If I move I will hurt him. It will cause him pain, possibly make him bleed. I don't want to do that. He knows I don't want to do that. I know that he knows and he knows that I know that he knows.
I am stuck, I am at an impasse. I can feel the flame of the squeal bursting to get out of me. I would not have to force it, all I would have to do is to open my mouth, allow my throat to relax and it would reverberate around the room. I cannot do that. The children are in the next room. The tension within me lies like an electrified solid lump of concrete in my stomach. Helpless, I can do nothing about it. I know that, he knows that.
It is not an unpleasant sensation, it is really rather nice in a very strange, weird, wet kind of way. It tickles slightly and arouses me at the same time. The squeal is now demanding release but I can't do that. I know, he knows.
My breathing is laboured and intense. Our eyes never break contact, like light sabres in some kind of sci fi Mexican stand-off; the first one to blink loses. This is not sex, this is war, but if I move I will hurt him. With an evil grin he keeps slurping, and licking and nibbling. My upper torso is squirming and flailing wildly on the bed as I shove my fist as far into my mouth as I can to prevent any sound escaping.
God damn it I hate it when he does this. God damn it I love it when he does this. I want him to stop, I need him to continue. Conflicting, battling emotions. The civil war between my senses, by brain and my now slick pussy, rages.
With a loud pop, like someone uncorking a bottle of wine he takes my big toe out of his mouth. I exhale and deflate, smeared across the sheets in relief and disappointment.
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