I was trying desperately to remember where I’d put the measuring cup I’d been using to mix the eggnog, thankful that nobody else was in the kitchen to witness my ineptitude. Normally, measurement wouldn’t be an issue with me, but I was serving it to other people, most of whom probably couldn’t ignore a drastic imbalance in the alcohol to egg ratio, and I didn’t want a party full of people spitting out the nog. Although the mental image did make me giggle.

I finally found the elusive measuring cup and began pouring ingredients into the enormous punch bowl, being careful not to splash any on my dress, a lovely shade of burgundy that would show any and every droplet. I was in the process of stirring when Sergei wandered in, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“Hi!” he greeted me cheerily, sitting down at one of the chairs at the island.

I smiled warmly. “Hi baby.”

“I thought you got lost,” he told me.

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely, “I didn’t mean to just wander away, but we were running out of eggnog. Did you need me for something?” I asked as I finished mixing the new batch and dropped the spoon into the sink.

He shook his head and gave me a noncommittal shrug. “Not really need. I just want to talk to you.”

I walked across the kitchen and put my arms around his waist, feeling warm when I felt him return the embrace. “Well, you got me all to yourself. Until we run out of something else,” I amended with a smile. “Talk away.”

“Do you think everybody is having fun?” he asked after a moment, and it was so endearing to me that he would worry about something like that.

“Of course they’re having fun. There’s free alcohol,” I quipped.

“Maggie,” he said, drawing out my name in an expression of exasperation.

“Sergei, look at this,” I said, disentangling myself and dragging him to the doorway of the kitchen. I gestured at the living room of people drinking, dancing, talking and laughing. “This is the epitome of fun! I see absolutely nobody who even looks like they’re having a mediocre time. Everybody is having fun, trust me.”

Sergei glanced from me to the party and back to me, grinning. “Yeah, they are.”

“Will you take that punch bowl back out?”

Sergei nodded. “You’re coming too, right?”

“I’m gonna take those things out of the oven and I’ll be there in just a minute,” I told him, grabbing potholders and heading toward the oven. He smiled.

“Okay.”

I was putting the little mini-quiches on another serving tray - nothing I’d made myself but a very wise purchase a la Gordon’s Food Service - when I happened to glance up and through the doorway to the living room. Sergei was talking to a few of his friends, laughing and joking from their expressions, and doing something else at the same time, something that caught my eye and made me pause in mid-motion, a mini-quiche suspended in the air.

For whatever reason, he was standing, clasping his hands behind his back.

I stand there, blinking and staring at him, feeling a little weak-kneed. With that suit on, so immaculately tailored and so cultured, he is so attractive anyway.

And now he had to go and put his hands behind his back.

I actually feel dizzily aroused, so much so that I have to lean on the island to remain standing.

I finally release my pastry prisoner and finish putting the rest of the quiches on the platter. But I stay in the kitchen just a little longer, just to stare at him. Then someone says something to him and he unclasps his hands to gesture grandly about something.

But it’s too late.

I’d already been contemplating our after-party scene, thanks to some fairly suggestive comments Sergei threw out as we were getting ready that afternoon; now, he’s simply sealed his fate. I hope he’s happy about it, because he doesn’t have much of a choice.

I pick up the plate and carry it back out to the party, smiling at a few people and chatting lightly while I rearrange the food on the table, wishing like hell that they would all go home, because I can’t get the mental image of Sergei sprawled across the coffee table with me on top of him out of my head. And as if things weren’t bad enough, I suddenly feel a hand on my back, and then Sergei kisses my cheek.

“Darius, this is Maggie. Maggie, I want you to meet Darius Kasparaitis.”

Darius smiles and extends his hand. I pray that mine isn’t shaking too badly as I take his and shake firmly. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you I feel like I already know you.”

“Same here,” I grin brightly, wishing the flush in my cheeks weren’t so obvious. “Sergei tells me so many stories about you two when you were kids.” I do mean that; I have heard a lot about him and I really am glad to finally meet him. Now, however, just isn’t the best time for me to try and be social. I’m too distracted. Sergei has one hand on my back and he keeps rubbing absentmindedly as we all talk. It’s making me insane.

Darius chuckles. “Nothing too bad, I hope.”

“Of course not,” I reply a little stiffly. “Only the best.”

“Well-“

And then someone calls his name from across the room. He waves a hand at them in a just-a-minute gesture, but the group will not be deterred. Darius turns to me and sighs apologetically. “I’m so sorry. We’ll finish this conversation later. Excuse me.”

I’m surprised at his politeness. I guess that Americans have lost many of the social graces. Or at least, the Americans that I hang out with.

“Come with me. I want you to make me a drink,” I tell Sergei, and without waiting for an answer, I take off for the library. He follows behind me and we both step behind the bar.

Sergei looks at me expectantly. “What do you want?”

The bar is high, high enough that it will hide what I’m about to do. I glance around the room as if I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary, and place my hand firmly on his crotch. “You.”

He jumps a little bit and laughs nervously, frozen in place. He’s already halfway hard. A little more time and he’ll have an excruciating erection. I rub him lightly and he chokes on his breath.

“Maggie, you can’t,” he whispers desperately.

I smile prettily. “Then make me a vodka cranberry.”

“Maggie.” He says my name with such urgency that it makes me shudder. He’s growing harder by the second but he’s dutifully mixing my drink. Now, though, he’s stuck behind the bar until he can do something about the very noticeable bulge. His eyes dart around the room, terrified that we’re going to attract attention. But when I squeeze him lightly through his pants, he makes the most delicious little noise, pressing himself against my hand.

I grin. He’s liking this.

He’s standing still, holding my drink in one hand, gripping the glass so tightly I fear for the integrity of the glass. I remove my hand, delighting when he whimpers just a tiny little bit, almost inaudibly, and take my drink, sipping it slowly.

“Thank you,” I tell him politely. He swallows with difficulty. I pick up a cocktail napkin and smile at him contritely as I start to make my way back out from behind the bar. Sergei reaches out and takes my wrist, firmly but not painfully.

“Where are you going?” The note of desperation makes my smile widen into an evil grin.

“It’s a party. We can’t stay here all night.”

Sergei shifts his weight uncomfortably and appears to be thinking deeply. He’s still holding my wrist, but very gently now, and giving me a look somewhere between dark desire and nervous anxiety. “Don’t leave me here,” he says.

He means more than just that. He means, don’t leave me in this situation. Aroused, stranded behind the bar with a very visible erection, and all with a house full of people.

“Put your hands behind your back,” I say suddenly, staring at him hungrily. He looks as if he wants to say something but he obediently moves his hands - surreptitiously - behind his back, looking at me as if that alone will get him out of this situation. I just continue to stare at him and then turn again to leave. He looks panicked.

“Maggie, please!” he hisses at me, and his hands come out from behind his back. I don’t know if he realizes he’s done it or not, but I abruptly cup his balls through his dress pants and squeeze. Hard. He swallows a yelp. I realize, a little late, that I’ve actually just solved his problem. The bulge in his slacks disappears quickly, and I feel a little cheated. But I have to remind him of the situation he’s in. Nevertheless, while he’s properly chastised and physically settled down for now, he’s still extraordinarily aroused. I can see it in his eyes.

This whole situation excites him.

He blinks at me a little warily and then takes a shaky breath. “You’re going to hurt me, tonight.”

I nod. “You better believe it,” I breathe. We meet each other’s eyes and stare for a very long time, intensely. Sergei, a little nervous, licks his lips, something I know he does unconsciously. It makes me shiver. I know I can’t stay here looking at him like that, having him look at me the way he always does, so blatantly aroused. So I blink. “But first, I’m going to finish my drink, talk to a few people, and dance. It’s a party,” I repeat, “And we can’t stay here all night.”

“We could go upstairs, just for a minute,” he replies without hesitation.

For a moment, I actually consider this. But no, I’m not going to go through with it, as tempting as it may be at that precise second. I am going to hurt him tonight, and I am also going to make it a very long evening for him.

I shake my head slowly and look up at him with a half-smile before I actually do make it out from behind the bar this time and disappear into the crowd of people. I want more than anything to turn around and see the look on his face, but it would ruin the moment. I can feel him staring at me, though, and that’s enough for me.

But in a few moments I can’t feel his gaze anymore, and there are people talking at me from both sides. I can’t help but wear a smile; knowing what I’ve done to Sergei - how hot I’ve made him and how into it he actually is (which was something of a surprise to me because usually it takes him awhile to get into my moods) makes me almost giddy. Or maybe that’s just the vodka and cranberry. Probably a little bit of both.

Either way, I talk a little faster and gesture a little more, grinning like an idiot. I’m hoping that everyone will just think I’ve had a bit too much to drink. It’s an easier explanation.

I’m still curious about Sergei though. I wonder if he’s still stuck behind the bar. I set my empty glass down on the coffee table and weave through people toward the living room. Then I stop and actually have to bite my tongue to hold back the laughter. Sergei - who is now holding his suit jacket draped over one arm in front of him - is trying desperately to excuse himself from a group of people I work with. And with the way he’s edging toward the stairs, I have a damn good idea of what he’s going to do. Suppressing what I know would be a very childish giggle if I were to give voice to it, I hurry back through to the kitchen, out to the sun porch and take the back stairs two at a time. I take back all the times I ever thought this set of stairs was useless.

I feel like I’m about to play the greatest practical joke of all time.

I race down the hall to the bedroom, through the bathroom door letting it shut almost all the way behind me, and perch myself on the edge of the countertop, my cheeks flushed, trying to calm myself down. The effect just won’t be the same if I’m giggling like a maniac. A few deep breaths and I’m just sitting on the counter.

I hear the bedroom door close and I congratulate myself on being able to read him so well. Then again, I suppose it wouldn’t take a genius to figure this out. When Sergei finally bursts into the bathroom, I put on my brightest smile.

“Hi there!” I tell him cheerily.

The look on his face is absolutely priceless.

The shock is so incredible it actually leans toward cartoon-ish. He’s so surprised that his suit coat falls right off his arm to the floor, and I glance quickly at the very noticeable bulge in his pants. And right on the heels of the shock is the defeat. I’ve won again. He can’t even believe it. He can’t even blink.

I fold my arms. “What are you doing up here?” I ask, even though we both know I know the answer. He doesn’t answer but the color rises in his cheeks. “Don’t tell me I can’t trust you anymore,” I tell him with mock disappointment. In reality, I think it’s so fucking hot that I made him so aroused he was actually going to excuse himself from his own party to masturbate. It’s a proud moment for me.

I stare at him for a minute. He looks ready to cry. Finally, I slide off the counter. “All right, let’s go. Out,” I say, pointing toward the door.

He hesitates and finally speaks. “Maggie,” he says in a pleading voice. “Don’t ask me to go back down there like this!”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re already in trouble. Now go.”

He still hesitates, and I know he’s dying to say something else. I sigh. “What?”

“Everybody will notice!”

I open my arms, palms up. “That’s not my fault!”

“I’ll stain my pants!”

So he’s in the mood to argue. Well, I’m in the mood to find solutions. I pull a bunch of Kleenexes out of the box and hand them to him wordlessly. He still doesn’t move and I’m beginning to worry a little that he’ll call this all off.

