Vows – Pt.3

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If any of the partygoers look in our direction, they merely see a boyfriend and a girlfriend huddled together in a gloomy corner; she sitting sideways on his lap, he holding her safely, both of them relaxing.They might think we’re sharing a mellow moment of innocent intimacy. Maybe we’re having a conversation? They might think that I got chilly in my strappy little number after sweating on the dancefloor and then sitting down again, and that Dylan Keene, perfect gentleman that he is, offered to share his body heat with me to warm me up.They wouldn’t guess. They don’t have a chance of knowing.Dylan’s hand has come to rest on the inside of my right thigh, low and down, so that the tips of his long fingers touch the swell of my ass cheek, and his thumb is in the hollow where my leg meets my pussy.I shiver with heat and burrow deeper underneath the coat he has thrown over us. The Gore-Tex hides our movements completely from the others – the angle of his arm, the slow back and forth of his hand as he strokes my skin, as well as my surreptitious pumping of my hips.I’m humping the air. I can’t help it. I am so, so needy. My whole belly is throbbing.Cuddling into him, nosing the side of his neck below his ear, I mumble, “Please, babe.”He glances down at me. His handsome face is so… pleased.Smug.I should loathe him for it – I loathe this sort of attitude in any other person, especially in other men – but I don’t. I can’t. Dylan Keene’s commanding self-confidence has always been the flame to my moth.His condescension makes me feel small, but never in a bad way. Not at all.He watches the dance floor where several couples are shimmying together to some old-school Spandau Ballet. The lights are low, hiding the two of us even more from sight, with only the occasional colorful sparkle skittering across the vast room.“Dylan. Please,” I repeat a little louder, a little whinier, when his fingers loosen and then re-grip the skin of my chubby inner thigh. “Touch me, babe. Please.”I’ve been so turned on the entire evening. Seeing Dylan in his suit, the way it hugs his beautiful, masculine body… the touch of his hand to mine, or to my shoulder, or my lower back… the intensity of his focus on me… I’m already drunk on him and still so thirsty.“I am touching you,” he says softly, evenly. Unlike his cursed fingers, his voice and attitude do reach straight between my legs and caress me there. Just like his fingers, they leave me wanting. I don’t quite know why I don’t hate it. Before Dylan, I’ve always been the ‘fuck it, then’-type, the one who refuses to be refused.His thumb sweeps up and down, pulling my skin gently, probably feeling the slight stubble of my hair there – I last shaved a week ago. I’m a little embarrassed even though I know I shouldn’t be – and gripping my plump skin and pulling, pulling so that my pussy lips part a bit.God, I’m so swollen. Itching and burning up. Everything twinges and aches.“Touch my pussy, please,” I whisper, feeling my face go red with embarrassment and arousal, and rock my pelvis. My muscles clench and squeeze out a drop of moisture.I can feel Dylan’s cock under my ass. I want to grind against it so badly.My boyfriend gives me a look out of the corner of his eyes. “I can’t, Lizzie,” he says and sounds a little sorrowful. “You know I can’t.”I do, really. Intellectually, I know, but right now, I am merely impulse, affect and need. I’ve turned into this needy beast that can’t hope to understand why he doesn’t want to help me.“Whyyy?” I whine some more. Don’t you love me?I love him, and therefore I have given him dozens of hand jobs, blowjobs; signs of my devotion, every single one of them. He has rubbed himself on my ass and between my thighs, has fucked my boobs, and sprayed my throat with his cum.But he has never touched my pussy. Not once.Our encounters were always heat-of-the-moment things, furtive and hasty. He’d signal that he has an itch, and I was willing – very, very willing – to scratch. There were interruptions, or he or I had pressing appointments, places to be, stuff to do, barely time to clean up. We are both busy people. I never really minded that he got off when I didn’t.Until right now.He sighs deeply, and it strikes me as somewhat melodramatic and overdone. Patronizing? “My belief… Liz, you know that my faith…” He trails off, shaking his head. “The Vow says that female pleasure is a husband’s to give. His and his alone.”His fingers slide up and along the right leg seam of my panties, and I startle hard when one fingertip suddenly hooks into it and pulls forcefully enough so that the gusset lifts off my labia. I physically shudder from the sensation. I am so wet that my juice forms strings between my lips and the fabric, I can feel them dangling and then sticking to my skin like wet little spaghettis.