I’m on my knees, legs spread wide with my pyjama bottoms wrapped right around my ankles, feet entangled. One hand holding a butterfly vibe against my clit, the other wrapped around the control unit. It’s 3pm and neither of us has changed out of our nightwear; familiar and musky, my flushed skin tells a story of sleep-sweat and fuck-sweat, cigarettes and lust. If I lower my head, I can just make out the tang of sex-toy-cleaning wipes from the vibe against the background aromas of indolence and decadence.
He reaches out to stroke my left nipple, idly fondling while his eyes remain locked on the book in front of him.
“Half an hour.” He says thoughtfully, when I – fuck-drunk and sore but still craving more – offer to edge myself for him. “If you take a break, the clock stops and your break time gets added on at the end.” He settles back onto the sofa, the very spot where minutes earlier my face was pressed; reddening against the cushion fabric with each forceful thrust.
Post orgasmic; cricket on the radio, a cup of tea cooling at his elbow, a book on his lap, he is nonetheless beguiled by my wriggling, gasping efforts at his feet. I know this by the leisurely, roving glances he turns upon me, his throaty murmurs of appreciation that my occasional whimpering provokes.
My orgasm has become elusive these days – I’m supposed to be edging but I can’t get close enough for that; delightful as prolonged masturbation is. I swallow down frustration, focus instead on the way the vibe hums and slides against my come-slick cunt, my position; exposed, submissive, controlled.
“Seven minutes gone” he announces, and wanders off for a smoke. A scent-memory of flirting in pubs, frotting in clubs, burning with desire and sexual ambition under bright lights and in dark rooms wreathes through my mind, fantasy chasing chasing recall.
I’m at a party. One of those parties. On display in the centre of the room, kneeling gagged and chained while my Fella lounges in a chair nearby. He’s showing our friends how fucking hot I look playing with myself, telling them about the effort it takes a wanton slut like me to hold back; what a good girl I am when I do what I’m told.
His hand encircles the back of my neck, drawing me back to the moment.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Four minutes left”
And now it’s a race, a balancing act to get just close enough without tipping over over, so I close my eyes, and turn my focus inwards, concentrate on sensation while hard-core BDSM porn flickers across my mental screens, and he lets his hands roam over me, pinching, squeezing, stroking, grasping, until-
“MEOW!” Timmy the cat, interjects, in the “excuse me” tones of one who has been waiting in the customer service queue for longer than is acceptable, and whose patience has run out. “Can I have some attention please?!”
-and my just-getting-there orgasm is ruined as we dissolve into gales of helpless laughter, while the furry tyrant watches us with wide, hopeful, feed-me eyes.