Orgasm Control: 100 (Denied) Submissive Fantasies to Edge To - Mistress Blunt

I like to have submissives detail their kinky fantasies and perverted thoughts while they are under my strict orgasm control.

Last year, a submissive wrote 100 Things to Not Think About When Mistress Blunt Won’t Let You Cum for me.

This year, I had another eager submissive record every time they thought of me while edging under my orgasm control.

This is what they sent me. Enjoy!

(Content Warning: Very hot content ahead, some of it including unrealistic fantasies. Not all fantasies need to be realized to be hot.)

I was just listening and following along with a meditation. “Bring to mind someone who is an inspiration to you.” Immediately you appeared. “Ask them to come and sit quietly with you.” I’m paralyzed in something like fear, mixed with more. Nevertheless you stalk closer, loom over me, study me. I am your prey.
For no damn reason at all, upon standing up from my desk, I imagined you ambushing me from behind and wrapping one hand possessively around my cock, giving me just a few agonizing strokes. Even in the real world, I was helpless to do anything but enjoy the sensation of my cock pulsing against my jeans.
Just the idea of being kept in your basement, forever. Identifying as only your toy, your slut. Never seeing another person again, unless I’m hooded.
I’m on my knees, wearing a shock collar and a remote-control vibrating plug. I know exactly what you’re doing to me with your clicker training, but that only makes it worse when it works on me anyway.
I am chained to the floor of your cabin in the woods. Eventually you return, pushing a bound woman in front of you. It’s my wife, and I spend the evening watching you fuck her into submission.
My morning wood calls to me. Still half asleep, I drag my hands up above my head, just to be safe. “Good boy,” I hear your voice whisper in my head. “Let me help you with that.” I feel you strap my arms down. “Say, ‘thank you, Mistress.’” The words are a prayer on my lips. “Now, let’s begin.” You start by lubricating my cock with its own precum, and in that moment, I know you will break me.
Just after taking my anal virginity, you unwind the promised chastity key from your harness. I watch in dismay as you merely drop it into your purse with all the others you keep. “You misunderstood me, darling. It’s not enough to beg for my strap. I have to believe you crave it.”
Entombed in sand from the neck down, I have never been so immobilized. I am just a face for you to cum on, over and over. Suddenly you rise to your feet as a wave of seawater surges around me. “Oh dear, I don’t have time to dig you out before high tide.” You take your time readjusting your bikini. “Don’t worry, Mommy brought your snorkel.”
I kneel before the mirror, naked, and lace my hands together behind my head. Behind me, you reach around and rub the ointment all over my cock and balls, slowly, methodically, lovingly. Before long the stinging sensation sets in. As instructed, I begin to repeat over and over, “Thank you, Mommy, I won’t touch without permission again.”
The interrogation ends, and I sink into my restraints. You make yourself comfortable with my now unlocked phone, starting with the password manager. “It doesn’t seem right that you know the ‘master’ password. Don’t worry, I’ll let you earn access back into each account, one at a time.”
I watch in desperation as you play with the parental controls on my phone. “From now on, you’ll need to beg for screen time, little one. Mommy knows what’s best for you.”
At last the whipping ends, leaving me stretched out on your whipping post with tears flowing down my face. You lift my chin so that I must look you in the eye. “It’s okay. This is how you learn.” I realize I am crying not in pain but as catharsis.
I kiss, lick, worship your brand new Chloé boot, knowing it’s only a matter of time before you decide to remove it from my chest and return to seeing how much weight my balls can take.
Pushed to the limit, I murmur my safeword. You say only, “child’s pose,” and I gratefully sink to my knees and fold forward. From my position of worship, I peek at you completing your routine, the deliberate motions of your divine body awakening my desire. You approach me, calling, “Roll forward to cobra pose.” Soon, my lips are a mere tantalizing inch from your pussy. You just pat my head. “That’s as close as you get until you show me you can keep up.”
I kneel at your bedside, naked, my cock standing at attention as you take your pleasure from Owen once again. It’s overwhelming: the sight of you edging him repeatedly, the sound of his helpless moans, the smell of uninhibited sex. No touch is all you need to reduce me to a desperate mess.
Along with your guests, you admire the patterns of wax cooling on my chest and on the ropes binding me so securely to the post. Smiling delightedly, you begin to adorn me with flowers, and I realize I’ve just become party decor.
