This Is a Love Story

Note: This story explores a consensual non-consent fantasy in an established D/s relationship. It contains sensitive content and language which may be triggering. This story is fantasy. Please don't do dangerous things in real life.

- - -

In the silence of their living room, Amelia found even the sound of her breath unbearable. Every time she moved, she filled the space with rustling fabric, acutely aware that Grant had no such issue with stillness, sat across from her with his chin resting in his palm. She had finished speaking only moments earlier; the longer he made her sit quietly under his focus, the more fidgety she became.

Just as she was starting to truly lose patience, he gave her a thoughtful smile and said, "I want you to tell me again."

They'd been discussing it for months. Negotiating, Grant called it, as though it weren't an excuse to make her squirm and repeatedly admit to what she wanted. Presumably, it should have been easier to say after all this time and repetition. Instead, every rendition left Amelia's pulse a little more thready and Grant's smile a little more wicked. Initially, Grant had been calm and kind, even generous, during their discussions. Now, the conversations themselves had become a part of it, a means for Grant to assert control by deliberately drawing things out. He must have been. He was toying with her openly, if not explicitly, before they'd even begun. And there was absolutely nothing Amelia could do to make him stop.

So she started again at the beginning, laying out the rough sketch of her idea: specific beats, boundaries, and guidelines, including their usual safewords and her usual limits. Heat rose in her chest and face, driving her to look intently away from him, at the floor or the door, trying not to stammer.

Occasionally, Grant would interrupt her, peppering her with questions in a tone of mock-sincerity, as if he hadn't already asked the same thing twice or thrice before. Just seeking clarification, he claimed. What about this specific act? Well, he just wanted to offer her the option to decline. Determined not to shrink beneath his growing grin, Amelia answered each with as much poise as she could muster.

When she was done, and he was finally satisfied, she found herself so thirsty that she downed the rest of her water in two large, throat-straining gulps. She rose, a little dizzily, and crossed to the window to open it. The late afternoon breeze cushioned her, carrying in wood-fire smoke and the warble of a distant siren. Returning to the table, she reached to take Grant's hand in hers. There was still electricity in his touch, years later, that made her chest and belly flutter. "I want this, Grant. I really do."

There was no more negotiation to be done. He squeezed her hand. "I know."

That night, like most others, she knelt on the rug by the foot of the bed and lifted her hair so he could fasten her collar. Once done, he played his fingers through its strands, combing them back from her face as she kissed her way down his stomach to take him in her mouth, chest rising in steady rhythm as her tongue traced over the ridge of his head.

They went at her pace, for a little while, before his hand gently guided her down until his cock pressed into her throat. "Relax, baby. Good girl, that's it."

Deep throating wasn't as difficult as it had once been, but it had never become easy. Amelia still gagged and choked, her eyes often welled, and Grant still pushed her body to see just how much it could accept. In return, Amelia found a quiet steadiness in serving. The act was grounding, almost meditative, anchoring her in the moment in a way little else could.

With his hands on either side of her face, he began to fuck her mouth. When he spoke, his voice was slightly strained. "I want you to think about what's going to happen when we play out your little fantasy. Really visualize it, baby. All the ways I'm going to torment you." He buried his cock deep and held it until Amelia's throat convulsed. Stroking her hair without letting up, Grant counted to a slow twenty, interrupting himself to murmur small praises, infuriatingly gentle in his cruelty. Then he pulled his cock from her mouth with a little pop and pulled her up before she could even catch her breath.

In short order, she was bent at the waist over the end of the bed, her legs spread as wide as they'd go and her fingers clenched in the comforter above her head. Balancing on tiptoes to accommodate the wideness of her stance, a slight ache had already started up in her calf, sneaking its way up into her hamstring despite the supportive surface beneath her torso. He spent some time stroking his fingers over her skin, lingering on her spine and ribs and inner thighs, anywhere that made her breath hitch. The ache in her leg sharpened in its first yawn of real fatigue, and he found his way between her legs.

