Do not stop when you hear the door.

My breath left me. I was smiling, nervous and already throbbing, and I obeyed the way I had promised. The dress came off over my head. Panties next, peeled down, the cotton dark where I had soaked them. I stepped out of the heels and stood bare on the thick rug, all of my husband's attention waiting somewhere beyond the door I had just shut.

The full-length mirror took up half the wall. I looked at myself, flushed from chest to cheeks, nipples tight, the dark hair between my legs glossy with how wet I was. I tied the blindfold, silk cool on my eyelids, the knot snug. The world went black. My breathing got loud. I spread my feet the way he likes and slid a hand down over my belly, through the soft hair, and into the slick heat of my cunt.

I was drenched. Two fingers parted me and slipped in easy, the sound obscene, and my other hand circled my clit, slow, because the note had not said fast. I fingered myself in front of a mirror I could no longer see, hips rocking, imagining his eyes on my ass. I moaned his name and pushed deeper, feeling how swollen I was, how ready.

The door opened. I froze half a second, fingers buried, then kept going, because I knew that step, that pause, the particular weight of the man who had entered. The door closed. A lock turned. Errol. My husband. I smelled him under the sweet of the berries, clean skin and the cologne I buy him, and knowing he was watching me fuck my own hairy cunt made my knees threaten to buckle.

He did not speak. He circled. I felt the air move, his heat passing my shoulder, my back, my hip. Light kisses started at my neck, just under my ear, soft and devastating. Then my ears, the shell, the lobe, a slow lick that made me whimper and push my fingers deeper. He kissed down my back, each vertebra a small shock, only his mouth, patient and filthy. My legs next. Kisses landed on the backs of my knees, my calves, then rose along my inner thighs until I sobbed and spread wider.

His mouth found my ass. A kiss on one cheek, then the other, breath hot in the cleft, and I shook, clit throbbing under my own touch. He inhaled like he was starving. Then his mouth was on my cunt. He kissed me there slow and deep, tongue sliding between my fingers and my folds, licking what I had made. I cried out. My hand fell away, and he took over, kissing my dripping cunt, sucking gently at my clit, then the soaked hair, then back again. Unbearable. I was shaking, blind, dripping down my legs, and he was only kissing me, building the tension until I thought I might beg before he said a word.

He pulled his mouth off me and I whimpered. Then his voice was at my ear, low and filthy, the one I had been waiting for.

"Look at you," Errol whispered. "Blindfolded, fingering this hairy cunt until you're dripping on the rug. You've been wet since the bar. Did you walk up here soaking for me?"

"Yes," I breathed. "Errol, yes."

"Good girl." His fingers, wet with me, traced my lip. "Open."

I opened. He slid two fingers into my mouth, coated in my juices, salty and slick, and I sucked them the way I suck his cock, tongue working, shameless. He groaned against my ear.

"Taste what you made. I'm going to feed you while you stay blind and desperate, and then you're getting on your knees for me."

A berry touched my tongue, sweet and bursting, juice running down my chin. He kissed it off, then fed me another, and another, his fingers pushing them past my lips while he whispered.

"Hungry little wife. Open wider. I want this mouth full before I fill it with my cock."

A sweet followed, sticky and honeyed, melting on my tongue. He pressed it in with his thumb and I sucked the sugar off his skin, moaning, my cunt clenching on nothing. He fed me more, berries and sweets and the taste of myself on his fingers between them, his other hand cupping my ass.

"Swallow everything I give you," he said, filthy and fond. "Then beg me to wreck this dripping cunt."

"I want that," I said, mouth sticky. "Please."

His hand guided me down. I dropped to my knees on the rug, blindfolded and bare, air cool on my wet thighs. I heard his belt, his zipper. Then the heat of his cock brushed my cheek, heavy and familiar, and I turned toward it like I was starving.

"Open."

