Denial #1: Please Don't Let Me Come

Have you ever had a secret desire you were dying to reveal to your partner? Something so powerful, and so important to you, that you were hungry for it even in the middle of a happy and satisfying relationship? But you weren't sure how they would react if you told them; you feared that they would find you weird or too demanding; that they wouldn't understand. You felt guilty, like you'd be asking for too much. And so you kept it inside, but never very securely, like an air bubble under water that's perpetually trying to come to the surface? Do you know this state of dreaming, of longing, of trying to work up the nerve to ask for what you want?

This story is for you. It's the story of how I told my partner about my most powerful kink -- and what happened afterwards.

At the time, I'd been dating Nate for about a year -- a wonderful year, full of laughter and games and music and stargazing. I was happy with him in every way, and I knew that he felt the same way about me. I had blessed the stars that brought us together when, shortly after we had first begun dating, I found out that this man I had been falling hard for was also kinky. We're both switches, who enjoy sexually dominating as well as submitting to our partners. This double compatibility gave us all kinds of fun angles to explore. We had both come into the relationship with a little bit of experience in bondage, but soon we were trying stuff together that we had never done before, our creativity growing along with the trust between us. After a year, we had acquired a drawer full of sex toys and bondage gear, had a ton of fun together, and were still crazy about each other.

Nate's idea of kink was pretty physical. He was a sucker for bondage -- the look and feel of chains and ropes and leather, the sense of power, or else of helplessness and being held in place. He was quite the challenge to tie down, because he would throw himself against his restraints and fumble at any knots he could reach, and wasn't fully satisfied unless there was honestly no way he could escape. Out of bonds, he could be a relentless top, who used his superior strength and size to control me, and did not grow tired of using my body for his pleasure. His vibrant physicality, whether he was writhing in bondage or pushing me into the mattress, frequently left me breathless.

And I loved it, loved every part of the sex we were having, but I still found myself craving more.

As a teenager, left alone with unrestricted internet access and too much time on my hands, I had devoured heaps of erotica about curses and mind control, incubi and sex pollen, and alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alongside what I considered ‚normal' BDSM fiction. For the first few years, I thought that I just liked a lot of stuff. But over time, I began to feel that all my preferences were somehow connected by an underlying pattern that I couldn't quite name even to myself. It had something to do with losing control, that much was clear. Something about that made my breath catch and my clit swell.

Naturally, I dipped my toes into bondage as soon as I was old enough, which allowed me to surrender control of my body to others, and delight in accepting their surrender. I loved both roles equally well; since it was most of all the idea of power transfer that I chased, it didn't much matter to me which end of the rope I was on. Ultimately, though, my desire ran deeper. Tying my partner up was not enough; I also wanted to tease them till they cried. I wanted to be made to cry, and beg, and toss all reason into the bin. In fact, as long as there was teasing and begging, I found I didn't care so much about the bondage itself.

Masturbating, or rather: teasing myself to such fantasies, I found out that when I got myself worked up almost to the point of orgasm, but then stopped, and if I repeated this a few times, I would become incredibly horny, and my eventual orgasm more intense. I pushed my own limits, four, five, six times per session; it was hard, and usually beyond my self-discipline, but whenever I managed to keep from coming for a while, the pleasure was overwhelming. The web taught me that the term for my new-found indulgence was edging, and inevitably introduced me also to orgasm denial -- basically, self-induced sexual frustration. It was perfect.

From the first time I read about denial, I was hooked. The concept took over my fantasies, and ironically I came hard thinking about it, over and over, before I ever managed to actually engage in any serious denial. It was the logical continuation of my practice with edging. I simply had to go longer, and find ways to go about my day unnoticed with my pussy on fire. But it was fucking difficult, and usually I would end up back in bed within the hour.

However, on the rare occasions when I resisted the temptation for hours and days on end, I found that my state of mind became gloriously altered. My priorities became warped, with sex, masturbation, fantasy, and porn suddenly and persistently at the top of the list. My attention became fixated on the smallest of sexual cues around me. People looked better, and I found myself lusting after strangers on the street. Half an hour could go by unnoticed while I stared out the window wrapped up in a fantasy. I felt hyper-sensitive to even the touch of my clothes or blankets; my skin tingled and my whole body felt flooded with energy, dominated by my glowing clit.

