24,000 words! 68 pages of denied filth... clearly this is something I love, let me know if you're enjoying this too! Your support means the world, especially if it's making you a little squirmy and you can relate...
Nineteen more to go.
The first one still sang on my skin — a sharp, bright line of heat that hadn’t faded. The spreader bar held my ankles wide apart, my neck restrained, my body on display.
My mouth opened: “Please punish me, Sir.”
He nodded once, unhurried.
“Good girl. Now play with yourself.”
I blinked.
“Between each one,” he said, with the same neutral precision he used for everything. “You’ll touch yourself. When I tell you to stop, you stop. You’ll keep your hand still while I strike, then continue when I say.”
My hand moved slowly to my clit. He waited, watching, until my fingers had found their rhythm — until I had started to feel the warmth building again, the familiar ache of it — and then he brought the spoon down.
The contrast was obscene. My whole body seized, the sharp crack of pain landing directly on swollen, sensitised flesh that had just been coaxed back toward wanting.
A sound came out of me that I didn’t recognise as mine.
“Keep going,” he said.
I watched her hand tremble as she obeyed.
This was the part most people couldn’t hold — not the pain, but the contradiction of it. Being required to want something and punish it in the same breath. She stayed present through it. Didn’t perform. Didn’t collapse into hysteria. Just pressed her fingers back to her clit with something that looked almost like resentment, and did as she was told.
Three.
I let her work herself back toward it — not all the way, just enough — then: “Stop.”
Her hand stilled.
Four.
The sound she made this time was different. Lower. Every strike was landing on something already primed and swollen, and the pain was doing something more complicated than pain. She was starting to understand that. I could see it in her face.
“Continue.”
By eight I had lost the ability to be embarrassed about the sounds I was making.
That was the strange mercy of it — somewhere around five or six, shame became logistically impossible. The heat built and built and then the spoon wiped it clean and my body couldn’t decide what it was, only that it was everything, and the two things that should have cancelled each other out were amplifying each other into something I have no clean word for.
He worked me like this with absolute patience. Not sadistic in the theatrical sense — there was just control, no relish displayed for my benefit. He seemed to find this entirely, straightforwardly interesting. The way a craftsman looks at something going well. That was somehow worse than cruelty would have been.
“Stop.”
My hand froze.
Nine. Ten.
“Continue.”
She was crying by thirteen.
She stayed present through it, which I’d anticipated — I had a reasonable measure of her by now — but the quality of it held my attention. She wasn’t crying at me. The tears seemed to genuinely surprise her each time she became aware of them.
Between fourteen and fifteen I let her go longer. Watched the colour in her face, the rhythm of her breathing, the specific tension in her forearm. She was close. Not close enough to finish — she didn’t have that permission and she knew it — but close enough that stopping would cost her.
“Stop.”
The small, strangled exhale she gave.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
He made me touch myself one last time before twenty. Brought me higher than he had all session. Let me stay there longer. I could hear my own breathing. I could feel my heartbeat in exactly the place the spoon kept landing.
“Stop.”
The stillness was unbearable.
Twenty.
I sat there with my hand motionless between my legs and the room completely quiet and felt the twenty land inside me all at once — not the individual strikes but the whole weight of them together, what they meant, what I had agreed to, what I had said, “please and Sir” and not once wanted to stop.
I set the spoon on the bed.
I unfastened the spreader bar, easing her legs closed with both hands, running my thumbs along the inside of her knees as they came together. Then the neck restraint.
I stepped back and let her have the room.
She sat on the edge of the bed with her face wet and her hands open in her lap and breathed. I poured her a glass of water and left it on the bedside table. Pulled the chair from the desk and sat across the room — not beside her. She didn’t need managing. She needed space in which to come back at her own pace.
I watched her reach for the water with both hands. Drink. Set it down.
After a while she looked up. Still slightly unfocused, still in the tail of it, but present.
I held her gaze for a moment. Then: “Get dressed. You have a midnight email to write.”
Something moved across her face. Not surprise — she’d signed the contract and she knew what it said. Something more like the specific weight of a thing becoming real rather than theoretical.
“Yes, Sir,” she said quietly, and reached for her clothes.
—
Sir.
Edge 1: 23:19. Bedroom. No toy. Beside him. He was asleep. Thinking about you, watching me, touching me. I used my hand and stopped when I should have.
He slept through it. I didn’t think I’d manage but I did. I stopped when I should have. The bruising made it something I don’t have a word for yet. I imagine you know the word. I imagine you’ve always known it.
This doesn’t feel like punishment.
I think it probably should.
—
I sent it at twenty to midnight. Put the phone face-down on the nightstand.
My boyfriend’s arm found me in his sleep, heavy and warm across my waist.
I stared at the ceiling and waited for the wanting to subside enough to let me sleep.
