Let's Play a Game

7 - Irish Car Bomb

Irish Car bomb

1 shot Baileys

1 shot Irish Whiskey of choice

1 half pint Guinness or dry Irish stout

Take whiskey shot. Drop Baileys into glass, chug.

We went on like that over the next few months. We had a routine now.

His rules were simple. Every morning, I was to text him when I woke up. I had to drink 2 cups of water every day. I had to eat at least two meals a day. I had to edge nightly, at least once. I had to text him goodnight. If he asked for a photo, I'd send him one. Then there was the weekly task.

Every Monday, he would give me a task. A new rule to follow, a little something to give up for him for a week. I would be released from it on Saturday. The first one had been no alcohol at the bar the days that I went. I'd had to ask Noah to make me a regular tea instead of a spiked one, and he raised an eyebrow at me, but didn't argue. The next week was no chocolate. That one was hard. Each week it was something small, just a little something so that every time I had the urge, I had to remember that I was saying no, because he told me to.

We played on Saturdays. I learned he loved to see me struggle to resist my orgasm, which part of me hated because I hated denial, but I did my damndest. I broke after our fifth session when he was relentlessly fingering that spot at the back of my pussy and sucking on my clit. He'd found the secret combo that I couldn't resist against, and after over a month of denial, I'd come so hard I almost passed out.

The session after that had been hell. Not the most intense impact I'd ever experienced, not by far, but the hardest part about submitting to a beating for me was not being able to see his face. I wanted to see him enjoy it, and I couldn't. Still, afterwards he'd held me against his chest as I'd cried softly, rubbing cool lotion into my skin, kissing my neck, and telling me I was amazing.

"I want to see you," I'd confessed. "I want to see you enjoy me."

"Oh, Megan. I absolutely adore you." He'd taken my hand and put it against his chest, and I could feel his heart beating fast. He let go, letting me hold my hand there, and I let it trail down to his crotch, where he was hard and twitching. Eager to please and redeem myself, I'd given him the best damn blowjob I could muster, drawing it out as long as I could before I made him finish. I showed him his cum in my mouth before I swallowed. He'd groaned and kissed my forehead.

And every time I went, he left me a gift.

It was usually something small. Once it was a tiny little ring for my pinky finger, with a heart on it. It wasn't big, but it was a little something I could wear. Another time I found a barrette for my hair. Often it was new panties; pretty little thongs, or lacy boy shorts, or silky briefs to replace the ones he'd confiscate from me every week.

Twice he'd bought me clothes. The first time was the dress, but another time he bought me a beautiful shirt that was nearly completely backless. He really likes my back, I thought, as I'd put it on to leave. It hung on me beautifully and, for once, for a second, I looked in the mirror and believed him when he called me "pretty girl." That was his name for me. I loved it.

Once it was a WeVibe, the kind you control from your phone. That week he had me wear it every weekday evening from seven o'clock until I went to bed. I had been so horny by the time Saturday rolled around, I begged him for pain instead of his teasing, and he'd graciously agreed, giving me the much-needed release I'd needed in a way I didn't truly want, but needed because he wasn't going to let me come. "I'm sorry," I cried. "I wish I could. But I know I can't."