The Man Who Forbade Me to Have an Orgasm

I met him through a voice. That was all at first: a deep, measured voice on the other end of the phone, no face, no real name, nothing I could touch. I’d posted an ad on a forum almost out of boredom, one sleepless dawn, and of the thirty replies I received, only his didn’t disgust me. He didn’t promise anything. He asked questions. And every question seemed to know the answer before I opened my mouth.

I called him Adrián, though I doubt that was his real name. It didn’t matter. Within a few weeks, that fake name gave me goosebumps every time it appeared on the screen.

—Take off your clothes and sit on the edge of the bed —he told me the first night we really played—. Don’t touch yourself yet. Just listen to me.

And I did. I did everything he asked, amazed at myself, at how easily a command from him could bend the stubborn, bossy woman I was the rest of the day. At the office, no one gave me orders without an argument. At home, with him in my ear, I was nothing but a student waiting for the next beat.

Because that was what it felt like: a music lesson. Adrián kept time with his voice, rising and falling, letting me speed up and then stopping me cold.

—Stroke the inside of your thigh. Only there. If you brush anything else, I’ll know.

He couldn’t know, of course. He couldn’t see me. But I obeyed as if an invisible camera were watching every inch of my skin, and that impossible certainty made me hotter than any caress. My nipples were so hard they hurt, my cunt was soaked through to my ass, and he knew it from the way my breathing trembled in the headset.

—You’re wet —he stated, not asked—. Put a finger in. Just one. And pull it out right away. I want you to tell me how it smells.

I obeyed. I sank my middle finger into my cunt, felt the tight heat swallowing me, and pulled it out dripping. I brought it to my nose with my hand shaking.

—Like sex —I whispered—. It smells like I want to get fucked.

—Suck it.

I put my finger in my mouth and licked my own arousal while he listened in silence. That silence of his was worse than any command: it made me feel as if he were judging my entire soul over a single gesture.

How can someone I’ve never even seen have me like this?

The rules were simple and cruel. I was allowed to touch the nearby skin —the lower belly, the crease of the groin, the inside of my thighs— but never my cunt lips, never my clit. Not until he ordered it. Not until I was so on edge that my voice shook when I answered him. “Only then will you truly be at my mercy,” he said. And he was right.

The first time he took me to the brink and told me to “stop,” I thought I would die. I’d spent half an hour with two fingers circling my clit without touching it, pinching my outer lips between my index finger and thumb, tweaking my nipples when he asked, arching my back with my cunt open to the air of the room. I was missing one stroke, just one, and I would have come screaming. I lay there in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hands still at my sides because he’d forbidden me to move them, my cunt throbbing so hard I could feel it beating all the way up in my throat. I didn’t sleep. I wanted to come, I needed it with an almost physical urgency, but the mere idea of disobeying him seemed worse than the frustration. That night I understood that it was no longer about pleasure. It was about who decided when it arrived.

***

A month passed. An entire month without permission to come.

I could have ignored him. I could have stopped answering his messages, given my body the orgasm it was demanding in screams, and forgotten all of it like some late-night whim. I thought about that many times, almost always at three in the morning, awake and wet and furious, my panties glued to a cunt that leaked just from remembering his voice. But the idea of giving in frustrated me more than the deprivation itself. I wanted to prove to him —to prove to myself— that I really could hold out. That I was capable of it.

So when he texted, “Saturday, at five, at the café in the old square,” I didn’t hesitate for a second. I said yes before I even thought about it.

I arrived fifteen minutes early. I ordered a tea I didn’t touch and chose a table in the back, with my back to the wall, so I could see him come in. I was wearing a thin dress, with nothing underneath, because that had been the only previous instruction and I’d followed it with my hands trembling as I dressed. I was going commando, no bra, and with every step toward the café I felt the fabric rub against my nipples and against my cunt lips, reminding me how naked I was under that cloth.

