If any of the partygoers look in our direction, they merely see a boyfriend and a girlfriend huddled together in a gloomy corner; she sitting sideways on his lap, he holding her safely, both of them relaxing.

They might think we’re sharing a mellow moment of innocent intimacy. Maybe we’re having a conversation? They might think that I got chilly in my strappy little number after sweating on the dancefloor and then sitting down again, and that Dylan Keene, perfect gentleman that he is, offered to share his body heat with me to warm me up.

They wouldn’t guess. They don’t have a chance of knowing.

Dylan’s hand has come to rest on the inside of my right thigh, low and down, so that the tips of his long fingers touch the swell of my ass cheek, and his thumb is in the hollow where my leg meets my pussy.

I shiver with heat and burrow deeper underneath the coat he has thrown over us. The Gore-Tex hides our movements completely from the others – the angle of his arm, the slow back and forth of his hand as he strokes my skin, as well as my surreptitious pumping of my hips.

I’m humping the air. I can’t help it. I am so, so needy. My whole belly is throbbing.

Cuddling into him, nosing the side of his neck below his ear, I mumble, “Please, babe.”

He glances down at me. His handsome face is so… pleased.

Smug.

I should loathe him for it – I loathe this sort of attitude in any other person, especially in other men – but I don’t. I can’t. Dylan Keene’s commanding self-confidence has always been the flame to my moth.

His condescension makes me feel small, but never in a bad way. Not at all.

He watches the dance floor where several couples are shimmying together to some old-school Spandau Ballet. The lights are low, hiding the two of us even more from sight, with only the occasional colorful sparkle skittering across the vast room.

“Dylan. Please,” I repeat a little louder, a little whinier, when his fingers loosen and then re-grip the skin of my chubby inner thigh. “Touch me, babe. Please.”

I’ve been so turned on the entire evening. Seeing Dylan in his suit, the way it hugs his beautiful, masculine body… the touch of his hand to mine, or to my shoulder, or my lower back… the intensity of his focus on me… I’m already drunk on him and still so thirsty.

“I am touching you,” he says softly, evenly. Unlike his cursed fingers, his voice and attitude do reach straight between my legs and caress me there. Just like his fingers, they leave me wanting. I don’t quite know why I don’t hate it. Before Dylan, I’ve always been the ‘fuck it, then’-type, the one who refuses to be refused.

His thumb sweeps up and down, pulling my skin gently, probably feeling the slight stubble of my hair there – I last shaved a week ago. I’m a little embarrassed even though I know I shouldn’t be - and gripping my plump skin and pulling, pulling so that my pussy lips part a bit.

God, I’m so swollen. Itching and burning up. Everything twinges and aches.

“Touch my pussy, please,” I whisper, feeling my face go red with embarrassment and arousal, and rock my pelvis. My muscles clench and squeeze out a drop of moisture.

I can feel Dylan’s cock under my ass. I want to grind against it so badly.

My boyfriend gives me a look out of the corner of his eyes. “I can’t, Lizzie,” he says and sounds a little sorrowful. “You know I can’t.”

I do, really. Intellectually, I know, but right now, I am merely impulse, affect and need. I’ve turned into this needy beast that can’t hope to understand why he doesn’t want to help me.

“Whyyy?” I whine some more. Don’t you love me?

I love him, and therefore I have given him dozens of hand jobs, blowjobs; signs of my devotion, every single one of them. He has rubbed himself on my ass and between my thighs, has fucked my boobs, and sprayed my throat with his cum.

But he has never touched my pussy. Not once.

Our encounters were always heat-of-the-moment things, furtive and hasty. He’d signal that he has an itch, and I was willing – very, very willing – to scratch. There were interruptions, or he or I had pressing appointments, places to be, stuff to do, barely time to clean up. We are both busy people. I never really minded that he got off when I didn’t.

Until right now.

He sighs deeply, and it strikes me as somewhat melodramatic and overdone. Patronizing? “My belief… Liz, you know that my faith…” He trails off, shaking his head. “The Vow says that female pleasure is a husband’s to give. His and his alone.”

His fingers slide up and along the right leg seam of my panties, and I startle hard when one fingertip suddenly hooks into it and pulls forcefully enough so that the gusset lifts off my labia. I physically shudder from the sensation. I am so wet that my juice forms strings between my lips and the fabric, I can feel them dangling and then sticking to my skin like wet little spaghettis.

“I’m not your husband, Liz. I’m not even your fiancé. It wouldn’t be right.”

His index finger slides down and up the inside of the gusset, undoubtedly feeling the thick drool there, and spreading it all around the fabric.

