Vows Pt. 01

"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 instructs.

"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 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 stiff 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. "Hm? 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. 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.

"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, 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 -- 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.

"Ohk... 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 -- cotton that's moist with saliva, and the 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. Accordingly, my mouth waters.

"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 shoulder are already protesting. All the while, I don't 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. I cough and choke around his hot flesh, and my mouth floods with thick 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... You're so hot and- ungh- 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 bathes my tongue. His semen is even more bitter than his pre-cum, bleachy, sweaty, and warm. He knows I don't like the taste or the consistency. That's why he puts 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 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. "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. I try to recall what helps against heating creams. Milk? Like when you ate a 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 29 days.

29 days since my last orgasm. 27 days since Dylan proposed. 27 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 29 days, mom.

I haven't gone without an orgasm for longer than two days ever since I discovered them by accident when I was nine years old.

"-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 29 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'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 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 modelled 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 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 my butt 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 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 my muscles. "Preliminary education. Training."