boy. That’s why you need me, isn’t it, love? Mistress is happy to patiently explain these facts to you, to help improve your endurance and train you to be a real man. So. In two weeks we’re going on our trip. Until then you need to practise holding your come in your balls. You will edge for me twice in the morning, twice during the day and twice at night. Stroke your little dick to the edge. Get yourself there. And don’t come. If the little wifey wants sex, you will oblige. But you will not come. Understand, little boy? It’s not difficult. Don’t come.’
And when he went home that evening, as luck would have it, Anne did want sex. Oh, God. Shame came rolling in on thunderous waves as she kissed him in their bed and he remembered the baseline with Mistress, that shame enveloping him while making his prick ache. So many edges. No release. Anne whispered to him how she loved him, how she wanted him. He just managed to get his desperately sensitive dick inside her but then – panic! He couldn’t continue without losing it. But if he pulled out, just that action threatened to push him over. He had stopped there motionless with his rock-hard rod throbbing in his wife’s tight wet folds, had practically cried with the torture of it. How badly he wanted to just slam in and out, release all the built-up pressure. It was right there. Right there for the taking and it would feel so good. But he didn’t. He didn’t.
‘So what did you do, sweetie?’ Mistress had asked, her face alight with pure joy and amusement.
‘Ma’am, I pretended to come,’ he admitted. ‘I was pretty convincing. I was shaking and sweating and gasping. Then I waited a few minutes, pretending to catch my breath. Really it was so I could calm down enough to pull out. And then I did.’
She laughed out loud, laughed really hard. ‘You didn’t even do one stroke? Not even one? You just put it in? You realise that’s only half a stroke, right, sweetie? Oh, my God! That’s so funny!’ There in her office, his cheeks hot coals, there was that shame that wanted to swallow him whole. Oh, God, how she could make him feel so small! He wanted to bow down before her. He wanted to lie at her feet, lie under them, wanted to crouch on all fours and be her footstool. Her five-legged footstool.
And now she sat beside him on the plane with her hand stroking slowly, asking so politely how it felt to have his Mistress’s hand caress him after the struggles and daily edging and short-lived sex of the last two weeks, all with no release. How did it feel? Like heaven. Like a symphony. Like a thousand angels strumming the harp strings of his sexual ecstasy – oh, God, how to describe how it felt?
‘It feels so good, Mistress.’ Pathetic. Even his words.
Then quickly, ‘But you have to stop very soon.’
‘What? Why would I stop, darling? I’m enjoying playing with my tiny little toy. And if you like it too, why would I stop?’
Her strokes came a little faster and he started to panic. Pressure rose in his balls and his cock ached with unspent come.
‘Because, Mistress!’ he gasped. ‘I can’t hold it. You have to stop!’
‘You can’t hold it, little boy? You better hold it! I haven’t given you permission! Not to mention we have a five-hour flight ahead of us and you didn’t bring a change of trousers.’ She giggled and sighed. ‘Am I actually going to have to start carrying a change of clothing around for you because you can’t control yourself? Like a diaper bag!’ More laughter.
He couldn’t hear. There was no sound over the bubbling pressure of his seed. He knew better than to grab her hand away. That would be cause for serious punishment. He could only sit helplessly in his chair and beg in a hoarse whisper. ‘Please stop, Mistress, please. I can’t hold it. You have to stop. PLEASE!’
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