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tick, tock, goes the clock

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Tick, tock.

It’s almost entirely silent in the room. Too silent, even. It's heavy and soft and pressing, it makes you feel like you're almost in a dream.

You thought she’d give you ear plugs again to accompany the blindfold, to render you completely senseless and leave you at her mercy.

The thought of her doing that had been enough to have you dripping, and so when she’d said she’d do something different, you’d been disappointed.

You hadn’t concealed the slight pout of your lips well enough.

She saw.

“Oh, Lexa,” she had sighed. Her eyes had shined with sheer joy, she’d been happy that you’d made that mistake.

You’d hung your head in shame, knelt before her, and said nothing.

You didn’t have permission to.

“Now I have to punish you, baby.”

Tick, tock.

The bed frame creaks as you test your bonds and try to shift into a more comfortable position. You try, even though you know you can’t.

She’s made sure of that.

She always makes sure that you’re not entirely comfortable. After all, this is a punishment.

Tick, tock.

Your knees ache just the slightest bit, they’re pushing deep into the mattress. Your legs are spread wide apart by a bar to which your ankles are fastened. She knows you’re not good at listening when you’re a whimpering, needy mess.

The bar eliminates any concern about you clamping your legs shut when it gets too intense.

She knows, and prepares accordingly.

Tick, tock.

She’s tied your wrists together in front of you, with rope that she knows digs into your skin, just tightly enough that it’ll begin aching soon. She likes marking you as hers, even in the simplest of ways.

You endure the slight pain of the ache, the slight abrasion on your skin, the burn of the rope when she’s being especially rough, because you know it pleases her to see the marks the next day.

Above all else, you want to please her.

Tick, tock.

The rope’s bound around your wrists and elbows, it keeps your arms together, and a rope keeps your wrists bound forward where they’re bound to the headboard. Your upper body is pressed into the mattress, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch, pushing your ass up high to be presented – you’re spread wide open, your cunt is visibly dripping, you don’t have to see it to know it. You can feel the insides of your thighs are covered in the slick wetness, you can almost feel the string of your arousal dripping, hanging from your cunt – and you’re ashamed.

You’re ashamed, because she’ll know how much of a little slut you are by just looking at you.

She’ll know just how much her little slut loves being denied and punished.

Tick, tock.

She’s put a glass of water on your back to keep you still. It’s right in between your shoulder blades, forcing you down so low that your back is arched as far as you can. It aches, it’ll hurt soon, but you strain against your tiring muscles and keep your shoulders pressed into the mattress.

You know she won’t be pleased if you make a mess.

Tick, tock.

All you can hear is the steady ticking of the clock.

Tick, tock.

You’ve been trying to keep count of the ticks, of the seconds that pass. She told you how many it would be. She told you how long the wait would be, she left the clock ticking right on the nightstand beside you, she left you with all the knowledge, making it appear as though there wouldn’t be any surprise.

“You wait, baby,” she’d said. “It’ll be half an hour.”

You had whimpered when you had felt a hard slap against your dripping cunt, still twitching from your last climax.

Then she’d left.

Tick, tock.

It’d taken a while for your mind to clear over enough for you to work out how many seconds it really would be.

1,800.

And then you’d focused on counting.

Tick, tock.

She knows you’re not good at focusing.

Especially not when the rubber cock filling you, stretching you, is distracting your silly little head.

Once again, you try to shift your hips, hoping to perhaps move the toy a little bit – but the glass on your back shakes, and you freeze.

You pray it won’t tip over.

You don’t want to be punished. You know she won’t be kind.

You pray, but you not so sure what you’re praying for.

Spill. No, don’t spill. Spill. No, don’t…

You don’t know, and so you stay there, unmoving, waiting for her like the good little girl that you are.

Tick, tock.

You hear footsteps near the door, and immediately, your mind perks up from the haze it’s been in.

Has it already been half an hour?

You’re sure it’s been a year, or two, or a thousand – you don’t know, all you know is that the clock’s been ticking and you’ve been dripping.

The door opens, and you feel a cool breeze on your skin.

You can feel her eyes on you as she walks to the bed.

You don’t move. You don’t even dare to breathe.

She comes close to the edge of the bed, you catch a whiff of her perfume, and instantly, you relax a little.

Tick, tock, goes the clock, for the last time.

You hear a click, and you know she’s turned it off.

The anticipation is almost too much. Your heart flutters, your insides clench, your cunt throbs with want and need for her attention.

The glass is lifted from your back, and you let out a little sigh of relief as you’re able to relax a little.

The instant you move, she slaps your ass, and you whimper.

“I didn’t say you could move,” she says.

Her tone is commanding, but not cold.

You move back to the position you were in, and wait. Your ass cheek is burning where it’s been slapped, but that only makes you feel like the slut you are. You should’ve known better, you should’ve waited for her order.

She inspects you, she scrutinizes you with her eyes, and all you can do is wait.

You think you’ve done well. After all, you didn’t spill the glass.

But then she hears her click her tongue, and you flinch without even thinking.

“You’ve made a mess, Lexa,” she sighs.

She sounds disappointed, and you are, too.

“Look at you,” she continues, “You’ve dripped all over the sheets. They’re all wet.”

You stifle the whimper that tries to escape your lips when she slaps your cunt. You know she isn’t above gagging you if you get too loud.

Your jaw still aches in memory of the ballgag she put in your mouth two days ago. You don’t want it again.

You tense up when you feel her fingers trailing up the insides of your thighs, running smoothly along the slick wetness that has spread there.

