"Your fingers are drawing you back, Bianca," Malcolm says. The words are casual, dropped into the middle of a conversation that's already teetering on the edge of argument, but he knows exactly what it does to me to hear them. And I know too. My hand twitches reflexively, the words tickling an impulse at the back of my brain that promises to end all my frustrations and consternations in a slow, sweet descent into mindless bliss.
But I know all too well what happens when I give in and indulge that urge. It's why I don't have any panties on underneath my short skirt, why I'm wearing a bra that lets my stiff, puffy nipples show beneath the sheer top with the plunging neckline that exposes far too much of my lush, pale cleavage. Once I allow my fingers to dip down between my thighs and find my eager cunt... and it is eager, I can feel it beginning to surge already with liquid heat... it's all too easy to drift away into that timeless pleasure. Too easy to stop thinking about anything except prolonging the warm, wonderful sensation, finding just the right place to rub to keep me wet and needy and blissfully aroused while Malcolm-
I realize that I've been standing there for almost thirty seconds, staring at his deceptively innocent expression with my lips parted and my fingers curling and uncurling without any conscious intention on my part. I blink heavily, knowing that he's drinking in the sight with his deep brown eyes, and stammer out, "N-no. No, I, they're not, Mal. You, you need to stop doing that, I'm trying to have a serious, a serious conversation here." My words stumble over themselves, tripping on their way out of my mouth on the mental image of my labia already glistening with the evidence of my arousal. If I were to part my legs just a little, bend or sit or shift position just a tiny bit, the skirt would ride up and Malcolm would see...
But he already knows. I can see it on his face, the faint flush of excitement in his pink cheeks as he watches me with a deceptively calm air. "Oh, of course we are. We're having a very serious conversation, and I'm very proud of you for trying so hard to think when your fingers keep drawing you back to your hungry little pussy like they always do." I hiss out a soft gasp of arousal, unsure whether it's his words or the tone of potent, confident condescension that turns me on so much. I know that it shouldn't; I know that we've already come dangerously close to crossing lines I swore I wouldn't cross. But my cunt wants what it wants. Nothing turns me on quite so much as when Malcolm treats me like the silly little girl I am.
Not. I'm not a silly little girl, I'm a grown woman. "I, I'm a grown woman," I snap, unable to keep the words from coming out as a petulant pout. "I, you can't just, just treat me like some... some stupid, horny, airheaded, um..." I shouldn't use those words. They echo in my head, reverberating in Malcolm's voice all the way down to my clit and making my cunt even more slick and soaking. I can feel a tiny droplet of my musk gathering on my pussy lips and it's all I can do not to squirm and rub to try to get rid of it.
"It, it's not a game anymore, Mal," I plead, my voice filled with desperation. "You, you're doing things. To my head. And I, I thought I could handle it, I thought it wouldn't really affect me. I thought that it would just be..." I trail off again, trying to describe the slow, saturating euphoria that fills my mind and body every time I lose myself in mindless masturbation and tease myself to the edge of orgasm, again and again under Malcolm's calm, confident direction. It's too much for me. I feel myself squirming and squeezing my thighs together like a little girl who needs to use the bathroom, the surging heat in my pussy demanding attention too insistently to be denied.
"Fun," I finish inadequately, my voice weak and uncertain. My fingers keep wandering toward my cunt, inscribing figure-eights in the air as my concentration wavers. I already know exactly how it will feel when I give in and let them go where they want, and the knowledge keeps me weak and distracted until my words come out as a helpless whimpering plea. "But it's not a game anymore, Mal. It's not a game anymore."
He smiles and takes a seat on the couch, his legs splayed akimbo to give me a good look at the bulge in his trousers. "No. It's not." The hunger in his eyes is almost palpable now, as if I could feel his stare caressing my body all over. "It hasn't been a game for a long while now, Bianca. I've been conditioning you for months now, teaching you how to turn off that fuzzy little mind of yours and let your cunt do all the thinking. And it's worked so well, hasn't it? You want to think with your cunt all the time, don't you?"
His words resonate inside me, evoking memories that feel more like waking dreams of bliss. "C-cunt, I... cunt," I murmur, lost for a moment in a reverie of pure submissive joy as my thoughts float back through months and months of constant, wonderful teasing at Malcolm's hands and by Malcolm's will. It always seemed so easy to surrender to his control, to give in to his whispered suggestions and indulge the delicious ache between my thighs. Even when we were separated, I always made time to listen to his recordings, playing with my soaking pussy for hours and reciting along with his soft, seductive words. I was never alone. His voice was always with me, always reminding me to... to think with my cunt. The words bob to the surface of my mind like the tip of an iceberg, hiding overwhelming power deep below.
"That's right, my pretty little slut," he says, leaning back against the cushions. I can see the outline of his cock through the thin gray fabric of his suit, and it makes my cunt throb like a bass speaker at a rock concert. "Are you listening to your cunt right now? What is it telling you?"
My head swims for a moment, the pulse of my arousal pounding between my legs like a second heartbeat. "N-no, Mal," I whimper, trying desperately to clear the fog of lust from my brain and focus on what I came here to tell him. "No, I, I need to... I just need to, to..." But it's no good. Every time I try to stop thinking about masturbating, it means thinking about what I'm trying not to think about. Every time I tell myself I have to break free of his hold over me, it reminds me of all the other times I pretended to resist and he pretended to coax me back into mindless, helpless need.
He's stopped pretending to pretend now. And I find that suddenly, I'm not pretending either.
"You need to rub your wet little cunt for me, slave." His voice is firm without being harsh, not commanding me but simply describing the way the universe is going to work from now on. "You need to tease all those foolish thoughts out of that feeble little brain, play with your pussy until they drip out onto your fingers and your head is nice and empty for me. You want to be empty and obedient, don't you slave?" he asks, his tone utterly remorseless.
