September

1

September. We see each other again after far too many months apart. On our way toward the Badlands, before we leave town, we go shopping. We have to make several stops among the many sex shops on 82nd Street before we find everything we're looking for.

We talk in the car, but mainly there's just a car full of tension, and quiet anticipation. It's too much to take, and we stop hours before we were planning to, for the night. Motel 6, room 214.

We check in to our room. I've barely put down my guitar when you're on your knees, unzipping my pants as usual when we enter a hotel room. You stop after a while and look up, shivering. You stand up, and tug a bit at your belt.

"I have to pee."

This requires my participation, since your belt is locked closed, and only I have the key to it. I kiss you deeply on your mouth, in your mouth, on your face, enjoying your anticipation. After a couple minutes, I take the key out of my pocket, and hold it in between us.

"I figured something out while we were apart," I begin.

Whatever it is I've figured out, you like the sound of it. It has something to do with keys and locks and your submission to me.

"Tell me," you say, sounding short of breath.

"It's not enough for your jeans to be locked up when we're out in the world. You need to be locked up the rest of the time, too," I explain.

I unlock your belt. "Go pee."

By the time you come back from the toilet, I have gotten out a long, adjustable strap that we picked up, and I've put it around the bed. It goes under the bed, across the middle, and both ends of the strap come up from each side of the bed. Near the middle of the bed, the two looped ends of the strap nearly touch.

"Take off your clothes," I instruct. You comply.

"Lay down on the bed." You do.

I take your belt, put it underneath you, and loop each end of the strap through the belt. Then I lock it. You're lying in the middle of the bed. The belt is loose enough that you can turn over or lie on your side. You can even sit up if you want. What you can't do is remove the belt, or get off the bed.

"I knew I needed to do this to you before, but what annoyed me was the thought that by tying one of your limbs to the bed, you wouldn't have freedom of movement of your limbs. I like to move your limbs into different positions, so that gets in the way. This way I can put you into whatever position I want you in, but you still can't get off of the bed."

You lay there contentedly. This was clearly what you needed, too. We both already felt safer and more secure, now that you were chained to the bed.

"If you want to get up to have a smoke or pee or something, just ask."

But we both already knew how rarely that would be happening. Even when you're not chained to the bed, unless I'm making you get up to go outside and do something in the world, the only times you get up are to smoke, pee, eat now and then, and, mostly, to sit on my lap and distract me from the computer, on the relatively rare occasions that I stop paying attention to your naked body long enough to answer some email or something.

But now, if I wanted to do something on the computer, you'd have to just look at me, naked, while chained to the bed, waiting for me to decide it's time to do something with you, aside from making you wait.

2

There's a chair a couple feet from one side of the bed which gives me a gorgeous view of your naked body, prone on the bed. You're looking at me expectently. You try to roll in my direction, but you don't get very far before the ropes stop you.

We haven't been together in months. We've both been waiting for this day for so long. You said in some emails you were afraid that when we saw each other you'd suddenly not be interested in sex anymore, but it's obvious that that fear has not been realized, as you undulate your hips, up and down, up and down. You really want me to fuck you.

The feeling is very mutual. I pretty much always want to fuck you. You're the closest thing to a flesh and blood embodiment of my biggest sexual fantasies that I've ever met. Just the idea that you exist drives me completely wild, let alone the reality of being near you physically -- alone in a hotel room at that, which is always an especially sexually-charged environment for me, for us.

But me fucking you for hours every day is not something your bladder is able to handle, and since our last time together, I've been thinking about how to modify these practices. We've been discussing it by email and such. We both concluded that as long as long as I'm depriving you of something, I'll enjoy it.

We both know how much I love depriving you of orgasms. Which is something that, bizarrely, and beyond my wildest imaginings (perhaps my imagination is limited), you have grown to love, deeply internalizing a fondness for being in a state of utter desperation, because that's how I like you to be.