I shiver again. His finger is so close. So close. I can feel his body heat so near my core.

“Don’t you want me?” I almost sob. My muscles pulse unhappily.

A smile touches his lip. “You know I do, babe. Are you kidding? My cock has been hard all evening. That dress… Your ass… Your tits, your legs, your… phew.”

The mention of his sex only reminds me of the imbalance of our sexual relationship. I sit up a little, pouting. “It’s so unfair, though. You get to take pleasure from me all the time and-“

“First of all, you give me pleasure, Liz,” he interrupts, chiding me. The smile on his face is a little deprecating. “No need for me to take, or even ask. You’re always offering readily.”

I press my lips together. He’s… he’s not exactly wrong. My face must be beet-red.  

“And secondly: It’s a physical necessity for me, Liz. I’m a guy. Guys’ orgasms are more of a chore than anything. You know that,” he explains with great patience, “Lack of ejaculation causes us physical pain.”

“I’m in physical pain,” I grouse, burrowing against his neck again, wanting to bite him with sheer frustration. And lust. He smells like heaven. “Dylan, my pussy is aching sooo bad,” I whine into his ear. “Please, please touch me?!”

Again, he merely sighs. “That’s only in your head, babe.”

Up and down his finger slides on the crotch of my panties. Just centimeters from where I need him. I can feel my clit twitch with anticipation. Idiot thing doesn’t understand that there’s no way.

“Do you know why you’re feeling ‘pain’ right now?”

I lift my chin enough to look him in the face. “Why?” I challenge, thinking that he’s going to tell me some bullshit fact about female anatomy that has been disproved hundreds of years ago. Maybe something about hymens, or hysteria, or feminine energies that come from the moon and need to be preserved or some such humbug.

He pulls his hand out from between my legs, from underneath my pretty skirt, and then gently, ever so gently, puts his index finger to my lips.

It takes me a second to register the dampness, the smell, and I jerk my head back, but his thumb and other fingers clamp around my chin and jaw and hold me still, then – when I gasp his name – prize open my mouth so that his index finger can slide over my lips and inside.

His wet finger wedges between my teeth and then the taste is on my tongue. He rubs it in, stirs it around in my mouth. I whimper a little, from revulsion or from the slight pain of his hard grip, I don’t know. My hands are pushing against his chest, but he’s holding me tight with one arm and I’m not very forceful about it because I don’t really want to slide off his lap and land on my ass.

As I struggle weakly, vainly, my pussy constricts hard and the juice tickles and drips down my slit because my panties are too loose now.

“You are in pain right now, babe,” Dylan explains to me in a calm, assertive voice, his eyes fixed on where his finger is plunging into my mouth, “because you have spoilt your whore slit rotten.”

The words register in my brain and a hot flash zings through my whole body. Whore… slit.

He shoves his finger in a little deeper, tapping my soft palate with the flat of his nail, and I gag and cough. My eyes begin to water. Dylan takes note but does not pull his finger out.

“You have given yourself – and allowed past paramours to give you – orgasm after orgasm, to the point where it’s pretty much an everyday occurrence. Rote. Isn’t that right, Lizzie?”

The question is not louder than any of his other words but sharper. Demanding.

Not every day, I want to argue. Sometimes I’m not in the mood. And also—

“You are a slave of your whorish pussy,” Dylan continues, still calm, still sharp, with that easy dominance that has made my knees weak ever since the day I met him. “It’s quite shameful, Liz. I thought you said you were a feminist, all about empowerment and independence. Could it be that you’ve made yourself dependent on your own pussy’s satisfaction? Hm?” He cocks his head. “Suck it clean, babe,” he adds, wiping his finger more aggressively on my tongue.

With another whimper, I close my lips more tightly around his finger and suck. The taste of my pussy juice is fortunately diluted by my saliva. I don’t like the idea of swallowing my own vaginal lube too much…  but Dylan wants me to do it, so I do it.

And in a shamefully right way, it feels and tastes so good.

My pussy creates ever more juice. I think I’m sitting in a puddle of my own bodily fluid by now. It must be so much that there’s a wet spot on the bottom bit of my skirt. The feeling gives me goosebumps up my spine. I clamp my legs together, which sandwiches my sodden panties oddly between my thighs and squeezes my juices into the last crevices.

Dylan finally takes his finger out of my mouth and lets go of my jaw. Still, he keeps touching my face, petting my cheek with his fingertips, feeling my shivers and the heat of the deep blush there. I’m glad we’re mostly in the dark.

