He was losing an argument in a bar, kitten, and I was the argument. Some men flirt by being charming. He flirted by being certain, telling his friends, loudly enough for my benefit, that no phone girl alive could finish him in five minutes because his self control was, and I quote, legendary. I turned around on my stool with my drink in my hand and the smile I use for public executions.
"Legendary," I repeated. "Then you will not mind a bet. Five minutes on the phone with me. You last, you win a hundred and I buy your table a round. You do not last, you pay me two hundred and you tell your friends exactly why, in detail."
He took the bet before his brain got a vote. They always do. Pride is just a handle I pull.
He went to the men's room with his phone and his legendary self control, and I stayed at the bar, crossed my legs, and called him. I did not waste a single second. I described my mouth first, what it would be doing if the stall door were not a legal document, my tongue, my throat, my lipstick leaving evidence. Then my hands, in my own lap, under the bar, where his friends could not see my fingers sliding over my clit through my dress while I narrated his part like a sportscaster of his doom. Stroke on my count. Slow. Now faster. Now stop and listen to me touch myself and understand that the girl destroying you is getting wet doing it in public, ten feet from your priesthood of self control.
"Brooklyn," he whispered at minute two, already wrecked, "this is not fair, you are cheating, I can hear you."
"I am not cheating, baby," I purred, my fingers circling faster. "I am demonstrating. Three minutes left. Stroke."
That is the beautiful machinery of a tease. He knew the clock. He knew the stakes. He knew his friends were watching the bathroom door like a finish line, and every one of those facts made it worse, because arousal plus audience plus countdown is a chemical I did not invent but have absolutely perfected. By minute four his breathing was a confession. By four thirty I slowed my voice to syrup and described, in total detail, the orgasm he was not allowed to have yet, where it would happen, what it would feel like, what I would be doing with my fingers at that exact moment, and the poor legend came apart at four minutes and forty one seconds with a sound he will hear in his nightmares, stroking himself dry in a bar bathroom while a girl at the bar smiled into her drink.
He paid the two hundred in cash, in front of everyone, and when his friends demanded the review, he gave it. Four stars of vocabulary I cannot repeat and a warning I treasure. Do not bet against her mouth.
He has my number saved under a name that is not Brooklyn. He calls on Thursdays now. Legendary.
So. How is YOUR self control, kitten? If a five minute bet with a girl who narrates, touches herself along with you, and treats your pride like a starting gun sounds survivable, I would love to watch you test that theory. I am on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute, which is considerably cheaper than two hundred and public humiliation. If you want the long version of my methods first, read about the man who had to keep his hands in his lap. Then call, and bring your legendary control. I will bring a stopwatch.