W always says submissives shouldn’t be allowed to torture themselves. In fact he never (or seldom) gives me tasks that involves causing myself pain, because he knows that I’ll probably hurt myself more than he intended. And the weird thing is, it’s true, though I’ve no idea why. Not that I hurt myself more than he does–he hurts me like fuck sometimes. But on the occasions when I have to complete a task that involves some sort of physical discomfort, yeah, I tend to take it to the maximum, not necessarily because I want to hurt myself excessively or prove something, but because I want to be sure I am completing whatever task he has given me to his specifications.
I don’t wanna be no wimp, see?
So when he tells me to put on my tit collars, I tighten them down until I wince. When he tells me to put in my buttplug, I shove it into place. But that’s about all he’ll let me do to myself.
But then there’s times when I just go ahead and torture myself. You know, cuz why not?
I’m not talking about causing myself pain. I just had a conversation with someone that asked if I ever do that. You know, pinch my nipples or use clothespins, smack myself while I masturbate, like that. As I have said before, I don’t like pain for pain itself. Even though I really enjoy impact scenes for the pain and sensation, it is still because someone else causes me that sensation, because they have the control and can make me accept it, either by physical means or by compelling me by my need to submit to him or her.
But I’m not talking about torturing myself that way anyway. I’m talking about deciding to make myself wait for something I really wanted the other day: an orgasm.
After the scene in the basement, I wanted an orgasm so bad I literally throbbed with the need of it. Ached. And I denied myself. At first not as torture, but just because…it seemed like the thing to do. I wanted to ache, I wanted to wait, I wanted to feel on that edge of desire and need until, finally, I would be allowed to crest, to orgasm, to be released from the exquisite edge of torture.
It was easy to deny myself because I knew I’d get what I wanted, what I needed, and soon. An hour or two, at most.
But then I didn’t. Life intervened, and I got sent home without having an orgasm. That was Thursday.
I got home and hung out here with kids and Ad, and it wasn’t sexy, it was just, you know, normal life and family time. All good, but…not quite how I had expected to spend my evening. If I had asked, or suggested it, I probably could have gotten laid by Ad, and had an orgasm. But…it wasn’t just an orgasm I wanted. Everything that I was feeling had been generated by the day and night and next day I had spent with W, culminating in the scene in the basement earlier that day. I wanted my release to come from him, with him. Still, by the time Thursday night came I was so aroused I almost gave in. Ad went to bed early, as usual, and I stayed up for a short time more before finally heading into the bedroom. I looked at Ad, sleeping so peacefully next to me, and thought about accosting him.
I looked at Baldy, my hitachi, and thought about the quick fix.
Then I thought about waiting, about holding on to this throbbing sensitivity, this desire, just one more day. I’d see W the next day, which was my short day at work. I’d have four hours after work to beg him to make me come, to maybe even have it exactly the way I’d asked him for it, that afternoon just after he’d finished with me in the basement.
So I turned over and squeezed my legs tight together to accentuate the ache, and fell into a fitful sleep.
A sleep in which I was fucked over and over in my dreams, but was never quite able to come before I woke, turned over, and went back into sleep and into another lust-filled dream.
The next morning I emailed W:
I’m still heartbroke that I didn’t get my orgasm. I was savoring it…anticipating it…dreaming of it. That made me crazy hot what you did…taking me down in the basement, your hand in my hair…fucking me like that…cumming in my ass. GOD. You make me such a hot horny damned SLUT. I wanted you to shove THINGS into my cunt and fuck me with them, letting me fuck myself til I came, screaming into my gag.
Oh wait, you probably didn’t know I was gagged.
And that my legs were tied up in a V.
Of course he didn’t know, since it was all in my head. That’s right–I was torturing myself. Completely unassisted by him. It was all me, all in my own mind. He didn’t do a thing to fuel those fires. He didn’t even reply back to me.
I was a wet, horny mess all day at work, watching the clock, anticipating the moment I was sprung free of work responsibilities and could head over to his house.
I was desperate.
And again, life intervened.
He had something come up with his business and I couldn’t come over until he got back, which didn’t turn out to be until 3pm. Still, if we were quick (and fuck yeah, I would be!) it could still work out…
Until life intervened–again. Mother Nature, that bitch, decided to mess with me.
When I got to W’s he pointed upstairs. “There’s a wooden toy waiting for you,” he said. I sighed. “I can’t,” I replied. “Got my period.”
“The toy doesn’t care,” he said.
As you all know, I have issues with sex and blood. You’d think that I’d be okay with it, you know, “done it once, no big deal” and all. But it’s still not something I can treat lightly, or would choose to do. Still, I was worked up enough that I actually considered it for half a second. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If he’d told me to, I could have–and probably would have gotten off on it, too–but I’m still not quite able to go there on my own.
So. Here I am. It’s Sunday night. Ad’s asleep next to me. I slept with the two of them here last night, because W spent Saturday and Sunday here, hanging out being vanilla. And I still haven’t had an orgasm.
I’m ready to gnaw a paw off. Or hump the dog. Something. It’s torture!
It is sweet torture.
And Christ, when I finally do get to come? God help the man, toy or machine that makes it happen.