“If you don’t want to stay with me under these circumstances, I understand,” he says and sounds very earnest.

My heart gives a pang of pain. “Dylan, no…“ I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Liz. I’m serious. If you need someone to give you climaxes…” He shakes his head slightly. “I cannot be that someone. It’s against my beliefs. And if you need someone who will indulge your masturbation habits, I cannot be him, either.” He looks me in the eye, sternly. As serious as I’ve ever seen him.

He is magnificent to me.

I’m utterly lost to him.

“If you stay with me, I want us to do it right. According to propriety.” Then, a softness goes over his features as he asks, “Please stay with me, Liz?”

My whole body is hot and pulsing with angry dissatisfaction, but my mind has been made up ever since I first laid eyes on him. Yes, I am a silly woman.

“I’ll stay with you, as long as you’ll have me,” I vow, and, just like that, disavow my own orgasms for the foreseeable future.

My pussy clenches achingly at the thought.

***

Less than a week later, my boyfriend meets with my parents – it’s not the first time exactly, but they haven’t exactly made memories together, either – and asks my father for permission to propose to me.

That same day, Dylan gets down on one knee and slips a slim silver promise ring onto my finger as I repeat “yes, yes, yes!” with my voice pitched a little higher from excitement. We discuss wedding arrangements and agree that three months from now would be ideal – a wedding in June. Outside in the sunshine, maybe at the pavilion in the park? I can almost see it. Dylan smiles at my enthusiasm and kisses me thoroughly.

That same evening, Dylan hands me a book. It’s bound in simple dark grey cloth and stamped with the words ‘The Penitent’s Vow’ across the spine. When I move to open it, he lays his hand across the book’s cover. “Are you sure?” he asks. “This really… really means a lot to me. Like, a lot. Everything.”

I smile at him. His faith, even though it’s not at all mainstream and still rather mysterious to me, has never been a turn-off for me. Quite the opposite, actually. He doesn’t wear it on his sleeve – or rather around his neck, as most people do. If you don’t know it, you won’t even notice – you’d just assume that Dylan Keene was just a natural-born leader, assertive and competent. But I have since learned that my boyfr– my fiancé – is deeply grounded in his convictions, and that they give him the strength to be so… steadfast. Calm. Dominant.

“I’m sure, babe,” I say, and “I know how important this is. I’ll treat it with the respect it deserves, and an open mind. I’ll not let you down, all right?”

He smiles back and slides his hand to the nape of my neck. Not to pull me close for a kiss. Just to hold me and to have my attention.

“If you really don’t want to let me down, Lizzie, you can start with keeping your hands away from your whore pussy,” Dylan says, and his voice is mild despite the words.

It still feels as though he slapped me. Mortification heats my cheeks. “Dyl-“

“I know you rubbed yourself last night.” He says it so calmly, so matter-of-factly. “You diddled your wanton clitty in the bathroom. You thought I was sleeping. You thought I wouldn’t notice if you cleaned yourself up afterward. Hm?”

A heated knot forms in my lower belly at the memory. Last night was like a fever dream and my body had felt like a live wire. I almost sleepwalked to the bathroom, ended up crouching on the shower mat and franticly jilling off to the mental picture of him yanking down my pajama pants and stuffing his cock into me while I’m still sleeping, then smothering my cries with the pillow when I wake up. I even stuffed two fingers into my pussy, just to feel the hot grasp of my own muscles and to try to combat the absolute aching emptiness I felt, which I have never done before.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” I hurry to say, heat in my face and my ears, my heart thudding. Excuses have never come easy to me, and neither have apologies. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I was just so… It was so terribly achy last night. It’s been five days since I last, you know, came, and it’s just… overwhelming. It’s too much. I think I need to ease into the new normal more, you know? I’m… really sorry. It’s a breach of trust and I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong of me.”

A small voice in my brain scoffs and points out that it’s a little surreal how I’m apologizing for having touched myself. My own body. With my own hands. In accordance with my own wishes.

I didn’t feel sorry at all last night (…much). The orgasm made me feel settled after having been slightly unsettled and off-kilter the whole week, feeling stressed and sleeping too little. Apparently, touching myself and climaxing are a form of mental health exercise as much as a physical relaxant for me. Not doing it when I really want to do it makes me antsy, therefore, doing it when I want to do it should really not be a reason for apologies.

