“We haven’t played this game in a while.” Those were the words I heard just before he grabbed me, pulled me close, and edged me until I begged for release.
“No, babygirl.” I whimpered in response.
For all my babygirl, silly ways, I know better than to push when he decides to torture me. He’ll only revel in it before he makes it worse.
One morning, he grabbed my throat, held me against his chest, and tapped my clit until I screeched, barely able to control the volume – and my body.
Another, he held me down on the bed, strummed his fingers against my body, barely pushing into my soaked slit, as I moaned into the rumpled sheets.
In the middle of the night, he hooked one leg over mine, spread me wide, and played my body like the instrument it was, while I begged and writhed against him.
We went on like this for days. Once over, my mind would move on to other more mundane daily tasks, but my body never forgot. I smelled my own sex everywhere I went. Whenever clothes came off, cool air kissed my body, reminding me of wetness that never seemed to dissipate. The smallest touch from him brought the fire to life, a fire that never actually went out, but simple smoldered, waiting for him and the sadistic game he was playing.
Finally, finally, he strummed, stroked, flicked, tapped, thrust, and played my body long enough, listening to my pleas and cries, chuckling as I begged, before whispering one word in my ear.
Spasms wracked my body. I curled in on myself before throwing myself open and bare, writhing against him. His fingers never stopped moving, forcing one then another, then more. As aftershocks shook my body, I heard him say, “Now it’s my turn.”
Welcome to Masturbation Monday! Short but sweet in the reading, but in reality, days and days of sweet, D/s torture. My favorite kind! Okay, y’all, now go forth and read the other smutty goodness from the amazing bloggers and writers who have participated this week.