One Day, You’ll Learn

My muscles twitch, making my body tremble. I shake so hard, I hear the wooden frame of the bed rattle. Sweat snakes down my ribs and waist, pooling on the sheet beneath me and making the small of my back itch. I’m soaked with the sheen of anticipation, of struggle. Of the fruitless attempts to retreat from the punishment my questionable behaviour has earned me.

I don’t know why, but I test the bonds around my wrists. The rope shifts a little, letting salty sweat seep onto the raw marks it’s been abrading into my skin for the past hour. It stings. It makes me hiss, and lift my torso off the mattress so I can glare at the one who put me here.

She’s sitting on a wooden chair about three feet from the bottom of the bed. I can’t see her face because the light she has shining right at me puts her in the shadows. But I can see other things. The curve of her naked breasts, stark white against the jet-black lapels of her pinstripe suit. Her long legs, stretched out and crossed at the ankle. The glint of amber fluid in the tumbler in her right hand. Her left hand is near her face, stroking the hard curve of her square jaw.

I know I shouldn’t stare at her this way. She finds it antagonising. Brattish. Challenging. If there’s one thing in this world that wakes the beast in her, it’s a direct challenge. No matter who it is, no matter how powerful they are, her nature won’t allow her to do anything else but rise to it. And, more often than not, she’s the victor.

But when I challenge her? Silence falls. Everything becomes still. Her usually hard mouth softens a little as if in amusement, and then a fleeting smile tilts the corners of her lips before they became stern again, making sure I understand that she knows the gauntlet has been thrown down, but that she’d caught it before it even hit the ground.

That’s how she’ll be looking at me now. Shaking her head, her expression vacillating between entertained and exasperated.

I bet she’s wondering what she’d done to deserve such a mulish, confrontational submissive. She’s certain she can train it out of me. She once told me I’m not the first noisy minded soul to come to her to be tamed. To be broken, taken apart, and put back together again once she’d helped them find their peace.

My sneer makes her shift in her chair. I hear a gulp. A glass is placed on a wooden surface, just a bit too hard. Fabric brushes fabric, heels scrape the floor, and the shape of a face comes into view as she leans forward.

I see it when the light catches her eyes. Cold chips of dirty ice with a heat behind them that could liquify both of us, if she let them.

My shoulders hit the mattress. Even though I know it’s useless, I try to raise my knees. Her snigger lets me know I was unsuccessful at smothering my gasp. A hard object moved between my legs. It had been there all the time, but the very threat of it made me forget everything – including its presence – until a shift of my hips reminded me it was still there.

She approaches the bed, each measured snap of her heels against the wooden floor making me flinch. “Close your eyes and keep them closed.”

Her voice is so calm, so soothing. So deceptive. And that command so very cruel. She knows how much I ache to see her, how much temptation there is to disobey her, just so I can catch a glimpse of her heavenly face. That’s why she never makes me wear a blindfold. She likes me to be at war with my own desires.

I feel the mattress dip under her weight. She’s warm, the heat from her body taking the chill off my left side, even though there’s no physical contact. My whole body stiffens in anticipation of her touch. I wait to feel her fingers moving over my thigh, through the soft fuzz that covers my labia as she reaches for the buttons that awaken the monster nuzzled against my clit.

She seizes the handle of the wand, but nothing happens. There is no touching, no teasing, no vibrating. All there is, is silence. In it, I hear her breathing. Slow, steady, and deep. I hear myself breathing too, but I don’t sound half as calm as she does. The longer I wait, the louder my breaths become. I’m sightless, unable to see whether she’s carefully assessing me, waiting for the right moment, or if she’s grinning because she knows I’m dreading something that isn’t even going to happen.

I wait, and each minute that passes makes me wetter. It pours from me, seeping between my ass cheeks, the urge to wriggle in a bid to scratch the itch almost maddening. My nipples harden, I chew my lip, scrunch up my face, mash my teeth together to stop myself from screaming, please!

Instinctively, she knows.

She knows I’ve reached the point where I’ll plead for her to stop, to carry on, to get the wand the fuck away from me, all the while grinding against it as tears pour down my cheeks and my cunt throbs out orgasm after hated, incredible orgasm.

With a few nimble flicks of her fingers, the harness is unbuckled and whipped away, taking the wand with it. I sob quietly, shaking in relieved despair.

“One of these days you’ll piss me off so much I’ll actually switch this thing on,” she says with a soft laugh. “Then you’ll learn what the word ‘punishment’ really means.”

Week 161

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