He opens his mouth and I know before he says a word that he’s going to try and bargain with me. “Maggie,” he begins, using a tone so soft and so sweet, a tone that will almost always get him his way with me, “I promise you, if you just let me…” he pauses, searching for what I imagine will be a nice way to put things, “have a few minutes up here, I promise, all night, you can do whatever you want all night after everybody leaves.”

The good news is that he’s still willing, although not completely on my terms. We’ll just see what we can do about that.

I walk over to stand in front of him. He takes a nervous step backward, and I continue advancing until his back hits the door. He looks afraid of what I’m going to do to him. Even better.

I meet his gaze and hold it, leaning close to him until at last I can reach out and slide my hand behind his neck. I twist my fingers into his hair and kiss him, a long, lingering, possessive kiss. He moans softly into my mouth and I tighten my grip, feeling the softness of his lips, tasting his mouth. He knows better than to try and touch me, but he’s squirming against me and I know I’ve almost got him.

Finally I pull away and untangle my fingers from his hair. Sergei looks almost drugged. I gaze up at him and stroke his cheek, brush the hair away from his face. “Please?” I ask him softly, barely above a whisper. “I need this. Please do this for me, baby?” He blinks at me, and I add, “I promise I’ll make it all worth it.”

He closes his eyes and I can’t tell if he’s exasperated or dizzy. Then, he clears his throat, glances down at the Kleenex in his hand, and with a shaky sigh, unbuttons his slacks and positions the Kleenex carefully. That image alone makes me weak-kneed, watching him shove tissues down his pants, preparing to walk back into a party with what I imagine to be a very painful erection. He tucks his shirt back neatly into the waist of his slacks and straightens his tie.

“Put your coat back on,” I tell him.

He gives me a pained look, but he starts to slide his arms into the jacket anyway. He looks so fucking sexy in his suit. That’s the only reason why I wanted him to put the coat on - just so I could stare at him. But it would be beyond cruel to make him walk back to the party with such an obvious hard-on. And he’s being so obedient.

He’s standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and avoiding my eyes. I take him by the hand and lead him into the hallway, directing him to the back staircase. He gives me such a grateful look and a relieved sigh that I actually feel a little guilty.

I pull him close to me. “You didn’t really think I’d make you go back through the living room like that, did you?”

It’s rhetorical, really, but I’m not sure if Sergei will catch that or not. I go on. “We’re probably running low on eggnog again. Kris is going through it like it’s water. How about if you do me a favor and mix some more?” He smiles at me and takes a deep breath. I’ve just given him a good reason to stay in the kitchen for about the amount of it’s going to take him to get himself under control. Until, of course, I start in on him again.

He walks - a little awkwardly - down the stairs and disappears after he gets to the landing. I turn and head for the main staircase, thinking. I’ve promised to make it all worth it; now I just have to figure out what I’m going to do that’ll make it all worth it. I suppose it’ll give me something to think about for the evening. Other than Sergei, standing in the kitchen, making the eggnog, wearing his suit, concentrating...

I shake my head. If I keep thinking about that, I’m not going to make it back to the party and that would make me a hypocrite. I don’t like hypocrisy. I clear my mind and replace the mental images of Sergei tied up in a number of compromising situations with images of nice, neutral lakes and oceans, and walk lightly down the stairs. Sergei is nowhere to be seen - not that I thought he would be yet - so I wander over to finish meeting Darius.

*****

I can’t remember ever being at a party like this one before, so much fun and me only wanting it to be over with. As the night progressed, I kept finding excuses to pull him aside in the kitchen, behind the bar, anywhere fairly hidden. I kept getting him into the kitchen especially; it was far enough away to be discreet but I still have a good enough view to know if I should keep my hands to myself. I suppose that only contributed to the level of drunkenness of our guests. After all, with each trip to the kitchen, we had to have a reason, so Sergei kept whipping up more eggnog while I stroked him through his pants, massaged his balls, talked to him in a low voice, telling him all the things I wanted to do to him after everyone had gone.

With the endless supply of eggnog - we must’ve spent half the night in the kitchen - our guests were all fairly toasted by ten o’clock.

I know Sergei was enjoying himself, regardless of that fact that I was teasing him mercilessly. Sometimes - and I’m fairly certain he would deny it if I ever asked point-blank - but sometimes, I’m positive he likes being teased.

And I do it so very well.

At one point, I nearly pushed him past his limits, getting him so aroused that he actually dragged me into the kitchen, begging me.

“This is killing me, Maggie, please,” he’d growled, grabbing me around the waist possessively and pulling me to him, pressing into me as if to prove his point. I’d just smiled.

“You can do it,” I’d told him simply.

He’d been standing fairly still but at hearing those words, he’d groaned pitifully, desperately, and I’d felt him begin to writhe against me, his hips thrusting just enough so that I could feel his cock rubbing against my hip. I’d stood there for a little while longer, letting him make himself that much more miserable, before pulling away.

Sometimes the poor thing just made it too easy.

But now the last guests were on their way out. I don’t know who took Draper home, but whoever it was, I pity him. Kris probably drank half the eggnog we’d made. There are five people left, all chatting with Sergei, and I want to shove them out the door. And given my level of desperation, the fact that they’re all enormous hockey players would not keep me from doing it. Sergei keeps giving me looks that are making me incredibly hot, and all I want is to be alone with him.

I glare at the group. And you people aren’t fucking leaving!

I try being subtle. They are all sitting on the couch and the living room chairs - Slava Kozlov, Igor Larionov, Darren McCarty, Darius Kasparaitis and Chris St. Croix, a guy I work with and part of the group I frequently have lunch with. It actually surprises me that Chris is still here, given that until tonight he knew none of these guys. I guess, though, if I were in his situation, suddenly meeting all sorts of famous hockey players, I’d stick around too.

Any other night, I’d be thrilled to the extreme that these were the guys who were left. I thought about it. Igor was interesting, McCarty was crudely funny, Darius seemed to be a great guy, Chris was a classic entertainer, and Slava, once I’d finally managed to convince him not to be so damn shy, would talk to me at length about anything.

Still, I’d really rather they go home, no matter how much I like their company. I perch on the arm of the couch next to Sergei and yawn. Then I stretch. Then I check my watch.

Then I get pissed off. Men - they never notice anything.

Sergei of course isn’t doing anything to get them out the door, because he knows what’ll happen to him the second they’re gone. I know for a fact he isn’t doing it because he’s afraid of what I’ll do to him when they leave; he’s doing it to prolong my agony. He can be terribly tricky that way, every now and then doing something so manipulative and torturous that it actually surprises me. It also makes me a little proud: my little protégé.

Igor, Darren, Darius and Slava are all laughing hysterically. Darren’s been keeping them rolling in the aisles all night. Chris, on the other hand, has been fairly quiet. Then again, I suppose he’s probably got a right to be quiet. I’d be a little intimidated if I were him.

I squirm on the arm of the couch impatiently while everyone else bursts into another round of laughter. But nobody’s picking up on my signals mostly because they’re laughing too hard at Darren. Sergei meanwhile glances up at me and quite deliberately licks his lips.

“Bastard,” I whisper, so quietly I don’t even think he heard me, but he read my lips.

Well, now, that’s it. I’m going to get even. No question about it. I stand up, get myself a glass of water (I’ve had a lot to drink already and I don’t feel like having any more), and sit back down next to Chris.

“Having fun?” I ask him, giving him a bright smile usually only reserved for Sergei. This is mean and cruel, I know. I’m playing to his biggest - and probably only - imperfection. Although on the whole, Sergei is a wonderful human being, he occasionally lets his jealous streak out. At least, that’s what I’m hoping will happen. Dirty, yes, but it’ll make him hustle everybody out the door faster than I can bat my eyes at Chris.

Just to make sure he’s watching - and to make sure he knows I’m not doing it seriously but only because I know exactly what I’m doing - I look over and meet Sergei’s gaze. The other guys are chatting it up so they don’t notice when Sergei narrows his eyes at me. He, too, knows what I’m doing and that I’m not truly flirting. Chris is married, anyway, and wouldn’t know if I was flirting at all. I’ve seen women try with him; it falls flatter than Sergei’s pancakes.

“Probably one of the greatest nights of my life!” he exclaims. I know Chris is a big hockey fan which is why I was even happier to invite him.

I put my hand on his shoulder and smile again. “I’m so glad.”

“I can’t wait to tell Jean!” he tells me and I can hear Sergei chuckle. The mention of his wife has kind of ruined my plan, even though we all knew he was married anyway. Dammit. And now Sergei’s laughing at me. It is funny, really, a comedy of errors. I bite back my own laughter, not wanting Chris to think I’m laughing at him or his wife.

Still, I’m going insane with lust and Sergei is just making it worse. I pat Chris’s shoulder and stand up, going back to perch next to Sergei. I rest my hand on the back of his neck innocently, playing with his hair as he talks about a movie we’ve recently seen.

“We saw that last week. The end was a-“ I suddenly tighten my grip on his hair and he squeaks out the word “surprise” with a host of odd looks from the group. Nobody can see what I’m doing, but they’re not deaf.

I put on my best look of concern and glance down at him. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

He forces a smile. “Fine. Hiccups.”

Tease me, will you? I think at him.

And then, blessedly, Igor stands up, saying the usual post-party monologue about how it had been fun but it was late, we’ll have to get together again sometime. Slava stands too (Igor is his ride home and I have always thought it was so cute the way he idolizes Igor) and Sergei and I walk them to the door, Sergei saying goodbye and me giving out goodbye hugs.

Darren is now getting his coat, but Chris remains seated with obviously no intention of leaving until every last guest is gone. There are more goodbyes with Darren and at long last, Chris stands up. I get him his coat in record time and practically shove him out the door.

The moment I hear his car start, I turn on Sergei. “What the fuck did you think you were doing?” I demand with equal parts of arousal and amusement, all while doing my best to appear angry.

He looks at me innocently with a very convincing coquettish expression. “Me?”

He’s done it now. I no longer want to hurt him, bring tears to his eyes; I want to tease him, and tease him mercilessly. It occurs to me that perhaps this was why he was being such a tease himself all night. He really dislikes pain and I can remember earlier in the evening when I’d shared with him that I’d wanted to hurt him tonight.

Well, I suppose that’s okay. Teasing him is just as fun, and besides, there’s always tomorrow night. After being at the party, I guess I’m in a more playful mood than anything anyway. And I also know that Sergei likes to play, too, if I pick the right game.

Forcefully, I shove him against the door and pin him there. We both know he could move if he absolutely had to, but he’s thoroughly into this now. I nip at his throat and his breathing picks up. I can hear his breath catch as I run one hand down his chest and between his legs, my grip tightening to just short of painful.

I nod my head toward the stairs. “I want you upstairs, in the bedroom, right now,” I tell him in a low, throaty voice. I feel him shiver and the anticipatory eagerness in his eyes makes me groan softly. Suddenly, though, he glances at the after-party mess.

Hesitantly, he looks at me. “What about-“

I cut him off. “Leave it. Upstairs, now.”

He practically jogs up the stairs when I release him. I follow on his heels, into the bedroom, kicking off my shoes and pulling off my jewelry. He stands in the middle of the room, watching me toss my watch and earrings onto the dresser, waiting for me. I stare at him and debate, debate whether or not I want him to strip for me or whether I want to undress him myself. I’d definitely rather do it myself.

