Wrist-Controlled College Girlfriend's Orgasm Torture

The third-floor corner of the university library smelled like old paper and lemon polish. Kendra, twenty, sat with her left arm tucked against her ribs the way she always did when she studied, sleeve dragged down, wrist hidden. Deborah, twenty-two, had claimed the chair beside her an hour ago with a thermos and a stack of psych notes, one boot hooked around the leg of Kendra's chair like she already owned the inch of air between them.

They had been girlfriends since fall. Deborah liked control. Kendra liked giving it, in Deborah's apartment, where the rules were spoken and either of them could end a scene with a word. The library was supposed to be neutral. Midterms. Quiet. No games.

Kendra reached for a highlighter. Her sleeve rode up. Deborah's knuckles, shifting a notebook, brushed the bare inside of Kendra's left wrist.

The sound Kendra made was small and ruined. Heat punched up from that thin skin, a bright involuntary flare that had nothing to do with the page. Her thighs clamped under the table. Her pencil clattered. Color flooded her throat, her cheeks, the tops of her breasts above the tank top.

Deborah went still. Her eyes tracked the flush, the helpless squirm of Kendra's hips, the broken breath.

"That," Deborah said, very low, "was not nothing."

Kendra's mouth opened and shut. She had never told anyone. A slight touch there and her body lit whether she invited it or not. A firm stroke and she came. She had learned it alone in her apartment, mortified, a silk edge, then the buzz of her phone against the bone until words fell out of her head. She had never let a girlfriend near it.

"Deb. Don't. Not here. I can't—"

Deborah's smile was slow and hungry. She did not touch again. She only looked, and the looking was already pressure. "You just got wet from a brush of my hand. Tell me I'm wrong."

Kendra shook her head. Her pulse hammered where Deborah had barely grazed her. "You're not wrong. It's the left one. A little touch and I get aroused whether I mean to or not. If you stroke it, I come. If it's hard, or if it vibrates, I don't stop. I lose words. I didn't want you to find out like this."

Deborah's boot tightened on the chair leg. Something dark and delighted moved through her face. "And if I want to find out exactly like this?"

Kendra's stomach dropped and heated together. She knew that look. She had asked for it on her knees, Deborah's hand in her hair. This was the same want, only public, only aimed at the place she had kept.

"Say it," Deborah murmured. "Or I keep my hands on my notes and we pretend I didn't watch you soak your panties over a knuckle."

The stacks were empty. The lamps hummed. She wanted it. She wanted Deborah mean about it.

"Yes," she whispered. "I consent. Tease it. I want you to. Just don't make me scream where someone could walk the aisle. Yellow if I need you slower. Red if I need you to stop."

"Yellow and red," Deborah said, pleased. "Good girl. Sit still and let me play."

Her fingertips settled, light as breath, on the inside of Kendra's left wrist.

Deborah did not stroke. She circled. One fingertip, then two, drawing lazy rings over the blue vein, never pressing, never leaving. The touch was slight and endless, exactly the kind that shoved arousal through Kendra whether she permitted it or not. Heat pooled low and mean. Her clit throbbed in time with those circles. Wetness slicked her panties, then the crease of her thighs, and she had to lock her jaw to keep from moaning into the quiet.

"Look at you," Deborah whispered, mouth close to Kendra's ear. "Already dripping and I haven't even been nice yet. Don't you dare come. Not until I say. You come in this chair and I'll make you sit in it until the lights go out."

Kendra's free hand crushed the edge of the table. "I won't. I won't. Please don't—oh—"

The circles slowed, crueler for being softer. Every pass lit another involuntary spark. Her hips tried to rock and found nowhere to go. She was teetering, clit swollen, cunt clenching on nothing, orgasm crowded right behind her teeth. Deborah watched her face the way she watched a problem she intended to solve with her hands.

Then the fingers left the wrist.

Kendra almost sobbed at the loss. Before she could beg them back, Deborah's other hand slipped under the hem of her tank and drew one feather-light line along her ribs. Kendra jerked. A desperate giggle broke out of her, high and horrified, and the giggle made everything worse. The almost-orgasm spiked. Her nipples went stiff. Deborah tickled again, barely there, up the ladder of her ribs, then higher, a whisper of nails along the side of her neck just under the ear.

