Running Out Of Time

Click. Clack.

Click. Clack.

Tick. Tack.

Tick. Tack.

One step. One second.

One second. One step.

Up. Up. All the way up.

One step. One more.

A gulp. A step. A second.

The only thing not part of this rhythm was your heart. Beating hard and heavy in your chest. Taking your breath away with every other step up these stairs. You feel your fingers trembling. You ball them up into fists, cramping every muscle in your arms and releasing. It doesn't help much, but anything is better than focusing on the passing seconds. On your steps. On another flight of stairs.

Tick Tack.

One final flight of staircase. One final minute to pass by.

Your head swims and your fist trembles just inches from the heavy metal door. The uppermost apartment. The penthouse. You swallow again.

Tick. Tack.

You have to knock. You have to. You know it. There is no other way. If you ever want to be "free" again you have to knock.

Tick. Tack.

And yet...

Every time you enter through this door, you leave less "free" and less in control. The worst thing? You dread it as much as you enjoy it.

Tick. Tack.

Your other hand wanders down, in your pants, in your jockstrap. You readjust the warm metal hugging your member tightly. Your dick has long since stopped getting hard from just the touch. You got used to metal around your dick. The unyielding metal tube and ring making it all but impossible to get hard. Your balls feel heavy and full. They are churning and aching. It has been exactly 32 days. Thirty two. A month and a bit. An agonizing bit to be sure.

You take a deep breath. Another one. You lost count by now. The number thirty two stays in your head, but not the number of breaths you took.

Tick. Tack.

When you knock you will find release. Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Actually, you're not too sure about that.

He denied you the last two times. Played with you for hours. Days. An entire weekend. Teased you mercilessly. Relentlessly. Making you beg and moan and scream in agonizing pleasure. Using and abusing you. His little toy. His little plaything.

His bitch.

Tick. Tack.

And after all that, after all that... struggle... you still didn't get to cum. No, quite the opposite. You got thrown into the elevator naked and send straight back down to the ground floor. Barely thirty two seconds to get your clothes back on. Only to find your underwear missing and leaving with burning red cheeks and a throbbing - and caged - erection bulging through your pants. The receptionist - a young tiger - roughly your age had chuckled at your situation and watched you hobble towards the exit. Much to your dismay.

Tick. Tack.

Were the circumstances different you would've never come back. That embarrassment was almost too much to handle. Almost. Because you are back now. The tiger was also back - recognizing you and grinning a knowing smile. You couldn't stand looking him in the eyes as you feel yourself blushing again.

Tick. Tack.

It's your balls that brought you back here. They practically dragged you here. The aching need in your groin dragged you here. You are but a slave to your own desires. Another gulp. Another deep breath. How many? What does it matter? Thirty two days and counting...

Tick. Tack.

You don't have to be here. You might as well enjoy your life somewhere else. Enjoy the night clubs and bars and hook ups. What made you think this was a good idea? It started innocently enough. A bit of domination here, a bit of edging there. Suddenly you find yourself without release thirty two days in. But it's oh so exciting, isn't it? When do you get to cum? It's not your decision to make. But you damn sure tried - to no satisfying avail of course - otherwise you wouldn't be here, wouldn't be contemplating knocking on this metal door.

Tick. Tack.

A few inches of cool, massive metal and a very mischievous master stood between you and the biggest release of your young life. You might be able to kick the door down given enough time and effort, but you can't possibly hope to match your master. Towering over you by two heads, a body that would make Adonis look like a ken doll, luscious fur, that tickled you in just the right way when it brushed against you... You are dreaming and you don't even realize it. Thirty two days do that to you. How are you supposed to focus on anything but his statue and glorious coat?

Tick. Tack.

Big muscles, big body, big bulge, big everything. Big in all the right places. You spend hours upon hours on the internet looking at eye candy just like him, but not quite. Not quite like him. He is just that bit more toned, just that bit more cocky, that bit more real. Who would've thought that reality was better than any fiction? You certainly didn't.

Tick. Tack.

You can't get to the keys dangling from his neck almost hidden in that fur. Just a tiny sparkle, a reflection in the right light. Making you fear it is not there most of the time when you should know better. You have tried once, when he was asleep and it had ended very poorly for you. Before you knew it, you found yourself dangling from the ropes from the ceiling, your feet just barely touching the ground, completely exposed to him. You can vividly remember the spanking and the following bruises, that made it impossible for you to sit down at a desk. You can vividly remember the regret. It still lingers in you. You will not try to go for the key again. Not anytime time soon. Your balls may be aching, but they were hurting bad when he decided to shift his focus from his ass to your balls. That is something you will not risk again.

Tick. Tack.

What does he have in store today? Or tomorrow, if he decides to keep you for the weekend? It's not your call to make after all. Another toy? Another humiliating action that leaves you panting and begging for release? Will you have to service him like the best possible slave all weekend or will you be bound to his bed and be his sex toy? Maybe he is in a good mood and cuddles with you on the couch or in the whirlpool? Maybe he kicks you right back out, because some important business meeting or because he simply has other plans? He has found a liking in you and keeps you around. You might even call it affection, but you wouldn't be surprised to find yourself knocking and finding him gone.

Tick. Tack.

Would you call it a relationship? Friends with benefits? A simple business deal? Pleasure for pleasure and all that? You honestly can't say. Maybe you feel a certain way, but that could very well be your horniness speaking. You haven't had post-nut clarity ever since you met him. That was a good thing, right? Meant you actually found some pleasure in what you are doing with him without feeling that lingering regret.

Right?

Tick. Tack.

It's time now. High time you muster the courage and knock. You want that sweet release after all, don't you? But there it is again. The trembling, the hesitation, the doubt and the overwhelming horniness. Just do it. Pleasure awaits. Just knock. You can do it. You did it a few times already. Why is it such a struggle each and every weekend? It's so easy. Just knock. Go ahead.

Tick. Tack.

You must be a broken man for indulging in this kind of pleasure. Sorry, a broken bitch. It's not you who decides when or if you get any pleasure this weekend after all. You can't even bring yourself to knock, bitch. How pathetic. Even the receptionist in the lobby thinks you're pathetic and he is but a receptionist. Feel that searing heat creeping into your cheeks? That's the sad rest of your pride burning away. There will be none of that left once you enter. Your facade crumbles to nothing but dust in front of this door. Go on, knock. Leave behind these worries, these self-accusations. Inside awaits but the pleasures of the flesh. No worries, no doubts. Go. Knock.

Tick. Tack.

How can something feel wrong and right at the same time? Shouldn't that be a paradox in and of itself? If it were for your body, you would've been in there hours ago. Who are you kidding? You would've never left. If it were for your mind, you would've moved to the other side of the continent and changed identities. It's your mind that governs the week, your day to day life. But it's your body that takes charge as soon as you clock out on fridays. It's the conflict between these two keeping you from knocking, isn't it? Giving away the power. Surrendering yourself. Go on. It's the weekend. And it has been thirty two days after all.

Tick. Tack.

Knock. Knock.