Denial
A story by Vitavie
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We are a sexually active couple, always were, always will be.
Always...
What is always?
Neither of us has had an orgasm in just under three years. But we have one coming tonight. Will we be capable of one still, or, better yet, of a series of orgasms? Will it, or they, be better than ever? The latest orgasms, just under three years ago, were better than ever, so we live in hope... The one before that, about one year and a half earlier, was premature, in my case, and fine and multiple, in hers.
We are sexually active. Monogamously too.
After tonight's sexual session, the next one will be in just under six years. If we will still be alive and well, i.e. capable of orgasms.
How can both of these things be true, the diminishing frequency of our sessions and orgasms and the statement that we are both sexually active?
--------------------------------------
Let me start at the beginning.
My name is Arthur. Alma is my lady. Well, she is her own woman.
We met fifteen years ago. Alma was twenty-one, I was twenty-three. Do the maths and you'll find that we are both in the second half of our thirties. And, to be complete, we stopped the carefree and easy, regular, well... daily fucking from around thirty.
Our attraction was profound. Call us soulmates. We met at a party that was given by a mutual friend. We saw each other, the attraction was instant and strong and we immediately moved in. We started talking and, within minutes, were hooked on each other. We found that we could talk well and felt we truly understood each other. In fact, we understood each other without speaking. Physically, our love was animalistic. It was from the first time later that night. Since then, we saw each other most every day and fucked each time. Within a few months, we moved in together and haven't looked back since. From the moment we started sharing a home, at natural and random moments, initially three, four times a day, if one of us was aroused, the other understood immediately and the act was performed at once - in a frenzy, if pushed for time, for instance if we were on the move; or slowly and deliberately if we did have time and felt like it. And always to our mutual satisfaction. Alma will agree. Truly.
We screwed quite normally, but in every way known to man. We could have written the Kama Sutra, shall we say. Either of us could be leading, depending on... well, depending on whatever...
So, good, clean sex, lots of it, in any acceptable way. But, by exception, we did some role play. Nothing terribly drastic, nothing involving French maids, night nurses, dominatrices in PVC, but, yeah, a bit of playful play. Generally, this happened naturally, without premeditation or appointment. Saying that, we did develop some unwritten rituals through the years, but 'performing' such ritual just happened, without formal announcement.
Let me give you an example of how a ritual of ours could be taken up and proceed. In fact, I will give you two examples.
ONE RITUAL
I am expecting it, but I also am not. Because it may be her turn to receive the treatment, or mine. We never know. It is a gentle struggle in its own right to decide this - whether to start a ritual, and whose turn it is.
A Saturday morning. A nice and empty day ahead of us. I have gone to fetch the morning coffees and take them back to bed, where she is patiently waiting. She hasn't sat up, like she might have done. I take that as a cue that she wants it. I look her in the eyes and she looks at me, and immediately looks bashfully away. That confirms that she wants to play the 'underling'. She doesn't ask, so leaves the ball in my court. I happily take the cue, such as it is.
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
