What motivates the kink?

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What motivates the kink?

Post by storywriter23 »

Lots of tease but no denial.

(First published in Clean Sheets magazine, June 2010 under pen name Johanna Dowson)

“Slower! Just a little bit slower!” I panted.

She drizzled more lube on me and switched to a twisting motion. I groaned and pulled desperately at the bindings that fastened me to the bed.

“Please, please,” I begged.

“Please what? Faster? But then it’ll be over. Is that what you want?” she teased.

“No! No! I’m so close. I don’t know…”

“Then I’ll decide. I’ll let you cool down before we surf the edge again.”

She squeezed and massaged my swollen balls. My breathing slowed and I regained a little brain function.

“You know,” she said, “I really can’t understand why you love it so much when I torture you like this. I’m so different. I love lots of foreplay, but once I’m ready, I just want to go for it. Then when all the tension has drained out of me, I love to put my head on your chest and snuggle up. Sometimes I think that’s the best part of all; total relaxation with your heartbeat to lull me to sleep. But you’d go all day teetering on the edge of orgasm if I could handle it.”

I gasped as she began to stroke my shaft again. But she wasn’t ready to bring me back to the edge yet. She moved just enough to keep me hard and twitching occasionally.

“It seems strange, even to me,” I responded. “I’ve thought about it quite a lot. I think I might have figured it out.”

“I want to hear this, but we’ll wait until the next lull.”

She tightened my ball stretcher a notch and knelt between my legs. She began slowly, gradually building the rate. I tried to relax, to float on the sea of pleasure, but I could feel my muscles tightening, the involuntary thrusting of my hips as the tension mounted and the thudding of my heart. She watched me closely and dropped the rate just a little. I moaned in frustration. So close! I wanted to, I needed to finish so badly and yet I wanted the unbearable tension and the ecstasy to go on for ever. Each minute seemed like an hour as she played my body like a musical instrument; she was the conductor to my symphony. During the adagio we crept stealthily to the very edge, teetering on the precipice repeatedly before retreating. With the allegro we raced towards the chasm until I was sure we’d gone too far, but always she pulled me back just in time; a symphony without a climax! When the last chords died away, I was shaking, covered in perspiration, the muscles in my limbs twitching with exhaustion.
She knelt astride my face without a word and I put my tongue to work; my absolutely favourite occupation. I teased a little, but a sharp pinch to my nipple redirected my focus to her swollen bud. She came hard, moaning with delight. My cock throbbed in sympathy. She lay close, her head on my chest, her hand softly cupping my balls.

“Tell me your theory,” she said.

“Well, as you know, I was raised in a religious family. I went to a church boy’s school. We had religious instruction every day and though I’m sure we covered a lot of topics, the one that stuck in our heads was masturbation. It was a terrible sin. If we masturbated, we’d burn in hell for all eternity. The only remedy was to confess our sins to a priest, pray the act of contrition and do penance. I was scared to death, but still I played with my cock every night. I remember the first time I ejaculated; just a small spurt and this wonderful spasm of pleasure, then immediately the guilt. I knew I’d have to go to confession on Saturday. Every night that week, I prayed that I wouldn’t die before then and the image of flames consuming my body kept me from sleep.”

“That was a terrible upbringing for kid,” she said sympathetically.

“Then as puberty set in my genitals grew in size and sensitivity. I was horny as hell all the time. I would lie in bed trying to get to sleep but my cock with a will of its own, hard as iron, throbbed and drove me crazy. I can remember lying there desperately trying to resist the temptation to touch myself, to relieve the terrible pressure. My arousal would grow and grow until I knew that if I just twisted my body a bit, the friction of the sheet against my cock-head would finish me off. I’d struggle so hard, but I’d always lose. Of course, once I fallen, I knew I was damned, so I spent every free minute masturbating until confession on Saturday. I think those years of struggle, hovering for long periods of time between wonderful pleasure and terrible guilt gave me a taste for surfing on the edge.”

“Do you still feel guilty?”

“No! Not any more. Well not intellectually anyway. I suppose there’s still an emotional response to all that brain-washing, but these days it just enhances the pleasure. I do find too, that all that pent-up sexual energy makes for a hell of big orgasm when you finish me off.”

“Well, I don’t have your capacity for endless edging but I think I can handle one more round and then it’s big bang time.”

She picked up her baton and began conducting the final movement.
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