alliradaye:I cried a lot tonight. Tears of desperation and pain and despair. Or maybe it was just
alliradaye: I cried a lot tonight. Tears of desperation and pain and despair. Or maybe it was just the binder clips. I’ve been drowning under another wave of heightened arousal for the past few days, and I asked him if I could please touch my clit today. It was decision made of desperate indecision: my requests get smaller as I feel more aroused because I don’t want to beg him for too much and be denied an edge, but my frantic desire to feel my fingers on my clit meant I couldn’t stop myself at asking to merely touch. I don’t think it would have mattered what I’d asked permission for today anyway though. I’d spent hours upon hours over the past two days describing the dizzying heights of my arousal for him; I get the sense he was determined to send me plummeting to new lows of despair. My cunt was literally, not figuratively, bubbling with desperation as it leaked copiously, continuously. I dutifully spread my dripping cunt to show him as instructed, and I hoped with every fiber of my being that he wouldn’t be so mean as to deem that “enough touching” for the day. “Ok,” he said. “You may touch.” My heart soared as I excitedly waited for him to tell me how long I might touch and whether I might be allowed to edge. And then… “Use a binder clip. Show me.” Oh no, oh no, oh no. I despise the binder clips. Actually, no, my fear of the binder clips is too overwhelming for me to even dare dislike them. They scare my feelings - that is how much I can’t bear the binder clips. And he’s really only ever used them as punishment before. The threat alone of binder clips has been enough to make me hold my pee for far longer than I should nearly every day for over a year. There are no words big enough to contain the panicked dread I feel about the binder clips. I keep a few of them clipped to the wall in my bedroom though. And two teeny ones clipped on my key ring at all times. I don’t know why really. I suppose I hate them so much that I can’t bear the thought of what worse self infliction of pain he might devise if ever I were to find myself without them when he demands I use them. I clipped my clit with the very teeny clip before deciding to switch it out for a slightly larger one in the hopes of pleasing and appeasing and satisfying him with my pain. Taking the teeny clip off after twenty seconds was enough to make me gasp. (I’m really a terrible baby about pain.) The larger one bit harder on my clit. “Your cunt seems to like the attention,” he noted. “Perhaps we should do this more often. Really please that dripping little fist hole.” “Please. It hurts. I don’t think I can do it often.” Perhaps the truth would set me free? Of course not. “Please… more? Please thank you for letting me touch my clit? Please what, cunt flaps.” Ok, even in my pain-induced misery, I flinched at his use of that horrible thoughtful moniker. He’s never used it to directly address me before. Today was going to be a special day, it seemed. I tried to steel myself. “Thank you for letting me touch my clit,” I whimpered to him as I sat frozen in place from the pain of his generously granted “touch.” The wetness from my cunt dripped down past my asshole and gathered into a puddle on the floor in front of me. I continued to whimper, but I knew better than to beg him to let me take the clip off. My pestering would only prolong the pain. “Your cunt seems to be delighting in the attention. Why are you being selfish?” I told him the pain had faded to a dull throbbing, and that this had only increased my anxiety about how much it would hurt to eventually take the clip off. Pain now, pain later - my whole world was bound to be pain, and I despaired. I should’ve known it was too early to despair. “Well then. Take it off. And show.” (23 minutes) I sent him a short video of my taking the clip off. ‘Please please please see my pain, hear it, savor it,’ I begged in my head. ‘Please let this be enough.’ I licked the floor clean of my cunt slime, ready to be done touching my cunt for the night. “My clit went into hiding,” I weakly joked. “But it’s still bubbling its happiness.” “Maybe you broke it.” I wasn’t really joking about this point. “Put the clip back on.” I waged a war within myself to tamp down the protests that tried to claw their way out, and clipped my now swollen clit again. “I had mistakenly thought you were done allowing me touch my clit,” I told him. “I’m nice. I’m generous. Remember?” “Yes, thank you. My fist hole is crying with gratitude.” “Show me.” Every brush and jostle against the clip sent sharp bursts of pain shooting through my clit. “Please please please, you are too good to me. I don’t think I can handle so much generosity all at once.” The pain had begun radiating out beyond my clit, and the throbbing ache in my cunt kept the sharp bite in my clit company. “Well, I’d hate to interrupt your fun. Let’s wait until it stops dripping.” “Please no, I don’t know when it will stop, if ever.” I stopped short of breaking down and begging him to let me take the clip off. I couldn’t. The risk of being deemed ungrateful was too high. He couldn’t keep me clipped forever; it had to end some time. Didn’t it? I lost sight of hope for the end. “Please don’t tell you to take it off? Ok.” I crumbled a little bit more. He was toying with me, and I was to go along with it. But I didn’t know if I could continue playing my part much longer. “Take it off,” he finally said. (14 minutes. Only?) “Ohh thank you thank you.” I poured out my gratitude even as I knew that taking the clip off would likely kill me dead. “Thank you for letting me touch my clit,” I said as soon as I had recovered from that specific, horrid pain that accompanies the rush of blood flow back into a clipped clit. I gingerly climbed back into bed, exhausted but relieved to be done. “Good girl,” he said. And then I lost my mind completely. His praise has that effect on me. I’m powerless to resist it. “Oh. I am broken. I feel more aroused now.” Why why why did I have to say that. “Would you like to touch again?” This is the point at which I started crying. I’d set myself up for that checkmate, and I knew it. Because there was no winning for me. If I said no, he would considerately tut tut about how he might have allowed me to touch my clit in an enjoyable if only I had said yes and wasn’t it a pity that I had refused his offer. If I said no, I just knew that the binder clip would be back on my clit. But what if… what if I said yes and he let me touch? Hope hurts more than anything. I cried because I knew I was hoping for the hopeless. “Yes please…” “By all means. Put the clip back on. And let’s see if you can edge by toying with the clip. Film it.” I felt ragged as I followed his instructions. The pain in my clit reached unbearable new heights, peaking even beyond the arousal that had driven me to this predicament, but it was matched by the pain in my mind as I felt utterly defeated. I was drained and exhausted from being so desperately, uncontrollably aroused that I’d hung on to that tiny glimmer of hope. For being so stupid and hopeful when I knew that I didn’t really deserve to touch my filthy, greedy fist hole. I cried, and I flicked and pulled and poked at the binder clip on my clit, trying to reach an edge I knew was beyond reach. It was only after I’d sent him the clip of my trying that I noticed that my cunt had leaked all the way to the floor again. Seeing my pathetic desperation so clearly reflected in the puddle of cunt slime made me wish I could edge damn it. “Do you want to keep touching,” he asked. “You may.” “I don’t want to. No. But I can’t bear to stop if I might be able to edge, even if it can only be like this. But I do feel as though my clit will fall off right now.” I stalled for a bit because I was too scared to touch the clip again. I wanted to never take the clip off because touching it would only intensify the pain, but I also wanted to hurry to it because every second the clip was on meant an exponential increase in the pain of taking the clip off. That seemed to give him an idea. “Take the clip off. You then have thirty seconds to rub your clit to your heart’s content.” (25 min) I almost keeled over from the blinding pain that pierced through me the instant I released the clip from my clit, and I only barely managed to stifle the wail of pain that flew out of me. But through that horrid, gut wrenching pain, my mind clumsily grasped at two thoughts. “Thirty seconds.” “Edge.” I wasted precious seconds writhing in pain and then precious more unable to touch my clit properly through the pain. But slowly, it started to feel good and I felt myself getting closer, yes really, I’m so aroused that under painless circumstances, thirty seconds would be more than enough to edge, and the pain happily became a secondary concern as I felt my clit begin to tingle in that almost delicious way… and of course, of course, my thirty seconds was up. I felt too empty to cry. “Thank you so so very much for letting me touch my clit and hurt and cry and sink even further into this haze of desperation and pain and despair where I belong.” Devotional Training. -- source link