Why isn't she stopping me?
The thought was distant, and irrelevant. She was meeting my thrusts now, her hips arching off the bed to take me deeper, her moans climbing in pitch. She was cresting, and I was right there with her, hurdling toward the edge at terminal velocity.
'She's lost in it. Now. Do it now.'
The decision was primal, and instinctual.
A final, wild burst of energy surged through me as I fucked her with a last, brutal intensity, three, four, five piston-driven strokes, my body coiled like a spring and I jerked.
My entire being convulsed. The release, the cataclysm I'd been denied for months, was here. I threw my head back, my mouth open in a silent scream, waiting for the wave of obliterating pleasure to wash me away.
But, It didn't come.
Instead, a searing, white-hot pain exploded from my groin.
It wasn't pleasure. It was pure, unadulterated agony.
It felt like my shaft was being split open from the inside, like my balls were being crushed in a vice. A ragged, animalistic scream was torn from my lungs, followed by desperate, heaving gasps. My thrust stuttered, my body seizing.
I collapsed backward onto the bed, away from her, my hands flying to my tortured flesh.
I was still violently hard, throbbing with a painful, urgent pulse.
I bucked my hips into the empty air severally, my body instinctively trying to complete the act, to expel the burning pressure. But with each convulsive jerk, another bolt of excruciating pain lanced through me, stealing my breath.
It was trapped. All of it. The release was there, poised at the tip, but to let it out was to pour molten lead through my nerves.
I thrashed on the silk sheets, gasping, tears of pain and frustration springing to my eyes.
Through the haze, I heard laughter.
Soft, cold, and utterly delighted.
I turned my head, my vision swimming.
The Mistress was lying on her side now, propped on an elbow, watching me writhe. Her face was flushed from her own pleasure, her lips swollen, but her eyes were clear, sharp, and full of wicked joy.
"Wh... what..." I panted, the words barely forming. "What did you... do?"
When I could finally string a sentence together, it was a plea, torn from a place of utter defeat.
"Plea... Mistress... undo it. Whatever you did... the pain... Please, make it stop. Let me... please, let me finish."
She reached out then, not to help, but to trace a single, cool finger down the center of my sweat-slicked chest, and I jerked back a little.
Her touch was fire and ice. She drew a slow line over my trembling abdomen, down to the place just below my navel. There, she began to circle her fingertip, in a slow, gentle, maddening orbit.
A fresh wave of sensation crashed over me, it was a twisted mix of pleasure and deep, aching pain. My hard, red flesh, which had softened not at all, gave a violent twitch.
A bead of precum welled at the tip, and its emergence was its own tiny, exquisite torture. I gasped, and arched my back off the bed, my mouth falling open as heavy, ragged breaths poured out.
She leaned closer, her voice a husky whisper filled with mock sympathy. "I'm not doing anything, love. Well, not right now. This... this is from denial. The bounds... the sedation. All those months of training your body to want, to ache, to need... and then to hold."
"I told you Juan, didn't I?" Her finger continued its slow circle, and my hips gave an involuntary, desperate jerk. The pain flared, bright and hot.
"I told you I would torture you," she locked her eyes on mine, "to the point where, even when given the chance, you would not be able to cum at will anymore. Your body no longer remembers how, it only remembers where it stopped. The pleasure is there... but the gate is locked. And trying to force it open..."
She leaned closer, and a beautiful, cruel curve appeared on her lips.
"...hurts."