But I also get it. It’s my fiancé’s faith, his principles. They are vitally important to him. And relationships are, after all, all about compromises – marriages even more so, and the silver ring on my finger says we’re going to get married in three months, so…

And, really… maybe he had a point when he said that I was dependent on my sex? That I had spoilt it and myself too much? I did find myself thinking about it all day every day last week and it made me feel crazy, like an addict on withdrawal.

And the orgasm, as beautiful and perfect as it was, also left me… somehow wistful? Like something was missing. I lay awake for half an hour after slipping back into bed and tried to make sense of it but didn’t succeed before I fell asleep.  

“Yes, it was wrong of you,” Dylan nods. “But the failure of one partner in a relationship is always a failing of both, so it’s also my fault. I should have predicted that you would cheat, and I should have known how powerful your addiction really is.”

I defend myself against the accusation even though I had conceded it in my head just twenty seconds ago. “Oh, it’s not a- I’m not-“

He laughs quietly and smiles at me with almost paternal fondness. “It is. You are. You couldn’t manage seventy-two hours without fondling yourself, love.” He pets the apple of my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re like a little girl that will stuff her face with cookies and chocolate forever if the pantry isn’t locked.”

“I, I…" I don’t know how to respond. Embarrassment knots my tongue.

“I will help you from here on out,” he promises. “We’ll try different methods.”

My belly pulls tight at his words. “What methods?”

Dylan kisses my forehead. “The Vow gives some direction. My docent also gave me good advice. So did my father. We’ll start tonight.”

 ***

“Take off your panties.”

Dylan has just come out of the shower and into the bedroom, snatched my phone out of my hands without warning, and placed it face-down on the nightstand next to the bed I’m currently sitting on.

“Hey – What?” I protest, confused.

“You heard me, Liz.” He sounds a little irritated. “Panties, off.”

I blink.

“Now, Liz.”

My heart starts to thud.

I quickly throw back the duvet and reach under the thigh-length sleepshirt I’d donned tonight. “Sorry,” I tell him, not knowing exactly what I’m apologizing for. I get naked below the waist, pulling off my panties. They’re purple with little white bows on the front.

Dylan watches me unthread my legs and feet from my panties, then holds a palm out.

I place the little ball of fabric in it.

“Scoot forward,” he orders next, and I do, allowing him to get into bed behind me. He arranges his larger body so that his back is propped up against the headboard, and I sit between his splayed legs.

“Lean back.” I do. “Close your eyes.” Hmm yes.

I snuggle into him. He is wide enough in the chest to be a perfect big spoon for me.

“Do you remember that week we met?” I smile and huddle deeper, too content to even worry about the panty thing for now. “We sat exactly like this at Chris’ get-together, too, watching that weird-ass Korean movie, and you kept feeding me those mini-pretzels. I swear they were made with cocaine; they were so addictive. D’you remember how Alex…”

We reminisce for a bit. He gives me a neck massage. I sigh a lot, hoping to encourage him to keep going.

His strong fingers slide from the back of my neck to the sides, then suddenly to the front, and eventually down my chest. My heart jumps and my pulse quickens. He has never really… only ever fleetingly…

His hands reach my tits that are already heavy and tingling with the sheer yearning to be touched. Even through the washed-out fabric of the T-shirt, I feel the warmth of his big palms, and I sigh and moan. “Ooohnn, Dylan, yes… please, yes…”

He massages my breasts with slow, deep movements, grabbing and releasing, petting them in wide circles, squeezing them forward until they look like obscene torpedo balloons and feel ready to pop.

Five minutes ago, I would have sworn I wouldn’t like my boobs being manhandled. But I do. I almost wish he’d squeeze me harder and leave fingerprint bruises on my skin. I start panting and sweating.

I can feel my pulse in my nipples – he’s ignoring them purposefully. I wriggle in the cradle of his body and lightly grab his wrists. “Dylan, Dylan, please…”

“What do you need?”

“My… please, touch my nipples.”

“I am touching your nipples, Liz.” His palms indeed cover them liberally. “Through the shirt, anyway.”

I have a déjà-vu, or whatever you call it when it’s a conversation you could swear has happened before. I have almost the same reaction, too – a strong tingle at the juncture of my thighs.

“No, touch them properly.”

The second this – order, really – falls off my lips, his hands still and just cup my boobs in a demanding, possessive sort of way.

Dylan’s mouth is close to my ear. “How would I properly touch your whorish nipples, then? Hm?”

I squirm. That word… He keeps using it and I… It makes me feel weird. I decide to not mention it right now. Ignore it. And be a good feminist and just ask directly and concretely for what I want.