Her fingers toy with your cunt, and you stifle another whimper when the dildo inside you is thrust even deeper.

You want to beg her to fuck you. You want her to fuck you, you want her to show you she owns you.

But you know better than to tell her what to do.

When she touches the dildo again, you tense up in anticipation.

She pulls it almost entirely out, and for a moment, you panic – but then she thrusts it back in, quickly, and out let out a choked cry.

“Use the pillow, Lexa,” she murmurs.

She knows that saying your name, the way she says it so soft, she knows it sends shivers down your spine.

You hear her, and you obey. You muffle your next moan into the pillow, and she lets out a pleased hum.

The toy moving in and out of you is coated with your juices, you feel it and you’re once again embarrassed. As though she’s reading your mind, she strokes your ass and the deep curve of your back as she thrusts the toy all the way in, quietly murmuring words she knows send you near the edge.

“Such a good girl,” she sighs, and you shiver. “So wet for me.”

She slaps your ass when she thrusts the toy into you, it’s thick shaft stretching you and forcing another moan out of your mouth and into the pillow. You’re biting into it now, she’s going faster, you can feel the heat of release approaching but you know it’s not enough.

You can’t finish unless she touches your clit.

You know that, and she knows that.

She’s trained you to be that way.

“You want to cum, baby?”

Her question sounds innocent enough, but you know better than to answer. She hasn’t given you permission to speak.

She’s kneeling behind you now, you can hear the clicking of the harness, you can feel her attaching the toy, tip still inside you, onto herself. You push your ass up even higher to please her. You know she loves the visual of having you bent over before her, submitted to her, all hers for the taking.

You’re at her mercy, and she loves it at least as much as you do.

You can almost hear her smiling when she grabs your ass and thrusts into you again. When her hips touch yours, the toy is in so deep you can’t help another moan. The pillow beneath your mouth is wet with your spit and drool, and you know she won’t be pleased. You’ve made another mess.

She fucks you slowly, she takes her time, and you lay there on your knees and take it. When she leans over you and reaches one hand under you to cup a breast, you let out a quiet whine – the clamps on your nipples, which you’ve almost forgotten about, remind themselves of their existence when her fingers toy with the nipple in between the harsh metal teeth of the decorative clamp.

You can feel her blonde curls tickling your back as she leans even more into you, as she brings the toy as deep into you as she can.

She pulls on the clamp again, and you let out a whimper.

She doesn’t make you wear them often. She knows they hurt almost too much, but, for today, she’s put them on. You love the way they look, the way they mark you as hers, but you hate the aching pain they give your sensitive nipples.

When she takes one of the clamps in between her fingers and pulls a little, you whine again.

“That hurt, baby?”

You don’t answer. She still hasn’t given permission.

“Speak.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you breathe.

She pulls a little harder and a choked whine escapes your lips.

“Good.”

The way her voice husks near your ear when she says that makes you want to moan again. She thrusts into you, the toy is hitting your cervix now, and your breaths are now shallow and frantic. The feel of her leaning on top of you, one hand pressing your back down as she continues to take you, it’s all enough to have your mind spinning.

She lets go of the clamp and instead reaches down along your stomach to your front, to the swollen clit that’s aching for contact. She pinches it, and you yelp, and she chuckles as she continues to swirl her finger around it, forcing your legs to shake. You’re so close, you’re moments away from the sweet, sweet, release – it’s been so many times now, you’re so sensitive that the oncoming orgasm is terrifying in it’s intensity, and you tremble in anticipation.

“You needy cunt,” she purrs, “Can’t get enough of my cock, can you?”

You don’t answer. She doesn’t expect you to.

“You want to cum, baby?” She asks then. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you gasp. “Ple-“

A hard slap to your clit cuts your words short and forces a whimper from your lips, and she stops for a moment, the toy all the way inside you, your cunt clenching around it, seeking for release but not finding it.

“Now, what did I say about begging?”

Your shoulders slump a little, but, like the good girl you are, you wait for permission to speak.

“Answer.”

“I can only beg when you tell me to, Mistress.”

“And did I ask you to?”

“No, Mistress.”

She gives your cunt another slap, and then, she does the one thing you really do not want her to do.

She pulls away.

When she pulls the toy out entirely, you can’t help but let out a quiet whine. You feel empty, and you hate it.

She chuckles when she hears your whine, she knows that you’re feeling empty, like something is missing.

“I know you want to cum,” she says. “But you clearly don’t deserve it.”

You don’t say anything. You rest your shoulders on the bed and wait for whatever may come.

Another slap on the ass doesn’t surprise you, nor does the other.

You bite the pillow and count the slaps like she tells you to.

Twenty in total.

“Good girl,” she purrs when she’s done. “I like it when your pretty little ass is all red.”

You smile to yourself with your face buried in the pillow.

The mattress shifts when she gets up, and you hear footsteps near your right.

The glass is placed onto your back again, and your smile is wiped away.

You hear a click.

“Twenty minutes,” she says.

One last slap on your needy, whining cunt, and then she leaves.

Tick, tock.

You shudder when you hear the ticking again. It’s an agonizing sound, you hate it, you loathe it – but you also love it. Each tick means you’re one second closer to her coming back again.

You let out a quiet whine, you know she won’t hear. Not having anything filling you is more agony than having nothing, you can’t focus on the feeling of being full to distract yourself from the ache in your shoulders and your back, from the pain in your nipples.

Tick, tock, goes the clock.

You kneel and drip in wait for your Mistress.

You count the ticks, and you wait.

You know she’ll be back.

Tick, tock.