Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
I am fully grinning from ear to ear as I write the intro to this post. The fabulous @EuclideanPoint – who has written here before about letting a kinky stranger hand her control, a very kinky interrogation, and denying a partner’s orgasm – is back with another phenomenal guest blog. This time it’s her who is being denied, and the relish with which she embraces this edgy torture is such a delicious joy to behold. If you have a kink for subs who want it really badly – begging to be given further punishment, denial, or cruelty – then I guarantee you’ll love this as much as I do. Take it away, Pointy…
Please please please… deny me
Day 0
Would you… like to decide whether or not I have an orgasm?
He lives hours away, but we’ve been sending each other horny messages all day. He knows I’ve asked him to decide because I want him to say no. He doesn’t disappoint.
Nothing for you today.
I groan in frustration as I continue to touch myself. Faster, harder, bringing myself to the edge… And then nothing. Exactly as he ordered. A pause, my breathing shallow. A wait until my heart rate slows and my body retreats back along its path towards climax instead of tipping over the edge.
We message for a little longer and I mention that if he wants to do a little more denial play I’m free for the next couple of days. He is too. And so it begins…
Day 1
I’m at work when he tells me to edge for him again. I find a quiet room, lean my back against the door, and obey his instructions. With my free hand I send him a message asking for permission to come, but he doesn’t respond. I slowly touch myself, maddeningly close to release, watching my phone for a response. A few minutes that feel like months later, he tells me no and sends me back to my work. The next day my legs will ache from the tension of holding myself up against that door and holding myself back from my own release.
Later that evening he toys with the idea of not letting me touch myself at all. Somehow this feels worse than the edging. He tells me I’m not to touch myself for the rest of the evening.
Day 2
The touching ban is still in place, and suddenly I appreciate how much fun edging was. This is so much harder, a horny game mutated into a pure test of mindful submission. He’s busy today so I don’t hear much.
That night he shares a fantasy – keeping me denied until I get frustrated, maybe a little angry with him. Watching me sulk and fight my frustration to obey his commands. He’s tentative with that suggestion because he doesn’t want to overstep, but he doesn’t need to worry. My response feels like it went straight from my knickers to the keyboard without consulting my brain on the way.
Now I’m thinking… keep me like this for a month or so before we next meet. Then promise me, get me close, deny me and laugh.
Tell me you’re going to send me home for another month of frustration.
That oughta do it.
He tells me to go and hump some furniture and keep going while he touches himself. As soon as he comes, he makes me stop.
Day 4
I get to edge again today. I have plans for the weekend so the game is due to end. I beg him to please keep me denied at least until I have to leave. He asks me if I’d be interested in a complete touching ban until I get back from my trip. I tell him it sounds horrible, and I’m in.
My brain is now addled by the exquisite torture and I can’t stop coming up with more and more horrible and elaborate ways for him to intensify this game. I tell him that when we next meet he should offer me choices – the belt or an orgasm, giving him a foot massage or an orgasm. I want to suffer and know that I’ve done this to myself, that I keep doing it to myself. To show him, over and over again, that I love this cruelty. Ache for it.
Day 7
We reconnect when I’m back from my trip. I recount stories of lying in bed, almost writhing with frustration, thinking about my submission and denial. Knowing that there will be no leniency, no release, at least until I travel home. As per his instructions, I didn’t touch myself at all. I feel desperately horny. All the time.
He takes pity on me and lets me touch myself again. For 30 seconds. Then I lie in the dark and fantasise about being controlled, maybe him and other partners teaming up on me, taking their turns to wind me up, frustrate me. Laugh at how pathetically I beg. How desperate I am to please them when I’m being denied. How they should really do this all the time.
Day 8
We’re chatting and I mention that tomorrow evening I have plans with my husband. The two of them are friends and I’ve been secretly thinking that they’d make a great team in this game. As if we’re one horny, depraved mind, he mentions that he’d be happy to hand over control of my orgasms to him.
So now there’s a group chat. Me, my tormentor, and my husband. There is one rule and that’s that I’m not allowed to contribute unless told. They co-ordinate the following day – my tormentor will keep me frustrated during the day, and then hand over to my husband for the evening. I don’t let my phone out of my sight, and every message I read makes me more desperate to obey them, to please them.
Day 9
I’m told to propose a schedule for edging for the day, and of course I make it as horrible for myself as I can. My tormentor sends a message that stops me in my tracks. He’s casually doubled some of my suggestions.
By the time I’m handed over to my husband that evening I am desperate to do anything I am told. He uses clamps on my nipples, and clothes pins on my arms. He fucks my mouth. I eagerly take it all. When we’ve finished playing, I am told to provide an account of the events to the group chat. They discuss my obedience and my frustration, and I read the messages, glowing with a heady mix of joy in the game we are playing and desperate unspent lust.
Day 10
I’m on my knees. My husband is holding the Doxy, my tormentor is on speakerphone. They’re both clearly enjoying what this game has done to me.
I beg for an orgasm, again and again. I know this has to end, and what a spectacular ending this is, but a tiny yet very horny part of me wants them to tell me no once more. To take away my hope, my need for release. To laugh at how pathetically I will try to convince them. How I will beg to debase myself for a chance to have what I have craved so badly for so long. I’m fucked if they find out how much I want them to send me back to my bed, desperate, subjugated, fully broken. So I can shake with arousal and cry my frustrated self to sleep. It’s this thought that finally pushes me over the edge and the beautiful, delicate house of cards of my denial crashes down. I come so hard I can barely see straight, the kind of orgasm that feels like your whole body is turning inside out and then back again. The victory drowns me and leaves me bereft. I pour out my thanks – for the pleasure, for the cruelty, for the denial.
After 10 days it’s everything, and yet still not enough. Now that the taste of my release is so fresh, I want more. I want to lie here having orgasm after orgasm. Until my limbs are heavy and my brain has melted and I’m almost numb from the sum total of all pleasure that can be wrung from one fragile human body.
So I turn in happy gratitude to my beautiful, wonderful co-conspirators and slowly, deliberately, fuck-drunkenly ask them –
Would you like to decide if I have another orgasm?
