The Touch of Blind Desire
Ewan was a force of nature, a man whose presence filled a room long before he spoke. He was a close friend of my husband, a successful businessman who had lost his sight in a devastating car accident at twenty-one. Now thirty-five, he possessed a rugged masculinity and a pair of pale green eyes that seemed to look right through the physical world and straight into the soul. Because of his friendship with my husband, Ewan was a frequent guest in our home, often arriving unannounced for coffee or business discussions.
I had always been drawn to him, specifically to his hands—strong, capable, and sensitive. We shared a playful rapport, often joking about our respective flaws. I loved to tease him, watching the green of his eyes darken with a flicker of irritation that I found intoxicating. But the playful boundary between us shattered the afternoon we sat alone in the living room.
“Let me touch you,” he had asked softly. “I want to know how you feel.” I didn’t hesitate. I stood and guided him toward me, an invitation that would change everything. As he raised his hands to my face, a jolt of electricity surged through me. He traced my cheeks, my forehead, and the bridge of my nose with an agonizing slowness. When his thumb brushed my lower lip, parting them slightly, I felt a primitive heat ignite in my core.
His touch was an exploration of worship. His hands slid down my shoulders, tracing the curve of my spine and gripping my waist with a possessive strength. When he reached my breasts through the fabric of my dress, my nipples hardened instantly. I arched my back, offering him the curve of my neck, and he responded with a kiss that was both tender and hungry, his tongue dancing with mine in a desperate rhythm.
With a deft movement, he found the tie of my wrap dress and undone it. The garment pooled at my feet, leaving me exposed to his sightless gaze. Ewan paused for a moment, his breath hitching, before pulling me flush against his hard frame. He stripped away my lingerie, his mouth descending to my breasts, biting and sucking until I was breathless with longing.
He knelt before me on the carpet, his beard grazing my inner thighs, sending shivers of anticipation through my body. When his tongue first met my clitoris, I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair. He drank from me as if he were a dying man in a desert, his tongue frenetic and precise, exploring every fold of my heat. As he slid a finger deep inside me, I lost all composure, my hips bucking against him as a powerful orgasm crashed over me, leaving me trembling and spent.
After he had cleaned me with slow, lingering licks, he stood and left without a word. I watched from the window as he walked down the street, guided by his cane, leaving me in a state of absolute ruin. That was the beginning of a secret, lascivious addiction—a passion that continues to consume us to this day.