Where my mind goes when I have too much time on my hands

She was at the edge, at the edge, waiting, waiting, waiting... It had been a long time, and he wasn't into endless denial. He might, might, might give her permission...

He pulled her hand away, clipping it to her collar, and began stroking her clit, her engorged, right-on-the-edge clit, with one finger. She struggled and tried to force her cunt up against his hand. He kept stroking her. She was beyond hot, she couldn't stand it, she was begging... I'll stop any time you like, he told her. Just say the word. She was suspicious. This was too good to be true. He must have read her mind. It's true, he said. Just tell me and we'll move on to something else. She wanted to ask what that something else would be, but words had abandoned her long since. The finger continued its maddening tease. I'll keep on until you tell me to stop, and I'll stop as soon as you tell me to. Then I'll birch you.

OK, that explained it. She waited, forgetting to exhale, hoping that something would intervene to provide relief from this growing need. Nothing did. Finally she could take no more. Stop! Please stop.

He did. Immediately he hauled her to her feet, chained her hands above her head, and administered a brutal beating on her breasts, thighs and belly with the damp birch switches. He only stopped when her skin was striped deep pink, with darker marks of red and purple, the result of the birch's knobby twigs. His fingers probed her cunt. He laughed as they came away dripping. Not unbearable, anyway.

He unchained her, pushed her to the floor and commanded, edge. She began to have misgivings. Her hands moved obediently but she asked, Sir? Sir? Yes, my love. Will you...? Is this...? Yes, my love. You'll edge until I get bored, then I'll tease you until you can't take it. Then I'll beat you. Over and over. That's it for tonight. This train only has three stops.

And at the end? The end? At the end, Sir? Will you let me come? Ah. No. I'll chain you next to me, open to my touch, arousing you even in your sleep. Supposing you can get any sleep, that is. Go on, my love, time's a-wasting, and it's only getting later.

She brought herself to the edge, hovered there, waiting, until his hands stopped her.