He opened his eyes. He sighed with the satisfaction of a tiny victory. He had again managed to doze for a while. Across the room the clock counted down with cool, digital precision. Six minutes, twenty seven seconds. Too long. He wished he'd slept a little longer. The waiting was the worst part. No, it wasn't. What was the worst part? Possibly the itch on the side of his face that had slowly grown in intensity. How he wanted to scratch it. Was it the discomfort of being forced to stand upright when he longed to lie down on a soft, succulent mattress? Perhaps it was the fear. The absence of knowing how this would end. Or why.
Maybe it was the drip. The one thing he hadn't consented to. He mentally went through the sequence again. Drinks at the carefully selected bar. Perfect delivery of well-rehearsed dialogue that he knew would put her at ease. The respectful step back after the first goodbye kiss. The suppression of his smug satisfaction when she invited him in. The speed with which things got kinky and beyond his control. In here. The secret room of pleasure she had called it. Her removal of his clothes. Her strapping him to the upright wooden board. He lifted his feet obediently as she took off her white, cotton knickers and slipped them onto him. Very interesting. The pre-cut hole in them through which she gently teased out his cock. Wow! The tight snugness of her gusset against his balls. Fascinating. The pulling of the leather straps around his legs as she finished restraining him. The sensual feel of the wood grain pressed hard and intimate against the skin of his back and buttocks. At each step of getting to here she had looked up at him and tilted her head in a questioning pose. Mmm? Each time he had nodded. The final step she asked his permission for was the gag. A big, black silicone cock, strapped inside his mouth. Weird, but strangely exciting. In a totally heterosexual way.
He lowered his gaze and traced the dribbling strand of drool tricking down his naked front. It collected at the end of his aching, flaccid member and dripped onto the floor like an endless stream of clear, sticky semen. He hadn't thought of this side effect.
No. She hadn't asked if he was ok with the drip. Or the preceding cannula she had inserted into the vein in his arm. She'd just done it. His body and limbs were strapped so tightly to the board there was nothing he could do to resist. He had looked at her with his own questioning eyes and mumbled an incoherent protest. She'd ignored him. She slid the needle in with an expert tenderness. The words, you'll feel a little prick, played over in his mind. She'd gone to a fridge over by the sink and taken out a transparent pouch of fluid. The first one. He'd caught a glimpse of many other pouches before the fridge door shut with its clinical clunk. The only part of his body he could move voluntarily was his head, and he'd tuned it to watch her hang the pouch on a hook high up on the wooden board. She had then connected a tube to the needle in his arm and adjusted a flow rate thing. Then she had smiled at him warmly, like a parent would smile at a child who has done especially well at school.
Four minutes, twelve seconds. He'd spent some time trying to work out what was in the fluid. Saline hydration, no doubt. But there must be other things. Because of what was happening. Because of what she was able to get him to do. It wasn't normal. And that was probably the worst thing. The dull, chronic anguish of exhaustion in his loins. The feeling of being utterly and impossibly spent, over and over again.
Three minutes, forty one seconds. He was beginning to create his own ceremony of preparation. Would he need to pee when she offered him the plastic beaker? No. Was the discomfort of his leather restraints so unbearable that he would have to thrash against them, moan muffled agonies through the black cock and violently shake his head? No. Was he calm? Yes. Sort of. Did he feel able to deliver what she wanted? Accepted as an unknown. Again. Was he already feeling the biological murmurings of arousal? Yes. And this was a wonder to him. He remembered counting to eleven. After that he'd sort of lost his marbles to the repetitive intensity. Each time he would have an imbecilic certainty that she would fail in her endeavour to draw him forth. Then her hand. Oh, her hand. Handling him. And her other hand. Oh. Like magic. Or witchcraft. The tactile, endlessly drawn out spell of his erection. Her fingers recited it with slow, caressing inevitability. And the casting of it. Oh god, the casting of the spell.
The seconds counted away in blue, LED numbers. The moment zero was reached the door opened and his milkmaid entered the room. His eyes feasted on the look of her. She moved with a lilting rhythm that perfectly matched her lyrical Irish brogue. Her dark hair brushed the tops of her shoulders with silky caresses. Her lips. Oh, those lips. He'd wanted to kiss them the moment they'd met. Yet their mouths had only once coupled in that moment outside her flat when he should have left. When he could have escaped.
