“You can orgasm if you cum before I count to ten.
Amy hates that.
Hates hates hates hates hates hates hates hates hates hates hates hates it.
Or so she says.
Personally, I think it’s kind of fun.
She’s all agitated, and writhing, and begging for permission to cum, and then I give her permission.
Sort of. It’s permission with a proviso.
And to hear her reaction, you’d think I’d done her a disservice. Gratitude? Oh no – It’s all “Bad Man this,” and “Bad Man that,” and “No no no no no no no” “That’s not enough time,” and similar sounds of protest and unhappiness that are, quite frankly, very erotic to listen to.
I should make a tape.
Anyway, it’s delicious fun, especially the counting part. I like to mix it up a little. Start off real slow, “One……….Two………Three………” and then “FourFiveSix” real fast, like I’m going to get to Ten right away, and then she’s lost her chance.
That’s happened before. She doesn’t make the cut, and then she’s done. She’s not allowed to cum. I must say, it’s a wonderful feeling, fucking her at a moment like that and cumming in her, knowing that she’s not about to get any release herself. Deliciously cruel.
And effective as discipline. Or maybe not – who really knows? But it’s sexy and I like it, so I’m cool with it.
I used it yesterday.
Amy had gotten sassy. The kind of “Pay attention to me I’m insecure and need to feel loved and important” sassy that is so baffling when taken at face value.
Which, as a guy, is how I always take it.
I’ve told Amy never to hint at stuff to me. Tell me what you want. If you want “X” for your birthday, tell me you want “X.” Don’t leave painfully obvious clues and hints for me to pick up on, because I’m a simple man. I’ll never figure it out. I’m not big on nuance.
Amy has been researching our old correspondence. Fate tried to stop her, once by me cutting my finger and having Amy force me to the doctor’s for stitches, and once by interrupting her with a nearby earthquake that rocked our house and threw things on the floor.
But she persisted, and all of a sudden I have a wife who’s telling me “I’m not what you really wanted, you wanted a girl who is X,” X being a characteristic largely defined by it’s being the opposite of how she perceives herself.
Now, I’m a guy. This baffles me. I don’t recognize it as insecurity, it seems to me like a sudden, inexplicable failure of logic.
I come from a gender that doesn’t often get the following joke:
Wife: Tell me that you love me.
Husband: I’m still here, ain’t I?
Ah romance. So anyway, Amy is feeling insecure and getting sassy, more so as her headache is passing and she’s feeling energetic, and I’m being all logical about how she IS exactly what I want, and she’s adamant that she isn’, and the whole thing is starting to make MY head hurt.
Then she mentions the word “insecure,” and a light goes off in my head.
So we’re not really dealing with logic here.
We’re dealing with insecurity. My little girl needs to feel owned and important to her Daddy.
Sounds like we need a little torture here.
So we talk and cuddle an go over what it was in our old correspondence that made her feel insecure, and I start playing with her nipples.
Well, I call it playing. I don’t think Amy has a word for it. She’s not exactly sentient when we do it. Lots of moaning and writhing and half formed words. Actually, she does pretty good with single syllables, it’s combining them into longer words, or full sentences that seems to be a challenge.
She bites real good too.
I think that she has worked hard at memorizing the one full sentence that suddenly coheres out of all the moaning and protests. “Daddy, may I touch myself?”
I often say yes, but this time I just laughed and said “No.”
The howls, the unhappiness, the”Why can’t I?”
What a question!
“Why can’t I”
“Because you’re not allowed.”
I’m having too much fun playing with her nipples to let her masturbate. And she’s getting desperate to touch herself. I tell her she’s not allowed, and then I tell her she’s not allowed to go through our old correspondence anymore, and a few other things, and she’s getting pretty frantic.
Then I give her permission to masturbate, but she still has to ask if she can cum, because I haven’t decided that yet.
Migod her nipples.
Like bullets, rocks, you name it – so hard and firm on her soft breasts – drives me crazy with desire, if I can be honest. I’m lucky I’m sentient, myself. She wriggles so much I keep losing my grip on them – if I suck them I can keep them in my mouth, but she twists and squirms so much they keep pulling out of my fingers as I torment them.
Finally, after numerous requests (wow- my little girl can beg like the furies when she has too) I decide to let her cum, but only if she can cum before I finish counting.
Hey, I don’t want her getting all cocky and confident on me. She was sassy just a little while ago. I want her to know just how close to the edge she is of NOT getting what she is so desperate for.
I count, and while I count I tease her, and make her laugh.
That breaks her concentration.
Heh heh heh. Cruel.
But she focuses, and her forehead furrows and her fingers fly like the wind and she’s holding her breath and I count to “Seven” and suddenly she’s gasping for air and cumming hard.
She’s exhausted and spent and just perfect for a good fucking, which I indulge myself in.
And now I think we’re good. Insecurity kept at bay.
Plus a few rules, nothing major. Some things she’s not allowed to do.
And when she wants to read our old correspondence, she has to get my permission and I’ll sit with her and read with her as she looks things over.
Although… (and she doesn’t know this yet)
She’ll be wearing all her chains and a leash when she does it.