Come

For Kari, who inspired it.

The rope which holds my collar to the eyebolt in the floor is short; about thirty centimetres. If I pull my head back I can see it looped through the bolt. Just looped, the knot is at the collar end, where I cannot get my teeth to it. I can't get my hands to it either, because they are bound securely behind my back. But it's that rope - that thin, tough synthetic rope, that my teeth leave no marks on - that holds me here.

I could lie down, of course. Just lie on my side... but the floor is hard and cold; uncomfortable. So I don't. I could rest my cheek on the floor, let it take some of the weight. I'd balance better. But I know he'd like it - he likes to push me down like that, when he fucks me. It's a very surrendered posture. Kneeling with my head off the floor - not up, the rope won't let me lift it up - feels less surrendered. I have dignity. Not much, I know how my cunt is presented to him, open to his gaze...

At least, I think it is. I assume he's still here in the room with me. I assume he's enjoying this. I'm not completely certain. He's - if he's still here - very silent.

It's not that my knees can't take the weight - they can. It isn't that my back is hurting, yet. It's not that my shoulders hurt, although they do. It's that I can't do it. Without fingers, without a story whispered softly in my ear, I can't come.

I'm here until I come. When I come, he'll free me. He does what he says he will. Of course he'll fuck me then - either first or afterwards - but I want him to. He knows I want him to. But I have to come. I have to come, first.

Almost I wish I could pretend, like Harry met Sally. Almost. But, I gush. He makes me gush. He knows that. And I'm sure he's watching, watching for that. And one of the things I fear is that this time I might not gush. I don't always. I usually didn't before I met him. And if I don't, will he believe I was faking? He would be angry if he thought I'd faked it. I don't want him to be angry.

I don't want to piss myself, either. My bladder isn't uncomfortable yet. But he said I'd stay here until I came, and he meant it. I won't be allowed up to piss. When my bladder is full, I'll piss here where I crouch, and he'll see me. If I haven't come first. I am really so not OK with him watching me piss. Not yet, anyway. One day, perhaps.

All these things together - the hardness of the floor, the coolness of the room, the soreness in my shoulders, the fear of pissing, the fear of not gushing - all these things together are fighting me, holding me back, taking me away from that warm sexy place where I can come.

I could safeword. I actually could safeword. It's weird - I thought I'd safeword under the lash, the first time. But when it happened I didn't even feel like it. And this? This is so not dangerous. He isn't even touching me. I'm not even certain he's here. But I so don't want to piss. It would so humiliate me to piss. And thinking about it so much is making me feel the need to - no! Don't go there.

'You don't get punished for safewording...' Yeah, right. No, he wouldn't punish me. Not anything he'd see as punishment. He's be the perfect gentleman, let me up, let me get dressed, help me pack, drive me to the train station. But that would be the end of this weekend. And next weekend? Next weekend, would he even want me to come?

He wants me to come now. He wants me to! And I want to, too. I just can't! It so unfair. So unfair. If he would whisper to me, I'd come. If he'd belt me I'd probably come, like I did last time. If he'd touch me. I so want him to touch me.

Nothing. Silence. Should I beg? He hasn't forbidden me to beg. He hasn't forbidden... I could. But it isn't what he wants. I know what he wants.

Two days ago I came in his car. I was naked, as so often, on the way here. My wrists were bound with a cord behind my seat, as they often are - at first, I think, so I couldn't push his hand away when he touched me. The first time we met, when he touched me up as he drove me here - it was only fifteen minutes after we'd met in real life for the first time, and I was so shy of being touched up by someone who was almost a stranger. Oh! I can almost feel his finger inside me now. Oh. Yes, this is the right thing to think about... anyway, that first time, that first time I'd pushed his hand away. He watched the road, and drove well, and talked quietly about things we might do. And then he'd change gear, and his hand would be on my... on my... and I'd push it away. I didn't want to push it away. But I did.

So since then my hands are mostly tied, in the car. I've come to welcome it - a little ritual. When we meet, I'm wearing just my coat - and my collar and cuffs, of course. It's a tench-coat, long, loose. No-one can see there's nothing under it. I know there's nothing under it. He knows there's nothing under it. I know he knows; he knows I know he knows.

