I keep him right there.
Right on the fucking edge.
That’s the only place he belongs when I’m in this mood.
He’s on his back, wrists cuffed to the headboard, ankles spread and tied to the corners of the bed. Sweat is already shining on his chest. His cock is dark red, leaking a steady string of precum that has soaked a wet patch into the sheet beneath him. Every time I brush the pads of my fingers along the underside of the head he jerks like I’ve shocked him.
“Please,” he rasps. “Baby, please—”
I smile and don’t answer. I just wrap my hand around him again, stroke once, twice, slow and tight, then stop with my fist locked around the base. His hips try to thrust. I dig my nails into his thigh until he freezes.
“You don’t get to move,” I tell him. “You don’t get to come. You get to stay exactly like this until I decide you’ve earned the right to beg properly.”
He makes a broken sound. I love that sound. I live for it.
I climb onto the bed and straddle his stomach, facing his feet so he can stare at my ass while I work him. My fingers are slick with the oil I poured earlier. I stroke him in long, deliberate pulls, twisting at the head the way that always makes his toes curl. Every time his breathing turns sharp and his balls draw up I stop completely. I count to thirty in my head while he whimpers and thrashes against the cuffs.
“Look at you,” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder. “Dripping like a whore and still not allowed to finish. How does that feel?”
“It hurts,” he gasps. “Fuck, it hurts so good—please just let me—”
I laugh softly and start again.
I edge him for forty minutes straight. No mercy. No rhythm he can predict. Sometimes I use only two fingers under the head, feather-light. Sometimes I fist him hard and fast until he’s shouting. Sometimes I lean down and spit on the tip and smear it around with my thumb while I tell him exactly how I’m going to leave him aching all night.
When his voice cracks and real tears start sliding down his temples I finally stop. I turn around, crawl up his body, and sit on his face. I don’t ask. I just lower my cunt onto his mouth and grind.
“Make me come,” I order. “And if you do a good job I might let you feel my hand again. Might.”
He eats me like a man starving. Tongue deep, lips sealed around my clit, desperate little noises vibrating against me. I ride his face hard, one hand braced on the headboard, the other reaching back to squeeze his neglected cock just enough to keep him throbbing. When I come I do it loud, thighs clamping around his head, flooding his mouth.
I stay there until the last tremor fades. Then I climb off, wipe my wetness across his lips with two fingers, and sit beside him again.
His cock is so hard it looks painful. The head is almost purple.
I lean close to his ear.
“I’m going to untie you now. You’re going to get on your knees, put your hands behind your back, and stay there while I decide whether you get to come tonight or whether you’re going to sleep with this thing throbbing between your legs. Nod if you understand.”
He nods so fast it’s almost funny.
I unlock the cuffs. He drops to the floor the second he’s free, hands already clasped behind him, eyes glassy with need. I stand in front of him, naked, and look down at the mess I’ve made of him.
“Good boy,” I say. “Now stay exactly like that while I go pour myself a drink. Don’t you dare touch yourself. If I come back and you’ve even twitched toward that cock, I’m locking it in the cage for a week.”
I walk out of the room knowing he won’t move.
Knowing he’ll still be on his knees when I return, cock leaking onto the floor, waiting for whatever cruel thing I decide to do next.
That’s the real high.
Not the orgasm.
The power of keeping it just out of reach.