“When I count down to one you will come for me”

Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor

“I’m going to count backwards from ten, and when I reach one you’re going to come for me. Got it?” She gets it. But she doesn’t get it. The things she has done in her mind have never prepared her for something like this: to be able to come at the sound of his voice. The numbers alone. The tick of his verbal clock counting her down to one, and up to a climax. But she isn’t one to refuse a challenge.

This story contains some fairly intense BDSM/dominance, and fantasies of implied non-consent.

“Ten… Come for me.”

She lets his voice wash over her. The stern force of his tone, echoing other things he has told her in the past. Like ‘touch yourself, right now: here in the back row of the theatre.’

‘Pull your knickers down when we reach the top of this hill, the lift your arms up high so the breeze can whip at your skirt.’

She rubs her clit and closes her eyes, and wills herself to get there.

“Nine…”

She focuses her gaze on his cock, and the way he grips it so tightly that the colour of his knuckles change as he shuffles away. She pictures how his face will contort as he gets closer to the edge, and imagines him spraying gallons – oceans – all over her tits and face.

She spits on her fingers, rubs more urgently at her clit, and wishes for a little extra time.

“Eight…”

He raises his eyebrows, anticipating that she might be there soon. Such confidence. Such… conceit? Perhaps the conceit will do it.

She conjures images of him sitting casually in a chair – legs spread wide and dick in hand, yanking down the fabric of her flimsiest top as she bends over to attend to him. Gripping one of her tits fiercely. Pinching her nipple between finger and thumb and smirking at how easily she lets him take her.

Harder. She rubs harder. But she’s not even nearly there yet.

“Seven… Come on now, come for me.”

By now his voice is cracking with the effort of holding back. He slows down his frantic movements – switches hands, to improve his staying power.

He’s close, she knows that. But she is not. She won’t be. Can’t be, like this. She feels like a failure, and perhaps in that failing there is hope: she imagines him beating her for her inability to succeed. Dragging her by the wrist off the bed, making her bend over and touch her toes while he whips her with a thick leather belt – each stroke of the beating lashing out another word of his too-harsh punishment.

You. Useless. Fucking. Bitch.

“Six…”

Her cunt twitches, and she rubs harder. Here, in real life, he is measured and controlled. In her head he is wild and uncontrollable.

You. Failed. Me.

Each word accompanied by the thrash of the belt, each lash causing his cock to jump and twitch.

She spits again, rubs harder. And this time she closes her eyes…

“Five… Are you going to come for me?”

In her head he is brutal. Gripping her hips and plunging in, using his cock to punish her just as he’d used his belt.

Take it. You fucking bitch.

She rubs harder. Bites her lip. Urges herself to get there before he manages to count down to one…

I’m going to come hard in the back of your cunt.

“Four…”

His voice is distant now, his measured wanking and arrogant voice drifts to the fringes of her attention. This, right here in her head, is reality: the version of him that is harsher and stronger and crueller and inside her.

Her cunt aches for cock, and with eyes closed and teeth gritted she gropes at the table beside her to grab a dildo. The real-life version of him smacks her hand away, calls her a ‘naughty girl’, and yanks her from the fantasy. Her jaw twitches in annoyance. This is not confidence, it’s arrogance: he thinks she can come just because he says the words?

Who on Earth taught him to believe that he was God?

“Three…”

She blocks him out. His voice, his smell, the sound of his controlled, measured wanking. She retreats deep inside her head, where no one orders her to ‘come for me’ – to a much better place, filled with orders and whipmarks and the word ‘slut’ groaned in lustful agony.

A world where she can conjure him away – replace his face with someone else’s, and invite even more someones in. A world where they take turns on her cunt, with whippings in between – beating and fucking her like she’s a toy they’re all desperate to play with. A world in which dick is plentiful and she has more than just her own two fingers-

She spits on her fingers, shoves them inside her. Dildos are banned, but she won’t come without something.

In this fantasy world…

“Two…”

…she barely hears the countdown.

In this world no one would tell her to come, because nobody cares if she comes. And their lack of care makes it easier to feel the rush. To know that she’s taking her pleasure from them despite them only caring to take their own. The spunk that squirts from the ones standing nearby, lashing her nipples with warm wetness that she eagerly rubs in with greedy palms. The stuff that is squirted dismissively – punishingly – onto her face and into her eyes, and the way they slap her cheeks when she looks up at them with shining eyes, calling her a slut and laughing in her upturned face.

Did he say one? She doesn’t care. Right now she is alone in a sea of other men, filled with their cocks and throbbing from their smacks and lashes, covered in their spunk and awash with their disdain.

No one is telling her to come.

So she comes.

4 Comments

  • fuzzy says:

    Ha ha ha ha ha, great! So delicately complex, so elegant. I could spend hours and days talking about this tiny episode (most of it bullshit because don’t we spout because it’s so pleasurable to voice to others how we *feel*) and maybe, just maybe there is a look of recognition there here is another … slut … like me? even close?

    What’s going on in my head at any given moment is probably far more filthy than anyone ever suspects, with a couple of notable exceptions. Reading about someone who is titularly subject to orgasm control but ultimately orgasms because she’s even more of a slut all on her (strong independent) own than she is being asked to be (who would know?) — well it tickles my Oscar Wilde bone.

    And this comment (probably obscure and failiing) is just a drop in the ocean of how good this is for so many reasons.

    Thanks again.

  • Jo says:

    I love your line saying that telling ordering someone to come isn’t confident, it’s arrogant; it’s always seemed to me that when someone tells / commands me to come, it’s about their ego, not my pleasure.

  • Cara Thereon says:

    “In this world no one would tell her to come, because nobody cares if she comes. And their lack of care makes it easier to feel the rush.”

    Ticking so many boxes.

  • Lexy says:

    Some of this reads EXACTLY like the fantasies I have about/in this same situation. I mean, wow, the things we think when we are trying to tip over the edge! Shocking and beautiful. xo

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