No sex please, we’re submissive: orgasms and The Sub’s Paradox

The Submissive’s Paradox is a name I gave to a phenomenon that must be familiar to many subs, particularly those in F/m relationships. It involves dealing with one of the toughest, and nuanced, aspects of being Submissive: denial of orgasm. It the most potent and powerful tool in the Domme’s armoury and the underlying dynamic to most D/s F/m interactions.

I should point out here, I am not talking about long term chastity, which is entirely a different order of magnitude. This is the short-term denial of orgasm for unspecified number of days to exercise control and, in the case of my Domme, to achieve her arousal at my frustration. Because I know she also enjoys the conferring of permission to come, it is unlikely to stretch into weeks. But double-digit days would not be unheard of.

So why the paradox? Well, the denial itself obviously causes me frustration at my inability to come when I want. But the fact she has ordered it means, by abstaining from coming, I am pleasing her. This in turn pleases me, as a submissive. So the act of orgasm denial simultaneously pleases and frustrates me. QED.

I realised quite early on that I needed to master control of this paradox if I was going to get the most out of being a submissive for Her. If you simply gnash, wail and howl at the moon at the cognitive dissonance, then being submissive will be hard work for you. You have to learn to ‘lean in’ to it. To manage it. Even, yes, enjoy it. At least if you want to have a normal life outside your D/s role play.

Figuring out how to do that was quite an emotional journey that made me discover depths that I didn’t realise I had, levels of control I’d assumed were beyond me and improved the quality of the orgasms I did have. I found denial was like a wild horse – it would throw you off a lot, but eventually you learned to ride it. Some days I was so sure I was on top of it, only to find myself reduced to a gibbering wreck at the prospect of unexpected desire. Because for the most part it is like sitting next to a big red button that says DO NOT PRESS. At first you learn to pretend the button isn’t there, then you reach a point where you don’t see the button. Until you reach the stage where you say ‘Look at that button. It’s so much more fun not pressing it until I am allowed to’. Passing through denial and acceptance into enjoyment.

How does that work in practice? Most days I’ll wear a cage, which is a symbolic reminder of Her control. (I self manage the lock, so it’s not a physical deterrent – see my post on cock cages for more.) What the cage does is to provide a very physical reminder of your commitment, and is a physical weight to carry around as much as a psychological one. On occasions when I feel strongly the urge to come I’ll sit quietly and relax, legs apart slightly. I’ll concentrate on the weight of the cage and ring, feel it increasingly heavy, as an immobilising force and how that represents Her authority and control. Pretty soon it feels like I’m bolted to the chair – like a steel beam has pinioned me in my place. I’m helpless. I can’t move. My only choice is to submit. I close my eyes and mentally utter a submission, and feel a physical falling away of the desire and the need, almost trance like. If practised this can also transform into a form of arousal, though without necessarily all the symptoms presenting, though some may. And then you can carry on with your day, slightly floaty. It’s nice.

Which brings us to the second aspect of the Sub’s Paradox – if orgasm denial is nice, doesn’t coming ruin the enjoyment? Self evidently not. Orgasms are ALWAYS nicer in my personal opinion. (As I say, this is NOT about chastity living, which gives a different take on this altogether.) Because if they weren’t, then there would be no need to manage denial. They’d stop being a tool of control for the Domme. Nevertheless there is a kernel of truth in this nut of nonsense.

When permission to come is granted, there is, of course, an overwhelming desire to release hastily, like a hungry man gorging on his dinner. But, equally, it is delicious to savour the moment. I can come, but I’m holding out, I can enjoy arousal with no consequences. Edging then becomes a source of extending that pleasure, not denying yourself in frustration. As you build towards climax that feeling of ‘I want this to end / I don’t want this to end’ becomes even more intense. To want to come and not want to come at the same time. Schrödinger’s Orgasm.

But of course you do. And it begins all over again. Denial and control of the Sub’s Paradox gave me the skills to enjoy the spaces in between the coming. That, in turn, transform the orgasms into more intense experiences. Because the light has no meaning without the darkness. Yin and Yang. Denial reinforces the orgasm, making all life richer in the end.

“All the variety, the charm and the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow”

Tolstoy, Anna Karenina.

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Sinful Sunday 335: Obey

This week’s Sinful Sunday comes from an order from Her. I was visiting a client site all day Thursday, conducting Focus Groups with some very senior stakeholders in a project. The prospect of sitting around the big corporate table, with all that power in the air, made her think of giving and taking orders.

