Orgasm Denial

“I think…for the rest of the month…you will not be allowed…to come.” Sir drew out his mandate, over the phone, like an Oscar-winning actor.
My mouth hung open. Seconds ticked by. “Um…ah…” I laughed to cover up my shock after finally processing his words. I took a breath. “But…It’s December. The holidays are stressful. I need orgasms.” I giggled.
“Focus on other things this month.”
“Sir, first, the young man from Atlanta now this. What…” I was already out of sorts from being shared between two men, doing both their wills, following Sir’s instructions and the young man’s constant desire for pictures and video chats, and seeing him whenever he wanted when he came to my area. Now, this.
“Let’s call it another facet of my control.”
“Um.” I held my breath, shoulders tense.
“Breathe and say, yes, Sir.”
I inhaled, short and shallow, and bit my lip, pressed them together to stop from pleading for him to change his mind. All the while my clit throbbed and my pussy tightened in anticipation of his control.
I recalled Sir’s commands from moments ago as he brought me to orgasm over and over.
“Rub the palm of your hand over your pussy lips.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, moving my hand between my thighs.
“Bend your knees, feet on the mattress. Spread them wider, whore. That cunt is mine, I want that fuckhole exposed, easy access to do whatever I want.”
I complied, my replies of, “Yes, Sir,” falling past my lips between every direction.
“You’re wet aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You better be. Put your middle finger in that fuckhole. Get it wet. Pump it in and out, slow. Rock your hips.”
Sir’s sharp retort brought me back to the present. “Bitch, focus. I’ll take my cane to your white ass.”
“Mmm, Sir, that’s not helping.” My need to come, though he’d given me four or five already ratcheted up.
“Now say, yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Sir.” It was a reflex but more than that, the reply came from my soul.
“Just think, thirty days without coming.”
“Sir, I’ve never gone that long.” Sir had edged me before. But just a few hours, no longer than a day.
“Then it will be a lesson in restraint. Besides this is what I want and you will obey me.”
“Yes, Sir.” Right now, the brat in me wanted to push back even more, but I knew my boundaries. Besides Sir might reward my good behavior in a week or two.
Two days later, December third, Sir and I texted one another all day. I’d seen a client. Gave him a BJ and was hornier than normal.
Call, he texted early evening.
I went to my bedroom, got on my bed, and leaned back on the pillows at the headboard.
I spread my legs like he instructs when I’m allowed to come and dialed Sir. Grant it I was fully clothed. My skirt or dress hem wasn’t pulled up around my waist. And as this first week would bleed into the next four, on the days I’d exercised more than once, I wore yoga pants. The friction against my pussy thrust my need higher.
“Get on the chatline tonight and get five men off for me. Put your butt plug and ben-wa balls in. Rub your clit. You are not allowed to come.”
“Yes, Sir.” Anxiety pulsed in my veins. We talked for several more minutes.
“What did I tell you to do, bitch?”
I inhaled and repeated his command ending with Sir.
“Text me when you’re done.”
“Yes, Sir, I said, and he hung up.
Time dragged. Four and a half hours before bedtime. I squirmed in my seat as I watched TV. I looked at my watch. Three hours left. Most likely a holiday cooking show. I wanted to distract myself with food, but Sir limits my sweets intake. I refrained from looking at my watch and walked around the house. Too cold and I believe it was raining, so going outside wasn’t an option. I couldn’t stand it any longer and noted the time. Nine p.m. I stifled the urge to scream my frustration.
Finally, the moment was at hand. I’d anticipated and dreaded it all evening. Taking off my clothes, I put on my collar, crawled into bed. It was like my pussy was a hungry beast. It pulled the ben-wa balls into my body within seconds. It’s been two days, I rationalized. Just two days. I wasn’t sure I’d be sane by the time New Year’s eve arrived. Next, came the butt plug. I chose the short, fat glass plug. The burn of being stretched, that moment when my body wants to close off and not allow the breach. Then comes sweet surrender, that pleasure pain that I love so much.
I clamped down, fighting off the impending orgasm. I took a few deep breaths, turned over on my back and propped myself up on the same pillows I’d used earlier, and made the phone call.