I walk up behind him and slide my arms around his waist. He leans back just a little, tilting his head so that it rests against mine. Such a sweet little gesture, I think as I run my hands up his sides and then over his shoulders, grabbing his suit coat by the lapels and yanking it backward. Sergei’s body jerks a little and the sight makes me weak. I toss the coat to one side and, rather than turn him to face me, circle him slowly.

I glance up at him and glare, an unspoken command that makes him drop his head immediately. I smile and reach out, taking him by the tie and pulling him toward me. He staggers forward a few steps and I see the color rising in his cheeks now. He’s never liked being pulled and pushed around. Which is a pity, because he looks so sexy when he lets me do it.

I slide the knot of his tie down and pull the end free, dragging the tie slowly out from under his collar. I love the sound it makes, the silky swish of smooth satin against crisp cotton. I unbutton his shirt and slip that off him as well, then peel off his t-shirt.

I put one hand behind his neck, pulling his head toward mine, my lips almost touching his. “Get on the bed,” I tell him. He complies, sitting down on the edge and then wriggling his way to the middle before lying down. I disappear into the closet for a moment and return with my best scarves, best in that they’re the longest, sturdiest, and sexiest things I can think of with which to tie him up. Besides, he’s staying where he is for a long time, and they also leave the fewest marks.

I crawl on top of him, moving slowly and seductively. I can feel his erection as I slide up his body, finally positioning myself with one knee on either side of him, staring down into his eyes, big and blue and now a little apprehensive. For all his talk tonight, he’s certainly not very confident anymore. I grin as I lean forward and take his right wrist, wrapping the scarf meticulously around his wrist, around the bedpost, and then knotting the ends. Sergei whines very softly and, although he’s trying to be discreet about it, hoping I won’t notice, he tugs just a little at his wrist.

Always has to test it, every time, I think.

I tie his left wrist just as securely and then sit back, admiring him. He swallows and looks up at me, giving me his patented please-let-me-go, how-can-you-do-this-to-me look. I can see the wheels turning in his head, as they always do right about now. He’s thinking, thoughts like maybe this wasn’t such a good idea and maybe if I say the right thing and give her the right look, she’ll untie me and we’ll make love and she’ll forget all about this game.

Never! the evil little voice in the back of my mind screams out triumphantly.

I do, however, lean forward once more to kiss him on the forehead lightly. He seems a little unnerved by that, as if it’s too sweet a thing for me to be doing in this situation. Quite right, but it’s the last sweet gesture he’ll get from me tonight. I reach behind him and grab the pillows, giving them a good hard toss across the room. I’m not trying to be cruel, but later on, they’ll only get in the way.

I slide off of him to one side and sit on my shins as I reach across his hip to unbuckle his belt. He’s squirming just a little, trying to rub himself against my wrists. I put one hand on each of hip and push him into the mattress firmly.

“Hold still,” I growl and, with some difficulty, he finally does manage to stop moving. I hate to do it; the image of him lying, tied up and thrusting his hips is indescribable. But I need to get him undressed and he’s only making it more difficult. I unbutton and then unzip his slacks, and finally move between his knees to pull the rest of his clothing off. I slip my hands under the waistband of his boxers and he jumps, both from the simple feel of my hands against his skin and, to a lesser degree, because my hands are chilly and contrast very nicely with the incredible heat of his body.

I pull firmly, without the pretense of seduction. He lifts his hips just enough to allow me to slide both boxers and pants down easily. I myself slide off the bed and finish the job, tossing the clothing aside. He raises his head from the mattress and blinks at me. I guess I’ve been standing there staring at him for awhile.

But it’s so hard not to stare. He looks so sweet and vulnerable with his wrists tied to our bed, his body trembling just a little out of apprehension or desire or both. When he raises his head, a lock of hair falls across his forehead and I close my eyes. I want him, more than anything else at that precise moment, more than I even want to tease him.

“Maggie.”

I open my eyes at the sound of his voice. Just the way he says my name at times like these, pleading, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, can make me come.

He’s staring at me anxiously. He’s never much cared for waiting in any form, and that doesn’t exclude my games, either. I take a breath. “Yes?”

“What are you going to do to me?” The question that I’m sure has been on his mind all night, and now, restrained with no hope of escape, he just has to know.

He’s not going to like the answer.

I walk to the side of the bed and sit down, reaching out and running my hand over his body. He shudders and I smile. “What am I going to do to you,” I repeat thoughtfully as my fingers curl around his cock and begin to stroke slowly. He groans and tries admirably to keep still. “What am I going to do to you… I don’t know what I’m going to do to you exactly,” I admit. “But-“ and I lean close to him conspiratorially as if I’m about to tell him the secrets of the universe, momentarily ceasing the rhythmic movement of my hand “- I know what I’m not going to do to you.”

He eyes me warily and I go on. “I’m not going to let you come.”

Sergei chokes out a short, abrupt sob.

This doesn’t stop me from continuing. In fact, it eggs me on. “I’m going to tease you endlessly, for hours and hours. I’ll make you need to come so badly it hurts. I’ll make you beg me to do things to you. But no matter how much you plead with me, I... won’t... stop.”

He knows, in some far corner of his mind, that he could make me stop, if he really wanted to, needed to, felt like he couldn’t go on. He rarely ever uses the safeword, though. Partly, I guess, a matter of pride and partly a matter of wanting to give me what I want.

"I'm not going to let you come. But I am going to tease you endlessly, make you beg me to do things to you, make you want to beg me to do things to you. And I'm going to do it all... night... long."

Sergei stares at me wide-eyed as if he couldn't quite believe me. I know he's dying to ask me something, if only just to confirm his worst fears. I raise my eyebrows. "Something you want to say?"

"A-all night?" he stutters, his voice cracking just a little.

I nod. "All night," I say firmly.

"And n-n-never..." he trails off, but I know what he's asking about.

"That's right."

I keep my fingers crossed, figuratively speaking, that he won't decide to end this right here and now.

I see his mind pondering the idea. It doesn't make him happy; his forehead is lined with worry, his eyes clouded with fear, his jaw set defiantly. But he remains quiet. I smile and pull at the band holding my hair up. It's been in all night and it's starting to give me a headache. Sergei watches me carefully, and I debate for a moment whether or not to gag him.

Not yet, is my final decision. After all, he sounds so hot when he whimpers.

"I have a game for you," I told him into the silence. I was smiling slightly, but I was very excited. I couldn't wait to try my game on him.

He looked doubly apprehensive. "A game?"

I nodded. "Yup. It's very nice. It goes like this." I retrieved the three dice I had hidden earlier in the evening. "Each die represents a different thing." I held up on of the dice. "One represents what I do to you. Another represents where I do this thing to you..."

Sergei was looking frightened - just a bit - now. I held up the third dice, grinning evilly. "And one represents what object I use on you."

He looked confused and I relished it. "What's the matter, baby? Don't you understand? Or am I not explaining myself well?"

Sergei cleared his throat. "I - I don't understand."

I smiled and walked over to him. Rubbing his arm with the lightest of touches, I told him, "Let me give you an example. Say I roll this die -" I held up the die in question "- and got a three. Well, that means for thirty minutes - three times ten - I would do this thing to you. See? To find out what this thing is, we have to roll this die. Each number is a different thing. One is Licking. Two is Sucking. Three is Rubbing. Four is Tickling. Five is slapping. And six, baby, is biting or scratching - my choice." I smiled sweetly.

Sergei looked dismayed. Sweat had formed on his upper lip. He cleared his throat again.

"What - what's the last one for?"

"Glad you asked. The last one," and I pause for dramatic effect, "is where. Where on you I'm going to do this."

I can see the list of things running through his mind, from licking to scratching, and the list of possible locations that I'll choose. I suppose the first four aren't all that bad. In fact, I know they aren't. It's the last two that are making him start to tremble.

He shifts his body on the bed a little, wriggling his hips to inch himself upward on the bed enough to take at least some of the stress off his arms. Then he blinks up at me. "Where is - where are you - where?" he finally asks simply.

I reach out to him with my fingers and begin counting.

"One," I say as I brush his lips with the very tips of my fingers, and I can feel his breath coming quicker, more ragged. "Two." I trail my fingernails down his inner forearm and he twitches, pulling a little at the scarves. "Three," as I rub my palm over his right nipple. He bites his lower lip and I can tell he's nervous about four, five, and six. "Four," I tell him, gently cupping his balls, and "Five," when I close my fingers around the shaft of cock and stroke upward, just once. He's eyeing me wildly now, and I know he knows what six is.

But I tell him anyway. "And six," I conclude, sliding one fingertip over the head of his penis. He stifles a yelp.

I grin. "Shall we begin?"

Without waiting for an answer, I roll the fist die. Two. "Well, aren't you lucky," I tell him. "We're starting out easy so far. Twenty minutes. Let's see just how I will be doing this…thing…to you." I flipped the die into the air. Sergei watched anxiously as it landed on the bed beside him. Four. "Mmm…tickling," I murmur teasingly. If there is anything Sergei hates as much as pain, it is tickling.

He groaned.

"Where will we be doing this tickling for the next twenty minutes?" I ask rhetorically. "Let's find out."

Another four. I practically squeal. Perfect.

"What? Where is it, Maggie?"

I must have had a gleeful look on my face for him to ask me so anxiously.

"Oh, nowhere," I teased. Then I lightly gripped him between his legs. "Just your balls."

Sergei's look of alarm would be funny if I weren't enjoying myself so much. I looked at the clock to begin timing my twenty minutes. It wouldn't be fair to cheat.

Slowly, my touch light as a feather, I began stroking Sergei's balls.

He started laughing. "Ahhh! Maggie! No!" More laughing. This was fun! "Not there, please, Maggie, nooooo!!!!"

He's laughing so hard the headboard is smacking against the wall. I move to one side and lay across his lower stomach to try and keep him from writhing around so much. He's still laughing, but at least now the movement of the bed isn't so violent.

In fact, he's laughing so hard it's making me laugh. I giggle, and with Sergei rolling with laughter below me, it feels so strange that it makes me giggle so hard I can hardly breathe.

Regardless, I'm still tickling him.

"Stop, stop, stop, please!" he begs fervently, his eyes shut tightly and his voice unsteady with the laughter. But of course I don't stop. In fact, his begging only eggs me on, and I redouble my efforts, making my touch that much lighter.

I stroke, I make little nondescript patterns, and I drive Sergei insane. After ten minutes, he's panting and, despite his lack of fondness for tickling, beginning to get hard again. I'm feeling a little seasick and decide that it's better to just let the bed hit the wall. If it leaves marks, we can always repaint. I get up and reposition myself - which gives him a moment or two to regain his breath: a gesture of kindness and appreciation on my part - and start in again.

By the time the clock says 19 minutes have gone by, Sergei is laughing so hard that there is no sound coming from him. Tears roll down his cheeks and he's bucking his hips like crazy, trying to get away from my hand. I worry in the back of my mind that he'll hurt himself, or that he'll accidentally make me scratch him. Then again, that's not really my problem.

"Maggie!" he shrieks, drawing out my name. "No!"