She gave me an order to carry out that day. From her, it doesn’t matter what it is, but any act of obedience is a turn on. This was a little something to wear. Quite little, in fact. I took the opportunity to capture the moment, below, during a break at their offices.

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They say it’s important to bring some of your personality to work. But sometimes it’s good to keep it below the surface.

See who else is breaking the rules this Sunday by clicking on the kisser below:

 

Sinful Sunday

 

Wicked Wednesday 275: Eye Contact

Look me in the eye and let me tell you my true desire.

You fill me with a thousand fierce longings. To know and touch each intimate part of your body’s wet recesses. To feel the soft give of your muscles in smooth handfuls. To taste the inches of orbed pale splendour, drawing slowly at each pink and tender tip with my teeth. These are the desires that fill my mind in the hours in between. But they are not what I really want.

When I look you in the eye, I can see the need to uncage that rabid beast. And I feel your trembling hands that start to stroke, pull, placate and pressure. Positioning me precisely until it is right. I’m prone, lying restless, waiting for your work to begin. Our faces nearly touch as you fix my shoulders, grab my wrists and wrap them roughly with a rasping old rope. But your eyes are fixed on the detail of the ritual. I watch you as I lie, waiting for the point when you can tell me your lusts through the movement of your body and the instruments it wields.

Is it a broken desire, this need we share? The entropy of your energy that brings chaos to this place where we meet. Your need to break me down and my need to surrender. To offer all my parts completely. To be rearranged. To feel your tearing at me and then to give you the cries you need to take more and more. The cane, the paddle, the belt and the hand. Accessories, after the fact.

When my need to look is too strong, you blindfold my eyes, shutting out my right to know. It’s not my privilege to see what you are planning. Only to feel its force and your power when the moment comes. Because you know my real desire can’t be reached through this physical compulsion we both feel. So you avert my gaze to keep it at bay.

And when it is over, the first thing I see is your face. Calmer, brighter. A distant look as you tenderly touch my aching limbs. Cracked lips, sticky skin, a generous smile. A kiss for the wounds.

We sit in silent repose, your fingers idly tracing the evidence on my body. I’m feeling the freedom of release. Unburdened by the raw hunger that weighs down my belly on the days when I need to feel you take me.

Look me in the eye and tell me what you feel when that striking hand meets skin. Not after the moment has passed, and your ire is down. When my welted flesh has melted back from fiery red to blushing pink. And your healing fingers have touched the pain you loved me with.

Don’t use your words, only your eyes. Because I need to see that flame. It hurts me more than your hand that, when you force that desire from my body, I cannot see your face. When the flat of your hand smashes into me, I want to be looking at you. Seeing the longing in you to beat and beat and beat me until I cannot quiver any more, only subside, crying, into your lap. Face down, the liquid shame that fills my eyes, and I cannot see straight.

Can I truly look you in the eye?

 

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Guest: Sinful Sunday 334 – Blue

The lovely Grace O’Malley (@GraceOM1967 on twitter) is in the process of reviving her blog, but wanted to take part in this week’s Sinful Sunday. So I’ve given her a berth on mine – the words and pic are her own:

She lays naked
She touches herself
Hoping it will
Feel like his
Touch
Her fingers are just
Not the same
His were rough
Hers are gentle
His were rough
Her heart is
Sad &
Blue

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday 334 – Red, white and blue

For this week’s ‘blue’ theme, I’ve chosen an image from last Tuesday, when I spent an idle hour pleasing my Domme, while she pushed my submissive buttons. She had the distinct advantage that I was wearing a cock cage. But I did have one thing. I know she has a BIG thing for scratch marks. A little bit of broken skin can provoke a big reaction.

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She who else has been on the mark this Sunday by clicking on the kisser below.

Sinful Sunday

Kink of the week: Going commando

New Balls Please

Going Commando is probably one of the earliest sexual rites-of-passage I can remember, marking a point when ‘forgetting your pants’ morphed into something else. I think I was about 14 when I forgot to take pants to change into after swimming, having worn my trunks there. It was a mind-blowing realisation, on the bus on the way home: the arousing power of air, skin and space on my junk, and that NO ONE ELSE COULD TELL, as long as you were sitting down. Almost as much as the fearful, and sudden, realisation that I would have to get off the bus with six inches of lead pipe down my trousers.

The next week I ‘forgot’ my pants again, and had crossed the line from joyous discovery to masturbatory fantasy. The physical feeling of everything touching it, the constant potential for arousal as it dangled, combined with an almost as powerful thrill that no one could know for sure. For someone who was basically a hormone and cum factory on legs, this was potentially bad juju.