Hot. So hot, to know he knows.

We go out of the station; he holds the passenger door open for me, like a gentleman, and I smile, and get in. I put my wrists down by the side of my seat, and he clips my left cuff to the hook that's there before he closes the door. When he gets in his side, he clips my other cuff, too, and I know why, and I shiver. Home. Secured. Safe.

In a little backstreet, away from the crowds, he stops a moment to unbutton my coat, to fold it out of his way, to expose me. Usually I can't look at him in that moment. Usually I'm too needy, too wanton... too shy. I don't want him to really know quite how desperate I am. How desperate I am for him.

And usually I don't have to wait long. Usually, before we get to the motorway, I'm shuffling my thighs wider to make more room for his hand, to let his fingers in deeper. And I come. Usually, many times, on that drive back from the station. There isn't a folded towel on my seat for nothing!

But this time - two days ago, Friday, in his car - he didn't touch me. He secured me and exposed me just as usual, but he didn't touch me. I whined. I did beg. I spread my legs as wide as I could, displaying for him. He smiled, and drove smoothly, and started to tell me one of his stories. One of his stories about us. And I came. I came so hard! I think I may have passed out for a moment...

Afterwards he was still driving steadily, easily, with a smile on his face. It's often like that. He does take a pride in me. He does take a pride in what he does to me. He seems to care far more for my orgasms than for his own, and he works on them. I come far more for him than I ever did before. More and easier and sooner and harder. And he knows that. He works on that. He's training me, and I know he's training me. Sometimes I feel like a show dog. But... I love it. I love it when he makes me come. Especially when - like that time in the art gallery - it's really inappropriate.

This is good. This is helping. I'm getting there. My breasts feel full, heavy. Looking between them, I can see the sheen of the sticky fluid that's cooling my thighs.

I so need him in me now.

And I can have him in me now... All I need to do is come.

And I can't! I can't! Remembering these things is good, but not enough! I'm not quite getting there!

I could rock back on my heel, grind my cunt into my heel. Then I'd come. OK, so he doesn't want that - he said, no touching - but what's he going to do about it? Belt me? If he belts me, I'll come. Probably. Now. And he knows that. So he won't. He wants me to come without touching...

And I want to please him. So I could rock back on my heel, squeeze my aching clit against my heel, rock myself on the crest of my heel. I could do that. It would work. I would come. Perhaps... perhaps if the need to piss gets too urgent, perhaps I'll do that. If I come, he'll release me. He said so. But he won't be pleased.

The thing is, he believes in me. He isn't unfair. He wouldn't have set me this to do if he didn't believe I could do it. He believes it... and he's probably right, if only I believed it. If only I believed I could, I probably could. Damn this hard floor, this cool room, these aching shoulders! I want, I want, I so want...

And five minutes ago I was nearly there. Thinking about the car, about the art gallery, were nearly enough. Nearly enough. Almost. I can get there. I can do it. He will be so pleased with me if I do it. He will praise me so much if I do it. He will fuck me... he will fuck my cunt so hard if I do it.

His cunt. He will fuck his cunt. His. Oh, hot. Oh, so, so hot. His.

If I do it! I have to do it. I have to. All I need to do is think of a scene that's sexy enough, that's hot enough, that works for me enough... The wood would do. That scene in the wood would do... maybe. Well, probably. But there's another one, another one I'd like to try first. I close my eyes, and concentrate, and let the picture form in my mind. This picture.

The rope which holds my collar to the eyebolt in the floor is short. If I pull my head back I can see it looped through the bolt. Just looped, the knot is at the collar end, where I cannot get my teeth to it. I can't get my hands to it either, because they are bound securely behind my back. But it's that rope - that thin, tough synthetic rope, that my teeth leave no marks on, that holds me here.

I could lie down, of course. Just lie on my side... but the floor is hard and cold; uncomfortable. So I don't. I rest my cheek on the floor, let it take some of the weight. I know he'll like it - he likes to push me down like this, when he fucks me. It's a very surrendered posture. I know how my cunt is presented to him, open to his gaze...