Orgasm control. Giving someone the right to tell you when, where, how and how many orgasms you can have. Doesn’t it sound horrid? It can be. Other times, it’s pretty friggin awesome. Like this morning. But I’ll get to that later.

I don’t think M was originally going to take complete control over my orgasms. I could be wrong, but originally it wasn’t part of discussion. Not because we hadn’t thought of it, so much as because in the beginning, I was what some in the BDSM community call a “bedroom bottom”, or someone who only submits in the bedroom or during a scene.

I know I almost safe worded out of it a time or two when I still had a safe word. But that’s more or less (a little more than less) because of my complete misunderstanding of sex and the female orgasm early in my sexual career. The implanted belief that women aren’t supposed to enjoy sex, and they’re certainly not supposed to intentionally have orgasms. Absolutely not by their own hand. And in front of someone? With the lights on? Surely, you must be joking.

When M realized that I would not ever willingly stick my hands down my pants in front of him – that I would, quite literally, go hide in the bathroom and make myself cum after we had sex – he put the rule in place forbidding me to ever have an orgasm without permission. Then he put the rule in place requiring me to ask permission any time the slightest urge to cum crossed my mind.

I still break that rule. Pretty regularly. I’m working on it, but if I asked M to cum every time I thought about it, there would be days when that’s all I’d have time to say to him.

Masturbating in front of someone is embarrassing for me. Masturbating at all still occasionally leaves me feeling “bad” and “dirty”, in an unpleasant way.

Oh, hush up. I’m getting better about it. It’s at least part of the reason we decided that reviewing sex toys was something I should try my hand at. And having an almost constant stream of sexy products to my front doorstep has done wonders for helping me to be okay with my sexuality and overzealous (at times) sex drive. Definitely helps do away with any misconception that female masturbation is “bad” or “wrong”. I mean, with all the money spent on all these tools developed to accomplish the female orgasm, how can it be?

I got caught, in the beginning, masturbating without permission. And aside from the embarrassment of disobedience, there was the embarrassment of being caught masturbating. I was punished with not being allowed to orgasm, under any circumstances, for a month.

That was murder. But I sure asked for permission a lot afterward. At least, initially.

I don’t like asking. It pains me to ask. It’s embarrassing. And there’s always the fear of rejection. And then there’s that whole, “If he wanted me to have one, he’d just tell me to have one.” mindset. And, I mean, an orgasm, for some, is a very intimate, personal thing. Why should I have to ask for something that belongs to me anyway?

The simple answer is nothing that was once mine belongs to me anymore. Including, but not limited to, my own sexual gratification.

To be honest, it’s working. This iron grip M’s got on all things sexual. I’m less embarrassed than I was seven years ago. I almost always blush, but I rarely ever hide my face in shame anymore. Occasionally, I get a severe case of the giggles and ask M if he plans to just stare at me. But those are the times when he orders me to the floor and sits across the room, sometimes fully dressed, in his desk chair watching me.

I’ve never been one for being scrutinized like a bug under a glass. But once I get over the initial thoughts of, “Oh my god, what if I make funny faces? What if I pee on myself? What if I squirt and he thinks I peed on myself? What if the plug shoots out of my ass? What if… what if… what if…”, which usually doesn’t take long once I’m aroused, I’m usually fine. He’s there, and at the forefront of my mind, but I’ve pushed passed my stupid insecurities and found a comfy space somewhere around, “He likes to watch me do this.”

There’s another form of orgasm control. A form I find even more cruel than the first. And one we hadn’t even so much as dabbled in until I bought the Hitachi Magic Wand (with M’s permission, of course).

It can be both excruciating and delightful. It’s almost always intense. It can go on forever, or for just a few minutes, depending on the top’s whim. And it takes on a few different forms. The one M’s been playing with most recently is bringing me to the brink of orgasm with the Hitachi and making me ask permission to cum, then telling me no, yet continuing the stimulation with threats of punishment if I cum without permission.

I’m not really sure how I managed to stave off any unauthorized orgasms. If you would have asked me before he did it, I would have sworn to you I would be punished more than I would be cumming. It’s amazing what you learn when being tried by fire.

(Really, I think it was more just that every time I was right there, he’d move, or I’d move, and I would get a second or two of relief. But don’t tell him that. He’ll be sure to perfect his method, and I’ll be doomed.)

I’ve seen and heard of men dragging these torturous sessions of yo-yoing orgasm denial and gratification go on for an hour? Two?

(Please keep water and some form of quick release close at hand if you plan to bind someone for a long period of time, and remember to give them a drink occasionally. Just because it’s not on doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.)

I’ve seen women cry in frustration and pain, then weep with joy and gratitude over and over in amateur clips all over the web (which, because they’re real, are usually much hotter than professional stuff) and watched them thank the men that tormented them when it was over.

And here I sit, in a puddle, telling you about it now.

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