After years of grinding through constant work pressure, phones going off at midnight, crises blowing up on birthdays, stress that just wouldn’t quit, we finally looked at each other and said enough. We made a choice.
We’re married, yeah, but more than that. We’ve survived a lot together, and somewhere along the way we realized the life we were living was eating us alive. So we made a deal, years back. A small act of defiance against all the noise: Friday was ours. When it came around, we shut everything else out. Laptops stayed closed. Phones went silent. The rest of the world could wait.
We dress up for each other, Eira especially, in lingerie that makes me forget my own name. We take our time with dinner. Good food, good wine, actual conversation. Laughter that isn’t rushed. It’s not just about indulgence, it’s become a ritual, a way to remember we’re more than job titles and obligations.
And when the candles burn down, we turn to the most intimate thing we have. Lovemaking isn’t an escape for us; it’s coming home. It’s how we reconnect after a week of being pulled in every direction but toward each other.
In those moments, the stress melts and time slows down, and we remember exactly why we chose this, chose us, in the first place.
Friday became sacred, not because it was fancy, but because it was intentional. A weekly vow we keep renewing, protecting what we have from a world that never stops taking. We’re both retired now, but the tradition hasn’t changed.
OLIVER:
She steps out of the shower looking like something I still can’t believe I get to touch. Black lingerie, heels that make my brain short-circuit. We head to the bedroom where the candles are already going, soft light bouncing off the walls. Her eyes land on the restraints I’ve laid out. She knows what’s coming.
I take her Sleepbuds, sync them to her phone, and hand them over. She scrolls through, picks “Intimate Rain,” and slides them in. I nudge the volume up a little higher than she usually keeps it. Then comes the blindfold, smooth, snug, and I wrap a silk scarf over it, tying it at the side; total blackout.
She doesn’t need instructions. I guide her onto the bed and her head finds the pillow like it always does. I fasten her wrists first then pause to slide her panties down and off. Her neat landing strip of pussy hair catches the light. I could stare all night, but I’ve got plans.
Now she’s completely cut off. No sight, no sound except rain that pulls her back to that floating hotel on the River Kwai where we fell asleep to water lapping under us.
EIRA:
I’m fresh out of the shower, skin still warm, and the black lingerie fits like it was made for nights like this. The heels give me a little extra edge. I know he loves them. I catch myself in the mirror and smile. I feel good, sexy, ready.
We walk into the bedroom together. Candles already lit, shadows dancing. My eyes go straight to the restraints on the bed. My pulse kicks up. He’s planned this, I like when he plans.
He takes my Sleepbuds and pairs them without asking then passes them to me. I scroll to “Intimate Rain” because it always pulls me under. I slip them in, and the first drops hit my ears, gentle at first. Then he turns it up a little louder than I would, and suddenly the rain feels closer, heavier. My world shrinks to just that sound.
He blindfolds me. The fabric settles over my eyes, cool and firm, blotting out the candlelight. He then wraps a scarf around it and ties it at the side. I’m not going anywhere until he decides.
I know what comes next, so I let him guide me back until the edge of the bed hits my thighs. I sit, then ease down until my head finds the pillow. My breathing’s already slowing. The rain is steady now, tropical and familiar.
He takes my wrists. I feel the cuffs close around them, snug, not tight, and a small tug as he secures them. My arms stretch just enough that I’m aware of every inch of exposed skin. His hands move lower. He slides my panties down slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric brush my thighs where they’re bare above the stockings, then they’re gone.
Cool air hits me, and I know he’s looking. The little landing strip I keep trimmed just for this. I know he loves it. I can almost feel his eyes on me.
Heat stirs low in my belly. I want to arch toward him, but I stay still because I know he’ll get there when he’s ready. Everything narrows now. No sight, no outside noise. Just the warm, endless rain that takes me back to the River Kwai and falling asleep to water so close we could touch it. Except this time I’m not drifting, I’m wide awake, every nerve tuned to whatever comes next.
OLIVER:
I pause after her panties come off. Let the moment hang there. The mattress dips as I kneel beside her hip.
EIRA:
I can feel the heat from his body even though he’s not touching me yet. Then his fingertips ghost along the inside of my right thigh, barely contact, more like suggestion. They trace upward in a slow line that stops maddeningly short of where I’m already wet and aching.
Then he stops, the sudden absence makes my skin prickle.
I feel the ankle cuffs being lifted. He starts with my left leg, lifts it gently at the knee, bends it just enough, and presses his mouth softly over the stocking. The leather bracelet surrounds my ankle and the Velcro holds secure, inescapable, but kind.
