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He was a mess. Chest heaving, flushed with exertion as he bucked his hips into her hand. It was maybe the third- or was it the fourth time she'd done it? Waking him so close to the edge, only to stop and hold him there. Deny him the thing he was desperate for. On purpose, at his request even.
The first time had been during their late breakfast. Her foot danced over his erection under the table. He’d almost choked, her foot brushing repeatedly, slowly, teasingly. He was bound by that touch. Breath caught in his throat, hand stalled fork and bite of pancake halfway between pate and mouth.
Only the clatter of his fork falling from his hand to his plate startled his brain back into focus. He cleared his throat and adjusted in his chair. Obviously not keen to stop her ministrations, only confused at what prompted them. He returned to the pancakes he made. It went on for a couple more minutes. She pretended like she wasn't aware of what she was doing.
After a particularly firm caress, base to tip, pulling a huffed grunt from his chest, he levelled a questioning look at her.
“What?” she wore a clueless look, that was only betrayed by the corner of her mouth, a suppressed smile. Acting as if she didn't know exactly what she was doing– and yet… it really worked for him. Abandoning her plate she moved around the table to him.
She had kissed him, crawling into his lap, rubbing over his flannel pyjama pants until he was desperate, moaning begging– so close… then nothing. Like flipping a lighswitch, as if she hadn't been touching him seconds before. She had cleared the dishes, her movements betraying nothing of her actions moments before. She was the picture of cool, collected and relaxed. Leaving him to finish his pancakes unharassed, Bog realized what his day would look like. Filled with that flushed desperate ache, the want, the knowing that delaying it would be sweeter.
They Cuddled on the couch for a while after that, lazy scrolling on their phones. It was the first lazy Saturday morning they'd had together in months. She’d ended up tucked onto his lap. She’d ground herself on his palm until she came. Using his hand with single-minded determination while he stared at her in fascination. Then when he’d moved to slip his hand under his own waistband. She’d taken him by the wrist and tutted. He sighed, letting her pull his hand away.
“Don't you want to be good?” her tone was dripping with– praise maybe? Mischievous goading? Definitely. Daring him to challenge her. Instead, he laid back, relaxing beneath her. Ignoring his erection as she stretched out over him, lounging- fully relaxed, turning on the TV to some nonsense re-run. Eventually, his breathing settled, but his aching cock remained, ignored– neglected.
The third time was as they dressed, there was a market and craft fair they’d wanted to go to. As he turned around from the closet, pulling a sweater over his head. She was on her knees in front of him. In a scant few seconds, his half-hard cock was in her mouth, his balls aching with the frustration of a morning of being denied release, now intensely interested in the feel of her mouth. It would be worth it, right? The third time's the charm? Her teasing him, when she finally let him finish it would be perfect.
She worked down over him- it felt so good- divine. It would be worth it. That build-up, the edging nearer and nearer, making it sweeter when she would finally let him cum. She swallowed as much of him as she could. Working the rest of his shaft with her hands. She knew exactly how to rile him up. A twist of her wrist, the brush of her teeth scraping the sensitive underside of his cock. He almost hated how good she was at it. Resenting for a moment how much of an open book he was under her hands.
“ Please– so close, Marianne I’m-” desperate– aching. Then she fucking stopped. Letting the tip of his cock fall from her mouth with a lewd pop. She smiled up at him, lids red, eyes shining with playfulness.
“Shall we?” she was moving from the floor in front of him, Pulling the sweater that he'd forgotten to finish pulling fully on, down properly. He was left standing there, between the closet and the bed- dumbfounded, looking at her- or where she had been, then to where she stood by the door, keys in hand.
He had to take a few moments, deep breaths to settle his pounding heart. The roaring frustration in his ears at being denied again. Son of a bitch. Clearing his throat, he tucked his painfully hard cock back into his pants. Hissing at the press of his boxers, the pressure of his fly, the button of his jeans pressed against the over-sensitive skin, the aching of his cock, still hard, still desperate for release.
