1.46 Seconds

Hi there! This story was written as part of a kinky writing challenge that used randomly rolled prompts. For this one, my prompts were: cosmetic/paint brushes; strap-on; vanilla; couple; public sex/exhibitionism, and leather. It's just a short one this time, though there's a longer one coming from the same challenge, likely to be posted here in a week or so. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

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For the most part, my girlfriend and I had a pretty satisfying sex life. We didn't get into anything too fancy very often, but we were both very skilled with our hands and mouths, and we enjoyed one another thoroughly and often. Generally, we were pretty happy keeping things very sensual and fairly vanilla, and it worked nicely for us.

Every so often, however, one or both of us would get a particular craving. You see, we both had something of an exhibitionist streak. For several reasons, playing publicly wasn't the best fit for us, which had us grinding our gears for a while. After racking our brains for public play ideas that would fit within our needs for far longer than either of us cared to admit, we realized the obvious- the Internet.

And so, our stream was born. We didn't schedule it, really, just decided to do a stream when we'd both been thinking about being on display for a bit. Sometimes it would be a bit more often, sometimes a bit less, but generally we found ourselves putting on a show for the anonymous public of the Internet once every month or two. The streams slowly became more and more kinky over time, which increased our viewership, and therefore our enjoyment of it.

Which is how I wound up naked with our leather cuffs wrapped around my wrists and ankles, secured to the four bed posts, with one camera attached to the top of the bedpost at my right foot filming my body from above and another attached to the bottom of the bedpost at my left foot in a close-up of my pussy.

My girlfriend, satisfied with her work, picked up her phone to make sure the cameras were set up properly and, using it to keep an eye on me while she was gone, left to "get a present for you". She returned a few short minutes later, giving me just enough time to settle into my bonds, and grinned as she saw my eyes widen at what was in her hands.

Please, please let her have picked the stiff brush. Please don't let it be the soft one. The stiff one will rub me raw but that's better than the soft one...

Grinning, she started the stream. Even as she started reciting our usual introduction, I felt the soft bristles of the paintbrush caress my skin, tracing a spiral around my navel. Of fucking course she'd picked the soft one.

She spent some time teasing both me and the audience, stroking the paintbrush across my belly, my arms, my neck, my thighs, even tickling the bottoms of my feet while I was helpless to resist. I let out some fairly consistent little gasps and moans, but as she decidedly avoided the places I wanted her to touch most, my sounds were nothing compared to what I knew she'd be coaxing from my lips soon.

I whimpered and pulled futilely at my bonds when she pulled out the metronome.

"P-please Miss!" I begged, knowing it was pointless. I also knew I'd be disappointed if that was enough to keep her from the torment ahead of me.

"Sorry, pet," she grinned, not looking the least bit apologetic. "You know how this goes. Our friends here want to see you break. Not to mention how much I'll enjoy breaking you for them."

I merely gulped and nodded my head. Miss raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Miss."

"Much better. Because you're being so cooperative, I won't put the metronome on the slowest setting... Oh no, but we wouldn't want to disappoint your audience by making it too easy on you, would we?" She made a show of thinking about it.

The slowest setting on the metronome was 40 beats per minute. When I looked over at the nightstand, where Miss set it down after setting it, I saw that she had set it to 41 beats per minute. I whimpered as she reached over my body, her breasts tantalizingly close to my lips, to start the metronome.

I stared at the metronome in simultaneous dread and excitement as it began to tick and tock. Back and forth. I tried to lose myself in the ticking and ignore Miss getting settled between my legs and making sure that the camera could still see my pussy clearly. I felt her hold my pussy lips open and prepared myself.

A shiver ran down my spine when the first stroke of the soft bristles of the paintbrush teased across my clit. Then nothing for the next 1.46 seconds. Then, with the next tock of the metronome, the briefest, lightest kiss of the paintbrush across my clit. And so it continued with methodical precision.

Nothing could ease the excruciatingly slow buildup of having the paintbrush gently, sensually stroking across my clit exactly 41 times every minute. I don't know how long it was before I was whimpering with each stroke, but I knew it was a humiliatingly short time. It wasn't long before I was drenched in sweat, helplessly thrashing against my bonds as the paintbrush was cruelly pulled away each time.

