Making a Masochist Part VII

Start Making a Masochist at the beginning, get a refresher with Part V, or jump right in…

I don’t know what I thought dessert would be, but it wasn’t this. The romantic Dom who wooed me at dinner is long gone, and Ian, my sadistic Dom, has taken his place. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter which I prefer, my cunt is cheering for team Sadist. All the way.

After a leisurely dance, with a bit more distance between us, Ian leads me back to our seats, where he requests cheesecake and a side of berries — to go, please and thank you. Before the server delivers, Ian throws a stack of bills on the table and escorts me to the door, where he collects our dessert like he’s planned it this way. Maybe he has.

At the car, Ian holds the door for me, handing me my belt when I’m seated, then opens the Styrofoam container holding the sweet confection and plucks out an overly large, juicy, red, ripe raspberry.

“Open, Savannah,” he says, making my name sound like sex dipped in chocolate and immediately, I obey. Ian sets the berry on my bottom lip, then instructs, “close. Carefully. I want this berry in one piece when we get to my flat.” My eyes widen, then turn to saucers when I see his sinister grin. He can’t be serious! The man in question gives me a wink before closing the door and walking around to his side.

“So, this is the deal,” he begins once he’s belted in. “You’ve had your orgasm, and what a sight it was.” Ian’s eyes roam over me like he’s choosing a steak at the butcher. “I hope you learned your lesson about coming without permission?” I nod, and he continues, his smile widening. “Let’s test that, shall we?”

I hadn’t forgotten the balls; I was just hoping he had. But of course, that’s not my luck, or in Ian’s nature. There’s no preamble, no warm-up, just full speed ahead as he presses the power button on the controller. I squeak as the orbs come to life, encouraging my hips to rise, even though I’m bound in place by the lap belt.

“I’ll drive us straight from here to my place. It will take approximately eight minutes. If you can make it there without crushing that raspberry between your kissable lips, you’ll have completed your punishment and we’ll no longer discuss it. Unless it should happen again. But if there is so much as a drop of juice running down your lovely chin, I’m going to tie you up, gag you, and finish what I started Tuesday afternoon in my living room.” He stops to emphasize his point and perhaps give me a taste of a reminder.

It works wonders. Heat creeps up my chest, then neck, sizzling right to the top of my head, but it burns somewhere else too, somewhere I desperately don’t need it, not right now. But it doesn’t matter, because if we’ve learned anything by now, it’s that my cunt is a traitor. I shuffle in my seat, looking away from Ian before returning my gaze to his. Content that he’s made his point, he continues, “eight minutes. It should be easy enough. Yes?”

He doesn’t mention that we’ve been sitting for close to two minutes already, with my g-spot taking a constant barrage of vibrations or that I’m already producing involuntary whimpers and pressing my ass against the seat attempting to decrease the vibrations — it doesn’t work. I nod enthusiastically, even though I can feel a line of drool leaking from my mouth. A part of me -we all know which part- hopes it’s raspberry juice.

As we back out, Ian looks over at me, then puts the car into first gear. “Ready, Savannah?” and of course I can’t reply, so again I nod my head. We pull away and as he brakes for the ramp, the shift of momentum pushes my pelvis forward, changing the angle of the insistent buzz. My lips sputter before I catch myself and refocus on the red fruit, a difficult feat when you’re a vocal sexual being.

Ian drives like the gentleman he always is, taking his time, but not holding up traffic. When we come to a light, I clench around the balls, attempting to hold them in place, but find that the internal pressure does the opposite of what I’d hoped. I relax instead, but that’s almost worse. I’ve been on edge for so long with only the one release, which was basically erased after Ian’s version of the tango. The memory of our sultry dance makes my nipples tingle and I decide I’m better off thinking about the raspberry.

