Control my Climax

“Is that how you ask me, little girl?” Mister K taunts as the crop connects with my thigh. “You need to learn to control that.”

I had just finished yelling, screaming actually, “I’m going to come,” before having a third orgasm in as many minutes. The wand is still buzzing away happily somewhere around my very merry nether region. I’m so sensitive the location doesn’t have to be exact, only approximate. I love it but also hate it with a passion.

This is not the first time we have tried this. I can hold back my orgasms for a seemingly long time but when I pass a certain point, it’s almost impossible.

Coming on demand has taken more work than I had at first thought. Not coming, even more so. When you read about it in erotic literature it seems so sexy, but there is nothing sexy about my hair being plastered to my face as sweat rolls off me in streams. There’s nothing sexy about how I shake uncontrollably or murmur incoherent words to hold back the fall down the rabbit hole. Reciting the alphabet stopped working long ago. Even in reverse, it serves no purpose.

“Again!” he tells me, and I know I won’t last one more time. That’s what this is all about though, self -control. Learning to control my orgasms so that they too belong to him.

I clench my teeth as the wand is placed directly on my button. The sound of its’ vibrations is accentuated inside me so that I feel it more than hear it. I’m so over-stimulated that the impeding orgasm approaches almost immediately.

“Hola señor. ¿Cómo estás? Soy de Canadá. Es muy bonito.” The Spanish that I have struggled so hard to learn comes easily now. The words flow as I try to deny my bodies desire to give in, to unleash what has been so tightly bound inside me.

Mister K’s chuckle fills my ears. He knows I will cave, that I will fail. For him, that’s half the fun. If I succeed, he will have been able to teach me to orgasm or not on demand. If I fail, I get punished. I’m not complaining. I know he isn’t either.

“I don’t speak Spanish, little girl. I am quite impressed that you can especially right now. New rule. Safewords only in Spanish. What is Red in Spanish, slut?”

“Rojo!”

“Rojo for stop then. What is yellow?”

I swallow the moan that threatens to seep from my throat before I whisper, “Amarillo, sir.”

“Louder, I need to be able to hear you.”

The wand is mercilessly pressed against me. The pressure almost tips me over, but I close my eyes and count backward from ten. When I open them, Mister K is watching me with the grin of a Cheshire cat. His joyful expression makes me smile too. “Amarillo, sir!” I say louder, suddenly not feeling so self-conscious.

He removes the wand for a brief moment. Long enough for my body to sag with relief, for my mind to forget for just a second before he pushes it back into place. I let out a sigh as I become strung tight like a bow once more. My legs are shaking, my mouth is dry. The ragged breaths I take feel like I’m chopping air into my lungs instead of the usual involuntarily in and out. Everything is harder, Mister K included.

I hear the tearing of tape before I realise what he is doing. Looking at my mid-section I see the wand placed along my abdomen, the power cord aimed at my face. With no finesse, the tape is wrapped around my hips and the wand itself. As I watch him work, I can’t help but think, “I’m in so much trouble.”

With the wand in place, Mister K picks up the crop. He starts gently.  A tap here, a slap there. A nipple, a thigh, my bottom, repeat. The swats come at varying angles, different strengths, and with more or less leather attached. It keeps me guessing but also ramps us my arousal. The accompanying pain will be my undoing, we both know it.

“And green, little girl. What is green in Spanish?”

My chest is heaving as I suck in and push air out. The wand is so tight against me the vibrations feel like they are coming from the inside and forcing their way outward. The riding-crop lands on my exposed labia and my answer is accompanied by a cry that says more than my words ever could.

“Verdeeeeeee!!!” the word rushes out of me, lengthened by my inability to hold back the cry. The crop comes down once more, the sting making me hiss.

I’ve started shaking my head back and forth, no longer able to focus on Mister K. Everything is sensation. There is no pain or pleasure, just feeling. Raw, real and fierce.

The shaking has moved from my legs to my core. My extremities don’t feel like part of me any longer. Everything is too much, and yet without his words of assent, not enough.

This fourth orgasm is coming hard and fast. I’ve held on too long and cannot any longer. My body involuntarily bears down, attempting to eliminate the pent-up pressure. It’s no use.

In one last attempt, I start counting. I will not come without permission, not again.

“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete.” The words trail off, numbers and language no longer exist in my mind. I am a blank canvas, ready to be marked with a new path, a new vocabulary.

“What color, slut?”

His words bring me out of my reverie. I know I need to ask to come, but I also have to answer his question.

“Green, Sir. May I come?”

“Wrong answer!” The crop comes down hard on my exposed bum cheek, harder than before, harder than ever.

I realise now that I spoke in English. Shit!

“Verde, verde, sir. Verde!”

The crop begins at a relentless pace. If my legs weren’t suspended to the ceiling by the spreader bar, my arms stretched above me, I would be soaring toward the sky. My mind starts to give in to the sensations. I am sinking into subspace and once there, I will no longer be in control. I fight the warmth of that mindless place where I have no reason to think or fear. Nothing to remember or analyse, just a void where I can feel and float. The fight to resist that all-encompassing bliss does nothing to hold back my impending doom. It wants to claim me and for the first time, I want to claim it too. An easy escape.

My orgasm is there, we both know it is. I’ve already asked for permission. He is either denying my request or ignoring it. I think the latter. It doesn’t matter though. I can no longer hold back. My eyes start to shut and the shaking stops as if both mind and body are in agreeance that I’m orgasming whether Mister K thinks I should or not. Blackness has edged into my vision, the area of sight becoming smaller and less clear.

Mister K senses the change and stops his strategic attack. His strong hands grip my ankles and gently stroke down to my center. The tenderness of his touch contradicts the former sensations and heightens my senses to a point I didn’t know could exist.

Pushing two fingers into me roughly, he arcs them to push against my g-spot and I feel the first ripple of climax start to over-take me.

“May I come?” the question is full of emotion, the sound of unshed tears clogging the request.

“Ask me in Spanish, little girl.” I can hear the smile in his voice even though my eyes will no longer focus. His fingers continue their assault, pressing harder with each pass.

It takes me too long to form the words, to even remember them. I don’t know the word “come” in Spanish. Why had I never thought to learn it?

I’m about to say I don’t know when my brain kicks in and I scream, “¿Puedo pasar?”

May I come. It’s not a sexual expression, but for my sake, I hope Mister K doesn’t know that.

There is a brief interlude before he says, “Si”.

I don’t know what happened after that. I awoke to Mister K wrapped around my unsuspended body. His rough hands gently stroking my back as he whispered sweet nothings in my ear, his warm body pressed against my chilled skin.

When I finally looked over and smiled at him, a smile that’s mostly shy but a little bit proud, his smile in return told me everything I needed to know. I had learned to control my orgasm and came only with permission. Hopefully next time, I would even remember it.

As for our next lesson, I think it’ll be about preparation. Then we won’t have to change the bedding.

To see who else is talking about Self Control for #wickedwednesday, hit the bullseye.

For more about MrsK and her dynamic, see Submissive Journal, or Let’s Talk about.

For more sexy stories, give Fiction by MrsK a try.