“We’re going to go soooo slowly. I’m going to keep you riiiiiiight on the edge. No orgasms for you yet Little One, we’re just going to play. You didn’t really want to cum, did you?”
No, I did not! Thank you!!!!
He often does this to me, just before I go to sleep. It’s so mean. He reaches over between my legs, pulls my thighs apart, and rubs me oh-so-gently, occasionally dipping his fingers into my wetness so he slides against the slick folds of my pussy as he circles and strokes my increasingly sensitive, swollen clit. His touches are whisper gentle, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, and I can’t help but push up harder against his hand the closer I get.
But I’m never allowed to get too close. He edges me, until I’m writhing around, moaning and clenching my hands, helplessly twisting fistfuls of the bed sheets, bucking up against his palm and fingers, begging for release. Then he cruelly pulls away his hand, lies down, reaches around my body to pull me back against him, and settles down to go to sleep. With a little smile and a “goodnight”, like I’m not wet and needy and desperate to cum. And that’s it. I lie there in an agony of frustration, totally wound up like a coiled spring, wriggling and making little pleading, whimpering noises, rocking my hips and grinding hopelessly back against him, clenching and thrusting into air with the aching need he’s teased out of my body.
He likes to leave me unsatisfied, restless, needy. He likes to feel me quivering beside him all night, longing for more but denied any pleasure without his permission and his touch. He likes how it gives me disturbing dreams, and how I wake up still wet and ready and frustrated and hungry for more. He likes the control; holding me close, feeling me struggle, and knowing that it takes every ounce of willpower to obey him, to try to lie quietly, to stop myself reaching down to drive myself forward to that explosive orgasm, over the precipice where he chose to lead me, where he left me trembling on the edge.
He loves playing with my body as much as he loves playing with my mind – and when he plays, his sadistic streak revels in my desperation. He loves to make me squirm. Bedtime becomes his nightly pleasure, tormenting his needy toy, and it becomes my ritual torture.
