Remote Control Punishment

I knew she was sweating; her heart pounding and her palms clammy as she waited for the train. Her feet close together, her eyes staring at the passengers disembarking onto the platform opposite: anything but to avoid concentrating on the throbbing in her pussy.

Anything but that.

I watched her wriggle in front of the dozen commuters on our platform, reading their free newspapers or drinking their overpriced coffee from bucket-sized cups. Fortunately for her, they were as oblivious to her attire or her tumultuous state of arousal, as they were to each other. The smallest bead of perspiration tumbled down her face as she closed her eyes for a few seconds, desperately waiting for her train into work.

Taking her to the end of her torment.

But it was her own fault: she knew the rules. She broke them, she paid the penalty.

She knew if the wait on the platform was cruel on her, then the vibrations of the train would be hellish. She knew that if her fellow commuters were barely noticing her silent anguish and hidden distress in the windy station, they would notice it when pressed up against her on the train ride into Manchester.

They would smell her arousal, they would hear her groans and see her expression as her body tips her into an avalanche of decadent relief. They would know and they would condemn her. She flinched in shock as my hands glided over my box of electronics, crying inside as our train emerged from the tunnel.

Her eyes begged me; longing for me to end her torture and her embarrassment. Pleading for mercy. But there would be no mercy.

I could not offer her clemency: she had violated one of the key rules in our relationship. She had to be punished, and punished hard. I had returned from my morning shower to find my girlfriend masturbating in our bed, twirling her finger against her clit as I watched silently from the door of the en-suite.

Her lovely hole was filled with her red rubber dildo. Her fingers glistened with juices as her facial expression became flushed with desperate pleasure. She didn't see or hear me enter the room. Her mind was too focused on the sparkle between her legs as her groans became louder. She panted frantically with snatched whimpers and a gentle rhythm of her hips. I knew she was fantasising and dreaming: her mind awash with steamy imaginations and illusions taking on a magical carpet ride of indulgent mirages concocted from her bank of filthy fantasies.

No doubt she was imagining her boss tying her to the bed, or her favourite football team taking turns with her. Perhaps envisaging her best friend passionately kissing the young slut as a strap-on slipped into her moistened pussy.

But she shouldn't be orgasming without permission; she knew the rules. A slap of her hand brought her from her self-pleasuring trance, a slap of her face told her she was in trouble. My slut was apologetic, begging me to allow her to come. It had been four long weeks.

I knew this. Naughty girls don't get to orgasm; naughty girls get teased and denied. And she had been very naughty with aberrations aplenty. She pleaded to be allowed to climax; she begged, desperate for me to allow her to sate herself before she went into work.

I took pity on her cries.

I gave her the remote control vibrating knickers and confiscated her skirt: she could have the remote control and the grey garment when she reached her train station.

Her eyes widened at my command, her nipples hardened. It was a threat I had made before, the words conveyed the fear and dread I longed for.

She changed her mind, imploring me not to make her orgasm as we left the house; she beseeched with me to spare her dignity and that she promised to go another month without complaint. I ignored her pleas, though I found them erotic. I played with her as we waited before pushing her vibrations to the highest level as the train arrived at the platform.

She fought her urges. Her face twisted with unspent and unwanted lust, her body desperate for relief fought her mind anxious to retain her dignity. To avoid the embarrassment and humiliation I had once caused her on a desolate evening train. But this was no two-passenger service, her sweating dilemma was amongst thousands of commuters, bustling for space. Her space. They wanted to press against her heaving body, scandalously dressed as her cunt tingled and her clitoris vibrated.

She gripped hold of the handle as the train accelerated from the station, digging her fingers into the cold blue metal as she fought a losing battle. The toy squealed and hummed, barely audible over the noise of the train as her month-long horniness boiled angrily inside of her. I watched her writhe and squirm, bouncing on the heels of her boots as her breathing became ragged.

She was teetering on the edge of her orgasm, no longer worried about what her fellow commuters saw or thought. Her attention abandoned her need to retain her pride and now converted to her pursuit of relief: her cunt trembled towards her awaited climax and her glazed eyes barely noticed the sights in front of her.

She was no longer on a crowded train, but swimming through her fantasies: the firemen, the football club and the jail. The lesbian stripper fucking her brains out or her boss pushing her over her secretarial desk. Her imagination indulged her desperation, as her body trembled, her legs quivered.

She was there.

But suddenly the vibrations weren't.

She scowled angrily at me when she noticed, beaming at her a few feet away. Her body tingling with excitement, my slave teased and denied, as usual. She's not allowed to orgasm without my permission. She had been naughty that morning, very naughty.

And she knows, very intimately, that errant girls don't get the climaxes they crave. Ever.