Delayed Reaction

by Jane Davitt

Blair's talking now, desperate, glib; passionately pleading words pouring out of a mouth I've left unbound because I want to hear him beg, though his wrists are cuffed.

I don't need him to touch me with anything but his voice.

I want to ask him if he knows why I do this to him, but I don't. If I discover he sees it as a punishment, I couldn't do it again, and I need to. Not every time, but sometimes.

It's not a punishment, of course. If I was angry with him, the last place I'd choose to show it is in our bed.

No; I make him wait to come, make him wait, and beg, and once cry, slow tears trickling even as his body arched eagerly up to meet my hand, not to hurt him, fuck, no, not even because when he comes, finally, it's so good for him, so very fucking good.

I make him wait because I never come until he has.

I'm the one waiting, not him.

Because I have to prove I can. That he doesn't have so much power over me that his hair falling forward in a soft, silent rush can move me to a tenderness I'm not sure he wants, that his mouth can't make me hard just by opening and rounding on an 'oh' of surprise.

It's not getting easier. He says my name finally, cries it out, reduced to that single word out of all the thousands he knows, and I bend to suck him, my hands clenched by my side, away from the stiff scream of my cock.

Not easy at all to say no to Blair.

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