Morning comes and I wonder what became of the night. Erin's alarm clock reads 8:24 and I've slept like a rock. I pad to the ensuite, try to be quiet, wonder at the woman who's naked on the bed, whose sole goal is to keep me from orgasm. It's a strange way to keep a man.
I ponder that while I pee. But I am here, in her condo, in her bathroom, and I have no thoughts of ducking out because I'm willing—no, looking forward—to experience what she's going to do to me next. It's a marked departure from the women, girls, I've dated and bedded in the past. Mostly, I'd been itching to get away from them. This one knows what she wants and I'm dying to see what that is.
I shiver, wash my hands, the water warm but the thought that runs through me is cold. Do I want to see this, or her, through? Do I really want to see what she's capable of, what I will take, where this will end?
On my way back to her bed I stop mid-floor. She's still asleep. It's warm so the covers are down by her feet. She's indistinguishable from the myriad girls I've awakened to. Her body is still young. But it's her mind that differentiates her from any of the others. I crawl in and she rolls to me, gives me a quick kiss and goes to bathroom.
Watching her, I realize last night's play is still with me. I'm normally easy to arouse in the morning. But this is different, more insistent, obvious now that I'm awake. I can't begin to imagine a week of this. I'd be—. I don't know what I'd be.
Erin slips back into bed, snuggles into me. "Well?"
"I slept well."
"Darn, I was hoping you'd be too worked up to sleep." She slips a hand between us, holds me. "Nice."
"It's coming back to me," I say. Also coming back, something else other than getting hard because her fingers feel wonderful. "I don't know how to say this, or even if I should, but..." If I do, will she think it's contrary to her needs? "I keep thinking of how hard you came."
"Jealous?"
"In a way."
"Tell you what, getting you to come that hard will be my raison d'être. But, just so you know, what you saw is not me either, normally."
"Are you saying it's me?" I'm hoping.
"Obliquely."
"Directly, now."
"Don't worry, you'll see stars if it's the last thing I do. But it won't be this morning."
Yet, she's fondling me, arousing me. The whole conversation adds to her fingers' touch. I reach between her legs and she shifts to make it easier, legs open, hot.
"But," she says, "I had planned to let you come this morning."
Had? "But?"
"I've changed my mind. You want intensity, you'll get intensity. But it'll be my way, by my rules." She pushes me to my back, releases my cock. "Show me what a good man looks like."
"On my own?"
"What, you're embarrassed to play with yourself in front of me?"
I take myself in hand. I'll be on edge soon, dying to come but letting someone else dictate whether that cum actually spews. All I can do is take it, feel my balls go achy, watch my desire go through the roof, satisfaction denied.
She slips out of bed. "Keep yourself hard." I watch her go to her walk-in closet, disappear inside, return with a gown. "I have a spare ballet ticket. Can I pick you up at two?"
"A matinee?" I'm not with it, just frustrated, half in the now, half wanting my come, half anticipating what she can drive me to. I know, it doesn't add up. Neither does wanting to be denied.
"Yes, a matinee. And take-out on the way home. We'll see where the evening goes after that. Now keep that thing hard while I dress."
She tosses her clothes on the bed. A bra, panties, stay-ups, a black skirt, a green blouse, and puts them on while watching me. The more clothing she puts on, the more turned on I become. It's like I'm caught masturbating. But instead of admonishing me, the woman likes it. Obviously, it works for me too.
Dressed, she pushes my feet wide apart. "From now on, that's the way I want you when you play. None of this hiding-from-me stuff." She crosses her arms. "How close can you get?"
I'm already close. Dripping. But I push it a bit more, then quickly slow, stop, because I can feel the cum begin its journey. It takes a few long seconds before it decides which way to go. I'm going to have to monitor myself more closely. But man, did it feel good.
"Nice," she says. "Do it again."
Three times she commands that I get to the edge. Three times I get there and stop, cum an instant from release as she watches me suffer. The feeling between my legs defies description. I've never dripped this much pre-cum, for so long. Everything down below is tingling, tense, on a precipice I never knew existed. And my heart races. My mind, however, wonders how it's holding on to control.
She takes my hands away. "Fix us breakfast."
