…continued from Cougarling, with rope of course
He worked himself loose, of course. When he wriggled his hands free from the rope, he looked at me in triumph.
“If I’d known you were going to fight your way out, I’d have tried harder…” I protested weakly.
He smirked, nodded indulgently at me.
Pushing him down onto his back, I took the length of rope, and wrapped it more firmly around his wrists this time, something that approximated a double column tie, but probably wasn’t. I tied the end to the bedpost so his arms were stretched overhead, his body angled across the bed.
I trailed my fingers over his skin. His eyes followed the path of my touch.
He has a fetish for hands, for nails. He likes to watch my hands on him. I like to have my hands on him. Win-win.
He likes it especially when my fingers are on, over, around his cock. His expression changes, a rapt lost look on his face at the sight of my fingers slipping over the head and down the shaft, and back again.
The lube keeps his cock slick, I don’t take him in my fist, or rather, I don’t keep it there. I let his cock slide between my fingers, struggling not to lose hold, scissoring his hardness between the ‘oh’ I make with my thumb and forefinger, then slipping over the head to trap the down-stroke between the next two fingers, and the next, which is harder than you might think.
He lies still, neck craned, watching. He whimpers when something hits him just right, his expression intent and glazed. I don’t apply too much pressure, just enough. It’s almost more visual than physical. When I stop to get more lube and he makes a frustrated moan into the air.
“Your hands are so sexy…” he whispers, not to me, really, just saying it out loud into the room.
I take breaks to tap at that spot under the head of his cock, holding my target still, a tapping that turns almost into slapping until I can feel that he is starting to pull away, that it’s getting painful. He is not into pain. I give it one more, just to watch him flinch.
Occasionally I pick up the pace and pressure until his moans start to turn into that sound where he’s reaching for his orgasm. He learns to hide the quickening of his breath to try and trick me into pushing him over the edge. I’m not even sure if it’s deliberate, if he knows he’s doing it, but his body betrays him anyway. Muscles tensing, he tries to stop his hips from lifting off the bed, he holds his breath, almost there, just a little more, just a little mo…
Of course I stop then.
And I wait.
Sometimes he makes a sound like a sob, but not quite. Hot.
Another squirt of lube, because I can do this until he’s exhausted.
He doesn’t get to come.