Michael was sixty-four, and he thought he’d seen it all. Divorced twice, a retired Navy man, he wasn’t easily rattled. But Clara was different. Fifty-eight, silver hair cut sharp, a confidence that made her dangerous.
The first time she invited him over, he expected wine, maybe dinner. Instead, she met him at the door with a silk blindfold in her hand. No small talk. No hesitation. Just a quiet, “Trust me.”
His chest tightened. He nodded. She tied it slowly, deliberately, her fingers brushing the back of his neck. Her touch was soft, but the knot was firm — no escape now.
“Sit,” she said, her voice low, controlled.
The leather chair was warm, and the silence felt heavier than the air itself. He could hear her moving, barefoot on the hardwood, the faint shift of silk as she walked. Then nothing.
And then… her breath.
Hot, deliberate, close to his ear.
Michael tensed, gripping the armrests.
“Nervous?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice rough.
“Good.”
Her fingertips grazed his shoulder, slow and teasing, then disappeared. A moment later, something soft — her hair, maybe — brushed against his jawline, and he clenched his teeth to keep from groaning.
Minutes blurred. She circled him without touching, letting the anticipation claw at him. Every sound — her steps, her breath, the whisper of silk against skin — drove him closer to the edge.
Then, out of nowhere, her hand landed on his thigh. Firm. Possessive.
Michael gasped, muscles tightening.
“Not yet,” she murmured, pulling away just as quickly.
His breathing turned uneven, his palms damp. He hated how much he wanted this. Hated how she had complete control.
Finally, she leaned close, lips barely grazing his ear, and whispered:
“Ask me.”
He swallowed hard, pride crumbling. “Touch me.”
“Beg,” she said softly.
He exhaled, shaky, defeated. “Please… touch me.”
And she did.
Her fingers trailed down his chest, slow, deliberate, following the line of his shirt until they slipped under the first button. She didn’t unbutton it — not yet. Just traced the edge, nails grazing his skin lightly enough to make his breath catch.
He tried to reach for her, but she stopped him with a firm hand against his chest. “Don’t move,” she whispered.
Then came the sound of fabric — silk sliding off her shoulder. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her heat, smell her perfume — warm vanilla mixed with something darker, muskier.
She placed his hand on her hip, letting him feel the smoothness of her skin, but before he could explore further, she pulled back, leaving his palm empty and aching.
The blindfold came off slowly. Light flooded in, and the first thing he saw was her silhouette — standing close, silk robe half-open, her bare shoulder glowing under soft lamplight. Her lips curved into the smallest, most dangerous smile.
“You waited,” she said softly, brushing her thumb across his jaw. “Good boys always get rewarded.”
Michael exhaled, shaky, his entire body trembling from the build-up.
Tonight, he realized something he’d never admit to anyone else:
Sometimes, the strongest thing a woman can do… is make a man wait until he’s begging for her.