By the same token, even though I fuck you too deeply and it hurts sometimes, and even though I fuck you for too long and irritate your innards overly much after a while, you always want me to fuck you more, because you know that that's what I want to do. You really do. Though you don't want to be in pain, your desire to do what I want to do generally supersedes that, somehow.

And the idea that I would fuck you less in order to avoid giving you a bladder infection or something is an idea you can barely think about without exhibiting an obvious revulsion for the very notion. But then, when you know that I know that you really, really want to fuck me long and hard, regardless of why that is the case, then me depriving you of that satisfaction is a sufficiently cruel fate for you, such that I can then enjoy it.

So, the logic can get very circuitous. But I had managed to convince you, or so I hoped, that if I fucked you less or for shorter periods of time, this would be something I'd be doing because I wanted to deprive you. (Deprive you, that is, of doing something that you wanted to do because I wanted you to do it. But it's real. It doesn't matter why at a certain point.)

I had also convinced you that varying our activities by adhering to the arbitrary authority of a coin toss was something I really wanted to do. You were skeptical. You wanted to do whatever I wanted to do, and here I was talking about not only fucking you less, but using a random number – that is, a number not chosen by me directly – to determine how often we fuck, and for how long. This was something else that seemed to you to be taking more authority away from me, which wasn't something you wanted.

The thing is, if I want it, you tend to want it, so I figure if I can convince you of the fact that I want it, you'll come around to the idea. As I sit on the chair facing you lying naked, I feel oddly like some kind of therapist trying to convince his patient of something important before proceeding.

"You don't get to fuck me every day on this trip," I began.

You immediately look disappointed. Now you're no longer undulating – it's more somewhere in between undulating and writhing. And you're already starting to go nonverbal.

"Please," is all you say. Please what? Please fuck me I imagine is how you'd finish that sentence, but I know if I asked you to clarify that, you'd just repeat the one word, so I don't bother.

I take a coin from my pocket. "And this coin is going to determine how often and for how long we can fuck on a given day." I handed it to you. "You flip it." You have to flip it because I want your active consent.

You look at the coin, then at me, then back at the coin, then back at me. "But," is all you manage to say. But I just want to do what you want me to do is how I imagine you'd finish that sentence if you had the wherewithall to do so.

"I really want you to do this," I say. "Can you do this?"

"I don't know," you respond, honestly, it seems.

I'm not sure how to proceed. I don't want to do something you can't or don't want to do. But you want to do what I want to do, don't you? And I really want to do this. Is it so hard? Yes, of course I want to fuck you right now for hours. But I also want to deprive you of that pleasure and that pain. And I want to impose unpredictable, arbitrary authority on you in the form of this coin, and the little game I've devised to go with it. I decide to persevere.

"There are several flips involved, depending on the results of each flip as we go," I explain. "First, toss the coin to see whether we fuck today. Heads is yes, tails is no."

Sometimes I think I have you figured out, other times I have no idea what all the criteria is that goes into whether you can do something I want you to do, depending on what it is, and where you're at at the time.

You look at the coin sitting on the bed for a long thirty seconds or so before picking it up in your left hand, as you lie on your side, facing me, propped up on your right elbow. Then a wonderful look crosses your face, one that seems to say, I'm ready to accept my fate.

You drop the coin onto the bed from a couple feet up. Tails. Suddenly the look on your face changes. Your lips turn downward on the edges, forming a slight frown, and your eyes look plaintive.

I continue talking in what I hope sounds like a stern voice. "Now flip it again to see if you should come today. Heads is yes, tails is no."

"I don't want to come," you say, somewhat convincingly. I'm never sure exactly what's going on in your mind when you say that. I always try to read your tone of voice when you say that, and I'm never sure. Maybe I can't tell what's going on because every time you say that, it drives me wild and I can't think straight.

You hold the coin hostage, as if to say, if I don't flip it, I don't have to come. "Please don't make me come." You know how much I like that phrase, too. And then because I like it so much, you do, too. And you might even mean it. But I'm not having any of this rebelliousness.

"Flip it," I command, commandingly.

