a denial diary

I had exhilarating and elevating "peak experiences" of pleasure without release, pleasure that found expression as (a subjective sense of) insight. I switched cities and careers, and felt like I understood the purpose of my life for the first time. I stopped being so afraid. I'm aware that various religions (e.g., Daoism) advocated the conservation of sexual energy, but I don't know much about it. I should do some reading, though, because after such a long period of denial the experience did feel spiritual to me.

It's working.

I thought it would happen all at once, if it happened at all – an orgasm like the ones I'm used to. But learning to come without my clit is different. I've felt it twice now: once while she massaged my g-spot with a curved metal toy, and once (incredibly) from nipple play alone. The feeling of flying over an edge, need and frustration cresting into something else. But there were no hard spasms, no shocking waves of pleasure – just a deep throbbing sensation that somehow felt like completion.

Is this what orgasm means for me now, with my clit untouched? Or maybe just the shadow of it, the first faint perception as my body starts to adapt? There was no true relief, no sated feeling – I never stopped wanting more.

But really, why should we stop on January 1? If I haven't learned by then to come the way a girl is supposed to, from penetration alone, then obviously I don't want it badly enough. Shouldn't I stay denied until I do? A clitoral orgasm would feel so, so good—but won't it just interfere with my training?

I'm such a good girl these days. I love getting fucked and I work hard to earn it. Shouldn't I focus less on how difficult the denial is, and more on how thoroughly and agreeably it's transforming my mind and body?

To celebrate the nice round number, she stripped me and spread me open on the bed, tying my wrists and ankles at the four corners to keep me down. She slid her own dress and panties off, making a show of it, and curled up beside me – throwing her arm across my chest, slipping her leg between mine. She kissed me very sweetly, like we were still lovers.

I got wet for the press of her body, the brush of her lips. I got wet for her, helplessly, like the slut I am.

She bit at my nipples, worrying the little buds until they ached, and every throb was echoed in my needy clit. I said please, and it meant please stop, and it meant please let me come, and I knew there was no hope of either. When she was satisfied with the way I moaned, the way my hips bucked against the empty air, she knelt up over me so I could lick her. Her cunt was dripping. I loved that: the evidence of how much she liked denying me. I loved the pure submission I felt, putting my tongue against her clit. I loved the fact of serving her, and getting nothing for myself.

Hard to believe I've already made it ten days longer than I did in February. I feel close to the breaking point: my denied cunt dominates my thoughts. Last night she drugged me and teased me for hours, until it felt like more pleasure than my body could contain. I cried; I begged her to fuck me.

She didn't, of course. I hadn't earned it.

The knowledge that I wasn't going to come, no matter how long she teased me, was an absolute mindfuck. It was like my body couldn't understand that there would be no release after all the buildup, and kept hurtling toward the edge, clenching and spasming with need. I wanted the orgasm so bad I thought about using my safeword. One word from me, and she'd be her sweet self again, would let me come as many times as I wanted, would relish my pleasure.

But I won't learn to be a better slut, if I don't submit to training. Until I come the way she wants me to, coming any other way will only impede my progress. Suddenly, I felt my perception shift: this wasn't torture – she was helping me. The needier I was, the more desperate, the more pressure there would be on my body to adapt. Every iota of frustration meant a better chance that I would learn to come without my useless clit, from the simple fact of being a hole.

When I've had seven good days together, she holds me down and fucks me. My reservations are gone; I fucking love it. I warm up fast under a few teasing touches, and when she fucks her big dick into me I feel more submissive than I have in years. I'm flooded with pleasure at the thought that she is simply using me, without regard to my comfort or consent.

But I don't come. Without any stimulation to my clit, I don't really get close.

My body will learn, or it won't. I'll come, untouched, on her cock, or I won't. It's out of my control. Every day, checklist in hand, I work to be good, to earn a fucking. After seven good days together, she gives me what I've earned. Each time the pleasure I feel is more intense, more indefensible.

We spent the second quarter of the year refining a scheme that allowed me to earn orgasms for good behavior. The game initially involved a point system, with desirable activities assigned a point value and an orgasm awarded for every hundred points accrued, but this proved too complicated to administer. In the end, we settled on a small daily checklist: every day that I completed all the items was a good day, and seven good days in a row would win me an orgasm.

The in a row part was crucial, because it held the potential for such delicious frustration: twice in those months I made it through six good days only to screw up on the seventh, resetting the count and cruelly extending my denial. She loved to edge me on the days I failed, when I knew it would be at least another week before I had any hope of coming.