I loved all of it. It was the closest I could get, or needed to get, to being cursed or subjected to sex pollen or what have you. I felt wild and out of control, feverish with the secret I was hiding from everyone. And whenever my preoccupation became seriously inconvenient, it was only too easy to quickly relieve myself, and reap a massive orgasm as a bonus.

One glorious time, I made it to just over a week without coming, despite edging every day. But that remained the unrivalled record -- most of my attempts failed within an afternoon. I had fun anyway.

The trick was to keep myself stimulated -- that was the difference between enjoyable denial and a simple dry spell. Sometimes, I would wear a dildo inside my panties as I walked around, enjoying its movement with every step and even more turned on by the rottenness of doing so under everybody's unknowing eyes. I also devised other, subtler ways I could keep myself excited by sitting and moving in certain ways, and, of course, fantasizing all the fucking time.

Needless to say, I fantasized heavily about somebody else taking charge of my denial. Left to my own devices, I could rarely muster up the discipline for any length of denial that deserved the name. When, during edging, I hit that last plateau, where every touch was potentially too much, where I knew that the only way to keep from coming would be to stop ... I couldn't stop, because it just felt too good. So each time, I convinced myself that I could surely make it this time, if I just went really slow and soft and thought of something else at the same time. It never worked. When I'm that horny, it's almost impossible not to come; the lightest touch can be enough to send me over the edge, when all I want is to stay just this side of it.

I needed someone else to play along; to encourage, to demand, even to punish me if I gave in to the need to come. In particular, I imagined often how it would feel not to know when it would stop. To know I didn't have control over it, that I didn't have an easy way out. That I had no choice but to remain horny and frustrated. The idea was thrilling, although intimidating.

All of this preceded Nate by several years, but the fetish was still very much alive throughout the first year of our relationship. I couldn't easily indulge myself anymore, because he would have noticed me being all riled up for days. But I thought about it no less. I deeply longed to finally turn my fantasies into reality, but couldn't work up the nerve to tell Nate how I felt. There seemed to be so many reasons against it: He might feel freaked out; he might find it pathological, or greedy. He might question why I was only opening up now, and if that meant I hadn't really enjoyed myself in bed with him so far. He might hate the idea of taking responsibility for me in the way I imagined, and resent me for asking for too much of his time and energy. It was already more difficult for him to make me come than the other way around, and I felt like it would be ungrateful to ask for extra effort then. Even if he were willing to try it, I was afraid to fall on his nerves by being noticeably horny when he wasn't -- the lack of focus and the fucked-up priorities that I enjoyed so much would certainly be annoying to deal with for any partner. It seemed like a very selfish thing to ask him for permission, and even his support, to engage in.

And so, I didn't tell him what I longed for. But I was never able to stop craving it, either. It was in my head more often than not when I would rub one out. Sometimes when we fucked, I would pretend that he would not let me come, right until the last second when he did. When we were apart for a day or two, I would pretend that he was denying me orgasm until we met again, and when I would arrive at his doorstop my panties would be soaked. If he noticed anything unusual about those nights, he never questioned it.

Most suitably, we were having sex when it happened. He was holding me tight, leisurely petting my pussy the way he often does to get me off after we fuck. I love this position; love how I'm so close to him but he's still got control over me; love his breath on my neck; love feeling just a little helpless when he holds me firmly. I was enjoying myself whole-heartedly in his arms.

„So baby," He said quietly next to my ear. It was unexpected, because we didn't usually talk much during sex -- another thing I secretly regretted. He immediately had all my attention. „You said you'll do anything I like tonight."

I turned my head to look at him, surprised. I had said that, for sure, but I had kind of thought we were done with that. He'd just had me in all his favorite positions, wearing an outfit that he picked for me. It had all culminated in me riding him, one hand squeezing lightly around his throat the way he likes, until he shot his load in me.

