Author's Note: The first story I've ever felt okay enough about to share publicly. I still don't think it's great, mind you. You've been warned :)


It had been more than two months since he'd last been permitted to cum.

Their sex life, he would tell his male friends when they asked, had never been better. And this was true, in a sense. Her orgasms had never been so powerful, so charged with erotic intensity, as they had become now that his were disallowed completely. It was almost as though, in the time before, they had both been drawing from the same finite spring of pleasure, and that now, with him forbidden from partaking, there was that much more left over for her. She had always been beautiful-- her dark Mediterranean features, lustrous black hair, and full, supple ass-- had always made him feel starkly inadequate, standing beside her in public. But now, she seemed to glow ten times more radiantly, casually confident as she projected an aura of sexual satisfaction to everyone who saw her.

Meanwhile, his semi-permanent state of denial left him constantly horny, aroused at his predicament and unable to get relief. But it also left him feeling, often, rather sad and empty. A form of erotic release available to almost anyone, from horny fourteen-year-old boys to middle-aged married men, was denied to him, by his own choice. Thinking about how little control he had over his own body, how one of the most basic human impulses was denied to him indefinitely, aroused his masochistic nature and made him feel intensely submissive to her almost all of the time. But it also made him sad. What kind of pathetic inferior being must he be to have agreed to give something like that up? Would he ever feel the pleasure of an orgasm again?

As much as she loved the way that their whole sex life had reconfigured to focus exclusively on her pleasure, she loved him too, and cared about him, and sometimes felt a bit bad about what she was denying him. He gave her so much pleasure, and sacrificed so much of his own. The thought of denying him an orgasm ever again, for all eternity, made her wet like almost nothing else, but she couldn't quite beat back the guilt she felt over the extreme permanence of that proposition. And so, she made him a deal.

Each time he went far, far above and beyond his duty as a submissive-- every time he endured something far, far beyond the ordinary-- she would grant him one point. Each point represented a number on the six-sided die. Whenever he felt ready, he could redeem up to five points at a time to make a roll. Success meant that he would be given five minutes to bring himself to a quick orgasm while kneeling naked at her feet. But to discourage any attempts at getting a lucky roll before sufficient points had been accumulated, she warned him, failure on the dice roll would mean another year before he was permitted to cum again.

Terrified of the consequences should fortune fail to favor him, he resolved to make sure he racked up the maximum five points before attempting a roll of the dice. But she wasn't going to make it easy for him. The five points took him months to earn, and each one represented one of the hardest, most painful, or most degrading things he'd ever had to do in his life.

The first point was not so bad, though it was still harder than anything he'd had to do before. She wanted him to take a toy up his ass that was larger than anything he'd had up there before. It was nearly 8 inches in diameter, a monstrous silicone cock that she'd gotten as a gag gift at her friend's bachelorette party. It took a better part of an hour and a whole bottle of lube to get it in, and by the time it was done, he felt like he was being split open and burned from the inside. His anal ring burned with pain as it stretched to accommodate the monster cock; she looked on with fascination as more and more of it disappeared inside him.

At last, she had enough, and allowed him to expel the enormous intruder. And, as promised, she awarded him the first point.

However, his next opportunity to earn a point initially resulted in failure. It all started when she read a story on a website about a male dominant who kept his female submissive's head physically bound with her mouth around his cock for an extended period of time. She found the scenario hot, and challenged him to figure out a gender-flipped version for them to try.

After some experimentation with different configurations, he realized that he could wear a collar that could be attached to cuffs around her upper thighs with metal carabiners. This setup allowed her to control the distance from his face to her crotch by spreading or closing her legs. When her legs were fully closed, he had a little room to move his neck, but when she opened her legs slightly, his face was drawn in and smooshed tightly against her pussy, such that he couldn't draw back even a centimeter.

She locked him into the "pussy collar," as they jokingly referred to it as, an hour or so after they got up one weekend morning. She then amused herself with a lazy morning drinking coffee, checking the news, and reading email on the couch, while he knelt before her locked into his worshipful pose, all of his senses completely filled with the sight, scent, and taste of her pussy and unable to think of anything else. At times, she would order him to lick, kiss, or suck, as her fancy varied. At one point, she had him lick for more than 45 straight minutes, as his tongue grew exhausted and sore, but he didn't dare let himself stop until she gave him the order. At other times, she almost forgot he was there-- though of course, it was impossible for him to forget, his thoughts falling into a submissive, worshipful fugue state as she ignored him completely.

