The Seven Day Orgasm - Day 02

NOTE: This story is part two of an ongoing series. Though each chapter stands alone, please check out part one to get the full experience.

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Since their encounter last night, she found herself for the first time in a long time thinking during the day about sex. During work, when she shifted her legs during a meeting it sent a chill up her spine. At one point she excused herself to the bathroom, found a stall, and slipped down her panties. With one finger she traced the lips of her pussy and found herself wetter than she normally was mid coitus.

It took all of her willpower to not rub herself to orgasm right then and there. The strategy that her husband had cooked up had worked - it was clear that she could cum. Their problem was solved. But she decided to honor their arrangement. A simple orgasm wouldn't do. She reminded herself that on the seventh day, she would be reborn with an orgasm the likes of which she could not fathom.

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That night he came to her at nine o'clock, and she could immediately feel herself lubricating. He could tell. Perhaps not that she was already wet, but that she was desperate. A wry smile played across his lips.

He didn't have to say a word. She eagerly pulled her t-shirt and sports bra over her head. In one motion, she unbuttoned her jeans and slipped them and her soaked panties from her body.

"How do you want me?" she asked, an edge of breathlessness in her voice.

"On the bed, spread eagle," he instructed, his smile now stretching from ear to ear.

She climbed onto their bed on all fours, the folds of her pussy peaking out between her legs as she crawled into the middle and flipped onto her back, spreading her arms and legs out to the four corners of the bed.

From behind his back he pulled a set of four cuffs. Her eyes went wide. Bondage wasn't something they had tried in the past. It wasn't that she was averse to it, just that they had never been very adventurous in their play. Her breath quickened at the thought of trying it now, especially since she knew the game they were playing was designed to frustrate her.

She lay still as he secured her wrists and ankles in turn to the four posts at the corners of their bed. Her heart thumped in her chest and her nipples grew erect in the cool air as she tested the bonds. His work was well done, as she was stretched as far as she could comfortably maintain. There was zero play in the ties that bound each of her limbs.

He sat on the bed next to her and placed a hand on her stomach. His palm caressed her torso, and slowly worked it's way up over the swell of her breast. He grazed the tip of her nipple with his index finger, and she groaned in response, pulling at her bonds.

"Tonight I'm going to stimulate you in ways we haven't tried before," he whispered while running his finger lightly over her nipple. When he withdrew his touch she arched her back slightly in an attempt to maintain the contact.

He reached off the edge of the bed and, from his nightstand, pulled a cloth-wrapped bundle. This he placed on the bed next to him and unrolled. She craned her head as much as the bonds would allow to peek at the contents of the bundle.

Brushes. Three of them. The first was a powder brush, the kind she used to apply rouge. The second was a fan brush, the triangle-shaped brush that she remembered Bob Ross used to use. The third was a tiny-headed artist's brush. It's tip was so fine it looked like it could write text as cleanly as a pencil.

He took out his phone and set the timer to thirty minutes, as he had the night before. As a final flourish, he took the cloth from under the brushes, folded it into a long strip, and blindfolded her with it.

Now completely vulnerable, her breath caught in her throat. Her skin burned with anticipation. Her heart thudded in her chest. Her pussy ached with need.

The powder brush came first. It's caress was soft and silken, a warm embrace of sensation. He placed it gently against the skin of her lower stomach, and began tracing a line down toward her clit. As the head of the brush slipped over her mound and down the hood of her pearl, the bristles parted and rubbed gently along each side. He worked the brush lower, over the edge of her clit, and the silky strands tantalized her most sensitive spot on their journey south.

He lifted the brush from her clit and replaced it on her stomach. Slowly, oh so slowly, he repeated the path he took the first time. This time he pressed a little harder as the brush swept over her clit, the weight of the bristles molding to her nub, hugging it in perform form.

She gasped with pleasure.

He did it again. And again. With each successive stroke, he placed the brush closer to her clit at the start of the movement. Within a minute, the brush was dancing rapidly over her pearl, and she writhed her hips on the bed as much as her restraints allowed.

"Just a reminder," he said to her, continuing his ministrations unabated. "I expect you to tell me when you're close."

"I'm close," she moaned, grinding her body against the gentle pressure of the brush.

"No you're not," he said. "You're going to tell me when you're really close. When you're dangling from the edge of orgasm. When you have to bite your lip to keep from cumming. That's when you're close."

He continued, and she groaned and shook beneath him as the brush rhythmically worked her over. Sweat beaded on her chest, and she shivered briefly in sensation.

