ViolentlyCurly’s Ode to Denial
Ode to Denial
(Oh, who are we kidding? And hypnosis)
To many, even within the world of kink, orgasm denial seems perplexingly counter-intuitive, if not down-right insane. Why on earth would you want to avoid that peak of physical pleasure? From an outsiders point of view, I can see why choosing to purposely not have an orgasm would seem like madness... but when you’re on the inside looking out as I am, few things on this earth are more consumingly delicious than giving that up. In this rambling, I will spill my guts about all the nuances and subtleties of edging and orgasm denial that utterly ensnare my squirming attention. Hopefully by the end, you’ll see things from my unique perspective.
Orgasm denial has had such a huge impact on my sexuality for so long that I’m a little flummoxed as to where to jump in writing. As the quote from one of my favorite home-state films says, “If you don’t know where ta start, go back ta da begginin’” so I’ll take that advice and run from there. I grew up a fairly well informed child; I had access to a home library filled with books of all age ranges, my parents never scorned me for asking questions and did their utmost to answer them and they’ve always encouraged me be curious and creative. I knew about the basic birds and bees, that storks laid eggs, not delivered babies... however, my knowledge of pleasure and all the wheres and whys and hows of pleasure was quite limited. Everything I knew about my own pleasure was found out through trial and error and I had no idea that what I was doing had any sort of endgame. Unaware there was a finish line, I simply did what felt good and just learned to love the lust.
Mainly, I knew there were some things that would just hit me a certain way when I encountered them. When this would happen I was often filled with fear... but also, there was something else. Some tingling sinking rush that starting in my lungs on the inhale and trickled down my torso that would cause my mind to focus completely on my body. This feeling was very akin to fear, but not fear. It’s
almost like these two roads are parallel for miles, the path of this undefined feeling only veering off in a new direction just before fight or flight. In fact, I used to be really terrified of scary movies as a child, but still felt an intense compulsion to linger in the other room and peek around the corner. I think it was my imagination that did me in; once in bed, every silhouette was a monster crouched and waiting in the dark to get me. However, once this new almost-fear feeling began to develop, I found I could trick myself into being able to go to sleep. Just by tweaking the details ever so slightly, a genuinely frightening scenario became disturbingly sensual; I was able to take that hyper awareness, heart pounding anxiety and tightening terror and twist it into something kinda hot. Then, surrounded by my constant comfort and companion, lust, I was able to drift off to sleep.
I think the crossing point from innocent experiments to deliberate self indulgence was after my discovery of the existence of vampire fiction. The idea of them and the subsequent possibilities quite literally consumed my mind. It didn’t matter where I was, in school, enjoying the company of friends, car rides to the other side of town... the moment there was a lull in stimuli, a tiny opportunity for my mind to wander, it would always go to the same place.
The fantasies were particularly fierce when I found myself alone. My walks home from high school were no more than a foggy blur to me, undefined by distance or time because of how utterly enthralled I was with the crisp details of my rampant imagination. The only solid memories I have of those walks are leaving the crowded campus parking lot at the journeys start and the jingle of my keys in my front door when the spell was finally broken. I would purposely take side roads in order to avoid the potentiality of car accidents, all so I could devote even less attention to my surroundings and continue my mesmerized walks home, undisturbed.
I’d be lying if I said this habit of daydreaming was something I grew out of. In
fact, I could argue that the inherent dullness of the day-to-day activities of being an adult would create even more ample opportunity for these steamy breaks in reality. Many of the jobs on my whiplash inducing resume are endlessly monotonous and one of the biggest ones was cake decorating. If there was ever
a job that is all skill and no brainpower, it’s that one. Working graveyards for an outrageously busy bakery, flat-icing cake after cake after cake just to keep up with tomorrows demand, absolutely nothing to keep my mind engaged... My brain would simmer in the gutter for an eight hour block before I’d ride my bike home at four in the morning, acutely aware of the seat’s pressure against my pierced cunt.
Switching from the mental aspects to the physical for a moment, my horny hijinks weren’t simply limited to my imagination (albeit, fueled by it). In adolescence, I
would relish any excuse to be touched by the people I found attractive. I’d let girls who made me flush attempt to flat iron my wild curls, knowing full well I’d leave there looking a frizzy mess, just to feel their fingers on my scalp and their hands control the angle I held my head. I would challenge boys I liked to wrestling matches; being the same height or taller than most, they always took me on. Long and strong though I was, my stamina would always wane before theirs and as they overpowered me, the feeling I now know to be helpless arousal induced by submission would trickle through my core and make me breathless.