At that point, these kinds of deals tended to expire.

„I did," I said, a little cautiously, but curious. I loved it when he told me what to do in bed, and was eager to please.

He was quiet for a moment, and then said, without preamble, „Tell me something new you want to do in bed."

What? For a second I thought I'd misheard. It must have been my wild imagination again, letting me hear what I wished to hear. Because this would be too easy, right; I'd been trying for weeks and months to work up the nerve to make my confession, and now he was just ... asking me?

„Uh ..." I decided to bluff. „What makes you think there is anything?"

„Please," He said, in that confident way he has, and kissed me on the temple. To be fair, it wasn't the first (nor the last) time that he had seen right through me. He prides himself on being good at reading people, and I usually tell him he's too full of himself, but secretly I have to admit he kind of is great at it. Especially at reading me. „You've been dropping hints for months. But you never actually told me."

Oh man, and here I had thought I was being so stealthy. I wondered for how long he'd known, and why he hadn't asked me sooner. Probably he had wanted to let me ‚take my time'. That was exactly his style. Patient bastard.

I felt foolish. And exhilarated. I really really didn't want to talk about it, but I really really wanted to. And if he was asking, he could hardly blame me later for telling him, could he? It wouldn't be quite so egotistical to ask now. Would it?

„Uh ..." My mind was wheeling, unprepared for this development. What could I say, out of the blue like this? I could hardly come out with the whole complicated truth, after all. It wasn't even something that I would necessarily want to do in bed, as he'd asked. Not what he had in mind. In a second, I was self-conscious again.

My mind went blank, and the fact that his hand was still between my legs, rubbing slow circles, wasn't helping, so I blurted out the second-most important secret instead of the most important one.

„Dirty talk!"

At once, I felt both relieved and like I had messed up a one-of-a-kind chance. It wasn't wrong what I'd said ... In fact, Nate talking dirty was also a major feature in my fantasies, although a bit less compelling than my desire for orgasm denial. He had such a drop-dead sexy voice, especially when he was aroused and it dropped a few bars, and hearing him say anything sex-related always gave me weak knees. Unfortunately, he did it only rarely, and sparingly even then. He was never really a person who talked too much.

„You mean like calling you names?" He asked, still stroking me slowly.

„For example..." I conceded, but not really, though. Once again, anxiety overtook me. It would be too hard to explain what I had in mind. After all, I didn't like all words, only some of them; much of the ‚dirty talk' in porn made me vastly uncomfortable, and I certainly didn't want him to talk to me like that. But how should he know the difference? What had I gotten myself into? Why the fuck had I thought that this would be easier to talk about than the other thing??

„Okay," He said, pondering, and apparently oblivious to the turmoil in my head. „So what would you like me to call you?"

Fuck. No, name-calling was actually really not what I had meant. That was actually very dangerous terrain. So many ways to go wrong. Why hadn't I started this off better? I felt like the conversation was slipping through my fingers at an alarming pace, jogging towards who knew what end.

I did have to say something now, though. A little dazed, I selected the one name I was reasonably comfortable with, and told him I thought I'd like ‚slut'. Even so, speaking it made me cringe in embarrassment.

Nate was evidently stunned into a surprised silence that lasted several agonizing seconds. Then he snuggled closer around me, and murmured in my ear, „Well, that should be easy. Because you are such a slut for me." He ran his fingers through my wet slit as if for emphasis.

...?!?! Fuck! My brain stuttered for a moment, and I swallowed involuntarily. I honestly could not believe what was happening. Nate had never said anything like that to me before, and now he seemed immediately so confident about it, and god I hadn't been wrong about how it would affect me. Suddenly I desperately wanted him to go on and tell me what a slut I was, and while he was already at it, also tell me what a fool I had been not to confess to him from the start. The man to whom that voice belonged seemed to be able to handle anything.

Taking a big breath, I said, „It's not just about calling me names, though. In fact, it mostly isn't."

„I'm listening." His hand moved to my chest; the focus was now clearly on the conversation, rather than getting me off.

