fantasy

Imagine a couple. He's the Dom, she's the sub. They play with orgasm denial. It goes longer, and longer. Finally she can't remember the last time she had an orgasm. She's desperate, he's teasing her every day. She starts to whine that it's been too long, that he's too cruel. So he says to her, you're right. From now on, you can come whenever you like. Just ask me first. But before you come next time, which is entirely up to you, I'm going to give you one stroke with the cane. The time after that, it will be two strokes, and so on.

At first, it's easy. She asks to come, gets one hard whack, and - voila! - her orgasm is her own. The next time, about the same. Two strokes, three strokes. She's profligate, she comes every day, sometimes twice; it's been so long that she's in a frenzy. But after a few orgasms - maybe eight, maybe eleven, something like that - she starts to think twice. Each stroke is painful, and they add up. She waits a few days before she asks again. She waits a week. She waits two weeks. But each time her need gets the better of her, she wants to come, she doesn't want the pain, she waits, she waits, but eventually she gives in. Fifteen strokes. Twenty-three strokes. Forty strokes. She's starting to get into new territory, they've never played with pain this way. It occurs to her, with sudden clarity, that this game doesn't have an end. He's not going to reset the clock. From now on, whenever she wants an orgasm, she'll need to take one more stroke than the time before.

Hello all! Finally posting something...I wrote this several days ago in a diary entry, and got permission from my Master to post it here *^^*

Wrote this after being on orgasm denial for 11 days...Currently on day 19, and not going to cum until at least after August 1st, maybe longer...eep....
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Fantasizing again...about You, holding a set of very soft watercolor paintbrushes in one hand, a various assortment of open cups of stimulating lubes on the table before You, alongside a very soft, unused sponge. You place the brushes on the table beside the cups, and look at me....I am also on the table, tightly bound with ropes...You have carefully bound my legs with the knees fully bent, securing my lower legs to each of my thighs. You then secured my knees together with a rope looped behind my head. Once You secure my ankles in a spread position, bound tightly with rope to the table, You take a set of earplugs and carefully set them in each of my ears. You ask me something--reading Your lips, I can see You are asking me if I can hear You. I cannot. You then press me back down against the table, and secure my collar and my knees to the table, keeping me tightly compressed, ropes pressing my legs towards my body, forcing my pussy to press outwards from my pelvis. Seemingly satisfied, You place a kiss on my lips, grin, and place a heavy blindfold over my eyes, adjusting it until You are certain I can see nothing but blackness.

She lay exhausted on the carpeted floor as he moved back and forth within the bedroom, bringing things in, arranging them in the walk-in closet. She roused when she felt him fastening her wrist and ankle cuffs, then lifting her head to put her collar around her neck. He'd brought the small dressing stool over and placed a pitcher of water and a glass on it. She put her head back down and felt him clip a chain to her neck, then to a hook in the wall. He gave her a blanket and a pillow.

"All set, my love? Do you have everything you need?"

She suddenly realized that he wasn't setting up another scene, that it was bedtime. She'd never slept anywhere but in his bed. They'd talked about it, planned for it even, but while she found the idea arousing it was also frightening - and he, it seemed, enjoyed the fantasy but really preferred her company. Now she was to sleep, not even at his feet or next to the bed, but in the closet.

This is kind of the way I feel as I am about to enter the chatroom.

I have been led to a heavy closed door by my B/F.
I know as soon as he opens the door I will enter--and I'll be fair game for everyone in there.
I will probably be the only person there naked--and I'll be reminded of that.
I'll probably be the only one teased until they are begging for their tormentor to let them cum.
I'll probably be the only one denied relief.
I'll be called names and be made to admit that yes, I'm an internet whore.
I'll be made to answer questions that are only asked to humiliate me.
I'll be reminded that I'm telling total strangers things I wouldn't want my best friends to know.

When I started this series, which is for a friend who is moving into a giant honking hugemongous house, I wanted to write from my heart but also stay within what he and his slave might enjoy reading about. He said they're not into watersports, so I tried to keep that out of the bathroom sections. (He didn't actually say they were into semi-consensual drowning, but hey, they can write their own damned story.) My master, however, requested an alternate bathroom piece.

So... Here's what might happen on an alternate-reality Enterprise, where it's every man for himself and Uhura carries a knife in her boot.

"Bedtime."

She'd moved beyond anticipating what was coming next, which room he would lead her into. When she heard his voice, she was almost startled. I am tired, she thought. She followed him slowly up the stairs, grateful to be crawling up and not down. He led her through the large bedroom, cool with the breeze, street lights from the distant road creating only a soft glow through the open curtains. Past the closet/dressing room was the bathroom, large with its soaking tub and steam shower. He removed her chains and then her collar and cuffs.

"Let's get that wax off you and get you ready for bed."