I step into the bedroom and Nicole winces at the light as it moves into the blackened room. She squints to see me but I'm a silhouette before the illuminated doorway moving slow towards her as she straddles the coffee table, her body impaled deeply on phallic silicone. Her ankles restrained to table legs and wrists bound to wrists. She trembles and sweats, her chest heaves nervously and each step I take towards her causes her breath to quicken.
I've left her alone in the dark for an hour and 21 minutes where she sat without light, without music, and only the sounds my movements in the other room where she wondered what I was doing and when I would return, and the traffic of Yonge Street at her back.
I light a candle before closing the door behind me. I don't say a word. I can feel the tension in the room and I know how nervous she is, I can feel it flood the room and it excites me. The flame of the candle glows and I can see her face contorting with each flicker of the flame and she's a different girl each second, until the flame settles into the melting wax and there's only one girl left; and it's Nicole.
I ask her if she knows why I left in here and she nods vigorously, anxiously, a string of spit crawling through the air from her chin like the woven web of a spider. I press my fingers to the bottom of her chin and I lift her gaze to mine. I tell her to look at me when I ask her a question. Again she nods.
I look her in the eyes. I ask her if she's going to keep me waiting again.
She shakes her head.
I turn from her and head to the computer. I put on some music; light and relaxing; explosions in the sky; something soothing to calm her. I undo my belt from around her hand and she stretches her jaw quickly. She blinks her eyes that are run with mascara, stained lightly with tears. She exhales a long breath and looks up at me, quiet and grateful she says thank you Sir, and I lift her chin in my hand, smiling at her and kissing her forehead.
I tell her not to worry. I have a number of different ways in mind for her to make it up to me. And also, I tell her, that my demands that she not leave me waiting again, did not just relate to tonight, but for how long I waited for her meet me.
I tell her if she wants to know how long I'm going to make her wait, all she has to do is look up our first contact when she gets home, and it will tell her, in days, how long she has to wait for me to fuck her.
I grin manically. Her eyes widen in disbelief.
I undo her legs from the chair and lift her by her arms from the table. A thick string of vaginal spit connects her cunt to the thick toy she'd concealed there, like still reaching out, unwilling to let go. With her arms still bound behind her back, I place her on her knees before me, on the carpet, her legs still trembling. The taut rope stretched between her hair and the anal hook keeps her looking up at me. She doesn't say a word. Either the punishment I've come up with is too much, has turned me into a bigger tease than her and she's going to leave here and never return, or she's immensely turned on by my brazen punishment, and respectful of how much I'm personally willing to sacrifice just to punish her. Just to show that her training is more important than my getting off.
I think to myself that this is romance. There is no sacrifice in promiscuity, and maybe was the reason we once waited for marriage, not because of god's law, but because it was how we understood that someone was worth it, and that there was more to the connection than momentary desire, which arrives and passes like breath in all sexual beings.
It was about knowing which breath was the sweetest to draw.
I look at her, look down at her, at the flow of her body in the light, the girth of her chest, the way warm breath moves over her lips, and I consider how I may have bitten off more than I can chew, and debate reconsideration if only because there is no need for me to punish myself.
I move around her, to stand behind her, out of her sight. My fingers work at the knots until the rope falls loose, dangling from her pony tail.
I stand before her and undo my pants and my erect cock falls forwards without breaching the horizontal, aimed at her brow like a cannon. Nicole flinches for a second, and her mouth drops open as though instinct has taken over and she craves it pushed into her mouth, no longer caring about the ache of having had her mouth pried open for more than an hour by my belt. I haven't moved forward and neither has she; her gaze begs for permission I don't provide. I tell her to crawl to my dresser, and bring me my flogger in her teeth. I tell her she doesn't get my cock in her mouth yet, no matter how much a little slut she is, no matter how much she craves to feel it in her throat.
She makes her way to the dresser with difficulty, moving clumsily only on her knees, moving slowly without her hands to aide her while they're still bound to the base of her spine. She careens from knee-cap to knee-cap in an awkward movement I'm sure she finds intently humiliating.
She retrieves it and makes her way back to me slowly, its tassels falling across her tits as she wiggles towards me. She finds the position before me, on her knees, my organ a blur as she faces it so close. Again she opens her mouth.
I tell her to close it. I tell myself to be strong. This is part of her punishment. Resist those lips. Resist that mouth. Resist the proclamations of how much she loves having a cock in her throat and resist the knowledge that those who love it do it well.
Reach to her chin and gently close her mouth for her.
I tell her she hasn't earned that yet. I turn her head to its side and press my cock against her cheek, I pull her in close, my pre-cum tracing a line across her cheek.
I tell her to push her ass out, as far as she can, her back fully arched, and no matter what, do not even think about putting my cock in her mouth.
Just remember, this is her punishment, not yours.
.... There is more of this story ...