Draught of Denial

(A standalone short.)

*

She put something in her drink. But not to take advantage...

*

Someone must have slipped something into her drink. Beyza was usually so careful.

Never would she leave her drink unattended in a public space. That was just inviting disaster. And never would she accept a drink from a stranger; only from her closest friends, and even then she preferred to accompany them to the bar, to witness the bar staff actually prepare it. Some might call her paranoid. She just considered herself risk-aware. There were so many awful men out there, predators who would dose a drink with something debilitating to subdue a woman and abuse them.

But this time she had no idea what had happened. Perhaps it was because she had become hot and bothered, enticed into a conversation about orgasm denial, and had become distracted.

It was at an art gallery launch party. The invitation came from a friend of the artist, although Beyza knew a few of the usual crowd who would attend. Some were even aware of the fringes of kink, so she could share a knowing look with them when conversation edged towards the arousing. Most, though, were tamer. Like the man who was staring at her with something akin to horror, now their conversation was flirting with the idea of tease and denial.

The canvases were erotic impressionism, all reds and pinks, suggestive lines and enticing half-detail. The lights had been set low and spots picked out the artwork giving the launch a hushed and sensual undertone. Now, huddled with a small group in a corner with the free drinks emboldening everyone, conversation had strayed from aesthetic appreciation of the art to its themes and then on to sex and kink in general. Someone had noted that they found the ritual of flirtation more exciting than the eventual act of sex. Someone else had countered that they found foreplay more arousing than the inevitable fucking. Beyza found herself suggested that being teased was sometimes more exciting than climaxing. This seemed to have been an outrageous idea.

"But... why?" the man was still saying, a bemused frown on his face. He sported a wispy beard and a colourful bow tie. He looked rich and a little drunk. "That's like ... I don't know ... unwrapping a chocolate bar, looking at it, smelling it but not eating it."

It wasn't a particularly good simile but Beyza found herself a little excited by the idea.

She herself was fascinated by the concept of denial, to the extent that she had spent some time online reading erotic stories about it, following discussion groups about it, even chatting online to people who did it.

But she let herself down. She had tried edging. She enjoyed it. Yet every time she found herself in the blissful throes of passion, she couldn't help herself. She kept rubbing and toying with herself, tipping over into the throbbing release, her hips thrusting, her fingers a blur, gasping and moaning as the orgasm washed through her. Afterwards, exhausted and sheened with perspiration, she felt spent and disappointed that she had failed to hold herself back. The pleasure was delightful, yes, but it was so brief and faded like a dream.

She had shared this disappointment online and received various replies of support, urging her to persist, outlining the benefits. She even received a few odd anonymous replies telling her that she was "not alone" in her inability to hold herself back and that there were people out there who could "help her". Bitterly she confessed that she would do anything to achieve this control.

Nothing she could share with this group, of course. Instead she tried to skirt around the subject.

"It's, I don't know, all about control," she said quietly.

"Self control?" said the man.

Beyza shrugged, shyly, unsure of how to express it. She set her drink down on the low table around which they had gathered and tried to explain.

"Yes, self, I guess," she said. She felt everyone's eyes on her, now. Usually timid, she felt her heart thudding in her chest at the attention and particularly the subject. "Just, you know, it's good to be ... controlled. To have control I mean." She felt her ears flush as she came too close to exposing her hidden desires to these strangers.

One woman, though, was regarding her with a slight smile. She was slim, youthful and had her dark-hair up in a bun. But she carried herself with a grace and power that suggested maturity.

"Would you let yourself get all pent up and frustrated," the aghast man asked of the various women in their little circle. A few tittered. The woman, however, took a swig of her drink and spoke. Free from the infantile amusement of the others, she was self-assured.

"There is some scientific research that suggests delayed gratification is beneficial," she said.

"Yes! Thank you!" said Beyza.

"Beneficial?" the man scoffed. "How?"

"You've heard of the marshmallow test?" said the woman.

"When you're toasting them on a campfire, if they puff up they taste delicious?"