This was a nice game for its salutary effect on my general health and happiness: all the daily checklist items promoted my wellbeing, and I was extremely motivated to complete them. But I found myself missing the longer-term denial we'd practiced earlier in the year. I was constantly horny, but with an orgasm every seven days or so, my body wasn't reaching the exquisite levels of desperation I'd experienced after a month and more denied. I wanted to feel that pure need again, that hopeless submission. I wanted to fall asleep with my cunt dripping and wake up craving her touch…and knowing I wouldn't get it, not where I wanted it most.

I'd gone so long without touching my clit since the stolen orgasm in February that the week of edging drove me to a kind of madness. Nothing she suggested gave me pause, or embarrassed me; every taunt, every exposure felt hot and perfect. I was desperate to serve her, and she indulged me, letting me rub her feet, and wash her hair, and lick her to climax after climax while my own body screamed for release. I realized soon enough that the "edging" I'd done myself, caressing my sensitive breasts and nipples, hardly deserved the name: as torturously good as it felt, as desperate as it left me, it never really brought me close to orgasm. Not so with her clever fingers on my starving clit, taking me again and again to a wild, liminal place where one more stroke would have sent me crashing over the edge.

When it was time to keep her promise and let me come, she asked me to hold back my pleasure for ten minutes first while she used a vibe on my clit. There was no punishment for failure – she wouldn't ruin the orgasm or otherwise torment me if I came too soon – but she wanted me to try, because it pleased her to watch me fight the thing I craved. She said she liked knowing that I wanted to be good for her more than I wanted to come. She used the stopwatch on her phone, lifting the vibe away every time I got too close and begged her to stop, starting the count again only when I let her go on. I had to wait for minutes at a time, just breathing, the arousal taking forever to fade from its fever pitch so I could bear the vibe again. It took over an hour, by the end of which I was a sobbing mess, but I did it.

As part of my punishment for coming without permission in February, both options had their drawbacks. If I chose to come then, she'd keep the vibe on me afterward for a full minute of post-orgasm torture. If I chose to wait, she'd spend the next week edging me into oblivion.

I was already close to sobbing from the volley of smacks to my poor clit. She used a leather riding crop, and the first few taps were such a shock of sensation after the weeks and weeks of no touch that I thought I really might come. I was soaking wet before we started, and the thought of being whipped to orgasm made me drip even more. But the next slaps were harder, and the pain pulled me back from the edge.

The throbbing ache afterward was like nothing I've ever felt, pain and frustrated pleasure driving me to sensory overload. I wanted to come so badly. But I knew the vibe would feel like fire on my punished clit. The orgasm would be too fast and brutal to enjoy, and the unrelenting stimulation afterward would be pure torture.  

Last night, she ordered me to lube up the fat dildo she'd left for me and make myself come if I could. I had the option all last month, of course, but I never tried it – I've just never found the reality of penetration as hot as the idea, and I knew the big toy would hurt.

It didn't hurt. I teased myself for an hour first, with her permission, caressing my sensitive breasts until my cunt was as wet as it's ever been. I browsed through orgasm denial blogs, and fell down a perversely sexy rabbit hole of internet research on whether it was even technically possible for a woman to come from penetration alone, without clitoral stimulation. (So far as I can tell, the internet collectively has no fucking clue.) When I couldn't stand it anymore, I eased the toy into my cunt so slowly it took minutes just to get the head inside. I've never been in control of penetration like that before, and I kept being alternately shocked that it didn't hurt and stunned by how good it actually felt. I worked up from shallow thrusts to long firm strokes, and the pleasure seemed to build and build.

But I never really got close to coming, and eventually I admitted it wasn't going to happen. The fucking left me even hornier than before, aching in a new way, but I made myself rinse off in the shower and go to bed like a good girl, ignoring my needy clit.

We talked about it afterward: what had worked, what hadn't. I told her it was the nightly edging I couldn't stand. I'd been okay on no touch, wildly horny but still in control, but the teasing had been intolerable. She said that what I could and couldn't tolerate was her decision, not mine, and that now she knew how beautifully I responded to edging it would absolutely be something required of me in future; however, as this was our first experiment with orgasm denial, she would permit me to go back on no touch for the remainder of the quarter.

