It’s almost infuriating to know that he’s doing this with a single finger. That you’re writhing and moaning and arching from one damn finger.
But it’s not just that finger, see. It’s the fact that you gave him this power. That you want this. That you’re restrained and fuck knows how much he’s teased you leading up to this.
And that is all nothing but arousing.
It wasn’t just that she was teased leading up to this; it was that he made you tease yourself. Made you walk around in those boots and those stockings all day, sans panties, his classed-up little secret whore. Made you come back to the room and tear off your dress, tie your own ankles to the table, and frantically fuck your own hand as you waited for him to arrive. You knew your job was to edge ten times before he arrived. After the whole day of blushing near-exposure, getting THERE wasn’t the problem, it was keeping yourself from going over.
And then he finally walked in, casual as can be, and saw you sweating and squirming on your back against the hard wood of the table. You’d ripped holes in the nylon of your tights, hand scrabbling at your hip as you tried desperately to hold yourself where he wanted you, and your body was slick with sweat. You looked up at him, a mixture of need and resentment and hazy arousal in your eyes.
“Ten times, girl?” he asked quietly.
You never could lie to him. “I lost count. Sir.”
A loop of cotton rope around your wrists. A smooth, strong pull downward, your wrists lashed to the table before you could breathe. He pushed that one finger in your whimpering mouth to let you wet it.
And then, only then, did he really start to make you writhe.