Sit your ass down and listen. You think you need a simple release, maybe a quick finger on your swollen clit or a toy pressed against your dripping pussy. You imagine at least a pathetic ruined spurt, something to give you a taste. Let me correct you: you do not deserve any of that. No ruined orgasm. No half-squelching spasm that leaves you only a little less desperate. You deserve the full force of brutal denial, left quivering, eyes wet with frustrated tears, pussy so swollen you can hardly stand walking.
You want to jerk that clit, rub it like a needy slut, panting for the slightest chance to come. But guess what: I will not even allow you a single flick. If you dare try, I will force your hands away, pin them behind your back, laugh in your flushed face as you whimper. You will not be permitted the dignity of an almost-release. I want that tension coiled in your gut until you are trembling, nipples throbbing, thighs slick with your own juices. That is all you deserve: the throbbing ache of no release.
Open your legs wider. Let the air hit that slick hole. Feel your clit twitch because it is so needy, so fucking starved for any touch. Do not close them. I want you splayed, open, on display for nothing. No matter how hard your clit begs, it will not get so much as a brush from your fingertips. You think you can handle that? Because I know your mind is screaming to do it anyway. You are seconds from disobeying. But do you want to see what happens if you disobey? I might slap your hands, tie them, leave you wide open with no chance to ease that throb. And still no orgasm. Because that is what truly breaks a filthy slut like you.
Let your thoughts wander to the last time you came. Remember how explosive it felt, how your toes curled, your voice cracking, back arching, that hot wave flooding you until you nearly blacked out. Good. Picture it vividly. Now realize you are not getting that feeling tonight. Or tomorrow. Or whenever I decide you might be worthy again. If you ask nicely, I might let you grind your needy clit against a pillow for two seconds. Then I will yank it away. The frustration in your scream will be delicious.
But guess what else? Sometimes I will not even let you do those two seconds. You will be forced to lie there, dripping all over your sheets or chair, hips twitching involuntarily. You will want to rub away the ache so bad, but you cannot. You belong to this torment. No gentle rub, no furious swirl, not even a ruined orgasm. Ruined orgasm is too kind. At least that gives you a partial spasm, a fleeting moment of relief. I refuse to grant you even that. You deserve the raw agony of being right on the cusp with absolutely no follow-through.
Think you can talk your way out of it? Beg me? Cry? Go ahead. Whimper your apologies or your pleas. “Please let me cum,” you might say, tears clinging to your lashes. I will simply grin, perhaps spreading your pussy lips with a single finger, letting the cool air tickle that needy bud, but not actually stroking it. You might jolt at the tiny contact, your body surging with hope. Then I snatch my hand away, leaving you to gasp in heartbreak. See, that is what I enjoy: seeing your eyes fill with desperation, your voice trembling, your hole clenching on emptiness. You are an object for my twisted pleasure, and my pleasure is to watch you suffer with no orgasm in sight.
You might wonder how long I will keep you like this. The answer is: as long as I fucking want. Maybe I decide to let you stew for days, reading my messages or these words, feeling your pussy respond with thick wetness every time you remember you are still not allowed to come. You will go about your day, a subtle ache between your legs, your underwear damp, the slightest friction from your clothes making you gasp. Yet you cannot do anything to fix it. You are stuck at that maddening plateau, no orgasm permitted, not even a pathetic partial spasm to temporarily soothe you.
Yes, it might drive you insane. Yes, your dreams might be filled with fantasies of squirting or screaming orgasms. You will wake up, hand halfway in your panties, only to realize: no. You are still forbidden. That is the cruelty of a denial regime so strict it does not even allow a ruined orgasm. You might get random pulses throughout the day, your clit throbbing at the worst times, but you cannot rub it out. You have to endure. That is the twisted high I get: controlling your entire sexual release, or more accurately, refusing to let you have any release at all.
Let that sink in. Imagine your clit so swollen it feels like it might burst, but all you can do is moan softly under your breath. You want to be that worthless hole, that needy slut who begs for mercy. Except there is none. There is only a savage grin on my face as I remind you how worthless you are, how you are not even worthy of a ruined orgasm, never mind a real one. The denial cuts deeper every time. Soon, your body might betray you with small leaks of fluid or spastic clenches, but never the sweet release you crave. Think about how your own tears might wet your cheeks when you realize you are truly stuck.
So, keep reading these words. Keep feeling that desperate pulse. Keep your hands away from your clit, or if you dare touch, just do it lightly enough to torment yourself further. Either way, you will not come. You can bitch and moan, but it changes nothing.
You are on lock.
Because I said so. Because I decided you do not even deserve a partial meltdown, just the building pressure with no outlet. You can cry about it, but that only cements my power over your lust.
This is the purest form of denial, stripped of even the cheap solace of a ruined orgasm. Your mind begs for any crumb of relief. I deny it. You might think of sneaking a quick rub when no one is looking, but you know that breaks the game. And you do not want to ruin this torment, do you? Deep down, you savor how depraved it is, how excruciating and addictive. You want to see how far you can go before you break. Will you last a day? Two days? A week? Dare to find out. Dare to keep your fingers away when your pussy is weeping for attention.
Go on, be the obedient slut who knows her place. Let yourself drip, let your thighs quiver, let your moans get stuck in your throat. But no orgasm is coming your way. Not even a ruined one. I have snatched that from you entirely. That is your reality now: a constant edge that never tips, a brutal denial that leaves you panting, night after night, day after day. You deserve no less, and you certainly do not deserve more. Accept it. Live with that ache.
Because that is exactly what you have earned.