Blissful Torment

"Give me your pants," he whispered, out of the blue.

"My what now?", she replied. She looked around. They were flying CDG to LAX, business class. Eleven-hour flight, overnight. The plane was about two thirds full, a bit less so in business class.

"Give me your pants. Now!" he repeated, more forcefully. This was not completely unexpected. They had agreed on some form of exhibition play on the trip, but left the specifics open.

She nervously licked her lips. Nearly everybody was asleep. The others were glued to their screens. Her seat was at the left window, with him at the isle, both in their own small couchettes. She gave him a look, trying to say: "We're going to get in trouble!" but he just shook his head and gave her that wonderful smirk of his -- part authority, part jokster.

She pulled her blanket over herself, opened her zipper, and wriggled out of them. The seat cushion was rough against her smooth skin.

She folded her pants, and surreptitiously handed them over. He put them into his lap. The idea of people noticing the tight women's pair and coming to the right conclusions both terrified and exhilarated her.

"Now your shirt," he said.

"I can't give you my shirt!" she hissed. "That's way too obvious!"

"I didn't ask. I gave you an order," he replied, his tone indicating his growing impatience.

She drily swallowed, and started undoing the buttons on her dress shirt. As far as she could tell, nobody was up and about, but still. Hiding a lack of pants while sitting down was easy -- hiding her naked shoulders was not. As quickly as possible, she shrugged out of her shirt, then pulled the blanket up to her neck.

He took it from her hand and made a show of folding it. She knew she was bright red from embarrassment already, though in the darkness of the cabin at least that was definitely not visible.

"Bra." A single word. She froze in panic. He could not possibly be serious. She rarely went without one. With all the teasing he put her through, any stray thought could make her nipples hard, and having people see her big nipples poke through her clothes had become a constant worry. And now he did not just want her to go without one under her clothes, but completely bare-breasted in public.

She could not. "Please?" she begged. 

"You would prefer the agreed punishment?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Fuck," she thought. The agreed punishment was that she would go without a single orgasm all holiday long. Three weeks. Three weeks which she knew would be filled morning to night with teasing and sex. They even had reservations for a couple sexually charged events at kinky nightclubs in LA. He had already banned her from orgasms for the last week in preparation for this vacation of bacchanal debauchery. The idea of being denied throughout all that was even more ghastly than being caught by a stewardess. 

She reached behind herself, undid the clasp, and handed it over. She felt her breasts touch the rough blanket, and did not even have to check her nipples for hardness. They would cut steel right now.

"Good girl." His voice was smooth as silk and made her shiver, "I think you deserve an orgasm."

"What, now?" she squeaked.

"Yes, now. Touch yourself. I want you to cum here. Take your time."

Her first orgasm in a week! She wasn't sure her heart was beating like a jackhammer because of fear, or elation. With her left hand, she held the blanket in place to cover her nakedness, and her right hand slid into her panties. They were drenched. Her freshly waxed pussy welcomed the caress, and she was glad the noisy aircraft drowned out her gasp.

It took her only minutes to reach an edge. Being naked in public might be scary, but it was also a massive turn-on. 

She jumped when she felt his hand on her thigh, but she moved her own hand out of the way, and let him do what he wanted. His fingers found her panties, snuck under them, and played with her cunt.

"You're such a slut," he whispered in her ear, "if I bent you over and fucked you in the walkway you'd cum instantly." The mental image made her squirm. He wasn't wrong.

"But I said slowly. Now take a break. Then try again," he said.

She groaned, but did as bidden. She waited for an excruciating five minutes before starting again. This time she did as bidden. Teasing her lips. Gently stroking over her dripping entrance. Once, she brought her glistening fingers up to her mouth, and sucked them clean while looking him in the eyes. She knew he loved that, and it was a tiny way of taking revenge: Make him unbearably hard.

She kept teasing herself, slowly getting close and closer to the edge. When she reached it, she looked at him, questioningly. Now? Her gaze asked.

He smirked, and grabbed her right wrist under the covers. He pulled her hand towards him, and she felt his rock-hard cock under his blanket.

"Don't stroke. Just hold it," he said. She knew why. He disliked having orgasms in public and having to deal with covering everything in cum. He preferred to have her swallow it, which always was a challenge. 

"Now go on," he said, still a smirk on his lips. She wondered what the point was of making his own life harder. She stopped wondering when she realized that now she had to get herself off with her non-dominant hand, and had no hand left to hold the blanket in place. 

She stuffed both corners of it over her shoulder blades, and leaned against it. That held it in place as long as she didn't move too much, and only exposed her naked knees. Good enough. He nodded in appreciation.

Again, for the third time, she touched herself. She was sitting in a puddle, but she did not mind. Even with her left hand, she got back to the edge very quickly, her arousal as high as the plane.

When she reached the edge, she kept gently fondling her clit, staying just there. He always made her hold an edge before the orgasm, only letting her go over when she couldn't bear it any more. She looked at him. Waiting for a nod. His cock throbbed under her fingers. His eyes held her gaze. Moments stretched to eternity. Her pussy began to clench and drip. Her clit became more and more sensitive, her whole lower body felt hot. Still he didn't even blink. She was panting. She had reached the point where the difficulty wasn't to lose the edge, but she had to concentrate hard on not going over too early. She tried to control her breathing as she felt her heart hammer in her chest. She wanted this orgasm so badly.

He gave a nod.

The second she saw it, she felt herself go over, her body responding like a pavlovian dog to master's bell chiming. 

He ripped her blanket away.

Horrified, she let go of her clit, of his cock, and tried to cover up herself with her hands, and before she even knew what she had done, she felt the orgasm wither away. Abandoned. Ruined. Frantically, she clawed at her blanket, and he returned it without any resistance, only a very wide grin.

"Fuck you!" she hissed, "You ruined my orgasm!"

"Not my fault," He shrugged, faking non-concern, "That's on you. You could have continued to touch yourself, but you decided to move your hand away. In fact, I did not tell you to ruin."

Her anger turned into worry. Technically she had not done as asked. Technically she was on the hook for the agreed punishment.

"But! But! It was your fault!" she blurted out, and regretted it immediately.

He gave a disappointed sigh.

"Okay, okay, it was not your fault. I misspoke! Sorry!!" she wailed, before he could come up with something worse.

"So you agree to the punishment?" he asked.

She had a brilliant idea, and quickly interrupted: "No, wait! I did have an orgasm! You often say how ruins are orgasms. So I did as I was told!"

His expression turned into his smirk. Something was wrong.

"Oh, alright. Ruins are orgasms. That's okay. We will keep this rule intact for the whole holidays." He didn't even pretend that this had been a spontaneous idea. 

Realization dawned on her that she had been played like a fiddle.

Shit, she thought.

2020-02-10, Blissful Torment