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maddening sensation emanated from her loins to all
quarters of her body, pricking her nipples, electrifying her spine so she
writhed, her sweat ‐ soaked
back and bottom slipping against the smoothly varnished chair. The buzz
increased, sensation building, her pussy clutching the vibrating pencil within,
so that her panties and thighs were drenched by the steady flow of responsive
juice. Her head tilted against the back of the chair, breath ragged, as the
tension in her body curved upwards into an exponential spike.
    And then it stopped. The buzzing within her ceased utterly. Her
body stiffened for a moment, before she crumpled into lethargy, satisfaction
cruelly denied her. How many times was that—four, five—he had brought her to
the brink of screaming, flailing orgasm, only to flick the switch on his remote
and cut off the throbbing supply? Her head drooped and she hung there panting,
hands working fruitlessly against the tough, nylon bindings—not to effect an
escape, just to liberate her fingers so she could finish off manually what the
vibrator had failed to achieve. Her pussy spasmed, aching and unrelieved. How
could he know? How could he read her that minutely, bringing her so close but
no more?
    “I’ll leave you there till you pee yourself, sweetheart,” he
had told her gently, stroking her hair, “and I really don’t want to have to mop
up after you.” Bastard. Bastard .
    The only hope was to be silent and patient. To sit there
sweating on the hottest damn day of the summer, cunt ‐ juice and perspiration pooling about her
thighs in the concave seat. Serving as his entertainment, as he sat opposite
her in his own chair—the fan next to him, while she stewed in the heat. “I’ve
got a few calls to make and stuff to check on my laptop,” he had told her,
having deftly secured her hands to the back of the chair. “It’s all very
tedious. You’ll be something nice to look at while I attend to it all.”
    And calls he had made indeed, sitting the other side of the
living ‐ room from
her, doing bloody business. Dressed to impress in the heat of an August day for
God's sake, like it mattered—since he'd obviously wanted her blindfolded from
the start. Occasionally he'd rise to strut about her chair, so close that the
silk of his shirt brushed her skin. Then he'd return to his seat, chatting to
business contacts and sipping audibly from a glass; his sophisticated choice of
drink seemed now a galling affectation. And meanwhile his other hand played her
body with the pressure of one finger. Toying, sexy bastard.
    He was making her hate how much she wanted him …