12:17.

I feel a little bit sad. After all, this has been so much fun. And Sergei doesn't seem to have minded too much. Well, we had a lot more hours to go.

"See?" I tell him. "That's all there is to it!"

"It wasn't bad," he admits, wheezing a little and emitting a short little giggle now and then.

"Let's see what happens next," I say and his giggling stops altogether.

"Next?" he bleats.

"You didn't think this was a one-shot deal, did you? Oh, no, baby, this is gonna be a long, long game," I tell him and give the first die and jaunty little toss into the air. It hits the bed with a fabric-y thud. "One," I say. "Only ten minutes, whatever it is."

Sergei actually appears to relax just a little. I throw the next die with a flourish. "Hm," I tell him, furrowing my eyebrows and pretending to look intense. "A six."

"S-six?"

I grin and the effect is probably evilly chilling. "Scratching and biting. My discretion."

He groans, half from arousal and half from fear.

"Last one," I tell him in a sing-song voice. We both watch it soar into the air, but only I can see the number showing when it lands.

"Hm," I say.

"What? What, Maggie? Where is it?" His voice is a bit shaky. Mine would be too. I know what he's thinking: What if the scratching is to the head of his penis? I know that's what he's worrying about.

I pause meanly for a moment before revealing, "Three. Your nipples."

I can see Sergei is only mildly relieved. His nipples were the next thing he would have dreaded having bitten or scratched. Oh, I loved this game.

"Maaaaaggggie….noooo." His eyes implored me. But I ignored him.

"You're lucky it's only ten minutes," I scolded, and started in with my fingernails. 12:20 the clock read.

Being rather gentle at first - more of a tickling motion - I begin scratching around his nipples. Sergei tried to bring his arms down to protect himself, but of course, he couldn't. I made a slow spiral around his left nipple, coming closer and closer to the little nub.

Gradually, I increased the severity of my scratching and soon had Sergei jumping wildly, attempting to get away from my touch.

"Ow! Maggie, please! It hurts! Ow!"

I knew it wasn't hurting terribly, but I also knew Sergei's nipples were very sensitive. They were standing erect now, as a matter of fact, from the constant stimulation of the last four minutes. His cock was also erect and now beginning to leak slightly. Very sensitive nipples indeed.

I used my index finger to scratch lightly across the surface of the right one, rather abruptly leaving the left. The left was getting rather raw.

As soon as I scraped over the nub Sergei jolted in the bed.

"Ahhh!!"

It was a sound halfway between arousal and pain. Sergei's cock bobbed.

"How does that feel?" I asked curiously, switching to his right nipple.

"Ah! Ow! Maggie…it hurts!" he gasped. "And…ow! It…it feels - good…too." His hips squirmed on the bed and his upper body twisted, trying to escape the intense sensations.

"Good." I stopped. "Time's up."

"Unngh…" Sergei gulped at the air. His hair was getting fairly matted by now. His nipples looked sore and red and swollen. His cock seeped steadily.

I'm not much better off. My hair is hanging wildly in my face and I'm panting right along with Sergei. "Last time," I decide, "at least for now." There are lots of other things I have in mind for tonight, but this makes for a wonderful way to get started.

Sergei's head flops back onto the mattress and he mutters something unintelligible in Russian. I reach up and wipe his forehead, brushing the damp hair away from his face. "No, God, Maggie, please," he murmurs, looking up at me with his beautiful blue eyes. I rest my hand on his cheek and he turns his head, brushes my palm with his lips, his eyes closed.

I lean over him and stare down at him with sympathy.

"Just hope it's nothing too painful."

He chokes out something that sounds like a swear word. I decide to be a little nicer; I don't want him getting sick of this too early on. I toss all three dice up in the air at the same time and decide to mix and match, picking the numbers and their corresponding meanings according to what would be the easiest on Sergei. Sergei doesn't even really seem to realize that I'm doing things differently. He's still gasping for breath and trying to hold still.

I end up with a very improbable roll and I think that fate must be on his side tonight. I stare at the dice, two ones and a two. I consider the options. Ten minutes takes care of one of the ones. "Ten minutes," I tell him, and he breathes an enormous sigh of relief. I stare at the other two dice.

"Licking," I decide. "And….Forearms."

Sergei sighs with relief. I need some too. I straddle his thigh - carefully away from his crotch - and begin rubbing myself on his leg slowly and I lean over to lick his left forearm.

Sergei moans sharply. I'm sure he doesn't know which sensation to concentrate on. I do. I watch the clock to know when to time my release. Three minutes gone.

I lick him faster and faster, wrist to elbow, as I writhe on his thigh. He's writhing with me, making the same noises I am. Noises of desire and longing.

The difference is, I'm slaking mine and his is building and building and building.

I know it is incredibly frustrating for him when I finally come and my licking stops as the orgasm rushes through me. He watches with longing, his frantic thrusts and jerks adding to my pleasure.

Ten minutes.

Impeccable timing. I'm still panting as I roll onto my back next to Sergei. He's squirming, thrusting his hips just a little, and whimpering every now and then. Those sounds make me shiver, and I reach out with my left hand and run my palm up his chest and neck to his cheek.

We lay there, quiet except for Sergei's whimpers, and I close my eyes. My dress feels terribly constricting and I feel a little stupid for not having taken it off sooner. But things were just moving along so quickly, I forgot. Oh well, nothing a little trip to the dry cleaner's won't fix, I suppose.

Nevertheless, it is uncomfortable. I sit up and reach behind me, unzipping it. Sergei opens his eyes and looks at me hopefully. I stand up and out of the dress before returning to sit beside him on the bed. His face falls.

He's sweating, from the exertion of trying to free himself, from being so aroused, from watching me come and being tied up and restrained. It all adds up, and now his whole body is slick with sweat. It's running down his neck, off his chest, soaking his hair. He always looks so sexy right about now, desperate, vulnerable, and wet.

I twist my body so that I'm lying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows. I lean forward, my cheek against his, my breath tickling his ear. "Guess what happens now."

I lick my lips and consider my options. I could just fuck him. Ride him until we both came. It wouldn't take long, that's for sure. I could just tease him some more before I fuck him. I could jerk him off. I could suck him off, with some heavy teasing thrown in there. Hm.

But then I remember all of the teasing he did to me tonight and I decide that he won't get out of this easily. He won't get out at all. I'm going to be merciless.

Besides, it's been almost two months since I last had my way with him and if I quit now, I most certainly wouldn't be satisfied. He woke something inside me tonight. Something dark. He'll have to pay the price, I decide.

"Game time," I tell him and I know my smile is twisted. Sergei knows he's in trouble.

"Maggie, please," he tries again. "I don't think I can do this tonight. I - I need to come. I don't like this game anymore."

"Tough. You should have thought of that while you were playing them all night. I warned you."

I picked up the die and Sergei whimpered. God, I loved that.

I roll the first die. "Oooh. Sixty minutes." Sergei made a strangled sound and clenched his fists tight. I rolled again. "Three. Rubbing. Mmmm. What would be the best place to rub? Let's find out." Sergei is trembling slightly now, but I notice his penis is leaking fluid steadily. I roll the die. Six. Perfect. "Think your dickhead can stand to be rubbed for sixty minutes straight without squirting?" I tease shamelessly.

Sergei gasps and squirms frantically, "Maggie!!! Please! No! Not there, please, please, please, lyubovnik!!!!! I can't - please!!" You'd think he just got sentenced to Death Row.

He's practically in tears now, but I find I have no mercy in me. In fact, his whining is beginning to irritate me. Quickly, I gather my panties from the floor and stuff them in his mouth cruelly. I grab his face roughly.

"Don't spit them out," I growl.

I untie his makeshift blindfold and see that I am right - his eyelashes are wet. I ignore it and gag him with his tie, pulling it tight.

I lean back and breathe heavily, staring at him for a moment. "I'm in a mood, pet," I warn him seriously. "You put me there. You are going to have to pay the consequences. I won't let up tonight, no matter how much you beg me. I meant what I said when I started this game. It's going to be a long night, pet, so if you get to a point where you truly cannot stand it, snap your fingers. That's your safeword tonight. Understand?"

He was looking at me strangely, mixed emotions flooding his eyes, as if he couldn't decide which one to feel. I saw fear, of course. Arousal, need, desire, lust, a bit of anger. And confusion. I'm sure that was due to my calling him "pet". I had never used that particular…endearment on him; I don't think he liked it. But he was hardly in a position to argue at the moment. I gripped his hair tightly and pulled to the side roughly. "Do you understand?" He closed his eyes, whimpering around the gag, a tear slipping out - but nodded yes, once.

He hadn't snapped his fingers. I think he knew better. Knew better than to snap me out of my trance when I was already this deep into it. That wouldn't be good at all. He probably figured he should ride this one out to the end and he was right.

I gathered myself and crawled back between his widely spread legs. Sergei whined behind his gag, watching me desperately. Intently. Begging me not to do this to him. I reached out my finger and slid it across his head. Sergei arched off the bed and squawked loudly. 12:44.

Leisurely, I rubbed my thumb around his glans in a circular motion, lightly. Sergei writhed helplessly, moaning deep in his throat. His moans turned to soprano almost-screams when I switched from his glans to his gaping piss-slit. Ever so delicately, I ran the callused side of my thumb up and down that sensitive opening, watching as Sergei madly tried to pump his hips, to twist away from my agonizing, salacious touch.

Precum ran in thick ropes from his cock and I smeared it in ruthlessly, varying my pressure on his purple, swollen head. I watched his balls carefully. When he was close to coming I would slow my caresses down to a torturous impossible-to-come pace. I kept him as hard as he could get and on the edge most of the time. His slit was wide open.

Sergei was sobbing and begging me to stop after ten minutes. Not that he could say anything very intelligible around the gag, but the tone of his cries and the look on his face said it plainly. Stop, please.

I glare at him intensely as I lightly rub the tip of his cock, so lightly he can barely feel it. He’s gone back to moaning, deep in his throat, and he is writhing slowly on the bed, his head turned to one side on the pillow. I let a few minutes pass like this, enough to let him cool down a bit. Maybe I just want to hear him panting through his nose, around the gag, trying to catch his breath. Or to see him pleading with me, using only his eyes.

A tear slipped over his lower lashes and ran down his cheek. I groaned. And then I went back to rubbing my thumb across his piss-slit. The sound I get from him makes me shudder. He jerks his hips, first to one side, and then upward, trying to rub himself against my hand. I let it go; he really can’t help himself anymore. Besides, watching him thrusting his hips, trying so desperately to get himself off, is making me hotter by the second. I rub and wait, watching him push his cock upward, seeking any sort of friction he can get - a hopeless situation, since I hold my hand just out of his reach until I stroke a finger across his slit again.

I almost can’t bear to stop doing that to him, and I truly do lose track of time.

When I look at the clock now, it reads 1:42. One forty-two a.m.? Have I really been doing this to him for 58 minutes? Sergei is covered in sweat and breathing hard, never still for a moment. He twists and contorts himself and whines around the gag. Precum coats the entire length of his cock and puddles beneath him. I guess I really have been teasing him for that long. I have two more minutes, and I decide to make them unbearable.