“Hey, guys, I’m a white female, black-owned submissive…” I continued to record my greeting, and then for the next half-hour, I got five men to come for me. Roleplay, dirty talk, and by the end I was strung out like an addict that hadn’t had a fix in over a month.
Sir and I talked the next day. I was sure he’d make me edge over the weekend with guys on the chatline. He didn’t.
The second week of December began and Sir didn’t call or text. By Tuesday of week two, I decided to not contact him either. I thought I was clever, that it would lessen my need to come. No contact with Sir for six days. Ha, I’d messed up. I let my hand drift down to my pussy every day. Some days I found myself petting my mons as I sat at my computer. Other days, my fingers hovered just above the opening. At the end of the week, when he finally called, I was high on need.
“Taking something away from me means that object is on my mind all the time,” I said to Sir when he called six days later. My hand laid just out of reach of my pussy.
“Walk, write, go to the gym, and swim every day, to keep your mind off coming,” he said. Then he continued, “Get on the chatline. I want you to get fifteen men off tonight. Put your dildo in your cunt and get on the floor and rub your clit on the carpet.”
I did. Two days later, I completed the assignment with five more guys. I wasn’t sure which I liked more no contact and Sir not edging me until I was close to coming or the constant edging from getting men off on the chatline. In addition, Sir increased the number of men he wanted me to give BJ’s to for the rest of the month.
Men are off during the holidays. Be nice if you can find one every day. He texted.
Yes, Sir, I’ll try. I messaged back.
You’ll do your fucking best. If ur hm, put ur plug in. And ur balls in that cunt.
I talked to guys who wanted BJ’s and wanted to fuck. The guys who said, “I want to eat your pussy and make you come,” were the worst. Already that’s all I thought about.
Three days later, I found a client. A thirty-two-year-old black guy willing to pay. Sir insisted I let him finger my pussy. I went to the gym straight from that session and swam for an hour.
U know who works your ass, bitch, he texted.
Sir didn’t end the text messages there. He asked questions. All designed to remind me that he owns me, and how the client used me, making sure I pleased him. I like to hear him ask if I swallowed all the man’s cum, that it made me wet, that I enjoyed working for my black Master.
The need that had waned during my swim coalesced between my thighs and it was an insurmountable obstacle that left me unable to concentrate on my editing job the rest of the day.
Two days later I saw another client. Another two days passed. December nineteenth. The desire to come physically was better, though Sir had edged me almost daily. I was proud of getting through this assignment with a minimum of brattiness. In the middle of the night, I awoke from an erotic dream with my fingers inside my pussy, coming. I stopped it as fast as possible, though the desire to finish was strong.
December twenty-third, my mind and body had, had enough. I texted Sir. I need you. I’m so horny. Sir, may I come?
No, bitch. Put your plug in. It may distract you. In the ass.
That will make it worse, I replied. My eyes bulged, sweat popped out over my skin. And the throbbing in my pussy was now constant.
Deny it, cunt.
I stood at the kitchen counter an hour later, butt plug in my ass, clenching those muscles while I made a chocolate cheesecake for a Christmas party. It was a miracle I got the recipe right. I couldn’t exercise that week due to my hormone replacement therapy. Cold showers absolutely do not take away a woman’s need to come. And the young black man from Atlanta asked for pictures daily. Nudes, me fingering my pussy, and then he sent me videos of him masturbating or fucking women.
“You need to come, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.” My breath quickened. Sir was going to give me what I needed.
“What are you wearing?”
“A dress.”
“Take it off.”
“Yes, Sir.” I’m sure he heard the glee through the whine in my voice. I readied myself on the bed. Sir went through his instructions. “Rub your pussy, rock your hips, fuck that hole that belongs to me,”
My body was way past ready. His words, his voice. Within a few seconds, mewling sounds escaped my throat. My clit throbbed harder than ever before. My pussy contracted, small pre-shocks to an orgasm. It wouldn’t take long for me to come. It was going to be huge. Just another pass of my thumb on my clit, a few more pumps of my fingers.
“On the count of three, you may come, once.”
“One… Two… …Stop.”
His words were like a gunshot.
“Take your fingers out of your cunt.”
“Please, Sir.”
“I changed my mind.” He laughed.
We talked a bit the week after Christmas. December thirty-first, Sir called. “Happy New Year, sub. I think we’ll keep orgasm denial through January as well.”

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