Denial on the Go 2 Comments
I’ve got my toes buried in the sand at Cape Cod. The pedicure’s fresh (a recent birthday present from a thoughtful submissive). I’m stretched out absorbing the sun and sky, and taking calls on Niteflirt…
My cell rings, and when the polite femmebot voice on the other line says just the words I want to hear, I smile:
“You’ve received a call for your listing in Women > Fantasy > Other. The rate for this call will be 2.99 per minute.”
It’s my orgasm control line - no, let’s be honest; my orgasm denial line. I’ll make this line available often even when I’m not taking calls because this isn’t work, this is fun. It cuts right to the chase: he needs to come, he’s on the edge, and what happens next is completely in my hands.
“Hel-lo, this is Sabrina…” I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. Sometimes I’ll laugh to myself, and they’ll ask me why I’m laughing.
This is where I get my kicks. Silly boy.
He’s already on edge. It’s in the tension behind his words, the breaths, the pauses. On edge, his voice slips into a different register. His throat’s tighter. His pacing is staccato –
That’s what I love to listen for; that shift when they need it badly. I like to hear the urgency. That’s why I’ll draw them out, wait until they have to come.
I like to hear them beg.
No - I insist it of them. The hesitant ones aren’t ready to come yet. They don’t need it badly enough. The desperate ones, if they beg pretty, sometimes I’ll let earn an orgasm.
If they want me to make them stroke, I let them stroke. Eventually. If they want me to make them earn each stroke I’ll make them stroke til they need me to let them stop. Denial within denial - why not? A pleasure prolonged is a pleasure enhanced. A pleasure forced and twisted is a deviant’s treat I’m serving up on the beach, in semipublic…
And he’s needing to stop soon, or come. And I remind him that he’d better not come without my permission. He won’t? Good… Even though he needs to so badly? That’s right. That’s exactly right.
“So how badly do you need to come? You’d better convince me, if you want me to let you come.” I like to hold out hope. I might let him come - if he earns it, if he’s good, if he’s lucky. Sometimes I do let them come, and they thank me. Sometimes I don’t and they thank me and curse me together, both equally heartfelt.
He’s begging for me, and it’s good - I’m riding that high - but not good enough.
I push my ridiculous glamourpuss sunglasses down over my eyes.
“No.” I’m laughing, and my friends are looking over at me; they’ll figure out what’s going on in a minute. “I just don’t think you want to come that badly.” (And I hear him moaning oh please Mistress I need it so badly, please, can’t I just come for you…)
“You know, I’m getting more out of it this way than if you actually came.” Brutal honesty. “Your begging amuses me… whereas if you come, it’s really just a sticky mess, over in a few seconds. And doesn’t it feel good to stroke? Why would you want to stop just so you can be allowed to come?”
I love the semi-logic. He’s still trying to convince me, he know it’s too late. He just wants to keep stroking a few more seconds. He’s waiting for my final word.
“No. ”
“Take your hands off my cock; you’re not allowed to come today.”
I’m laughing, and he’s saying thank you, Mistress, and fighting his way back from the edge so he doesn’t disobey and come without my permission. I tell him to try his luck again next time. I might be in a more generous mood.
Two very blue balls in ten minutes and I keep telling myself I’m on vacation. From what exactly?
We head out for drinks and seafood. I keep the phone on.
(I’ve been traveling off and on throughout the summer. If you’d like to catch me, add my orgasm permission line to your favorites on your Niteflirt account, or dial 1-800-TO-FLIRT, extension 01781456. Or send me an email - don’t be a stranger. It’s sabrinamorgan at gmail dot com, of course.)