Rather than pausing between strokes, I increase the pressure and rub, hard. He shrieks and it’s clearly audible, even with the gag. I can’t begin to imagine how intense that must feel. I’m doing it much too slowly to allow him to come, but he’s right on the edge. His hips buck as much as they can and the precum surges from his cock. I smear it around the head and Sergei sobs.

1:44 a.m.

“Impressive,” I tell him breathlessly. I haven’t even realized that I’ve been panting right along with him, but now that I’ve stopped, I realize how hot I am and how badly I want to come. Sergei doesn’t respond except to whimper and arch his back a little. A short little sob escapes, and I move to sit next to him, brushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“That really wasn’t terrible, was it?”

Sergei doesn’t answer. If he says yes, he runs the risk of pissing me off. If he says no, I’ll probably do it some more. I stare at him and all I want to do is fuck him. But I know for a fact that he won’t last two seconds, even if I threaten to do worse things to him if he does come. I think for a moment and then stand.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” I tell Sergei, who gets a pleading look in his eyes and tentatively shakes his head “no”. This gives me pause, and I reach out to touch his cheek gently and wipe away the tears that still stream down his face. “Shh,” I say sweetly and wander to the closet.

I know exactly what I’m looking for, and when I find it, I smile. It’s a rather odd looking little contraption, but then again, I doubt there are any strap-ons that look anything other than odd. This one is a little different though; it’s fitted for a man, with straps and buckles that attach the device at the base of his penis and forces it aside, erection or not. It’s painful for Sergei in and of itself, and even worse if I’m using it.

I emerge from the closet to find Sergei with his head lying back on the mattress, eyes closed. He doesn’t see what I’m holding but the moment he feels the latex and the leather against his skin, he knows what it is and his head comes up, eyes open wide. He whines through his gag and his eyes beg me not to do it. He’s so hard, it’ll be excruciating.

In a fleeting gesture of kindness, I don’t buckle the straps as tightly as I normally would have. When I position Sergei’s cock into the harness, he shrieks and sobs. Those noises… I hurriedly finish strapping him in and crawl on top of him, exaggerating my motions as I slide onto the strap-on. Sergei looks more betrayed than I’ve ever seen before.

That look makes me come in a matter of seconds, and I haven’t even moved. And all he can do is watch.

I think that aside from the actual physical pain, the worst thing about all this for Sergei is the fact that he completely doesn’t matter. It’s not even his cock I’m fucking. He’s useless in the whole situation, only able to watch me come, so unfair since he can’t. Not to mention the fact that each time I raise and lower my hips, I’m reinforcing the pain of having his erection bent at an unbearable angle.

He’s looking at me, so persecuted and betrayed at what I’ve done to him, and, now that I’ve recovered a little, what I’m currently doing. I stare at him as I ride him (figuratively speaking) and grin. Sergei cries.

It doesn’t take very long for me to come the second time, either. Sergei’s pleading looks and muffled whines and whimpers push me over the edge very quickly again. But the third time, I take it slowly, concentrating more on what this does to Sergei than to me.

His eyes are closed now, and I know he’s trying to think of anything that will make his erection go away, or at least ebb a little.

“Open your eyes,” I order breathlessly. After a long pause, he does, and I can see the tears standing in them, the helpless, vulnerable, desperate expression in them. I come for the third time, violently, and collapse on top of Sergei, panting, listening to him breathe for a little while.

At last, I manage to slide off him to one side. He turns his head toward me and blinks his eyes, squeezing them a few times to get rid of the remaining tears. I take pity on him and reach behind his head to untie his gag. I pull the cloth out of his mouth and he begins to sob in earnest again.

“Please, Maggie, please stop, I can’t take that anymore, please!” he begs, choking on his sobs.

I’m so cruel. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, God, Maggie, please! It hurts! No more, pleeease,” he cries, and I nod.

“Okay,” I say softly and unbuckle the straps. Sergei looks at me as if he can’t quite believe that that’s all it took for me to give in. In fact, he looks downright wary as I slide the straps through the buckles and toss it all aside. His cock is still hard, despite all the pain I know he must’ve been going through when it was strapped down. I run my fingertips up the shaft and he grits his teeth, making a sound somewhere between agony and arousal.

“Does that feel good, or does it hurt?” I ask, licking my lips.

“Both,” he manages to get out from between clenched teeth.

“How?”

Sergei doesn’t vocally answer me. Instead, he groans deeply and arches his back. But I’m in no mood to be denied anything, and that includes a simple answer to a simple question. “How,” I start again, “can it hurt and still feel good?”

He bites his lower lip and looks pained, as if it’s hurting him just to answer. “It hurts because it feels too good.”

I grin wickedly. No time like the present to play mind games. “Or does it feel good because it hurts so much? Is that it, maybe? You get off on pain?” I rub my palm over the head of his cock a few times and his breath catches in his throat, nearly choking him. He shakes his head no violently and I giggle. “I think that’s it. I think you like the pain,” I tell him wickedly. “I think I’ll keep it up. All -“ drawing circles around his cockhead with my fingernail, “- Night. Long.”

Sergei’s eyes are huge and filling with tears of utter desperation as I draw this out. Goddam, I’m such a bitch. In some far off corner of my mind, even I can’t believe how cruel I’m being. But he has the safeword.

I scrape my fingernail down one side of his piss-slit and Sergei nearly loses his voice in his scream. I fear for the integrity of my scarves as he arches off the bed. His howls are deafening.

“Maaaaggggiiiieeee!!!! P-pppplllleeeeaassse!!!!” The rest of his gurgles are unintelligible. In turns me on beyond belief.

I know telling him to be still will have no effect by now. I have frustrated him beyond words. But it is frustrating me as well because I want to frustrate him MORE and can’t do it well if he’s bucking all over the bed.

My eye catches the pillows I had set on the other side of the room and I quickly get them.

Sergei’s midsection has returned to the bed. He’s looking at me with the most pathetic look I have ever seen. I knew he must be in pain and half out of his mind with need. He was dripping with sweat everywhere and his cock was purple. I could even tell that his balls were swollen.

Damn, this turned me on so.

I walked over to him, a grin on my face. “Lift your hips, pet.”

He stares at me for a moment, sniffling. I’m about to get angry and maybe he can see it in my eyes because he lifts. I shove the pillows under his ass and lower back, forcing his groin into the air. Now he will be less mobile - and more accessible.

I step back and smile. Perfect. Time for another round.

I can’t do too much more to him, or at least, too much more too much harder; he’s in pain anyway, and if I make it hurt worse, I run the risk that he’ll give up and safeword. I glance around and my eyes fall on his tie, the one that I’d used to blindfold and gag him. Ideas run at a screaming pace through my head and I practically lunge for that tie.

I dangle it in front of me, contemplating it. Sergei struggles to raise his head enough to be able to see what I’m doing. His eyes rest on the tie and I think he assumes I’m going to blindfold or gag him again. Instead, I wrap it around my wrist a few times and let one end hang down, just long enough so that when I wave my hand above his hips, the tip brushes his cock.

There is no word to describe the sound he makes, but his voice breaks in the middle of it. I congratulate myself; I’ve found the perfect way to tease him now. Anything heavier than cloth would be so intense that it would cause more pain than pleasure. Anything that came in contact with him for more than a few seconds would most likely make him come. But the light touch of the satin for a split-second across the head of his cock… it was so perfect.

I bring my hand over again and the end of the tie brushes his piss-slit.

Sergei chokes out a groan from deep in his throat and tries in vain to buck his hips. He can move them about half an inch upward before he reaches the end of his range of movement and has to thrust them back down into the pillows. He sobs frantically and begs so prettily.

“Maggie, please, don’t, don’t, no more, please, Maggie, oh please.” He strings his words together so they form a fluid sequence, his tone rising and falling. It sounds so wonderful to me, and it turns me on beyond belief, hearing him begging in that sweet, smooth voice - although now it’s not so smooth.

But no matter how much he begs, no matter how beautiful the performance he gives, I’m not stopping.

I continue with the tie for another forty minutes before I can’t stand it myself and masturbate to the rhythm or Sergei’s harsh sobbing and incoherent pleading. I come with thundering force and Sergei screams with me, hips wiggling as much as he is able, cock waving in the air. Strings of precum fly from the tip. His slit is parted wide open, the edges raw and puffy. The same for his glans.

Suddenly, I am exhausted. I have to sleep. I crawl up into the bed next to him. I know I haven’t sated my desires when I hear myself say, “Goodnight, pet.”

“What!? Maggie, nnnooo!!! Please! Please! Help me!!!” Sergei’s voice is utterly frantic and I love it. I will teach him a lesson about teasing me. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know that I will feel terrible for this later. But right now, I don’t really care.

When I make no move except to snuggle in tighter in response to Sergei’s urgent pleading he stops, breath hitching. His voice grows quieter, though no less urgent.

“Oh, God, please, Maggie. I’m so sorry. Don’t do this to me, please….Maggie. Please, lyubovnik….I hurt so bad. I am sorry.”

Shit. Lyubovnik almost got me. I grit my teeth at the truth in his voice and surge up in anger. I do not want to be brought out of this mood.

“Am I going to have to gag you?” I ask cruelly, staring him straight in the eye.

He looks back and the hurt is so naked I switch to a point above his eyebrow. “No, Maggie.” It is a whisper.

I shut off the lights. “Good.” I am asleep moments later, terrible dreams following me down.

*****

It takes me a little while to figure out exactly why I’m awake. In fact, it takes me a little while to remember just how we got in this situation. I blink and it all comes rushing back to me, and a moment later I know what woke me up. Sergei is shivering. Not a lot, but enough to make the mattress shake, just a little. I stretch slowly underneath the covers and then sit up. Sergei looks over at me then when he realizes I’m awake. His eyes are red and swollen, partly from crying and partly from having spent the entire night awake. I tuck my hair behind my ear and regard him with sympathy. I’m still in quite a mood, but I have left him tied up and painfully erect all night with no blankets. “Are you cold?” I ask. My voice isn’t kind, but it isn’t cruel either. Sergei nods and sniffles. I sigh.

“I’m not going to untie you all the way,” I warn, but I move to his wrists and free them from the bedposts. He makes an appreciative little noise and bends his arms carefully as if he’s testing them. I let him stretch for a moment before I hold my hands out. Dutifully, wearing a pathetic expression, he extends his wrists and I tie them securely in front of him. His ankles I leave tied. It’s unnatural to have your arms stretched above you; your legs do it anyway. But I do pull the bedspread out from underneath him and lay it over him. I also notice that he’s still semi-erect, even after all this time. I almost reach out to stroke him a few times but realize I’m still too tired to do an adequate job of teasing him.

He stops shivering almost immediately after I put the blanket over him and he looks at me gratefully.

“Thank you.” I can hardly hear him, and I wonder if it’s because he’s hoarse or because he’s afraid of me.

I yawn and curl back up underneath the covers. “I’m going back to sleep,” I tell him. He nods and looks ready to cry. I glance meaningfully at his midsection. “And if you touch yourself, you’ll be in even more trouble.” He nods again but says nothing. I fall back to sleep.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I pretend to fall back to sleep. I had actually planned on it when I repositioned him and all, but it occurred to me that Sergei would most definitely not have the self control (at least, not after all I’d put him through tonight) to keep his hands away from his dick, no matter what I threatened him with. So now it would become another game to me, to lay there, pretending to sleep and waiting to catch him.