“You could… pinch them, maybe? Or, like, flick them? Slide your fingertips over them?” I suggest breathily. He has resumed kneading and kneading and kneading my boobs and he’s so good at it and it’s making me so unbearably hot. I’m soaking wet between my legs again.

“Say ‘Pinch my whore nipples, please’,” Dylan prompts.

“Dylan, please, come on…” I can’t say that.

“Say it.” His breath is in my ear. All hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. “Beg me.”

My stomach does a half-somersault. “Dylan.”

I try to get up, but he is fully in control.

“Say. It.” He tightens his grip and juggles my breasts as though they’re his toys.

I stomp my foot onto the mattress in frustration. Damn him! “Pinchmywhorenipplesplease,” I try to say it fast, get it over with.

“Beg me to pinch them hard.”

My entire body blushes so fiercely that my skin pricks with sweat. “Pinch them hard, please.”

“Pinch what, Liz?” He relentlessly squeezes my boobs.

I suppress a sob. “My ni… My whore nipples. Please pinch my whore nipples hard.”

“Such an obedient whore,” he says as though to himself, and commences to molest my nipples in the exact way that I specified.

Except he does it to perfection, like he does all things.

He pinches me mercilessly, pulling my nipples forward and up so that the entire weight of my generous C-cups hangs off of them, then jiggles them around until I think he might rip them off. He holds the stiffened pebbles between the pad of his thumb and the third knuckle of his index fingers, and then rolls and twists them. Then, he replaces the index with his middle finger and uses the nail of his index finger to rapidly scrape and flick the upper tip of my nips and I beg and babble, “Please, no, please, Dylan, enough! I can’t… Please!”

I moan and yell through clenched teeth and kick my legs. The sensation is overwhelming.

“Sensitive, aren’t they?” His voice is brimful of curiosity. “Can you imagine that some people get them pierced and clamped for pleasure?”

I whimper. “Dylan, please, it’s too much!”

“All this whinging, but I bet your cunt is absolutely sopping, isn’t it?” he asks, and just the question makes me wetter. “Isn’t it, Liz? Because you like all of this. My hands on your wanton tits like I own them. Doing what I want with them. Abusing your whore nipples. It makes your slit happy, doesn’t it?”

My head spins. My boyf- fiancé is so ruthless in his dirty talk, so condescending. My stomach feels so funny and so tight.

“Doesn’t it, Lizzie?” he repeats and pinches my left nipple between his fingernails.

“Ahh! Please! It makes my whore slit happy, Dylan,” I gibber, “Please, don’t- not so hard-“

He gives an amused scoff. “What does, Lizzie? Tell me.”

I cringe when he switches to the right breast. “When- When you pinch my nipples, it—it makes my… ah! God- my clit-“

“Your clit?” he asks evenly.

“My – uh! Oww! Please…“

“Your clit, Lizzie?”

“It makes my clit – and, and my slit – ha... happy when you abuse my nipples, Dylan! It makes me ache, and it makes me so wet. Please, stop!”

He abruptly does and I sag against him, breathing heavily, quivering all over. When I try to grab my breasts to soothe the pain, he snatches both of my hands away and hugs my arms close to my belly from behind. I have no choice but to endure the sore throb of my flesh, hunching my shoulders and gulping breaths.

“This is one of the methods my docent recommended to me.” Dylan’s quiet voice reaches me even through the haze of whirling sensations and the sound of rushing and pounding blood in my ears. “He explained that the wanton slut must learn that her bodily sensations will not belong to her wild urges anymore. She shall feel that her husband – or even her husband-to-be – is working to wrest her physical responses away from the depravity and licentiousness she has allowed into her life.”

My tits, my nipples ache. My clit and pussy ache even worse. I angle my pelvis and drive them down into the too-soft mattress that doesn’t afford me the pressure that I’m craving to feel there.

Despairingly, I snob and sniff. “Dylan, I… You’re… I think it’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” he chides gently and kisses my earlobe. “We have only started. I won’t allow you to give up at the first lesson. I know you, Lizzie. You don’t really want to live your life constantly having to indulge and satisfy your filthy slit.”

When he says it, my filthy slit tingles. I exhale shakily and nod in defeat, red-faced.

“The second lesson for tonight will be about learning your limits, and about redirecting energy and attention.” He nuzzles my ear with his nose. “I think you’ll like it, given how naturally it comes to you.”

With that, he pushes against my upper back until I fold forward and am forced to use one hand to prop myself up against the mattress, and I pull my legs wide and around so that I’m on all fours almost all the way at the foot end of the bed.

Dylan gets up and walks around to me, then stands in front of me.

His crotch is directly in line with my mouth.

