I let her suffer

I guess I'm a bit of a bastard, but I lurk outside Alison's door listening to her frustration as she hovers just on the edge of of her climax. I remember what she told me about her difficulty with masturbation, but until I heard it first hand, I hadn't really believed it. Especially because of how responsive she had been when I had touched her. When, with a soft whimper of defeat, the noise of the bed squeaking abruptly subsides I back silently down the steps before she catches me spying on her.

It is only Wednesday, and the poor thing is going to be reading about her darkest fantasies for the rest of the week, if she doesn't find some way to let herself go, she is going to be a wreck by the time I 'capture' her and make her mine.

Thursday Alison has her PM chem lab, and when she gets home, she grabs a sandwich and disappears up to her room; possibly to study but after what I saw last night, I suspect she is reading through the other books I gave her. I push back on the temptation to check in on her again. I doubt I'd have the strength to resist her if she is once again playing with herself on the bed. The good news is that I was able to see my doctor and she gave me a prescription to help improve my sexual performance.

Dr. Williams has been our family doctor for over twenty years now and she was both pleased and a little curious about my sudden desire for medication. 'Fran would want this, Pat, I know she would.' she told me as the exam was wrapping up. I wonder if she'd feel that way if she knew that I wanted these pills so I could keep up with my teenaged tenant who was letting me fuck her because she didn't have money to pay her rent.

I don't know if Alison is conscious of her clothing choices or if is her frustration expressing itself, but when she comes down to dinner on Thursday in addition to her tight jeans she is wearing a black top that is held together by a simple bow that needed nothing more than a firm tug on one of the loose ends to unravel. As we eat, more than once her fingers play with the hanging ties and I have to resist the temptation to reach across the kitchen table and open her top like an early Christmas present.

Once again she sends me away while she cleans up after dinner and as I settle down in my arm chair I realize that I could get used to this.

“Excuse me...” I look up from the ugly game between the Bears and Tom Brady at the helm of Tampa Bay, to find her standing quietly waiting for me.

“I'm all done, Sir, if you'd like to inspect the kitchen.” It has been almost forty minutes and I can't imagine what she'd been doing all this time so I take her up on her offer and stroll into the kitchen with her following meekly at my heels.

I take pride in keeping my whole house tidy, especially the kitchen but I have to say it looks even better now than ever. In addition to clearing the table and washing the dishes, the floor was been mopped and woodwork wiped down. The smell of the citrus oil cleaner fills the air and the kitchen table and counters are spotless as is the gleaming stainless-steel sink. I make a show of looking over everything, and actually manage to find a greasy spot on top of the vent that was noticeable for me because I had three inches of height on her.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. P.” Her soft brown eyes look up at me in a mixture of excitement and fear, “It will never happen again, Sir - I promise!” To punish her for this one smudge of grease after all her work seems ****, but if I let it go I sense my tenant might be disappointed.