People are complicated, and everybody’s different, but over time some patterns emerge. Generally, as I get to know another person, if I’m in an intimate relationship with them, over time I increasingly figure out things they like and don’t like, what turns them on and what turns them off.

But then there is a very small subset. People with whom it’s difficult to figure out what they want, because what they want is whatever I want. People who derive great pleasure from me doing whatever I want to do with them.

Over many years of spending time with K, who very much orients this way, I have learned so much more about the phenomenon, at least with her.

I don’t know how universal this is, even among the sub subset. With K, it’s not just that she is deeply aroused by the idea, or the reality, that I’m Free to do whatever I want with her, or to tell her to do whatever I want her to do. She relishes my commands, yes — but it goes so much deeper with K.

With her, the power exchange seems to be metabolic. She’s not just aroused by serving me, or by engaging in activities that I want her to engage in. For her, what I desire actually becomes what she desires.

If what we call in Fetish circles “power exchange” is on a spectrum, maybe K is all the way on one end of it. A level of submission that leads to a sort of bodily transformation: once she viscerally understood what aroused me, this became exactly what aroused her, too.

It’s a truly head-spinning level of influence to have over someone, and it only gets more that way the more I look into it — and experience it. Specifically, what tends to spin my head are the inherent contradictions involved here.

I don’t know how it is with other folks, but with K, what she desires is not just to do what I say, but to be who I want. It’s not a cerebral thing, it’s deeply physical: she is aroused by what arouses me, viscerally.

And one of the things that arouses me most is her unresolved arousal.

I’ll illustrate, taking a typical morning from the last stretch of time we had together.

“You can eat me,” was the first thing I said.

I learned a long time ago not to ask if she would eat me, because in our context this could come off as a bit insulting, as if I’m questioning her basic nature. I’m not a stranger. I know what she wants to do, and certainly eating me is one of those things, always.

“Thank you,” was her predictable, and completely heartfelt, response, as she quickly got down to it, after briefly touching the head of my penis to her forehead first, a sort of devotional practice.

Physiologically what was happening as soon as I said “you can eat me” was K’s Pussy was becoming lubricated. Within about a minute of performing actual fellatio, K was dripping wet.

To reach the source of that river, we’d have to look at several tributaries. K is aroused by pleasing me, this is one thing. She is also aroused by what we might call the complete inequality of the situation here. As usual, I’m not eating her. She’s eating me, and she is being neglected. This denial is also arousing, for both of us.

At some point I pull her around, so she’s laying on her back. She’s beautiful, it’s good to see her body in daylight. She spreads her legs, with me between them.

“Don’t let me cum this time,” she pleads.

Just the phrasing of this statement says so much about the inherent contradictions here for K.

What K wants, viscerally, is what arouses me, which is for her to be in a state of arousal. Which is sort of like a feedback loop that never reaches a conclusion of any kind. But for both of us, it is the desired state for K to be in — aroused, tense, wet, on the edge.

Eating me has gotten her there already, and once I enter her and push all the way in, that’s enough.

“Stop,” she whispers in a shouting kind of way.

“You’re right there already?” I ask, knowing the answer, as it’s obvious.

“Yes,” she replies.

K is already so close to the edge of a massive Orgasm at this point that she can barely speak. Just saying “yes” is something she does with difficulty, as if just opening her vocal chords to allow a syllable out could inadvertently release the Orgasm, too.

The way it is at this point is if I stayed directly on top of K, I’d barely be able to move without her telling me to stop. So I reposition K and I, so I’m partially to her side. A nice position for slow and deep fucking, but a bit less intense for K’s clit. In practice, it means I can thrust in and out several times before she needs to stop me.

In this position, stopping can be very temporary. It’s the regular rhythm of movement that needs to be interrupted, in order to keep the impending Orgasm in an impending state.

If I stop for longer, though, it gives K the time she needs to collect herself enough to say something other than “stop.”

I stop for a while now, maybe half a minute, lying there, fondling K’s leather collar, her rigid abdomen, and her pert breasts, which have grown lately, because of some medication she’s on.

“I don’t want to cum,” she manages to say.

This is one of the hardest phrases to utter for K. It’s not that she doesn’t mean it — she does — but saying “I don’t want to cum” makes her want to cum so much, that it’s hard to prevent the Orgasm from breaching the seawall.

Especially while I’m there inside her, and I’m going to thrust into her an such an opportune moment, to emphasize the situation, so she’ll say, “stop” as soon as she finishes saying “I don’t want to cum,” and be right up against that contradiction again.