It was on purpose. He knew it, she knew it. That was the point. A point he regretted ever letting her in on. So what if he liked being told what to do, and so what if she liked being the one telling him? And maybe the tease of it– denial was fucking good. Both the being denied, and the knowing he would eventually– even if it took a while– get his satisfaction.
And knowing Marianne enjoyed seeing him squirm, his desperation, knowing she liked it as much as he did made his stomachs flip-flop with a queasy sort of affection.
She drove them to the market. Fingers from time to time brushing his hand in his own lap, the top of his thighs in the passenger seat. Parking at the rear of the lot, Bog had enough time to collect himself before they made it into the crowd. Something he was grateful for.
He followed her around, trailing a few steps as she amused herself. From time to time handing him things to look at, pointing at displays or vendors or whatever caught her interest. And he really did try and give his full attention to the market that he wanted to go, to begin with— but he was so desperately horny it was hard to focus. Especially when Marianne settled her hand on his lower back, and she knows, of course, she knows.
He’d asked for it too. Literally and metaphorically. When he’d done the same thing to her the weekend before. Teasing and kissing, hands and fingers until she was all but crying begging him to just let her finish.
This was his penance, a penance walk that entailed being as hard as he’d ever been, weaving between displays of crafts, homemade goods, and art displays— With her hand brushing his sides, his hands, his back— walking him along that edge of not quite far enough. And yeah, He could put an end to it. He could use his safe word, he could walk home and take matters into his own hands. But that wasn't the point— he wanted her to decide, let him. The tantalizing wait was half the fun.
By the time they made it back to the car, in the mostly empty parking lot, she pressed him up against the passenger door. She was kissing him, bringing that ache- throbbing of his cock back to the forefront of his concerns; the yearning want of release.
“ Please” Even to himself his voice was wrecked, raw with desire and want and that wounded pathetic whine that, if he weren’t miles past relaxed, it would have made him blush in shame. But now? He wasn't above begging.
“Right here?” she chided him, “You’re that desperate?”
He gave it a genuine thought- did he want to finally cum there, in an empty lot just after dark? Yes- he wanted it, but— not the embarrassment of it. It tempered his want. Public acts had never really done it for him. But when her hand brushed over the front of his pants. Goading, teasing— offering. He could, almost, just about agree. The embarrassment of it would sweeten it, the mess, sitting with cum stained pants on the drive home, a reminder of what she did to him.
He wanted it. He didn't. Right there, the only option was hands. And he wanted something else. Maybe, just maybe, if he behaved for the rest of the night she’d let him go down on her, they'd fuck, or she’d let him finish in her mouth. A reward for good behaviour. Or if he asked, polite enough, or begged desperately enough, she’d let him. He knew she liked that well enough from time to time.
“-No” his tone was a wanton whine. As if he didn't believe he wanted to say no. Desperate, and broken. As if he wanted nothing more than to give in.
”Then let's go home” She smiled and pressed a kiss into the side of his mouth, that lingered just long enough to be indecent.
Smiling gently, eyes glowing with wicked enjoyment. As if she could guess the exact train of thought running through his head. The pros and cons, how close he was to losing it. And it wasn't as if he wasn't ‘allowed’ to do what he wanted, he could the moment they got home use the bathroom to take matters into his own hands. But that wasn't the point. The willingness to be told what to do– willful surrender to someone. To agree to let them make the choice for you. Trust. He Loved Marianne, and he loved how much she enjoyed watching him squirm, and despite the embarrassment– he enjoyed her telling him what to do– or in this case– not to do.
Making dinner was torture. Sweet torture, but torture nonetheless. She somehow managed to be too close the entire time. Brushing her hands across his stomach to reach a drawer. Brushing her ass against his cock as she bent over to pull a pot from a lower cabinet.
She knew exactly what she was doing. That was the point.
