My submissive waited hours for me to give him permission

They say nymphomania is an appetite that’s 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 about to tell you really happened, and it keeps happening, because as I write these lines he’s beside me, naked, with his hard cock pointing at the ceiling, waiting for something only I can give him.

I’ve got him gripped in my left hand. I wrap my fist all the way around his cock, feeling it throb against my fingers, the skin taut, the tip swollen and wet with so much pre-cum already seeping from his glans. I’ve been like this for hours, moving my hand up and down slowly, measuring every stroke so he doesn’t cum too soon. I run my thumb over the crown, gather the bead that wells up, and smear it over the whole slippery head. I want him building up. I want him to hit the limit and stay there, trembling, with his balls tight and his cock begging to be emptied, while I decide how much longer the wait will last.

It’s two in the afternoon. We’re in his bed, with the blinds half-drawn and the light cutting the room into bands that stripe his abdomen and trace every tense muscle. We’ve been playing for a couple of hours, and in all that time he hasn’t done a single thing I didn’t allow. That’s the rule, the only one that matters. I make the decisions here, and he seems to have developed a taste for obeying.

—Can I move? —he asks me, thick-voiced.

—Not yet —I answer, and I tighten my fist around his cock 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, though he hates to admit it. Every time he tries to thrust his hips toward my hand, I ease off and leave him hanging, his cock bouncing on its own, searching for friction. He learns fast. Within minutes he’s still, surrendered, waiting with a patience he didn’t have when we started. I lower my head and drag my tongue along his entire length, from his balls to the tip, and he lets out a muffled groan that fills my mouth with saliva.

It hasn’t always been like this between us. When we met, he was the kind who rushes, the kind who wants to get to the end without enjoying the road there. 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, as if he’s discovered a new drug. And in a way 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 business, and I waited for him at his place with a very clear idea in my head. I knew he’d come back loaded, without touching himself the whole trip, because I’d ordered that too before he left. Save your cum for me, I told him, not a wank in the hotel, not a drop outside my cunt or my mouth. As if it were a treasure he had 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 sparkling headband, two wide bracelets on my wrist, and a pair of black sneakers. Nothing else. The rest was bare skin spread open over the mattress. I wanted that to be the first image he saw when he walked in.

I lay down with my legs apart and opened my cunt with my fingers, two on each side, showing him everything inside me, the pink lips already shining, the swollen clit, the tight, throbbing entrance. So there’d be no doubt about what awaited him. The headband and bracelets were one of his fantasies, something he’d been asking me for ages, and yesterday I finally gave it to him. It’s funny how a couple of stupid trinkets can drive a man insane. His cock went hard instantly, pressing a bulge under his trousers, and I got turned on seeing the effect I have on him.

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

—You’ve got three —I said—. And don’t you dare touch yourself in the shower.

He came back even sooner, with a towel over his shoulder and his cock already semi-erect, hanging heavy between his legs. He came over to the bed and I grabbed his hair, forced him to kneel, and buried his face between my thighs without saying a word. From that point on, I had him eating out of my hand. Or rather, eating my cunt, because by then I was already soaked from waiting so long and his tongue was deep inside, sucking, licking, drinking every drop as if he hadn’t had a drink in three days. I made him fuck my face with his mouth. I rubbed my clit against his nose, against his chin, and he took it without complaint, his hands spread over my ass, pressing me against his mouth.

I came like that, with his lips closed around my clit and two of his fingers moving inside me. I drenched his face and he kept licking until I shoved him away by force because I couldn’t take the trembling anymore.

***

We have a small collection of things we use in these sessions. Nothing complicated: a few bracelets, a couple of chokers, some long earrings and, above all, the boots. There are high-heeled ones that, when I put them on, leave him speechless. Just seeing me wear them makes the tip of his cock start to wet, and that gives me a power I can’t quite explain. 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. I’ve fucked him several times with them on, always from behind, wearing the boots and nothing else, and he always ends up more undone than usual, cumming too soon, as if the leather stole his will. I take advantage of that without any guilt. I learned a long time 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 what gesture turns him on, what word undoes him, how long he can last before he starts begging. I’ve learned his body the way you learn an instrument, and now I play it however I feel like at any given moment. Sometimes I make him last minutes; other times, I keep him on the edge for an entire afternoon.

Yesterday I didn’t put them on. I left them in plain sight, on the chair, knowing that looking at them and not being able to ask for them would drive him crazy. That’s another way of commanding: showing what you’re not going to give. And it works. I had him all afternoon with his gaze going from my body to the boots and from the boots back to my body, not daring to say anything, with his cock dripping pre-cum onto my thigh every time he came close.

I’m going to tell you how he fucks me, because it’s worth it. He put me on all fours at the edge of the bed and got behind me. I felt him pry my ass cheeks open with his thumbs, look properly at my soaked cunt, spit on it, and rub the head of his cock up and down between my lips, not putting it in. He would only push the head in, half a centimeter, and pull it back out. I gritted my teeth and insulted him, told him to get it in already, and he, obedient for once, kept playing until I lowered a hand, grabbed his cock, and drove it in with one sharp thrust, all the way to the hilt.

