Even though it was Sunday, I woke up early. It was a cold morning and we were lying together in his bed; I was wrapped in the warm fuzzy blanket and he was lying half-covered on his back. We were a few inches apart but my hand lay on his chest, holding two of his fingers like a child being helped across a street. He was sound asleep, using that opportunity I spent many shameless minutes just looking at him and kissing his fingers, brushing his hair aside and making funny (what I thought were cute) faces and sounds at him…
“I’ve been awake for a while, monkey,” he said before he pulled me closer and asked why I can never let anyone sleep in peace if I’m awake.
I don’t know why but I simply cannot let people sleep, especially him. I wake up early and the day has only so many hours and I don’t want to miss a moment. I love sleeping in his arms but I miss him when he’s asleep. I miss him when I am asleep.
We had coffee out on the balcony and discussed quitting smoking, that conversation lasted about 30 seconds. He made eggs and toast, I.. found the plates.
And soon enough… The moment I had waited so many days for arrived, the counting for the Delhi Assembly election began! We spent a lot of our time from that moment on glued to our computers, I searched every possible update I could get about the early trends and he taunted me at the prospect of a certain right-wing party gaining precedence.. So motivated was my idealist self that I bet on a clear majority for the clean-up gang. (Even though now we all know I lost that bet, our jharoo-wielding friends did very well, I think- also worth mentioning and being alarmed at is that the only three women elected to the Vidhan Sabha were AAP candidates)
By 11 AM, I was thoroughly invested in the developments of the counting, especially since he had threatened that I would have to give one orgasm for every seat they were short of for a clear majority. (Orgasms is a scary word for me these days)
By the end of the day, the verdict was in and during the day our bet had evolved into a whip-orgasm fiesta.
8 seats, my friends were short of eight seats to form the government.
I know orgasms are supposed to be a wonderful things, like chocolate and kissing but I like neither of those. I have been having orgasms constantly for the past few days as a reminder of who takes the call on my cumming but by this point I had had enough of it and here I had bargained my way into eight of them!
It was like inviting eight rats to share my plate.
Like finding out I had eight STDs.
Like an eight minute long kiss.
But if this was to be the price for idealism, then I was going to pay it gladly and bravely, or so I thought.
For the first of my orgasms, he tied my hair to my wrist and left just enough slack that I could almost reach my clitoris without feeling like my hair were being ripped out (I was grateful for that, actually).That one was easy.
For the second, however, he decided I should cum while he, I cant even say it, licked my neck.
For the third, I was to place my face in a puddle of my urine while I stimulated myself. This one took.. forever. Twenty minutes, during which I earned many whip-lashes on my back.
The fourth was orchestrated by his fingers and a bucket of water testing my lung capacity.
The fifth (and by this time I wanted never even to think about orgasms again) was to be achieved while I was being caned (harder for every second longer it took me to cum)
The sixth (and I cried during this one because my clitoris ached so much) involved rock salt, chilli powder, knees and stinging.
The seventh had him forcing my eyes open and slapping me constantly (also, gratitude, that helped me get there).
And then.. he just stopped. I washed up, he made coffee, we ate and then he said he would give me a ride home since it was late.
I didn’t want to bring up the eighth orgasm in case he had actually forgotten (or forgiven) and was motivated by my reminder.
So, we got into the car and he started driving.
We talked about taking a trip to Nainital and the possibility of a re-election and then in typical fashion, he asked, “Aren’t you ever going to ask me why you only had seven orgasms at my place?”
I knew he would do that, bring it up at some odd time, so I asked, “Why?”
“Extend the index finger of your right hand”, he said and then produced a tube of Bengay, some of which he rubbed on my finger and said, “So that I don’t have to listen to you talk all the way home.”
Did I start this off by complaining? It was a wonderful day.