My Master Denied Me an Orgasm for Weeks

I’m writing again after several weeks because I needed this to mature inside me before telling it. I didn’t want to theorize or repeat slogans about BDSM. I wanted to tell a specific story, one of those experiences that changes your mind and your body at the same time.

What I’m going to recount happened with my dominant partner, whom I’ll call Mauro here. We’re both adults, we’ve been together for years, and we have a D/s relationship built on desire, trust, and clear rules. So when I talk about chastity, I’m not talking about jealousy or unhealthy control, but something else: placing my arousal in his hands and accepting that my pleasure is no longer mine.

Until some time ago, I thought I understood what submission meant. Obeying, waiting, kneeling when he asked me to, letting him tie my wrists or use me however he wanted in bed. All of that turned me on. A lot. But one night I realized I was still keeping something for myself: the last little corner of control over my body.

Because even when he was in charge, I still knew that, if I wanted to, I could touch myself in private. I could seek a quick orgasm in the shower, in bed, with my fingers between my legs, squeezing my thighs together until I came silently. That small autonomy seemed insignificant to me. Not to Mauro.

It was very early on a Monday. I was finishing getting dressed to go out and was standing in front of the mirror, gathering my hair, when he looked at me from the bedroom doorway and said in that calm voice that undoes me more than a shout:

—Don’t tie it up today. I want you to wear it loose.

I obeyed instantly. I let go of the elastic, ran my fingers through my hair, and kept looking at myself in the mirror. It didn’t seem like an important order. But with him, it’s never only half of one. There’s always something behind it.

He came up behind me, moved my hair away from my neck, and kissed me just below the ear. I felt the heat of his breath and that absurd current that runs down to my cunt at the slightest gesture from him. He placed one hand on my waist and slipped the other between my legs, over my clothes.

—You’re sensitive, he murmured.

—With you, always, I replied, my voice already unsteady.

He barely smiled. He slipped his hand under my skirt, moved the fabric of my underwear aside, and slid two fingers between my lips. I was wet. Very wet. He noticed immediately because he spread his fingers and rubbed them slowly, as if checking a texture that belonged to him.

—Starting today, you don’t come without permission, he said.

I went still.

—Not alone, not with me, not in any way. I want to see what happens to you when an orgasm stops being a reflex and becomes a reward.

He said it naturally. As if he were asking me to close the window or buy bread on my way back. To me, though, it struck me in the center of my body. I felt a clean, brutal mixture of fear, excitement, and relief. Fear of not being able to. Excitement at trying. Relief at feeling that he was truly taking something away from me.

—Yes, Master, I said.

He loves it when I use that word in private. So do I. He ordered me to hitch my skirt up a little and spread my legs farther apart. I did. His fingers continued playing with my wetness, barely brushing my clitoris, just enough to arouse me further without letting me go any farther.

—I want you to go out like this, he said. Wet, thinking about this, remembering all day who decides whether you come or not.

He withdrew his hand and brought it to my mouth.

—Clean them.

I sucked his fingers one by one without looking away. I tasted like myself. Like my own cunt, already hot, already ready, already frustrated. I swallowed, and he stroked my cheek with a tenderness that always confuses me more than his harsh orders.

That was the beginning.

***

The first week was almost unbearable. Not because of a lack of sex, but because of the quality of the tension. Mauro didn’t leave me in chastity to distance himself from me. He did exactly the opposite. He erotically charged my entire day.

He sent me short messages while I was working. “Don’t cross your legs.” “Go to the bathroom and look at yourself, but don’t touch.” “I want you to remember how you were this morning.” I would read them and feel a thick pulse between my thighs that left me wet in the middle of absurd tasks, meetings, calls, and conversations in which no one suspected a thing.

At night it was worse. Or better. It depended on the moment. He would make me lie beside him with barely any space between us, without allowing me to seek him out with my body. Or he would order me to kneel at the foot of the bed while he read or worked, and I had to remain there in silence, with my hands on my thighs and my head empty of everything but his presence.

On the third night, he decided to really begin.

—Take off your clothes and bring the cuffs, he told me.

I obeyed without speaking. I was already trembling when I returned to the bedroom with the metal in my hand. Mauro was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, watching me with that cold patience that drives me crazy. He made me turn slowly, check my posture, and spread my legs a little farther.

—On all fours.

I lowered myself onto the rug and felt the air against my naked skin. He cuffed my wrists behind my back, not too tightly, just enough to make sure I knew I wouldn’t be using my hands. Then he knelt behind me and spread my buttocks with both hands.

—Look at yourself, he ordered, pointing toward the wardrobe mirror.