After a while, the coffee she had been drinking had moved through her and she was filled with the urge to pee-- and a wicked idea occurred to her.

"I have to pee, but I don't feel like releasing you," she said idly. "Can you drink it all without spilling?"

He wasn't sure he could-- they'd experimented with him licking her clean after she had used the bathroom, but never something like this. Unfortunately, however, his ability to answer her question at that moment was limited, as his face was completely smothered by her soft flesh.

"If you can, I'll give you another point," she said. "I'm gonna be pissed if you spill on the couch, though!"

Realizing she wasn't going to give him a choice, he braced himself. He couldn't see her face, grinning cruelly, as she released her bladder directly into his imprisoned mouth.

He had expected her piss to taste nasty, but he hadn't been prepared for quite HOW nasty-- it was warm, salty, with an acrid, bitter metallic taste. And there was just so much of it-- his mouth filled in seconds, and he had barely managed to force himself to swallow the first big gulp before it filled right up again. A few gulps in and he felt bloated and nauseous, and still more piss came. He managed to drink most of it, but a sizeable dribble leaked out of his mouth and onto couch below.

All things considered, she was actually quite pleased with his performance. She'd ended up having to piss a lot more than she realized-- she'd thought it was just a mouthful or two, but it ended up being a huge bladderful, and he'd still managed to take almost all of it. She was pleased with the devotion he'd shown in literally consuming her waste without complaint-- but, technically, he HAD failed, and after all, a promise was a promise. So she made him lick up the spilled urine, whipped his palms and the soles of his feet with a riding crop until they were glowing red and tears streamed down his face, and then sentenced him spend an hour kneeling in the corner of the kitchen on uncooked rice, with his hands handcuffed behind his back and holding a coin to the wall with his nose.

With about 10 minutes left to go in his kneeling sentence, she was working on her laptop in the next room when she heard a "clinking" sound from the kitchen. Evidently he had shifted position slightly and the coin had dropped to the ground. She made him stand up and show him her knees-- they were raw and red, with bruises already starting to form around the angry divots the rice had pressed into his skin. Her heart broke a little bit for him, and she wanted to forgive him for the lapse. But at the same time, maddeningly, she felt her pussy twitch with excitement at the thought of doing the exact opposite. For a minute, her heart and her pussy went to war, but then she looked into her sub's eyes, and saw the depth of the submission in them, and the twitch turned into a pulse of wetness-- her pussy had won.

"You know what this means," she said in mock disappointment. "Back on the wall, and I'm starting the time over from the beginning."

He said nothing, but the tears were coming to his eyes even faster than they had after his whipping. He sank back to his knees and planted one kiss on each of her feet, resigning himself to his miserable fate, and resumed his position on the wall. She left him there and retreated to the bedroom, where she brought herself to several rolling orgasms. When she finally came to release him an hour later, he was shaking in exhaustion, his will to serve utterly spent on pleasing her.

He earned no point that day, but a week later they tried the pussy collar again, and that time he managed to get all her acrid, salty piss down without spilling a drop. She rewarded him with his second point, and began regularly demanding that he serve as her urinal.

The third point came the first time she drew blood while torturing him. She wasn't upset, or punishing him, or anything like that; one night, she had simply come home and said "I feel like hurting you," and that was that.

His wrists were pulled up above his head by handcuffs dangling from the hook in the ceiling, which they thought had been intended for a chandelier or hanging flower basket. The effect was to pull him up onto his tiptoes, so that he could barely find purchase against the ground. The digging of the metal cuffs into his soft wrists was painful, but far less so than the whipping, once it began. She started out with the belt, then switched to the spiked paddle, then the crop, and finally the cane, whipping him over and over, cruelly targeting the spots that were the most bruised and discolored for extra torture. It wasn't long before the welts on his ass had split and burst, and still she was hitting him, whipping him over and over, delighting in his screams as the trickles of blood began to drip down onto the floor below.

