listencloser:

You began it as an
idle game. You had read something about denial on the internet and
the idea took root in the fertile soil of your lusty little mind.
Something about relinquishing control, or being controlled.

So you decided you
wanted to try it. You considered sitting me down and explaining it.
Direct, honest communication. Perhaps even showing me some of those
websites you’d stumbled across and kept going back to, helplessly, to
gaze at the expressions on their faces, to re-read those stories of
the frustration and what it began to do to their bodies and their
minds.

Instead, though, you
decided to be sneaky about it. Were you ashamed? Nervous of
rejection? Or was it just that you thought our relationship wasn’t
like that? Perhaps too vanilla to risk destabilising it with some
weird, perverted request. Perhaps you feared driving me away

Whatever it was, it
meant you had to sidle up to the issue.

At first you tried
dropping hints. “I’m nearly there,” you’d moan, as you got
closer. And then: “I’m too close!” Not I’m close but I’m
too close, hoping
I’d pick up on your inflection. But I just took that to mean I was
going a good job. And so I’d tip you over every time.

Then there was that
time I was caressing you, stroking you closer and closer. You began
to shiver in anticipation, then you caught my eye and whispered: “May
I come?” and bit your lip. And I said: “Of course!” Perhaps I
even sounded surprised. How frustrating that must have been for you.

In the end it was
purely by accident that I realised. I’d been idly playing with you
one morning. You basically gave up on your plan for denial, right
then, and instead decided to relax into the pleasure and simply
explode. Something about my lack of enthusiasm combined with your
acceptance meant that you were right there on the edge for much
longer that usual. But getting closer, so very much closer. You felt
yourself tipping and-

Then the doorbell
rang.

I stopped, took my
hand away from you and you had what we now know is a ruin. But then,
it was a first for the both of us. The way your eyes snapped open and
stared at me with surprise, with agony, with frustration. The mewling
wail that escaped your throat, a sound I’d never heard you made
before, torn from deep inside. The shivering of your limbs as you
felt that single, pathetic pulse of pleasure that trickled away like
water through fingers.

I have to say, it
make an impression upon me. And as I walked away to answer the door
and glanced back to see you there, sheened in perspiration, mouth
open, watching me leave, I remembered it…

The trouble was, you
made two serious mistakes.

The first was that
you really had no idea how deep inside you those roots of denial had
penetrated, how fertile the soil of you needy, greedy imagination
was. All that time you had spent fantasising about giving someone
else control of your pleasure, your arousal and your release, had
been time allowing those slow threads of that fantasy to grow. And
those urges are deep and primal.

All that time you
spent stroking yourself, getting aroused and letting your thoughts
idly drift in the direction of denial, you had begun to associate the
very physiological responses of arousal with denial.

In many, the promise
of a shuddering release is the thing that stiffens their nipples,
swells the sensitive skin between their legs, the very idea of racing
towards climax. But those who crave denial, the wicked, deliciously
kinked idea of having that release denied them, stolen from them by
someone else, only to make them weaker and more pliable? Well, that
is the itch that makes them want to scratch.

By masturbating to
that very thought, you were conditioning yourself to associate
arousal with tantalising disappointment. So when you got that first
actual, real, physical taste of it – even by accident – of
course it was overwhelming.

To have someone else
stroking your most sensitive places always feels better. To have
someone else stroke you closer to that enticing edge … and then for
them to stop. Oh God, it was a fantasy coming true. A fantasy you had
been entertaining for so long. No wonder it was so powerful. That
first time, after so long anticipating in your imagination, it was if
a switch had flipped in your brain. You couldn’t go back. And
although you didn’t know it at the time, you were caught in a trap of
your own making.

The second mistake
you made, the entirely unforeseeable mistake – the mistake that
became your downfall – was underestimating how addictive it would
be for me.

I’m going to be
honest, I had heard about the idea. And the thought of almost
giving someone an orgasm but then … not? Well, I thought it was
crazy.

Until I saw the
effects.

That very first time
I pulled my hand from you, that expression on your face became etched
into my mind. That surprise. That desperation.

So the second time
wasn’t an accident. That was entirely my choice. I wanted to see what
it would do to you, to get you all the way to the edge and then stop.

If the first time,
that accidental time, was the moment you realised how weak and
helpless you were against the effects of denial, the second
time was when you realised the absolute power you had given me.

That second time, I
was looking right into your eyes when I stopped touching you. When I
whispered: “No, I don’t think so. Not this time.” The expression
on your face was priceless. Surprise, then raw physical desperation,
then a hint of arousal … and then something else. A realisation,
perhaps tinged with a little fear but also a little excitement, that
I got it.

That I understood.

And it was then that
you were lost.

Even thereafter, for
a time, you were still shy – perhaps yet unsure I would accept this
side of you. But something had changed in me, too. I took charge. I
began to experiment. And each time I assured you the experiment would
end and that that time would be the time we would take a break, that
I would allow you release, and then changed my mind at the last
moment and left you short, I saw you accept our new roles more. And
that aroused me.

Every moan of
frustration, every writhingly dissatisfied conclusion to your
stimulation dropped you deeper and deeper into my control, helplessly
carried further by your own long rooted self-programmed arousal at
this process. Oh God, you hated how you loved it. Each day without
release making the next more of a challenge but more of a triumph.
And I was so good at it, teasing you forward with a finger between
your legs, the lightest touch, whispering in your ear how good it
would feel to come this time, how much of a reward it would be having
gone for so long. And then I would give you a ruin and you would cry
out in dissatisfaction, at the unfairness after being so good.

And I would tempt
you further, draw you into deals, have you make pacts, obey me
more and more deeply for the promise of release that became a ruin,
or the promise of a ruin that was just an edge, or even just the
promise of a single touch. Weaker and weaker you became, more and
more compliant, throbbing, frustrated, grateful.

How far we have
come. It’s been longer than you can remember. You have become what
you darkly fantasised about for so long. Just a hopeless, eager
little thing, so desperate to please, so responsive to even the
faintest touch now, a stroke upon your sensitive neck, a breath upon
your tingling flesh.

And the real secret?
The thing I’m sure you fantasised about, although by now you have
probably forgotten, living as you are in the moment, from touch to
touch, edge to edge, is that this utterly desperate, mindless,
helpless state of denial that sees you curl about my feet like a
contented kitten, happy just to feel my fingers stroking your hair,
this entire state is just the beginning.

Now you are this
obedient and conditioned, your real training begins.