Page 2 of H Is for Hardcore

I dig my fingernails into my palm.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It really is so hot when I strap your cock away. Hide the key somewhere and wait—what?—a week, until you simply can’t do anything except beg me on your knees to let you free. Until you reach the point where you’ll scream with frustration if I so much as blow on it.”

“Baby,” you say gently, “baby, I’m already there.”

Sometimes, I’m so in the moment, so in control or at least in some semblance of control and you say something like that, something soft, and it’s all I can do not to come crashing down. When you say that, with your voice all gentle and pretty, I want to hug you. I could drop right out of role any second. Crash. Bang. I can feel it. This is getting serious. Who’s driving this thing? I need to find an endgame. And fast.

I sit up and scrabble around among the debris on the floor for the key to your handcuffs. It takes me a couple of moments but I find it. I beckon you over, and you step forward, bringing your wrists from behind your neck so I can reach them.

I unfasten the cuffs and say, “Turn rou

nd. Put your hands behind your back.”

You turn around slowly with one slight moment for a pause and a quizzical expression. Your cock bobs as you move. It’s so hard and angry looking. It looks painful. It’s got to be really sensitive. Sensitive like I can’t even imagine. I reach up and recuff your big wrists behind your back.

“Turn back around.”

You turn to face me, cock still vicious angry.

I say, “Get on your knees now.”

You go down, big man. One knee then the other. When you kneel, it dismantles me. Every time. It’s like I have to wait and let myself crumble then put myself back together and carry on.

Now I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with you kneeling in front of me and my pussy is just burning. What I’d really like to do is grab you by the hair and pull you tight between my legs. I’d like to do this so sudden and fast that you don’t really have time to catch your breath. So fast it hurts you enough that you make a confused little yelp and you aren’t sure what is happening for a long moment before you realize your world is made of me.

I don’t do it.

I deserve a fucking medal.

You’re kneeling on the floor surrounded by all the Tracey Emin-style crap that accumulates by the bed when you come to stay. There’s chocolate and the nipple clamps that would have been good to put on you a bit earlier—but it is so too late now. There’s a gay porno magazine that you brought me and all your clothes. You’ve been naked for two whole days. Sometimes when I look at you naked I want to burn your clothes. You were made to be kept naked.

It’s been two days. Two days naked and hard and you still haven’t come.

All the crap on the floor is mostly on the rug. I slip off the bed and pull the rug out of the way, leaving a stretch of bare floorboards next to you.

I sit back down. “You still want to come?”

“Baby?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“You reckon you can make yourself come like this?”

You’re kneeling naked on the floor with your hands cuffed behind your back. But I’m sure you are pretty aware of these facts. You look at me, but there’s no need really, because you know I mean it. You know what I’m saying to you. What I’m telling you to do:

“You’re going to have to fuck the floor if you want to make yourself come.” I wait. I let you hesitate a little longer, and then I say, “Or we lock it up.”

Your chastity belt is clear plastic. We bought it online ages ago and we hardly ever use it. It’s fiddly and annoying and mostly we just never bother. But it works well as a threat. It was worth every penny for that alone.

You lower yourself onto the floor. I don’t know quite how you manage it with your wrists cuffed. Maybe just sheer force of will. I look at your arse. Your hands curled in the small of your back. Your hips move. Start to pump. It’s just bare floorboards under you. You must be so sensitive. It must hurt, but the way you’re moaning suddenly, it must be working, too. You’re fucking the floor and moaning like you’re inside a lover.

Like you’re inside me.

Fast and frantic suddenly, you move like you’ve lost it. Maybe you think I might tell you to stop at any moment.

Maybe I will.

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