She was bound to learn patience.
At the wrists, her arms outstretched, and at the ankles, spread wide.
At the bar earlier that evening, as she complained about the frustrations of waiting endlessly for her hair-brained co-workers to finish their tasks, her gentleman friend had suggested that patience was a learned behavior.
She had scoffed. But she had also agreed to this little experiment.
And so naked, secured and blindfolded, she waited.
She listened intently for any sounds he might make as he prepared to do whatever the hell he planned on doing, but he obviously was trying just as hard to run silent.
She thought it’s funny; in the dark, and bound this way, seconds drag endlessly. Seconds seem like minutes.
First lesson learned.
And then she thought I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I bet I get bored before I learn anything
And yet she waited — no real choice in the matter — for something to happen. For him to do something. Something with her. Something to her. To do something.
Then, unannounced, his lips fell, softly, tenderly just above the point of her hip. Then nothing
Then the tip of his tongue, flicking at her left nipple. Then nothing.
Then his nails dragging along her inner thigh. Then nothing.
Then her right nipple between his fingers, a sharp, crisp pinch. Then nothing.
Then, punctuated by long, silent pauses, his hands — searching, kneading, scraping … then that hot … what was that? a piece of metal? … then ice, then both together, alternating the bright white heat and the deep freezing cold . . then the feather and the Wartenburg and then … nothing.
And now, his finger … a single finger … the very tip of a single finger … rolling … just barely rolling her swiftly swelling pearl.
Her breathing slowed but deepened. The barely-there slip of his finger along her clit was a treat and a tease and, predictably, it made her want more.
She squirmed a bit and, almost unconsciously, her hips lifted just slightly to press against his feather-touch-pressure.
Patience, he said.
This continued for some time. How long? She couldn’t say because … seconds … dragged
Never waning, never hurrying, never increasing in pressure.
This is unfair she said.
Life is unfair he replied. Be patient.
She tried to think of something else — anything else — but it was impossible. Every nerve ending in her body had shut down and diverted its energy to the tiny, swollen point between her legs and it was screaming at her. The sensation was deafening, crowding out the ability to hold any other thought
She wriggled and twisted, trying to find more purchase against his finger, but he answered each movement deftly, denying her the pressure she craved.
Next, came a finger — one finger — slipped inside her while he continued rolling circles around her clit.
She had craved something insider her, that’s true, but this is worse she thought. This is so much worse. She wanted him, obviously, to work the finger inside her — to fuck her with it — but he didn’t; he kept it still as he played with her clit.
After what seemed like an eternity of this, he removed his finger and she heard a familiar buzzing sound, her favorite appliance, the pretty blue one with the long tapered shaft, and she felt it begin to circle her mons. It circled the perimeter, but never come close to where she wanted it.
His finger just barely on her pearl; the toy traveling the edge of her lips.
Slow. Exquisite. Torture.
What she did not figure — what her body would not allow her to even consider — was the patience this required of him. He wanted to unfurl. He wanted to bury himself inside of her. But he had a plan and he intended to see it through.
Her body now began to buck and writhe in earnest. The smile was long gone from her lips, replaced with a grimace and a furrowed brow.
And she said it for the first of many times to come, the word he knew was inevitably going to be on her lips: Please.
She’d use the word please dozens and dozens of times over the next half hour or so — in long endless chains … please please oh fuck please please please — as he would pull her just to the edge and leave her hanging there. He’d read her body and her breathing and the changing color of her skin and pull her forward, drag her just to the point of release, and then back. A hundred times, she thought, she was close enough to taste her release, but never close enough to touch it.
And eventually she would lose the ability to form the word: please would morph into an indistinct groan … a wounded-animal sound coming from deep inside her. Inarticulate, true, but effectively communicating her desperation.
She’d come to ache from absence — from denial. She’d feel as if her body was being beaten from the inside, her climax thrashing from her core against her skin.
But here is the irony … in an hour or two, she’d be using the same words — please please god please — to get him to stop. To get him to stop making her cum. To stop the endless train of orgasms, cascading one after the other. As much as she needed that release now, she would later be defeated by them, left sore and aching from the soles of her feet to her abdominals to the stretched-taut cords in her neck.
Eventually, when she was completely exhausted and her body was limp and lifeless, he would untie her and remove the blindfold, and pull her body against his. He would leave for some later time, when her brain was fully functioning again, a discussion about whether anything had been learned.
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