And now I’ve become the party entertainment, with each guest receiving two clothespins to place on my body. Locking your gaze on mine, relishing my fear, you announce that you’ll remove each one with your whip.
Deep in the woods, you caress my bound, naked body with your dagger. “We are here to offer a sacrifice. I’ll let you make one suggestion before I decide on our offering,” you whisper as you lift the head of my cock with the point.
I watch, amused, as you spend half our fancy dinner date seducing our server. You tell me to leave an enormous tip as you write our hotel room number on the check. “I think you’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight,” you say with a laugh.
Your gown for this banquet doesn’t leave much to the imagination. But every time you touch me, your hand goes to the rope harness that only you know is tied beneath my tux.
You straddle me in bed, taunting me with your perfect body. “Suck Mommy’s tits,” you murmur, and I begin my worship.
I stand in tree pose, my arms above me, my right foot resting on my left thigh. You begin stroking me, slowly, sensually. I know that if I can maintain the pose on my own, you will let me cum, eventually. But as my strength ebbs, I realize that I will be begging for the help of your rope instead.
Securely hogtied, I remain afloat only with your support. “I dedicate you to my service. You will emerge from these waters owing me your life. Or you will not emerge at all.” You slowly push me under, curious to see what truth will be revealed.
At last the car falls silent and still. You open the trunk, letting in the chirping of crickets and the lush smell of the fields after rain. I pull pointlessly at the zip ties as my eyes adjust to a starry sky and your face looking down at me with a smile. You hold up a slim metal collar and leash that gleams in the moonlight. “Welcome to your new life.”
When you suggested that we recreate some classic bondage scenes, I didn’t think you meant the fetish attire, too. I teeter in heels and stockings as you whip me, my hands in their opera gloves bound to the lacing bar above me. It’s at some point while you’re lacing me into the Sweet Gwendoline spanking corset that my desire to see how I look eclipses my initial embarrassment.
Bent over, I hang on for dear life to the suspension cuffs mounting my hands on either side of the mirror. I count each stroke as I stare at my own tear-streaked face. I will try harder next time not to disappoint you.
I awaken in a cage, naked, remembering nothing since following you home from the club. “Oh good, you’re awake.” You tower over me, place one foot between the bars, still sweaty from dancing. “I would start licking if I were you.”
On a rainy day, you catch up on your knitting from your coziest chair. After winding another skein of yarn for you, I return to my place beneath you, massaging the feet peeking out from your blanket to the sounds of a crackling fire and the clicking of your metal needles.
It is your birthday, and you are surrounded by the carefree laughter of your found family. Part of me aches for more of your attention, but as I see how far your world extends, I grow more grateful that I am allowed a place in it.
Today is not a good day. You’ve canceled your appointments and are resting in bed. I get to work in the kitchen, preparing your favorite soup.
You move to straddle me, eclipsing the setting sun in the bedroom window. Outlined in the golden hour light, you are a silhouette of feminine perfection, a goddess. I rise to begin my worship.
Kneeling naked before the bonfire, I begin to feel the sweat trail down my neck. You are staring into the flame, inscrutable. For a moment I think you really would sacrifice me to it. For a moment I can imagine no greater purpose than to burn for you.
“Would you like to be whipped now?” I can’t meet your gaze, shake my head. I flush red. Your hand on my growing erection knows the truth.
The judge smiles warmly at me. “It takes a lot of courage to admit that you’ve been financially out of control, buying all these luxury goods only to give them away. I hereby approve your application for conservatorship, under the watchful eye of your advisor, Ms. Blunt.” The Zoom call ends and you murmur, “Good boy,” as you wrap the collar around my neck.
Relaxing into the park bench in this somewhat secluded corner of the garden, you smirk as I look around uncomfortably at who might be able to see us. I kneel before you, begin my worship with your boots. Soon I am lost in you. Your pleasure is everything.
Our cabin upstate remains snowbound. I see you getting restless, staring out at the white expanse all around us. Not another living soul for miles. You announce, “Let’s see how many different ways I can mark you.”
I think I am nearing my limit. It would be smart to slow down. But then you look me in the eye and say evenly, “You can give more.” And I do.
Arriving at your home, I surrender all my clothing to show my vulnerability. I accept the rubber hood, because who I was no longer matters. All that matters is that I serve and be of use.