I remember in high school, suggesting taking naps with my boyfriends and feigning sleep, just to feel their embrace around me and simmer helpless in my lust. I would pretend to shift dreamily, conveniently displaying my curves for their effortlessly wandering hands. My heart would pound so hard that not only could I hear the rapid beats, I could hear the blood rhythmically surging through my vessels, drowning out my thoughts. I felt frozen there, half by the mesmerizing heat and dizzying arousal rampaging through me... half by my own spellbound desire for the feeling to never end.
And I truly wished for that, for it to never end. Afterwards, I would go home and lay in my bed, thighs and eyes clenched closed, trying to hold on to and relive every steamy detail. I would imagine that other people my age would furiously masturbate about it (And don’t get me wrong, I got there eventually) but the first stage of it all was to just simmer in it. No touch, no actions, no distractions... just feel the pound of blood in my crevices and suffer the lust.
Those were the pre-internet musings. Once I got my own laptop and no longer needed to boot up the family computer to surf, my dirty research began. This entry is long enough without describing the various rabbit holes I fell down, but the most important information to take away from in this moment was that I discovered information (smut) about the existence of and pleasure associated with orgasm. For a long time I sought it out, hunted for that ultimate goal in the darkness of my bedroom. I remember feeling the culmination of pleasure, the rhythmic tremors and pulses followed by a jarringly sharp nose dive in lust, sex drive and energy. When I compared that to the erotica I had read, describing the blinding bliss of orgasm and the envelopment of satisfaction afterwards, I assumed I still hadn’t achieved my goal and continued my chase of that description. When I finally realized those moments I’d experienced were in fact orgasms, I remember a huge sense of stunned let down.
This? This was what I was chasing this whole time? It hardly felt much better than what I was doing before, and worst of all, the lust went away! All that delicious build up, the cultivation of my horny enthralled mind state, the tingling rush I felt in every fiber with each passing breath... wasted. Not only that I
discovered there are heavy physical consequences to having an orgasm. It’s not just my sex drive that evaporates, all of my drive is gone. After I lay nearly comatose in the bed for an hour or so, I feel no energy to get out of it; I feel sluggish and unmotivated and completely lazy. When I’m denied, I feel like I have an energy reserve stored inside me. I may be squirmy and distractible and frustrated beyond belief, but at least I can still get shit done; I can channel the energy into other things. If I edge, the reserve gets fuller and brighter until I’ve pushed myself to the limit of how much suffering I can handle in one sitting and I bounce out of bed to find something productive to do to distract me from my pulsating pussy. If I was to orgasm, I would probably sleep until tomorrow and barely have the energy to get up, let alone accomplish anything.
Soon after, I found and joined Tumblr, the best place for rabbit holes. And in that once wonderful place, I discovered that shining term... “orgasm control and denial”. There it was, evidence that what I like exists outside of myself and even has its own title. With that search keyword in my arsenal, my “research” expanded tenfold. I followed blog after blog of denial lovers and eventually stumbled onto one that liked the idea so much, they would record their voice in small audio clips talking about how they’d like their followers to touch and deny for them. It was the first time I’d felt the intimate experience of putting on headphones and listening to something filthy that was speaking directly to me... I was captivated by it. It’s the very experience that lead me to find hypnotic audio files and eventually join the online hypnosis community. I was fucked the second I’d pressed play; the rest is history.
Now that I’m a fully developed sexual adult with a good grasp of the roots of what turns me on and why, my fantasies have taken on much more in- depth, intricate and let’s be honest, twisted detail. When I go to close my
eyes and open the curtains to my filthy imagination, I have all my kinks at my fingertips, ingredients poised to concoct the most erotic fantasy made just for me.... but you’re welcome to enjoy them too.
Those consuming fantasies are now of being waken out of a dead sleep at the witching hour by my hypnotist, dropped into trace before my groggy brain can even discern dreams from reality and dangle on the edge for their amusement like the toy that I am. They tease me and use me and make me suffer in a state that is incapable of absorbing any information and I wake the next morning pondering the cause of my tacky thighs and tangled covers... only to shrug it off and assume it was a dirty dream brought on by my extended denial.
