1000 Strokes Ch. 04

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Climbing into bed the next night, she said, “How are you doing?”

“I’m going a little crazy, I have to admit,” he said. “I could barely sleep last night, and I spent all day waiting for this moment.”

She smiled and kissed him, slowly. “You’re so cute,” she said. “I slept well. So satisfied and happy. I could feel your poor hard-on pressing into my ass.”

“Made me feel like I did a good job. I’m not sure I can top that tonight,” she said. “Maybe we should take the night off.”

“Oh god,” he said, “no.”

“If we take the night off, you’d have to start tomorrow at one hundred again. Would you like that?”

“No, please,” he was almost begging and she didn’t think he was putting on an act.

She couldn’t help herself though. “I don’t know, I’m just tired.”

“How about this,” he said, “no reading. Just hold me. I’ll do all the work. I’ll stroke myself, I’ll count. Just please don’t reset the counter. I’m going insane.”

In truth, she wasn’t tired at all. She was energized by his desire. But she also liked to see him like this, so worked up, so intent on having this time with her. “Alright,” she said, and smiled at his relief. The way his shoulders relaxed, the little smile on the corner of his mouth.

“But one thing,” internet casino she said. “Get those nipple clamps from the drawer—the ones we haven’t tried yet. You’re going to put those on when you get to two hundred.”

He found those clamps, then started, lying back, propped up a little on his pillows. Counting and stroking. Fifty. One hundred. He stopped there to catch his breath, let his throbbing hard-on calm down.

“Keep going,” she teased. “I want to go to sleep.” She was rapt by this spectacle, but she knew he liked it when she pretended to be bored. She wrapped herself around him as he resumed, curling her leg over his. Her lips pressing into his neck. Her wet sex grinding into his thigh.

One twenty-five. One fifty. One seventy-five. Two hundred. She couldn’t believe he was only halfway there. She really wasn’t sure he would make it.

“Stop!” she said. “Clamps on,” she said, pointing to his nipples.

He picked up the clamps. Two clips, attached by a length of chain. The ends dipped in black rubber, the tension adjustable by a screw. He had bought these a few months ago, brought them home to replace a different set that pinched him so hard he couldn’t wear them. He had wanted to try these new ones, but they’d never found the moment, and canlı poker oyna now she could see he was feeling scared.

“It’s OK,” she said. “If you can’t wear them, we can stop now.”

“Stop now?” he asked. “And start at back one hundred tomorrow?”

She nodded.

“Fuck,” he said. He adjusted the little set screws. His dick wasn’t showing any signs of softening. He placed the first clip on his left nipple and inhaled sharply.

“You ok?” she asked. She felt real concern, but kept her voice neutral. “What’s your color?”

“Green,” he gritted out. He placed the next clip on the right side. He had been holding his breath. He let it out long and slow. She couldn’t tell if he was saying ahhhhh or owwwww.

“What’s your color?” She asked again.

“Yellow,” he said.

“Good boy,” she said, and watched him smile. “Tell me what you need. Do you need to take them off?”

“I need to keep going,” he said.

“Then stroke,” she said.

He started up again. Two-ten. She bit his ear. Two-twenty, two-thirty. At three hundred, she started gently tugging on the chain connecting the clips.

“Ahhhhoooowwwwww,” he said.

“Stroke harder,” she said.

She could see him building up now. The tugging on his nipples, his poker oyna chest rising and falling. “I have to stop,” he said, still stroking.

“Keep going,” she said. “Stroke for me. Don’t come. Just stroke.”

“Three-fifty. I’m not going to make it.”

“Don’t. You. Dare. Come,” she said in his ear, biting for emphasis between each word. Pulling on the chain.

Three seventy-five. “Oh,” he started moaning, “please let me stop.”

“Keep going,” she said.

At three hundred and ninety, she said, “Stop! I like doing the last few myself.”

His dick bobbed in the air, shiny with oil. Red, angry, on the edge of orgasm. She wrapped both hands around the shaft and started twisting. He started counting, but she stopped him. “These aren’t strokes,” she said, twisting her hands back and forth around his shaft and balls. “These are twists. They don’t count.”

He groaned, let his head fall back, giving up. She kissed him slowly on the lips. Then gently, ever so gently so as not to let him spill over, she gave him ten delicious strokes, ten long strokes, ten strokes she wanted him to think about for the rest of the night. She wanted him to remember each and every one.

“That’s all until tomorrow,” she said. She removed one clamp, then the next. He groaned in pain and relief. Then she pulled up the covers over his battered hard-on and hugging him tightly. He was trembling and rocking back and forth gently, trying to calm himself.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll be half-way home.”

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