Blindfolded Guessing Game
Time seemed to lose its measure, transforming into a viscous, warm fluid that enveloped Lu Zhian.
The rising and setting of the sun and moon became irrelevant; the axis of his world seemed to be only that bedroom, that large bed that held endless entanglements and chaos.
He was like a precious collectible, being appreciated in turn, and like a piece of unclaimed territory, being repeatedly explored and occupied by two forces of different styles.
Their bodies no longer seemed to belong to them, but rather became instruments that reflected their will, playing notes that were either rapid or lingering under different touches.
The two brothers seemed to have reached a consensus on this. They were fond of gently covering his eyes with a soft silk scarf.
When vision is deprived, the other senses are magnified infinitely.
The world was reduced to touch, hearing, and the subtle yet distinct aura that belonged to the two of them.
He could feel a pair of hands, their fingertips calloused from years of holding pens or operating instruments, stroking his waist. The movements were steady and carried an undeniable sense of control; it was Xiao Yuan.
Immediately, another pair of hands, even hotter and with a bit of brute force, would grasp his ankles or linger on his back, stirring up a more primal shiver—it was Xiao Jin.
Warm lips landed on the crook of his neck, sucking and nibbling, leaving new marks. Sometimes they were restrained yet deep, as if completing a precise mark; sometimes they were eager and domineering, like a wild beast marking its territory.
The skin on his neck has almost never had a chance to recover; layers of old and new marks have become the most direct imprint of this week's chaotic time.
"Guess," a deep voice would whisper in your ear, carrying a warm breath, sometimes the calm composure of an elder brother, sometimes the untamed wildness of a younger brother, "Now, who is it?"
Lu Zhian trembled in the darkness, his senses gathering every subtle difference: the rhythm of breathing, the intensity of the kisses, the habitual movement of the hands...
Sometimes he guesses right, and sometimes he admits he's wrong. But whether he's right or wrong, it seems to lead to a new round of deeper "verification" and "punishment".
If you guess right, you might receive a moment of gentler treatment, as if it were a reward; if you guess wrong, it is often accompanied by a more forceful possessiveness, as if to completely correct your mistaken perception.
In this endless cycle, he gradually gave up thinking and let himself sink into this dark yet warm sea of desire that they had built together.
My body remembers the feel of every hand, the warmth of every kiss…
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