I begin by setting her coffee down and studiously slowly sipping my own cup. I take my time. Not once does she look me in the eye. A submissive doesn't plead, it waits. Meanwhile, my cock has a mind of its own and stiffens. I don't act upon it; I sit down and drink.
The moment comes when my cock gives me direction: I am so aroused that I just have to touch and serve her. Yes, serve her, the submissive. I take my last few gulps and get to work. From my nightstand, I take the manacles and cords. I bind her wrists and ankles and attach each of them in turn to each of the four corners of the bed. First, I pull each limb tightly towards its corner, so that she gets properly stretched in a spread-eagled posture and cannot move an inch. Then I apply the blindfold across her eyes. She is now properly at my mercy.
I take my time admiring her... her body. Her breasts are stretched, but her nipples are taut and betray her arousal, as do the one or two droplets between her labia that can just be seen through her ample, but cropped pubic hair - oh, that haven, heaven! She can't help her occasional sighs that betray her arousal.
I whisper, I grunt: 'I am fuckin' aroused!' She knows this means that I can no longer help stroking my cock, so that she will rightly interpret the soft sloshing sounds this will make. Oh, should I have started this masturbation? Because, immediately, I desire fulfilment. And I won't allow myself that. (You see, a dominant is also a slave.) But I want to give her the impression that I will go on, even though I won't, and she knows I won't. I bring myself to the edge and emit sighs of my own. Sighs of frustration, delightfully painful frustration, as I have to stop the stroking and wait to see my cock go semi-flaccid again, dripping pre-cum. Lord, help me!
I gather myself and get started on her. I take the peacock feather from the nightstand; my woman deserves no lesser specimen. The exquisite feather barely touches her body as I drag it along her legs; first her left, from her crotch down to the foot, spending a discrete amount of time there - she is ticklish, but the touch is so gentle that it stimulates her no end; then her right leg, repeating the procedure - I can smell her arousal now; then the crotch itself, with her glistening cleft - she is crying for a heavier touch, and longer, but I remain tantalisingly light; her flanks - again, she is ticklish but I am subtle and she is squirming from pleasure instead; her stomach; her face - she is bucking from pleasure now, looks like the cat she is - she is purring; her left breast, her right - her nipples practically explode, sticking up razor-sharp; and again her crotch - she groans hoarsely - like she does every single time I do her - wanting nothing more than to come, willing to give her right arm to be brought to her climax - yet, like every time before, she knows she is not going to get it - ultimately, she will be released unsatisfied, yet thinking of me with love, love, love on her mind, nothing more than love for me. But first, I replace the feather by the ice pick, capable of murder, which I use to feather-lightly traverse her entire body with, suspending the sharp tool between thumb and index finger - I am precise. I manage to prevent real pain - there is just a hint of pain, the promise of pain and the slightest traces of red marking that remain a while; I rest the tip of the pick on her clitoris - for just a second or two - the poor tender clitoris shan't be tortured too much, shall it now? - and on each of the nipples - for longer, as they can stand the pricking better, these hardy little devils, those nipples! She wants to rear herself and resist, but she has been restrained tightly - I know what I am doing and she knows too, in fact wants to be tied up tight, incapable of moving by more than a trifle. A long, slow massage with fragrant oils might follow, to sooth and also to titillate and keep her on edge. The session closes - and, again, she knows it and wants it that way - with some brief, sharp slaps. Her two breasts receive two slaps each, as hard as I can muster - she cries out loud! Her hips do, two on each side - resulting in glowing hand markings - by now, my hands hurt too. And finally, two on her Mons Veneris - resulting in guttural cries and tears on her part and, on my part, I have to suppress tears, because I have little sadism in me, but this is what we do when we do this - I have to play my part and tears are not part of my role. I untie her only when any sense of arousal has faded away - the satisfaction, rather, the dissatisfaction is the aim.
It is useful for you, my readers, to know that the above would take a minimum of one hour, sometimes two; a true feast of edging. You do have to realise that throughout, she will plead, beg and cry for me to tip her over the edge. Her animal aspect wants it, though her mind does the opposite.
At other times, when the dynamics are subtly different and it is she who does the teasing and I the suffering, the procedure is exactly the same - except, of course, you need to substitute 'glans' for 'clitoris' and 'testicles' for 'vulva'. We would go well past the point, where my balls would be hurting after being kept on standby for so long. And you'll understand: my testicles will get their turn to be slapped in the end, which truly hurts like crazy - I am not spared any tears when it's my turn - but not as much as the dissatisfaction hurts, but I want it that way too. Why? Fundamentally, I don't know. Perhaps that is why we do this - to pursue a mystery is never knowing why.
