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“You know, I love making you come; love watching you squirm and making you squeak, feeling you tense and hearing all the noises you make. You tense up just before, did you know?”
I don’t care. I don’t care about anything right now but your fingers touching lightly against my clit.
I try to push my hips forward, needing more, wanting your touch.
“Don’t even think about it.”
You push me back firmly against the bed with a warning look.
“Yes, you tense up,” you continue. “Just like now. Only you’re not going to come, are you? Because I didn’t say you could.”
“No, Master, I… I won’t.”
You notice that I am avoiding looking at the clock and grin. “After all,” you say, “You’ve still got thirty nine minutes to go.
I groan, my whole body straining to hold back.
“I know how close you are,” you whisper into my ear. “I do know. But it’s up to me what happens, how I touch you; whether I do this or only this. Whether I let you come or make you wait.”
I try to think of something else. I can hear children playing outside in the street and my mind drifts to when we were kids, playing Cowboys and Indians in our garden. You used to tie me up then too but it never would have occurred to me back then that we’d end up here. We played hide and seek too – hearing ‘coming, ready or not’ never made me feel like this either.
A sharp slap across my cheek makes me yelp.
“Don’t drift off, Abby. I want you here, fully present and correct. I want to see you struggle to hold back, just to please me.”
You have your wish. Every nerve ending is on fire with the need to come and I have no idea how I’m holding on, except that somehow I am. I am desperate to let go, desperate to tip over the edge, to find release, but my need to please you has me doing everything I can to wait until you allow it.
“Thirty one minutes. All those seconds to tick away before I’ll allow you to come. One thousand, eight hundred and sixty seconds in fact.”
I squirm. “Oh, Sir. That sounds even longer.”
You laugh. “I know. Why do you think I said it? Evil, big, bad Dom, remember?”
“You’re forgetting, that’s part of the job description.” You narrow your eyes. “Hmmm, you think I’m being mean, do you?”
I look up at you warily, wondering what you are planning now.
“Erm, no Sir.”
“Really? I’m sure someone just called me a meanie. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in here apart from you.”
You run your fingers lightly over my ribs, under my arms, tickling and torturing.
I laugh and wriggle against the ropes, trying to get away but knowing it’s hopeless.
“Am I being mean to you?”
You tickle the back of my neck, then back under my ribs and down to my waist.
“No… no, please. You’re not… not being mean!”
You reach for my feet, tickling my insteps until I’m giggling and breathless, and can’t speak any more.
You drop a kiss on my lips, smiling. “And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Twenty five minutes to go, sweetheart.”
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