Blue Bandana

The bandana is navy blue. I can see one of its corners peeking from his jeans, where they lie on the floor. He’s shucked his pants so quickly and neatly they’re simply two abandoned leg holes surrounded by crumpled fabric, an infinity sign made of denim. I pluck the bandana from his back right pocket, where it looks as if it’s been kept for a long while.

He’s on his knees, on the mattress, uncertain of whether to bend over or remain upright. Already his eyes are closed, though through the narrow slits I can see the glint of his irises as they dart back and forth, excited. I shake out the bandana and grab its opposite corners, letting my wrists rise and fall in circles as I spin the fabric into a loose rope. His tongue darts out across his lips, wetting them. Although he’s already bent forward, when I slip the bandana over his head and across the bridge of his nose, he allows me to pull him upright again. As I tie the knot, my knuckles graze the sharp, short spikes of his hair. His back arches as the knot tightens. A thin thread of fluid connects the tip of his cock to the mattress—a spiderweb’s filament that glistens in the last of the daylight.

He loves the blindfold. He craves it. When I drag my nails down the side of his rib cage, he responds with a hiss and small convulsion. When I stop, he moans. I slap his ass, slowly, deliberately, once, twice, three times, leaving behind red skin and goosebumps.

“Please,” he begs.

Not yet. I pull a thumbnail down the sole of his foot, causing it to shake. He cries out again when I pinch his nipples, twisting them in opposite directions. I part his legs with my own knees, bringing him down into a crouch, and I let the tip of my cock graze the crack between his buttocks. He moans again. “Please.”

Still not yet. I hook my fingers underneath the bandana and pull him upright, firmly enough that it seems like a command. He responds with a gasp when I pull his chin around and press my lips against his, my tongue deep inside his mouth. There’s almost too much stimulation for him now—the deep kissing, the insistent pull of the blindfold, my other hand’s fingers jamming lube inside him.

When I force myself inside him, it take him a moment before he acknowledges what’s happened. He breathes in sharply, shudders, then falls forward again. His chin is wet with spit and his own drool. It’s what he’s wanted. It’s what he’s come for.

“Thank you,” he whispers. I use the blindfold as a hand grip, yanking back his head with every thrust. He responds by arching up to meet me, and by issuing one long, animal groan that starts deep from the diaphragm and emerges as a cry of release and need, mixed. His hands clutch blindly at the pillow, turning into claws whenever I poke or tweak or pinch or slap some unexpected place.

When he climaxes, it’s urgent. It’s loud, and accompanied by a howl. He twitches and trembles. I follow quickly. The gyrations of our bodies subside.

My hands still shaking, I undo the blindfold. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment, then opens them and smiles at me. I’m surprised at how dark those eyes are, and yet how shaded, as if our time together has been a dream, and this moment the waking from it.