What a contraction it is. It’s hard to even fathom, really. If you think about it, how many other desires are like the desire to cum, when you’re on the edge of Orgasm? How many other urges are that strong in life? At least in terms of situations we might regularly encounter, the only similarly powerful desires are the ones that maintain life itself — the desire to take another breath of air, to drink water when you’re really thirsty, to eat when you haven’t eaten in a long time, to empty a very full bladder, that sort of thing. Unlike these examples, though, orgasms are always optional.

Part of the contradiction is that being in a state of on-the-edge-of-Orgasm arousal is to be in a state where what you desire is what every cell in your body is telling you you desire, to resolve this state of impending Orgasm and to actually release the Orgasm. But if you also have a desire to remain in that pre-orgasmic state, that’s a pretty basic contradiction, if ever there was one.

Every time K says “don’t let me cum this time,” “I don’t want to cum,” or, perhaps especially a well-timed “stop,” it’s at the same time a statement of actual desire and a denial of pleasure — but that’s only the tip of the iceberg. More fundamentally, every time she says “stop” it’s a reaffirmation of her devotion to me, and her devotion to her own submission, which is a complete, unerring devotion.

These phrases — “stop,” “don’t let me cum,” “I don’t want to cum” — are expressions of devotion, just as K’s state of arousal is.

What’s interesting to note, though, is that K wasn’t always so easily aroused. When we first met, we had intercourse for long periods of time where she would go for many minutes without having any orgasms. It was when she gradually internalized the knowledge that her unresolved arousal aroused me that she became so multi-orgasmic, oddly enough. That is to say, she changed. Her bodily responses to things changed, according to my desires.

And what a change it is. Before, keeping the orgasms at bay meant taking an occasional break from especially vigorous intercourse. Which came with a “stop,” yes, but not like more recent times. Now, keeping the orgasms at bay is a constant act of vigilance, a constant face-off between bodily desires and devotion to an apparently higher cause.

No matter how much it goes on, K never even thinks of complaining about her difficulties. Though in the daylight, her facial expressions belie the intensity of the situation — how hard it is to be a good member of this very small Sex cult.

“You can put your hood on,” I said often, in the mornings.

“Thank you,” always came her wonderfully predictable reply, as she quickly complied.

It’s a thin hood, she can easily breath through, but it hides her expressions. K can maintain a placid expression pretty well if I tell her to, but it doesn’t come naturally. I find it more relaxing if she hides her face behind a hood. Then when I thrust hard and she whispers that staccato “stop,” accompanied by the intake of breath, the further tensing of her abdomen, the tensing of her upper thighs, I don’t have to look at the tensing of her face.

Most any other woman I’ve ever known who might even be an enthusiastic participant in this sort of power-exchange relationship has reasonable limits. At some point, the dam might break, or crack. Or even if they can hold it, they get tired — the activity goes from being arousing, to being a weight too burdensome to carry, and they utter phrases like, “I can’t take it anymore,” or even “please let me cum.” K has never said either of those things, not once.

There was a fairly predictable progression to these more recent sessions with K, though. They didn’t involve complaints, but there was a progression from a more playful atmosphere, to what we might call a more focused one.

In the beginning, hitting the edge and reaffirming with a sharp “stop” that this impending Orgasm should be denied might be followed with a playful, if breathless, “don’t let me cum,” or even, “I don’t want to cum.” After some time, though, the “stop” would only be accompanied by the physical sensations — tightness, tension, rigidity, a wet spot on the bed, glistening sweat, with no more words about not Cumming.

It’s not that at this point K is thinking she should cum — though her body is veritably screaming at her that she should do just that, she will admit. She’s also not necessarily thinking about how she shouldn’t cum, though — she’d like to be thinking about how she shouldn’t cum, and she’d like to be able to tell me that she shouldn’t cum, but she reaches a point where just saying anything like this, or even thinking these things, would make her cum. So eventually all she can do is engage in the physical activity involved with telling me to stop at the right time.

Ultimately, she’s just engaged in a pure struggle between intense bodily desire and intense devotion of a semi-religious nature.

With each thrust comes the beginning of the wave that threatens to crash down with the second thrust, and is impossible to stop after the third, so the quick “stop” comes when it has to. I pause, and resume. “Stop” comes again after two or three thrusts, and then one or two, and then I’m barely moving before the next “stop.” Eventually this is the situation in pretty much any position.

