She loves the way he strains against her stroke. The way his muscles tense in his belly, the way his inner thighs twitch not knowing whether to push forward or clamp closed, helpless to do either because of the spreader bar at his feet.
She loves the way his shoulders cord. The way he grips his seat until his knuckles go white.
The sounds he makes.
Yes, she definitely loves the sounds he makes. The groaning whimpers, the harsh intake of breaths, the moaning pleas. Of course it’s all a bit muffled because of the gag. I’m sorry about that, she thinks, communicating with her eyes as her hands continue their torturous erotic dance over his flesh, but it couldn’t be helped.
She rakes her eyes over his frame, raising an eyebrow at the way he’s straining against his bindings.
“Careful now,” she admonishes with a slow smile, watching him writhe. “If you twist, they’ll only get tighter.”
Her wink at this pronouncement tells him everything he needs to know: We’re just getting started.
His cock is thick and hot in her hand. Lengthening her stroke, she varies her grip, twisting her wrist over his head with every upward slide, curving her fingers around his balls in a palming massage on the way down. She pitches her voice low in response to his gagged pleas, its subtle siren song a soothing contrast to the overwhelming waves of sensation crashing over his body. “I can feel how close you are, love.”
She feels the weight of his testicles and gives them a gentle squeeze, eliciting a whimper. “You want to cum for me,” she asks, “don’t you?”
He responds with a strangled cry.
Meeting his eyes with her own, she telegraphs what she needs. Hold out for me.
Just a few…
AND THEN SHE LETS GO.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He stares incredulously, pumping his hips futilely into the emptiness. The warmth at the base of his spine balls tight and spreads forward. He feels his orgasm unfurling but it is not the euphoric upwelling to which he is accustomed; it is something else entirely, mildly pleasant but desperately…
Normally an orgasm is a culmination. And end point. But this…
As though from outside himself, he watches as his ejaculate coats his stomach, spewing forth in hot milky ribbons. He should feel a sense of completion, but without the stimulus of her hands in those final seconds, stroking their demand against his turgid length, he feels…
He’s just had release, but there is no relief. His hard-on is raging, his cock more swollen now than it was the moment before he came. The purple veins in his shaft pop against the dark red of his swollen erection. He is throbbing. Pulsing. Trying in vain to penetrate the hollow air.
His whole body is vibrating with agitated arousal. He looks at his Mistress, eyes blurred with confusion and desire.
Taking his unsoothed erection into her hands once again, mercilessly stroking and squeezing, she answers his unasked question. “Before I tied you up, you were told I would allow you to orgasm.”
He nods haltingly. His eyes are wild, his stomach hot with butterflying desire, his skin slick with sweat and semen.
“Perhaps I should clarify,” she continues, both hands now working their pleasure over his painful hard. “I said I’d let you orgasm.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t ruin it.”