She also said that while (obviously) she'd never be anything but proud of me for safewording or asking to renegotiate a game, in this case I hadn't done either, I'd just disobeyed. I apologized and agreed that punishment was appropriate. And so, when she gets home in six days, I'll be presenting my denied clit not for her sweet fingers or clever tongue, but for a sound spanking.

I think I might come from that alone. At this point, I think I'd come from any sexual touch. I've read that some women on no touch experience a decreased sex drive; I literally cannot overstate the extent to which this isn't true for me. The last few months have been a glorious, excruciating mindfuck. The need, the frustration, the sense of erotic possibility, the constant reminder my own capacity for pleasure – denial has given me a new and materially different concept of myself as a sexual being. It thrills and overwhelms me; I love it and can hardly bear it.

I'm not even halfway there. I really don't know if I'm going to make it.

I got high last night, which meant I had to do my bedtime edging high. Pot always increases my sensitivity, and each teasing touch to my breasts made my clit ache worse than ever. One firm circling press of my fingers, even through my pajamas, would have sent me over. For a long crazy minute towards the end I thought I really would come, just from playing with my breasts: my clit seemed slowly, slowly to pulse, to pause and pulse again. A smack to that poor little nub would have sent me over then.

I woke up peacefully happy and urgently horny, the way I often do the next morning, and rolled onto my back, my hands drifting up to my breasts. Within seconds of the first touch, I felt slickness leak from my cunt. I imagined my girlfriend had loaned me to a friend of hers, no rules except he had to bring me home by noon the next day. He'd used me hard last night, made me choose between taking him in my cunt without touching my clit or taking him in my ass and using my vibe while he fucked me. Tearful but desperate to come, I'd chosen option B, and shuddered through orgasm after orgasm with his cock splitting me open. In the morning, he'd told me afterward, his voice rough with satisfaction and encroaching sleep, he was going to try out that nice tight cunt. I'd better start edging as soon as I woke up, make myself hot and wet for him, so he could slide right in. And here I was doing as I'd been told.

Last night, after a month of no touch, I had to edge for the first time.

The first touch, nails teasing lightly over my nipples through the thin cotton of my t-shirt, sent pleasure racing through me like an electric current straight to my clit. I made a sound, not meaning to; my whole body tensed. The next soft flick was worse because I knew what was coming. My cunt spasmed, clenching hard. A minute of this felt impossible, ten minutes unimaginable. I slid the pads of my fingers back and forth across my obscenely sensitive nipples, five times in quick succession, and my hips arched off the bed in desperation as the pleasure of it went screaming through my nerves. I needed to touch my clit: the absence of stimulation, my cunt throbbing and bucking against nothing, was more than I could stand.

But I was good. I kept my hands off my clit and on my breasts as I'd been told, and I kept teasing them, sparking wave after wave of sensation. I lay there in the dark, in my lovely warm bed, and for ten minutes I tortured myself with pure need. I imagined myself bound in a machine, a merciless contraption programmed to deliver small persistent touches to the peaked buds of my nipples until I lost my mind, until I said anything, I will do anything. Not that it would know, or care, or stop when I begged.

The clever torture of my slut training, I think, is that it turns a powerful aspect of my personality against itself.

Put simply, I've always had an excessive capacity for self-control. The thou shalt not of the super-ego is often the loudest voice in my head. In some ways, this trait has served me well, but in others it has been a hindrance, and my sex life is firmly in column B. 

By keeping me denied, my girlfriend is exploiting this overactive talent for restraint to ameliorate its own ill effects. The self-control that has kept my fingers off my needy clit for almost a month – that will keep me edging and dripping and wanting and frustrated until April, despite how the thought makes something in my brain flip sideways with appalled arousal – is the force that will make a shameless slut of me yet.

I need to come so badly.

My whole body feels sensitized, primed for pleasure. I have to fall asleep with my legs spread, because curling up on my side with my knees together (as I normally would) sets off the ache in my clit, and once it starts throbbing it's all I can think of. I'm not allowed any sexual stimulation at all this month, but even the quick clinical touch as I run a bar of soap over my breasts in the shower makes my skin feel electric. Only one more week before I'll have to start edging, teasing my sensitive nipples before bed until my cunt is dripping, and I'm simultaneously dreading and longing for it. Dreading, because the frustration already feels unbearable and it's going to be so much worse. Longing, because the thought of bearing that pleasure without the possibility of release is so gorgeously, unspeakably submissive that it thrills me right to the core.