I discovered something the other night, after He fucked my face and allowed me to use the vibrator while He went upstairs to clean my slobber off His crotch:
Orgasms are like carbonation in a pop.
For me, if I orgasm frequently, they lose their potency and it takes me longer to reach one. Its like opening a bottle of soda: If you open it often, the carbonation escapes and the pop goes flat faster. But if you only open it once in a while, the carbonation builds and doesn’t have a chance to escape. Think about when you open a soda for the first time…that sudden rush to the top, the hard hssht! of the CO2 escaping. As opposed to a pop that has been opened a lot recently…little more than a weak shhhh once allowed out.
For others, I suppose, their orgasms are like typing skills…the more you use it, the better they get!
I have always found the angry rejection and hostility of orgasm control and denial by many s-types to be mildly hilarious. Once I realized that I enjoy my orgasms in a radically different fashion than most, it made a little more sense, but apparently orgasms( to some) are essential to life just like oxygen. I’ll have to tell various nuns and monks across the world that they are on the edge of death.
He gets off on making my sexual release secondary, to making me have to ask and wheedle for an orgasm. I get off on Him off-handedly granting indifferent permission from time to time. Don’t judge my kink and I’ll keep my judgment of your kink to myself.
That isn’t to say he doesn’t give me the occasional mind-destroying knee-bending little death. He is particularly fond of ripping them from me beyond when I think I’ve had enough. They are just at His whim, much like the rest of my life.