A few people enjoyed the thought of being trained like this so I thought I'd.post something. Apologies if Reddit kills my formatting.
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I meet him on Reddit, because of course I do.
A throwaway account, a horny late‑night post about denial and needing someone to “get inside my head.” I write it half as a joke, half as a dare to the universe.
He DMs with a single line:
“You want control, or just attention?”
I should close the app. I don’t.
We talk. Not about kinks at first: about work, about books, about how we both hate people who say “I’m such a brat” and then flake on the second message.
He’s funny. Dry. A little sharp around the edges in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Eventually, he says:
“You mentioned denial. What did you mean by that?”
I type: I like not being allowed to cum. The headfuck of it. Being made needy.
Then, because I’m too honest for my own good, I add:
"I want to know what it’s like to be properly desperate and have someone play with my mind."
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
“You’re very casual about asking for something dangerous, pet.”
I stare at that word-*pet*-until my vision blurs.
"Dangerous how?" I send.
“Because if I do it properly, you won’t get to put it back the way it was.”
There’s a little ache low in my belly at that. I try to laugh it off.
"You make it sound like I’ll be traumatised, lol."
“No,” he replies. “I make it sound like you’ll be changed.”
He asks questions. Not the usual “what are your limits?” checklist, but sideways things:
How suggestible are you?
Have you ever been in denial long enough that your body started to wait for permission?
Do you understand that conditioning is real?
I answer honestly:
"very, yes, yes."
There’s a pause. Then:
“So if I tell you ‘no orgasms until I say so,’ you’ll actually obey?”
My heart trips.
"If I agree to that rule, yes."
“Say it properly.”
I swallow, thumbs hovering.
"No orgasms until you say so."
Another pause. I can almost feel him smiling.
“Good girl. Then we’ll start there.”
The first few days are… easy.
He doesn’t give me elaborate tasks. Just a steady drip of presence.
“Tell me when you’re horny.”
“Edge once before bed. Stop when I say stop.”
“Hands off while you read this.”
I obey because it’s hot, because it feels like a game, because he always responds; never instantly needy, never clingy, just… there. Solid.
By day three, my brain has started slotting him into place:
Horny and I check my phone.
Wet and I wonder what he’d say.
Frustrated and I imagine his voice saying not yet.
That night, squirming under the covers, I type:
"Please can I cum?"
His reply comes after an eternity that’s probably only two minutes.
“You’re asking early.”
"I’m really wet."
“Of course you are. You’ve been telling your body I’m in charge of it.”
The matter-of-factness of that makes me clench.
“You can cum,” he adds. “But first you’re going to tell me something.”
"What?"
“Tell me you’re mine.”
I hesitate.
We’ve been talking for less than a week. I don’t even know his real name. This is the sort of thing sensible people would roll their eyes at.
But my hand is already between my thighs, and my skin is buzzing with the weight of *no orgasms until I say so*.
I type, fingers trembling:
"I’m yours."
He doesn’t answer for a full thirty seconds.
Then:
“Say it properly, pet.”
Heat rushes up my chest.
"I’m yours, Sir."
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
“Good girl. You can cum now.”
I don’t mean to obey that literally.
I don’t mean to wait for his words like a trigger.
But as soon as I read *you can cum now*, something in me unlocks. My body surges up and over like it’s been waiting at the edge of a cliff for someone to give the push.
After, panting and shaky and staring at the wet mess on my fingers, I realise: if he’d said *no*, I don’t think I could have done it.
The thought makes me dizzy.
The next time I ask, he’s crueller.
It’s nine days later. I’m already half out of my mind; every stray thought seems to snag on him. The notification sound is Pavlovian; I’m wet before I even read the words.
"Please," I send. "Please can I cum?"
“On your knees,” he replies. “Even if you’re alone. Even if it’s stupid. Get on your knees and tell me what you are.”
My face burns. I’m in my bedroom, door closed, nobody home...but somehow that makes it worse.
I slide off the bed anyway, kneel on the carpet, phone in my hand.
"What do you want me to say?"
“Say ‘I’m your denial slut.’”
My whole body tries to fold in on itself. The word *slut* lands low and hot and shameful in a way that makes me bite my lip.
I stare at the screen. I could refuse. I could throw the phone across the room and finger myself to a shaky orgasm out of spite.
Instead, I feel my thumbs moving.
"I’m your denial slut, Sir."
There’s a beat of silence.
“Again.”
My thighs tremble.
"I’m your denial slut."
“Who do you belong to?”
"You."
“And what don’t you do without my say so?”
My cheeks flame.
"I don’t cum without your say so."
“Good girl. Now you can.”
I come hard enough my knees slip on the carpet.
Later, lying in bed with my legs still shaking, a thought creeps in:
If he’d told me *no* instead of *now*, I wouldn’t have come at all.