It highlights an important difference between men and women’s experiences of going commando. When the ladies go sans knickers, it really is between you and your jeans; your skirts and the strong winds; or your daring and the man opposite you on the Tube. We may speculate, if we see you wearing a very sheer and tight garment around your derriere, but we don’t really know. It’s hot fun for you, but a secret from the world.

Men, on the other hand, ever since they emerged from the primordial soup, have insisted on evolving genitals on the outside of their bodies. This is great for having a waz, cleaning or putting through holes in the walls of public lavatories. Less good for contact sports, cold weather and hanging unsupported inside clothing in a office-based job, thanks to some very important facts about willies.

A complete list of things which CIS-gender straight men can find sexually arousing

  1. Ladies’ breasts
  2. Ladies’ bums
  3. Ladies’ fannies
  4. Ladies’ legs
  5. Ladies’ feet
  6. Ladies’ hands
  7. Ladies’ hair
  8. The sound of ladies’ voices
  9. Any conceivable other body part on a lady, including internal organs
  10. All other phenomena known to humans within the observable universe

Then we need to consider when men are most likely to be sexually aroused. 

A complete list of occasions when men can be sexually aroused

  1. All
  2. The
  3. Fucking
  4. Time

These two factors, when combined, make going commando for men who have to hold down a job that requires them to leave the house rather complex. Not so much a sexual thrill as an exercise in sado-masochistic awkwardness as you spend the day hiding your groin behind the nearest available office furniture. To which I add another layer of complexity. Literally.

As someone who wears a cock cage, I am already wearing a layer before the pants are applied. So most days I am, effectively ‘double bagged’. Going fully commando is double jeopardy for me.

Going commando for most men is like playing tennis without an umpire: the boundaries are still there, but you’re not quite so sure, now it’s up to you to judge them and make calls on what is in or out. Whereas going commando for a cage wearer is like playing tennis without a net.

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Wicked Wednesday #274 – Celebrity: Swallow

Me: a hired tuxedo, £50 max.

Her: Rani Zakhem evening dress, £1,000 minimum

I’m comfortable with this, dressed in monochrome. I’m so anonymous, I’m flat, I almost fade into the walls. She literally shines, wearing a sliver of silvery sparkles that somehow describes every inch of her in three dimensions. The rustle of the clusters of gems that cling to her body. I walk two paces behind her, because that is what her control requires. But it may as well be twenty because I can’t even get close to her poise. Her dress whips around her legs, swirled by hips that roll low, elastic and wide. Her head set dead level, despite the piles of hair skewed and spiked with bobby pins, clips and fixatives, like an Escoffier creation made human. A gossamer of shimmery glitter clings to her shoulders and chest, making the flesh of her plunging neckline a thousand points of light.

We are making a direct line for our object, cutting a channel through the seas of sequins and satin, and eddies of black ties, leaving everyone in our wake. We’re stepping out of the spotlight. Because she needs some of the darkness. She needs to get out of this hangar-sized ballroom and into something more appropriate. A more earthy space. Right now.

We walk through the door marked STAFF ONLY, and take a flight of stairs down to the basement. She moves quickly despite her heels, and I have to skip quickly to stay ahead, until I find the room I found earlier today, as part of my recce. Because it all has to be right, and we always need a Plan B wherever we are. It’s my job to manage this.

The room is no more than a six-foot square, empty except for bare metal shelving down one wall, a pile of rags and empty plastic containers in a corner and a single 40-watt bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Whatever its purpose was, it clearly has none now as evidenced by the sticky, dirty lino, worn through to the concrete in places. The dingy walls are chipped plasterboard and brick, the air hangs cold and damp, and the only additional source of illumination is through a high barred window that sends a sodium shaft of light onto her, casting her face into shadow. Though I can’t see her expression I feel her mood and I notice her ‘tell’ – a short, involuntary shiver. It is perfect.

Instinctively I look into her eyes for affirmation, to know I’ve done well to find this place. But that time has passed. Already, I can see the look of fierce concentration in her eyes. It is time to go to work.

I remove my jacket and lay it on the floor. Without warning, she kicks it to one side and roughly pulls off my cummerbund, while I untie my bow tie. My appearance is of no relevance now nor, apparently, the deposit on my suit. I stop undressing to await her direction. She looks into my eyes, daring me to look away, and I feel her hands down my trousers, greedy and fumbling. In her frustration, she tears at the waistband, ripping them open with force, before leaving them rent at my knees. Delicately now she parts the twitching curtains of my dress shirt, slowly undoing every button from the top until she finally reaches down to grasp my awakening member.

