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Message-ID: <63057asstr$1408605003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Bawdy Bloke <nospam@bawdybloke.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Remote Control Punishment (Public, FSub, MDom)
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Date: Thu, 21 Aug 2014 03:10:03 -0400
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Taken from my blog at http://bawdybloke.com/story-remote-control-punishment/

* * * * *

I knew she was sweating; her heart pounding and her palms clammy as she 
waited for the train. Her feet close together, her eyes staring at the 
passengers disembarking onto the platform opposite: anything but to 
avoid concentrating on the throbbing in her pussy.

Anything but that.

I watched her wriggle in front of the dozen commuters on our platform, 
reading their free newspapers or drinking their overpriced coffee from 
bucket-sized cups. Fortunately for her, they were as oblivious to her 
attire or her tumultuous state of arousal, as they were to each other. 
The smallest bead of perspiration tumbled down her face as she closed 
her eyes for a few seconds, desperately waiting for her train into work.

Taking her to the end of her torment.

But it was her own fault: she knew the rules. She broke them, she paid 
the penalty.

She knew if the wait on the platform was cruel on her, then the 
vibrations of the train would be hellish. She knew that if her fellow 
commuters were barely noticing her silent anguish and hidden distress in 
the windy station, they would notice it when pressed up against her on 
the train ride into Manchester.

They would smell her arousal, they would hear her groans and see her 
expression as her body tips her into an avalanche of decadent relief. 
They would know and they would condemn her. She flinched in shock as my 
hands glided over my box of electronics, crying inside as our train 
emerged from the tunnel.

Her eyes begged me; longing for me to end her torture and her 
embarrassment. Pleading for mercy. But there would be no mercy.

I could not offer her clemency: she had violated one of the key rules in 
our relationship. She had to be punished, and punished hard. I had 
returned from my morning shower to find my girlfriend masturbating in 
our bed, twirling her finger against her clit as I watched silently from 
the door of the en-suite.

Her lovely hole was filled with her red rubber dildo. Her fingers 
glistened with juices as her facial expression became flushed with 
desperate pleasure. She didn't see or hear me enter the room. Her mind 
was too focused on the sparkle between her legs as her groans became 
louder. She panted frantically with snatched whimpers and a gentle 
rhythm of her hips. I knew she was fantasising and dreaming: her mind 
awash with steamy imaginations and illusions taking on a magical carpet 
ride of indulgent mirages concocted from her bank of filthy fantasies.

No doubt she was imagining her boss tying her to the bed, or her 
favourite football team taking turns with her. Perhaps envisaging her 
best friend passionately kissing the young slut as a strap-on slipped 
into her moistened pussy.

But she shouldn't be orgasming without permission; she knew the rules. A 
slap of her hand brought her from her self-pleasuring trance, a slap of 
her face told her she was in trouble. My slut was apologetic, begging me 
to allow her to come. It had been four long weeks.

I knew this. Naughty girls don't get to orgasm; naughty girls get teased 
and denied. And she had been very naughty with aberrations aplenty. She 
pleaded to be allowed to climax; she begged, desperate for me to allow 
her to sate herself before she went into work.

I took pity on her cries.

I gave her the remote control vibrating knickers and confiscated her 
skirt: she could have the remote control and the grey garment when she 
reached her train station.

Her eyes widened at my command, her nipples hardened. It was a threat I 
had made before, the words conveyed the fear and dread I longed for.

She changed her mind, imploring me not to make her orgasm as we left the 
house; she beseeched with me to spare her dignity and that she promised 
to go another month without complaint. I ignored her pleas, though I 
found them erotic. I played with her as we waited before pushing her 
vibrations to the highest level as the train arrived at the platform.

She fought her urges. Her face twisted with unspent and unwanted lust, 
her body desperate for relief fought her mind anxious to retain her 
dignity. To avoid the embarrassment and humiliation I had once caused 
her on a desolate evening train. But this was no two-passenger service, 
her sweating dilemma was amongst thousands of commuters, bustling for 
space. Her space. They wanted to press against her heaving body, 
scandalously dressed as her cunt tingled and her clitoris vibrated.

She gripped hold of the handle as the train accelerated from the 
station, digging her fingers into the cold blue metal as she fought a 
losing battle. The toy squealed and hummed, barely audible over the 
noise of the train as her month-long horniness boiled angrily inside of 
her. I watched her writhe and squirm, bouncing on the heels of her boots 
as her breathing became ragged.

She was teetering on the edge of her orgasm, no longer worried about 
what her fellow commuters saw or thought. Her attention abandoned her 
need to retain her pride and now converted to her pursuit of relief: her 
cunt trembled towards her awaited climax and her glazed eyes barely 
noticed the sights in front of her.

She was no longer on a crowded train, but swimming through her 
fantasies: the firemen, the football club and the jail. The lesbian 
stripper fucking her brains out or her boss pushing her over her 
secretarial desk. Her imagination indulged her desperation, as her body 
trembled, her legs quivered.

She was there.

But suddenly the vibrations weren't.

She scowled angrily at me when she noticed, beaming at her a few feet 
away. Her body tingling with excitement, my slave teased and denied, as 
usual. She's not allowed to orgasm without my permission. She had been 
naughty that morning, very naughty.

And she knows, very intimately, that errant girls don't get the climaxes 
they crave. Ever.

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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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