“Hush” he says, placing a firm hand over my mouth to muffle my squeals. I gaze up at him with wet, pleading eyes; brow creased and lashes fluttering. My most entreating face, met with a smirk and a chuckle.

His other hand is grasping the Torture Device*, holding it in just the right position to capture and tug on my swollen clit. Using nothing but air pressure, I understand. It feels like being sucked off by an aggressive ghost; part uncanny, part fucking glorious. He’s been holding me down for ten minutes and two orgasms already, every heaving, moaning breath from me ignites a bigger flame within him. He loves to watch me come. Loves even more to have been the cause of my orgasm. He lives his life on the principle of ‘enough is never enough’; wringing out the last droplet of satisfaction from his every indulgence. The more I scream and thrash and whimper, the harder he becomes.

He turns up the power, once, twice. I wail, a long quavering note of lust-drenched abandonment – I can’t come again, I just can’t. Except that I probably can, and if I can then he will use this device to make me until I really can’t. My blood feels thickened, sweeping along my veins bearing fire to my every fibre. My cunt is aching, flooded, twitching with aftershock from each sweet-stinging spasm. If I had the time or focus to ponder the word ‘release’, I would marvel at how it has become transformed from a promise of peak and ebb, to a taunting echo of reprieve and recovery. Given the choice, I don’t know whether I would choose to push on until I simply dissolve and evaporate; or to back off and slump, rolling lazily down from the mountaintop back to Earth. I can’t think. I can’t decide. I can’t take any more. I don’t want him to stop. How fortunate then that the choice has been denied me. He wants me to come again. He’s going to make me.

“Keep still” he orders, and shifts about so he can dip his cock into my mouth while watching his handiwork. Just to remind me who’s in charge. I suck eagerly, gulping and swallowing, seeking to distract myself from the holy fire around my clit by filling my mouth and throat with him. He indulges himself with a few leisurely thrusts, holding himself deep until he hears me begin to choke and gag, then pulls away. Silvery strands of drool tether him to me then fall back onto my parched lips. I keep still, holding myself rigid against the urge to squirm and buck. Only my harshened breathing and contorted expression betray me; they say “more” and “yes” and “please” even as I shake my head and fight against the urge to scream for mercy.

In his eyes a new understanding is awakening. I can see it unfurl and creep across his face, twisting his mouth with the taste of power, hooding his eyelids with focused fascination. It hollows his cheeks and flushes his lips, forces a moan of pent-up arousal from deep in his chest. It’s control, lust, dominance. Amusement at my helplessness, fierce desire entangled with savagery, fulfilled. At a time of his choosing, he will drop the device and switch to fucking my mouth with hard powerful strokes like a thirsty man pumping well-water up from below the desert sands. When he comes, it will be with a jerk and a throaty groan, hot salty splashes across my bruised and tender breasts which I’ll lick, and smear, and grin at him through. When he comes, he will bring my release.

*It’s a Womanizer Pro, and has lately been redeployed from Emergency Fast Wank Assistant to Forced Orgasms Endurance device. Holy fuck, it works a treat.

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