"Stop—Deb—I'm gonna—I can't laugh and not come, please—"

"Quiet," Deborah said, delighted and vicious. "You laugh like that again and the whole floor hears what a needy little wrist-slut you are. Beg me not to make you come. Use your words. Quietly."

Kendra's eyes burned. She bit the inside of her cheek and whispered through clenched teeth, "Please don't make me come. Not here. Please, I'm so close, I'm so close, if you touch my wrist again I'll—"

Deborah touched it again. Only a glide. Only enough to shove her back to the edge and hold her there, shaking. Then the tickling returned, ribs, the soft skin under her arm where the sleeve had bunched, the hollow of her throat. Kendra's giggles came out strangled, half moan, half panic, each one jerking her clit harder. She was panting. Flushed to the collarbones. Her panties were ruined. A thin wet spot darkened the crotch of her jeans and she could feel it cooling and heating at once.

"Please," she breathed, no longer pretending she could study. "Please, Deborah, I need to come. I can't sit here like this. I'm begging. I'll do whatever you want, just—let me, or stop, I don't—yellow, no, not yellow, I want it, I just can't hold it—"

Deborah's smile sharpened. She pinched the air an inch above the wrist, not quite touching, and Kendra whimpered like the pinch had landed. "There she is. My polite little girlfriend, falling apart in the stacks because I petted her pulse. Say it louder. Not loud enough to get us kicked out. Loud enough that I believe you."

"Please let me come," Kendra whispered, wrecked, thighs trembling, "or take me somewhere and torture it. I can't—I'm yours if you want, just don't leave me like this, please, please, I'm begging you."

Deborah stood, caught Kendra's right hand, and left the left one carefully untouched. "Study room. Now. You asked. You're going to get every second of it."

The locked study room was a narrow box with a frosted window, a table, and a deadbolt Deborah turned with a soft, final click. Kendra stood shaking in the middle of it, jeans damp, chest heaving, twenty years old and already halfway gone. Deborah set her bag down, dug past highlighters, and came up with two soft library scarves she had checked out that morning for a presentation and a small matte-black bullet she usually kept for nights in her apartment. She held them up where Kendra could see.

"Arms over your head. Scarves on your wrists, loose enough to slip if you say red, tight enough that you feel owned. The vibrator goes on that left wrist and nowhere else until I decide you've earned a hand between your legs. You can come as much as your body forces you to. You do not get to be coherent. You do not get to be my equal in this room. Nod if you still want it."

Kendra nodded so hard her hair stuck to her mouth. "Yes. I want it. I want you mean. Green. Please."

Deborah backed her to the wall, lifted both arms, and knotted the scarves through the coat hook above the doorframe, right wrist snug, left wrist offered and bare, the sensitive skin turned out like a target. She kissed Kendra's mouth once, filthy and brief, then stepped back to look at her work.

"Half an hour," she said. "I timed it. You belong to that clock and to me."

She started with her fingers. Not the teasing circles from the table. A firm, sensual stroke, thumb dragging the length of the inner wrist, slow, heavy, skin on skin. Kendra's orgasm hit before the stroke finished. It tore up out of her cunt with no warning she could use, a hard clench and a gush that soaked through panties and jeans and spattered the linoleum between her sneakers. She cried out, muffled it against her own shoulder, and came again on the return stroke, weaker and wetter, thighs shaking, squirting in short hot pulses she could not stop.

"Oh my God—Deb—fuck—I'm coming, I'm coming, I can't—"

"I know," Deborah said, laughing, low and cruel. "That's the point. Look at the mess. You're pissing orgasm all over a study room because I petted you. Again."

She stroked firmer. Kendra's knees buckled. The scarves held. Another wave ripped through her, then another, continuous now, not separate climaxes so much as one long seizure of pleasure that wrung her empty and somehow found more. Slick ran down her legs. Her jeans were a lost cause. She babbled, words slurring, "please please too much oh God don't stop don't—yellow no not yellow harder I hate you I love—fuck—"

Deborah clicked the bullet on, lowest setting, and pressed the rounded tip to the center of that hypersensitive wrist.