It took a long time.
Day 0, 23:51
Good.
We’d been fucking for months now. It was almost laughable — two colleagues who’d kissed at the Christmas party, slipping further over the line each time. Lunchtime car rides in the back of her hatchback, hot desperate kisses stolen in the elevator, commands whispered across the office, followed by her darting off to the loo to slip her panties off.
She could feel it — the difference. The way his touch pulled something out of her no one else ever had. Her previous boyfriends, hell, even the one she lived with now, never made her cum like this, never made her tremble on the edge, over and over. One afternoon, flushed and breathless, she said it outright: “No one makes me cum like you do.”
He smiled - “Then don’t cum for anyone but me,” he said, voice low and sure.
Her face went pale. “But what about him? My boyfriend? He’ll know something’s wrong if we don’t have sex.”
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. “You can fuck him all you want,” he whispered, “but you don’t get to cum for him. I own every one of your orgasms from now on. No rabbit without my permission. No cumming in the shower or anywhere else without my say-so. Got it?”
Her breath hitched, and she felt wet just thinking about it. Her mind spun, caught between fear, excitement, and the ruthless control he had already taken over her.
She swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than she expected. The line between desire and submission blurred beautifully. Every time she saw him, the pull was magnetic, the danger intoxicating. She craved his ownership like a drug, even when it terrified her.
“Fuck, that’s so hot! I love it. I agree, I won’t cum for anyone but you. It’s not like my boyfriend knows how to make me cum anyway!”
He smiled - “Good, your mind makes this hot. I love how you look at me when you think nobody is paying attention. I cannot wait to fully own you.”
For the next month, He made me cum. Every day, sometimes more than once. Before work, we would meet on a quiet street near the office and steal 15 minutes in the back of the car, I would stroll into the office, the taste of him still burning on my tongue. At lunch, my phone buzzing with his commands, making my fingers tremble as I obeyed - sneaking off to the toilets to play with my soaked pussy. After work, sometimes he’d message me, telling me to edge while my boyfriend slept beside me — no release, just raw, aching need. The control was his, all his. My orgasms weren’t just physical; they were his to give or take. And I learned fast. Every cry, every shudder was a reminder — I was His, even when I was with my boyfriend.
The ache in my body was raw and constant, nothing like the dull routine with my boyfriend, quiet nights in front of the TV, eating dinner on our laps, barely talking.
Some nights, I’d lie next to my boyfriend, heart pounding, fingers slipping beneath my pj bottoms as I edged — just like he told me to. The shame mixed with the thrill was electric. I wasn’t just cheating on him; I was his — owned, marked by every shudder and moan I tried to stifle.
His words echoed in my head: “You don’t cum without me.” And I believed it. The control twisted inside me, fierce and fiery, making me crave Him even more. I was a slave to the pleasure he gave, and the promise of what was to come. We would meet at a hotel on Saturday afternoons and fuck for a couple hours, sending me home flustered, used but totally fulfilled.
Even when my boyfriend and I had sex, I was His. Every gasp, every tremble was proof. I was tangled in His power, addicted to the way He trained me — body and mind. I would never cum from sex with my boyfriend, that always needed a toy, or his tongue to help me get there. So I simply made sure we didn’t use those - just rode him, or bent over and spread my cheeks, or sucked his cock like an attentive girlfriend - but I wasn’t.
After a month of relentless play and orgasms, I started denying her orgasms. The control tightened, the rules getting more brutal. She had to hold off cumming while I teased her until she was begging. Fingers, mouth, toys — nothing changed except the prize was withheld.
One afternoon, I dragged her to the mirror, hair in my fist, forcing her to watch herself shudder and cum. “See yourself, slut,” I growled. “Every part of you is mine.”
When I sent her home, the instructions were clear: hump your boyfriend’s pillow before bed and think of me. Make sure you don’t cum.
“You will edge at least once a day, every day,” I messaged. “You will tell me where you edged, what toys if any you used, and share links to porn or stories you read during.”
Every missed message was met with a punishment. The power was mine, and she was learning exactly who owned her body — and her pleasure.
He started taking away my orgasms. The daily release turned into a torment; I had to hold back, choke on my own need while he played with me like before — fingertips driving me wild, voice low and cruel in my ear.
One night, he pulled me to the mirror, hair in his fist, forcing me to watch myself come undone — shaking, dripping, exposed. The shame mixed with the fire inside me, the twisted obedience that made me crave him more.
When he sent me home, the orders were clear: hump my boyfriend’s pillow before bed and don’t cum. The ache built, sharp and constant, a delicious torment that only made me hunger for his control deeper.
I died every time I sent him a link to some depraved porn, or admitted that I had edged in the toilets at work, or in the Tesco car park.