You dutifully drop the coin on the bed. Tails again. You smile. There's something else behind your smile, but I can't tell what it is. I take the coin and put it back in my pocket.

3

I still really want to fuck you right now. But I wanted to implement rule by the coin on this trip, and I thought it should start without delay. I thought it would feel more real that way. And suddenly, despite my desire to fuck you, it does.

I feel like I imagine you felt when I locked you. Truly relaxed for the first time in months. Full of sexual tension, yes, but relaxed at the same time, in a serene kind of way, slightly reminiscent of MDMA.

Something about agreeing on a game, one that I devised, that involves a serious random element, really does it for me. It's like, when we're together and I decide today we're not going to fuck or today we're going to fuck a lot, I always feel like I'm second-guessing myself. Like I might change my mind, or like we're doing the wrong thing. Maybe if I don't fuck you on a no-fucking day, you'll grow disinterested in me from a lack of stimulation, and I should maybe fuck you a little. Maybe on the days when we're going to fuck a lot, I'll end up doing damage to your fragile bladder, and maybe we've been fucking too much anyway, and I should back off.

But with the game, and the coin, those concerns seem distant. Like everything's taken care of, by the adherence to the structure that the game gives us.

It starts, as I've described, with a coin toss that determines whether we will fuck today or not. So each day there's a 50% chance we will not have sex. That's a lot less sex than we're accustomed to, but I'm imagining that that, along with other game rules, will effectively do away with the tendency that we've had heretofore of keeping you constantly on the edge of getting another UTI.

I've barely even touched your naked body yet, sitting there on the chair looking at you tied to the bed. But I already feel strangely satisfied with the knowledge that the coin has determined you will not fuck or have an orgasm today. The coin, and our mutual consent to adhere to its random will, has absolved me of the nagging sense of responsibility I feel every day we're together.

The responsibility to make sure you don't lose your mind from never having any orgasms. The responsibility to make sure I don't give you another UTI by banging you all night. The responsibility to make sure you can get some sleep now and then.

Adhering to the rules of the game takes care of all this, and I no longer need to try to think, which I'm unable to do when all I want to do is fuck you, anyway. That's probably the main problem. The inability to think straight. But no more.

The game not only makes sure we won't be fucking more than one out of every other day on average, but when we do fuck, another coin must be tossed to determine the length of time we're allowed to do so. And according to my calculations, the rules of the game allow for at least a 25% chance that you'll be allowed to have an orgasm on a given day. (Which seems about right to me.)

So on those long days when I'm constantly bringing you to the edge but not allowing you to come, I no longer need to think, when am I ever going to allow this poor woman to have another orgasm? Eventually, the coin toss will come out in favor of a day involving orgasms. Not my concern.

"Touch yourself," I tell you.

You slide your hand between your legs and start moving your fingers rapidly around your clit. A couple minutes in, your fingers are moving faster still. A couple minutes later, you're looking at me, eyes wide, mouth wide, like you're watching the orgasmic wave crashing against the sea wall (which seems to be right behind my head, judging from the way you're looking in that direction).

Suddenly you pull your hand away from your pussy, squeeze your legs together, and roll over, facing away from me. You're holding yourself in a way that makes it look a bit like you've just been punched in your gut. I can only see part of the side of your face, but it looks very much like you're grimacing in pain, and I'm guessing you rolled over that way because you didn't want me to say how hard it was for you.

You lie still, other than shaking a bit involuntarily, for at least half a minute, before you slowly roll over and face me, still squeezing your legs together. "It hurts. I need to come so much."

We both know that you won't, though. We've long ago established that what you "need" and what you "want" are two different things.

"Do you want to come?" I ask.

"No," you whisper, still squeezing your legs together.

I stand up and slowly remove my clothes, until I'm as naked as you are, minus the restraints. I lay down on the bed so I'm looking at your clenched legs, with my dick in front of your face. You put it in your mouth and start eating me hungrily, passionately.

After a few minutes, you come up for air long enough to ask a question. "Can I edge some more?"