At other times, by far the majority, we each get our orgasms normally, mind, when we fuck some way, somehow... At least once a day, often twice or thrice a day.
Until the new regime started.
ANOTHER RITUAL
Imagine one of those rainy days, when all one wants is to do is to stay in and hibernate. It is mid-morning, on a Sunday. I have just risen and wander from our bedroom, through the living room, towards the kitchen, absentmindedly scratching my crotch. My woman got up before me. The temperature is on the low side of bearable. As I stride past her, she raises her eyes from above the paper she is reading. I see, but ignore her. She does too and goes back to reading her paper. I set the coffee machine in motion, prepare my bowl of cereals and take the bowl and the steaming cup to the kitchen table. As I am finishing, she enters the kitchen in her finery - this morning she wears an evening gown, how glamorous! - and sits down opposite me. She says not a word, but simply stares at me. I get up, walk to the counter, turning my back to her, and pour myself another coffee. I feel she turns around on her seat and stares at me, at my bare back, at my naked butt.
I am dying for her to touch me, but she doesn't. She undresses me with her eyes, as if I am not already naked, and my cock can't help responding. Oh, could I control my arousal, could I remain composed and confident... - but, no, she unsettles me and my libido has the better of me.
I hear her get up and stand right behind me. I set down the coffeepot, for fear of spilling hot coffee over myself. Yes, she sharply slaps my left buttock, then immediately the right and the left again. Then she moves off, sits down and ignores me once more.
For the next hour or three, we move around each other, studiously ignoring each other. She remains dramatically dressed in evening wear, though it is morning still, in evening make-up, wearing high-heels, and I in prosaic nudity, unshaven to boot. My cock is rarely less than semi-erect. She appears to ignore me, whereas I am intensely focussed on her and only pretend to ignore her, whether she is eating a sandwich at the table, or reading a book, is languidly stretched out on the sofa or is chatting with a friend over the phone, talking about everything and nothing, including her sex life with me. Every so often, if I am standing up when she happens to pass me, or I pass her, she flicks my penis with arrow and bow combination of thumb and middle finger, but doesn't pause to assess the effect of her sweet torture. Never once does she talk to me. This absurdist piece of theatre comes to an end at some arbitrary moment, when she sees fit to change into her normal clothes and return to me. 'Well, it seems to me you could get dressed now and we could go and get some lunch, if that's okay with you. I am getting hungry.' Which we then do, as if nothing has happened. We don't discuss what we think of our theatre piece.
At other times, she would be the naked one and I the one doing the ignoring. But there is room for surprises. It has happened that she was standing at the kitchen counter and gasped as I turned her around and in one fluid movement stuck my right arm under her bare crotch, the left around her back and lifted her onto my left shoulder, carried her the two steps to the kitchen table, with my right hand wiped the cereal bowl off the table and gently slung Alma down on the tabletop. She was taken by surprise, but she let me; surprises are the rule and not the exception. Therefore, she did not resist as I spread-eagled her and tied both of her hands and hence both of her ankles to the four legs of the table. That was the action. I just left her laying there and resumed the ignoring. At some point, I ate a bowl of cereal and drank a cup of coffee sitting between her two feet and studying her crotch, but not touching her. After an hour or two, when her bladder was at breaking point, I untied her and let her be. No words were exchanged until we were both civil and normal again and said, 'Let's go for lunch, dearest.'
To summarise our sex life prior to the watershed moment: lots of it, on most days, in every way known to man. The plentiful anything-goes sex is punctuated by varying rituals every once in a while, in which
denial
was a common denominator.
The watershed moment? Yes, there was a watershed moment in our blissful life. It came when Alma had her affair. A one-time, drunken fling which didn't mean anything, meaning: didn't mean love, but she came four times within fifteen minutes, a new personal best. She told me as soon as she got home and I believed her. I believed that two things were true: the fling didn't mean love and that she had a series of orgasms like never before. The first equated to a scratch on our pristine body of love. Too bad, but something we could overcome. The watershed was instigated by the second part: that someone, some stranger had given my lover something I hadn't quite managed to do, in the realm of sex, that sacred territory. I couldn't let it slip, though I knew full well I was running a risk by picking it up.
'So, what are we going to do about it?', I say.
'Oh, Arthur, I told you it didn't mean anything and you agreed. What is there to do about it? It happened. I am sorry. I really am. You know it! I accept any punishment you see fit.'