I recognized him the moment he walked through the door. Not by his face, which I had never seen, but by his calm. He moved as if he owned the entire place. Older than I’d imagined, with gray at his temples and eyes that swept the room once before settling on me, without surprise, as if he knew exactly where he’d find me.

He sat across from me. He didn’t shake my hand. He ordered a coffee from the waiter with the smallest gesture and, only when the boy walked away, did he really look at me.

—When are we going to start? —I asked.

I blurted it out, nerves on edge, but without fear. I’d spent a month waiting for that moment and I wasn’t going to pretend to be indifferent.

—Patience is a virtue, sweetheart —he said, taking a sip of the coffee they’d just brought him—. Before we do anything, I want to see whether those limits you described are real or just pretty words meant to impress me.

You’re going to test me here, in public?

The thought ran through me like a current, a tingling that was born in my navel and slid down my belly to settle between my legs, very close to where I was forbidden to touch myself. I knew that feeling. I’d felt it dozens of nights with his voice in my ear. But now he was in front of me, flesh and blood, holding a cup between two fingers, and that changed everything.

—Put your hands on the table —he said quietly—. Both of them. Still.

I put them there. The café kept going about its business as if we weren’t there: a couple arguing near the window, the waiter wiping the counter, someone laughing in the back. And at the corner table, a man who looked like my uncle was giving me orders in a voice only I could hear.

—Spread your knees a little. —He paused, watching me—. More. Like that.

I obeyed beneath the tablecloth, my heart in my throat. The café air brushed my naked cunt under the dress and I let out a tiny gasp, covering it with the cup. No one could see us. And yet I felt exposed, as if everyone in the place knew I was opening my legs for a stranger without any panties on.

—Now you’re going to take your right hand to your knee, under the table, and slowly slide it up the inside of your thigh. —He took another sip, unhurried, like someone making small talk about the weather—. Stop where you know. Not one finger farther.

The table hid us from the waist down, but just moving made my whole skin prickle. I slid my hand up. The dress wrinkled against my thigh and the back of my fingers brushed hot skin, slick with sweat and something else. I reached the exact point where desire became unbearable and stayed there, fingertips an inch from my soaked cunt, feeling the discharge run down my groin and stain the dress. My inner lips were swollen, throbbing, and my clit was so taut I could feel it beating an inch from my own fingers, with no permission to cross that boundary.

—Good —he murmured. He said it like a reward and I swallowed it whole—. Do you feel it?

—Yes —I answered, and my voice came out broken.

—Describe it to me. Softly. Like you’re telling me over the phone.

—I’m soaked —I whispered, looking him in the eye over the rim of the cup—. Dripping. I’m staining my dress. My cunt is swollen, my lips are open, and my clit is throbbing so hard it hurts.

—And what would you like to do right now?

—Put two fingers in as deep as they’ll go. Rub my clit until I come. Here. In front of you.

—In front of the waiter too?

—In front of whoever’s necessary.

He smiled faintly. It was the most obscene gesture I had ever seen in my life.

—You want more?

—Yes.

—No.

He moved his hand away, not mine but his, the one holding the cup, and set it on the table, near my fingers but without touching them. That minimal distance felt more erotic to me than any contact could have. I pulled my hand out from under the tablecloth because he told me to with a gesture, and left it trembling beside the other one, shining with my own arousal. Without taking his eyes off mine, he took my hand with two fingers, brought it to his mouth, and licked the tip of my middle finger, slowly, tasting me like someone sampling a wine. I felt that warm lick in every millimeter of skin and clenched my thighs so hard under the table I almost came right there.

—You taste like a bitch in heat —he said, leaving my hand on the tablecloth—. I like it.

—You’ve spent a month obeying me without having me in front of you —he went on, as if he hadn’t just done what he’d done—. Anyone can behave over the phone, when no one’s looking and you can lie. This is the hard part. Having your hands ten centimeters from your cunt, with permission to touch almost everything, and still stopping because I say so.

I swallowed. My mouth was dry and the rest of me wasn’t.

—And you stopped —he continued—. I like it.

Never had a compliment made me clench my thighs so hard.

