My submissive waited for hours for me to give him permission

They say nymphomania is an appetite that is never satisfied. I don’t know whether I have that or whether I simply found the right person to feed it, but for months now my body has known no calm. Everything I’m going to tell you really happened, and it still is happening, because while I write these lines he is beside me, naked, waiting for something only I can give him.

I’ve got him in my left hand. I’ve been like this for hours, moving slowly up and down, measuring every stroke so he won’t come too soon. I want him to build up. I want him to reach the limit and stay there, trembling, while I decide how much longer the waiting will last.

It’s two in the afternoon. We’re in his bed, with the blinds half drawn and the light slicing the room into bands. We’ve been playing for a couple of hours, and all that time he hasn’t done a single thing I haven’t allowed. That’s the rule, the only one that matters. I’m the one in charge here, and he seems to have developed a taste for obeying.

—Can I move? —he asks me, his voice thick.

—Not yet —I answer, and tighten my hand a little more so he understands I mean it.

I watch him close his eyes and bite his lip. He loves this as much as I do, even if he finds it hard to admit. Every time he tries to push his hips toward my hand, I ease off and leave him hanging. He learns fast. In a few minutes he’s already still, surrendered, waiting with a patience he didn’t have when we started.

It wasn’t always like this between us. When we met, he was the impatient kind, the kind who wants to get to the end without enjoying the road. It took me weeks to teach him to slow down, to understand that pleasure grows the longer you make it wait. At first he complained, said it was torture. Now he asks me for it himself, as if he’d discovered a new drug. And in a way, that’s exactly what it is: the body gets used to waiting and starts to need it.

***

To understand today, you have to go back to yesterday. He’d been away for three days on work, and I was waiting for him at his place with a very clear idea in my head. I knew he’d come back loaded, without having touched himself at all during the trip, because I’d ordered that too before he left. He keeps what’s his for me, as if it were a treasure he has no right to spend without permission.

When I heard him put the key in the lock, I was already ready. I’d put on only a few details: a thin glittering headband, two wide bracelets on my wrist, and a pair of black sneakers. Nothing else. The rest, naked skin spread open on the mattress. I wanted that to be the first image he saw when he walked in.

I lay back with my legs apart and opened myself with my hands, so he wouldn’t have any doubt about what was waiting for him. The headband and the bracelets were one of his fantasies he’d been asking me for a while to fulfill, and yesterday I finally gave it to him. It’s funny how a couple of silly accessories can drive a man crazy. Just seeing me like that gets him hard, and seeing the effect I have on him turns me on.

—Give me five minutes to shower —he asked from the doorway, unable to take his eyes off me.

—You’ve got three —I told him.

He came back in less. And from that point on, I had him eating out of my hand. Or rather, from between my legs, because by then I was already soaked from waiting for him so long.

***

We have a small collection of things we use in these sessions. Nothing complicated: some bracelets, a couple of chokers, a pair of long earrings and, above all, the boots. There are some tall heeled ones that, when I put them on, leave him speechless. Just seeing them on me starts to wet him, and that gives me a power I can’t quite describe. It’s like pressing a button.

Those boots have a name between us. We call them “the black ones,” and they’re his absolute weakness. He’s come in them several times already, and he always ends up more undone than usual, as if the leather stole his will. I take advantage of that without the slightest guilt. I learned long ago that his fetish is my best tool.

The beautiful thing about knowing someone’s weaknesses so well is that you can play with them however you want. I know exactly which gesture turns him on, which word strips him bare, how long he can hold out before he starts begging. I’ve been learning his body the way you learn an instrument, and now I play on it the melody I feel like at any given moment. Sometimes I make him last minutes; other times I keep him on the edge all afternoon.

Yesterday I didn’t get to wear them. I left them in plain sight, on the chair, knowing that looking at them and not being able to ask me for them would drive him crazy. That’s another way of commanding: showing what won’t be given. And it works. I had him all afternoon with his eyes going from my body to the boots and from the boots back to my body, without daring to say anything.

I’m not going to tell you in detail how he took me, because that would be another story altogether. I’ll only say that I had several orgasms, the kind that leave you floating, and that when I knew he was close, I moved quickly to take him where I wanted. I felt every pulse, the heat of three days’ waiting unloading exactly where I’d decided. That’s what I like most: not just the pleasure, but knowing it happens because I allow it.

***

Later, that same night, I gave him a second chance. He has a recovery capacity that still surprises me. While he was kissing my neck and moving down to my breasts, I took care of myself, setting the pace, using him however I wanted. When I’d come a couple more times, I made him lie on his back and got on top of him.

—Don’t move —I warned him.

And he didn’t move. I let him stroke himself slowly while I pressed myself against him, controlling everything down to the last second. His breathing sped up, his abdominal muscles went tight, his hands gripping the sheets so as not to break the rule. He held on as long as he could, and when he couldn’t anymore, it was again on my terms, not his.

That was yesterday. Today we’ve started again, but with a different idea in mind.

***

I’ve had him on the edge since midday. My hand doesn’t stop, but it never quite gives him what he needs. Every time I feel him getting close, I stop. I let him breathe, give him a few seconds, and start again. It’s a cruel exercise and we both know it, but neither of us wants it to end.

—Please —he mutters, and it’s the third time he’s said it in the last half hour.

—“Please” isn’t enough —I answer him—. You’re going to wait as long as I want.

His forehead is beaded with sweat and his legs are trembling a little. I love seeing him like this, suspended between pleasure and despair, knowing he doesn’t decide anything. A little while ago I did something with my mouth to him that he called unforgettable, and even so I didn’t let him finish. I only wanted to see how much he could take before begging for real.

Today’s idea is simple and a little perverse. I want him to build up for hours, to fill his body to the limit, so that when I finally give him permission, what comes out will be a release like few others. And I want it on my face. Just thinking about it makes me bite my lips and feel the heat rising inside me again.

—Are you going to behave until then? —I ask him.

—Yes —he replies without hesitation.

—Say it again.

—Yes, whatever you want.

That surrender drives me crazy. There was a time when I was the one waiting, the one who settled for what I was given. Now it’s the other way around, and discovering this side of myself has been like opening a door I didn’t know existed. It isn’t just sex. It’s control, anticipation, that game in which he hands over his pleasure and I decide what to do with it.

***

I keep stroking him while I write this, with the phone in one hand and him in the other, slowly driving him mad. Every so often he looks up to see whether I’m done yet, whether it’s time. Not yet. I’ll let another hour go by, maybe two. Until then, my job is to keep him exactly where he is: on the edge, trembling, mine.

This afternoon, when I decide he’s waited long enough, I’ll put on the black boots. I’ll kneel in front of him and at last tell him to let go. And then, after so many hours of waiting, I’ll receive everything he’s been saving for me. But that, like so many other things we do, will be the subject of another story.

For now I can only tell you that I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want his surrender. I want him at all hours, broken, patient, waiting for my permission. And he, lucky for both of us, has learned to give me exactly that. I’ll tell you how it ends.