Note: This story explores a consensual non-consent fantasy in an established D/s relationship. It contains sensitive content and language which may be triggering. This story is fantasy. Please don't do dangerous things in real life.
- - -
In the silence of their living room, Amelia found even the sound of her breath unbearable. Every time she moved, she filled the space with rustling fabric, acutely aware that Grant had no such issue with stillness, sat across from her with his chin resting in his palm. She had finished speaking only moments earlier; the longer he made her sit quietly under his focus, the more fidgety she became.
Just as she was starting to truly lose patience, he gave her a thoughtful smile and said, "I want you to tell me again."
They'd been discussing it for months. Negotiating, Grant called it, as though it weren't an excuse to make her squirm and repeatedly admit to what she wanted. Presumably, it should have been easier to say after all this time and repetition. Instead, every rendition left Amelia's pulse a little more thready and Grant's smile a little more wicked. Initially, Grant had been calm and kind, even generous, during their discussions. Now, the conversations themselves had become a part of it, a means for Grant to assert control by deliberately drawing things out. He must have been. He was toying with her openly, if not explicitly, before they'd even begun. And there was absolutely nothing Amelia could do to make him stop.
So she started again at the beginning, laying out the rough sketch of her idea: specific beats, boundaries, and guidelines, including their usual safewords and her usual limits. Heat rose in her chest and face, driving her to look intently away from him, at the floor or the door, trying not to stammer.
Occasionally, Grant would interrupt her, peppering her with questions in a tone of mock-sincerity, as if he hadn't already asked the same thing twice or thrice before. Just seeking clarification, he claimed. What about this specific act? Well, he just wanted to offer her the option to decline. Determined not to shrink beneath his growing grin, Amelia answered each with as much poise as she could muster.
When she was done, and he was finally satisfied, she found herself so thirsty that she downed the rest of her water in two large, throat-straining gulps. She rose, a little dizzily, and crossed to the window to open it. The late afternoon breeze cushioned her, carrying in wood-fire smoke and the warble of a distant siren. Returning to the table, she reached to take Grant's hand in hers. There was still electricity in his touch, years later, that made her chest and belly flutter. "I want this, Grant. I really do."
There was no more negotiation to be done. He squeezed her hand. "I know."
That night, like most others, she knelt on the rug by the foot of the bed and lifted her hair so he could fasten her collar. Once done, he played his fingers through its strands, combing them back from her face as she kissed her way down his stomach to take him in her mouth, chest rising in steady rhythm as her tongue traced over the ridge of his head.
They went at her pace, for a little while, before his hand gently guided her down until his cock pressed into her throat. "Relax, baby. Good girl, that's it."
Deep throating wasn't as difficult as it had once been, but it had never become easy. Amelia still gagged and choked, her eyes often welled, and Grant still pushed her body to see just how much it could accept. In return, Amelia found a quiet steadiness in serving. The act was grounding, almost meditative, anchoring her in the moment in a way little else could.
With his hands on either side of her face, he began to fuck her mouth. When he spoke, his voice was slightly strained. "I want you to think about what's going to happen when we play out your little fantasy. Really visualize it, baby. All the ways I'm going to torment you." He buried his cock deep and held it until Amelia's throat convulsed. Stroking her hair without letting up, Grant counted to a slow twenty, interrupting himself to murmur small praises, infuriatingly gentle in his cruelty. Then he pulled his cock from her mouth with a little pop and pulled her up before she could even catch her breath.
In short order, she was bent at the waist over the end of the bed, her legs spread as wide as they'd go and her fingers clenched in the comforter above her head. Balancing on tiptoes to accommodate the wideness of her stance, a slight ache had already started up in her calf, sneaking its way up into her hamstring despite the supportive surface beneath her torso. He spent some time stroking his fingers over her skin, lingering on her spine and ribs and inner thighs, anywhere that made her breath hitch. The ache in her leg sharpened in its first yawn of real fatigue, and he found his way between her legs.
His index finger, feather-light, trailed over her clit. Parting her lips with his other hand, he began to slowly tap on its exposed tip. All Amelia could do was whine, a puerile sound, and try to arch her hips. She could only imagine what she must have looked like, swollen and glistening and spread for his amusement.
"It's been a while since we've denied you. What if you didn't come until your fantasy came true? Do you think that would make it more interesting?" His finger dipped down to her pussy, before returning, slippery, over her clit. Alternating with the tapping, he slowly worked her up through mewls to pants, but kept her well clear of any satisfaction.
"You're not being serious," she groaned, rocking her hips to try and get more sensation. Her leg had started to tremble. After a few beats of silence, she added, "How long is that going to be?"
"However long I want. It's a complicated setup. It will take some time to do it right."
He began to rub her clit in lazy circles. All Amelia could do was moan, twisting her head and clenching her fists, the various aches and focal points all converging as a growing heat in her belly. It was a terribly slow buildup, stealing her thoughts and focus, replacing them with threads of hazy pleasure and growing need. Once the edge had crept up to meet her, sharp and lapping, he lifted his finger from her quivering cunt and stroked gently down her back until she calmed. He pushed inside her, then, and fucked her with quick, deep thrusts that made her groan anew, almost sobbing when she heard the buzz of the bullet vibe, her body jerking as it made contact with her most sensitive spot.
She edged three or four more times that way before Grant finally finished. Pulled up on the bed, tucked in, cradled in his arms, Amelia floated, half-asleep, while he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead and her cheeks. Through dreamy thoughts, she still tried to reason with herself about what he'd said. She was still coming down when she fell asleep, bliss pin pricked with fear, wondering how long it might be before she next got to come.
- - -
It wasn't that Grant and Amelia hadn't played around with denial before. Going a week or so was casual and common in their relationship, usually cut short by Amelia becoming too needy and having an "accident" while Grant was at work (She'd be on him before he even got his shoes off, giggling. "Hey baby, guess who you get to punish tonight?"). Once, she had made it an entire month. While difficult, they'd both enjoyed her desperation by the last night, straddling his lap and grinding herself to an edge before they'd even stripped. But as she approached and then surpassed her record, it became clear the rules had changed. Grant was tightening the reins; she was not to disobey.
Week after week passed from their final negotiation, each one bringing a small, tormenting change to her routine. At first, it was nice when Grant edged her in the morning, mostly with his tongue, working her up past any hope of composure and letting her taste herself on him before they dressed. Then he started filling her before he left: sometimes with weighted Kegel balls that teased against the sensitive spots inside her, other times with plugs of increasing width, and, as time passed, occasionally both at once. Going about her usual tasks and chores around the house, taking work calls from the office or the kitchen island, reading or painting, Amelia was amazed no one else had noticed her slow descent into agonizing need.
Her evenings, on the other hand, had become quite different. Upon getting home, Grant had taken to subjecting her to inspection by leaning her against the nearest piece of furniture, rolling up her skirt or unbuttoning her pants, unhurried, so he could press a finger or two inside of her to gauge her wetness.