I raised my head. I saw myself exposed, motionless, my cunt already opened by my position, glistening with wetness before he had even touched me. He ran one slow finger over my entrance without putting it inside, then moved up to my clitoris with a calmness that made me gasp.

—Tell me what you want.

—To come.

—I didn’t ask you that. Tell me what you want from me.

I swallowed. He was using my voice just as he used his hands.

—I want you to use me, Master.

—That’s better.

He thrust two fingers into me at once. Deep. Hard. He pulled them out and drove them in again, all the way, while I spread my legs farther on pure reflex. I felt wetness running, my body responding to him without dignity. He finger-fucked me at a firm, messy rhythm, without hurry but without mercy, and every time the heel of his hand brushed my clitoris I gave a small, useless jump, restrained by the cuffs.

—That’s how I like you, he said. Open and needy.

He leaned over my back and bit my shoulder. At the same time, he added a third finger. I moaned loudly. Too loudly. He answered with a sharp smack to my ass that made me arch farther.

—You’re not going to come. Remember that.

I was already on the edge. I felt it in that familiar pressure that rises from my belly and tightens my legs before an orgasm. He felt it too, of course. He knows me too well. He slowed his rhythm at that exact moment and replaced his fingers with his mouth.

I hadn’t expected it. He pushed my legs apart with his knees and began eating my cunt from behind, long, deep, obscene. His tongue opened me from bottom to top, returned to my clitoris, sucked me hungrily, and then penetrated me again with two fingers while he kept licking me. The sound was wet, shameless. I was going crazy.

—Master, please...

—Please what?

—Let me come.

He stopped abruptly. I felt his saliva cooling on my skin, the brutal absence of stimulation, frustration like a sharp pang. I wanted to move, to seek anything, any friction. The cuffs returned me to my place.

—No. Not today.

He stood me up, uncuffed me, and kissed me with my own taste still in his mouth. His cock was hard against his trousers, and even so, he didn’t give it to me. That was almost more violent than any physical punishment.

—You’re going to sleep like this, he said. Aroused.

And I truly did sleep aroused. My cunt throbbed, my body complained, and every shift in position reminded me that he had taken me right up and left me before the edge. I cried a little in silence. Not from sadness. From helplessness, desire, and surrender.

***

Over the following days, he intensified the game. He made me masturbate in front of him and stop at the exact moment when my hips had already begun to lose control. I had never fully understood the power of edging until I experienced it like this, with his voice regulating my breathing and my fingers turned into his tools.

One night he sat me in a chair in the living room with my legs spread and told me not to close them. He stayed on the sofa, watching. I was naked from the waist down; he was fully dressed.

—Put two fingers inside yourself, he ordered.

I did.

—Deeper.

I obeyed again.

—Now rub your clitoris, but slowly. I want to watch you suffer a little.

I moaned before I even fully touched myself. Just hearing him say that made me wetter. I began masturbating with slow circles, keeping my fingers inside, feeling myself open around them and squeeze them. Mauro didn’t move. He watched me as if I were a scene written for him.

—Don’t look away.

I looked at him while I touched myself. There’s a very particular kind of shame in displaying pleasure like that, in not hiding the clumsy movements of a body that has stopped thinking. He loves that shame. I get turned on by giving it to him.

—Faster.

I increased the pace. The wet sound of my fingers filled the room. I was breathing in short gasps, my mouth open. My legs were trembling.

—Now stop.

I pulled my hand away abruptly and let out a protesting moan.

—I didn’t say to take your fingers out. Leave them there.

I left them there. Remaining penetrated and motionless drove me crazy. I felt every pulse at my entrance, every aborted contraction, every urge to move my hand toward my clitoris. I wanted to disobey him. I wanted to do it and didn’t want to do it. That struggle inside me was part of the thrill.

At last he stood, knelt between my legs, and spat on my cunt. The saliva landed exactly where I needed it most. He spread it slowly over my clitoris with his thumb, and I moaned again, almost angrily.

—You’re beautiful like this, he told me. Dripping onto my hand and unable to do anything on your own.

He pulled his fingers out of me and brought them to his mouth, sucking them without taking his eyes off me. Then he lowered me to the floor, made me kneel, and opened his fly. His cock emerged hard, thick, taut from base to tip. I kissed his stomach before looking at it.

—Suck it.

I took it in both hands and slowly licked the tip. It had that clean, hot taste that arouses me immediately. I moved lower, taking him into my mouth little by little, relaxing my throat, letting him fill my mouth. He held my hair with one hand, not to force me, but to set the pace. He slid in and out slowly, wet and heavy on my tongue.

—That’s it. No hurry. Make it up to me for all the time you’ve spent wanting to come.