Later, with a movie playing on the TV, both settled on the couch relaxing. Well relaxing as much as being hard all day would allow. She pulled him over her, then pushed his head between her legs. Delicious. Fleetingly he thought about how he was right to be denied again, his reward for choosing to prolong the game.
He loved eating her out, he could do it for hours. Between the taste and the way she moaned his name, pulled at his hair, and crushed his head between her legs- it was his favourite thing. He was so close. Stomach pressed into the couch, rocking in awkward thrusting motions, his cock still covered by his pants, rough friction against the cushions. Marianne leaned back against the armrest, one foot on the floor and the other over the back of the couch.
“Tsk-” She tutted at him when she noticed how his hand had moved away from her thigh. His hand that he had slipped under his waistband, stroking his cock between him and the couch. Moving her foot from the floor she hooked it under his wrist and pulled his arm free.
He couldn't even swear, curse or beg. With very little use of his brain beyond following orders or mindlessly palming his cock until he came. The desperation, the ache had washed so much of his rational thinking away. All he could do was let out a frustrated half whine into her thigh. He was so close– moments away from some amount of reprieve, and he was denied again.
He couldn't even beg her, couldn't think. Pressing his forehead into her, after a few steadying breaths he felt her hand brush through his hair, calming, gentle, grounding, as he walked himself back from the panicky overwhelmed feeling that threatened to consume him.
“You have two options.” she smiled heavy lidded, when he had finally collected himself enough to look at her.
“You can fuck me” she grinned at him “ But you still wouldn't be allowed to cum”
He groaned, because fuck if he didn't want to– be buried in her. To Rut and fuck and watch her writhe and moan on his cock.
“Or” she tapped his nose playfully “You can eat me out, until I cum. One-” She counted out on her fingers in front of him “two… Three…more times.” Holding her thumb and first two fingers out.
“Then, you can have your turn”
He didn't savour the decision. It wasn't as if it was a choice. His mouth was back on her as soon as she stopped talking. Wringing the first orgasm out of her was easy. She had been close before she caught him touching himself.
The second was nearly as easy. Took longer, but with how she shook and clenched her legs around his head, Bog knew she didn't mind the time it took.
The third required his hands. One pressing low on her stomach, the soft pudge of her organs above her mons to keep her from bucking off the couch. His other hand settled three fingers deep in her as he sucked on her clit. And maybe he had sucked just longer and just harder than necessary to draw it out longer. But she’d been doing the same all day to him, so sue him for driving her insane in return.
When she finally came down from the third he watched her with intensity, she hooked her finger at him, a ‘come hither gesture’
He scrambled up the couch. His fingers on one hand were still damp with her as he pressed his palm to the side of her neck, holding her still so he could kiss her with abandon. She was kissing him just desperately. Hours of pent-up frustration.
“ Please, please, please” the chanted begging against her lips was delirious. He was above her, elbows and knees. Her hand snaked down between them. And finally, he got his release.
With barely three strokes, her palm was warm and gentle on his overstimulated cock.
“Okay” she muttered into his lips, “Cum” and he was lost. It wasn't even the pleasure of it that mattered. It was good, body shakingly good, writhing under her touch, her legs loosely wrapping around his waist to keep him above her. It was the release by itself– the final moment his body had been searching for all day. For his balls to finally tighten and the spurts of cum into her hand stroking him. He nearly blacked out– or might have in the end. Going completely slack over her, his full weight settled laxly over her.
His heaving breaths eventually settled into satisfied sighs and gentle panting.
“Good?” she asked, kissing the side of his head where he’d settled face turned into her neck. He unoccupied and brushed a few strands of hair off his forehead.
“Hmmmmm” was all he could manage. The deeply satisfied boneless noise of satisfaction.
When she’d managed to convince him to move enough to settle himself on the couch, freeing herself from the crushing boneless mass he had become. She had wiped his cock clean, before covering him with a blanket and settling his head in her lap. She let him recover, brushing fingers through his hair as he came to his senses.
“Good” he finally muttered into her legs.
“That was good”