bondage,  femmedom,  Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

Marking Time

“Oh, Miss. You’re so …”

He’s pulling at his bonds, wiggling his nakedness into the bed, struggling with delight.

“I’m so what?” The tip of the riding crop punctuates my question as it taps against the gleaming steel cage that fails to conceal his arousal.

He grins and strains, his wrists are getting red where the straps are rubbing. He tries to pull his knees up but all he’s doing is exhausting himself. He laughs and sputters.

“You’re so … mean.”

I laugh. Not just a giggle or a smirk, a full-on, from the belly, laugh.

“Because I’m not letting you come? Owning your orgasms means owning the time between them.”

“But it’s been such a long time!”

“How long has it been? Say it. Tell me how long it’s been since I let you come.”

“Ten days, Miss.”

“And how many more days do you deserve?” I’m slowly pacing the three free sides of the bed, nails dragging over his skin slowly, petting him and leaving pale pink lines. He shivers and thinks about his answer.

“Ten more, Miss?”

“I asked for an answer, not a question.” The crop comes down white-hot across his thighs. He yelps and nods.

“Ten more days, please Miss. Keep me locked another ten days, please.”

“Better.”

This is our waiting game. Tease and denial is my favourite way of marking time in kink. Maintaining control means deciding what happens and when. I couldn’t tell you which one makes me wetter. The ‘what’ is obviously hot: he’s gorgeous and obedient and craves structure and control. The ‘when’ is delicious too: he will wait and endure the passage of time as I see fit. He’s naturally compliant but also impatient, this makes for delicious negotiations.

I lean in close to his face, he’s sweating slightly, brow and chest glistening. I lick his face to taste the musky salt of his skin, he laughs and I catch his mouth with mine and things slow down for a moment, the edges of things go blurry and we kiss deeply. I can feel him sinking deeper as I softly bite his bottom lip and he pushes closer, nuzzling my face with his. We separate again, he’s breathless and glassy eyed, I’m wet and aching for him. The dance continues.

“Let’s make a deal. You want me to keep you locked, and I want that too. It’s best for you, for both of us. I’m going to give you ten strikes with this crop across the front of your thighs and when they have faded away, I’ll unlock you.”

He swallows hard. He doesn’t love pain, but he loves the marks of ownership. I can see him calculating in his mind, accounting for the endurance needed to stay locked and ultimately come.

“I’d be able to see the marks each day … like a countdown to orgasm, Miss.”

“Well, I said I’d unlock you when they fade, not that you’d definitely come.”

“Miss!” He twists and writhes, pouting and dripping from his cage.

“Shall we begin?” I tap the soles of his feet playfully, just enough to sting and he pants, steeling himself against the task.

“Please, Miss, yes.”

“Good boy. Count for me, backwards from ten, and then we’ll have a cuddle.”

“Yes, Miss.” He’s cringing and he bleats loudly at the first strike. The welt is white first, then rosy, then a deep red. I space them neatly, a stinging Jacob’s Ladder for his ascension into subspace.

“Ten!”

My hand is steady, his eyes are on mine. Nine, eight and seven fall across his legs in metered rhythm.

“Six!” Five, four and three come in rapid succession.

“Just two more. Do you have two more left in you for me?”

“Yes, Miss. For you.”

I smile and linger, the crop gently patting at the welts. He’s drooling and sweating and it’s almost over. He finishes strong, gritting his teeth for the last two. I set down the crop and undo his ankles, then his wrists and sit beside him. He curls into my lap, wincing as he moves his legs. We kiss and I wrap around him, rubbing his wrists and kissing his hair, tipping sips of water to his lips. He’s whimpering and tired. He closes his eyes and we lay there together, one creature, breathing slowly in unison. The room is quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock beside the bed, every movement of its hands carrying us closer to next time.

 

WickedWednesday

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