Page 161 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The praise sends warmth through my body that transcends simple approval to encompass validation of effort and rooted achievement.

Yet before I can fully process the satisfaction of complete success, his next words introduce additional complexity that makes my pulse spike with fresh anticipation.

"I still have to add a bonus though."

Fabric appears in his hands with judicial precision—soft cloth that suggests preparation rather than improvisation.

When he positions the material across my eyes with careful attention to comfort and security, darkness descends with completeness that eliminates visual input while somehow intensifying every other sensation. The blindfold creates immediate vulnerability that proves more exciting than intimidating, trust manifested through willing helplessness and dependency.

My hearing immediately compensates for lost vision, cataloging every sound with hypersensitive precision.

His breathing, slightly labored from restraint and mounting desire. The subtle shift of fabric as Riot adjusts positioning in his observation chair. Even the mechanical hum of institutional systems becomes more apparent without visual distraction competing for attention.

Most striking is how the loss of sight intensifies his scent signature—aged paper and storm clouds now seeming to envelop me completely.

The atmospheric cocktail surrounding our intimate space grows thicker without visual input to process, layers of pheromone concentration creating complexity that defies simple categorization. My own arousal signature mingles with masculine musk in combinations that announce biological compatibility with unmistakable clarity.

"Get moving on my cock," Sable encourages with authority that acknowledges my adjustment period while establishing expectation for continued performance and compliance.

I begin with careful rhythm that balances technique with sustainability, lips sliding along his considerable length with movements designed to build pleasure rather than rushing toward inevitable conclusion.

Each pass gathers more of his distinctive taste while creating friction that draws increasingly rough sounds from his throat. His hands remain carefully positioned to provide guidance without force—judicial oversight that acknowledges my autonomy while maintaining tactical control over proceedings.

The wet sounds of my movement fill the air with unmistakable evidence of intimate activity.

Saliva provides necessary lubrication while creating auditory confirmation that eliminates any possibility of concealment or tactical misdirection. Each stroke produces distinctive sound that announces oral engagement with clarity that transcends verbal communication.

His deep groans provide immediate feedback regarding technique and effectiveness.

Appreciation emerges through involuntary vocalization despite judicial attempts at controlled response and restraint. The sounds guide my efforts with precision that visual input might not provide—biological confirmation of successful stimulation and mounting pleasure.

I establish a steady pace that draws consistent response while avoiding exhaustion or strain.

My body proves advantageous for sustained performance, breathing patterns, and muscle control, allowing extended engagement without compromise of technique or effectiveness. Each movement builds upon previous stimulation while maintaining progression toward an eventual climax.

That's when his hands move to cover my ears with sudden precision that eliminates auditory input to match visual deprivation.

Complete sensory isolation creates vulnerability that transcends simple blindness to encompass total dependency on his guidance and instruction. The darkness becomes absolute—no sight, no sound, just the taste and feel of him filling my mouth with impressive presence.

Yet the isolation proves temporary rather than permanent.

Through the muffled barrier of his palms, I detect movement that suggests communication beyond my perception—whispered instruction or gestured command that involves the third presence I'd temporarily forgotten during our intimate engagement.

When sensation explodes between my legs with unexpected intensity, the surprise makes me pause mid-stroke with an audible gasp.

A tongue glides through my folds with expert precision, no doubt of experience but only more satisfying knowing he’sconfident in pleasing me on different levels that only provide pleasure to him. Not random exploration but stimulation designed to complement rather than distract from my own performance.

The contact sends electricity racing through nerve endings already hypersensitive from recent climax and mounting arousal.

Riot's distinctive approach to intimate exploration becomes immediately apparent despite sensory deprivation—aggressive confidence that matches his combat methodology, technique that prioritizes comprehensive stimulation over gentle introduction or buildup.

My moan around Sable's cock creates vibration that draws immediate response.

His hips jerk slightly with involuntary reaction to additional stimulation, judicial control momentarily compromised by unexpected pleasure enhancement and systematic sensory multiplication. The sound he makes carries appreciation that transcends verbal expression.

Sable's hands withdraw from my ears with precise timing that allows auditory input to return just as communication becomes necessary.

"You better start moving," his voice carries authority mixed with amusement at my obvious distraction and overwhelm, "or I'm not gonna let Riot eat you out."

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