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"Wait. But don't stop."

Is he fucking kidding me? I'm so close that just the thought of waiting is enough to make me start hurting with the need to come. I slow down until I'm hardly touching myself, just stroking a finger lightly around the head in an agonising tickle. I can hear him rummaging through the closet, cursing impatiently, then he huffs in triumph and I hear him closing the closet door.


I want to ask him what he's doing but the damp cloth in my mouth hardly allows for a whimper, much less a word. I can feel the bed dipping as he climbs back in and for a brief moment I hope that he's going to touch me. But only the hairs on my legs shiver slightly from the air of his movements and then nothing. Then I hear clicks and the soft humming of the video recorder. For the fiftieth time I wonder if he's ever gonna let me watch any of those tapes.

"Now, spit on your fingers."

I do as he says, the saliva cooling my warm and sticky hand. It's getting a bit tired, after all I've been doing this for an hour now. Slowly, then speeding up until I'm almost there which is when he tells me to slow down again. He can play this game for hours, taunting me, driving me insane with frustration. Once he kept so quiet that after what must have been thirty minutes or more I stopped to ease the cramp in my fingers. He wasn't happy with that. By the time he untied me my wrists were so swollen and my arms so numb I couldn't move for the longest time. Didn't stop him from fucking me though, my arms flopping around like dead fish as he flipped me one way or the other.

"Start from the beginning."

Jesus! I can hardly touch myself, I'm so fucking close and he wants me to start all over again? I glare but only because I know he can't see it under the blindfold. I'm not even sure I'm glaring in the right direction although I think he's somewhere to my right at the end of the bed. My hand is trembling as it starts the routine foreplaying movements. Up to the crown then down again, dragging the foreskin lightly with me. Again and again, each time a little harder until finally I'm pulling it down hard, making my dick stand up like a damn tower, head glistening and stretched to the point of splitting the skin. Not that I can see it but a man knows his cock better than the back of his hand. Who the hell studies the back of their hand anyway?

"Yeah, that's it. Keep going."

His voice is husky, raw. Sometimes I wish I could see his face, see the way my performance is affecting him. Other times, most times, I'm glad I can't. What if in his eyes there is nothing but cold lust, like he was watching some bad pornomovie instead of a person? Instead of me. What if when he looks at me he doesn't even see me? Maybe I'm just a whore to him, just a cheap kink. At least this way I can keep my illusions.

"Don't slow down."

I run my thumb over and around the head. It's so sensitive it almost feels like I'm rubbing it with sandpaper. The saliva is drying up but I don't dare wetting my hand again. I don't have his permission. But as my fingernail scrapes over the slit I can't keep in the whimper and my body trembles.


I hesitate but then I nod. Maybe he'll get angry but maybe, just maybe, he'll decide to sooth the pain.

Sometimes I think Heaven recides in his cool mouth.

"Lick your fingers."

I hope he doesn't sense my disappointment as I raise my hand and gingerly suck each digit into my mouth, making sure it's generously wet before I move on to the next one. Finally I lick the palm of my hand as well, hoping he won't reprimand me. He chuckles softly but that is all.

It's better now and I resume my movements with the same speed and rhythm as before. After what seems like forever the painful sensitivity gives way to the building pleasure again. If he doesn't tell me to slow down soon I won't be able to stop myself from coming. The thought of slowing down is unbearable but if I come without his permission... The possibility makes my heart beat even faster.

The worst thing about his punishments is the way I've started to want them. Started to crave the pain at the same time that I'm terrified of it.

"Keep on but don't come until I tell you too."

Jesus fucking Christ. My thighs are trembling, my arm is trembling, I'm sweating rivers from my temple and down to my toes. Involuntarily my other arm starts jerking in its restrain. The handcuffs tug at my numb wrist. If they're chafing it I can't feel it. I try to make it stop but it's a muscle spasm and I can't control it. He doesn't seem to mind though, in fact his breathing gets a little heavier.

