A week. It doesn’t seem like too long, and he’s quite clear about the rules of the game. She must wait until the next time they play before she allows herself any kind of release. She may touch herself whenever she wishes, but she will not come until a week has passed, until he lays hands on her again. A week. Seven days pass in no time at all the rest of the year, so perhaps this won’t be any different. That’s what she thinks. That is what she tells herself.
She is wrong. After a day the wait is agonising. She touches herself that first night, as she’s drifting off to sleep. Remembering him while the aches and bruises he has given her are still fresh. She finishes without climaxing, but wakes in the morning almost maddeningly horny. A cold shower. Breakfast. Her arousal a steady hum that backgrounds her day.
By the third day she’s permanently wet. Uses a sanitary pad to manage it. She’s dripping. So horny it’s hard to concentrate on her work. Hard to imagine living four more days like this. The hours spin out, and she can’t stop herself thinking: I could make myself come right now. Stand up from this desk, walk calmly to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. I could do it in seconds, through my clothes. I could do it and it would feel beyond good. Her body screams at her to do it, to give in, to permit herself this pleasure… but she’s better than that. Stronger than that. She’s determined to obey.
It’s hard to focus on anything for longer than a couple of minutes. While she makes food in her narrow kitchen she thinks of him. While she reads. While she tidies her bedroom. At the pub with friends she is distant, distracted. She hasn’t been unable to put something out of her mind in this way since she was a teenager.
By the fifth day, thoughts themselves are dangerous. There are times when she feels as though a train of them could be enough to put her over the edge. Unbearable. Too much. She calls him at lunch from the furthest bench in the square outside her office and begs him: I’ve been so good for you. I just… I need this. It’s not fair. I can’t concentrate. But permission isn’t given. Two more days, he says. You’ll wait. You’ll be glad that you waited.
On the day itself she wakes up early. There’s a clarity to everything now. She showers. Has to stop halfway through because the water against her skin is turning her on. She puts off dressing because the feel of clothes would be too much. He’s an hour away. Hours pass all the time, but this one is lingering. She feels like she’s holding her breath, the tightness growing inside of her. If she doesn’t breathe soon she might just suffocate.
It takes everything she has not to touch him the moment he arrives. Seeing him – the shape of his body contained by his clothes, and his big hands, and the hungry look in his eyes – she feels it like a physical touch. But she waits, as he bids her, while he sheds his shoes and coat. She fetches him a drink, her hands shaking, her whole body shaking. She can feel the pulse in her cunt, her body singing.
He drinks the water. Puts the glass down on the hall table. Then he takes her chin between his fingers, and tilts her face up to his, and she feels unstable for a moment, as though the floor is tilting under her. Her cunt throbs. If he touches me there, she thinks, I’ll come in a heartbeat. His hand shifts from her chin, to her neck. Then lower, and lower, grazing skin through the thin material of her dress. It is happening. Finally. After what feels like years. She holds her breath, and waits to feel his touch.