He repeats it with the right ankle, slower this time. He slips off my shoe and lets his thumb brush the arch of my foot. With both ankles secured, he presses my legs apart. Wider than I expected. The straps reach their anchors at the corners of the bed. A gentle tug, then another, and my thighs are held open in a steady, unyielding stretch. Not painful. Just… completely exposed.
The rain in my ears masks most sound, but I catch the faint rustle of fabric, his shirt coming off, his belt buckle hitting the floor.
Then the mattress dips again, deeper this time, as he settles between my spread thighs. His knees press against the insides of mine, reinforcing the restraint. I couldn’t close them if I tried.
Both his hands return at once. I feel them on my hips, then travelling upward with gentle strokes over my waist, along my ribs, skirting the edges of my bra without touching my breasts.
His thumbs brush the undersides, teasing the wire, then he pulls them away again. His hands move back down, brushing lightly over my pussy, caressing the landing strip without parting me.
He repeats the circuit twice, three times, always skirting, always denying the centre until my hips lift involuntarily, seeking more. Only then does he change rhythm. One hand stays low. Fingers finally part my outer lips with slow, deliberate care. He’s not inside yet. Instead, he spreads me gently open, exposing me completely to the cool air, to his gaze.
I feel the weight of being looked at while blind, restrained, filled with nothing but sound and anticipation.
His other hand moves to my breasts. He hooks a finger under the center of my bra and tugs it down just enough to release them both without taking the garment off. The underwire frames them like an offering while cool air hits my nipples and they tighten instantly.
He leans forward and I feel the brush of his hair against my sternum a split second before his mouth closes over one nipple, warm, wet, unhurried. No teeth, just suction and nibbling that match the rhythm of the rain in my ears.
His tongue circles once, twice, then he bites gently before switching to the other breast, giving it the same patient attention. All the while, his fingers below remain still, holding me open. I feel the steady throb of my pulse against his unmoving touch.
When he releases my nipple, his face begins moving downward. Kisses, open-mouthed, deliberate, trailing along my sternum, my navel, then lower still. He pauses just above my clit, his breath warm against my skin. I feel the lightest touch of his lower lip… then nothing. He’s building me, and I’m trembling with it.
At last, he lowers his mout,h and the contact is soft. The flat of his tongue presses broad and warm against my entrance, lapping upward in one slow stroke that ends with a gentle curl around my clit. He’s not rushing; he’s tasting me like he has all night. Slow circles. Long vertical licks. Then a focused point of pressure right over the hood, flicking lightly until my hips jerk against the restraints.
Only when my breathing turns ragged does he slide one finger inside me, slowly, deeply, curling upward to find that spot that makes my back arch off the bed. He adds a second finger soon after, stretching me gently while his mouth stays relentless on my clit.
The rain keeps falling in my ears, steady, endless, drowning out the soft moans so that I’m feeling them more than hearing them. Vibrations in my chest and throat. Every roll of my hips is met with resistance from the cuffs. Every futile tug of my wrists reminds me I’m exactly where he wants me.
OLIVER:
Her thighs are trembling. The rhythm’s frantic, so I pull back just enough and keep my fingers still. Let the tension ripple through her. Build her again, I’m not done yet.
I sense her anticipation, her breath short, ragged, uneven, like she’s bracing for a storm instead of receiving touch. My forehead brushes her lower belly, a weight that says, I’m here, you’re safe. Nothing rushed, everything inevitable.
My hand slides up her hip. My thumb presses firmly into her soft skin, a tactile anchor. Possession, but carefully controlled.
A small shock: an ice cube in my mouth traces against her heat. She jerks involuntarily. Shivers, gasps. Her body tightens, electric, exquisite.
I rise closer and realise it’s raining outside too. Steady drops blend with her breath and the little quivers of her muscles. I can feel the pulse of my heartbeat pressing against hers.
Each movement is exact, every touch is precise. Nothing hurried, nothing wasted. The contrasting temperatures, ice and the heat of my tongue, amplify everything. Unforgettable.
The head of my cock teases her entrance, up and down, then forward, slowly filling her with its length.
Rain and breath. Skin, shivers, gasps. The bed rocks gently beneath us in unhurried motion. Night closes in like a cocoon, cradling each sensation that doesn’t need to be seen to be felt.
Silence hums. Every nerve awake. Each brush of skin, a quiet symphony.
Our foreheads rest together. Our bodies curve into each other like they were always meant to fit. Breaths come and go in harmony.
Outside, the rain continues with soft, forgiving percussion. Inside, the world narrows to a single unspoken truth that exists only between us.
As night swallows the room, our bodies still, our hearts in silent understanding. The universe contracts to this perfect, infinite intimacy.