She indulged him with a sardonic smile.

"No. It was a study conducted a few years ago. Psychologists offered children a choice between eating one marshmallow sitting on a plate before them straight away or waiting and getting two some time later. They tracked their lives for some years after the initial study. Those children who had sufficient executive function to choose the greater rewards later tended to do better in life. Which is to say, those who could delay gratification thrived."

"Huh," he said.

"So some might surmise that exercising the delay of a base drive for gratification would have powerful effects upon one's life," she continued.

"Well, I guess that makes sense," he muttered. "Seems like a strange way to go about it but if there's some concrete benefit at the end..."

"Well, of course. I can't think of any other reason someone might do it. Can you, Beyza?" The woman's tone was innocent but the way she slightly raised her eyebrow, slightly curled her lip into a smile, suggested much.

Beyza felt her chest flush warm with blood and her belly flutter as the woman stared directly at her. She could think of many reasons to prefer an edge over an orgasm and it seemed the woman very well knew this too. Perhaps she herself practised edging? Beyza wondered if she could take her aside and quiz her about her methods. She already fantasised about the benefits. To kindle a burning desire that flowed through her veins all day. To make every touch upon her skin exquisitely arousing. To find that she went through the week aching and wet.

Nothing she could talk about in polite company, of course.

"Of course," continued the woman, "some people find it difficult to assert their own will. I don't know if there is any research on the benefits of ceding that decision to other people. If being ordered to wait for those two marshmallows in the future allows one to exercise self-control or whether it requires one to take that decision oneself. But some people would do anything for a helping hand, so to speak."

It was as if the woman were quoting her own online confessions. This was another fantasy that had been flitting through Bezaya's mind of late. Meeting some sweetly cruel dom who would make that decision for her. He would order her to stop touching herself. He would drive her to the edge but no further. Sometimes, he would promise her release, promise to take her over the edge, and he would; but only to ruin it at the last moment to keep her built up energy and increased sensuality intact.

"It would be an interesting experiment to undertake, wouldn't it?" The woman was talking to the group but Bezaya felt like the words were meant only for her.

There was something very exciting about the dark-haired woman. Something about her knowing look. A little part of Bezaya began to fantasise that this woman was a domme. That she could see into her mind and desires, that she would corner her later at this very party and propose that she would tease Beyza. She would deny her. She would make her beg. Propose to control her completely.

She wondered if she would say yes.

Staring into the woman's eyes, she found herself mouthing the word "yes". Whether it was to herself or to the woman, she couldn't be sure but the woman's smile grew ever so slightly and she seemed to nod, slightly.

"Here's to delayed gratification," said the woman, raising her glass.

Beyza picked up her own glass from the table where she had set it down and raised it to drink to the toast, along with the rest of the group. The room had become loud and busy by then and as the conversation moved on and people ebbed and flowed, the dark-haired woman seemed to melt into the crowd. Hoping to get a moment alone with her, Beyza tried to follow, nudging her way through the throng, scanning people's faces. But she had disappeared.

"Who was that?" she asked their host, when she came alongside her later in the evening.

"Who?"

"The woman with the dark hair. We were talking to her earlier in the corner, you remember."

The host shrugged. "Thought it was a friend of Charlie's," she said. Charlie was the artist whose sensual canvases adorned the walls.

But on pressing Charles, Beyza found he didn't know the woman either. It seemed no-one did.

"Ah, you know these gallery launches," he said. "There are always a few random gatecrashers who dress nicely and slip in for a free glass of wine and a canapé. Would you blame 'em?"

It was a silly fantasy. To think this woman might recognise her urges. Clearly the result of reading too many erotic fictions online. Nevertheless, Beyza felt disappointed. It was curious, though. She didn't understand how the woman knew her name.

*

It was that night she noticed that something was ... different. Those images on the canvases dwelt on her mind. More so, the conversation in that little group in the corner. Most of all, it was that mysterious woman's gaze on her, her eyebrow slightly raised, that slight smile on her lips suggesting a shared understanding of the attraction of tantalism.