I took him in. The sugar still on my tongue mixed with the taste of him and I moaned around his shaft, sucking with hungry devotion, lips stretched, tongue flat along the underside, taking him as deep as I could without my eyes. He was thick, the head already slick, and I worked him wet and eager, saliva mixing with the sweetness he had fed me. His fingers threaded into my hair, not forcing, just holding, and I bobbed, hollowing my cheeks, devoted, one hand cupping his balls while the other braced on his thigh.

"Fuck, Rosa," he whispered, breath close. "On your knees, blind, drooling on my cock, that hairy cunt dripping on the rug. You love not seeing. You love being my filthy wife."

I moaned yes around him and took him deeper, gagging softly, pulling back to lick the head, then sinking down again. I sucked harder, hungry for the twitch that meant he was close, and then I pulled off with a wet sound because I needed him inside me. I needed it hard.

"Fuck me," I begged, voice raw, face tipped up. "Please fuck me hard. I need your cock in my hairy cunt. I've been dripping since the bar, and fingering myself wasn't enough. Bend me over and power-fuck me. Pound this wet hairy cunt until I can't talk. Use me. Fuck me like you own me."

He hauled me up, turned me, and bent me over the edge of the bed, my ass raised, my cheek against the linen. His palm cracked light across my ass, just enough to make me yelp and push back. He dragged the head of his cock through my soaked folds, bumping my clit.

"This hairy cunt?" he said. "The one you showed the mirror? Say it."

"My hairy cunt," I said, filthy and desperate, pushing back. "Fuck it hard. Don't be gentle. I want to feel you tomorrow. Put it in and fuck me."

He slammed in. The stretch punched a moan out of me, my cunt gripping him, so wet he slid to the hilt in one stroke. He did not let me adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, a pounding rhythm that shoved me forward and made the headboard tap the wall. He power-fucked me from behind the way I had begged, hips snapping, cock filling me over and over, the wet sound of my hairy cunt taking him obscene and perfect. I cursed. I moaned. I could not stop talking. The blindfold made every stroke louder, hotter, the drag of his cock through my soaked hair and swollen lips a shock I felt in my teeth. Sweat slid down my spine where he had kissed me.

"Yes, harder, Errol, harder, wreck me, your cock feels so good in my hairy cunt, don't stop, I'm so wet for you, listen to it, pound me, deeper, fuck, I can feel you everywhere."

He gave it to me. Deep, pounding strokes, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip. Each thrust knocked a sound out of me, half moan, half curse, my breasts swaying, my blindfold damp, my fingers clawing the sheets. He reached under and rubbed my clit in rough circles, and I came with a shout, clenching around him, shaking, still begging him not to stop while the orgasm tore through me. He fucked me through it, harder, the wet slap of his body against my ass filling the suite, his cock driving deep into my spasming cunt until I was sobbing and pushing back for more.

"Don't pull out," I gasped. "Fuck me through it. Ruin me. My hairy cunt is yours. Take it hard."

He did. The second climax hit while he was still pounding, my legs shaking, my voice breaking on his name. He groaned like he was on the edge, thrusts shorter, deeper, meaner, and I felt him swell inside me and knew he was about to come.

He pulled out at the last second. I felt the loss, then the hot stripes of his cum spraying across my trembling belly, thick and sudden, marking me while I stayed bent and blindfolded, panting, my cunt still clenching on nothing. He groaned my name. Another pulse landed warm on my skin, then another, until I was painted with him, shaking, smiling into the sheets like a woman who had gotten exactly what she asked for.

"Stay," he said, soft now, and I stayed, breath wrecked, the blindfold damp against my eyes.

When I could move I straightened, one hand finding his wrist, and I smiled in satisfied bliss, the erotic game still humming in my blood. I lifted the blindfold slowly. Light returned in a blur, then his face, Errol wrecked and gorgeous, hair mussed, looking at me with the same hunger burning in my own lust-drunk eyes. His cum shone on my belly. I was marked and glowing, both of us catching our breath in the sweet-smelling suite, shared desire nowhere near finished between us. We were both still panting, grinning like fools who had planned a filthy night and gotten a better one. I touched the mess he had left on me and held his gaze.

"Do you want me blindfolded again before we even leave this room?"