"Okay, I'm close," she gasped.

He continued.

"Please stop, I'm so close," she cried.

The sensation of the brush vanished. She hissed in feral savagery and bucked her hips. Rapid breaths escaped between clenched teeth. Her nipples blushed bright pink and stood rigid as pencil erasers.

It took a full minute for her to calm down, and when she did, she felt the cool drip of coconut oil on her clit. Just as her brain was processing that new sensation, he took the fan brush and laid it gently to the left of her clitoral hood, the thin line of bristles just barely touching her body.

She inhaled sharply and held the breath inside of her.

He drew the brush up and over her hood to the other side, then reversed course and passed back over, the weight of the brush kneading the hood in the direction it was going.

She sighed in pleasure. And he did it again, left-to-right, then right-to-left.

On the third pass, he stopped pausing and began swiftly passing the brush back and forth over her hood.

As he worked, he began reducing the pressure of the brush on her skin with each pass, until the fan brush was dancing in the air above her clit, barely glancing off the skin of her hood as it passed overhead. She moaned in frustration, and he obligated her need, pressing the brush down more firmly so that she could feel it pushing over her clit with each pass.

The sensation of orgasm built quickly inside of her at the rapid passes of the fan brush, so quickly that she almost lost control.

"I'm close," she shivered. But he didn't stop. He just lifted the pressure of the brush until it was barely touching her skin as it passed over her clit. She arched her hips to increase the pressure but he placed a firm hand on her lower stomach.

She moaned in frustration and pressed her body against his hand in her search for the firmer caress of the brush, without avail. It continued to dance above her clitoral hood, the bristles tickling her skin firmly enough to send arcs of sensation throughout her body but lightly enough to prevent the sensations from coalescing into an orgasm.

He teased her with the light touch of the fan brush until her ragged breaths hissed from her lips in rapid succession and the room became filled with the musky aroma of her arousal. He used that cue to press hard again, the fan bristles firmly kneading her clit as it passed back and forth.

Almost immediately her ragged breaths during into gasps and moans.

"I'm close!" she squealed. He continued for a moment longer, just enough to watch her writhe to get away from the brush so it didn't drive her over the edge.

Then he removed the brush and the hand he held on her stomach, just as the orgasm began to cascade around her consciousness. The sensation faded quickly but the mini-explosion still echoed around in her brain.

From his perspective she slithered on the bed, her mouth hanging open in pure surrender as the orgasm escaped her grasp. Her hips bucked in time as if to the imaginary thrust of a cock, her clit searching in vain for the sensation it missed. The poor thing was pink with sensitivity and desire, her pearl emerging in wanton erection from the hood.

It was time for the final brush.

He took the fine-tipped brush from the bed and dipped it in coconut oil.

Very lightly, he pressed the fine tip against the skin at the top of her clitoral hood. She gasped at the touch. Then, ever so slowly, he trailed it down the length of her hood. As he reached the edge where the hood gave way to the bright pink pearl, he reversed direction and brought the brush back up to the top end.

He repeated the pattern again and again, while beneath him she moaned with need. After five passes he brought the brush down the hood again, and this time tipped it over the edge and onto the surface of her clit. She cried out at the direct contact with her sensitive nub, and the cry transformed into a moan as he swirled the fine tip of the brush in little circles, never leaving the clit.

She could feel the orgasm inside of her, waiting just out of reach, but the light touch of the brush just wasn't enough to take her to it. She felt the pleasure and frustration bring her into a pre-orgasmic trance, her clit radiating pure energy that coursed through every square inch of her body. Colors danced behind the blindfold and angels sang in her ear.

And then it stopped.

He removed the brush and she whined in frustration as she fell back to earth. She pulled at her bonds, thrust her hips wantonly in the air, and bit down hard on her lower lip.

"Time's up," he teased.

"Nooo," she growled. "Please, please, please..."

He laid a finger over her mouth.

"No," he chided her.

The tension of her arousal still coursed through her like lightning. The room was dank with her musk. Her brain swam, her thoughts muddy. She felt so sensitive that she could almost feel the passage of her body through the air as she thrust her hips.

"You clearly need some time," he said. "Tell you what; I'll go inside for twenty minutes or so and give you a chance to cool off. Then I'll come back and untie you."

She moaned, but didn't protest. At this point the restraints were the only thing keeping her from coming apart at the seams.

After a few minutes, her heart began to slow and the fog gently lifted from her brain. The smell in the air dissipated and she could finally rest her body, sinking into the comforter beneath her.

"I'm never going to make it," she sighed.