The silk mask

I sat on the stage apron with the silk in my hands and the grid dark behind me except one warm lamp. Omar stood on the boards and did not take the silk until I held it out. I told him I wanted it over my eyes, a knot I could reach, not in my mouth, not at my neck. I wanted to feel the silk on the rest of me after, because the cloth does something to my skin that a hand over my face does not. He said the terms back. I said our word still kills it. Then I closed my eyes and let him tie.

Dark. Soft. I tugged the knot once so we both knew I could free myself. I said I can breathe, I can talk, I want your mouth on my cunt. He said good, and he started with the silk, not with his cock. He drew the loose tail along my jaw, down the turtleneck, over my breasts until my nipples ached in the best way through the knit. He asked me to keep my hands in my lap. I did.

He stripped the turtleneck off and used the silk on bare skin, a cool drag across my stomach, over my breasts, along the inside of my thigh. When I begged, he put his mouth on my cunt, the silk still over my eyes, one of his hands holding mine. He licked my clit until I shook and did not let me come, twice, asking each time if I wanted the tease or the end. The third time I said end. He stayed until I came, thighs tight around his shoulders, the silk damp where I had pressed my face into my own arm.

He stood, turned me toward the one lamp, and fucked his cock into my cunt while I stood with my hands on his shoulders, the silk still on. I could not see his face and it made every word he said land harder. I came again from that fuck, cunt working around his cock. He came when I said I wanted him to. Then he untied me himself, slowly, and waited while my eyes remembered the lamp. The silk hung in my hands. The grid stayed dark. I kissed him.