“I cannot think of a poem to recite. Please, please, please may I come?”
He thrust his fist into me further, as my plaintive mew unfurled weakly into the dusky half-light of the evening.
“Rotten, mean, evil sodding cat!”
“Why, thank you!”
This was on the verge of the eighth orgasm of the session.
Number eight followed hard on the heels of the three previous caterwaul-inducing, knee-tremblers — all of which were great, although the one immediately prior to those three was the one which caused a tsunami-like effect on what Purrrrrvert had originally referred to as “your rainforest of a cunt”.
He had a point. After all, it was hot and very wet.
And every single fucking one of those orgasms was earned. Seriously. He started light: ten words for cat. We progressed through the alphabet backwards and other mindfuckable evil missions, until he came up with the brilliantly cruel idea of reciting a poem backwards.
I flailed — physically and mentally.
“What happens if i don’t do it? I cannot think of a poem to recite.”
His eyes gleamed with an evil glint I’d not actually thought possible from such adorably blue and loving eyes.
“Then, my darling bratty pink tabby cunning linguist, you…. get…. punished.”
“Er…” (very tentatively) “What kind of punishment…?”
A turn of his head, and a small cough. (Incidental? Unclear.)
“You do not wish to know. I can assure you. Bratty is as bratty does, but bratty also pays a price.”
I gulped. And then it hit me. Bratty! Of course! Who else, but Lewis Carroll?
“Because he knows it teases
He only does it to annoy
And beat him when he sneezes
Speak roughly to your little boy”
Through my blindfold I could hear the pleasure in his voice as he benevolently gave me permission to come. I could also feel the enthusiasm in his fist as he sent me over the edge into another quilt-soaking paroxysm of ecstasy.
A few moments of warm relaxation, enfolded in his adoring embrace, jointly catching our breath, and admiring my bound, round breasts, protruding from their brisket perma-tie surrounds. And then the whole thing started again.
As you know, he has made requests of me to write for him in the past, and further drilled-down those requests by specifying the number of words in each piece. Apparently, we’d moved beyond the realm of request-by-remote.
“You want to come, kitty-cat?”
A mute moan, and a whimper as I focused my mind on random traffic junctions in order to take my mind off the fact that I was perilously close to climax, but was not yet permitted to let it rip through my body.
Purrrrrvert has but two rules for me — that I notify him when close to orgasm, and that I do not come without permission. Naturally, I obey them both, although sometimes it really is by the skin of my teeth.
“What must I do this time?” I asked as civilly as I could through gritted teeth.
“Write me a piece of… oo, let me see — twenty-five words.”
Which brought me to this.
“It’s twenty-eight words,” I confessed humbly.
He smiled — again benevolent.
“This time, I’ll let it slide. Call it poetic license.”