The silk blindfold is soft against his eyes, blocking out the lamp light, the clutter of the room, the weight of your gaze. At first, he tenses, his hands fisting in the sheets, like he’s bracing for something. You’ve talked about it before—how he takes his time, too much time, sometimes, his jaw tight as he focuses on “lasting longer,” on being “good enough.” But tonight, with the world dark, something shifts.
It starts slow, the way it always does, but then his breath hitches, a sound he tries to muffle, and you feel him tense beneath you. “Easy,” you murmur, but he’s already shaking his head, a low, rough sound escaping his throat. He’s not holding back, not calculating, not worrying about whether he’s measuring up. Without sight, there’s no audience—no need to perform, no pressure to be anything but himself.
When it happens, faster than usual, he goes still, the blindfold slipping a little as he turns his head, like he’s waiting for disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you cut him off, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Don’t be,” you say, and he freezes, like he’s never heard those words before.
This isn’t failure. It’s truth—the raw, unvarnished honesty of a body that’s finally stopped lying. For years, he’s hidden behind control, afraid that letting go would make him weak. But here, in the dark, there’s no pretense. He’s just a man, feeling without thinking, and that’s the bravest thing he’s ever done. You pull the blindfold off, and when he meets your eyes, there’s a vulnerability there, bright and new. “See?” you say, smiling. “Honesty suits you.”