Memories Can't Wait

All this and I didn't even manage to climax.

I stop touching my neck and let my head lie back, closing my eyes and trying to get back to sleep. But my body betrays me yet again, refusing to do anything but focus my mind on the pain under my jaw. I reach up and rub the marks again. At least I'm alive, right?

"Wrong."

I swear that my clit actually said that. My eyes bolt open and I sit up again. Sliding my back against the headboard, I throw the sheet off my body. I can't believe she's actually insisting, right now, that I attend to her needs.

"You never finished."

I lift up the gown and peer at her; the hospital removed my piercings (I wonder which pervert volunteered for that little detail?) so she's starkly visible, poking out from under her hood. It has to be my imagination, but it is almost like she's looking at me in an accusatory fashion. I think about calling her a filthy traitor, guilty of sedition of the highest order, but then I realize that literally talking to my clit is probably a terrible idea when I'm already on suicide watch.

Instead, I give in. I lick two fingers and gently use them to circle around her. It doesn't do much, but it does clear my head a bit and I start going faster. I stifle a moan with my other hand, making a racket as the restraint bangs against the bedpost.

"Don't stop. Finish me off or I'll keep you awake all day and night if I have to."

I bite my lip and re-focus my attention on her, going up and down, then making figure eights, going on to Z-patterning, but she isn't having any of it. I know I have to do better, even if she isn't saying anything. I try to think of anything sexy: Tara's stupidly thick strap-on that I never learned to take, Aaron eating my pussy while holding me upside down, all the customers I'd ridden at the Good Pink Health Center, the bull who'd practically demolished my ass. Literally anything.

I went on for a few minutes, climbing and climbing, but never getting any higher. My body shifts around the bed and I realize my restrained hand can reach my mouth, somewhat, if I just scoot against the edge a bit further. They can't get very far without needing some awkward positioning, but I manage to get three digits in my mouth and slurp on them, pretending I'm sucking a dick.

"Oh come on. You can do sexier than that."

I groan in irritation and try to scrub her into silence, hoping like hell she'll get the hint and just climax already. But she's stubborn and refuses, in spite of a blistering pace set by my two fingers. I double down on sexy thoughts, but there isn't anything else in my memory that can bring me off.

Then it hits me: choking.

I take the fingers of my restrained hand out of my mouth and run them across the ligature marks on my neck and jaw. It hurts just as much as before, but when combined with my throbbing clit, the pain rolls over into pleasure and my orgasm hits me like a brick wall at a hundred kilometers an hour. I squeeze down hard on my neck, ignoring the discomfort of the restraint tugging my wrist and keep rubbing my clit. My legs shake and my juices splatter all over the bed. As the spray tapers off, the remainder dribbles down my ass, pooling below and making an obvious wet spot on the sheets. I let go of my throat and gasp for air, triggering another orgasm, less messy than the first but no less intense, taking the gown between my teeth to keep from making too much noise.

"Thank you."

Finally satisfied, I fall back onto the bed and giggle to myself, taking the time to lick my fingers clean. I savor my taste and take time to make sure I get every bit of it I can. That's when I turn my head and see the bouquet of flowers, vibrant and festive looking with a card attached. I can't get close enough to touch it, but I can see the writing in the inside of card:

Thinking of you, Tara.