Unable to sleep, Beyza slid her hand down her belly, into her panties and between her lips. She found them already moist and sensitive. She just wanted to touch herself. She just wanted a quick, satisfying orgasm, to flood her body with bliss and then to drift into a dreamless sleep.

But as she rubbed and stroked herself she found the release she yearned for elusive. Yes, she became aroused, increasingly so, yes the familiar pleasure radiated out from her core but...

It was as if she had entered a maze. Every stroke of her fingers sent her left and right but the familiar route to release led her astray. All turned around, lost and confused, whenever she thought she was getting nearer she discovered she was further away. She could feel the sweet relief. It was just ... over ... there. But she was separated from it by just one more turn. Just a few steps more. She tried changing her strokes, harder, softer, quicker, slower. God she was so close. Yet all these variations simply made her burn and throb all the more.

She had no idea how long she spent in that state. Her focus narrowed. The rest of the world faded away. All there was was her own fingers, her swollen clit, the mirage of her release just a few strokes away. Eventually thoughts dissolved into just one. A strange one, given that it was just her, alone in her own bed, touching herself:

Please.

Eventually, exhausted, her arm trembling, she slipped away into sleep unsatisfied.

*

All the next day, Beyza pondered that curious, frustrating event. One thing occurred to her above all, however. She had edged without orgasm. And this gave her a peculiar flush of pride.

She even posted online about it, sharing with delight her triumph. A few messages of support appeared in her inbox. A few more of the usual creepy anonymous messages asking for pictures. And one curious anonymous one that simply read: "Good girl. Now observe."

But truth be told it had been a very frustrating day. There had been a distracting itch in her belly, having teased herself for so long the previous night, and every moment of the day she was not occupied with her work she found her thoughts straying back between her legs. Even in the office space she shared with colleagues, she found that when they left the room, she absentmindedly rubbed herself under the desk, trying to satisfy the yearning. There was never enough time to push herself over, though. She only succeeded in frustrating herself further.

That night she was determined to scratch that itch, if only to free herself up mentally for her challenging day of work tomorrow. She went to bed earlier than usual and brought a toy with her, her little pink vibrator, and her laptop.

She settled back, one of her favourite porn selections playing on the screen and, after a little delightful touching and rubbing to really get herself wet, applied the vibrator to her hungry clit.

Again, something was eluding her. She turned the vibrator up a level and pressed it harder against herself. The sweet buzzing tingled through her core, driving her harder and faster towards the edge. She moaned and writhed. Her hips trembled and began to thrust all on their own. Still, though, she felt that strange sense of her orgasm being just a few steps beyond her, lost somewhere in the maze of her own body. It was infuriating. She twisted and turned the vibrator, trying to find just the right angle on her clit.

After a long, long time, she found herself taut on the bed, sweating, her back arched, her thighs spread as widely as she could make them, fingers deep inside herself and the vibrator, full power, pressed firmly against herself, trying, trying to tip over into the relief of what by now would be a body-wracking release.

And then the batteries in the vibrator died.

She let out a bestial moan as her muscles failed and she collapsed onto the bed. She found herself hunched involuntarily into a foetal position, curling around the unsatisfied ache in her belly, to try to quell it. She trembled and moaned, a peculiar emotion washing up and squeezing tears from the corners of her eyes. A faint sob escaped her. She fell asleep like that, curled up, exhausted and frustrated.

*

In the months that passed, Beyza became changed by the constant erotic breeze blowing through her body. The world became filled with desperation and a longing for fulfilment. It did have its benefits, she would be the first to admit. She was able to concentrate on her work with increasing clarity - but only if she made a pact with herself that upon completing some specific task she would reward herself with touches, continuing her quest for that elusive satisfaction she was sure she could find again.

Something else swelled in her. A sense of her own sensuality. She had never noticed before how she had hunched her shoulders or allowed her hair to cover her face. More and more, now, she stood straighter, presented her body to the world, exposed her face, allowed her whole self to reach towards every oncoming moment. Everything in the world felt brighter. Every touch, every interaction, suffused with pleasure.

