Tempus Fugit

“Fifteen minutes.”

It sounded generous.

That was my first mistake.

Mistress unlocked the cage and left me kneeling behind her.

My wrists were secured behind my back, elbows held apart by the bar running behind them. I could balance. I could move my hips.

I couldn't use my hands.

The hood took my sight.

Her nylon-clad legs were the only part of her I was allowed to use.

She stood in front of me, feet planted comfortably apart.

My instructions were simple.

I could thrust between her calves.

Nothing else.

No hands.

No touching anywhere else.

No asking for help.

And I had fifteen minutes.

Before the hood went on, she'd applied the numbing cream.

Not enough to remove sensation entirely.

Just enough to make everything distant.

Muted.

Pressure without detail.

Friction without clarity.

I had been hard when she unlocked me.

I was still hard now.

That seemed promising.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

“Time starts now.”

I moved forward.

Her calves closed lightly around me.

Nylon.

Warmth.

Pressure.

My cock slid between them.

The sensation was there.

Just barely.

I started slowly.

There was no reason to rush.

Fifteen minutes was a long time.

At least that was what I told myself.

I found a rhythm.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

The nylon gave me a soft friction that should have been maddening.

Instead it felt distant.

Interesting.

Pleasant.

Not enough.

I adjusted my angle.

Better.

Maybe.

Mistress remained almost completely still.

That was part of it.

She wasn't going to help.

This was my opportunity.

My problem.

My time.

I kept moving.

After a while she said:

“Ten minutes.”

I froze for half a second.

Five minutes gone already?

That seemed impossible.

I resumed.

Faster now.

Not frantic.

Not yet.

I concentrated on the warmth of her legs.

The scent of nylon and skin.

The faint pressure when she tightened her calves around me.

That helped.

A little.

My body was responding, but slowly.

Too slowly.

I became aware of the clock even though I couldn't see it.

Nine minutes.

Eight.

I didn't know.

That was worse.

Every second existed because I couldn't count it.

I tried not to think about time.

Immediately, time became the only thing I could think about.

I changed pace.

Changed angle again.

The restraint behind my back made everything harder.

I couldn't steady myself properly.

Couldn't reach down.

Couldn't add stimulation.

All I had was my hips and the narrow channel between her calves.

“Mmm,” Mistress said.

I couldn't tell whether it was approval or amusement.

Probably amusement.

I pushed harder.

Pleasure began to build.

Finally.

Slowly.

I held onto it.

Tried not to ruin it by rushing.

“Five minutes.”

No.

Surely not.

My confidence vanished.

Five minutes had sounded like plenty before.

Now it sounded like nothing.

I moved faster.

The pleasure increased, then slipped away again.

Too fast.

I slowed.

Found it.

Lost it.

Found it again.

The numbing cream felt suddenly less like an inconvenience and more like an enemy.

I could feel everything I needed to feel except enough.

“Three.”

Three minutes.

I wanted to swear.

I didn't.

My thighs were burning.

My hips were tired.

The hood felt too warm.

I could hear my own breathing and the faint movement of nylon against skin.

I could smell her.

That almost made things worse.

Arousal was everywhere except where I needed it.

Two minutes.

Mistress didn't announce it.

I simply knew it had to be close.

I kept moving.

There.

A little more.

I found the angle again.

The pressure built.

Don't rush.

Don't lose it.

Don't think about the clock.

The clock.

The clock.

The clock.

“One minute.”

I almost laughed.

Instead I thrust harder.

The pleasure held.

Built.

Slowly.

Far too slowly.

I could feel myself getting close now.

Actually close.

Thirty seconds?

Twenty?

I had no idea.

Mistress shifted her stance.

Her calves tightened.

That changed everything.

The added pressure pushed me over the edge.

I came.

The orgasm hit harder than I expected, sharpened by the effort, the frustration, the awareness that I had nearly failed.

I kept moving for a few seconds until there was nothing left.

Then I stopped.

Breathing hard.

Shaking.

Triumphant.

Mistress stepped away.

Cool air touched me.

I heard the timer sound.

A single tone.

Time.

I had made it.

Barely.

For a moment I simply knelt there, exhausted and absurdly pleased with myself.

Then Mistress spoke.

“Look at the mess you've made.”

I couldn't look.

The hood was still on.

That didn't matter.

I knew.

She repositioned me.

I had barely stopped shaking when she moved her legs apart.

“Clean it up.”

Of course.

Time had run out.

The task hadn't.