***

We stayed like that for almost an hour. He drank coffee, I had a tea that cooled untouched, and between us there was a game no one around us would have known how to name. He made me whisper what I felt —how my nipples were hardening beneath the dress, how my cunt lips were swelling, how many drops of arousal I felt sliding down my thigh—, gave me a tiny order —cross your legs, uncross them, bite the edge of the napkin, pinch your nipple through the fabric, now the other one—, and each small act of obedience tightened the thread we’d been stretching for weeks just a little more.

At no point did he touch me. That was the most perverse part. He could have brushed my hand, my arm, my knee under the table, and he didn’t do it once. He created all the electricity in that afternoon with words and silences, measuring me, checking that the obedient slut who spread her legs for him in the dark was the same one in broad daylight, surrounded by strangers.

—You’re going home now —he said at last, leaving some bills beside the cup—. Alone. You’re not going to touch yourself in the car, in the elevator, or when you get inside.

—And then? —I asked.

He stood up. For a moment he remained standing in front of me, so close I could smell his cologne, and lowered his voice until it was only for me.

—Then, when you’re in your bed, naked and with your legs open, I’m going to call you. And for the first time in a month, I’m going to let you come. —He paused, and left me breathless—. You’ve earned it.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked out of the café with the same calm he had entered with, without looking back, leaving me trembling at the corner table, my dress stuck to my thighs with my own arousal and a pending permission burning between my legs.

I drove home with my hands clamped to the wheel and my breathing ragged, counting traffic lights, counting the floors in the elevator, obeying even now that no one could see me. I went into the apartment, closed the door, and leaned against it for a second. I could feel every pulse in my clit. I took off the dress in the hallway, letting it fall to the floor, and reached the bedroom already naked, nipples hard and thighs glistening. I lay down on the bed on my back, legs spread as he’d ordered, and waited, staring at the ceiling while the cool air stroked my soaked cunt.

The phone rang twenty minutes later. On the screen, that fake name that gave me goosebumps.

—Hello, sweetheart —the voice said—. Are you ready?

I closed my eyes.

—Yes —I answered—. I’ve been ready for a month. I’m naked, legs open. Dripping.

—Open your lips with two fingers. Show me your clit even if I can’t see it. I want to know it’s there, waiting for me.

I lowered my hand and spread the lips of my cunt. My clit was throbbing hard, swollen, so sensitive that the air itself drew a moan from me.

—It’s out —I whispered—. Hard. Huge. I’ve never had it like this.

—Rub it. Slowly at first. With two fingers, in circles. I want to hear you get even wetter.

I started rubbing myself and let out a long, agonized moan, a month of held-back moaning bursting out all at once. My clit sparked under my fingertips, slick with my own arousal, and within seconds my hips were moving on their own against my hand.

—Now put two fingers in your cunt —he ordered—. Fuck yourself the way I’d fuck you. Hard. I want to hear it.

I drove my index and middle finger in to the knuckles. My cunt swallowed my fingers with a wet, obscene sound, and I started pumping myself while rubbing my clit with my thumb. The bed creaked, my fingers sloshed inside me, and I moaned without being able to cover my mouth, with the receiver pressed to my ear so I wouldn’t miss a single word of his.

—That’s it —he said, and his voice sounded deeper, huskier—. A month waiting for me to give you permission to come. A month of obedient little bitch for me. Now I’m giving it to you. Come. Now. Out loud, so I can hear you.

It was as if the order physically touched me. My whole body tightened, my cunt clenched in spasms around my fingers, and I came screaming his fake name into the phone, hips lifting off the bed, soaking my hand and the sheets. It wasn’t one orgasm, it was three in a row, one after another, waves that wouldn’t let me breathe. I kept rubbing because he hadn’t told me to stop, and I came again, and again, until I was left trembling, my fingers still inside my cunt, unable to speak.

On the other end of the phone, he listened in silence. Then, very softly, he said:

—Good girl. Tomorrow we start over from zero.

And he hung up.