No Orgasms for Me Because I'm a Sex Object
Log entry in ‘My Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods.’
This post is intended as entertainment only for mature audiences. Reader discretion advised. Please simply & kindly skip it if it offends you. And before you panic and call the incest police… It was my friend’s father, not my dad. Thank you so much! Hugs!
I write erotica novels & short stories. I also publish handbooks on how to train us, young women, for sex and share my sex confessions as a spermivore, spermaholic, and submissive teen (18+) slut. Yes, a slut! And I’m proud of it! Sex is good, and girls who love sex shouldn’t have to hide and pretend to be “pure.” Sex is pure! And naked skin is natural. #FreeTheNipple #FreeThePussy
Dear Journal,
I've been thinking a lot about my Great Orgasm Ban lately. It's been two and a half years since my eager little clit experienced the electric rush of climax. Two and a half years of constant arousal with zero release. What started as a crazy holiday experiment has become something of a lifestyle choice. And you know what? The dirty old men of the world seem to fucking love it.
I guess I should explain how this whole mess started. It was two-and-a-half years ago in December 2022, and I was 23 — young, dumb, and full of terrible ideas that somehow turned out brilliant. I was spending a weekend at the beach house of my best friend, Madison. With her husband, Darnell, we were planning holiday sex parties. I was sprawled across their living room floor with a bottle of champagne and a guest list of gray-haired perverts who'd been vetted and approved for access to my young flesh.
New Year's Resolution: Serving Saggy Balls with My Perpetually Wet Cunt
"What if we try something different this year?" I remember asking, my tipsy brain connecting dots that probably shouldn't have been connected. "What if I don't get to come at all?" The thought had been brewing in my head for weeks. After all, when you really examine what objects are supposed to do, having orgasms isn't on the list.
Madison had raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Darnell's face had split into that predatory grin that always makes my hairless pussy dampen.
"Objects don't have orgasms!" I quickly warmed to my thesis. "Dildos don't come. Fleshlights don't come. If I'm truly embracing my role as a sex object for men to use, why should I get pleasure?" My mind was connecting the dots between my existence as a living, breathing cock-pleasing device and the philosophical implications of experiencing pleasure. It seemed suddenly so obvious.
I'd always known that us, young women, were designed by nature to be playthings for men, especially those distinguished silver foxes with their weathered hands and old cocks. That's a topic for another journal entry — the natural objectification of youthful female flesh — but the point is, I'd been living as a willing sex toy for a while. The orgasm ban just seemed like the logical next step in my evolution from person to thing.
"For one year!" My wobbly tits jiggled as I sat up straighter. "Starting January 1st. No orgasms. Not one. If I'm about to come, whoever's using me has to stop it immediately."
The rules were simple, really. Any man could use my young female body however he wanted. They could pound my tight young ass until I cried. They could fuck my willing throat until mascara ran down my cheeks. They could pinch, spank, and torture my sensitive nipples until I begged for mercy. But the moment my traitorous body showed signs of climaxing, they had to prevent it.
The Blonde Hole Who Never Cums (But Makes Your Dick Explode)
Those first few months were fucking torture. My juicy thighs would clench involuntarily during sex, my waxed pink taco constantly swollen and desperate for release. I'd wake up humping my pillow, stopping myself just before tipping over that delicious edge. Men would look at me with confusion when I'd suddenly push them away during particularly good fucks, my body trembling on the precipice of forbidden pleasure.
"No, no, Grandpa — you have to stop! I'm getting too close!"
Some of them thought it was hilarious. Others found it frustratingly hot. A few were genuinely concerned about my mental health. But all of them, without exception, seemed to enjoy the power it gave them — the knowledge that I was suffering exquisite denial for their amusement.
Before the end of 2023, I was a master of orgasm avoidance. My body had adapted to the constant state of arousal, like someone living at high altitude eventually adjusts to thinner air. That's when Madison suggested I keep going.
"You're different now. More focused. More intense. The men can't get enough of you."
Her husband nodded his agreement, his dark eyes evaluating me like a particularly valuable piece of livestock. "The denial sharpens you. Makes you more dedicated to serving."
They were right. Without the distraction of my own pleasure, I'd become hyper-focused on providing maximum satisfaction to the almighty cocks that visited my body. Every blowjob was an act of worship. Every fuck was a sacred offering of my flesh. I'd learned to derive my satisfaction from men’s explosive releases, collecting male pleasure instead of experiencing my own.
Madison paused, considering. "One more year." And just like that, 2024 became Year Two of the Great Orgasm Ban.
The effects on my sex life were profound. Old men who'd been satisfied with occasional access to my willing holes now requested regular weekends. My reputation spread through their privileged circles — "That blonde girl who never comes but makes sure you do." I became something of a collector's item among the geriatric set, a specialized sex object offering a unique service.
Denial Dynasty: How Kings Claimed My Twitching Pussy as Their Throne
Which brings me to the survey. Last holiday season, on a whim, I decided to poll the men – you – who read my sex diaries. "Should I continue the orgasm ban into 2025?" I was expecting a fairly even split.
Holy shit, was I wrong.