The Writer's Loft

It was a little thing, the way she innocently bit her bottom lip when presented with a no-win situation that really delighted his inner sadist. And now, here she sat with a choice to make—sit at the table and eat the roasted brussel sprouts he had prepared (which she despised the taste of) in order to earn her orgasm, or take her plate to the trash, scrape it clean, put it in the dishwasher and retire to her room without dessert and another night without an orgasm after relentless edging at his hand … 

How many days had it been since she last orgasmed? 

Forty-three. And after tonight? Forty-four.