I took him deeper. I felt him push me until he touched the back of my throat and pause there for a second before letting me breathe. He was using my mouth while my cunt continued throbbing, empty and needy. The combination aroused me even more.

He pulled away when he was about to come.

—No. You haven’t earned it today either.

I jerked him off until he finished over my breasts and neck, hot and thick. Instinctively I tried to touch myself with my free hand, at least to get a little friction, but he caught it in midair.

—Don’t even think about it.

I ended the night cleaning him with my tongue and climbing into bed with trembling legs. Not one orgasm. Not one promise of when it would come.

***

By the end of the second week, I no longer thought the same way. I’m not exaggerating. Your mind changes when your body spends days obeying. I stopped feeling orgasm as an automatic right and began to experience it as a remote possibility, a grace, a concession. That dependence aroused me in an almost obscene way.

It also made me more docile. More attentive. More open to the smallest details. An order about what to wear, how to sit, how to speak to him, went through me completely because beneath it was always the same current: my pleasure does not belong to me.

The night he decided to collect everything, I was already at a ridiculous level of sensitivity. I could get wet just from hearing his footsteps behind me. I could feel a stab in my clitoris if I crossed my legs too tightly. And he knew it.

He had me prepare the bedroom the way he likes it when we play seriously: clean sheets, a towel at the foot of the bed, a bottle of water, cuffs, a blindfold, and lubricant. When I finished, he ordered me to undress and kneel.

He came in a few minutes later. He was wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up and that calm expression that always announces delicious trouble. He slowly circled me, watching as if assessing the result of a long wait.

—How long has it been since you came? he asked.

—Seventeen days, Master.

—And have you been obedient?

—Yes.

He took me by the chin.

—No tricks? No rubbing against the pillow, no fingers in the shower, no stolen orgasm in secret?

—No, Master.

—Good. Then today you’re going to give me a good reason to reward you.

He blindfolded me first. The darkness relaxed my body immediately. Then he lay me on my back and cuffed my wrists to the headboard. I heard him moving around the room, opening the lubricant, setting something metallic on the nightstand. The uncertainty heightened everything.

I felt his hands on my thighs, spreading them. Then his mouth. He began slowly, almost cruelly precise. He kissed the insides of my thighs, my pubic mound, my soaked lips. He licked me at length from bottom to top, stopping at my clitoris for only a second each time, just enough to make me tremble before pulling away again.

—Please... I whispered.

—I’ve barely begun.

He pushed his tongue inside me, deep, and at the same time inserted two fingers. He curled them immediately, searching for the spot that makes me lose my breath. He found it and worked it patiently, pressing again and again while sucking my clitoris with an intensity that completely undid me. I pulled at the cuffs, arched my back, and spread my legs farther without thinking.

—Look at yourself, he said, and I remembered too late that I couldn’t. Ah, no. You can’t today. Today you can only feel.

I felt the orgasm running through my whole body, and he withdrew again just before the edge. I screamed in frustration.

—That’s what happens when you get ahead of yourself.

—I can’t take any more.

—Yes, you can. You’ve been proving it for seventeen days.

I felt his hand slide between my buttocks, lubricating one finger and slowly pushing it into my ass. The moan that escaped me was deeper. He always makes me like that, more vulnerable, more open. While he penetrated me from behind with one slow, firm finger, he fucked my cunt with the other two and kept licking my clitoris at carefully calculated intervals. It was too much. Too good, too precise, too close.

—Master, Master, Master...

—Speak properly.

—Let me come, please. I’m begging you.

He stopped. I heard him sit up. He removed the blindfold. It took me a second to focus on his face above me.

—Not yet. I want to fuck you like this.

He undressed in front of me without hurry. Seeing his hard cock after so many days of denial made me moan like an idiot. He positioned himself between my legs, grabbed my knees, and pushed them against my chest. Then he penetrated me with one thrust.

I screamed.

He entered all the way, opening me abruptly, using all the wetness he himself had drawn from me. He stayed there for a second, buried completely, watching me writhe beneath him.

—This is how I wanted to find you, he said. Ready for my cock for weeks.

He began fucking me hard. Not out of control, not fast from simple impatience, but with that brutal rhythm that knows exactly where to strike. Every thrust opened me farther, pounded inside me, and lifted me up again. I pulled at the cuffs, looking at him without being able to hide anything, my mouth open and my breasts bouncing to the rhythm of his hips.

—Fuck... yes... like that... I moaned.

—Say it clearly.

—Fuck me, Master. Fuck me harder.

