Ancilla's Dirty Diary: "I want to stop having orgasms."

Note: Welcome to my journal. This is a new segment. It's an unfiltered collection of my thoughts and relationship. It's an erotic journal so it's mostly dirty. It's more loose and unstructured than most of my writing, and much more blatant, something of an extension of my actual journal that I write with a pen. Some of these pieces will be short and others longer. It's a journal, I can't control how much I feel about my day. You can find all the pieces under the tag "Ancilla's Dirty Diary".  

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14 September 2014 (Entry 6)

I want to stop having orgasms. It's not something I do frequently anyway, but it's more frequent with him than it has ever been with anyone. Before him, I had orgasms only a few times a year, and there was one year (2014) in which I literally had only two orgasms. My ex was very harsh when it came to revoking pleasure, I was very amenable to that. Something changed when I met my husband. Not immediately. In the first couple of years, the orgasms were still rare. I was resistant to abandoning a way of life. I have great, and often terrifying stories from when I was with my ex, but the thing they fail to capture is just how long I was with him. I was still a month shy of fifteen when I met him, and a few months short of twenty-four when I left him. It was nine years. Nine years is a long, long time. Some parts of sexuality were written before him, but there are parts that he wrote, and it's difficult to explain how they still dictate things I like, but that's because it's hard to encapsulate with just one number how long 9-years really are. 

So when I met my husband, there were still parts of me that were functioning with the rules of the man I used to love. The control he had over me was so absolute in some ways, in ways that can only be accomplished by terrifying a person into submission, and ways I will never engage with again, but ways so absolute, they were engrained into my reflexes. I couldn't even think of orgasms as something that wasn't physically excruciating and wrong to want. They felt terrible in my body. They had never (except for the ones I had with my first "partner") felt good and I actively resisted them at all times. However, master is ridiculously dextrous, I'm not delusional, his job requires finesse and wielding blades like an extension of your fingers, and as a result his fingers can do things that most men I've fucked couldn't dream of accomplishing, and so making me come is not difficult for him. It's very easy, but the first few times it happened, there was nothing amazing about them. My body was not able to have orgasms that felt good. 

In a couple of years that started to change. It started to change when I began to accept these roles into my life once again — master and slave — and as the resistance slipped away from me, so did my engrained ideas of what orgasms were supposed to be. I learnt new ideas from my husband. Orgasms started to feel good. Amazing. I totally began to see why people wanted that in their lives. It still wasn't frequent but he is much, much more generous than the man I used to love. He's not as restrictive nor as harsh as him. My pleasure is actually very important to him and he does me the favour of dispensing it in a way that makes me believe in it is not. Go figure. So he lets me have orgasms more frequently than anyone else ever has. It's crazy though, I have never, not since the time when my only sexual activity was masturbation, been able to decide when I come. I think about that sometimes and I wonder if I am stunted because of it. It's always symbolised as the reclamation of your body from a system that oppresses women, and I can see how taking control of your pleasure can work that way, but my pleasure lies in giving up control, and I don't know how that can work. If I were by myself, I would never touch myself. My fingers feel weird on my body, unskilled and without direction, and I hate it, I hate being made to touch myself even, I just feel so strongly that it's not my job. It's not for me to touch, hurt or pleasure this body anymore. I have people for that. 

Just like I have people who decide whether I have orgasms or not. I could never take that on and I don't want to at all. My husband's approach is actually much better than any I would ever have. When we're in a sexual lull, as in things are busy at work or we're moving or apart, and we're only having quick 20-minute suck-and-fuck style sex, he'll make me come every few (3-5) days. The moment he goes back to beating me, the orgasms stop. When we're not in a lull, he never makes me come immediately. It's always over the course of days/weeks/months with escalating intensity of denial (and all things just, vile). It's alarming how much I like being humiliated and degraded. Alarming. The orgasms that result from this (or any he gives me really) are astoundingly good. Physically, they're just, earth-shattering. 

Emotionally, the fallout is excruciating. It's the crash I hear loudest. If it's gone too far, like past a month, the resulting crash is significantly debilitating. I withdraw and refocus completely, I don't know who I am anymore. I don't feel comfortable in my body. Often, for a couple of days, I'm even unable to workout. My head feels empty, and I want to throw up and cry all the time. It's horrible. I hate it, and I think he hates doing it to me as well. It's just inevitable. There will be a moment when it's no longer possible to not orgasm when someone is actively stimulating you. It's not the same kind of bad when he lets me have  orgasms regularly-ish, but instead of a crash, then it's a slow-release poison. I slowly get more depressed and sluggish. It's uncomfortable. The low-key but constant passive sadness is so depressing. 

Last night it felt like we had reached the inevitable place where he would let me come because it's been so long, and he's been so terrible for so long. He spent hours playing with my body, moving me from room to room and place to place, and telling me terrible tales to crush my soul. He can be very articulate for a laconic goofball. He spent hours peeling my dignity and every vestige of shame and hesitation that lives inside me and made me behave like a helpless animal who couldn't even form sentences. There seemed like there was no other place to go but crashing into the depths of release. I was so close, and he started beating my clit instead of rubbing it, and I was sure it was all over, but he stopped. Nothing happened in my body, it just felt like a wire fizzling out right before the explosion. I was prepared, my body was prepared, but he stopped and put me away. Somehow, that timing, made it work perfectly. I feel less consumed by my cunt today, but consumed enough that I remember, and there's no crash. No pain. Just peaceful, continuous silence. 

I want to stop having orgasms. I don't they're really for me.