It’s all in the anticipation.

A. certainly has a way with words. On the topic of orgasm denial:

Even something as simple as seeing a roll of tape will make your mind imagine being wrapped in bondage tape. Or seeing a piece of string will make you see yourself tied up with rope. Heaven forbid you see any chains, even thin silver necklace ones, and you’ll see yourself shackled to a bed in cold, hard, unforgiving steel. Soon practically anything will arouse you, as everything becomes a reminder that you’ve effectively locked away you’re needy little pussy in a chastity belt and handed the key to a strange man you’ve never even met.

We all know how SHE'S gonna turn out...

We all know how SHE’S gonna turn out…

For the purpose of ramping up the denial, A. asked me if I am up for some edging (getting right up to the point of climax and then backing down). I have been wanting so badly to touch myself the past two days — especially spending all this time blogging about sex! — so I was more than happy to do so. I knew I wouldn’t be getting a satisfying release. But I so badly wanted that arousal, even if the anticipation was going to kill me!

A. told me to give myself a break from schoolwork and bring myself close to climax for 10 minutes, repeating this 2 or 3 times throughout my studying. I am to shoot him a text after each time, describing how it made me feel. He’s off to bed himself, but said he very much looks forward to reading his texts in the morning, even if it means taking a cold shower to hide the bulge.

Despite (or because of?) the fact that I really do not know A., the knowledge that my actions alone could make this man’s dick hard is fucking exciting. We may not end up having chemistry when we meet in person. Even if that’s the case, I will have still had a delicious little taste of submission this week. Just enough to wet my whistle and crave more…

I just completed my first 10-minute session.

Orgasm control (edging)

Ughhhhh, that was frustrating. I have made myself back down from orgasm before, but only to put it off for a few minutes. The only times I have stopped myself cold have been when something intervenes (e.g., if someone was about to walk in on me).

I pictured A. standing above me, watching coolly, unamused, and telling me I was doing a very good job. …God, that is hot.

I brought myself to the brink 9 times in that 10 minutes. It took about 4 minutes to reach the first, and then BAM! BAM! BAM! I could hardly lay a finger on my clit for a second without getting to the edge. Each time backing off was more agonizing than the last. I didn’t actually expect this exercise to be so difficult. And it wasn’t at first, but by the time you’re 9 cliff-hangers deep…your body starts to get angry with you. Give it a whirl if you don’t believe me.

At the end of 10 minutes, I lay on my bed with legs open in butterfly position, taking deep, audible breaths through my teeth to calm myself, with my clitoris literally throbbing in anticipation. If it had a voice, it would be throwing a temper tantrum right now: Please, please, pleeeeease, a little more! Screw you! Stop teasing me, god dammit!!

The need for contact was almost painful. I did my best to shut it up by pressing down hard with my hand for several seconds. (Looking back, I’m not sure whether that was cheating, since it exceeded my 10 minute allotment. Ah, well.)

Now for some musings.

This little edging exercise (and I’ve still got 2 more sessions to go tonight!) made me realize how much I take my pleasure for granted.

Thank god for masturbation. I remember when I first discovered it. A very, very early memory lingers of going to a check-up and feeling a curious sensation when the doctor looked at my vagina (no funny business happened — I distinctly remember my mother being in the room). So I started playing with myself at home, but I thought I was the only one. I had no clue that countless men and women had been fiddling with their private bits for millenia before me. I finally spilled my horrible secret to a childhood best friend during a treehouse sleepover, and I was shocked when she replied, “Me too.”

My upbringing was more liberal than many children’s, I’m sure, but I never had all that much open dialogue about sex or masturbation. These were things I navigated on my own, and it took a long time to lower my guard about them. I was 18 or 19 years old when I was finally brave enough to try putting my own fingers inside my pussy. It just seemed awkward, touching my wetness felt so wrong. And It wasn’t until this past year that I ever thought to put my fingers in my ass. (Turns out, that got me off more than the other — maybe just because my fingers aren’t big enough to do a vagina any justice.)

You're right, that IS better!

You’re right, that IS better!

That was the start of a slow journey toward giving myself permission to explore pleasure. Along the way, I have made choices, conscious and very deliberate choices, to free myself from certain societal taboos. There came a distinct turning point in college when I made the decision that being branded a ‘slut’ was no longer going to concern me. I’ll never know whether anyone actually called me that, but I simply don’t care anymore. Similar decisions have arisen as I’ve started venturing into kink.

It’s something anyone can do. We may feel restrained by society, but we’ve each been holding the keys to our own shackles all along.

Everyone loves a bit of ironic imagery.

Everyone loves a bit of ironic imagery.

Once I understood that a few age-old, baseless “moral” standards were the only reason I’d been afraid of words like ‘slut,’ it was actually quite easy to shrug off the concern. It never came back, and I now go about life that much less burdened. I can listen to the voice of my own pleasure. I can follow the White Rabbit wherever he leads me, and he’s never failed me yet.

…And right now, my White Rabbit’s name is A.

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One comment on “It’s all in the anticipation.

  1. […] It made me very happy, but if it might bother you, please feel free to have some utterly misnamed Good Clean Fun. […]

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