Later, after she calmed down, she released him and he licked her to powerful orgasm after powerful orgasm, as she stared into his eyes and drank in the torment she still saw there. Afterward, she lay back on the bed, sated and relaxed, as he knelt on the floor and waited for permission to join her. Finally, she beckoned to him, her sadistic lust fully slaked and replaced with the desire to drift off in his arms.

As she lay there, falling asleep while being cuddled by the one who had just suffered a brutal beating for her, she murmured, "That's your third point."

The whipping scared him, and whenever he thought about what she'd put him through that night, he filled with dread that she might want to beat him that hard again. But when he finally realized what she wanted from him for his fourth point, he figured he would rather have taken 10 more beatings that severe rather than endure it.

One day he came home from work to find her relaxing on the couch with Matt, one of her good friends, that he also considered himself close to. He smiled and started to greet them, but stopped when he saw the look in her eyes.

"Kneel on the floor," she demanded. He gave her a long, hard look-- never before had their dominant and submissive dynamic involved other people-- but he saw the seriousness in her eyes. At the same time, he knew that if he objected, strongly, in this moment, he would be heard-- but that wasn't what she wanted from him right now. And it was his job, to the extent humanly possible, to give her what she wanted.

What she wanted, it turned out, was to watch him suck Matt's cock. Matt had a basic idea of the contours of their real relationship, was bisexual and relatively open-minded, and up for it. They had made this entire plan behind his back, and now he was faced with the choice of whether or not to go through with it.

He had no desire whatsoever to suck Matt's cock. In fact, the very thought was viscerally disgusting to him. Although he had many gay friends, he himself was completely straight, and had never experienced anything approaching sexual desire for men. The thought was even more disgusting to him than the thought of drinking urine.

But she wanted it so badly. He could see the fire in her eyes, he could see how much the idea of making her submissive boyfriend submit to a man, turned her on. He could see how she wanted him to give her this control, this power over his whole sexual being, his sexual identity. Gay or straight, cock or pussy, was no longer for him to choose anymore. She wanted that power for herself. She wanted every last bit of his humanity to own for herself.

He did it. He gave Matt the best fucking blowjob he could, while kneeling on the couch in front of him, while she watched and got herself off several times. He took the fleshy phallus into his mouth, ran his tongue lovingly over the head and shaft while forcing down nausea and bile. He let Matt grab the back of his head and ram his cock deep down the back of his throat. He felt the pain of choking and gagging but also the deeper psychological pain of losing control over his body. And when Matt came, he swallowed dutifully, licking up every last drop of his semen like the bitch he was, like the slut she wanted him to be.

Afterward, at her urging, he kissed the soles of Matt's shoes and thanked him for letting him suck his cock. He laughed, knowing he could never look at his friend quite the same way again, and left after giving her a lingering kiss. He knew he should be jealous, but he couldn't quite bring himself to be jealous of the one who had just raped his face and discarded him like a used condom-- who he'd thanked for using him that way. He knew that he wasn't even really on the same plane of existence anymore.

That evening, she held him and they talked about what had happened. She knew she had pushed him further than she had meant to, and was worried. The experience had shattered the last few walls of resistance left in him. She had nothing really to worry about. He had earned his fourth point, and he was hers.

The gap between the fourth and fifth point was the longest, despite his best effort to submit to her every whim, to please her completely at all times. He took over doing all of the household chores, submitted to torture after torture, and continued regularly serving as her urinal, and yet she never seemed to regard his efforts as anything other than her rightful due. Her demeanor toward him had changed since the cock-sucking incident. She still cared for him, but it was harder and harder to see him as anything approaching an equal. Whereas before, she acknowledged on some level that he was her boyfriend, submitting to her out of his own free will, it was harder and harder for her to see him as anything other than her total slave.

After all, nothing he did really challenged that notion. As the weeks without sexual gratification of any kind for him turned into months, it was harder and harder for him to remember what it felt like to cum. Increasingly, he had a hard time thinking about any other goal besides making her own orgasm better-- even if he had to suffer more, work harder, degrade himself more thoroughly, to make that happen. Her pleasure was the only pleasure left to him.

Finally, she granted him the fifth point one day, almost as an afterthought. She had a shitty day at work-- men who thought they knew more than they did were taking credit for work she had done, as usual. When she came home in a bad mood, he kissed her foot and begged her to take out her anger on him-- to let him suffer for the sins of the ignorant men she'd had to endure all day.