I find peace and joy just in the crafting and preparation of your ritual bath. I kneel with eyes lowered as you slip into the water. I smile inwardly when you let out a happy sigh, but my heart leaps when you say, “You may adore me.”
I half regret telling you about my earliest kinky crush as we arrive at the door of the Halloween party, dressed as “Hana Solo and Slave Leo”. You pull me forward by my chain leash. “Let’s get going, sweetheart,” you say with a crooked smile as you swat my half-bare ass with your blaster pistol.
In the first light of morning, I watch from my knees on the floor as you slumber peacefully. I think of all your other submissives writing their morning devotions to you. As I whisper mine, you awaken with a stretch so luxurious it will be etched into my mind all day. I begin my service.
You gaze out the window at the city sprawled beneath you, regal as a queen, suited for worship. This memory will stay with me, a reminder that you deserve all that I can give.
We walk through the park together, but we’re not really holding hands. You dig your thumb into a pressure point just to see me squirm.
I should hold out longer, I know, but you have required me to edge almost every hour this weekend. The first orgasm you allowed me since I entered your service cost $100, but the price doubles every time. With the $51,200 I just transferred out of my account, it’s beginning to hurt.
As you play with the TENS unit wired to my genitals, you explain that sluts who can cum from e-stim will never be allowed to cum any other way again.
You have fallen into the habit of marking me just so Mommy can kiss the boo-boo and make it all better.
I feel only my clothes being methodically sliced off my body until you finally pull the hood from my face. “The women who hired me won’t care if you live or die, once you tell me what you know. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you beg to be my toy. This is a good start…” You grab my already erect cock with one hand while the other fetches some twine from the tray next to you.
You finish securing the dildo to the front of my harness gag. I look up at you, my hands secured behind me in the neck-to-wrist restraints, each leg belted into a frog tie. You sit on the bed, spread your legs wide. “Show Mommy you remember how she likes it, and just maybe I’ll let your cock out to play.” Throbbing in my chastity cage, I hobble forward to please you.
I help you dress to the nines for your date, before watching you leave with my chastity keys. You’ve already told me that I won’t be unlocked until one of your dates wants to play with me.
You hoist my other leg up and tie it into place, leaving me suspended in your ropes. Swinging me slowly back and forth, slapping my face with your strap-on, you make me choose what hole you’ll fuck first and which one you’ll fuck hardest.
At first I thought I would endure pain just to prove my devotion, reinforce my submission. Then you found my inner pain slut, lurking in subspace.
You hold my gaze effortlessly, enjoying my desperation as you stroke me to another edge. You pick up one of the stiletto-heeled sandals I bought you, consider it as though seeing it for the first time. “Lovely, but not enough this time. Just a ruin for you.” A moment later, my cum dribbles helplessly down my cock and my head falls back in defeat.
I am completely immobilized by the restraints, so you have no difficulty inserting the collection tube into my urethra. “My intern says that’s 20 edges this time. Let’s see what your yield is now.” You tape the vibrator securely to the head of my cock and start it at full strength.
For no scientific reason at all, I kneel next to you on stage while you present the data from months of experiments on controlling my orgasm.
As always, I start at your feet, worshiping your toes one by one. For each, I thank you for a time when you put me in my place, beneath you, where I belong.
I work my way up your legs to your ass, caressing, massaging, kissing. Thanking you for the privilege of just walking behind you, two paces, on the streets of New York, the sway of your hips keeping me enthralled.
With each kiss, with each lick, I thank your pussy for controlling me, for granting me pleasure, for denying me release, for sharing its inner divinity. Eventually you tell me to shut up, and I worship it properly.
Afterwards, I kneel astride your back. As I massage you, I thank you for letting me serve you, giving me purpose. During the tongue bath that follows, I kiss and lick every single inch of your backside.
I hold your hands in mine, kiss them, thank them for sculpting me into a better man. I suck your fingers, for each one, thanking you for an implement of pain or pleasure that you have applied to my body and to my mind.
I worship your perfect breasts, thanking Mommy for letting me nurse at them, giving me life, knowing what’s best for me.
I embrace you from behind and thank you for letting me revel in your classical beauty. With my lips, I worship the lines of your neck, each series of kisses following the stroke of a Renaissance master’s brush.
I thank the mouth that commands me, but what begins with a worshipful kiss turns into you devouring me, taking control, biting my lips and tasting my blood.