His index finger, feather-light, trailed over her clit. Parting her lips with his other hand, he began to slowly tap on its exposed tip. All Amelia could do was whine, a puerile sound, and try to arch her hips. She could only imagine what she must have looked like, swollen and glistening and spread for his amusement.

"It's been a while since we've denied you. What if you didn't come until your fantasy came true? Do you think that would make it more interesting?" His finger dipped down to her pussy, before returning, slippery, over her clit. Alternating with the tapping, he slowly worked her up through mewls to pants, but kept her well clear of any satisfaction.

"You're not being serious," she groaned, rocking her hips to try and get more sensation. Her leg had started to tremble. After a few beats of silence, she added, "How long is that going to be?"

"However long I want. It's a complicated setup. It will take some time to do it right."

He began to rub her clit in lazy circles. All Amelia could do was moan, twisting her head and clenching her fists, the various aches and focal points all converging as a growing heat in her belly. It was a terribly slow buildup, stealing her thoughts and focus, replacing them with threads of hazy pleasure and growing need. Once the edge had crept up to meet her, sharp and lapping, he lifted his finger from her quivering cunt and stroked gently down her back until she calmed. He pushed inside her, then, and fucked her with quick, deep thrusts that made her groan anew, almost sobbing when she heard the buzz of the bullet vibe, her body jerking as it made contact with her most sensitive spot.

She edged three or four more times that way before Grant finally finished. Pulled up on the bed, tucked in, cradled in his arms, Amelia floated, half-asleep, while he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead and her cheeks. Through dreamy thoughts, she still tried to reason with herself about what he'd said. She was still coming down when she fell asleep, bliss pin pricked with fear, wondering how long it might be before she next got to come.

- - -

It wasn't that Grant and Amelia hadn't played around with denial before. Going a week or so was casual and common in their relationship, usually cut short by Amelia becoming too needy and having an "accident" while Grant was at work (She'd be on him before he even got his shoes off, giggling. "Hey baby, guess who you get to punish tonight?"). Once, she had made it an entire month. While difficult, they'd both enjoyed her desperation by the last night, straddling his lap and grinding herself to an edge before they'd even stripped. But as she approached and then surpassed her record, it became clear the rules had changed. Grant was tightening the reins; she was not to disobey.

Week after week passed from their final negotiation, each one bringing a small, tormenting change to her routine. At first, it was nice when Grant edged her in the morning, mostly with his tongue, working her up past any hope of composure and letting her taste herself on him before they dressed. Then he started filling her before he left: sometimes with weighted Kegel balls that teased against the sensitive spots inside her, other times with plugs of increasing width, and, as time passed, occasionally both at once. Going about her usual tasks and chores around the house, taking work calls from the office or the kitchen island, reading or painting, Amelia was amazed no one else had noticed her slow descent into agonizing need.

Her evenings, on the other hand, had become quite different. Upon getting home, Grant had taken to subjecting her to inspection by leaning her against the nearest piece of furniture, rolling up her skirt or unbuttoning her pants, unhurried, so he could press a finger or two inside of her to gauge her wetness.

On one such occasion, when she was arched back over the arm of the couch, he'd made a sound of interested discovery. "Sensitive tonight, are we?" He'd asked, his thumb circling her twitching clit in even tempo to her whimpers.

"I think you can do better," he'd said to her, another time, holding his finger still inside her and smiling as she rutted her hips against him until she was glassy-eyed and panting. He'd dragged his finger slowly out, leaving her with less and less, until there was nothing inside her at all, leaving her whimpering and clenching and fucking down against the air while he went to make dinner.

Most nights he still fucked her. Despite never having been able to get over from penetration and the knowledge it left her aching and worse off, Amelia craved him inside her. The stretch of him was home. She would come apart, tuning into the growing cracks of her desperation, begging and whimpering and sometimes crying from the gnawing need. Her pleas became a recitation -- begging to come, begging not to, for more, to never stop, to have mercy -- until all she could do was whine please over and over, not listening for nor caring to receive a true response.