The most perfect transition should have a name, but I’m not sure what to call it. We kept doing it. After an hour of this stopping and starting intercourse, once K is in a state of pre-orgasmic devotional tension that seems to be bordering on delirium, it’s no longer a single thrust that elicits a “stop” anymore.

It’s once I’m already inside, starting to slide out, well before the next thrust, that I hear the next “stop.” Just by quickly withdrawing my penis, she would cum. If I did it. I stop as instructed. When I start again, I withdraw very slowly. She almost has to stop me, but doesn’t. Her Pussy, now empty, is in a perfect state of need.

“You can eat me,” I say.

Her response is a breathless “thank you,” as if she feels relieved.

While I think I understand her pretty well at this point, I’m still wondering about the source of the breathlessness, the sound of relief. My guess is it comes from many places. Relief that she has once again succeeded in being a perfect toy, and maintaining her state of arousal without going over the edge. Relief that she once again never once complained, and that she succeeded in telling me to stop soon enough to avoid making any mistakes. Relief that she was still allowed by her owner to be in her preferred state of unresolved arousal. Relief that she now has the chance to serve me in a new way.

I feel a sort of relief, too. There is little to compare with the exquisite feeling of having brought someone to such a state of arousal, and specifically the way K’s Pussy feels when it has reached that point, that just by pulling out too forcefully, she might go over the edge. There is a swollen quality to her Pussy at this point, exquisitely swollen.

Fellatio now is a new thing, with an urgency it lacked an hour earlier. In the beginning it was more of a way to say good morning. Now, each time K pushed me in to her mouth again, it was like this movement correlated to a thrust her Pussy was being denied.

She positioned herself with her legs over one of mine this time, so that while she ate me, she could rub her wet, swollen Pussy up against my leg. I have come to understand this rubbing as another devotional practice, which signifies submission. She has a very nice Pussy for eating, but this way is better. It’s very clear who is being served, and this is made clear once again with each humble rub of her hard clit on my leg.

It’s also a devotional practice in the sense that it is yet another way to bring K to the edge. Which, in a sense, may be another source of K’s relief to be eating me: no longer does she need to rely on me complying with her urgent whispers to stop moving, lest she break her morning’s abstinence. She was more in control — in control of keeping herself in a state of pre-orgasmic hunger and denial, rather than needing me to actively participate in maintaining her state of rigidity.

Despite the crude circumstances, as aroused as K was, getting to the edge by rubbing her clit on my leg was easy for her. Without me being part of the pacing of how often she was hitting the seawall, left to her own devices, she hits it more often. As she’s eating me with my leg between her thighs, this takes the form of her Pussy quickly popping off of my leg, accompanied by a moan — muffled of course by the fact that her mouth is fully engorged. She gives herself a couple seconds to collect herself, while eating me, before she starts up with the rubbing again.

There’s a point I like to wait for, when the rubbing stops, at least for a time, and K devotes herself completely to fellatio. She does this not because her fellatio skills get even more impressive when she’s less distracted — though this is the case — but because her Pussy ultimately reaches the stage where she can no longer trust the rubbing of it to be something that won’t result in an unwanted Orgasm. An unwanted Orgasm so desired that the Pussy must at this point be completely denied.

It’s relatively easy to be a proper deity and accept K’s devotional sacrifice, or sacrifices, really, in the morning. I know she’ll get through the day just fine, without sleeping. The tension doesn’t seem to do her any harm. Which is good, because it sure comes with the territory.

Once K’s Pussy is too aroused for fucking, and then too aroused for rubbing, it can just be appreciated visually. And what a spectacle to behold it is. It always seems like a living being at this stage of arousal, like it’s breathing, or gasping.

I position K in the 69 sort of arrangement, with one of her legs propped up, so I can have a perfect close-up view, as she continues to engorge her mouth. I gently insert my finger, to see if it’s still so swollen. Yes. It reacts with a shiver, glistening in a creamy kind of way. I hold it in my hand, feeling its warmth and wetness, as I cum in K’s mouth. Her Pussy tenses in my hand as I do. Then K’s whole body relaxes slightly, as she continues to eat me until my erection is subsiding.

Having received the sacrament that she is always seeking, in the form of my cum in her mouth, along with the sacrament of her own devotional denial, K is giddy, in a state of real joy.

“Shall we get dressed and go find some coffee?” I ask.

K smiles broadly as she veritably bounces to her feet and begins to put on articles of clothing. For the first time since we went to bed the night before, she looks me squarely in the eye and holds my gaze.

“You’re amazing,” she says, without hesitation, clearly meaning it.