When he comes, he bathes my tongue. His semen is even more bitter than his pre-cum, bleachy, sweaty, and warm. He knows I don’t like the taste or the consistency. That’s why he puts his palm over my mouth — it covers the whole lower half of my face — and tells me, “Either keep it in your mouth for a minute before you spit it out. Or you can swallow right now.”
I sit back on my heels, propped up by my hands, and shudder. Ugh, the taste and thickness.
Dylan laughs, clearly pleased.
The minute is too long. My stomach heaves, and I force myself to swallow lest I start vomiting. Dylan’s cum slides down my raw-feeling gullet like some sort of yoghurt and seems to cling to the back of my throat. I cough wetly and gag one more time.
Dylan’s hand slides over and caresses my cheek, wiping away the trail of a tear. “Are your clit and your slit still feeling horny, babe?”
I wipe my mouth and chin with the back of my hand. “No.”
I wish that were the entire truth.
Dylan gives me a long look, then nods and pulls his sweatpants back up. “You’re welcome. Do you want to clean up your face? You’ve got snot hanging out of your nose.” He points at the adjacent bathroom. “Leave the door open.”
He smirks when I shoot him a withering look, then gives my ass a clap as I stalk past him to the bathroom. I splash warm water in my face several times and vigorously rub my upper lip — he was right about the snot, after all — and consider running a washcloth between my legs but decide against it, because… because I think he wouldn’t like it. And he hasn’t said to do it, so…
When I pad back into the bedroom, he’s sitting on the side of the bed with my panties between his hands, holding them out at the exact right height for me to comfortably step into them. “Come on,” he prompts. Like I’m a little kid.
Torn between being touched by his sweetness and being indignant at how he treats me, I hold on to his shoulders as I step into one, then into the other leg hole. He pulls the garment up — a bit higher than I am usually comfortable with, and especially now, since everything is still… a little tender there.
But when I reach down to pick the fabric out of my crack, he spins me around, swipes my hand away and grabs the panties at the waistband to pull them up higher still. The crotch rides up hard into my slit. I gasp. “Dylan, you’re being too-”
And then I feel a foreign goopy slickness lengthwise against my slit, just a second before there’s a noticeable heat that blooms in my folds. “What-? Dylan, what did you do??” Oh, my god. “Is that..-” I now notice a smell. “Is that Icy Hot or something?”
“This is the third lesson, Lizzie. My father advised me.”
“Dylan, ow- it’s… Oh my god, it hurts-!” The capsaicin prickle is already fierce and getting fiercer. “It hurts!”
“Yes. You’ll have to get used to it if you plan on misusing your whore pussy again, diddling yourself in secret, and being dishonest with me.” He easily grabs my elbows and bends my arms so that I can’t pull my panties down. I’m squirming and dancing on the spot as I try to dislodge the fabric — and whatever evil lotion or cream he has put on the gusset — but to no avail. If anything, I’m probably spreading it more. My clit, my lips, the rim of my vagina and also my taint and asshole feel like they’re being licked by fire.
And still, I drip, drip, drip and my nipples prick and become hard little nuggets, and I wish that, maybe, Dylan would reach down and grab the panties at the front and yank them up, rhythmically, so that I could- I could-
I gasp. “No, please! It’s too much! Too much! Ahh-!”
All at once, he lets go of me. I half collapse, then catch myself and dive towards the bathroom, yanking down the evil panties as I go and stumbling over my own feet. I jump into the shower and hastily put it on cold, then squat down and aim the showerhead between my legs.
The shock of it almost makes me cry out. I wipe at the cream, then use some soap to help rinse it. For a horrible minute, it almost feels like it’s getting worse. I try to recall what helps against heating creams. Milk? Like when you ate a pepper? I wail a little.
“Remember this well, Lizzie.” Dylan is watching me from the doorjamb, perfectly laid back.
His sweatpants are tented again.
“If you slip up once more, I will do this again, and then put a chastity belt on you so that you won’t be able to wash it off.” He pointedly looks at my folds, wet with water, puffy and bright red. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”
My lower belly clenches twice as I jerkily shake my head.
***
“How long-,” my mom starts, and I silently supply: It has been 29 days.
29 days since my last orgasm. 27 days since Dylan proposed. 27 days since the beginning of this new chapter of my life in which I orbit around my aching pussy, and it orbits around Dylan.
How long? It’s been 29 days, mom.
I haven’t gone without an orgasm for longer than two days ever since I discovered them by accident when I was nine years old.
“-do you want to wait before starting the arrangements?” mom continues, and then tells me all about a neighbor whose daughter got married and which people they hired, and how lush and expensive it all was.
I nod and ‘hmm’ and don’t really care because it’s been 29 days.
Dylan and my dad are talking near the barbecue, both with a bottle of beer in hand. That hand-
I shift in my garden chair. My ass and pussy are both sore today. That hand–yesterday, it-
“You’re not listening, are you?” mom asks. I immediately sigh.
“No, mom — I mean, yes, I am listening. It’s not that. It’s just… Kasey’s wedding isn’t really what we’re going for.”
I’m not really sure how to tell her that our wedding will be all about the Vow. That everything will be according to Dylan’s requirements, because that’s how it must be, and because that’s how I want it to be.
The Vow is very clear on this, as it is on most other things.
‘Relief belongs to the highest alone,’ it says in the second chapter. ‘It is the natural state that is achieved when life is in order.’
The highest, Dylan has explained, is not a personal god, but an overarching, semi-sentient, semi-natural principle of order and propriety that all behavior must be precisely modelled to.
According to the Vow, behavior is the only important part of life, because it’s the only part that we truly reign over. Intentions are just the small part of the subconscious that humans are aware of, and that leads us to the erroneous conclusion that we create or control them in any meaningful way. Words are merely the loud exhaust fumes of them.
The highest principle demands not that I think or feel a certain way or say the right words, but only that I act in propriety.
Which is why my intentions to not touch myself, to stop thinking that I deserve an orgasm whenever I want one, and to follow the Vow properly and diligently, professed repeatedly and with great sincerity, are irrelevant to my fiancé.
To him, all that matters is that I keep my hands away from my addictive, greedy, wretched little pussy, and that I won’t let the air-humping go too far.