I find myself infatuated with the idea of being manipulated sexually. Not manipulated into doing sexual things exactly, but actually having my sexuality broken open and spread out for examination, aspects tweaked and maybe
rewired to maximize my lust. Turning the mundane into the sensual, fraying emotions and hardwiring the splits to new places. Sometimes I find myself wondering if I were to softly circle my clit at a slow monotonous pace, how much verbal filth poured into my ears I could take before I was scrambling on the edge, begging them to shut up. I’m fairly obsessed with the idea of normalizing roaring arousal, of making rampant lust my default state so much so that when I do actually feel a lull in libido, it feels confusing and foreign and slightly unsettling.
Speaking of unsettling, a regular occurrence on my brain’s stage is a revised rendition of my old vampiric favorites, spiced up with elements of my other kinks and fragments of knowledge I’ve picked up. Vampire tales each have their own unique set of rules, but one thing they all have in common in the heightened state of function. They are supposed to be stronger, move faster, see further, smell sharper, be better than us in every physical way. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that their sense of taste is likely better than what humans are capable of. What if a vampire could detect the hormones and chemicals in your blood? What if a vampire were to pleasure you with the honed skill of centuries, cultivating the lust in your bloodstream until you were at the very brink of orgasm before sinking into your flesh and draining it out of you? Your tenuous balancing act on that orgasms threshold would descend into blackness, unresolved... and the vampire would pull away, leaving you with enough to recover and revive in the sunshine, ripe for the plucking on the next night... and the next night... I find it disturbing yet deliciously desirable.
The hunger present in that fantasy attracts me deeply. The idea of being so helpless and coveted and devoured makes me squirm where I sit. Take the vampire part out and what it really comes down to is the fact that what is being done to me feels good, but that is simply secondary; the inflicter is doing this for them, for their own satisfaction and fulfilment. Thinking about someone being greedy over me, indulging themselves in my sexual suffering, gluttonous with my helpless arousal with no regard to my relief, using me and toying with me to their hearts content... well, as you can see, it effects me so hard I have to write about it just to get it out of my head.
While I truly believe I don’t have a dominant or competitive bone in my body,
there is one aspect of denial that seems to light both ends of the candle for me. I love the application of coercion and corruption that lends itself so perfectly with denial. The idea that someone may get to the end of this journal and feel the urge to try and deny, makes me grin from the inside out. There are people I’ve met on discord who have fallen prey to the way my words paint orgasm denial; Joined with hypnosis, they are my top two kinks after all and they meld so well together, I sometimes can’t help but gush about it in the text channels. Sometimes the way I
talk about it ensnares the curious (you know who you are) and I always welcome them into the fold with open arms. I don’t seek to control, only to corrupt. I’m of the opinion that two denial sluts are better than one.
I see myself working with someone who doesn’t count edges, doesn’t count days, lives for nothing more the next expression of anguished unraveling sanity on my face. Even though my husband helps me keep up my denial streaks, I know I’m married to a man who truly relishes the way my cunt squeezes down on his dick when I cum, so saying I’ll never orgasm again is unrealistic. I know that I’m looking for a pretty delicate balance between kink and married life, so I’m hopeful that if I’m patient enough, the right pervert will come along. I like the idea of finding someone who is indifferent to my orgasms, who sees no value in them and therefore harbors no desire to do anything with them. The sentences “Orgasms are boring, that is not want I want from you. All I want is your suffering; your husband can have the rest” would leave me stammering in a molten stupor. I crave to meet someone who is just as hungry for my denial as I am, or better yet, even hungrier. A common phrase in denial smut is “Please, let me cum, please” and while those words have passed my lips before, I have never said them with true unwavering conviction. Anytime I’ve asked for permission to orgasm, there’s always a big part of me, hoping with twisted desperation that the answer is no.
I think I have run out of words and there’s nothing left other than endless longing... modestly enjoyable, sure, but it’s only a fraction of what I crave. Hopefully this sheds some light on why on earth you should maybe try not to have an orgasm tonight. If reading this made you want to touch, you’re likely into experiencing sexual suffering or perhaps orchestrating it, but either way, I think it’s safe to say that you’ve got the bug.