I’ve always wanted to make a little fucktoy cry from frustration, from arousal, from desperation. Probably mixed with a healthy dose of humiliation, knowing me.
I’d keep you denied, for weeks, as long as it took, all the while teasing you, and using your body for my own pleasure. Teasing would mostly involve making you do humpies on things – my leg, your pillow, random furniture, etc. – but ensuring you didn’t get excited enough to get close to the edge, since any accidents could ruin your progress.
Once I felt you were sufficiently desperate, I’d begin letting you get close to the edge, as a reminder of what you’re being denied. I surely wouldn’t keep you denied forever, so at some point you’ll be allowed to have cummies, again. I would just be sure to toy with that idea as much as possible in order to keep you hopeful and achy and wanting.
Eventually, the mere idea of orgasm would be so compelling and laden with desire for nearly-forgotten pleasures that any mention of allowing you that luxury would cause an even greater swelling of anticipatory need. At that point I would begin to build up the event in your mind, telling you how amazing it will feel after being denied for so long, how intense your release will be, how overwhelmed you’ll be from pleasure. I’ll create an idealized, irrational, unrealistic expectation of orgasmic enjoyment for you to fetishize as you suffer continued frustration and denial.
Then, finally, I would arrange a circumstance, filled with humiliation, naturally, where you know you’ll be allowed to earn your cummies. you would struggle, desperate for your orgasm, to debase and degrade yourself sufficiently to please me. Eventually, you would earn it, and I’d build up the moment even further, telling you how you’ll be cumming on my cock, while bound and debased, and how good you’re about to feel. I’d build you up, working your body slowly to heights of arousal you can’t fathom. And just as you begin to tip over that edge into long-awaited release, I’d ruin it. I’d ruin you.
I’d pull out, pin you in place so you can’t even squeeze your thighs together, holding you there while you thrash and beg and plead. Once the tortuous ruin has passed, I’ll take my pleasure from your throat, despite, or because of, your continued begging.
Whether you’re in tears or not at this point isn’t really material. What is of import, is whether I’m satisfied with your suffering, or if we’ll have to just start over and push you further next time. Because there will always be a next time.
prguitarman
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