You can see the worship in my eyes as I gaze enraptured into yours. I thank them for seeing me, all of me, right through me. In your eyes, I can see the light of the goddess within you.
I shadow you all evening at the art gallery, holding your bag, fetching hors d’oeuvres, wondering if anyone notices that my hands are actually handcuffed together. But it soon becomes obvious that everyone in your orbit only has eyes for you.
I’m so close, I was sure the last stroke would send me over the edge. Then I notice the sadistic gleam in your eye, as you play with the strand of precum stretching to your fingers. “Today, if you cum, it will be the last handjob I ever give you. Do you still want to cum?” Looking at you desperately, I can’t tell if you’re serious. A moment later I moan in defeat, before begging you to deny me.
The chair is heavier than it looks, and I can barely budge it or the leather straps. On the computer in front of me, Mommy’s content plays in a loop. I know I will later be expected to write a report on my favorite parts, but the vibrators reduce me to a quivering mess, a blur of submission.
I stand by the front door, naked, my hands clasped behind my back. You are heading out to your speaking engagement, pausing just to kiss me on the forehead. “Be a good boy while Mommy’s gone.” The door closes behind you, and I begin my chores.
I run my hands over the silky smooth panties and camisole, then finger the stockings and heels. I thank you for picking out my clothes for me, but you see my uncertainty. “Do you need Mommy’s help to get dressed?” I give you a little nod, and you smile.
We are just watching The Good Fight together, you curled up on the couch, me sitting on the floor beneath you. You take a bite out of a cracker before absentmindedly feeding me the rest, enjoying the kiss of my lips on your fingertips.
“You know how this works,” you say with a sweet smile. “If you don’t want your employer to know how many corporate secrets you revealed to me, you’ll do every slutty thing I say.” I watch helplessly as you set up the camera to record your next round of blackmail material.
After I finish transferring all my investments to the wealth management company you recommended, you give me the contact information for one of your submissives. I learn that she will be the one administering my allowance.
Blindfolded, I test the restraints keeping my hands and feet fixed to the corners of my cot. I relish the security of helplessness before your voice whispers through my headphones my new mantra for the week.
Once a week I am allowed to beg for an orgasm, but this week, as I kneel before you in chastity, you say, “Sweetheart, maybe you should start by begging for an erection.”
You bring me to one agonizing edge after another. I am delirious with need, my cock harder than it’s ever been. In a moment of lucidity, I realize you have no intention of allowing me to have an orgasm. You’re edging me until I beg for chastity.
By the time you’re done, I’m wrapped head to toe, with just one exception. I feel you attach something to my cock, and before long I feel a mechanical, rhythmic pumping. I beg for mercy, but for all I know I am utterly alone. Or you are watching silently as your machine milks me.
Amid the sprawl of the Folsom Street Fair, you park me at a chain link fence, cuffed naked in a standing spreadeagle. You chat with some friends you ran into while passersby write slutty messages all over my body with the sharpie you left for them in my mouth.
I kneel in front of you, jerking myself slowly. You lean forward in your chair, legs spread, resting an elbow on one knee. “Do you like what you see? Do you belong on your knees?” I know I am only permitted to say the words, ‘Yes, Mistress.’ “Do you want to keep touching yourself? Will you yield all your secrets to me? Do you want to be a good boy for me?” What began as interrogation swiftly begins to feel like indoctrination.
I hold myself still, on my hands and knees in front of your chair. I focus on my breath. How each part of my body feels. The weight of your feet on my back. Minute after mindful minute passes. I am at peace. I am of use.
The chains connecting my collar, wrist cuffs, and ankle cuffs with the leg of the desk are mostly symbolic. I can accidentally spend all day on video editing your porn.
At first I thought all your rules for tea service were completely arbitrary, but after weeks of mastering them, I see now the sacred and intimate ritual you built for us.
We are surrounded by other tables, other couples enjoying their meals, but the ambience is quite intimate. You savor a bite of your salmon, and a morsel of my obedience, before you smile and say, “You may eat.”
I follow behind you, trying to keep up with the chain leading from your hand to the metal yoke that holds my hands out to either side of my neck. I must focus on each and every step due to the locks on my feet, and the chain between my ankle cuffs. My cock swells helplessly in your chastity cage. I have never felt so completely owned, so deliriously happy.