Boy, did he regret it. She told him that he would be staying up writing lines, sitting naked at a desk facing the wall, ballgagged and with his balls tied off. The line, "Women should be in charge of all important tasks, while men are fit only for menial chores," would be repeated 1000 times. He gasped when he heard the number-- she had given him lines before, but never more than 50 to 100 at a time. Furthermore, the end of the pen would be attached to a chain connected to a pair of nipple clamps that he would wear, so that every letter would yank painfully on his poor, abused nipples.

It took him until nearly four in the morning to finish-- she threw out a few of his early sheets after spotting mistakes, but eventually fell asleep and left him to finish his lonely punishment alone. He crawled into bed and kissed the bottoms of her feet, softly and gently; she stirred, clearly enjoying the sensation, but never quite awoke. One imagines that another man might have felt resentful after being left to such a severe punishment while his partner slept, and yet, all that torture left him feeling nothing but completely worshipful. He was in awe of the power she held over him-- the power to make him suffer at her whim, power over his very body. Increasingly it was hard for him to conceive of himself as having a will separate from her own desires.

When she woke up the following morning, she cuddled him close, her anger forgotten, enjoying the sensation of being held by someone that she owned completely, body and soul. She teased his sore nipples with her teeth, enjoying the way in which he tried to stifle his cries of pain, but still let his agony shine through in his eyes. Finally, she leaned over and whispered in his ear "you just earned your fifth point, slave boy."

He felt happy, of course. He'd been waiting for this moment for more than three months now. Of course, it wasn't a guarantee, even now-- there was a 1 in 6 chance that, even after all he'd endured and everything he'd sacrificed, he would still lose the dice roll and be forbidden from orgasm from an entire year. But that risk was minimal-- less than 20%, he knew-- and in all probability his hard work and effort would finally pay off. He had given her hundreds of orgasms over the last three months; finally, now, he would be rewarded with one of his own.

That evening, after dinner, they sat together on the couch and she produced a small square die. "If you roll a 1 through 5," she began, "you win If you roll a 6, you lose." That was all she said. That was all she needed to say.

It was almost anticlimactic, in a way. He had thought she might make a big production of it, giving time for his tension to build, but she rolled the dice right away. He looked down and saw the number "3." He had won.

Anticlimactic, indeed. He felt happy-- he thought he felt happy? But he'd expected to feel happier. He was about to cum! He'd been longing for this day for months and months! Matt had probably come and come and come in that time-- every other adult male in the world had come more than he had, he felt. He'd earned this! He'd given her so much of himself, so much pleasure! He deserved this.

Then why did he feel so empty?

He looked up at her. She was looking back at him, but her expression was unreadable. She realized that she hadn't yet looked down yet. She hadn't yet seen the dice roll, and yet she knew from his face that he had won an orgasm. And he also knew that-- even though this was all done according to her rules-- she wasn't happy about it.

What he did next, he did without thinking about it consciously or coming to any kind of decision. It was pure instinct, instinct born of months of worship, or submissive idolatry of her, of devotion to her pleasure as the highest ideal of their relationship. Without dropping his gaze from her eyes for a second, he reached out as if to grasp her hand-- and on his way, he brushed the die. It rolled across the table, bumped by his hand, and when it rested, it now read "6."

Alarm passed across her face. For all that he'd given her over the last few months, she hadn't realized just how far and deep he had gone until that moment. Until that moment, she hadn't realized that her power over him had gradually cemented itself and become nearly absolute. The man she loved was still in there-- the one that she loved to talk with about movies and politics and video games, the one that she loved to travel with and go on adventures with. But there was something else there now, too. She had changed him. He had given something to her that he could never get back. And in that moment, as she pushed past her initial shock and alarm, she accepted that. The last traces of guilt fled. What was there to feel guilty about? This-- his absolute devotion, his freedom and his manhood-- was what SHE deserved. And she would take it.

"You lose," she whispered softly, smiling at him. "No cumming for a year."

His only response was to take a deep, shuddering breath, fall to his knees, and kiss her once on each bare, brown foot, as he accepted his terrible, wonderful fate.