As I struggle weakly, vainly, my pussy constricts hard and the juice tickles and drips down my slit because my panties are too loose now.
“You are in pain right now, babe,” Dylan explains to me in a calm, assertive voice, his eyes fixed on where his finger is plunging into my mouth, “because you have spoilt your whore slit rotten.”
The words register in my brain and a hot flash zings through my whole body. Whore… slit.
He shoves his finger in a little deeper, tapping my soft palate with the flat of his nail, and I gag and cough. My eyes begin to water. Dylan takes note but does not pull his finger out.
“You have given yourself, and allowed past paramours to give you, orgasm after orgasm, to the point where it’s pretty much an everyday occurrence. Rote. Isn’t that right, Lizzie?”
The question is not louder than any of his other words but sharper. Demanding.
Not every day, I want to argue. Some days I’m not in the mood. And also–
“You are a slave of your whorish pussy,” Dylan continues, still calm, still sharp, with that easy dominance that has made my knees weak ever since the day I met him. “It’s quite shameful, Liz. I thought you said you were a feminist, all about empowerment and independence. Could it be that you’ve made yourself dependent on your own pussy’s satisfaction? Hm?” He cocks his head. “Suck it clean, babe,” he adds, wiping his finger more aggressively on my tongue.
With another whimper, I close my lips more tightly around his finger and suck. The taste of my pussy juice is fortunately diluted by my saliva. I don’t like the idea of swallowing my own vaginal lube too much… but Dylan wants me to do it, so I do it.
And in a shamefully right way, it feels so good.
My pussy creates ever more juice. I think I’m sitting in a puddle of my own bodily fluid by now. It must be so much that there’s a wet spot on the bottom bit of my skirt. The feeling gives me goosebumps up my spine. I clamp my legs together, which sandwiches my sodden panties oddly between my thighs and squeezes my juices into the last crevices.
Dylan finally takes his finger out of my mouth and lets go of my jaw. Still, he keeps touching my face, petting my cheek with his fingertips. Feeling my shivers, the heat of the deep blush there. I’m glad we’re mostly in the dark.
“If you don’t want to stay with me under these circumstances, I understand,” he says and sounds very earnest.
My heart gives a pang of pain. “Dylan, no–” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Liz. I’m serious. If you need someone to give you climaxes…” He shakes his head slightly. “I cannot be that someone. It’s against my beliefs. And if you need someone who will indulge your masturbation habits, I cannot be him, either.” He looks me in the eye, sternly. As serious as I’ve ever seen him.
He is magnificent to me.
I’m utterly lost to him.
“If you stay with me, I want us to do it right. According to propriety.” Then, a softness goes over his features as he asks, “Please stay with me, Liz?”
My whole body is hot and pulsing with angry dissatisfaction, but my mind has been made up ever since I first laid eyes on him. Yes, I am a silly woman.
“I’ll stay with you, as long as you’ll have me,” I vow, and, just like that, disavow my own orgasms for the foreseeable future.
My pussy clenches achingly at the thought.
***
Less than a week later, my boyfriend meets with my parents — it’s not the first time exactly, but they haven’t exactly made memories together, either — and asks my father for permission to propose to me.
That same day, Dylan gets down on one knee and slips a slim silver promise ring onto my finger as I repeat “yes, yes, yes!” with my voice pitched a little higher from excitement. We discuss wedding arrangements and agree that three months from now would be ideal — a wedding in June. Outside in the sunshine, maybe at the pavilion in the park? I can almost see it. Dylan smiles at my enthusiasm and kisses me thoroughly.
That same evening, Dylan hands me a book. It’s bound in simple dark grey cloth and stamped with the words ‘The Penitent’s Vow’ across the spine. When I move to open it, he lays his hand across the book’s cover. “Are you sure?” he asks. “This really… really means a lot to me. Like, a lot. Everything.”
I smile at him. His faith, even though it’s not at all mainstream and still rather mysterious to me, has never been a turn-off for me. Quite the opposite, actually. He doesn’t wear it on his sleeve — or rather around his neck, as most people do. If you don’t know it, you won’t even notice — you’d just assume that Dylan Keene was just a natural born leader, assertive and competent. But I have since learnt that my boyfr- my fiancé — is deeply grounded in his convictions, and that they give him the strength to be so… steadfast. Calm. Dominant.
“I’m sure, babe,” I say, and “I know how important this is. I’ll treat it with the respect it deserves, and an open mind. I’ll not let you down, alright?”
He smiles back and slides his hand to the nape of my neck. Not to pull me close for a kiss. Just to hold me and to have my attention.
“If you really don’t want to let me down, Lizzie, you can start with keeping your hands away from your whore pussy,” Dylan says, and his voice is mild despite the words.
It still feels as though he slapped me. Mortification heats my cheeks. “Dyl-”
“I know you rubbed yourself last night.” He says it so calmly, so matter-of-factly. “You diddled your wanton clitty in the bathroom. You thought I was sleeping. You thought I wouldn’t notice if you cleaned yourself up afterwards. Hm?”
A heated knot forms in my lower belly at the memory. Last night was like a fever dream and my body had felt like a live wire. I almost sleepwalked to the bathroom, ended up crouching on the shower mat and franticly jilling off to the mental picture of him yanking down my pyjama pants and stuffing his cock into me while I’m still sleeping, then smothering my cries with the pillow when I wake up. I even stuffed two fingers into my pussy, just to feel the hot grasp of my own muscles and to try to combat the absolute aching emptiness I felt, which I have never done before.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” I hurry to say, heat in my face and my ears, my heart thudding. Excuses have never come easy to me, and neither have apologies. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I was just so… It was so terribly achy last night. It’s been five days since I last, you know, came, and it’s just… overwhelming. It’s too much. I think I need to ease into the new normal more, you know? I’m… really sorry. It’s a breach of trust and I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong of me.”
A small voice in my brain scoffs and points out that it’s a little surreal how I’m apologizing for having touched myself. My own body. With my own hands. In accordance with my own wishes.
I didn’t feel sorry at all last night (…much). The orgasm made me feel settled after having been slightly unsettled and off-kilter the whole week, feeling stressed and sleeping too little. Apparently, touching myself and climaxing are a form of mental health exercise as much as a physical relaxant for me. Not doing it when I really want to do it makes me antsy, therefore, doing it when I want to do it should really not be a reason for apologies.