My orgasms come relatively easily, quickly and in multiples. Because of this, I don’t value them as much as I might – while pleasurable and desirable, they are often commonplace and functional – rarely the Earth-moving fireworks display that fiction has programmed the modern woman to expect – even demand. I’m hopeless at self-denial, only managing once to hold off for any length of time while playing solo – a wholly gratifying experience but one I have not yet had the self-discipline to revisit. I know that if I back off at the last minute enough times, the release when I finally get there is intensified to the near pyrotechnic point I mentioned earlier. I’m just too greedy and impatient to bother.
It’s such a sensitive spot. Hidden, tucked away from all but the most intimate of perspectives, a convergence of tightly-gathered muscle and nerves awaits.
Now here’s a topic I have ambiguous feelings about.
Some aspects are totally hot – voicing my submission, vocalising the power and control that I have gifted to someone else, uhuh, oh yeah.
Begging for permission to orgasm, and getting only a cruel smile and a firm no in response.
Pleading for mercy as the slap of leather, or wood or plastic meets my tender reddened skin.
Making wide beseeching eyes of entreaty to a stern unyielding Dom/me as I am tormented and used to their satisfaction.
All of these things excite me.
But there are things I will not beg for because they come with too much baggage – sackfuls of shame, duffels of doubt, tote-bags of trepidation.
I will not beg for attention. I hate being made to feel as though interacting with me is effort or chore.
I will not beg for sex. Too many years in a relationship where my partner could not be honest about his absence of physical desire for me wrecked my self-confidence. I hinted, I flirted, I enticed, I begged – and finally I left. I can’t cope with the feeling that I’m asking for something I should have, don’t deserve or that I’m simply unworthy of. I might – in the heat of the moment – beg for teasing to turn into fucking, but rarely so and only if I know for certain that that is indeed what we both want.
I will not ever beg for freedom or love. Even though one is mine by right and the other is elusive; to be the supplicant for either feels like an outrage. Don’t I deserve both?
See that sweet spot right there in the middle? I never used to believe it existed. It’s such a small, low-probability intersection, considering my limited capacity to differentiate between romantic love and naive infatuation. I stopped believing in ‘happy ever after’ a long time ago. I don’t miss my illusions. They got me into all sorts of trouble. more “Love, Sex, Kink – a Venn diagram”