"Touch me with words. Unravel me without asking for more. Let your hands remind me where I live."
— Pavana Reddy
~~~~~~~
The streetlights hadn't turned on yet when Zaya stepped out of the car. The sky was painted in soft slate, that liminal time between evening and night where nothing felt settled. She glanced up once before adjusting the strap of her bag and walking toward Cael's house.
Her heart wasn't racing, but there was a slow, taut beat inside her that made everything feel closer, louder: the press of her footsteps against pavement, the faint breeze sliding across her skin.
She wore a white top: simple, fitted, sleeveless. The fabric was light, slightly sheer in the right light, and clung gently to the curve of her waist. Her skirt was pale pink that moved when she did. It brushed her thighs, delicate but present. She chose the outfit because it made her feel... open. Aware of her body without needing to display it.
In her bag, wrapped in a silk scarf, was the river stone. Her hand hovered over the doorbell for a second longer than necessary before she pressed.
The door opened within moments. Cael stood in the warm glow of the hallway light, wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled back, the collar slightly undone. His expression was unreadable, focused and grounded.
~ Cael: "Zaya."
He stepped back, giving her space to enter.
As she crossed the threshold, the air shifted. No music greeted her this time. No scent of food or candles. Just stillness. The kind of stillness made by someone who had emptied space on purpose.
Her chest rose in a slow breath. It felt both comforting and intense to be there again, as a woman who had said yes to something that lived between permission and trust.
Cael helped her off with her coat. She tucked her bag neatly on a side table.
He didn't touch her hand. He didn't lead her immediately. Instead, he crossed to a nearby table and returned holding something folded between his fingers.
A length of black lace: soft, matte, whisper-thin.
He held it out, not to use yet, but to offer.
~ Cael: "This is what I'll use tonight."
She looked at it without reaching, her breath hitching slightly. The idea had sounded abstract when they discussed it over FaceTime. Now, seeing it: its weight, its elegance, its intimacy, made the room feel smaller.
She reached out and ran her fingers across the cloth.
It wasn't heavy or slick. It wasn't stiff. It felt like something meant to be worn on skin. Gentle and trusted.
~ Zaya: "It's softer than I expected."
~ Cael: "It's cotton. Breathable. I chose it for how it feels, not how it looks."
She folded the blindfold in her palm for a moment, then handed it back. Her fingers brushed his without meaning to. Her stomach tightened.
He placed it gently back on the table. Then, he turned toward her fully.
~ Cael: "Before we begin, I want you to know exactly what's going to happen."
His tone was calm but deliberate. The way someone speaks when they don't want their words misunderstood.
She nodded and he gestured toward a small, cushioned chair set beneath a single pendant light. She didn't sit yet. She waited, listening.
~ Cael: "I'll blindfold you. Only if you still want that."
She inhaled. Her lungs felt thick with breath. She nodded again, slower this time. She could already feel her pulse in her fingertips.
He continued.
~ Cael: "I'll guide your breathing. With my voice. Nothing more. There will be no restraint. No tricks. Nothing unexpected."
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She kept her posture still, but inside, her thoughts moved quickly.
This is real now.
He stepped a little closer, careful not to cross into her space fully.
~ Cael: "I will touch you. But only the places you already consented to. Your face. Your lips. Your neck. Your sides. I may touch under your shirt. Your thighs. But I won't go further. I will not touch your most intimate places."
His voice didn't falter. He said it like a fact, not a tease.
She felt a flush rise beneath her skin. His words settled deep in her chest, somewhere just behind her sternum.
Her thighs shifted slightly. The idea of being touched like that, with no promise of release, no distraction of climax felt terrifying in its simplicity.
~ Cael: "You can stop me at any point. You don't have to explain why."
She wanted to respond. To say something sharp or clever. But instead, she just whispered:
~ Zaya: "Okay."
He knelt in front of her then, eye level.
~ Cael: "Do you have it?"
She nodded, pulling the small stone from her bag. She held it in her palm, closing her fingers around its smooth surface.
~ Zaya: "It's here."
He offered his hand. She placed hers in his, and he helped her into the chair.
She sat slowly, knees pressed together, her skirt falling just right. She adjusted slightly to settle her body. Every nerve felt exposed. But she wasn't afraid of that now.
He stood behind her. Gently, without instruction, he lifted the blindfold and brought it close.
~ Cael: "Close your eyes."
She did.
The lace met her temples, warm from his hands. He tied it carefully: no tug, no tightness. Just enough to shield the world.
Darkness spread across her vision like warm ink. And in that moment, the stillness around her became something else.
It became focus.
Then she felt him move in front of her, without sound, only presence.
Her lips parted, barely. Her breath thinned.
And then the first whisper of his hand, still inches away, waiting to begin.
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
v𝖊𝘭v𝖊𝘵 𝚙𝔯𝖊𝓼𝓼𝗎𝔯𝖊
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
She couldn't see Cael. She could only feel that he was there, right in front of her, near enough that the heat from his body reached the space just above her knees.
The blindfold dimmed everything: the room, her thoughts. All that remained was sensation.
She clutched the river stone gently in one hand, her fingers tightening around its smooth surface. It anchored her. Reminded her she was here because she had chosen to be.
Then, she felt the shift in air. He was moving closer.
His hand came to her lips, hovered first, just above. Then his thumb grazed her lower lip, slow and deliberate. The motion wasn't meant to tease. It was an introduction.
~ Cael: "Breathe."
