Don't Move Part II

I love to be fisted. Which is a good thing, because Husband loves to fist me; and while he appreciates how much I enjoy it, there are plenty of other things he does I do not enjoy, where my feelings are irrelevant on the matter.
In other words, I have no doubt if I did not enjoy being fisted...he'd do it to me anyway. We share that kind of dynamic.

After he was done beating me with the switch, Husband maneuvered me over across the bed. He got out the lube. I knew what was coming—I knew there was more pain and suffering to be had. But for a while, I'd be able to relax and enjoy, and I intended to milk my respite for all it was worth.

He took his time, and I relaxed some more. When the orgasm came, it was intense, but manageable, and left me with a soothing sense of release.
Then he kept moving his hand, and I came again.
And again.
And again.
The suffering started all over again, just of a different sort.

I am not the kind of woman who can come over and over again, with each orgasm being as wonderful and satisfying as the last. I can come three, maybe four times, tops....
Then those orgasms start getting fucking painful.
Not in the physical sense—at least, not to the point where I'm crying out in agony. It's a physiological kind of torture: I have absolutely no control over my brain synapses at that point. I'm just enduring my body's responses to the whims of another.
I'm a puppet on a string, and my strings are being stretched.
This is the flip side of orgasm control, you see. It is one thing to deny a person orgasms until they have permission to come. It is another to force them to keep coming, despite their desperate desire not to, until they have permission to stop.

I lost count how many times I came. It was too much; it was just one orgasm rolling into another. I was grimacing at that point, I'm sure, tightening up my whole body, trying to stop the maelstrom spreading and looping across my nervous system.
Of course, it was no use.
I begged for him to stop. He laughed.
Finally—when he felt damn good and ready—he positioned himself on top of me, and started pounding me into the mattress.
I caterwauled like a wounded kitten...and came again.

By the time he was done with me, I was a rung-out dishrag.
But he? He bounded off the bed completely fine and dandy, the villain.
As he walked toward the bathroom, he looked down at his polished, sparkly toes.
"You're so funny," he said. "I love being married to you." Then he blew me a kiss, and walked away.
It case it needs saying...I love being married to him, too.