The bulge there is big and clearly outlined against his right thigh, with darker stains in the fabric where his tip is. As I stare, it twitches.

“Put my cock in your mouth, Lizzie.”

I look up at his face – so he thinks blowjobs come naturally to me? I gulp, feeling just a twinge of indignation, and another twinge of pride – then reach out to the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Did I tell you to touch me with your hands?” Dylan suddenly asks sharply, then repeats, “Put my cock in your mouth. Now.”

“But…“

“Now, Liz.” His expression is so stern, I almost feel… a little scared.

“Oh… Okay, yes,” I whisper, and then lean forward to nuzzle my face against him. I use my lips and my teeth trying to pull his sweatpants down, but the fabric is too heavy. I can’t get a grip. Also, it’s a little bit gross – heavy cotton that’s moist with saliva, and the faint chemical taste of fabric softener on my tongue.

“I can’t do it like this, Dylan, I’m sorry,” I admit defeat after the tenth attempt. My gums are hurting a bit.

He smirks in that gracious way of his. It grates against my ego, and I know he knows it does.

He reaches down and pushes his pants down. His cock springs free, ruddy, curved, veiny. His erection is so solid that it points firmly upwards all by itself in spite of its own weight. The head, already unsheathed from the foreskin, is glistening with pre-cum. His glans is shaped like a scoop, with a prominent ridge on top and a wide V of wrinkles that merge into the frenulum underneath. Dylan’s balls are plump and hang low. His dark brown pubic hair is thick but not long – neatly trimmed. From the shape to the color to his scent – he is a mouthwatering specimen of a man, and his cock is a frightening weapon. Accordingly, my mouth waters, and I quake with anticipation and fear and excitement.

“What did I tell you to do, Liz?”

Put my cock in your mouth. I don’t want to repeat it, so I just do it. I have to angle my face a little awkwardly to catch the tip between my lips, but once it’s done, I slide my mouth over his erect meat – just an inch at first – and start bobbing and sucking and tickling his frenulum with my tongue tip.

The taste of his precum is… interesting. A little bitter, musky, so manly. I suckle and flick and nibble, always mindful of my teeth.

“Put your hands behind your back and grasp opposite elbows,” Dylan instructs, and I hesitate to follow. I don’t want to topple forward. “Do it. I will hold you up,” he promises as though he can read my mind.

It takes a little bit of energy and an effortful huff – my core muscles are not particularly impressive, yet they are suddenly tasked with holding me in balance on the squishy mattress, no less – but finally, my left hand cups my right elbow and vice versa behind my back. It’s straining. My chest is arched, and my shoulders are already protesting. All the while, I struggle to absolutely not let his cock slip from my mouth.

Dylan grasps both of my lower arms in his big hand – I sigh with relief as he takes the strain off my thighs and abs – and grabs the hair at the back of my head with the other, then pulls me mostly off of his erection, until just the glass-smooth tip is on my lips. “Breathe in,” he says as he shoves forward as he pulls my head towards himself and spears my skull with his cock.

I gag and convulse fiercely. My stomach seems to crawl up towards my neck.

“You’re gonna be my good girl, Liz. Take it.”

He does not let up. Instead, his pelvis rams forward, pushing his erection deeper into my mouth. The head jabs my soft palate, nudges my uvula, and beyond. I cough and choke around his hot flesh, and my mouth floods with thick, sour saliva. He groans at the sound and provokes it again. And again. And again. The fingers of his one hand grab my hair tightly and guide my head around at his leisure. The fingers of his other hand grip more tightly around my arms where he holds me up when I attempt to free them. As he takes a half-step backwards, I feel myself teetering dangerously, wobbling forward, which drives my oral cavity even more fully onto his cock.

I am helpless. I am moaning. Tears, sweat, snot, and saliva are streaming down my face.

I am dripping down my legs.

“Oh, fuck, your mouth… So hot and- ungh- so fucking tight- Oh, Liz, you filthy whore, your mouth-“ Dylan rambles in a low voice as he uses my mouth to get himself off, telling me that he’s going to teach me to take it all the way down my throat, but that he wants me to always keep my gag reflex because it makes him so fucking hard to hear it, and to feel my throat constrict around his tip, and that he’s going to buy a spider gag so that he can stick his cock in my mouth however long and hard he wants.

When he comes, he pulls out on the second pump just to bathe my tongue. His semen is even more bitter than his pre-cum, bleachy, sweaty, and warm. He knows I don’t particularly like the taste or the consistency. That’s why, when his cock is fully withdrawn, he presses his palm over my mouth – it covers the whole lower half of my face – and tells me, “Either keep it in your mouth for a minute before you spit it out. Or you can swallow right now.”