It's not fair to deny a man so close to coming. I get up, still hard, still needy, a dull ache radiating between my legs, getting ready to dress.
"No clothes," she says, grinning, then pushes me back on the bed. "My turn first."
I cook eggs, slice ham, make toast, coffee and pour orange juice. She sits at the table dressed for the day, served by a naked man. I fill my plate and join her.
"How was it?" I say.
"Exquisite," she says. "Don't let this get to your head, the little one, but I like when you—" She looks straight at me. "I've never told this to anyone, but, what you did to me works."
When her orgasm seemed imminent, I pushed my tongue, hard, against the tip of her clit. No mercy. I'd felt her try to shift away but held her in place. When she came it was—
"Don't listen to me if I tell you to stop," she says.
"My revenge."
"I see. I guess I deserve it." She eating again, lifts her head, turns to me. "When you're done, go home. I'll pick you up at one."
When I close my apartment door, a cold silence envelops me. It's not as welcoming as it normally. It's alien. Usually, when returning from some easy conquest, my place is a refuge, an oasis of peace and serenity. I can recharge and hunt again, the thrill of the next conquest heady, invigorating. With Erin, I'm conquering myself.
I sit and stare out of the window a good long time. I replay our entire time together. The bar—her bar. The waitress, white panties exposed, rounding nicely over her plump lips when she bent over. Erin's reaction to me watching her. Her need to deny me, to use me, my mouth, so she gets her orgasms. Three of them. And one more while I kept myself hard on the bed, her hand under her skirt, playing with herself through her panties, nearly buckling to the floor when orgasm hit. That had nearly sent me over. I liked it when she came, when she used me to turn herself on, when she slipped off her panties and straddled my face, her lips hot, wet, her order clear. "Stay on the edge but don't dare come."
She kissed me on the way out the door, a passionate, loving kiss. But sad too. As if she'd gambled and it hadn't paid off. "You will be there for ballet," she'd said, not quite a question, but one anyway.
"I will," I'd said, then kissed her to signal I meant it.
I still do.
My cell rings just before one. She's here, waiting in her car. I'm clean, showered. And shaved down below.
That order came about eleven, by text. Since I'm shaved, you should be too
I responded after a few long seconds with: I will
The result feels weird, as if my underwear doesn't quite fit, isn't mine, my cock and balls oddly vulnerable. I press G and head down, dressed in a near-black suit, ready for the ballet and whatever else this woman wants. Frankly, I haven't been so distracted by someone in a long, long time. If ever.
The elevator doors open and I quickly scan the driveway, wondering what expensive piece of chrome and metal this women drives. I see her, her new SUV—a Chevy Equinox, nothing special, nothing befitting her wealth—and wave.
She kisses me as soon as I enter. That underlying sadness surfaces again. She's glad I've come, glad to have me for another few hours, glad I haven't stood her up, but... When we drive off I look at her. In profile, she still looks my age. Her hair is wavy, a few strategic strands gliding diagonally across her face, the rest bouncing along as we go, resting on her shoulders. Her coat is more expensive than my suit, her evening dress sparkles green and blue and dollars in the sunlight.
"Stop that," she says.
I turn away. "I'm happy to be here," I say. "And I still want that walk in the sand."
There's a smile now, a real one, then it fades, her eyes blinking too much, and a hand up to wipe one eye, then the other.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She shakes her head. "No, I'm the one who should be." She reaches over for my hand, takes it, holds on for dear life. "I'm just a bit shell-shocked, that's all. I thought..."
There's no more.
At the entrance to the theatre, a valet takes her car and she takes me in past the queue of patrons to one of the ticket takers who smiles and slides aside to let us through.
"No ticket?" I say, then get it, diverting my attention to the carved steel plaque bolted prominently on the lobby wall. Her name is number two in the Builder's list—there are only four. "I see."
"And if you're wondering, you're not this week's boy-toy."
She's recovered enough to say this without emotion. "That's not what I was thinking."
"Oh?"
I face her, hold both her hands. "I know you like me more than... What I'm trying to say is—" I take a breath. "I mean, your ways are not putting me off. Rather, they're..."
"I'm a complicated woman, that way. I know what I want. It's finding my complement that's been the problem. One that's a good man in the traditional sense too." She glances away, then back. "Are you that person?"