I clam down at the base of my cock, trying to still the explosion threatening to erupt. My balls are drawn up tight, the skin wrinkled and damp with sweat. So close, so damn close. I want to beg him please, please let me come. Please, sir. Please, daddy. Please! The muffled whimpers don't do my desperation justice.

"If you come I will be very angry."

I know! Don't you think I know? Stop telling me with that calm voice, that cold indifference that makes it sound like you're directing a whole different kind of ball game. For a flicker of a second I wonder if he uses this voice with his kid at his soccer games. Or maybe there he actually shows passion.

My foot jerks. The chain attaching it to the bed rattles but there is no slack. Only way I can move it is spreading my legs further and I'm already on the brink of splitting. The bruises on my ankles are like a permanent tattoo now, a daily reminder of what I am. What he is.

The wrists are not as easy to hide which is why he treats them better. Sometimes I even get silk ties instead of the padded handcuffs.

My fingers are starting to cramp but I keep going anyway. Up, down. Twirl the thumb around. Give my balls a light stroke each time my hand descends then rub the slit as I reach up again. So close, so damn close.

"Don't come. You hear me? Don't come!"

But all I can hear is the swoosh swoosh of blood pounding in my ears and the slap slap of flesh against flesh. I can't... I can't...


It's like a flood of relieved pleasure and I shudder as much as my restrains allow, clenching my eyes shut under the blindfold, screaming into the damp gag. I don't even get time to enjoy it before there's a hand around my throat and I can feel his hot breath puff against my sweaty face. I'm so scared I could come all over again.

"Didn't I tell you not to come? Huh? Didn't I?" The fingers tighten, cutting off my air and I can feel myself growing hard again. "You slut. You fucking whore." Yes.

He moves away and I suck in air through my stuffy nostrils. My head is spinning. My cramping hand is brought up and fastened to the headboard. He's fumbling with the shackles and I don't even try to fight back. There's no use and I don't want to anyway. Not really.

I'm almost bent double as he shoves up my legs and then the blunt head of his cock is nudging my entrance. As he drives home in one hard thrust I thank god I'm still wet since the fucking a couple of hours ago.

It's brutal. Hard, fast and relentless. His balls slap against my ass, his hips making new bruises on my buttocks. One of his hands is back at my throat, squeezing it, while the other is gripping my hip so hard I almost scream. My feet bounce into the wall over my head. One of my toes bend and it hurts like hell.

If I could speak I would scream at him to fuck me harder.

I can feel when he's close. His breathing stops and his fingers tighten even further around my neck. I can feel my consciousness slipping away and through a haze I hear him grunting his release in shallow gasps. His grip loosens as he slumps down and with a thump my legs slam back down on the bed. There isn' a single muscle in my body that isn't hurting.

It is the best feeling in the world.

After a while he rolls off me and I can't help wincing. You'd think after all this time my ass would get used to this. The ache in my limbs is growing, the numbness replaced with sharp pain. Slowly he unlocks the cuffs, then removes the cloth from my mouth. It sticks to my tongue, the roof of my mouth, but a kiss sooths me. When he takes off the blindfold I keep my eyes closed. Partly because of the intensity of the light, partly because I'm not ready to face him yet.

I keep them closed as he gets up and walks into the bathroom. Keep them closed as he washes and dries himself then comes out again and cleans me with a warm and damp towel. These are the moments I feel closest to tears. Sometimes I can't hold them back but I try as hard as I can because he hates to see my tears. To him they represent grief. To me they're gratitude.

It isn't until the lights are off and he's back in bed, pulling me into his arms, drawing the cover over our sweaty bodies that I open my eyes. His arms are tight around me, so tight I can hardly breathe but I don't mind. He rains kisses over the back of my neck, my earlobe, my damp hair.

"I'm sorry. So sorry, Jimmy."

And then I'm the one holding him as he cries. I wish I could tell him he's not hurting me any more than I want him to. That I need this, need the punishment just as much as he needs that short moment of power in a world where he feels like a puppet of the fans. That to me the pain doesn't mean hate, but love. But I don't because deep inside me is that voice that tells me I'm only here for the pain. His and mine. And that to him, love has nothing to do with it.