The cruellest kindness: why relentless edging is the crème de la crème of tease and denial

We have toys.

We have locks.

We have contracts, rituals, and cage-polishing cloths (or maybe that last one’s just me).

But if I had to pick just one technique as the pinnacle, the peak experience, the Grand Poobah of chastity it would be edging.

And not just any edging. Oh no.

I’m talking about repeated, exquisite, oral edging that leaves  John twitching, panting, and begging for release like a dog outside a butcher’s shop.

And then  (this is important) locking him straight back up as soon as humanly possible.

With a kiss on the forehead.

And a smile.

I call it my triple tease protocol. 

And John?

John calls it “why my balls feel like they’re going to explode.”

Here’s how it goes.

Step One: The Release of the Beast

First, we have to unlock him.

This in itself is enough to get him hard. Poor man’s body has been so well-trained by now and he's not cum for so long the mere sight of the key for the locking screw makes him twitch.

So we do have to be careful because once he gets hard, the Bijou won't budge. I've recently taken to giving him the key and telling him to take it off himself. He knows what's coming (not him, that's for sure because we practice permanent orgasm denial) and despite our  commitment to never letting him orgasm again, I can't help but think he harbours some hope deep in that inscrutable mind of his (and if you're of the mind he'll sneak off a cheat the moment he's out of my sight, then that says more about you than it does about him).

It's a vain hope if he does, but, hey. That sounds like a "John Problem" to me.

Anyway... I lay him down on the bed. Maybe tie his hands. Not always, but it adds a certain something. 

And then I go to work.

It’s not a quick job. We are not microwaving popcorn here. I use my tongue, my lips, my breath… and my evil, evil patience.

I'm naked and I start by cuddling up to him and kissing — that's always been a big turn on for us both. So I take my time. It's hilarious when you think about it — he knows beyond a shadow of doubt he's not going to orgasm, but still wants me to kiss and caress and generally drive him up the wall (one of these days I shall do a post on the folly of "lock and leave", something which is no fun for anyone).

I take him all the way into my mouth, teasing the head with my tongue and lips. Sometimes I'll ask him, "Remember when I used to make you cum like this, hmm? Never again, you know that, don't you?" (Yet another post in the works on how to use your voice because men love it when you tell them what they can't have).

So, I tease and torment him.

He gasps.

He moans.

He tells me how much he loves me.

Makes no difference: he's not (and will never be) allowed to cum, and he never gets to fuck me any more. Other than these edging sessions and cleaning, he's locked 24/7 and the only orgasms in our marriage are mine (and I make sure he gives me plenty of those).

So I tease. And I tease without mercy.

He begs and squirms and begs and squirms, but I'm implacable and relentless.

And right on cue he gasps the magic words... "Oh... please... I'm gonna cum". 

To be fair, I can read his body well enough by now not to get this wrong, but he's a gentleman and even desperate as he is to cum he wouldn't take any chances with me missing the signs.

So tells me…

And...

I stop.

Dead stop.

Hands off. Mouth off.

And I laugh.

I sit back and wait, slowly drawing my nails over his scrotum, teasing him with my voice, asking him how much he wants to cum while he writhes and pleads like a man possessed.

Step Two: just one more, darling

After he’s calmed down (a bit, because the poor thing’s still glowing like a space heater), I start again.

Same as before. Maybe slower. Maybe faster. Maybe a bit of cheek, a whispered “Let’s see if you’re a good boy this time.”

Sometimes I'll tease him with the alluring possibility of making him watch me fuck someone else. It's not something we're ever going to do, just to be clear, but when he's in this state his mind is ripe for the torturing.

This time he’s less composed. He’s already been teased to the edge once, and his body's betraying him. Everything is more sensitive. Every touch is unbearable.

I think that's the right word... unbearable. When we agreed on permanent denial some while ago, I told him I would make it unbearable for him. I told him not to beg me for it if he thought I was going to be lenient and make it easy for him.

He begged for it, nonetheless.

And I'm not and I don't.

So, of course… 

I stop again, just before he reaches the point of no return.

“No,” I say, stroking his cheek. “It's never going to happen, you know that, don't you?”

He may cry out.

He may whimper.

Once, he made a noise like a wounded goose.

But there is no mercy from me here. There never will be. He knows this. Besides, if I did let him cum, he'd be disappointed.

We'd have broken the covenant we have. It's not one we entered into lightly, and we both take it as seriously as we do our other marriage vows. John does not orgasm. It's what he begged for and it's a promise I made to him.

Step Three: The Final Despair

By the third go-round, John is a wreck. There is drool. There is precum. There are (good-humoured) curses. 

There is a look in his eyes that says "I would literally crawl through broken glass for you if you’d just let me come."

This is my favourite bit.

I bring him right... and I mean right... to the edge.

His toes curl. His back arches. His hips thrust like he’s got a metronome stuck in his head. And just when he's about to go...

You guessed it. I stop again.

And I tell him: "You begged me for this, John. You begged me never to let you cum ever again."

Very occasionally, if my own desire has grown sufficiently (because doing this to John really is a turn on) I'll plant myself on his face and have him make me cum with his tongue. It doesn't take long, and I'm pretty sure he enjoys expressing his own need to orgasm through mine.

The Locking Ceremony

Now, of course, you can’t just jam him back into the cage immediately. That’s not only unkind, it’s a health hazard. I'd probably need a gallon of lube and a shoehorn.

No, I wait. Let him cool down. Hold him, stroke his face. Cuddle up to him again.

 Let the wild storm in his body settle into something more like mild whimpering. Once he’s soft again — and he always gets soft again, eventually — I hand him the cage and he slides it back on.

And that is the end of the evening for John.

Will he ever orgasm?

No.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

John is in permanent denial now. 

That means permanent.

As in, forever.

There is no pot of gold (or semen) at the end of this rainbow. 

There is only the edge. The precipice. The impossible dream.

And he loves it.

It takes some getting used to the idea, I think, because never is a long time and from what John and other similarly-blesssed men have told me, it seems longer than eternity.

He loves it more than he’s ever loved orgasms, which is good, because he’s not having those any more.

As Seneca said (probably not about locked penises, but we can borrow it anyway):

“He who is brave is free.”

John is the bravest man I know.

And also the most deliciously, constantly, hopelessly denied.