writingdirty:

“The other night, I was so exhausted,” she said, pulling off her long socks.

He was looking in the mirror gauging the length of his stubble, rubbing his hand across his cheek.

“I peeled off my clothes and dropped them on the floor and then you scolded me and made me pick them up,” she said, a crooked smile.

He chuckled, taking off his tie and hanging it on his little rack.

“No one ever did that to me before. No one ever scolded me. I mean, not since I was a little kid,” she said a little quieter.

He looked over to her and smiled knowingly.

“Well, everything has it’s place, I’ve told you that,” he said, taking off his watch and his cufflinks, laying them neatly in his little box of affectations.

“I was pretty worked up that night. I would have given you more than just a scolding, but you looked so tired. I begrudgingly let you sleep,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, taking it off and putting it on a hanger.

“No one ever did that to me either,” she said, in a whisper, looking down.

“What, begrudgingly let you sleep?” he said with a laugh, coming over to her in his dark trousers and his very white a-shirt.

“Yes,” she said.

He came up to her, standing next to the bed she sat on. He lifted her chin.

“Boys are dumb,” he said, apologetically.

“Yes. Boys are dumb,” she agreed.

He stepped back, taking off his socks and his shoes, placing the former in a hamper and the latter on a neat little shelf with a dozen other pairs. She liked the way he looked in a little undershirt and his expensive looking slacks. She liked his strong, somewhat hairy arms. She liked the lingering smell of aftershave.

“I’m not exhausted tonight,” she said with a slight smile.

“No?”

“No,” she said, unbuttoning her pretty summer dress.

She opened it to her belly, slipping her arms out, and took off her bra. She held it in front of her, dangling between her fingers, and then let the soft pink lace drop, falling on the floor like a crumpled flower.

His eyes narrowed.

“Pick that up,” he said slowly.

Each word was cold and powerful.

Her whole demeanor changed then, like a switch was flipped. She sat back, leaning on her elbows and stuck out her tongue.

“What if I don’t? You and all your dumb rules,” she said with a smirk that she was obviously trying hard to keep on, though she was scared.

His face grew dark and he reached down and undid his belt.

There was a flicker there, though. An exchange. Across a dimly lit bedroom she asked for what she wanted and he asked for reassurances. The communication was imperfect, but in that moment it said more than their lips could.

End

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femsubdenial:

Written by Dhyana of BadKitty Bondage (not on Tumblr) and posted here with her permission. Thanks Dhyana!

Orgasm control can be a beautiful and very fun part of kinky play and D/s dynamics. Despite how much I like it in theory, though, the practice of asking permission to orgasm is exceedingly frustrating for me. Not because “Whaa whaa I’m a whiny bitch I want to come, dammit!” But because actually GETTING permission to orgasm is pretty much my equivalent of a boner-killer.

Here’s why:

Imagine you are a bottom/submissive who LOVES bondage. You are strapped down to a bed/table/whatever and getting your brains fucked out. The sex is amazing. You strain and writhe against your restraints, but you can’t escape and the feeling of immobility is bringing you closer and closer to climax. The harder you fight your restraints to no avail, the more realistic it becomes. The more you push, pull, and squirm, you feel all the more helpless and all the more turned on until you are sweating, shaking, reaching your breaking point. You are going to come. Frantically you ask, “PLEASE!! May I come?!?” At your request, the top/Dom unfastens all of your restraints and says, “Come.”

But now you can’t.

Your orgasm has just been murdered by kindness.

Why? Because the bondage and wrestling with the restraints WAS the turn on. It was the reason you wanted to come in the first place. Now it’s gone and you are expected to have an orgasm anyway.

Yeah…probably not going to happen.

I use this analogy because I think we often forget that mental or psychological bondage IS bondage, simply because it is less tangible than rope, straps, or handcuffs. Just like the physical restraint is the turn on, the mental restraint is the turn on.

You don’t want to wait for the cuffs to come off to have an orgasm. You want to orgasm while struggling against them and feeling their full effect!

For me, the practice of orgasm control is another type of mental bondage which is a HUGE turn on. The more I fight it, the more I try NOT to come, the more turned on I get and closer I get to climaxing. Add to that being explicitly told not to come, and my libido is raging and about to crash through the roof. As soon as I have permission to come, the psychological bondage ends and the metaphorical restraints are removed. Now there is nothing to struggle against and my budding orgasm crawls into a hole and dies.

So how do we fix this?

Well if you’re either lazy or excessively cruel, you simply keep going about your business as usual and torture your bottoms with generosity by giving them permission to orgasm.

OR

My preferred option – use mental predicament!

You are free to come when you want, but the consequences of coming are [blah blah insert painful, horrible, disgusting things]…

The stronger the motivation to NOT orgasm, the stronger the mental bondage, the more epic the orgasm becomes when you finally break. How badly do you want it? Are you willing to take a caning for it? Bleed for it? Take it in the ass? Let three strange men come on your face for it?

For me personally, I want to not want to come. I want to break down slowly and pathetically until I finally give in to my body in one crying, anguished mess – reveling in the moment of release and ecstasy and then resigning myself to the consequences.

To me this is a win-win. The top/Dom gets to exert their control by choosing the consequences and watching their partner wrestle with their decision while breaking down into a crying, pathetic mess of sexual need. Meanwhile the bottom/subby gets to enjoy their orgasm while in the throes of mental anguish and restraint.

…and I do love the taste of anguish.