I sit back on my heels, propped up by my hands, and shudder. Ugh, the taste and thickness.

Dylan laughs, clearly pleased.

The minute is too long. My stomach heaves, and I force myself to swallow lest I start vomiting. Dylan’s cum slides down my raw-feeling gullet like some sort of yoghurt and seems to cling to the back of my throat. I cough wetly and gag one more time.

Dylan’s hand slides over and caresses my cheek, wiping away the trail of a tear. “Are your clit and your slit still feeling horny, babe?”

I wipe my mouth and chin with the back of my hand. “No,” I croak and sniff.

I wish that were the entire truth.

Dylan gives me a long look, then nods and pulls his sweatpants back up. “You’re welcome. Do you want to clean up your face? You’ve got snot hanging out of your nose.” He points at the adjacent bathroom. “Leave the door open.”

He smirks when I shoot him a withering look, then gives my ass a clap as I stalk past him to the bathroom. I splash warm water in my face several times and vigorously rub my upper lip – he was right about the snot, after all – and consider running a washcloth between my legs but decide against it, because … because I think he wouldn’t like it. And he hasn’t said to do it, so…

When I pad back into the bedroom, he’s sitting on the side of the bed with my panties between his hands, holding them out at the exact right height for me to comfortably step into them. “Come on,” he prompts. Like I’m a little kid.

Torn between being touched by his sweetness and being indignant at how he treats me, I hold on to his shoulders as I step into one, then into the other leg hole. He pulls the garment up – a bit higher than I am usually comfortable with, and especially now, since everything is still… a little tender there.

But when I reach down to pick the fabric out of my crack, he spins me around, swipes my hand away and grabs the panties at the waistband to pull them up higher still. The crotch rides up hard into my slit. I gasp. “Dylan, you’re being too-“

And then I feel a foreign goopy slickness lengthwise against my slit, just a second before there’s a noticeable heat that blooms in my folds. “What-? Dylan, what did you do??” Oh, my god. “Is that..-“ I now notice a smell. “Is that Icy Hot or something?”

“This is the third lesson, Lizzie. My father advised me.”

“Dylan, ow- it’s… Oh my god, it hurts-!“ The capsaicin prickle is already fierce and getting fiercer. “It hurts!”

“Yes. You’ll have to get used to it if you plan on misusing your whore pussy again, diddling yourself in secret, and being dishonest with me.” He easily grabs my elbows and bends my arms so that I can’t pull my panties down. I’m squirming and dancing on the spot as I try to dislodge the fabric – and whatever evil lotion or cream he has put on the gusset – but to no avail. If anything, I’m probably spreading it more. My clit, my lips, the rim of my vagina and also my taint and asshole feel like they’re being licked by fire.

And still, I drip, drip, drip and my nipples prick and become hard little nuggets, and I wish that, maybe, Dylan would reach down and grab the panties at the front and yank them up, rhythmically, so that I could- I could-

I gasp and panic a little. “No, please! It’s too much! Too much! Ahh-!”

All at once, he lets go of me. I half collapse, then catch myself and dive towards the bathroom, yanking down the evil panties as I go and stumbling over my own feet. I jump into the shower and hastily put it on cold, then squat down and aim the showerhead between my legs.

The shock of it almost makes me cry out. I wipe at the cream, then use some soap to help rinse it. For a horrible minute, it almost feels like it’s getting worse; or maybe it’s the sting of the cold water mixing with the bite of the salve. I try to recall what helps against heating creams. Milk? Like when you ate a hot pepper? I wail a little.

“Remember this well, Lizzie.” Dylan is watching me from the doorjamb, perfectly laid back.

His sweatpants are tented again.

“If you slip up once more, I will do this again, and then put a chastity belt on you so that you won’t be able to wash it off.” He pointedly looks at my folds, wet with water, puffy and bright red. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

My lower belly clenches twice as I jerkily shake my head.

***


“How long…” my mom starts, and I silently supply: It has been twenty-nine days.

Twenty-nine days since my last orgasm. Twenty-seven days since Dylan proposed. Twenty-seven days since the beginning of this new chapter of my life in which I orbit around my aching pussy, and it orbits around Dylan.

How long? It’s been twenty-nine days, mom.

I haven’t gone without an orgasm for longer than two days ever since I discovered them.

“…do you want to wait before starting the arrangements?” mom continues, and then tells me all about a neighbor whose daughter got married and which people they hired, and how lush and expensive it all was.