Fully stopped, Ian checks his mirrors before saying, “put your arms behind your back.” I haven’t even finished before he’s reaching inside my dress and massaging my breasts. His fingers expertly tweak my nipples into hard pebbles before he pinches one between finger and thumb, increasing the pressure with each passing second. My eyes cross as I try to hold back the impending moan while attempting to ignore Ian’s roaming hands and the balls of self-destruction inside me simultaneously.

The light turns green, and abruptly, Ian removes his warm, caressing hand, leaving me sagging in my seat, hot air puffing from my nose like a freight train. A moist droplet lands on my chest and I look down, surprised but also glad to see it’s drool, not juice. Only I would be in a situation that drooling was the best option. Also, I’m not sure how I haven’t crushed this damn berry, but right now being gagged, bound, and toyed with isn’t sounding so bad. Does it ever?

Worried about the raspberry, I forget about the balls, but when the car lurches forward, I’m unsure how. I stifle my cry as my internal muscles flutter around them, but before I’m able to think of the raspberry, Ian’s fingers are inching up my thigh. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I know it’s only a matter of time before they’re at the apex of my legs, playing me like a guitar. But I’m saved by a passing car and before his digits can get there, Ian pulls his hand away.

Ahead is another light, and he gears down, slowing gently, before coming to a stop. A vehicle pulls up beside us and Ian grasps my chin, saying, “look at me.” When I do, he circles the raspberry with his pointer finger before tracing the line of my lips. In any other situation, I’d be pulling his finger into mouth and teasing the tip with my tongue. A slight tremor twitches in my jaw from holding it in position for so long, and my face has begun to ache. Ian sees it and whispers, “Just let go, Savannah. You know you want to. Give in. I didn’t say you couldn’t come.”

It hits me then that he hadn’t. He only ordered me not to crush the raspberry. The raspberry is just a distraction. A challenge. He knew there was no way I could come without destroying the sensitive flesh of the berry. It’s just a technique to control my orgasm. Something else to concentrate on besides coming. The thought gives me the stamina to continue, so I shake my head.

Ian chuckles at my stubbornness, but I also see pride dancing in his eyes, and I know I’ve made the right choice.

When we arrive at Ian’s house, he pulls into the garage for the first time since I’ve known him. Ian has barely turned the ignition off before he’s stalking around to my side, unlatching my seat belt before he exits the car.

He opens the door and holds out his hand like a footman awaiting a chariot, and helps me to stand.

“You’re amazing.” Ian whispers, fisting my hair and pulling me so close, his lips are only a breath away from mine. He looks down at the berry, somewhat softer than the start of the drive, yet still in one piece, then back up at my eyes. His hand tightens at the nape of my neck, and suddenly Ian is pressing his mouth against mine, crushing the berry between us before licking the sticky remnants from my lips.

It’s the first time Ian’s ever kissed me, but there’s no time to think about it. Wordlessly, he spins me around, pushing my shoulders until I’m bent over the hood of his car before asking, “who owns your orgasms, Savannah?”

It takes nothing to say it, to surrender to his demand. He does it so well after all, so I reply with an honest, “you, Sir.”

“That’s right. And never forget it,” he says with a stinging slap to my ass, reinforcing that disobeying will have consequences. I’ll gladly take them.

Without warning, Ian tugs the balls with one quick pull, dumping them — still vibrating — into his pocket that contains my panties. I groan at being so violently and abruptly empty, but the telltale sound of Ian’s zipper and a foil packet have me more than ready.

Hard and heavy, Ian thrusts his cock into me in one push, saying, “I’ve waited all night to feel your hot, tight cunt wrapped around me,” releasing a long sigh once he’s buried balls deep. “Are you ready to come for me, slut?” He asks, his body strung tight from head to toe as he tries not to give into the natural urge to thrust.

“If it would please you, Sir,” I reply, knowing it’s the truth.

“It would please me, Savannah. It would please me very much.”

To be continued….

“Raspberry” header image found on shutterstock.

Making a Masochist will continue after the holidays. Until then, you might enjoy Paying a Debt.

You can find more Seductively Deluxe Fiction by clicking the crown.