Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your fingers curling into the sheets, when she stills, her weight shifting to keep you from pushing forward. “You don’t get to finish yet,” she says, her voice steady, no edge of malice, and for a second, you want to protest—why stop now?—but then you see the way her eyes track your every movement, calculating, precise. This isn’t about denying you. It’s about timing.
She moves again, slow, a half-step back that changes the rhythm entirely, and you realize: this is a dance. She’s leading, and you’ve been too eager to hit the final note without savoring the steps. The denial isn’t cruel. It’s a correction, a way to pull you back into the pattern—two steps forward, one step back, a pause that makes the next movement burn brighter.
“You’re rushing,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your jaw, “let it build.” And you do, letting her set the pace, feeling the tension coil tighter, hotter, than it ever did when you raced toward the end. This is the art of it—the ebb and flow, the push and pull, the way denial sharpens desire into something sharper, more alive.
When she finally says “Now,” it’s not just permission. It’s the crescendo, the moment every pause and slow step was building toward—and you understand. Cruelty would leave you hanging. Choreography? It makes the finish worth the wait.