“How does that make you feel?” You whisper it in my ear as I lick the heel of your boot, my hands clasped behind my back. Like I’m your little bitch. “Say it again. Louder.”
You are having a house party and I feel completely vulnerable, naked and mounted in a cock and ball pillory, my hands cuffed behind my back. You tell me there’s someone I should meet, but my curiosity turns to panic when you return with the dominatrix I was seeing before you. “You shouldn’t try to keep secrets from us, darling.”
I watch in despair as you rip orgasm after orgasm from my wife, between your strap-on and the vibrator. You haven’t told her that you gave us a single shared budget of orgasms for the year, not that it would matter.
Pinning the head of my cock between two vibrators, you force another orgasm from me, the last of those you budgeted me for the year. I want to cry, but I automatically follow my training, get down on all fours, and lick up the mess I made.
I did not expect the bag over my head to disorient me so completely, but by the time I know what’s happening, I am chained hand and foot. You force a ball gag into my mouth and wave a cattle prod at me. Soon I am shuffling forward, on my way to joining your collection.
A series of belts hold me fast to the post in your dungeon as your apprentice, a Mistress in training, studies my responses to their hands tormenting my cock. I watch helplessly as, following your instruction, they inflict their first ruined orgasm.
My meditation app says that being vulnerable, without imposing emotional labor, is about revealing your scars, not your wounds. I realize in that moment that your training is tracing over my emotional scars, helping me heal around them.
Today we are simply strolling along the High Line, hand in hand. An old man sitting on a bench turns to his buddy and exclaims in a Brooklyn accent, “It’s spring! Love is in the air!” You smirk at me, and I know we are both thinking of the pegging you gave me not an hour ago.
After a day of shopping in London, we are enjoying afternoon tea at Fortnum & Mason. You brandish a scone at me. “Aren’t these delightful?” No one can see your foot beneath the table, tormenting me mercilessly.
When we emerge from skinny-dipping in a waterfall-fed pool on Maui, I discover that you’ve already confiscated my clothes. You allow me only my boots before binding my wrists together behind my back and tying a rope leash around my neck. You promise to give me chances to earn back each garment, one at a time, before we reach the more populated parts of the trail.
In Dubrovnik’s Old Town we descend from our guesthouse room for breakfast to find the other guests in a hushed silence and steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with us. It seems the walls are not as thick as they seemed.
We sit together by the canal, munching on cicchetti and sipping our spritz. It’s cold and wet, you’re wearing the leather jacket you made me buy you in Rome. The sun only now peeks from behind the clouds, but you have a radiance all your own.
At my company’s holiday party, you are half amused and half annoyed by the extravagance of big tech. I introduce you to my vanilla colleagues with some trepidation. You have taken to telling them that you studied reinforcement learning at MIT, and from the look in your eye, I can tell that you won’t hesitate to reveal, if they follow up, that it stands for “Mistress in Training”.
You refuse to attend any Mets games with me, but decide that I may only cum on nights when they sweep a series of three games or longer. You see the protest in my eyes and warn me that you can just as easily make me root for my team to lose.
Our first meeting in person is at the Hungarian Pastry Shop. Somehow, your photos online don’t do you justice. You are simultaneously genuine and warm, as well as exotic and intimidating. I walk up you, falling into your orbit and knowing that everything I have and all that I am will soon be yours.
I recognize now that these dreams of you arc into my past. Did you insert yourself into my memories? Are these glimpses of an alternate reality? I see myself meeting you the summer I lived in New York, my life charting a different course than the one I remember, one full of submission and service.
In my earliest adolescent fantasy, I dangle helplessly from your snare. The moonlight filters through the forest canopy to outline your perfect figure as you strip me, then bind me more securely in your ropes. You explain nonchalantly that trespassing on amazon lands would be the last free choice I ever make. You press my head against your pussy, giving me one chance to convince you to let me live as your plaything for the rest of my days.
I see an eternal goddess in you. Within you is the higher power that planted that first fantasy in my young head, of submission to an amazon Mistress. Within you is the same muse that inspired William Moulton Marston to create Wonder Woman, the amazon who would reform the world of men with “obedience to loving authority”. Are these daydreams of you your lasso of truth, ensnaring me, laying bare my secrets? I have no choice but to submit to you, become vulnerable for you, worship you.

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