Four weeks became six, then eight. Amelia ached all the time, sought minuscule friction by rocking her hips without thought, fell asleep grinding on nothing, woke up wet. It was hard to think or concentrate, falling as often as she did into increasingly dark daydreams of being held down and fucked; of Grant sharing her with his friends; of being a restrained centerpiece at a party; and of being helpless and hopeless and never, ever allowed to come.

When in scenes she broke down and begged, so desperate for him to take her seriously that she used his name and not his honorific, he would stroke her hair, or do some other sweet and tender thing, while leaning in to whisper that it wasn't time yet, and didn't she know, it was going to get much worse.

He meant it, too. Grant, a thorough study to begin with, knew her body well. He knew just where to touch her, when to hurt her, when to penetrate her and how deeply and with how much force. It was keeping her on an increasingly keen edge, just out of reach, so close she could only manage stuttered gasps or despaired whines. When he was feeling less than kind, he'd keep her there, balanced between edge and spasm until her world went white. And somehow, no matter what he put her through, she only ever needed more.

As they approached three months, Amelia had started to lose hope. Grant had taken to arranging dates for them every week, all of them red herrings. Sometimes he would take her to dinner, or a movie, or out dancing. It always ended with them at a bar and her sipping on a drink he'd placed in front of her, stuck in a liminal space of breathless butterflies and paying too much attention to her body. She would do a mental scan, sitting with him, looking and hoping for fuzziness to eclipse her brain, for heat to rise in her face, for any sign of a large nervous system response. Once or twice, she thought he'd done it. But in the end it always became apparent that the cocktail he'd brought her contained exactly and only what was listed on the menu. She would look at him, disappointed, and he'd wink and ask if she was ready to go home.

How long could he really make her wait? They were about to pass three months, and instead of wondering if this was the weekend, Amelia was packing her bag to spend it with Grant's parents. She was stuffed with balls and a plug, stimulating her with each shifting movement, and was counting out pairs of socks.

She got along with Grant's parents, and they adored her. Despite that, she couldn't make herself excited about the trip. When Amelia had brought up that visiting meant losing their weekly date night, Grant hadn't said much except to infer it didn't matter because she still had quite a while to wait. Even so, the trip cemented the reality of how much longer she might be in denial. The longer she thought about it, the gloomier she became, until her eyes burned and welled up and she pushed aside the clothing she was folding to curl up under the covers.

It wasn't long until Grant found her there and, upon checking in, got in behind her, and held her as she started to cry.

The crying only lasted a few minutes, pressed against his chest while he stroked her hair, and then she was just sniffing and turning her face so she could hear the calming, rhythmic thump of his heart.

She used the heel of her palm to wipe beneath her eye. "It's really getting to me."

"I can see that. Why don't you tell me how you're feeling?"

"I've never gone this long without coming. And it's -- it's fun, most of the time. You know I like it. Just. It's really hard, and I'm not sure I'm having fun anymore."

"That's no good. The whole point of this is to have fun." He combed his fingers through her hair, and stroked his thumb gently on the skin just before her ear. "Are you at your limit? Do we need to stop?"

"What about the scene?"

He laughed, "Don't fret, sweet prince. If you're at your limit, I will adjust my plans of denying you while the plotting continues. I would never punish you or withhold from you because you tell me what you need or how you feel."

"I've gotten in this habit of spending the whole week looking forward to our date, wondering if it's finally going to happen. Packing to go to your parents'...well, it means there's just another week of this. And, I don't know. It's been three months. What if you want a nice round number, and you make me wait four? I think if I have to wait another month, I'm going to either implode or throw an actual tantrum."

His fingers were still gliding gently over her skin -- over her neck and arm, back up to her hair in soothing circuits. "I do think surprise and anticipation are fun elements. But how about this: if you think you can stay in denial, I will make it happen sometime before you reach four months. Or, I will let you come tonight, but you won't get to know any other details about the timeline."

"Can I know a very general timeframe?"

He hemmed. "Sometime in the next few months."

Amelia grinned. "What if you made me come tonight and we did it in the next four weeks?"

He gave her a mild look, but didn't directly respond. "It's up to you. What do you and your body need?"