Every so often, if I was looking at the metronome instead of at her, Miss would surprise me and stroke one of my nipples instead, coating it with my wetness from the brush. Miss chatted with one of the viewers about how she should paint a picture with my juices, since they already saturated the paintbrush anyway, all without missing a single beat.

Even less often, Miss would capture my eyes with hers, and without breaking eye contact, would skip a beat altogether. I never knew if that was better or worse; whether it was a reprieve from the merciless teasing or a denial of the stimulation I was aching for. And then she would pick it right back up at the next beat, continuing with the ruthless regularity.

It was somehow both humiliatingly impersonal, like getting teased by a machine, and intensely intimate, with her attention focused on me, focused on every little modicum of pleasure she allowed me, noting my every whine, my every whimper, my every desperate tug at my restraints. Dividing my pleasure up into tiny, inadequate portions of a resource that one needed to ration as far out as they possibly could. Cruelly keeping me building up, bit by bit, stroke by stroke, with endless patience.

Without missing a beat, Miss leaned over and placed her phone so it was propped up, but not interfering with the metronome. The close-up of my pussy filled the entire screen, and I didn't need Miss' order to be compelled to stare at it. With every calculatedly gentle stroke of the paintbrush, I watched in rapt attention as my pussy gave a small gush and twitched, almost reaching out more each time. I thought about the audience viewing the stream and how many people were watching my pussy twitching live. The small number in the corner of the stream confirmed that 71 viewers were watching us. 71 people getting a front row seat to my tormented pussy. 71 people perhaps even getting off on my pleasurable suffering.

I began to beg. Every so often, Miss would comment to the audience how much my begging was music to her ears, because she so badly wanted to give me the pleasure I craved, and begging meant I was almost there. But not quite. I was grateful to the viewers who wondered if it was time to show me some mercy, but I knew what Miss was waiting for, and she always outlasted me.

She knew I was almost there when my begging became incoherent. I desperately looked back and forth between the metronome and the paintbrush that tormented me with those tiny, mocking tastes of pleasure, like being given a single drop of water when overcome by thirst. I was a creature of need, the ache of it filling my body, punctuated exactly 41 times every minute, every 1.46 seconds, with the torturous, relentless ticking and tocking of the metronome. My whole body thrummed and ticked and ached and tocked and desperately, insatiably needed.

And then it happened.

I broke.

The tears spilled out, the droplets drawing little paths down to my ears, into my hair through the sheen of perspiration. I was straight up babbling now, with the occasional identifiable "please" or "Miss" or "cum".

Miss grinned, winking at the audience, "You don't want to miss this part."

She tossed the paintbrush to the floor and leaned down into me, locking her arms around my thighs to hold my thrashing, writhing body still, and began to lick my pussy. She licked slowly, though intentionally faster than the metronome, which I still felt ticking and tocking through my entire body. The asynchronicity of her tongue and the metronome combined with the sudden application of the stimulation I so craved was delicious and overwhelming, and I screamed as my muscles held me rigid while rocketing me over the edge.

Miss addressed the camera as I lay there catching my breath. Her face and breasts were dripping with my juices.

"Stay tuned, ladies, gents, and gender circumvents. We're just gonna get cleaned up, rearrange, and be back after a brief intermission." She turned off the cameras and microphone.

My girlfriend helped me out of the leather restraints and sat me down in a chair on the other side of the room with a few towels and some baby wipes to get myself somewhat cleaned up, interspersed with many kisses and caresses. Then, she busied herself with towelling my juices off her own body and switching out the waterproof blanket on the bed, all the while telling me how well I'd done and how much I'd pleased her and all the viewers.

After a short rest, I let her know that I was ready to get moving on the second half of the stream.

Fastening the restraints to my girlfriend's wrists and ankles, I arranged her on the bed on all fours, ass toward the cameras. I then tied her wrists to the bottom of the bed, so she had to lay on her chest and shoulders to support herself, and her ankles to the head of the bed, so she couldn't move from something of a bound doggy position.

Once the woman who only minutes ago was my Miss indicated that she was ready, I restarted the stream. Still moving around the bed, I welcomed the viewers back while I opened one of the underbed drawers, retrieved the strap-on and harness I had prepared earlier, and fastened it around my pelvis.

"And now, my pet, it's your turn."