“I’m not your husband, Liz. I’m not even your fiancé. It wouldn’t be şişli escort right.”His index finger slides down and up the inside of the gusset, undoubtedly feeling the thick drool there, and spreading it all around the fabric.I shiver again. His finger is so close. So close. I can feel his body heat so near my core.“Don’t you want me?” I almost sob. My muscles pulse unhappily.A smile touches his lip. “You know I do, babe. Are you kidding? My cock has been hard all evening. That dress… Your ass… Your tits, your legs, your… phew.”The mention of his sex only reminds me of the imbalance of our sexual relationship. I sit up a little, pouting. “It’s so unfair, though. You get to take pleasure from me all the time and-““First of all, you give me pleasure, Liz,” he interrupts, chiding me. The smile on his face is a little deprecating. “No need for me to take, or even ask. You’re always offering readily.”I press my lips together. He’s… he’s not exactly wrong. My face must be beet-red.  “And secondly: It’s a physical necessity for me, Liz. I’m a guy. Guys’ orgasms are more of a chore than anything. You know that,” he explains with great patience, “Lack of ejaculation causes us physical pain.”“I’m in physical pain,” I grouse, burrowing against his neck again, wanting to bite him with sheer frustration. And lust. He smells like heaven. “Dylan, my pussy is aching sooo bad,” I whine into his ear. “Please, please touch me?!”Again, he merely sighs. “That’s only in your head, babe.”Up and down his finger slides on the crotch of my panties. Just centimeters from where I need him. I can feel my clit twitch with anticipation. Idiot thing doesn’t understand that there’s no way.“Do you know why you’re feeling ‘pain’ right now?”I lift my chin enough to look him in the face. “Why?” I challenge, thinking that he’s going to tell me some bullshit fact about female anatomy that has been disproved hundreds of years ago. Maybe something about hymens, or hysteria, or feminine energies that come from the moon and need to be preserved or some such humbug.He pulls his hand out from between my legs, from underneath my pretty skirt, and then gently, ever so gently, puts his index finger to my lips.It takes me a second to register the dampness, the smell, and I jerk my head back, but his thumb and other fingers clamp around my chin and jaw and hold me still, then – when I gasp his name – prize open my mouth so that his index finger can slide over my lips and inside.His wet finger wedges between my teeth and then the taste is on my tongue. He rubs it in, stirs it around in my mouth. I whimper a little, from revulsion or from the slight pain of his hard grip, I don’t know. My hands are pushing against his chest, but he’s holding me tight with one arm and I’m not very forceful about it because I don’t really want to slide off his lap and land on my ass.As I struggle weakly, vainly, my pussy constricts hard and the juice tickles and drips down my slit because my panties are too loose now.“You are in pain right now, babe,” Dylan explains to me in a calm, assertive voice, his eyes fixed on where his finger is plunging into my mouth, “because you have spoilt your whore slit rotten.”The words register in my brain and a hot flash zings through my whole body. Whore… slit.He shoves his finger in a little deeper, tapping my soft palate with the flat of his nail, and I gag and cough. My eyes begin to water. Dylan takes note but does not pull his finger out.“You have given yourself – and allowed past paramours to give you – orgasm after orgasm, to the point where it’s pretty much an everyday occurrence. Rote. Isn’t that right, Lizzie?”The question is not louder than any of his other words but sharper. Demanding.Not every day, I want to argue. Sometimes I’m not in the mood. And also—“You are a slave of your whorish pussy,” Dylan continues, still calm, still sharp, with that easy dominance that has made my knees weak ever since the day I met him. “It’s quite shameful, Liz. I thought you said you were a feminist, all about empowerment and independence. Could it be that you’ve made yourself dependent on your own pussy’s satisfaction? Hm?” He cocks his head. “Suck it clean, babe,” he adds, wiping his finger more aggressively on my tongue.With another whimper, I close my lips more tightly around his finger and suck. The taste of my pussy juice is fortunately diluted by my saliva. I don’t like the idea of swallowing my own vaginal lube too much…  but Dylan wants me to do it, so I do it.And in a shamefully right way, it feels and tastes so good.My pussy creates ever more juice. I think I’m sitting in a puddle of my own bodily fluid by now. It must be so much that there’s a wet spot on the bottom bit of my skirt. The feeling gives me goosebumps up my spine. I clamp my legs together, which sandwiches my sodden panties oddly between my thighs mecidiyeköy escort and squeezes my juices into the last crevices.Dylan finally takes his finger out of my mouth and lets go of my jaw. Still, he keeps touching my face, petting my cheek with his fingertips, feeling my shivers and the heat of the deep blush there. I’m glad we’re mostly in the dark.