The other night I pulled on a shirt that smelled of sweat and sex and realised that I finally had a setting for my bi cis guy and queer trans guy orgasm denial scene. Or more accurately, what fun it would be to play with the morning after that scene, when one of them still really wants an orgasm but can’t resist teasing their dom anyway by wearing his shirt.
Content note for sleepy sex which plays with elements of consensual coercion – plus light CBT and orgasm denial.
I wake up horny. In fact, that’s an understatement: I wake up with my dick achingly hard. This isn’t a surprise, being that my boyfriend didn’t let me come yesterday. He got to come of course. First in my ass, while making a ring around the base of my cock with his thumb and forefinger. I felt my dick pulse every time he slammed into me. Much later he came on my face and watched me shower it off – making me expose myself for him and reminding me that I wasn’t allowed to touch my cock.
The memories of how he fucked me mean there’s no chance of my dick being anything but visibly hard when he looks me up and down with the piercing gaze that can see right through me. To hold on my last threads of modesty, I grab a shirt off the bedroom floor. It’s his shirt, the one he wore last night and bent me over the bed, fucking me hard and fast from behind while telling me that I’d better not even think about coming. It smells of him and of sweat and sex. I grin as I slip it over my head: stealing his clothes is fun.
He’s standing with his back to me in the kitchen, making tea. I wrap my arms around him from behind, sniffing his neck and enjoying the comfort of his steady warmth. He’s wearing boxers and a binder, and while my mind is still fuzzy with sleep his eyes are sharp. Perfect for him fucking with me in the way we both love so much.
“Hey,” he turns and kisses me. The kiss melts me, but when he pulls back his eyes are narrowed. “Are you wearing my shirt?”
Stealing his clothes is fun not just because I want to smell like him, but because he finds delightfully inventive ways to make me pay for taking such liberties. It’s a way to show me how much he loves the intimacy of it without actually saying those words.
“Aww, are you trying to hide the fact that your dick is heavy and sensitive because I didn’t let you come?”
His voice makes me squirm, and any hopes of ignoring my almost-painful erection are gone. I know better than to ask if he’ll get me off – that only ends with me doing something hot and humiliating while he reminds me that orgasms are to be given (or not) at his convenience. Instead I set my jaw while he brushes his hand over my crotch. He ignores my cock entirely and gently cups my balls.
His touch is gentle at the moment, but with him looking into my eyes like this I know how he could start pinching or spanking them without any warning. He smirks, enjoying my fear. I force myself not to close my eyes: if I do he’ll slap my face and tell me to look at him as he hurts me. He might be several inches shorter than me but right now I feel incredibly vulnerable and completely at his mercy.
Just where he likes me.
My legs are spread – he could do anything to me right now – and I’m barely breathing as he decides what sadistic game he wants to play with me right now.
“Get on your knees, slut.”
I’d have dropped even without the oh-so-helpful tug on my ballsack. The tiles are hard beneath my knees and I present myself for him. I’m expecting for him to push his boxers down and make me suck him – the bulge suggests he’s wearing a packer – but he surprises me. He follows me down, making himself comfortable between my legs with his hand around my balls. He taps them sharply, and I bite my lip to stop myself crying out.
“If you weren’t wearing my shirt you could have escaped with me just torturing your nipples. I had planned to make you squeal before shutting you up with my cock. But you hid your nipples – my pretty little nipples – away, so now I have to find a different way to hurt you.”
I whine, because the hand not holding my balls has moved to my dick and is stroking it with short, too-light jerks that leave me desperate for the next. He grins, knowing I can’t think of anything but how hard I am right now.
“Would it hurt if I edged you, my hand a tiny bit too dry and too rough, until you’re almost crying with need to come?” He raps my balls again, just to show that he can. “Your cock would drip with pre-come and you’d be shaking by the time I let you get up and drink your tea.”
“Then you’re going to get dressed so I can take you out to breakfast. I’m definitely not going let you come. And no, you’re not going to be allowed to take that shirt off – I want you to smell of sex and sweat and remember what a needy little slut you are. You want that, don’t you? You’re going to beg me to hurt you and humiliate you and remind you who owns your dick.”
My cheeks flush red and I start to beg, knowing that he’s going to enjoy making me pay for stealing his shirt. And, because he knows how to hurt me and make me love it, so will I.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.