listencloser:

bethismodern:

We just can’t quit you, Ashley Lane. So soft and pale, with minimal makeup and a natural girl-next-door appearance. Your screaming annoys us both, but we dream of a chance to make you do it for us!

AAAAAAEEEEEEAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!

On this side of the edge is pleasure, sweetness and seduction. It is whispers in the ear, delightful, wicked ideas, all beautiful fantasies plucked from around the denial scene. It’s a game to spice up sex. It’s: “Oh I hope you won’t deny me an orgasm…” said with a wink, and: “Good girls don’t cum”, replied with a grin, both content in the knowledge that this sort of thing is like a pair of kinky fur handcuffs bought from a high street sex shop. Pretty. Ineffectual.

Of course it’s just playing. It feels very good. It plugs into a secret kink you enjoy, in the same way that a few cheeky slaps on your buttocks play into a vague fantasy you have about spanking. And you spent a whole night and a day that one time being teased and getting quivery and drippy. It did make you feel strange and submissive, it did give you a curious appetite for a harder slap on your buttock.

But you know it would all come to an end. And it did. It devolved into deeply satisfying oral sex and a couple of deep, rich orgasms – no more, just the right amount – which let you drift off into a satisfying sleep.

Right around the edge is a strange, liminal space where all those smiling, nudge-nudge, wink-wink rules you agreed to might start to feel a little too real. Those moments when the question came: “Do you want to cum now?” and you moaned: “Yes please” and came the answer: “Not yet.” And you were fooled, you really thought you were going to be allowed to release, and you genuinely felt frustrated. And a tiny flicker of irritation that you were pushing the game a little too far, a tiny doubt crept into your mind about whether you were really playing a game, or something had changed. You still enjoyed it, this faux power-exchange, because it was still all acting. And it was always gentle, patient, caring, and it always ended in what you were really looking for: a deep, blissful round of delightful orgasms. Not too many, not too few.

They did push you, it’s true. Sometimes to the point where your body did strange things. You found you couldn’t cum. Or your mind went to strange places. Or your thighs shook, or your hips jerked against your will. You found yourself saying things, agreeing to things, crazy things, hovering around that pleasurable edge. Afterwards you reminded yourself it was all games.

It’s all games, it’s all light-hearted, so you agreed to all that CNC earlier. It was all breezy conversation, snuggled up on the sofa. You were drinking coffee. The radio was playing jazz. You were giggling together and still a little light-headed from the denial that morning. You were prodding your partner, with that same grin, the same blithe sentiment, about being teased endlessly, forced orgasms, denial as torture, pleasure as torture, taking it all too far. They asked if you were sure you wanted to be pushed that far. You grinned and winked and giggled that of course you did. They grinned and winked back.

On the other side of the edge is where you might accidentally find you have strayed.

It’s been days now. And the strangest thing is that nothing in your partner has changed. Not one bit. Still gentle, patient, caring, softly-spoken, totally engaged in your every reaction.

It’s just that now, they don’t stop.

This has become agonising torture. You long ago stopped giggling, passed through confusion and doubt into stern demands. That did nothing. Shouting to be untied, demanding to be obeyed, struggling and cursing, all ineffectual. After a few hours of anger, the tears began.

You’ve been cycling between tears and begging for some time, now. You’re losing your mind. You can feel it. The well from you which draw your tears is almost dry and down there, right at the bottom, is something else. You can feel it rising. Beyond frustration, beyond abject despair, beyond words and tears, it’s a primal, vocal release. This is something new, torn from you with hooks. Not an orgasm of pleasure but of the soul. Like an infant howling at the entire universe.

Is this what sadism really feels like? Gentle, patient, caring, neverending torture? You don’t have the capacity to wonder if this will ever end. You are no longer there.