I don’t know how much time goes by; I can’t see the clock from my side of the bed but I guess that it was about half an hour. I can hear Sergei sniffle from time to time, feel him shift on the bed beside me. He holds rather still and I know he’s trying to go back to sleep. But it’s not going to happen. He’ll be awake until he comes. Nevertheless, I’m surprised that he hasn’t tried something yet. He must be trying so hard to be good.

That thought makes me wet all over again and it’s all I can do to keep my breathing deep and even, to not squirm.

But then I feel the bed move just a little, and I know that Sergei’s finally given in to himself. I lay very still for a while longer before I venture to open one eye. I’m lying on my side, facing Sergei, so I can see very clearly what he’s doing.

He's got his left hand wrapped tightly around his cock and is stroking himself as fast as he can while still keeping his movement to a minimum. I watch him through slitted eyes until I can tell he's getting close.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Sergei jumps, startled. The look of panic on his face when he looks at me is almost comical. His eyes are huge and his cheeks are flushed. He's caught and he knows he's in trouble.

"I told you not to touch yourself." My voice is low.

Sergei's face is pained, his hands still on his cock. I look at his groin and he follows my gaze, blushing deeper.

"Maggie…I…."

I shake my head. "Give me your hands."

Sergei starts to shake and his eyes go teary. "Please, Maggie! I'm sorry! I - the…the sheet…it kept rubbing me," he sniffled abjectly.

I ignore him and bring his tied hands above his head. I untie one end and loop it around the center of the headboard, so his arms are above him not stretched to the side.

Softly, I stroke his cock with one hand. "I told you not to touch yourself and you did anyway. Now, I'm in a bad mood, pet." Sergei is writhing and gasping now.

I stop my masturbation with him on the edge and carefully bring the sheet over him, making sure it rubs roughly on his cock.

"I'm going to sleep again. It would be best for you to do the same, pet. It will be a long day for you."

Sergei moans softly, but he doesn’t say anything else. Meanwhile, I fluff up my pillow before curling up and snuggling in. I close my eyes and feel immediately sleepy once more. Out of curiosity, I raise my head for a moment to check the time. It’s a little after five in the morning and still dark outside. I yawn and lie back down, this time going to sleep for real.

I dream of nothing in particular but when I wake up the next morning, well-rested and warm, I still remember the feelings in the dreams, dark and erotic. I stretch and peer over the side of the bed, fishing for something to put on. I finally come up with Sergei’s shirt and button it as I crawl back under the sheets where it’s still warm.

Sergei is actually asleep, something that doesn’t surprise me. He was up most of the night and teased for hours, kept right on the edge of orgasm with no release. There was no doubt in mind that eventually he’d go to sleep simply because he was exhausted.

I stretch again and wander into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get the tangles out of my hair, the usual morning routine types of things. You’d never know that I had a man tied up and - if he were conscious - in sexual agony. I run a washcloth under the warm water and wash my face, feeling more awake by the minute and, happily, still in an unbreakable dominant frame of mind. I lean back to glance out the bathroom door and see Sergei, sleeping and bound. I turn the water off and drop the cloth in the sink, walking back out to stand by the bed and watch him sleep.

He looks so sweet and innocent, with a peaceful expression on his face, his breathing deep and even. A lock of hair hangs down over his forehead and his lips are parted just a little. As much as I like to watch him sleep like that, I have to wake him up. It’s not any fun at all if he’s asleep.

Quietly, I pull back the sheet and stare at his groin, still thrust high in the air. His cock is semi-hard.

I reach out and lightly trail a finger along the top of his shaft. Sergei moans softly in his sleep, hips shifting. I continue rubbing softly until he is fully erect. His cock is chafed a bit and the head is still puffy around the slit from the abuse of the previous night.

Sergei is awake now, barely, but he is rapidly growing more alert. I switch my attentions to his swollen balls.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," I purr, tickling at his ballsac. They are drawn up tight to his body, as they had been for most of the night. I'm quite sure the muscle at the base of his nuts is very sore. I know it is because it is quite distended.

"I bet these are sore, hm, baby?" I ask with mock sympathy, fondling his balls lightly.

Sergei whimpers and nods his head, squirming as much as possible in the tight bondage.

"Well, then," I breathe. "Let me help you work some of the kinks out." I begin rubbing and pressing on the bulging spot just behind his balls and Sergei hisses sharply, toes curling tight. His whole body is wound tight as a drum.

His cock begins drooling again, the skin on the head pulled taut. Every time I press on the spot behind his balls, Sergei jolts and more precum oozes out of his penis.

He starts begging me. "Please, Maggie! Let me come!! Please!!! I'm sorry!!! It hurt so bad, Maggie! Please!!" All the usual stuff. I ignore it and continue pressing that spot, moving to his balls or his thighs or his nipples when he gets too close.

Soon, he is unable to do anymore than whine and whimper and cry. Any sounds he makes are not human. He's just an animal now, he can no longer form words. My hand is slick again with his fluid. I look at the clock. 8:23am. I'll tease him til 9. Then his day will truly begin.

What to do until then, though…

Across the room, I spy one of my favorite toys. Ahhh… That necktie, I’m sure, is fairly done for. I will be impressed if any amount of cleaning will ever make it look the same. I also wonder if Sergei would even want to take it to the dry cleaner’s. I ponder that thought for a minute, how humiliating it would be for him to have to take it in, knowing full well what it had been through and what the stains were from. The dry cleaner’s would know, too. Sergei can’t even form words to beg me with anymore, but he shakes his head frantically and sobs, pulling hard on the scarves and trying to wiggle free despite the fact that both he and I know full well they won’t loosen. Not a bit - I’m too good at tying him up now. But he still pulls and sobs.

And I haven’t even touched him yet.

Once again, I wrap the tie around my hand, but I don’t let the end dangle. I tuck it into the wrapping and hold out my hand, rubbing the silk over the tip of his cock quickly. Sergei shrieks and chokes, incoherent. I do it again, smearing the precum and driving him insane. At least, I think, I’m being nice. As chafed as he is, silk is probably easier to deal with than, say, my hand.

I do this until the tie is soaked with precum. Sergei is nearly screaming - and quite steadily - so cruelly, I glance at the tie, then at Sergei, then at the unused scarf that had been holding his right wrist to the bed, now lying on the mattress. I pick it up, give one more glance at the tie, and then lean close to Sergei who is still sobbing.

“Open,” I say and he does without even bothering to see what I’m gagging him with this time. In fact, he probably already knows. I shove the majority of the tie in his mouth and use the scarf to secure it there. At least now maybe that will keep him a little quieter. But not too much; hearing him make those sounds is so sexy.

When I’m done tying the last knot, I glance at the clock. 9:02. Well, that seemed short-lived. But on to bigger and better things.

For a moment I ponder what to do. The ball stretcher! I grab one from the closet. The one inch one, just to be merciful.

Sergei's balls are so swollen it's hard to get a good grip on them. When he sees what I'm about to do to him he starts pleading through the gag with all his might. I understand why. The separator/stretcher is painful. With him as aroused and frustrated as he is it will super-painful. It's a rather cruel contraption - perfect for my mood today. I just hope he won't safeword before I work myself out of it.

I pulls his balls down and strap the contraption on. Sergei screams hoarsely and then louder when I pull the strap up between his nuts, separating them from each other. Now, both of his nuts are trapped between the leather straps, the skin around them pulled tight. They would be much more sensitive to any sort of stimulation.

Sergei is breathing heavily, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Let's get you washed up," I tell him.

I undo his legs and then his arms and he groans at the feeling. I know his joints are terribly stiff and aching.

"Get up, pet."

Sergei rolls off the pillows, watching me warily. He stands on wobbly legs and I grab his wrists, leading him to the bathroom. I leave the gag in.

His precum makes a trail to the bathtub.

I stand Sergei in the shower and tie his hands to the shower bar.

"Spread your legs."

Afraid not to, he does so. Then, with the spreader bar, I make sure they stay that way. What I'm going to do to him will make him want to close his legs tight.

I turn the shower on and lather him up, careful not to stimulate him too much. As it is, he's moaning from the feel of the water running over his cock and balls.

Getting him rinsed off I soap up a finger. Gently I begin to rub his backside, getting closer and closer to his asshole. Sergei is moaning. But as soon as I touch him there he stops and tries to jerk away.

"No."

I try again, pressing lightly and Sergei again pulls forward, trying to close his legs. I'm glad for the spreader bar.

I slap very lightly at his balls, and he almost doubles over in agony - he would have if not for being tied to the shower bar.

"I said 'no'."

Catching his breath, Sergei finally allows me to ease my finger inside. He hisses sharply. I rotate my finger until I find what I'm looking for. It's not hard to find at all and Sergei just about passes out when I brush my finger against his prostate.

I press my finger down and Sergei shudders, his cock literally spurting a gob of precum.

He groans and starts humping the air helplessly before trying to ram himself onto my finger. I allow him to do this for a minute, driving himself to a frenzy. His prostate is nearly twice the size of what it should be. When I know he is on the verge of orgasm, I simply move my finger away.

Sergei howls in frustration, literally grinding himself into the air. I watch the show and masturbate. I come quickly.

"You like having something up your ass," I taunt him, once I am recovered enough to speak. He shakes his head weakly.

"That's okay, we can do something about that," I tell him. I go and wet a wash cloth with freezing cold water and then go grab a few toys from my closet. I return and drape the wash cloth over Sergei's dripping erection. He hisses as the cold hits him and then whimpers as he loses his erection.

Quickly, I strap the chastity device I had retrieved on him. It forces his penis down, between his legs, but still allows for painful erection. It is extremely difficult to come.

Then, evilly, I lube up the plug and ease it into Sergei. I make sure it rests against his prostate. Any movement will stimulate him nicely. I twist the plug just to test it.

Sergei swallows a gasp and thrusts his hips involuntarily. I smile.

"Ready to begin the day, pet?"

I don’t wait for an answer. Instead, I unlock the spreader bar and place it on the tile floor, and then untie his wrists from the shower bar. “Come on,” I tell him, leaving the water running but guiding him out of the shower. The moment he moves, though, the plug rubs against his prostate and he moans, biting down hard on the gag and shuddering. I smile cruelly and give a firm tug on his bound wrists. He manages to step out of the shower but that’s about as far as he goes. He stands in the middle of the bathroom, his hips bucking helplessly, groaning.

I move to stand behind him and reach between his legs, cupping his balls gently. He sucks in a sharp breath around his gag and his knees shake. “Does that feel good?” I breathe, and he nods miserably, his eyes squeezed shut. The plug is stimulating him incredibly, but he’s locked into something that will most definitely not let him come, although he’s assuredly got a very painful erection.

I run my hand up his back and into his hair. “I’m taking a shower. I’ll be out in fifteen minutes, and I want you, on the bed, on your back. Understand?” He nods and I let him go, watching him stagger back to the bed. The sight leaves me breathless.

I unbutton Sergei’s shirt, now fairly soaking, and drop it to the floor, too. I don’t waste my time while I shower, and I’m actually out in just under ten minutes. I pull my hair back quickly and grab a thin silk robe from the closet on my way out - one that I never thought I’d ever wear and, in fact, am only wearing now just because it’s a little chilly this morning.