“If you don’t want to stay with me under these circumstances, I understand,” he says and sounds very earnest.My heart gives a pang of pain. “Dylan, no…“ I begin, but he cuts me off.“Liz. I’m serious. If you need someone to give you climaxes…” He shakes his head slightly. “I cannot be that someone. It’s against my beliefs. And if you need someone who will indulge your masturbation habits, I cannot be him, either.” He looks me in the eye, sternly. As serious as I’ve ever seen him.He is magnificent to me.I’m utterly lost to him.“If you stay with me, I want us to do it right. According to propriety.” Then, a softness goes over his features as he asks, “Please stay with me, Liz?”My whole body is hot and pulsing with angry dissatisfaction, but my mind has been made up ever since I first laid eyes on him. Yes, I am a silly woman.“I’ll stay with you, as long as you’ll have me,” I vow, and, just like that, disavow my own orgasms for the foreseeable future.My pussy clenches achingly at the thought.***Less than a week later, my boyfriend meets with my parents – it’s not the first time exactly, but they haven’t exactly made memories together, either – and asks my father for permission to propose to me.That same day, Dylan gets down on one knee and slips a slim silver promise ring onto my finger as I repeat “yes, yes, yes!” with my voice pitched a little higher from excitement. We discuss wedding arrangements and agree that three months from now would be ideal – a wedding in June. Outside in the sunshine, maybe at the pavilion in the park? I can almost see it. Dylan smiles at my enthusiasm and kisses me thoroughly.That same evening, Dylan hands me a book. It’s bound in simple dark grey cloth and stamped with the words ‘The Penitent’s Vow’ across the spine. When I move to open it, he lays his hand across the book’s cover. “Are you sure?” he asks. “This really… really means a lot to me. Like, a lot. Everything.”I smile at him. His faith, even though it’s not at all mainstream and still rather mysterious to me, has never been a turn-off for me. Quite the opposite, actually. He doesn’t wear it on his sleeve – or rather around his neck, as most people do. If you don’t know it, you won’t even notice – you’d just assume that Dylan Keene was just a natural-born leader, assertive and competent. But I have since learned that my boyfr– my fiancé – is deeply grounded in his convictions, and that they give him the strength to be so… steadfast. Calm. Dominant.“I’m sure, babe,” I say, and “I know how important this is. I’ll treat it with the respect it deserves, and an open mind. I’ll not let you down, all right?”He smiles back and slides his hand to the nape of my neck. Not to pull me close for a kiss. Just to hold me and to have my attention.“If you really don’t want to let me down, Lizzie, you can start with keeping your hands away from your whore pussy,” Dylan says, and his voice is mild despite the words.It still feels as though he slapped me. Mortification heats my cheeks. “Dyl-““I know you rubbed yourself last night.” He says it so calmly, so matter-of-factly. “You diddled your wanton clitty in the bathroom. You thought I was sleeping. You thought I wouldn’t notice if you cleaned yourself up afterward. Hm?”A heated knot forms in my lower belly at the memory. Last night was like a fever dream and my body had felt like a live wire. I almost sleepwalked to the bathroom, ended up crouching on the shower mat and franticly jilling off to the mental picture of him yanking down my pajama pants and stuffing his cock into me while I’m still sleeping, then smothering my cries with the pillow when I wake up. I even stuffed two fingers into my pussy, just to feel the hot grasp of my own muscles and to try to combat the absolute aching emptiness I felt, which I have never done before.“I’m… I’m so sorry,” I hurry to say, heat in my face and my ears, my heart thudding. Excuses have never come easy to me, and neither have apologies. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I was just so… It was so terribly achy last night. It’s been five days since I last, you know, came, and it’s just… overwhelming. It’s too much. I think I need to ease into the new normal more, you know? I’m… really sorry. It’s a breach of trust and I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong of me.”A small voice in my brain scoffs and points out that it’s a little surreal how I’m apologizing for having touched myself. My own body. With my own hands. In accordance with my own wishes.I didn’t feel sorry at all last night (…much). The orgasm made me feel settled after having been slightly unsettled and off-kilter the whole week, feeling stressed and sleeping too little. Apparently, touching myself and