Unleashing The Beast

“Hmmm,” Ms. Morrigan mused from her seat on the sofa, across the great room. “I just had a thought.”

“Oh?” I inquired. I was standing at the dining room table, polishing her silver. Naked, as she preferred me to be when I did service tasks for her.

She cocked her head and raised her chin, so she was looking slightly down her nose, with seductively lidded eyes, at me. Or, more precisely, at my penis. I immediately took notice and got even more rigid than I usually was when I was in her presence but occupied with a task.

“I was just picturing myself as a milkmaid.”

“A milkmaid?” I repeated. I looked at her quizzically, sitting there with her feet tucked up under her shapely thighs … which were clad in new black leather pants. “You don’t really … look like any milkmaid I’ve ever seen.”

She laughed, but then she raised her right hand and observed it, as she curled her fingers slightly, forming an invisible cylinder between fingers and palm.

“Just thinking about soft, supple, pink udders, waiting to be milked.”

“Umm …” I stuttered, realizing now that she meant exactly what I thought she meant. “My, um, udder isn’t very … soft right now.”

“I could still milk it.” She began to slowly flex the loose fist she was making, moving it slightly up and down.

I felt my heart skip a beat, then quickly double its pace. The Divyne Ms. M had never discussed providing pleasure to me before; beyond the pleasure she expected me to get from serving her.

It had been almost a year since my relationship with Ms. M had begun. For most of that time, it had consisted of trading lengthy erotic literary exchanges online, in between those rare but intoxicating invitations to come to her home to clean her kitchen or worship her feet.

Then recently she had taken our relationship to the next level, sexually. By asking me to surrender all my orgasms to her.

“Ummm,” I stammered. “You know if you did that, I may … experience … something that I promised not to …”

“Hmmm,” she commented. “Well, I could probably accomplish the same effect from across the room.”

I gulped but realized she was right. I was already involuntarily moving my pelvis to match the rhythm of her hand.

“So … how badly do you want that?”

I could literally hear my heart in my chest. Was my goddess offering me an orgasm? I was awash with confused ambivalence.

“I’m … not sure I’m ready for that,” I replied, my tongue thick in my suddenly-dry mouth. And in truth, I wasn’t ready. I was still getting used to the idea of not having orgasms, three weeks after Ms. Morrigan had matter-of-factly informed me that she wanted me to give them up for her. Interestingly, I had found the second week more difficult than the third. I was learning how not to think about having one today, having one tonight, having one this week. I was learning to be pleased with myself as each day rolled off the finite calendar without me indulging myself in that particular intense pleasure.

I was learning to love the idea that denying me orgasms was actually pleasurable to Ms. Morrigan in exact proportion to the pleasure I was doing without. I liked to imagine that with her powers, her interest and knowledge of mystical things, that she had some magical ability to capture each surrendered orgasm, so that each peak of ecstasy that I was foregoing was not, in fact, lost into the void; but rather summoned by her, across the miles, so she could relish and savor each quivering delight that I was being denied.

She hadn’t given me a duration, or an end date, for my commitment. But I had decided that at any rate, I wanted Ms. Morrigan to have been the recipient of my “personal best.” And I was now three weeks toward that goal …

“I don’t think you’re ready for that either,” she replied. But she didn’t stop her pantomime of gently squeezing and stroking an erection. My erection.

“Hands behind your back,” she ordered. I promptly complied, but quickly realized that consciously not touching myself was just increasing my sensitivity. I was fixated on the rhythmic motion of her hand, and it was like the hypersensitive flesh along the shaft of my penis was pulsating in unison. I could practically feel her hand – for the first time! – warm, soft, and moist.

That hand continued to milk the invisible shaft that it was encircling. I could see, sense, almost feel her moving, three actions at once in perfect harmony – up and down; clockwise and counter-clockwise; looser and tighter. Like a tiny boat rocking in the surf, I thought; and in a sudden effort to steady myself, I found myself widening my stance.

“Huh uh,” she cautioned. “Knees together.”

I gulped and shifted so my knees were touching, and felt the pressure of my thighs squeezing against the engorged thickness at my perineum. It was a dangerous feeling.

“Mm … Morrigan,” I heard myself utter, delighting and frightening myself with the thought that that had sounded like a moan instead of a stutter; that I had just gasped out my goddess’ name without the honorific “Ms.”

I closed my eyes, and had a vision … a vision of my rising orgasm as a brooding, boiling storm cloud, dark thunderheads piling one on top of the other as they ascended and enveloped a snow-capped mountaintop. And the mountain peak was itself a tower of fresh and fragile snow, stacked skyward on a stone precipice. A glacier atop an alp, about to edge past the tipping point and become a raging torrent of unleashed kinetic energy, thundering down the hillside, leveling forests, obliterating villages, capsizing longboats in the now placid fjord below. My orgasm was going to be apocalyptic.

I felt helpless, as if there was ever anything that one solitary man could do to prevent the coming cataclysm; but even if there was, that moment was now passed, and all I could do was watch the face of the avalanche descend and destroy. And then the point was reached, and I heard my own heartbeat and frantic breath as loud as the thunder of the ice shelf crumbling.

And then it stopped.

For a second I could hear the wind in the boughs of the intact evergreens on the mountainside, between the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears; then I opened my eyes. Ms. Morrigan had released her hand from the loose fist it was in, and was casually admiring her nails. My penis was bobbing in the air in front of me.

Ms. Morrigan placed her hands above her breast, fingers splayed open, in a gesture of mock surprise and modesty that mirrored the wide-eyed but devious expression on her face.

My glans flared and I saw -- but did not feel – a pearl of milky semen appear at the tip. But instead of spurting powerfully across the table, it just created a single, sluggish stream that trickled out in slow motion, like opaque shampoo reluctant to leave the bottle, and pooled languidly on the maple tabletop in front of me.

I whimpered. She had ruined me to perfection. From across the room, without touching me.

My shoulders slumped, although my muscles were all still tensed, screaming for release. I could still feel my blood pulsing through my veins, in every part of my body, with every beat of my heart. My cock was still turgid, nodding in front of me, but it was suddenly numb. The avalanche had crested, creating an overhang that cast the peaceful village below in ominous shadow, but it was frozen in place, while the storm clouds dissipated and the sky faded to a lifeless, sullen gray.

I looked up in desperation at Ms. Morrigan, who was repositioning herself in her seat, looking pleased with herself.

“So,” she said, “I guess it’s back to day zero for you, hmm?”

But, but, but, I thought. I hadn’t orgasmed! Not really.

She smiled and shrugged. Then she gestured with her eyes toward the table in front of me. I looked down at the glistening puddle – three weeks’ worth of my essence, wasted, cooling in the evening air on the table in front of me.

Ms. Morrigan waited for my eyes to lock back on hers, then calmly stated, “It looks like you have some cleaning up to do.”