Each time I obeyed, it was a battle of will — wanting to scream, to let go, but holding back because I belonged to him. The power he had over me was absolute, and I was helpless to resist.
It had been a month of orgasms and edging, her pussy always slick, swollen, begging for release. She was on edge the moment I touched her, the hunger raw and desperate.
I brought her up to my room, lifted her onto my desk, and kissed her hard, lips crushing hers with a ruthless need. My hands wrapped around her throat, holding her back as I stared into her eyes, seeing the fire and submission burning there.
I pulled her panties off slow, kissing her pretty, puffy pussy, inhaling the musky, sweet aroma that was mine alone.
Then I slid my cock inside her. The guttural grunt she let out — raw, visceral — would echo in my head forever.
She grabbed my ass, desperate for more, but I stood still, smiling darkly. Leaning close, I whispered in her ear, “I’ve got a date with a hot French ballerina tonight. She wants to suck your cunt juices off my cock before I fuck her.”
I pulled out, dressed, and looked down at her flushed, needy face.
“At 8 PM, I’ll be fucking her deep. You’ll beg your boyfriend to fuck you then. Do whatever he wants. No limits tonight. But you’re not to cum. Understand?”
After a month of this — cum, denial, edging — my pussy was always dripping, swollen and desperate. My brain was mush, every second thought was something sexual. The moment he touched me, I was on the edge, every nerve raw and humming.
We went up to his room, he lifted me onto the desk, and kissed me hard. His hands wrapped around my throat, holding me back, his eyes boring into mine with that fierce control that both terrified and thrilled me.
Slowly, he pulled my panties off, kissing my swollen, slick pussy, breathing me in like I was his favourite drug.
Then he slid inside me. The guttural sound I let out was wild, uncontrollable. I grabbed his ass, trying to pull him deeper, wanting all of him.
But he just stood there, smiling darkly, and whispered in my ear about some hot French ballerina he was supposed to see tonight — how she wanted to suck my juices off his cock before he fucked her.
He pulled out, dressed, and left me burning with hunger and frustration.
“At 8 PM, you’ll beg your boyfriend to fuck you,” he’d said. “Do whatever he wants. No limits. But you’re not allowed to cum. Got it?”
I nodded, wet and aching, caught between wanting to scream and the brutal, delicious control he held over me.
I hurried home, my mind a fog of need and desperation, pussy aching like fire beneath her clothes. It had been weeks since I’d had sex with my boyfriend, and the absence made my stomach lurch with guilt.
I slipped into sexy pyjamas — soft, sheer fabric that left little to the imagination — and set about making dinner. A couple of glasses of wine calmed the edge, but the hunger simmered just below the surface as I waited.
Dinner was safe. Easy. We chatted about nothing important, the kind of small talk that filled empty spaces but didn’t touch the mess roiling inside my pussy.
At 7:55, I excused myself to get ready. My phone buzzed, and my chest clenched. A message. His cock. In some pretty stranger’s mouth.
Fuck.
Jealousy, pride, lust, and confusion tangled inside her. She was soaked, trembling with the conflict burning in her veins.
She stepped into the living room, shorts riding high on my ass and cleavage spilling out, voice low and desperate: “I need you to fuck me tonight.”
He was rougher than usual, hands everywhere, gripping me hard as he fucked me on the living room floor. The pounding was relentless, but my mind was miles away, focused on Him — Sir — with His cock buried deep inside that filthy slut.
My hand moved on its own, sliding between my legs to my clit. Suddenly, the world exploded — my body bucking out of control as waves of orgasm crashed through me. I was filled, stretched, trembling, coated in my boyfriend’s cum.
Gasping for breath, I told him I needed to clean up.
As soon as I was alone, my fingers trembled over my phone.
“Sir, I don’t know what happened, but I just came all over my boyfriend’s cock. I’m so sorry.”
The reply was instant.
“Show me your used cunt.”
Blushing, I snapped a picture, cum still oozing out, and sent it.
“The ballerina says it looks like you’ve been a filthy slut. We’ll discuss the consequences tomorrow. Good night.”
Sleep was impossible. When he tried again, I simply turned over and said, “No.”
What could he have in store for me? Would he stop the affair?
He’d set his phone on the bedside table, eyes flicking to it every few seconds, waiting for that buzz. He didn’t think she’d last through the night, not with the hunger and denial twisting inside her.
When the phone finally buzzed, a slow smile spread across his face. He swiped it open and typed back, “Show me your used cunt.”
The reply came almost instantly — a photo of her pussy, swollen, puffy, raw, glistening with cum.
He turned the phone to tonight’s toy: “This is the pussy you cleaned off me earlier.”
“Looks like she’s a filthy slut. Hurry up and fuck me again,” came the reply.
He took his time, one more message typed out, phone tossed aside, and he pulled her into a deep, hungry kiss.