I screamed. He stuffed me completely, all the way to his balls, and I felt him filling me to the brim. He started fucking me hard, his hands clamping my hips, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in, his balls slapping my clit with every thrust. I came in a matter of minutes, screaming into the pillow, and he kept going, didn’t stop, took me through the whole orgasm thrusting until, still riding the wave, I turned around and shoved his chest.

—On your back —I ordered.

He lay down and I climbed on top, sliding myself over his hard, slick cock covered in my juices. I started riding him, braced on his chest with both hands, going up and down at my own pace, squeezing him with my inner muscles every time I reached the bottom. He watched my breasts bouncing, pinched my nipples between his fingers, and I was getting close to another orgasm when I felt him was about to go. His hands gripped my hips harder, trying to stop me.

—Stay still —he panted—. Stay still or I’ll cum.

—Cum —I told him—. But where I say.

I moved fast, pulled him out of me, grabbed his cock with my hand and pointed it toward my tits. I pumped hard, squeezing my fist, and he blew on the third stroke, firing thick ropes of cum that landed on my chest, between my breasts, up to my neck. I felt every pulse of his cock against my hand, the heat of three days of waiting unloading exactly where I’d decided. I gathered the semen with two fingers and brought it to my mouth, looking him in the eyes as I swallowed it. 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 time that still surprises me. While he kissed my neck and moved down to my breasts, sucking my nipples one after the other until they were hard and sensitive, I took care of myself, setting the pace with two fingers inside my cunt, using it however I felt like. When I’d come a couple more times, soaking my fingers and his face and the sheets, I made him lie on his back and I positioned myself over him, straddling his hips but without taking him in yet. I rubbed my wet cunt along the length of his cock, soaking the whole thing with my juices.

—Don’t move —I warned him.

And he didn’t move. I took his cock nice and straight and lowered myself slowly, millimeter by millimeter, feeling him open me up from the inside again. When I had him all the way in, I started moving barely at all, contracting my inner muscles, squeezing and releasing him, without going up or down. I let him fondle his balls with one hand while I pressed myself against him, controlling him to the very last second. His breathing got faster, his abdominal muscles tight, his hands gripping the sheets so he wouldn’t break the rule. He held out as long as he could, and when he couldn’t take it anymore, I pulled him out again, finished him by hand and this time I made him cum in my mouth, swallowing every drop while he twisted beneath me, unable to thrust or shout. It was on my terms again, not his.

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

***

I’ve had him on the edge since noon. My hand never stops, but I never quite give him what he needs. I’ve got his cock shiny, red, almost purple from how swollen it is, with his balls tight and pulled up, pressed against his body. Every time I feel him getting close, when the muscles in his abdomen tense and his cock starts throbbing in my fist, I stop. I let go. I let him breathe, give him a few seconds, then start again, this time slower, torturing his frenulum with the pad of my thumb. It’s a cruel exercise and we both know it, but neither of us wants it to end.

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

—“Please” isn’t enough —I answer—. You’ll wait as long as I want. Say what you are.

—Yours —he whispers—. I’m yours, my cock is yours, my load is yours.

—Good boy.

His forehead is beaded with sweat and his legs tremble a little. I love seeing him like this, suspended between pleasure and desperation, knowing he doesn’t get to decide anything. A while ago I did something to him with my mouth that he called unforgettable: I took his cock down my throat, licked his balls one by one, took them into my mouth while I worked his shaft with my hand, and when I had him at the limit, his hips thrusting up without being able to help it, I let him fall. I pressed two fingers around the base of his dick and cut off his cum dead. He was left moaning, his cock throbbing on its own in the air, squirting out two thick drops but never quite emptying. I just wanted to see how much he could take before truly begging.

Today’s plan is simple and a little perverse. I want him to build up for hours, to have his body fill to the limit, his balls heavy as stones, so that when I finally give him permission, what comes out will be a release like few others. Thick, long ropes, the kind that spray far. And I want to take it in the face. In my open mouth, on my cheeks, on my tongue, in my hair. Just thinking about it makes me bite my lip and feel the heat rising inside me again, my cunt clenching around nothing.

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

—Yes —he answers without hesitation.

—Say it again.

—Yes, whatever you want.

That surrender drives me wild. There was a time when I was the one waiting, the one making do with what I was given, the one faking orgasms so he’d finish quickly. 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’s not just sex. It’s control, anticipation, that game in which he gives me his pleasure and I decide what to do with it, when, how, and where every drop of semen he produces will end up.

***

I’m still stroking him as I write this, with the phone in one hand and his cock in the other, squeezing and releasing, slowly driving him crazy. I run my thumb over the head, gather the pre-cum that won’t stop leaking from him and smear it over his glans, slippery. Every so often he looks up to see if I’m done yet, if 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: at the limit, trembling, with his balls ready to burst, mine.

This afternoon, when I decide he’s waited long enough, I’ll put the black boots on. I’ll kneel in front of him with my mouth open and my tongue out, grab his cock with both hands and tell him, at last, to let go. And then, after so many hours of waiting, I’ll receive everything he’s saved for me, on my face, on my tongue, on my tits. 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, defeated, patient, with his cock hard and waiting for my permission to empty. And he, luckily for both of us, has learned to give me exactly that. I’ll tell you how it ends.