When I reach the bedroom, I smile. Sergei is indeed on the bed, lying on his back, but he’s far from still. He writhing on the mattress slowly, grinding his hips into the bed and moaning softly through the gag. Tears are slipping down his cheeks steadily and he’s breathing heavily.

I sit down next to him and stroke his damp hair. I know the gag is probably a little over the top. Sergei tries to move his jaw, finds he really can’t. “Does that hurt, baby?” I ask softly, sweetly. He nods after giving it some thought. “Sit up,” I tell him and he does, wriggling around as he does so and swallowing his groans.

I reach behind his head and untie the knot with some difficulty; the cloth is soaking wet making it hard to move. But finally I manage to get it free and remove the scarf. I half-expect Sergei to spit the tie out as soon as he has the chance, but he doesn’t. He sits placidly with his mouth full. I hold my hand under his mouth and then he does lean his head forward and spit the gag out, making a face as he does it. He tests his jaw, opening and closing it dramatically and runs his tongue along his teeth, trying, I imagine, to get rid of the fuzzy feeling.

He’s also probably thirsty. I know I am. And the last thing I’d ever want to do is dehydrate him, hurt him badly in any way, shape, or form. I take him by his bound wrists again and stand up, pulling him to his feet. He stands reluctantly, his breathing ragged.

“Downstairs,” I tell him and he does groan now.

“Maggie, please,” he begs with watery eyes and an unsteady voice. “I can’t… not with… with the… I can’t.”

I stand next to him, close enough that most of his body is pressing against mine. “Yes, you can,” I reply firmly. I don’t want to hear him say he can’t do something; I want him to do something, and he will do it.

“Maggie, I can’t!” he bleats. “I -“

He doesn’t even see it coming, I don’t think. The look of shock on his face is replaced immediately with one of betrayal. “Do not say that to me. If it’s that bad, you can stop it. If it’s not, then you damn well better do what I ask you to.”

Sergei struggles with this, and as he does, I see the mark my hand made, an angry red blotch on his smooth cheek. I grow impatient.

“Do you want me to gag you again?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “No, Maggie. Please,” he adds for good measure.

“Then you come with me. Downstairs.”

I think it took us a good twenty minutes to get to the kitchen.

Walking down the hall was okay; I could see Sergei wincing and gritting his teeth, walking so gingerly, trying not to disturb the plug any more than he already had. After all, with the belt on, he wasn’t going to be able to do anything about his erection. But when we got to the stairs, we had to go so very slowly.

Sergei would take a few steps and then bite his lip, groan, and I’d know he was right on the edge, ready to come. So I’d make him stand still and wait. All the way down the stairs until we reached the bottom and Sergei was panting and sweating.

But we do manage to get to the kitchen.

I sit Sergei at the kitchen table, reveling when I turn back around and see him, eyes mostly closed in ecstasy, squirming on the chair. I walk behind him and put my hands on his shoulders and kiss him lightly on the back of his neck. He makes a little contented noise until I move one hand from his shoulder to his hair and pull his head back.

“Sit still,” I hiss and, to my surprise, he does so immediately.

I fill up the tea kettle with water and put it on the stove to heat up, then get a glass and fill it with water from the tap in the refrigerator. I bring it to Sergei and he looks so miserable and upset that I soften for awhile. “Are you thirsty?” I ask him and he nods, meeting my eyes timidly before dropping his gaze again. That demure little action makes me melt a little more. I go to him with the glass of water in my left hand and put my right on the back of his neck, but gently. “Here,” I say and bring the glass to his lips. When I do it, I notice how bruised the corners of his beautiful mouth are, how chafed the skin is, and it makes me shiver.

I tip the glass and Sergei drinks. I only let him have a few sips at a time; I don’t want him to make himself sick. He looks so sweet, sitting there helplessly. So sweet and so very out of control. I let him finish the glass and put the empty cup on the table. He licks his lips and the sympathy that suddenly sprung up inside me begins to fade again.

By now, the water on the stove is hot enough to make a decent bowl of oatmeal, which is what I do. Brown sugar and a little maple syrup, just the way Sergei likes it. Well, all except for the fact that he’s not able to feed himself. I have to do it.

I get to do it.

“Hungry?” I ask him as I sit down at the table next to him. He hesitates. I know he’s got to be starving, but the idea of me feeding him his whole breakfast doesn’t appeal to him, or at least not at this particular moment. Sometimes, when things don’t get half as far as this, he’ll let me do it at home, and it’s one of the few parts of my dominant behavior that he accepts - for the most part - without any protest. This morning, however, it’s just one more reminder, one more obvious demonstration of how absolutely helpless he is. He looks pained before nodding, once, reluctantly.

"I thought so. Okay, kneel," I order him.

His eyes snap up at me, searching. When is this going to be over? I can see him thinking it, praying for it to be soon. He doesn't balk anymore. He'll do it. But this takes him awhile.

He truly hates this now. Utterly detests it. I know I can't push him too much farther. But I decide to see exactly how far I can push. How close to the edge I can get before he can't take it anymore.

The safeword is still there and I try to remind him of that with my eyes while I wait out his decision.

Sergei looks away from me after reading my eyes. I can see his jaw working furiously. He takes a deep breath and - ever so painstakingly slowly - edges himself to the end of the chair. The grimace on his face speaks volumes. I can see his cock begin to gather fluid on the tip once again, even half-hidden between his legs as it is.

The sound he makes as he sinks to his knees nearly undoes me. A harsh, guttural groan of agonized pleasure swallowed by a whimper of pain. Precum hangs in strands from his penis. Just that slight movement caused this. He must be unbearably aroused. Excellent.

I put my feet between his knees, spreading them further apart before picking up the spoon.

"Open wide, pet."

He flinches at the term “pet” and for a moment, I think he might put an end to it all right now. But for whatever reason he decides on, he doesn’t say a word, but only opens his mouth obediently. I grin while I feed him, and every now and then I slide my foot up his thigh, delighted every time he tries to move to rub himself against me and I get to say, “No.”

I don’t know how he manages to eat, but he does. His eyes are tightly shut for the entire time, his cock is dripping, and his hands are clenched into tight fists, but he gets through it. I give him one more glass of water, and I’m not sure if I did it to be nice to him, or to enjoy the way he looks when he drinks from the glass in my hand.

I stand, not giving him permission to get up off his knees, and take the bowl and the glass to the sink. I rinse out the bowl and out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Sergei is indeed still on his knees. But, on closer inspection, I can see him testing the belt and the spreader, picking at the clasps gingerly and then moving one wrist beneath the other to rub it lightly against the head of his cock.

I spin around, facing him with what I know is a look of raw fury. Sergei actually shies back a little and he knows he’s caught; his expression is a cross between fear (of me and the repercussions, I assume) and frustration. I walk to him briskly, angrily, and take his face in one hand, forcing him to look me in the eye. He does, but he blushes deeply.

“How many times are you going to make me repeat myself?” I demand. Sergei’s eyes grow damp and bright. “Didn’t I tell you, ages ago, not to touch yourself?”

He nods miserably. I lean toward him, bending at the waist so that we’re nose to nose. “Answer me out loud,” I hiss. “What did I tell you?”

He chokes back a sob. “N-not to… not to touch myself,” he finally replies. “Then why,” I begin, speaking slowly, my tone dripping with condescension, “do you continue to do it anyway?”

He looks away from my eyes but he can’t turn his head without having it hurt. Finally he meets my gaze again.

“I don’t know,” he whimpers pitifully.

“That’s not good enough,” I growl. “I’ve told you at least twice tonight not to touch yourself. Yet every chance you get, when you think I’m not looking, you do it! You can’t think I’m stupid enough not to realize what you’re doing, do you? And you certainly know what I’ll do to you if you disobey me; you know the consequences aren’t worth it. So tell me why the fuck you can’t seem to do what I tell you to do!”

“Because!” he cries, frustrated and humiliated. I wait patiently, my eyebrows raised, to hear the end of this. “Because…”

I narrow my eyes. He finally gives in.

“Because you’re hurting me, and… and I… I need to come!” The last few words are mostly unintelligible as Sergei dissolves into sobs, but I know exactly what he said.

“I’m hurting you?” I ask, feigning shock. “Bathing you, feeding you, giving you water, and I’m hurting you?”

“Maggie,” he chokes, crying mostly out of frustration. “Th-that’s not… what I meant…” He tries to gesture with his hands, finds he can’t, and cries harder. I just glare, even though his tears make me hotter than I think I’ve ever been, at least this early in the morning. “Get up.”

“What are you going to do to me?” he asks in such a quiet, shaky voice that I have to strain to hear him.

“I’m going to prove to you that disobeying me is not worth the trouble. Now get up, or I’ll get you up,” I say, sounding cruel and threatening, even though we both know no matter what I do, I probably couldn’t ever yank him to his feet if he really set his mind to staying on the floor. But he wouldn’t dare to disobey me again. I’ve got him where I want him.

He’s afraid of me.

If I weren’t in this frame of mind, having Sergei be absolutely terrified of me wouldn’t turn me on in the slightest. It would probably make me cry. But now, being where I am and having a man on his knees at my feet, crying and trembling all over out of fear - more precisely, out of fear of me - is better than any aphrodisiac.

Sniffling, trying to get himself under control, Sergei rises, groaning harshly as he does it. His knees almost buckle and for a moment, I reach out one arm, ready to steady him. He flinches when I reach toward him and I feel a shiver run the length of my spine.

“Now kneel.”

He blinks at me with obvious surprise. “But-“

“But NOTHING,” I tell him firmly. “On your knees.” And he can hear the “or else” in my voice, so I don’t bother with the words.

He looks around as if he’s searching for someone to magically appear and get him out of the situation. Hesitating only a second more, though, he at last begins to kneel. He gets halfway there and moans with such a crazed tone of arousal that it makes my jaw drop, but only for a moment. His cock is dripping, fluid pouring down the shaft and pooling beneath him. Then he completes the motion, reaching the floor on his knees with a soft grunt. I ponder this. If I make him kneel every time, it’s going to take too long and it will eventually do damage to his knees. Not permanent damage, but more than I want to see on him. Maybe squats will have to do. He won’t be on his knees, which disappoints me; that’s my favorite position to see him in, kneeling in front of me, either with his chin to his chest, breathing hard, or looking up at me so innocently with his liquid blue eyes. But it will still have the same effect on him, bodily speaking, and it will still look fucking hot.

Sergei stays on his knees for awhile, because I can’t bear to let him get up. He’s kneeling, his head down, and I can see his body move when he breathes. “Stand up.”

He doesn’t question me this time. I know every time I shout at him, berate him, scold him, it kills him, especially when he’s in this particular submissive role. He stands with difficulty and he whimpers as he does it. I smile when he finally dares to steal a glance at me. Sergei begins to shake more violently, and I issue a new command.

“Squat. Not all the way down to your knees, though. Just down and then up. Don’t stop until I tell you,” I add and he whines deep in his throat.

He desperately wants to say something, and I finally allow it. “What is it?” “I c-can’t… without…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I tell him lightly, knowing that he’s trying to tell me that even with the belt and the spreader, all that moving around with the plug will probably force him to come anyway. “I’ll stop you before it gets to that. Now, squat.”