Despite the coolness of the room, her hands are warm and moist. She grasps me and pulls me downwards, indicating the floor with her eyes. She releases me and I take up my rightful position – kneeling, legs spread wide, looking up. She keeps her eyes on mine, and, by placing a six-inch heeled foot on the raised steel shelf, one thigh slips between the full-length slit up the side of her dress. Thrusting slightly forward, she slips a hand beneath the remaining material and just rests it there.

Although I can’t see, I’ve seen it often enough to know. Three fingers placed, just resting, two nudging open her labia, the middle one resting on her clit. No knickers, because they ruin the lines of the dress. She’s managing her own tease and denial, centre stage. My only task now is to provide the support.

I grip tightly and move in gentle rhythms of five slow strokes, from my balls to just under my cock head, supplementing the dampness of my own hands with precum that now dribbles in a steady stream and which wells into my fist as I pause at the final upstroke. As agreed. Always it’s as she’s scripted it before.

Her perfume and hairspray are masking the damp, noisome atmosphere of the cell. I can’t smell the scent of her arousal, but in the mortuary silence of our scene, the slightest sound seems amplified. The slick slip of fingers as she starts to part her lips and press on her clit. Her breathing that moves with the shimmer of silver on her tits, under her impromptu spotlight. The metallic rustle of her dress as she leans back into the shelving, testing its give and support. But the rest of the silence is suffocating. It sits on my shoulders, and I draw breath heavily, waiting for her.

She stops and looks down at my slightly raw and hardening penis, before expelling a large gob of saliva onto its already shiny head. She resumes her play, and I can see it in my mind: drawing her fingers up and down her inner lips, alternating between barely touching and flat-fingered pressing, her thumb now rubbing across the clit like a guitarist. As her fingers reach inside, she braces herself against the shelves, and her sharp intake of breath squeaks like a rusty door.

She’s watching me through slitted eyes, hand buried deeper, shoulder dropped to reach underneath herself, as though grappling inside a narrow-necked jar. “Not… Yet.” she wheezes, reaching up with her spare hand to slip inside the halterneck and cup her swelling breasts. She bites a lip, hard – as hard as she is pinching the nipple between first and second finger, like a clamp, scratching at the aureole with a frantic third finger.

“FUCKING CHRIST” she shouts, at no one in particular, and I know I have to keep up. The cramp in my legs is starting to burn, and a thin film of sweat is pricking under my shirt. I focus on her – thinking of what she needs from me, hoping I can do it. The thought of my role in her desire makes my nipples hard; I start to stroke my cock faster and grab my right nipple, hard, mirroring my mistress. I pinch it through my shirt and the pain helps ground me, keeps my mind on her need. That makes me harder and I feel an extra surge in my cock, rubbed red with my efforts.

I no longer need to imagine because a crash brings me back to her, as the shelves and wall absorb the impact as she slides down, her face a picture of desperation. Sweat has streaked her make up and wilted her hair. Thousands of pounds of couture is torn, speared with dagger heels. With all clothing and modesty pushed aside, literally, she sits, hips forward, legs spread with feet flat on the floor, now reaching two fingers up inside, pressing her g-spot as she levers off the thumb pressing on her clit. It can’t be long.

“DO IT, SLUT” she barks, and this is my cue. The words have their intended effect and an ache rising in my back is propelled through me, my hand, my cock, spreading across my body. I cry out as the first drops of cum hesitate to flow, before white arcs of my foiled desire fall out in jagged jets. I screw up my face, and focus on keeping my hands by my side, riding the agonising pain of the ruined orgasm as it tears through my cock like a shard of glass.

I look down at the puddle and streaks of cum on the dirty floor, a reversed out Jackson Pollock of the expression of my soul at the moment of climax for her. And yet still I must finish this. But not until I hear her say the words.

And when they come, they are barely a whisper above the furious beating of my own heart and liquefied mashing of her fingers in her cunt:

“Eat it.”

I prostrate myself as if in prayer, close my eyes, and lick. I chase my cum with inexpert lips until I’ve retrieved an oyster-load that sits in the well of my tongue.

Kneeling, I show her the bounty in my mouth, and then I know I have done well. It has primed the pump of her own orgasm, released by a hoarse grunt. She flops forward, convulsing with an electric charge, finally subject to a force even beyond her ability to control.

Unseen, I swallow, gag, cough, swallow. And it is down. I kneel, head bowed, awaiting her verdict.

“Did you take it, slut?”

Her voice sounds burnt. I open my mouth to prove my obedience.

“Good.”

That single word my only reward.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked