Denied 8

She opened the bottle and squeezed the musky-scent lotion they'd picked out together into her hand. She rubbed her hands together and then began to rub the lotion into his neck and shoulders. He moaned in delight under the firm pressure of her hands, her thumbs and knuckles seeking out the knots that pain him.

Re-applying lotion as needed, she worked each muscle and knot. Causing groans of pain and pleasure to emanate from his lips. She delighted in both, her sadistic side savoring the sweet agony she was causing him while her service side reveled in the relief it brought.

She took her time with each sore place, digging in and thrilling to his groans and exclamations of pain. Between the intense moments, she leaned down and wrapped her arms around him, tracing around his chest tattoos with fingernails and fingertips... the lightest of touches. Her breasts pressed against his back, her head leaned down, planting sensual kisses on his neck, up to his ear, where she whispered to him.

"Mine," she breathed, into his ear, "as much as I am yours... completely." He nodded, knowing it was true. She claimed his soul as much as he claimed hers.

She returned to her ministrations at his neck, eliciting more gasps and moans. They continued in this pattern for almost an hour, her joy in serving his needs while indulging her inner sadist created a delicious warmth in her body and wetness that was beginning to seep through the folds of her pussy.

"Fuck, I am so wet for you," she moaned in his ear. "But you probably need to get to bed, don't you?" He groaned his assent, but didn't really move.

"I don't think I have ever topped anyone like that while being in utter and complete submission to them," she said. "But we do have to get up in the morning," she sighed, reluctantly. He agreed, this time beginning to move.

He got up from the floor, and she rose with him and pressed herself against him, their mouths crushed together in a passionate kiss... seeking and finding their own lust reflected back in each other. She pulled his hand around her side and into her pajamas, encouraging him to feel the slickness she had only moments before bragged about.

He barely touched her and she could have climaxed in that moment had he asked her to.

"Oh my fucking god," he moaned, feeling her wetness from the barest touch.

"I told you!" She exclaimed. Wanting so badly to feel his hand brush her dripping slit just once more, moving her hips to encourage his touch, hoping more with every passing moment that he would take her, then and there. She groped to find his rock hard cock and rub it through the shorts he had on.

He moaned into her mouth, and she felt her cunt grasp on nothing... aching for his touch, his claiming every last inch of her. They practically melded into one flesh for a moment before he whispered to her, "I need to go to bed."

"Yes, Sir," she whispered back, without much conviction and still writhing against him.

"I need to go to bed," he said, a little more commandingly.

"Yes, Sir," she breathed, this time she pulled back somewhat and stopped grasping at the bulge straining beneath his shorts.

"Stop and go to bed," he commanded.

"Yes, Sir," she agreed, her hands going behind her back as she continued to seek his tongue with hers.

"Stop and go to bed," he repeated, and she pulled away completely, hands clasped behind her back, legs slightly spread, hungry cunt still dripping and aching and clenching, nipples beginning to draw up and send jolts of pleasure right to her sweet little mound, eyes cast downward in total submission to him.

"Good girl! Good night," he told her, with a peck to show his love.

"I love you," she said, dreamily.

"I love you, too," he replied. He walked to the kitchen to turn off the lights and lock up.

"This is ridiculous," she said.

"What?!" he laughed, playfully... gleefully.

"How fucking wet I am for you right now!" she exclaimed. His grin became almost evil.

"I suppose I should save all of this until tomorrow night, huh?" She asked, with both desperation and lust in her voice.

"Let's put it this way," he responded, "we haven't agreed that I have any control over your orgasms."

She tried her best to look tortured in the best kind of way and offered, "Would you like to have control over them, Sir?" She wondered why she would offer that to him... she has never given that control to anyone, but she wants him to torture her with that; she wants to surrender every bit of herself, every desire and frustration in unfulfilled lust.

"Maybe just for tonight and tomorrow," she amended, thinking perhaps a long-term commitment to his control over her pleasure should be negotiated while not incredibly floaty and high and horny. And at the same time, thrilling to the thought of the delicious torment it would be to yearn for his touch, his word, his permission, to beg for release, and be denied at his whim, for his sadistic enjoyment.

"I think I would like that," he said decisively. And points at her fingers, hovering over her shirt, making lazy circles on her araeola with her fingertips and declares, "and no you may not touch yourself tonight."

She groaned and removed her hands from her body. She savored the surrender, the exquisite torture of wanting him so very much, of wanting to find release, if even in her own fingers or the barest touch of a Hitachi, and yet the call to obedience is too strong.

They said good night again, and as he slowly made his way up the stairs, she got an idea. An awful idea... a WONDERFUL idea... a terrible wonderful awful idea. She took out her phone, opened a memo, and began to type... to write a love letter as erotica, to torture herself that much more... for him... always for him; only he was worthy of her service and her surrender. She delighted in every moment. Until finally she could hold open her eyes no more... and she put down her phone and faded into dreams of sensual delight and sexual torment.