He sighs shakily and bends his knees, getting down without a lot of difficulty. But when he straightens up again, he shudders violently and his eyes close tightly as he groans harshly. Precum surges from his cock and I feel my breathing pick up.

“Don’t stop now,” I say breathlessly. “That’s only one.”

He keeps going. Slowly, agonizingly slowly to me, he bends his knees and squats down, pauses, and then stands back up, his hips bucking and his body shaking. Sweat covers his entire body and soaks his hair; it lays in matted strands on his forehead. He’s panting and so aroused that his shaking is beginning to look more like convulsions than anything.

On the ninth squat, he makes that noise, the little half groan, half gasp that means he’s about to come. He’s about to bend his knees again, but I don’t let him.

“Stop.”

Sergei groans and starts quietly sobbing. He is shaking terribly, shoulders tensed, legs spread, cock dripping.

"We're going upstairs," I tell him. "Move."

He does, squeezing his eyes shut against the stimulation caused by the movement. It's a long trip, like the one down, with frequent stops for orgasm denial.

By the time we get to our bathroom upstairs, Sergei and I are both breathing heavily and he is on the edge.

I watch for a moment, aroused. Once he has retreated from the edge, I again order him to squat.

He just stands there, crying. I raise my hand to slap him and he flinches. "Please, Maggie!" he blubbers. "Please please please please!!!" I think it's the only word he knows anymore.

The tip of his penis is angry purple and swollen, protruding from the end of the tube. His balls are in a similar state. I know he must be in a lot of pain.

I reach down and squeeze his balls ever so lightly but he still nearly screams. He loses a bit of his erection.

"I told you to squat," I growl. "Did you hear me tell you that?" I squeeze again, letting him know I want an answer.

Tears stream from his eyes and he sobs, but I catch a slight bob of his head and accept that. He's really not capable of much more.

"Then do it!"

I release his balls and he hesitates. He will do it, I know, he just has to psych himself up.

Trembling violently he begins to go down. I know this is the most arousing maneuver. The downward motion brings the most pressure against his prostate from the plug. It also causes the plug to rub the entire length of his gland in one even movement.

Sergei jerks every time the plug stimulates him, until he is all the way down and spasming everywhere. I look between his legs. His cockhead is nearly scraping the floor. A thick cord of precum connects his penis to the ground. Sergei writhes in position, unable to stand the pressure of arousal. As he does, more precum spurts from the tip, making a puddle. He thrusts his hips forward and still more precum spatters the floor. Unbalance by his movement, he falls to his knees.

I order him to stand again. Then squat. He is making unrecognizable noises. The next time he stands, I order him to be still. I think he's going utterly mad at this point and I love it. It's like a drug to me, to undo him so. Once he has retreated from the very peak of orgasm, I decide to remove the cock harness. As I do, Sergei howls and his cock slaps up against his belly. Precum sprays everywhere.

I stand back to appraise him. He is still shaking uncontrollably. I have to let him come soon or I'm afraid he'll die. Sweat is pouring off of him. His eyes are red and watery and glazed. His erection is heavy and engorged far more than I've ever seen it. His balls are twice their normal size and look very painful.

Impulsively, I reach out my hand and rub his hair off his forehead. He doesn't even move away.

"Get down on your hands and knees, baby."

After awhile he does, crying - silently now - the whole time. He can barely hold himself up he's trembling so badly. In this position, his cock hangs low between his legs, nearly touching the ground.

"Now… open your legs and hump the air."

Sergei moans and spreads his legs. And then gasps as the head of his cock rubs against rough tile. He jerks his penis backward, away from the tile as if the pleasure is too great, and hisses.

The ever-present plug. I grin. Forward or backward, he's in for a ride. I walk behind him, putting my foot on his ass, pressing against the plug, brushing the back of his swollen balls. I press down and force his cock to scrape the ground. Sergei whimpers and I hold him there.

The very tip is pressed between two tiles and I know the roughness must be irritating his slit intensely. So, I push down harder, grinding his sex into the cool tile until his cock slips from the crack to the smooth surface of the tile. The smoothness rubs delicately at the underside of his head - the second most sensitive part of his dick, I know. The gallons of precum he is oozing is making this go quite well.

Sergei tries valiantly to buck away from the stimulation and I allow him to do so a bit. But then I press down and run him through the cycle again. And again.

Soon, he is rubbing himself frantically across our bathroom floor. When he can't stand the agonizing pressure on his cock, he rests on his haunches, rotating his hips as the plug mercilessly does it's work. Then he returns to the tile.

He has a rhythm going after a bit - rub the tile, haunches, rotate, tile. I watch in fascination, masturbating fiercely.

Finally, Sergei tenses and I know he's about to come.

When he does it's with a scream I'm sure would wake the dead. He collapses as the first gush of sperm shoots from his cock and continues coming after he loses consciousness. Seven long squirts. He was awake for only one. I stare down at him, speechless. I can see him breathing, his shoulders rise and fall. It seems so quiet now without Sergei’s groans filling the air. I can’t let him stay here on the bathroom floor, lying in a puddle of his own come. It’s degrading and it’s more than I would ever wish on him. I kneel next to him and watch him breathe for a moment before reaching out and brushing his matted hair away from his forehead again, wiping away the tears still drying on his cheeks. To my surprise, his eyelids flutter a little and then open. I thought he was further out than he apparently was.

The look in Sergei’s eyes is the look of someone who’s been drugged. He’s exhausted, I know, and all I want to do is get him into bed so he can sleep. The guilt is beginning to set in but I push it away for now. I’ll feel it later, I know.

“Come on, baby, you’ve got to get into bed,” I tell him softly as I untie his bound wrists. Sergei’s forehead creases and he whimpers, a sign I know to mean that he’s not too keen on carrying out my suggestion. But I won’t let him sleep on the floor. “Sergei, I want you to sleep in the bed, baby.” With a few murmurs that I think were in Russian, he struggles to sit up, grimacing as he pulls away from the sticky puddle on the floor, and at last stands up on shaky legs. I put my arm around his waist and pull him toward the door. He lets me lead him like a child. I pull the comforter and sheet back and position him at the side of the bed. “Lie down, Sergei,” I say softly and he obeys, practically falling onto his back. I grab a pillow and lift his head gently, placing the pillow behind his neck before he has a chance to fall completely asleep. He mutters under his breath and it seems to be a grateful sound. I don’t pull the blankets over him just yet, but instead tell him that I’ll be back in a second.

I hurry to the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and running it under hot water. I bring it back damp and warm and gently clean Sergei up for the most part. I wipe the sticky fluid off his chest and thighs first, and then his cock. He whimpers at that, still sensitive beyond belief, but I do it slowly and carefully, knowing that he’d be more uncomfortable if I left him to go to sleep like he was.

Satisfied at last, I pull the covers over him with one hand and then touch his cheek lightly, lovingly. He’s more or less asleep already but at my touch, the hint of a smile appears on his lips. And then I do feel guilty. I walk to the bathroom with my shoulders slumped, feeling like an ass. Every time we go through this, every time I make Sergei do humiliating things, put him in compromising positions, when it’s all over, the little voice in the back of my head speaks up.

How can you do this to him?

It’s a quiet little voice, but insistent, and eventually, it gets to me. “I don’t know,” I tell the voice remorsefully. I love him, and yet I can do the most awful things to him. I really don’t want to think about this. I have to clean up.

I get on my knees, realizing the irony of my position, and, using the same washcloth, begin to wipe up the puddles on the floor. A few tears sting my eyes, but I wipe them away with the back of my hand. Then I go downstairs to clean up down there, too.

When I’m finished, standing in the bathroom and wringing out the washcloth before throwing it into the laundry hamper, I realize that I’m tired, too. I toss the cloth and walk through the bedroom to the bed where Sergei is sprawled on his back, sleeping soundly. I pull back the blankets and slide in next to him, watching him for a minute before snuggling up next to him and resting my head on his shoulder. I’m not used to him being unconscious after one of my moods. I’m used to him being awake and able to talk to me and tell me that it’s okay and I’m not a bad person.

Thankfully, I fall asleep before my emotions get the better of me.

*****

I wake up feeling, at last, well rested. I yawn and stretch, and then I notice that Sergei is still deeply asleep. He’s going to be starving when he wakes up, I think as I notice that it’s a little before seven. I get out of bed carefully so I won’t wake him up and walk quietly downstairs to make sandwiches and soup.

When I get to the kitchen and look outside, I notice that it has snowed during the night. Several inches blanket the ground. I think about how fun it would be to go skating on the pond today while I slice tomatoes and arrange them on the bread.

It strikes me as odd that I’m thinking about such ordinary things after what I’ve done. Still, I spend the next half an hour trying not to think about what I’ve done.

I finally put a plateful of sandwiches, a glass of water, and a large bowl of soup on the serving tray and head for the stairs. When I reach our bedroom, I know, even before I see him, that Sergei is awake. I don’t know quite how I’m so sure of this, but I am, and when I push the door open and walk into the room, he is indeed awake, lying on his back still but with his eyes wide open. He hears me and props himself up on his elbows with a grimace of pain that he abruptly tries to hide.

I clear my throat and feel hideously awkward. “Hi,” I say lamely. “I - I brought you some dinner.” I raise the tray a little as if he hadn’t noticed it before.

He tries to smile a little. “Thank you,” he replies and his voice is hoarse and raw. It makes me cringe. Still, I walk to him and wait for him to get himself into a sitting position before I set the tray on his lap. He picks up a sandwich and then pauses. “Did you eat anything?” he asks in a tone that I know is his “parental” tone.

I cringe internally once more; after all that I’ve done to him, he’s worried that I haven’t had dinner. I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m not hungry.”

He narrows his eyes - I know he doesn’t believe me - but he drops it and begins to eat instead. I know then that he’s practically starving. He normally wouldn’t give up on an argument like that so easily. I walk around the bed and climb back in, crossing my legs Indian-style under the covers and hugging a pillow to my chest.

Sergei finishes dinner in record time, devouring three sandwiches and the entire bowl of soup in just under twenty minutes. He takes the glass of water and sets in on the bedside table, and I take the tray and put it on the floor next to the bed.

“Sergei, I -“

He cuts me off with a raise of his hand. “Don’t apologize.”

I stare blankly at him. He explains at last. “I have a way out. I decide that I won’t use it. You did nothing wrong.”

I fight for control of my emotions for a moment before a few tears finally fall. “But all the things I did to you… I was horrible. I feel horrible,” I explain miserably, wiping my tears away with irritation. “I don’t mean to… I mean, it’s not as if I…” I finally give up. I can’t even begin to try and explain all this. But Sergei does it for me.

“You need this,” he tells me as matter-of-factly as if he was telling me that it was December. “But,” and I wince, fearing that I’ll hear the worst, “I think that from now on, you should probably not go so long without… it.”

“Th-that’s it?” I ask uncertainly. “You aren’t gonna tell me that I went too far and that you can’t trust me anymore?”

“I could have stopped you,” he says softly. “I understand you.”

I smile and he holds his arms out to me. I understand you is just as sweet a phrase to me now as I love you.

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