“I think we need to celebrate this special occasion.”
Her legs were already spread wide, bare pussy exposed to the evil gleam in his eye and whatever his sadistic mind could come up with. “Celebrate” wasn’t the word she would have used. Pleasurable torture. Exquisite agony. But celebrate?
She cleared her throat. “Yes, Sir.”
“Hold those legs wide, girl. I’m going to countdown from 100. If you can hold back your orgasm until I get to one, I’ll let you have it.”
This should be easy enough. He’s just going to count. I can do this.
She should have noticed how the corner of his mouth lifted or the way his eyes sparkled. Instead, she focused on keeping her legs wide apart and her body exposed.
Gasping as his hand caressed her labia, she barely heard his murmured, “100, 99…”
His touch was gentle and yet it set her body on fire. She should have known he would never “just” count.
“98, 97, 96…”
Each number corresponded to a stroke of her slit or a swirl around her clit. A sheen of sweat covered her forehead.
When he pinched her nipple while bearing down more firmly on her clit, she almost exploded.
Only in the 80s? How was she going to survive to the end? Her hips pushed forward as she whimpered with painful need.
“80!” She screamed as his palm made swift, sharp contact with her pussy. He pointed a finger at her as if to say, “You made me do that.”
She desperately wanted to hold still but her body had other ideas. Her leg began to shake. From desire or exertion, she wasn’t sure. Probably both.
“69, 68, 67…”
Fucking hell, they were only in the 60s now, and she wanted to beg him to fuck her or let her come or something. Desire and need slammed through her body. Her thighs quivered. She willed herself to breathe through it, the pain, the need, the burning pleasure. Warm fluid trickled from her body, coating her bottom. He did this to her, made her so wet it ran out of her body.
Sweat covered her body now. She breathed in time to his countdown, gasping for air as if she’d run a race.
“55, 54, 53, 52…”
His counting and his hand moved faster. Instead of bringing relief quicker, the speed only turned her desire up another notch. Now, holding still against his hand was no longer an option. She can began to writhe and squeal.
He never missed a beat.
“48, 47, 46, 45..”
Faster and faster, his thumb circled her clit. The noises she made were no longer human. High-pitched whines and squeals filled the air. She knew better than to beg. The answer would be no, and he’d find a way to make it worse.
The tip of his finger sat against her sensitive flesh. Her pulse beat in her ears and in her clitoris. Still, he refused to move. He said not a word, gave her no direction. He would wait until he was satisfied with…what, she didn’t know.
Willing herself to sit still and calm her breathing, she waited with him. She looked into his eyes and was caught, trapped in his gaze.
Each number was punctuated with a swipe of his finger over her lips. She knew they were swollen and pink and very wet. A sigh of pleasure escaped. He could do this all night.
“25, 24, 23, 22, 21…”
Back to her clit. Back to torturing her, bringing her to the edge until she thought she might scream or explode. Maybe both.
At least he was moving slowly again. She was able to breathe through it, stop her hips from humping his hand, begging to be filled, for release, for something, anything.
“15, 14, 13…”
She trembled from head to toe. Her climax hovered, held back by pure will and the teasing stutter-stop of his hand.
His thumb pressed against her clit, firm, unyielding, punishing. Oh God, he’s going to make this hurt.
He counted the final 10 down in a rush of words and firm circles against her body.
He stopped for a split second on 1. She screamed in frustration as she clenched down on her orgasm, willing it back.
“One!” He roared the number out as she finally let go, allowed her body to feel every ounce of pleasure and pain. Juices poured from her body. Her voice became hoarse and still she cried out. The pressure of thumb on clit abated just enough for a few more cruel and delicious swirls around the tortured flesh, just enough to wrench another orgasm or two from her.
He may have pulled his hand away. He may have murmured a “good girl” or kissed her. Lost in pleasure, pain, and endorphins, she didn’t know or care what happened next or tomorrow. She could and would keep her body open and exposed for him in hopes that he’d give her more, so much more.
Welcome to week 100 of Masturbation Monday! Of course we would celebrate, and frankly, I would mind a “countdown” like this to honor the best damn day of the week. Now that you’re thoroughly primed and ready for more, go forth and read more smut. You know you want to.