Tease and Denial

Tease and denial is the purest form of power I know. That morning I woke up already wet with the plan. My husband — poor little-dicked thing that he is — still thought he might get something. He always does. I stretched beside him, pressed my naked body against his, and whispered that if he was very, very good, maybe tonight. Then I slid my hand down, stroked him just enough to make him hard and leaking, and stopped. “Not yet,” I said. “You haven’t earned it.”

All day the game continued. I walked around the house in nothing but a sheer robe that never quite stayed closed. Every time he reached for me I let him touch for three seconds — four if I was feeling generous — then pulled away laughing. I made him watch while I touched myself on the couch, legs spread, fingers shiny, moaning his name and then deliberately stopping the second he started stroking. “Hands off,” I ordered. “This is my tease and denial, not yours.” His face was pure agony. Perfect.

By afternoon I had him on his knees in the kitchen while I cooked in only an apron. I would turn, press my ass against that pathetic little cock of his, grind once, twice, then step away the moment his hips jerked. I made him edge himself three separate times under my instruction, each time stopping him with a sharp “No.” His balls were so full and dark they looked painful. I told him that was exactly how I wanted them.

Evening arrived and the real show began. I had invited a friend over — taller, thicker, everything my husband isn’t. I made my husband sit in the chair across from the bed, hands tied behind him so he couldn’t even try to touch himself. Then I stripped slowly in front of both of them. I climbed onto the other man and took him deep while looking straight into my husband’s eyes. Every thrust, every wet sound, every time I came — I made sure my husband saw it all. “This is what a real cock feels like,” I told him between moans. “This is what you will never give me.”

I came hard, twice, while my husband watched with tears of pure frustration in his eyes. When it was over I crawled to him, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Still no. Not tonight. Maybe not this week.” The look on his face was the most beautiful thing I had seen all day. That is the true heart of tease and denial — the denial itself is the orgasm for me.

Some nights the ache gets so strong he begs me over the phone instead. Those are the nights I give him the same exquisite torture through tease & denial phone sex — my voice alone controlling every stroke, every edge, every cruel “stop.” Phone sex with me is never a release. It is another layer of the same delicious denial, only now he can hear me laughing while he suffers.

If you want to feel even a fraction of what my husband felt that day — the constant rise and the merciless drop — you know where to find me. Come closer. Let me decide when (or if) you get to finish.

— Deborah

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