Kendra screamed into her shoulder. The vibration sank straight into the nerve and blew her apart. Continuous orgasms stacked on each other until she could not tell where one ended. Her cunt spasmed and squirted, a hot arc that hit Deborah's boot and the floor, then another, humiliating and endless. Her vision whitened. Coherence left. She heard herself babbling nonsense, "wrist wrist Mistress no I'm not—coming coming coming can't think can't—" and none of it was a sentence.

Deborah laughed, bright and awful, and dragged the vibe in a slow circle while her free hand tickled Kendra's ribs through the tank, feather-light, forcing giggles through the sobs. The laughter made her clench harder. She squirted again, weaker, soaking her own socks. Panic flared under the pleasure, real and bright: she could not stop, could not speak a full thought, could not get her arms down, and she did not want to be let down. She wanted more and she was terrified of more.

"Red?" Deborah asked, voice sharp enough to cut through. She lifted the vibe a half inch, not touching.

Kendra shook her head frantically, tears on her cheeks, drool on her chin. "No. Green. Green. Please, Mistress—don't stop—I'm scared and I want it, I want it, please torture me, I'll be good, I'll be your sub, just don't take it away—"

"There," Deborah said, and put the bullet back, harder, a notch higher. "Say it while you squirt. Louder. I want the walls to know what you are."

The vibration drilled into the wrist and Kendra came so hard her voice cracked. "I'm your sub—I'm your sub—please, Mistress, please, I'm coming, I can't stop coming, my wrist, oh fuck, I'm squirting, look, look at me, I'm your toy, please—" She lost the rest. Words dissolved into wet sobs and broken giggles as Deborah alternated: firm sensual strokes with two fingers, then the buzzing tip pressed and rolled, then a sudden tickle up her neck that made her shriek-laugh and gush again. Half an hour. Deborah checked her phone and smiled and did not hurry. She demanded begging between every wave. She called Kendra her dripping library slut, her wrist-whore, her good panicked girl, and Kendra agreed to all of it, sobbing yes, yes, Mistress, yours, while orgasm after orgasm robbed her of anything but the plea.

Her jeans were peeled down at some point—Deborah's hands, Kendra's frantic nod—and the next squirting orgasm hit bare, splashing Deborah's fingers where they weren't even touching her cunt, only her wrist. Kendra stared at her own body like it belonged to someone crueler and came again because Deborah laughed. She babbled. She panicked. She begged to be stopped and begged not to be stopped in the same breath, and every time Deborah asked for the color she gasped green and offered the wrist higher in the scarves.

"Who owns this?" Deborah tapped the vibe against the wet skin.

"You—Mistress—you—"

"Who comes when I say and keeps coming when I don't let her think?"

"Me. Your sub. Your—fuck—your sub, please, I'm yours, I can't, I'm gonna—again—"

She did. Again. And again. Until the thirty minutes were a blur of vibration, strokes, tickling ribs, cruel laughter, and the obscene sound of her cunt giving up another helpless squirt onto the study-room floor.

When the timer chimed, Kendra was a trembling, tear-streaked mess, arms still up, jeans around her ankles, thighs glazed, chin wet, eyes unfocused. She could not form a sentence that was not a whimper. "Please, Mistress. I'm your sub. Please, Mistress. I'm your sub."

Deborah switched the bullet off and set it on the table. She did not soothe. She stepped in close, gripped Kendra's jaw, and made her look at the puddle she had made.

"Fun's barely started," she said, voice low and filthy. "You're my obedient little wrist-controlled orgasm toy now. Permanently. I touch that pulse and you squirt. I buzz it and you forget your own name. You don't get tender. You get used."

She shoved two fingers into Kendra's soaked, spasming cunt, curled them once, and ground her thumb over the swollen clit while her other hand clamped the oversensitive wrist hard enough to spark another helpless, coherent-less climax.

"Last one for the room," Deborah snarled against her mouth. "Come on my hand like the desperate sub you just became and thank me for ruining you."

Kendra shattered, gushing around Deborah's fingers, babbling through the sob, "Thank you, Mistress—fuck—thank you for wrecking my wrist and making me your squirting sub, please use me, please don't ever stop."