frustration

“Ah! No! Please don’t stop!”



I hear her chuckle under her breath, feel her shift her weight on the bed, lying next to me. I can imagine the familiar, wicked smile that plays on her lips, although I can’t see it through the blindfold. I have a mental image of her, auburn head propped up on one elbow, regarding me with a mixture of amusement and sleepy satisfaction in those lovely gray eyes flanked by freckles. I wonder what she’s wearing, if anything; she was in her favorite little red dress when the blindfold went on, but as she’s toyed with me over the past — how long exactly? — I think I’ve felt a good deal more of her skin brush against mine than I would expect if she were still wearing it. The soft, fragrant breasts that swept across my face earlier certainly felt bare, and I thought I felt a nipple brush against my lips. But nothing is certain in this blindness, and my imagination has been running wild for some time.



She isn’t wearing panties, though. I know that with absolute certainty. I’m not sure how long she straddled me, gripping me tight between her legs but barely moving; time flies when you’re having fun, but it crawls when you’re miserable, and this evening with Amber has been one hell of a thorough mixture of the two. It’s one of her favorite ways to fuck: slow and agonizingly gentle, teasing herself as much as me, but in control and able to get off without asking permission… and of course her hands are free. I don’t have that luxury, and can only lie back and shudder with joy and desperation as I feel her gently rock her hips, flexing muscles inside of her to massage my cock, wrapped up tight in a world of wetness and warmth but precious little friction. I remember the way those intimate inner muscles clenched and quivered when she reached between her legs to play with her clit. I want very badly to be back inside of her.



“Aw, you seem upset. Wasn’t it good for you?” Her voice is husky and sweet, but there is that hint of mockery that comes out whenever she knows she has me in the palm of her hand — her metaphorical palm, of course, as her hand is notably absent from the only part of me that seems to exist at the moment. Slick and wet from her ride, my dick feels cold now that it’s alone and exposed in the cool bedroom air. I have to answer her question, though, or I’m likely to be punished in some way.



“It was amazing, baby.” A small, invisible hand slaps me hard in the face. I stammer out a correction: “Mistress! It was amazing, Mistress, but I’d really love to come now, if I may.”



“That’s better,” comes the reply in sweet and loving tones. “And no.” This is as expected; she always says “no” the first time. She enjoys making me beg, and truth be told, I enjoy the begging. Some part of me even enjoys being told “no,” under most circumstances, but these are more desperate times than most. I realize with some embarrassment that I’ve been making unconscious thrusting motions of my own, humping the air without realizing it. I wonder briefly if she noticed, and then realize that yes, of course she did; she’s not the one who’s blindfolded, or whose mind is fogged over with frustration. I can see her mocking smile now, in my mind’s eye. It only turns me on more, which makes me more miserable, which turns me on more: the masochist’s dilemma. “Please, Mistress, may I come? I was so close when you stopped, and I won’t be able to think about anything else until I do!”



There is no verbal response, but I feel her position her body deliciously over me. Based on what I can feel as she does so, I gather that my hopes were well-founded; she is most certainly, wonderfully naked. She is untying my hands from the headboard. Her pussy rests on my thigh, kissing my leg with its warmth. I grit my teeth against the temptation to grab at my prick with my newly-freed hand; that would certainly invite punishment, and right now everything depends on not giving her any excuses to torment me further. At her direction, I sit up in the bed. I am allowed a moment to work some feeling back into my hands and flex my creaking joints, then my hands are bound again, this time behind my back. I am helped to the floor, and pushed to my knees. If I want to come, I will have to work for it.



I can smell her now, faint and musky and inviting, legs spread wide mere inches from my face. I know what’s expected of me, and go to it with pleasure. I almost forget my own frustration in the joy of feeling that soft, wonderful organ on my lips. I hear Amber squeal above me, as though she were surprised by the act. She’s already come at least once tonight, and I know how sensitive she gets afterward, so pleasing her now should be the easiest thing in the world. I wrap my lips around my teeth so as not to accidentally bite, and begin applying hard suction to her clit, alternating this with firm and regular laps of the tongue when I have to stop for breath. And oh, she responds. I feel hands clawing at my hair, and a single dainty leg draped over my shoulder, toes tracing a pattern on my back. She breathes slowly but very, very deeply, like a woman in deep sleep, each exhale a delightful shivering whimper that strains my desire more than ever. She tastes good, and I love the feeling of her cunt on — really in — my mouth, but somehow the soft skin of her inner thighs rubbing on my cheeks is the sensation that really excites me.



Either it doesn’t take her long at all to come, or this is another instance of time flying when you’re having fun. In any case, this second bout of service seems to be over much faster than that interminable ride. I can feel vibrations in the floor from her shivering and writhing on the bed, and the hands on my head and the leg draped across my back clench tight to draw my face deeper into her. I can’t breathe, but that’s OK. My mind is too busy imagining her — flushed and sweating, perhaps biting her lip, perhaps clutching a single plump breast so that her fingernails leave pink tracks in the white flesh, perhaps with eyes tightly shut, or perhaps staring at me with passionate intentness — to worry much about my burning lungs. I remember the way her inner walls clench when she comes, and wish I had a free finger to slide into her to feel it again. No matter.



Finally it ends, and I am allowed to breathe. It takes both of us, I think, a long time to catch our breath. My mouth is soaked, my cock harder than ever. But I know better than to say anything. I hear her get up and perform some tasks around the room, but I don’t know what she’s doing. I simply wait, head down, faking patience as well as I can.



Suddenly the world is bright. The blindfold has been snatched from my eyes, and I blink in a blurry world of blues and greens: the bedspread. I twist my head around to look behind me as she unties my hands. I see red, the red of the dress she was wearing when the blindfold was first put on. She fills it gorgeously, of course, but she must have seen the disappointment on my face, because now she flashes me that same wicked smile that I know so well, matching exactly what I saw in my mind’s eye. “You’re, uh… wearing clothes,” I offer lamely, and she nods, red curls bouncing around her temples, ears and cheeks a lovely shade of pink, eyes wet. She helps me to my feet and kisses me, these lips as soft and warm as the ones between her legs, tongue toying lovingly with my own, sucking a little on my bottom lip. I have a brief mental image of a wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon when the pretty girl kisses him on the cheek, turning bright red while steam shoots out of his ears, heart physically leaping from his chest, pupils magically transformed into dancing red hearts. I wonder if that’s what I look like right now.



She eventually breaks the kiss, and hands me my clothes, folded neatly. I begin to stammer out some words of protest or confusion, but she silences me with a look, lips smiling as always but hard and admonishing around the eyes. “You were wonderful, but I already said no, darling. Don’t worry, you’ll get it when you want it badly enough. Now,” she said, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, “I’ll stay and watch you get dressed just so you don’t get any funny ideas. And hurry it up. We have dinner reservations at 7:00.”



Slowly, mechanically, reluctantly, I obey.

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