“Hold still,” Ben commanded. Pamela wasn’t sure she could, although her limbs were bound tightly enough to make voluntary movement difficult. It was the involuntary movements that seemed to annoy and irritate Ben: the thrusts of her hips, the twisting of her upper body either towards or away from his fingers (depending on what those fingers were doing), the shaking, to and fro motion of her head.

“I said, hold still!” he growled again, slapping her cheek hard for emphasis. Her eyes hardened briefly, and she lowered her head and tried again to focus on anything but the sensations in her breasts and her throbbing pussy, and along a broad line that seemed to connect them all. She struggled not to wince when Ben affixed an earring to her right nipple, tightening the screw gently until he heard her sigh.

“Good girl,” Ben said sweetly in Pamela’s ear, kissing the tip of it and flicking the fold with his tongue. He sensed her shudder, and sensed too her effort to still it. He smiled to himself, almost a smirk, and struck the flat of his hand, hard, directly on her wet sex. She winced, inwardly, at the triple-sensation of the unexpected blow: the sharp pain, the thrilling stimulation, and the sting. As Ben withdrew his hand his finger slid along her pussy lips, trailing her slick juice in a line up towards her belly and between her breasts, and ending at her cheek.

“Good girl,” Ben repeated, and pushed his finger slowly inside Pamela, pulling it out and holding it to his face, enjoying her scent before delicately tasting it. He repeated the motion, this time proffering the taste to her. She accepted, greedily, sucking his finger suggestively and moving her tongue around and over it, the way she knew he enjoyed. “Not yet, darling,” was his response: and he pulled his finger away and caught it in her hair, dragging her head back so she was forced to look into his eyes.

Two pairs of eyes locked on each other, both burning with desire: his commanding, hers pleading. Every fiber of her was beginning to tremble now. Ben glanced down and without warning gave the earring screw a quick turn. Pamela’s breath was sharp, a sudden intake followed by a renewed determination to be still. She felt the pleasure-pain extend in a straight line from the center of her right breast to her throbbing clitoris, electrifying every nerve along the way. Ben tightened his fist, pulling her hair back tighter and intensifying the sensations, the chord connecting her pleasure centers now a vibrating string: when it finally snapped, she knew, she would be finished. But not before. Ben knew how to keep the tension along that line, never letting it break until he was ready to let her fall.

Ben saw Pamela in this moment, now, as he had imagined her when he first glimpsed her in the social work library, just another graduate student poring over her research. He had enjoyed watching her, and began to frequent the library in hopes of sighting her. Pamela, for her part, couldn’t help noticing Ben at his station, day after day, poring over nothing more scholarly than that day’s newspaper. She wondered if he was there for her, or for someone else. Finally, after a week, she decided she had had enough. She made sure Ben noticed her, each day, when she rose from her seat and went to the ladies’ room. She always allowed four minutes to pass before returning to her table.

Four days into this routine, Pamela didn’t return from the restroom and Ben craned his head around almost in a panic: had he scared her off? What had happened? Dejected, he folded his newspaper after five minutes of frantically scanning the room, and left the library. It was a beautiful spring day, and he walked across the campus with a lively step, pondering along the way what his next move might be. He would return to the library tomorrow; he was certain that she wouldn’t vary her routine that much. But when he arrived the next afternoon, Pamela’s usual table was deserted. Ben opened his newspaper and began to wait.

“If you don’t ask me out soon,” said a voice in his ear, “I’m going to say ‘yes’ to the next person who does.” Ben whirled around and found himself staring into Pamela’s blue eyes, her short-cropped hair a bleached halo above her face. He couldn’t help grinning. That had been eighteen months ago.
Ben replayed that scene in his mind, and then slowly thrust his finger into Pamela’s waiting, willing slit. He pushed deep, watching her eyes, holding her in his gaze, while his finger was joined by its fellow and the two of them moved in and out, stroking inside and out, stimulating and arousing her in ways that nobody else ever had. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to control the tension building within her.

“No,” Ben said. “Open your eyes. Look at me.” The intensity of his look was overpowering, and Ben, too, could feel the mounting pressure of her impending orgasm. He stopped his motion, and felt — and saw — her tremble. “You want it badly, don’t you?” he asked, very softly, while his fingers resumed their slow motion, slowly increasing the rhythm.

“Yes, please,” was Pamela’s reply. “Please. I need it so badly.” Ben’s fingers slowed again and he watched her face change. “Please!” she was desperate. “I need it. I need —“

“What is it you need, Pamela?” Ben’s fingers were curling upward to her G-spot, his thumb slowly circling her clit. He was coaxing her, coaxing the words and coaxing her orgasm too, bringing the pleasure out of her even as he poured it into her.

“I need you,” she gasped. “Always you. Please!” her voice trembled and quivered.
Ben smiled, kissed her deeply, and let the string snap.