They were quiet for a long time while she thought. Three months with the ever-growing throb of desperation eclipsing her being. Grant would let her come tonight, if she was at her limit. But was she? Could she make it four more weeks? Amelia weighed the options, thinking it likely he wouldn't make her wait too much longer, once they'd come back from out of town. He had probably thrown out a month to try and maintain a semblance of surprise. But what if he made her wait another full month, dragged it out as long as she could possibly handle?

"I want to stay denied."

He leaned in to kiss her forehead, then tilted her chin up to meet his lips. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"You'll tell me if that changes?"

"Yes."

He kissed her again. "Good."

That night he went down on her, slowly licking and kissing his way up her thighs, stroking his fingers over her lips until she'd made a spot on the sheets beneath them. He let her fuck herself on his hand, held just the right way for her to grind and rock, slowly stoking a fire she couldn't remember ever having been unlit. Grant barely paid attention to her clit, more interested in the sensitivity of its surroundings. Sometimes his tongue would graze its side while trailing up her labia, and once or twice he gave it a quick rub with this thumb, or else held his finger just out of reach, making her arch and thrust to try and find it. By the time he'd finished, she was all twitching nerves and fluttering muscles, somehow on the tipping edge of orgasm despite his negligence.

Just one more month, she told herself, drifting off to sleep between idle throbs. She just had to make it one more month.

She was still telling herself this the next morning as they loaded up the car and headed north. Amelia, in the passenger seat, controlled music and snacks, and occasionally uncapped their water bottle to pass to Grant while he drove. They spent the first stretch chatting and pointing out strange billboards, and then Amelia took a nap, buckled in and snug with a pillow and a blanket, and didn't wake up until Grant stopped for gas an hour later.

Yawning, she got out of the car to twist and stretch while Grant went from tire to tire with his metal gauge, stern behind sunglasses.

"Road safety is serious business," he said in reply to her observation, fighting the twitch of a smile.

Eager to move while she had the chance, Amelia ambled down the aisles of the station. There was a collection of brimmed hats in different colors and textures; she tried one on, gazing at herself in the long rectangular mirror of the sunglasses tower. The nap had helped her mood, though she was still blinking and a little groggy. Grant, bottled coffee in hand, found her staring at the display of rotating hotdogs some minutes later.

Back on the road, Grant sipped from his coffee and declined their shared water when offered. Only half-listening to the podcast he'd put on, Amelia sat with the bottle between her knees, drinking from it occasionally as she watched the scenery. They were rural now, definitely, big open fields and miniature houses scattered in the distance. Up ahead, tiny but growing, was a wind farm Amelia didn't remember from their previous trips. It seemed an odd thing to forget, but they had made the trip in the dark before, and Amelia often napped to fight off motion sickness.

The thought slipped from her mind until they passed a green mileage sign, one without the right cities or their reasoned distances.

A few minutes later, digging through her purse, she frowned. "I can't find my phone." The rummaging was bringing on dizziness and the dull start to a headache. But her phone didn't seem to be anywhere -- in her pockets, or the door's container -- and she couldn't remember if she'd taken it out at the gas station.

Grant offered his to call her, but she couldn't feel its vibration on the road. All the looking was making her carsickness steadily worse, and she had to give up and lay her head back on the seat, taking another sip of water, breathing deeply to try and still the spinning.

"I'm sure it's in here," Grant put his hand on her knee and squeezed it before returning it to the wheel. "It probably fell under the seat or something. I'll pull off at the next exit and we can look, okay? Worst case scenario --"

Amelia nodded, but she wasn't really listening. She was feeling worse -- her ears were ringing, and her face was both hot and cold and starting to sweat. There was a strange tugging fuzziness, too, mostly in her fingers. Rubbing at her temples, Amelia drank down the rest of the water. "I'm really not feeling well."

Grant glanced over. "What's going on?"

"I feel. God, I think I feel, like, drunk? My head hurts. And...and..." Amelia tried to file through all the things that could possibly be going on. The start of a migraine? Her thoughts were getting slower and thicker, swimming through syrup. Very suddenly, she felt more than a little intoxicated. "Grant, I think...can...can you pull over? I think I'm really -- I'm so dizzy."