"Well ... it ..." I was getting really flustered now. My face was probably glowing beet red, and it was a good thing that he was holding me so close I didn't have to look at him. Even so, I was fighting the urge to curl into a tight ball. „Calling me a slut is just ... a shortcut? The shortest way to say what I want to hear. Not necessarily the best."

"So ... you want me to call you a slut, but in more words." He sounded confused. "Like what, baby? What do you like to hear?"

His voice was soft, both seductive and comforting. Words pushed themselves on my tongue in response to his question, longing to be spoken by this golden voice. They were words I had whispered at night when I masturbated, or thought to myself during sex. But at this moment, I couldn't pick any, and I certainly couldn't get them through my windpipe, which seemed to have shrunk to half its regular size.

„Come on," He said, kissing my cheekbone affectionately. "If you tell me, I might just do it."

„I want you to tell me ... what I need. Make me admit it. Tease me for it."

Nate slid his hands over my breasts slowly and sensually, punctuating his words with squeezes. „So what do you need?"

He was clearly aware that this was not just a meta conversation; by talking about it, we were already right in the middle of it. Confessing these things -- with his attention on me, his interest telling me it was okay to confess -- was turning me on massively.

„Sex," I breathed, but I already knew he wouldn't accept that as an answer. It wasn't difficult enough to say. So I carried on, half whispering through my tight throat. „Lots of it. Hard. Dirty. I need to get fucked. ... And to come ... That's what I want you to say."

"That you're a slut," He summarized, finally understanding.

"Yeah. And that ... you like it. I hope. That's important. It's only fun if you like it." My already quiet voice trailed away most pitifully.

He hugged me really tight at that. "Don't worry," He said, and I relaxed into his hug, just as he added with a devious undertone, „I love that you're such a slut."

Once again, my breath caught in my throat at the unexpectedness of it. It was like something straight out of my fantasies, but so much better because it was really Nate saying it to me, and I still couldn't get a grip on this situation. „I see you get the idea," I said shakily, with a bit of a nervous laugh as an afterthought.

I could hear him smiling into my neck. "So that makes you wet, huh?" His hand returned -- finally -- to my pussy. „Good to know." The touch felt completely different than before; even I could feel how much wetter I'd become. My clit was glowing hot and begging for attention.

As he began to give it just that, he asked, „But isn't that embarrassing?"

I loved him so much for asking, for caring, for bothering to understand. Even though it was damn hard to explain.

"That's ... kind of the point."

„You like to feel embarrassed?"

"... Yes." Immediately memories of terrible 'humiliation porn' came back, and I hurried to clarify: „But only about sex. Please don't call me stupid or ugly or fat or whatever. That would hurt."

He thought about that for a while, quietly rubbing away at my clit, which gave me time to process what had just happened. It seemed unbelievable that, just like that, I had confessed my secret. Not all of it, but half of it, and some more he was probably piecing together by himself at that very second, great people-reader that he was. I felt shocked, proud, humiliated, accepted, loved, in love, excited, and wary, all at once. It was a dizzying caleidoscope of emotion, and in the middle of it all I was buzzing with arousal. My mind was running away from me to all the things we might do in the future, to all the possibilities that were opening up. Fantasies were rapidly replacing each other in my mind, as if a floodgate had been opened.

Before I knew it, I was almost ready to come, with the familiar mixed feelings that always brought. On one hand, my body was shouting for release. On the other hand -- damn, I felt amazing. As if I was supercharged, energy pounding through every cell in my body. It was ecstasy. I didn't want it to be over.

In this drunken haze it suddenly occurred to me that I could confess this too, right now. My biggest secret. My heart was thumping wildly as I thought this over, like a first time bungee jumper standing in front of a cliff wondering if they should really jump. But was that ...? Could I really ...?

„You probably like to beg too, don't you," He suddenly said, interrupting my reverie. For a moment, I felt disoriented. Where did he get that from? Ah, yeah, the humiliation. He thought if I liked to be embarrassed, I must enjoy begging. Well, he was right. I nodded.