This smut is inspired by all the subby boys out there who are thinking about being edged until it’s painful, locked into a chastity cage, or enduring self-enforced denial for torturously long periods of time. Sometimes, when I’m feeling a little bit dominant, I like playing with the other side of my denial kink and telling cute humans that they’re not allowed to orgasm. I like making them wait.
Content note for orgasm denial and sadistic feels.
I love how I don’t even have to be in the room to make him wait for it.
It takes me just under an hour to cross London. He knows that after all the times when I’ve raced across the city as quickly as I can, desperate for his dick in my mouth. He sometimes meets me at the tube station, not content with waiting until I get to his office and he can fuck my face in the men’s toilets. Sometimes texts me to meet him somewhere else, because he’s horny and meeting me half-way may in reality take longer by the time we find somewhere to fuck, but it feels quicker. There are days when we both count down until the moment he kisses me roughly and I sink to my knees with his hands in my hair.
It’s urgent sex; it’s enthusiastic fucking. I delight in his eagerness – it matches my own – but that doesn’t mean it’s not tempting to play with it sometimes. Teasing him is fun.
I attempt to arouse him at inappropriate moments. When we’re planning to see each other later, I distract him with carefully composed messages of utter filth, and sneakily snapped photos that I really shouldn’t be taking while at work. I tease him with ideas of everything we could do later, explicitly describing how I’ll work him open with my lubed-up fingers and stretch him with butt plugs so I can fuck his arse.
I tell him I’m on my way before really I am – sometimes long before I really am. I’m leaving the office, get yourself hard and edge until I arrive, is a wonderfully sadistic message to send, because he will obey me and he’ll be close to sobbing when I finally touch him. I never tell him what I’d do if he didn’t wait. I leave that as an unspoken threat that he will twist in his imagination to something far scarier than anything my submissive-leaning fantasies could think up. It works: he waits.
I drop to my knees and take his cock out, swallowing a giggle at the little whimper he lets out and his dick simultaneously. Sometimes I try to look up when I’m sucking him off because the strain makes my eyes water and it feels like I’m being used. Now, though, I look up because I want to watch his visible struggle not to come. I order him to strip, to grip the headboard and keep his hands there. I smirk as I remind him that he can’t come until I give permission.
I lower myself down on to his cock, grinning at the expression on his face that’s half-pleasure and half-pain with the challenge of holding himself back now he’s finally inside me. I grind my hips against him, my fingers working on my clit and my orgasm fast approaching because it’s so hot to see him below me and fighting to stave off his orgasm. It feels powerful to be in control, and taking him to the edge like this is delicious.
Maybe I’ll let him come. Maybe I’ll make him wait.
Maybe I will walk home, not with his come dripping out of me, but smug in the knowledge that he remains unsatisfied. He still has to wait for permission, until I call him later and talk him through plugging his ass and jerking himself off to the personalised porn I whisper into my phone.
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