I nod and ‘hmm’ and don’t really care because it’s been twenty-nine days.

Dylan and my dad are talking near the barbecue, both with a bottle of beer in hand. That hand-

I shift in my garden chair. My ass and pussy are both sore today. That hand—yesterday, it-

“You’re not listening, are you?” mom asks. I immediately sigh.

“No, mom – I mean, yes, I am listening. It’s not that. It’s just… Kasey and Greg’s wedding isn’t really what we’re going for.”

I’m not really sure how to tell her that our wedding will be all about the Vow, that everything will be according to Dylan’s requirements, because that’s how it must be, and because that’s how I want it to be.

The Vow is very clear on this, as it is on most other things.

‘Relief belongs to the highest alone,’ it says in the second chapter. ‘It is the natural state that is achieved only when life is in order.’

The highest, Dylan has explained, is not a personal god, but an overarching, semi-sentient, semi-natural principle of order and propriety that all behavior must be precisely modeled to.

According to the Vow, behavior is the only important part of life, because it’s the only part that we truly reign over. Intentions are just the small part of the subconscious that humans are aware of, and that leads us to the erroneous conclusion that we create or control them in any meaningful way. Words are merely the loud exhaust fumes of them.

The highest principle demands not that I think or feel a certain way or say the right words, but only that I act in propriety.

Which is why my intentions to not touch myself, to stop thinking that I deserve an orgasm whenever I want one, and to follow the Vow properly and diligently, professed repeatedly and with great sincerity, are irrelevant to my fiancé.

To him, all that matters is that I keep my hands away from my addictive, greedy, wretched little pussy, and that I won’t let the air-humping go too far.

Because I do hump the air. Like a rutting dog, except that I don’t even need anyone’s leg for it. It mortifies me, but I can’t seem to stop. It happens subconsciously, when I’m fast asleep at night, or when I’m right between asleep and awake in the morning, using either Dylan’s thigh, or my own arm, or a fold of the duvet that normally acts as a buffer between my knees; but it also happens when I’m sitting in my office chair – the one with the ergonomically molded seat that cradles me so enticingly – or when I’m queuing at the supermarket checkout, or while I’m reading on the sofa, with the heel of one foot pulled up all the way to my core so that I can… press… right there…

I do that unless, of course, my fiancé colors my ass and thighs crimson so that I’m reminded of my limits wherever I sit, stand, go, or lie.

I un-cross and re-cross my legs and bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a moan – half from pain, half from ache – and interrupt my mom when she starts up with Kasey’s wedding again.

“We actually planned to only go to the registry office, just us and the closest family, sign the thing, touch glasses right there, and then go for a nice dinner and a classy dance, mom.” I grasp my glass of self-made lemonade, lift it to my lips, and say across its chilled rim, “We’re going to leave for Dylan’s dad’s house soon, so we can prepare and hold the spiritual part of the wedding there.”

Mom blinks, stunned into momentary silence. I drink, sipping slowly.

“’Prepare’? Starting ‘soon’?” She frowns but chuckles. “How big of a wedding are you planning, exactly? Are you going to invite the whole town? Will there be activities? A choreography? Or did you manage to book Ed Sheeran?”

“The wedding itself is not the only thing that needs preparation, Barbara.” Dylan comes up to us and slips a hand to the back of my neck. “The faith has high expectations on anyone who wishes to enter into matrimony. My father has kindly offered guidance. Liz and I are both looking forward to following him.”

My mother listens to him with rapt attention. It used to bother me how she seemed so shamelessly smitten with my handsome boyfriend, turning silly and giggly around him, apparently always on the verge of flashing him some cleavage with a wink. Now I know that he deserves that adoration and more, and that the superficial charm he uses on people is just a front, a treat that he distracts everyone with. The real Dylan is underneath, and only I see and know him.

His grip tightens against the skin of my neck as he begins a gentle massage. His other hand goes to the waist of his pants and his thumb hooks into his belt.

His belt. It’s a rich brown. Supple. Real leather.

I press my thighs together against the pang of memories that zaps through my nether regions. Dylan glances downwards to the movement of my lap, then into my eyes.

“So, a wedding according to your faith sounds like a complicated affair, Dylan,” my mom gushes.

“It is actually quite a simple one on the day of. No activities, nor Ed Sheeran, I’m afraid,” Dylan replies without breaking our eye contact. “But there is much to be done in advance.” His fingers knead the delicate muscles of my neck. “Preliminary education. Training.”

***TBC***