He gave me exactly that. Harder. Deeper. Dirtier. He pulled his cock almost all the way out and drove it back in to the hilt again and again, filling the room with the wet sound of our bodies colliding. He freed one of my hands from the headboard just to seize me by the neck, not squeezing, just enough to hold my head against the mattress while he penetrated me with controlled violence that stripped away the last of my composure.

I wasn’t moaning anymore; I was panting, spilling broken words, obscenities, pleas. He brought me to the edge and stayed there for several seconds, feeling my cunt close around him, before easing off just enough not to let me fall. It was a delicious torture.

—Who decides? he asked, without stopping his fucking.

—You.

—I can’t hear you.

—You decide when I come.

—That’s right.

He released my neck and lowered his hand between our bodies. When his fingers found my clitoris while he continued driving into me, the world narrowed to a single point. He began rubbing me in hard, steady circles without slowing the rhythm of his thrusts. I convulsed all over.

—No... no... please...

—No what? A moment ago, you were asking for it.

—It’s too much.

—That’s the fucking point.

He fucked me like that, his cock plunging in and out while his hand shattered my clitoris with pleasure. I felt the orgasm growing larger than before, thicker, more inevitable after everything that had accumulated. I wanted to pull away. I couldn’t. I wanted to close my legs. He held them open.

—Look at me and come.

That was enough. I came with a harsh, brutal cry, utterly inelegant. The orgasm folded me inward and began in my cunt, but spread through my guts, thighs, and back. I shook all over, squeezing him with savage contractions that tore more moans from me. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking me through the orgasm, taking advantage of every spasm, every shudder, every moment when I could do nothing but receive.

—That’s it, he said, already panting. That’s how I wanted you. Like that. Come for me. All of you. All of you.

I was still coming down when he turned me over with assured strength, put me on all fours on the bed, and penetrated me from behind again. He entered without resistance; I was still trembling, wet, sensitive to the point of pain. He grabbed my loose hair and pulled just enough to arch me farther, then began delivering deep thrusts that made me collide with the mattress.

—I’m not finished with you.

Instead of tiring, my body flared up again. After so much denial, one orgasm didn’t put anything out. It opened up more hunger. Mauro knows that and uses it. He slipped one hand beneath my belly and touched my clitoris again from behind while fucking me. This time not in circles, but with quick, dirty strokes, alternating pressure and friction until I was almost crying.

—Another, he ordered. I want another.

—I don’t know if I can.

He smacked my ass hard.

—I didn’t ask for your opinion.

That shot through my head like electricity. I screamed again when he increased the pace. The bed struck the wall, his breathing was already hoarse, and my cunt was sucking him almost by reflex. Everything was too alive. Too full. I felt the second orgasm arrive faster, more disordered. I told him between broken gasps.

—Master... it’s coming... fuck... it’s coming...

—Then let it go.

I came for the second time with my face buried in the sheet, crying a little, moaning his name and his title at once, unable to tell one from the other. He lasted a few more thrusts and came inside me with a deep growl, gripping my waist, buried completely to the hilt.

We stayed like that for several seconds. His cock still throbbing inside me, my body contracting weakly, sweat cooling on my back. When he pulled out, I felt his semen run down my thighs. That detail aroused me even in the middle of my collapse.

***

Afterward he uncuffed me calmly. He cleaned me, gave me water, and made me rest my head on his thighs while he stroked my hair. This is where many people who don’t understand these dynamics get it wrong: they think domination ends with orgasm, when sometimes it becomes more visible afterward, in the care, in the look, in the way one holds what has been opened.

—Was it worth it? he asked.

My voice was still broken.

—Yes.

—Will you last longer next time?

I truly thought about it before answering. Because that’s another part of the experience: once you’ve tasted that level of amplification, you understand why chastity, orgasm control, and submission aren’t merely a mechanical game for many people like me. They’re a way of intensifying everything.

—Yes, Master, I told him at last. I’ll last longer.

And it was true.

Since then, I no longer think of chastity as simple abstinence, or as a device, or as some oddity meant to attract attention. To me, it’s something else. It’s a practice of surrender that makes an everyday gesture, a look, or a minimal order sexual. It’s proof that my desire can grow precisely when it isn’t satisfied immediately. And it’s also a brutally honest way of discovering what a dominant does with something as delicate as the arousal of the person offering herself to him.

Mauro doesn’t bury it or neglect it. He works it. Tensions it. Stretches it until it becomes unbearable. And when he finally decides to give me an orgasm, he doesn’t give me only a release. He gives back, multiplied, everything I placed in his hands.

That’s why I wanted to tell it this way, in detail. Because sometimes a confession is worth more than a thousand definitions. And because even now, as I write this, I remember the exact moment he told me to come while looking at him, and I feel a hot pulse between my legs all over again.