“You should probably just stop counting,” Belle said to me this morning after I mentioned that today made eleven weeks since she last let me come — approximately one-third of the total time I was denied before. Then, later, “I mean, you’ll just be counting forever.”
You see, Belle has decided I won’t have any more orgasms.
After talking about it, she’s unhappy with how I am after I come (even though it happens, on average, about once every 9 months) and is much happier with how I act and feel when I don’t and doesn’t like waiting around for my hormones to rebalance afterward (which, with the extension of duration between events, seems to take a lot longer than in the past). So that’s that. Calling a spade a spade. She’s happier and we’re better when I don’t come.
This concept has been bandied about before, but she’s pretty invested in it now. Belle said she thought something this momentous required a ceremony of some kind. It’s not unlike marriage vows, if you think about. Submitting to your parter’s control over your sexual release and willingly giving that up forever in exchange for her happiness and the salubrious benefits it has on our foundational relationship. Just saying, “No more for you,” without some kind of mutual acknowledgment of the significance of it would make backtracking too easy. Someday, maybe a long time from today, I’ll beg in a certain way and she’ll be in a certain mood and she’ll let me (like last time). Or I’ll be alone with the penis and allow it to think for me and I’ll fuck up. How can we take it a step further and solemnify the decision in a way that will make it more persistent?
Over dinner last night, she decided what she wants to do. She wants me get a tattoo. And she wants to be there to see me get it. That will be our ceremony. The tattoo she’s chosen is the Japanese Kanji for “deny.” She wants it about an inch from the base of the penis, just above and to the right. It’ll always be there as a reminder to both of us that my denial is forever. If I ask or beg or plead to come, all she’ll have to do is touch me on the Kanji. Every time I’m naked, her decision will be there to see. Right next to the steel ring (usually) locked on me. I will never be in a position when I’ll be able to allow myself to forget my commitment to her control. Every time anyone sees the penis, they’ll see her decision right next to it. She wants me marked. So I will be.
And I’m telling you, she’s really excited about this. She was near giddy as the plan was falling into place during our dinner date last night. She was laughing and grinning and I was feeling nervous butterflies tumble around inside me as I sipped my wine silently. I’m both excited and a little scared. Probably how most guys feel when they get engaged. This is a Big Deal. Not the kind of thing that just happens.
Every time I think about it, I get hard. Not just hard at the idea, but from how invested in it she is. Whenever I see her do or say anything that shows me she’s really into this dynamic, it makes me happy. This, in particular, makes me very happy. This isn’t about humoring me. This is what she wants, too. No doubt about it.
It occurred to me this morning, while laying next to her in bed after she let me get her off and with the sticky penis she let me fuck her with between us, that I shouldn’t be thinking about this permanent denial thing as something that’s in the future. The tattoo and commitment “ceremony” are in the future, but the denial is already happening. As she said, I will be counting forever. The last time she let me come really was the last time.
And there go the butterflies again. This is what I’ve wanted. This is what I’ve asked for. But now it’s real. The tattoo will physically mark the day the phase of my life where I could hope for orgasm ended, but that’s a formality. In reality, that day is already in the past. That part of my life is over.