climaxing are a form of mental health exercise as much as a physical relaxant for me. Not doing it when I really want to do it makes me antsy, therefore, doing it when I want to do it should really not be a reason for apologies.But I also get it. It’s my fiancé’s faith, his principles. They are vitally important to him. And relationships are, after all, all about compromises – marriages even more so, and the silver ring on my finger says we’re going to get married in three months, so…And, really… maybe he had a point when he said that I was dependent on my sex? That I had spoilt it and myself too much? I did find myself thinking about it all day every day last week and it made me feel crazy, like an addict on withdrawal.And the orgasm, as beautiful and perfect as it was, also left me… somehow wistful? Like something was missing. I lay awake for half an hour after slipping back into bed and tried to make sense of it but didn’t succeed before I fell asleep.  “Yes, it was wrong of you,” Dylan nods. “But the failure of one partner in a relationship is always a failing of both, so it’s also my fault. I should have predicted that you would cheat, and I should have known how powerful your addiction really is.”I defend myself against the accusation even though I had conceded it in my head just twenty seconds ago. “Oh, it’s not a- I’m not-“He laughs quietly and smiles at me with almost paternal fondness. “It is. You are. You couldn’t manage seventy-two hours without fondling yourself, love.” He pets the apple of my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re like a little girl that will stuff her face with cookies and chocolate forever if the pantry isn’t locked.”“I, I…” I don’t know how to respond. Embarrassment knots my tongue.“I will help you from here on out,” he promises. “We’ll try different methods.”My belly pulls tight at his words. “What methods?”Dylan kisses my forehead. “The Vow gives some direction. My docent also gave me good advice. So did my father. We’ll start tonight.” ***“Take off your panties.”Dylan has just come out of the shower and into the bedroom, snatched my phone out of my hands without warning, and placed it face-down on the nightstand next to the bed I’m currently sitting on.“Hey – What?” I protest, confused.“You heard me, Liz.” He sounds a little irritated. “Panties, off.”I blink.“Now, Liz.”My heart starts to thud.I quickly throw back the duvet and reach under the thigh-length sleepshirt I’d donned tonight. “Sorry,” I tell him, not knowing exactly what I’m apologizing for. I get naked below the waist, pulling off my panties. They’re purple with little white bows on the front.Dylan watches me unthread my legs and feet from my panties, then holds a palm out.I place the little ball of fabric in it.“Scoot forward,” he orders next, and I do, allowing him to get into bed behind me. He arranges his larger body so that his back is propped up against the headboard, and I sit between his splayed legs.“Lean back.” I do. “Close your eyes.” Hmm yes.I snuggle into him. He is wide enough in the chest to be a perfect big spoon for me.“Do you remember that week we met?” I smile and huddle deeper, too content to even worry about the panty thing for now. “We sat exactly like this at Chris’ get-together, too, watching that weird-ass Korean movie, and you kept feeding me those mini-pretzels. I swear they were made with cocaine; they were so addictive. D’you remember how Alex…”We reminisce for a bit. He gives me a neck massage. I sigh a lot, hoping to encourage him to keep going.His strong fingers slide from the back of my neck to the sides, then suddenly to the front, and eventually down my chest. My heart jumps and my pulse quickens. He has never really… only ever fleetingly…His hands reach my tits that are already heavy and tingling with the sheer yearning to be touched. Even through the washed-out fabric of the T-shirt, I feel the warmth of his big palms, and I sigh and moan. “Ooohnn, Dylan, yes… please, yes…”He massages my breasts with slow, deep movements, grabbing and releasing, petting them in wide circles, squeezing them forward until they look like obscene torpedo balloons and feel ready to pop.Five minutes ago, I would have sworn I wouldn’t like my boobs being manhandled. But I do. I almost wish he’d squeeze me harder and leave fingerprint bruises on my skin. I start panting and sweating.I can feel my pulse in my nipples – he’s ignoring them purposefully. I wriggle in the cradle of his body and lightly grab his wrists. “Dylan, Dylan, please…”“What do you need?”“My… please, touch my nipples.”“I am touching your nipples, Liz.” His palms indeed cover them liberally. “Through the shirt, anyway.”I have a déjà-vu, or whatever you call it when it’s a conversation you could swear has happened before. I have almost the same reaction, too – a strong tingle at the juncture of my thighs.

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