Having been shy and reserved her whole life, she found herself increasingly daring, increasingly self-assured, held aloft by the burning hope for fulfilment within her.

One evening, taking the train home from work, she noticed a young man staring at her, perhaps attracted by her newfound bearing, the brightness in her eyes, the way she held herself erect these days. She returned his gaze and, when shyly he looked away, she quietly stood and joined him on his seat. He was silent with surprise. Wordlessly she looked into his eyes and ran a hand across his thigh, finding his already swelling cock in his trousers. She took his hand and led him into the toilet at the end of the empty carriage. She closed and locked the door and there she freed him from his trousers, stroked him harder and harder and then slipped him deep into her mouth, sucking and tonguing him, as he whimpered and his eyes closed. The hard warmth in her mouth was almost as good enough a substitute for what she truly longed for: that same swollen stiffness inside her, forcing her over the edge into release. And when he came and moaned and thrust at her mouth, and she sucked harder and swallowed and gripped his buttocks with her hands, she felt the warm spreading satisfaction of service.

She left him at the next station: he staring at her in wonder, she powerful but yet unfulfilled.

Her tastes become more adventurous. The first time she visited a BDSM club she found she could sublimate the insatiable desire between her legs by offering herself up to be spanked, or flogged, or whipped. The delicious burning on her buttocks equalled that between her legs. The shuddering flood of endorphin release was not better than the memories of orgasm she retained; it was just different.

*

She found some satisfaction in documenting her adventures online, much to the surprise of those acquaintances she had previously begged for advice. She entertained them with tales of her exploits and garnered many excited comments. She began to pick up something of a reputation for her denial and wantonness.

She never confessed her deepest suspicion, however. That the dark-haired woman had slipped something into her drink, all those months ago, that had affected her. That prevented her from being able to achieve that full and final release she had taken for granted so often. What a stupid, wasteful time in her life that had been, to throw away all that desire in petty, ephemeral orgasms.

And then, one day, a anonymous message appear in her online inbox that shocked her.

"Do you want release, Beyza?"

Just that. No name, no further content.

She sat very still. There was a flutter of fear in her belly but tempered by a flush of erotic dread. She had never given her name to anyone online.

She typed a one word reply: "Yes."

Her fingers hovered over the return key. Then she deleted her reply and typed another word instead.

"Please."

Waiting for the reply was agony. When it came, it brought more questions. It was an address, a date and a time. The address was familiar to her. It was a club she had discovered in the past few months. Dark and warm, hidden behind an anonymous door in an industrial area of town. A club where people would come to play.

*

On that night, she had dressed in a thin, revealing cotton dress. No knickers. She hadn't worn them for months now. She left her coat at the reception and wandered the various rooms of the club. Unsure what to expect, she simply played spectator for a time.

Eventually, she found herself sitting in a small, dark alcove watching the activities of the various clubgoers.

And suddenly, there she was. The dark-haired woman, dressed quite demurely for such a place, a light cloak around her shoulders that, when she shifted her position, revealed a glimpse of fishnet stockings underneath. She joined Beyza in the alcove, sitting just behind her. They both remained silent for a time, gazing out into the masses.

"Hello, my dear," said the woman. "How have you been?"

"Good," said Beyza. "Different."

"Frustrated?" suggested the woman.

"God, yes, god," said Beyza. She gazed out at the beautiful, diverse, excitingly clad people of the club, some in leather, some rubber, some nude. Each of them caused waves of thrilling desire to rise within her. "You did something to me," said Beyza. "Didn't you?"

"Of course I did," said the woman. "Before I decided to track you down, I spent a great deal of time reading the fantasies you posted online. They stood out for me, dear, amongst all the others. Illiterate, half-formed thoughts, all the others. Yours, though. Yours were precise and elegant. I did enjoy them. They very much attracted my attention. And I lavish my attention on people when they interest me."