You were going to go mad.

It had started so innocently. You were just on your way home from running an errand. 

And then they gave you that smile. That mischievous grin. 

A few strokes of their finger down your arm. A few smooth words in your ear.

And now each step brought an increasingly intense torment. 

Each step made your skin more sensitive (and, of course, they had ordered you not to wear underwear when you went out today). 

Each step stoked the flames of your arousal.

You flushed thinking about how evident your need was to anyone paying the least bit of attention to you. 

A few more steps and even the feeling of their skin against yours as they spurred you forward, your hand in theirs, made you moan quietly.

You didn’t think you could take another second of this. At least, not before you broke down in tears, or begged them to make it stop, or came right here in the middle of the street.

When the first tearful, “Please…” left your lips, they drew you in for a gentle hug.

It was torture.

It was bliss.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” they said soothingly. Were they going to have mercy on you?

“Look where we are, sweetie.” You looked around. “See? Halfway there! Only halfway left to go.”

They took you by the hand and continued walking.