"Yes. You can edge as much as you want to. You just can't come." I'm really just clarifying the rules more than giving a command at this point, but you can interpret my words either way you want to.

You get to the edge again, this time within only a couple minutes. Again you clench your legs together. My dick is still in your mouth, but you're not moving. Within a minute or so you start to regain your composure, eating more actively again, but starting out kind of slowly, disconnectedly. Then you get into the swing of it, while I gaze at your clenched legs, without touching them.

After a little bit, your hands are between your legs again, and soon you've reached the edge, one more time. This time when your body convulses against the impending orgasm, when you clench your legs together to hold it back, to keep it at bay once again, to follow the rules that you need to break but want to follow, it's all just too inspiring for me, and I come in your mouth.

Watching you convulse in orgasmic denial while I come in your mouth is a profound pleasure for me every time. Usually, though, the pleasure is then followed by pangs of guilt. I'm often somewhat distracted with bad thoughts. She can't really want this torture. Why am I so cruel? Stuff like that. But not now.

You flipped the coin. You actively consented to this. Now, for the first time this fully, I can just enjoy this. Whatever this is.

4

I don't know what exactly woke me up, but sometime in the wee hours of the morning I awoke. There was enough light in the room for me to see that you were staring at me.

My eyes had only been open a few seconds when you said, "I want you to fuck me so much."

Well, I did, too, I suddenly thought. But at the same time, I had a conflicting thought. I also want to make you desperate, watch you squirm, deprive you of whatever it is that you want. Then another conflicting thought. But then again, I could fuck you too hard, and hurt you until you squirm in a different way, until you squirm under the weight of the conflict between the desire to do what I want and the desire not to be in pain. That would be nice.

And then I remembered that now I was not going to worry myself with such internal dialog. I liked the game I had devised. We could stick with it. But I wouldn't tell you that right away. You expressed a desire. Which makes me want to play with it.

"You want me to fuck you so much?" I ask, redundantly. "Right now?"

"Yes," you answered quickly, hopefully, excited.

"Should I fuck you right now then?" I ask.

You pause. Yes is on the tip of your tongue, but you're not saying it. You now sense where I'm going with this line of questioning.

"Whose pussy is that?" I ask. I've asked you this question so many times that the phrase feels almost like a single word.

"Yours," you answer, without hesitation.

"What's it for?"

"Your pleasure," you respond again, quickly.

"Does it matter what it wants?"

"No." You sigh quietly. Then with a bit more certainty. "It doesn't matter."

"Eat me," I instruct.

I don't mind waking up in the middle of the night, but now you got me all horny. You whimper quietly as you eat me, and I can feel with my leg that your hand has drifted in between your legs. You know you're allowed to touch yourself as long as you don't come.

You edge repeatedly, without taking a break in between, clearly driving yourself wild in the process. Which I enjoy immensely, as I try to imagine how tense and tight your pussy must be right now, as I come in your mouth again.

"Let's get some more sleep," I instruct.

You're completely on edge with desperation, but you also seem to be happy that I just came in your mouth for the second time in only a few hours. You curl up beside me, spooning me the way you know I like it.

But your hips are moving back and forth slightly, which I know won't help me sleep. I think for a moment that perhaps I'm being too mean. Then I remember you telling me that everything we're doing is consensual, and you wouldn't do this stuff with me if you didn't enjoy it. That's a calming thought. And then I remember the game, which you also consented to. It's not a day for fucking, or for you to have an orgasm. Another calming thought. But I want more, so I ask a very leading question.

"Maybe I should make you come?"

Your hips are still moving. Perhaps you don't even know that they are. You know the answer. It's against the rules. More importantly, I haven't told you to come. I've only asked for your opinion, which we have clearly established is irrelevant in this situation.

"No," you reply firmly, hips still moving. "Don't make me come." A second later, for good measure, you add for emphasis, and perhaps because you thought you needed to say that more nicely, "please don't make me come. Please."

Two more seconds pass, but you still seem to think I need more convincing. "I don't want to come. And if I did, I still wouldn't." But your hips are still moving back and forth.