Please

February 3, 2009

He is naked. I had him stand facing the wall, hands behind his back.

“No talking.” I admonished, and went back to my notes. I was studying and needed an extra twenty minutes or so to finish. It was sweet, this compliance; how he waited patiently for me, staring at the wall, anticipating what might happen to him.

I reward myself after getting through a few summaries. His back is a tempting target, as is his ass. I caress him, running my hands over his warm skin. I grab his hips and gently pull his ass into me, slip one hand around to touch him. He gasps when he feels my fingers tracing the hard, hot length of his erection, when he feels them delicately pluck at the crown of his cock.

I’d forbidden him from orgasming for a few days before coming to see me. He had been hard since he’d arrived, partly the result of the denial, and partly the result of the butt plug and cock cage I’d made him wear.

The gates of hell is cherry-red leather with little snaps. It’s now way too tight and bites deeply into his flesh. He squirms unhappily, letting out a little whimper when I lightly tap my fingers against the reddened skin that bulges out from between the leather straps.

I want to taste it.

Getting through my notes takes longer than I’d anticipated. After a few more ‘study breaks’, the boy’s shoulders are slumped miserably, his face is red. He starts to shake uncontrollably when I touch him. I dance my fingers along the cleft of his ass, find the plug, push down so that it enters him more deeply. He squirms. I grab his nipples from behind and twist. He moans. I tickle him (something he hates) and he almost falls down.

I love pressing myself against his back and smelling his bare skin as I excite and torture him, laughing at his quiet distress. Sometimes I ask him, “Is this mean? Is this unfair?” as I do some other nerve-wrenching, toe-curling thing.

“Yes,” he’ll say with a slight quaver in his voice, “please.”

“Please what?”

“Please may I touch you?”

“No.”

“Pleeeaase…”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me. Beat me. Use me. Anything. Please.”

“No,” I laugh a little. He sounds so desperate.

He whimpers.

And it doesn’t matter that we’ve played before, that we’ve slept together before, that I’ve teased him like this before. Every ‘no’ is fresh misery for him, heartbreak real and raw–as if I actually were going to leave him standing against that wall forever, alone, wanting.

Being able to get inside his head, to fray his nerves like this arouses me. Being able to run my hands all over him, to manhandle him, to treat him as a plaything is painfully exciting. I am as wet as he is hard.

But the little-boy way he wipes his face with the backs of his fists and the dejected inward-curl of his posture wring my heart. I want to hug him and stroke his hair and tell him, “Shhhh…it’ll be alright” even as I want to pull him down to the floor and fuck him, my fingers twisted in his hair.

I’m finally done with studying. I resume the teasing. This time, he nearly breaks down at my touch, begins to sway and shake so much that I have to help hold him up. We lean into each other.

Please.”

I take his hand and lead him into my bedroom.

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