Two-Minute Daydream
                 (part 3)

Think about that day.  The one that started early.

Or try not to think about it.  

Try.  But if you're this woman, you'll fail.

An early Saturday morning.  Most sensible people 
were resting.  Enjoying their time off in a 
glorious, sleepy haze.

She was up early and subject to simple, easy 
directions.  Getting out of the shower.  Sitting at 
the corner of their bed, and spreading her legs.

Touching herself ... leading herself up to near 
climax.  Waiting.  Doing it again.

The second time was always harder.  You had to stop 
sooner, for fear of coming.

He made her do it a third time.

And she was *ready*.  It was 7:30 in the morning and 
she was aching all over ... to be touched, made love 
to ... almost intense enough to want to be fucked -- 
to think of it that way.

But she would be tied, not touched.  Spread eagle.  
Her legs would not go together for the next three 
hours.

It was time for torture, though not the kind that 
actually hurts.

Have you ever been touched gently ... slowly ... 
lightly ... easily ... again and again?  

Yes, maybe you have.  But did your lover lead you up 
and leave you there?  Did he stop every time, before 
you could come?  

And were you bound so tightly as to be utterly 
helpless in the face of his sensual tortures ... 
again and again, for hours?

He might walk away ... give you 20, 30 minutes to 
relax ... calm down ... your head clears just a 
little.  But he would come back, too.  And soon 
you'd be begging.

Have you ever needed to come so badly it brought you 
to tears?

And at that moment, did you discover your partner is 
heartless?  That he won't help, even when you can't 
take it anymore?

Sensual torture.  Being tortured with your own need 
is a unique and deeply unsettling experience.

It's approaching noon, and you find yourself sitting 
carefully, calmly at the dining room table with him, 
finally released, eating the lunch he prepared.

You're keeping your legs apart as you sit and eat.  
No squeezing, you've been told.  But your body feels 
alive everywhere, swells of sensation running 
unpredictably through you ... your pussy varying 
between wet and positively runny.

You talk as if nothing's different.  It's calm.  You 
feel comforted, if unnaturally excitable.

You have a normal conversation while eating.  But as 
you finish, a choice is put to you.

He gives a simple and straightforward explanation.  
You have an appointment that afternoon.  He has 
taken the liberty of making the appointment.  You 
may choose to go, or to stay.  He claims it makes no 
difference to him, and that you should truly feel 
free to make this choice.

He slides a clip from the morning paper toward you.  
It's an ad for one of those adult entertainment 
clubs ... a strip club.

He explains that you have an appointment that 
afternoon to try out as a dancer for the club.

He wants you to understand your choice.  If you go, 
you must try out.  The club will be open at that 
hour.  There may be customers.  You will remove all 
your clothes when you dance.

And you will do one extra thing.  Something none of 
the guys there will have seen before.  You will 
kneel on the dance floor.  Your knees will be apart.  
And you will, rhythmically to the music, run your 
fingers up and down your swollen and squishy labia, 
until you come for everyone.

You may, he explains, touch yourself to climax while 
up on the dance floor.  If you choose not to do so, 
or if you fail to come for the crowd, you will go 
without for the rest of the day.  The chastity belt 
will come out.  And you'll be wearing it until 
morning.

He tries to convine you that this is *your* choice.  
That you can go either way.

But his words barely penetrate the thickening haze 
in your mind.  You're wet again.  Dripping onto the 
kitchen floor.  There's no use trying to think.

Have you ever come in front of a room full of 
leering, unattractive men?

Have you ever had to reconcile it in your mind?  The 
fact that you came bigger, truer, with more utter 
enthusiasm than most women ever do in their life.  
And that it was while doing *this* in front of 
*these* guys?

Have you ever been taken to the back office 
afterwards for "negotiations"?  

Have you ever known what was happening, but been 
unable to believe it ... to believe that he would go 
so far?  To believe that you came, again, on your 
knees, on a dirty floor, with the club manager's 
cock in your mouth?

Did you kneel there, and rub yourself to prove it?  
To prove that you enjoy it ... your lips wrapped 
around the condom you so carefully rolled up a 
strange man's stiff little cock?

No, you've never even thought of such things.  Those 
thoughts have never taken you at odd moments ... 
standing in line at the Post Office, or at night in 
that wonderful dreamy state at the edge of sleep.

She has.  And does.  And finds herself there 
unwittingly during the most ordinary moments of her 
life.

She finds herself shamefully warm and moist ... 
wondering at herself ... knowing her day will be 
average, normal ... it probably will ... but 
wondering when that harsh and unforgiving surprise 
might descend to disturb the sweetness of her 
everyday life again.