She inhaled softly through her nose, the motion causing her chest to lift beneath her thin top.
He rubbed his thumb gently along her lips, back and forth, not pressing, just tracing. Her lips tingled. She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as her body began to pay attention in a new way. The blindfold made her feel like her skin could hear him.
He didn't speak again for a while. His silence was patient.
His fingers moved next, to the edge of her jaw. He trailed them down to her neck, then slowly along her collarbone. Her body responded before her thoughts could: A slow arch of her spine, a tension in her thighs, a pull of heat low in her belly.
Zaya didn't realize she'd stopped breathing until he spoke again.
~ Cael: "Let go."
She exhaled, shakily.
His hand dipped lower now. He didn't grab. He simply discovered.
His fingertips slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, where her ribs began, and traced the outline of her chest like he was studying a sculpture with memory in his hands.
His touch was soft, too soft. Like he was learning her instead of claiming her.
Her breath caught as his fingers moved upward, inch by inch, skimming along the side of her breast. He didn't dive toward the center. He explored the curve first, the slope beneath, the gentle rise, the place where skin became thinner and more sensitive. He lingered there, letting the heat from his hand settle into her.
Then, finally, he reached the underside, cradling it not with pressure, but presence. His palm didn't press. It supported, lifted gently. The weight of her breast settled against his touch, and the feeling landed like a ripple through her spine.
Her nipple reacted before he even got close, tightening, drawing in, alive with tension. It strained beneath the fabric, a quiet confession her body made without permission. She felt the fabric of her shirt shift against it as her breath deepened, and she gasped softly, the sound breaking the stillness like a drop in a glass.
Her thighs shifted. Her stomach pulled in, instinctively bracing.
The sensation wasn't sharp. It wasn't demanding. It was focused, so intimate in its restraint that it almost hurt.
He didn't tease. He didn't test. He simply let his hand remain there for another moment, his thumb just barely grazing the edge where flesh met fabric. He made no move to cover her fully, to possess, to clutch. He held her, like he was telling that part of her she didn't have to hide.
Her eyes fluttered beneath the blindfold. A tremor moved through her, shoulders to thighs, light but real.
She let out a sound, this time not caught, not stifled. A low, involuntary sigh that rolled off her tongue like the first word of a sentence she wasn't ready to finish.
Still, he didn't rush. He didn't speak. He let her feel everything.
His other hand touched her knee,just enough pressure to anchor her, to let her feel where his hand began and where her body waited. It wasn't demanding. It was intentional.
Her thigh tightened in response, a reflex she couldn't suppress. Not out of resistance, but from the sheer attention of it.
The way he touched her made her hyper-aware of everything: the fabric brushing her hips, the cool air on her arms, the heat blooming just beneath her navel.
He moved again. Slowly. His palm traced a line along the inside of her thigh, so close to the hem of her skirt. It made her gasp silently, though he hadn't lifted it. Not yet. The pressure of his hand was maddeningly soft. A steady glide along the most sensitive stretch of skin, with enough space left untouched to keep her aching.
Her breath deepened. She parted her lips to inhale more fully, but the oxygen felt heavy in her chest. Her pulse had migrated, no longer just in her wrists or throat, but between her legs, where his hand almost reached.
Still, he didn't go higher.
Instead, he circled the inside of her thigh with his thumb. A slow, careful orbit that brushed across her skin in a rhythm so precise it felt choreographed.
Her muscles trembled, not violently, but with the kind of tension that builds when the body is holding back a yes, when it's not yet ready to give.
Her hips tilted forward slightly, just enough to shift the position of her skirt. It was a reaction to the rising tide inside her.
Still, he didn't move higher.
She thought she could feel the air itself change near her core. Like her body had become a lit flame, and he was circling it, deciding where to feed it and where to leave it wanting.
She wanted to say something, anything. But the words didn't form. Instead, her hand clutched the stone tighter, grounding herself in its coolness while her body grew impossibly hot.
Then he leaned in.
His face was near her neck now, his breath a wave of heat against her skin. He didn't kiss her. That would've been too much. Too soon. Instead, he exhaled slowly, deliberately, right beneath her ear.
Her entire body reacted.
Her spine arched slightly from need. A deep, physical craving that made her thighs tense again. A moan built in her throat and stopped just behind her tongue.
Still, he stayed just like that.
Breathing against her skin. His thumb circling. His hand resting.
She was soaking now.
The sensation of being touched everywhere except where she wanted made her feel cracked open. Her breasts ached, her nipples still tight from the earlier touch. But this was different. This was hunger. Real hunger. The kind that pulsed without friction, the kind that rose slow like a storm gathering over the ocean.
Then his fingers moved, not higher, but in, toward the softest part of her inner thigh. The spot where nerves ended and breath began. He didn't reach her sex. But he came close. Close enough that her body leaned into him without permission.
Her lips parted.
A low sound escaped her: fragile, raw, unintentionally intimate.
Still, he didn't speak. He didn't have to. The silence between them had become a language.
She didn't know how long he stayed like that: Tracing, breathing, listening.
But when his hand eventually slid away, slow, reverent, like he was leaving behind a secret, her body mourned it instantly.
She ached.
Her hands were trembling now. Not from fear. From everything she had just allowed herself to feel without asking for more. From everything that burned under the surface and begged not to be rushed.
She sat in stillness, breath staggered, legs trembling, chest heaving with restraint.
He had touched her without touching everything.
And she had never felt more bare.