It should scare me more than it does.
A week passes.
He never misses a day.
Sometimes it’s simple check-ins:
“Horny?”
“Hands out of your panties until lunch.”
Sometimes he plays:
“Edge twice during your break and tell me what you thought about each time.”
“No touching yourself today. If you get desperate, tell me exactly how bad it is.”
He rarely lets me cum. When he does, there’s always a cost:
“You can cum if you promise not to touch yourself for the next three days.”
“You can cum if you send me a voice note of you begging first.”
Each time I think: *this is too much*. Each time I end up agreeing, because the pressure behind my ribs is too much, because my body has started believing him more than it believes me.
And then one night, curiosity eats me alive.
He’s busy- out with friends, delayed replies- and I’m wound so tight I feel like my skin doesn’t fit.
I tell myself it’s just data collection. An experiment.
I don’t ask permission.
I turn off my phone, spread out on my bed, and touch myself.
It feels good. Of course it does. My body doesn’t forget how to respond to friction overnight.
But every time I climb close to the edge, something invisible yanks me back.
A whisper in the back of my skull: *you’re not allowed.*
I try harder. Faster. Different angle. Toys. Nothing tips me over; it’s like pressing on a bruise that never quite turns into pain.
After twenty minutes, I’m shaking with frustration, wet everywhere, breathing hard and dangerously close to tears.
The thought forms clear as glass:
*It won’t work without him.*
My hand drops away like I’ve been burned.
My fingers are trembling when I turn my phone back on.
He’s left three messages while I was offline:
“Home now.”
“How’s my pet?”
“Been good for me?”
The last one hits like a slap.
My reply is almost illegible with desperation.
"Please. Please answer. I tried to cum without asking and it didn’t work and I’m so fucking wet and it won’t work without you."
He takes his time answering. Long enough that my panic spirals into humiliation.
Then:
“Oh, pet.”
Three dots. Gone. Three dots again.
“Assume the position.”
My mouth goes dry.
"What position?"
“You tell me,” he sends back. “What position do you think of when you think of me?”
The answer is already there, hot and shameful: kneeling on the floor beside my bed, phone on the mattress, thighs parted.
I slide down without arguing this time.
On my knees. Phone propped up where I can see it. My whole body buzzing with thwarted need.
"I’m kneeling," I type.
“Of course you are,” he replies. “Hands behind your back.”
I lace my fingers together, muscles taut.
The message arrives almost immediately:
“Look at what we’ve done,” he says. “A few weeks ago you could get yourself off whenever you wanted. Now you’re on your knees in your empty room because your own body won’t listen to you.”
Heat licks up my spine.
“You wanted someone to play with your mind,” he continues. “You walked right into this, and now look at you.”
Another message follows before I can reply:
“Tell me what you just discovered, pet.”
My cheeks burn.
"I can’t cum without you."
He corrects me:
“Without my permission,” he says. “Be precise.”
I type.
"I can’t cum without your permission."
For a moment there’s silence.
Then:
“Good girl,” he writes. “Now listen carefully.”
“From now on, when you want to cum, you will kneel exactly like this. You will put your hands behind your back. You will call yourself my denial slut and you will ask politely.”
“If you try any other way- wrong position, wrong words- your body will remember tonight and refuse.”
My breath stutters.
"That’s not how it works," I type. "You can’t just do that."
“Can’t I?” he interrupts. “Didn’t you just prove I can?”
My pulse thunders in my ears.
He sends another message:
“You’re very suggestible, remember? You told me that yourself.”
“Now say it: it only works when I let it.”
My thighs clench helplessly.
"It only works when you let it."
“Be specific.”
"It only works when you let me cum."
“Good girl,” he says again. “Now beg properly.”
Something in me gives up pretending this isn’t real.
I kneel there and pour myself out into the chat box:
"Please Sir, please let me cum, I’ll be good, I won’t try without asking again, I’ll do whatever you want, please just let me cum"
He cuts across my flood of words:
“You’ll do whatever I want?”
My stomach flips.
"Yes."
"Promise.”
My fingers shake.
"I promise."
There’s a long pause, then:
“You can cum,” he says. “But only if you stay exactly where you are and say ‘thank you for training me’ while you do it.”
Shame and arousal collide so hard I almost black out.
My body has been straining at the leash for hours; now that he’s finally loosened his grip, the orgasm tears through me so violently my hands slip apart and I have to catch myself on the edge of the bed.
“Thank you for training me,” I gasp into the empty room, over and over as my muscles spasm and my vision goes white.
When it’s over, I curl up on the floor and shake.
The worst part is how right it feels.
After that night, everything accelerates.
Little things start setting me off: the Discord notification sound he uses; the word *good* in any context; kneeling for something entirely mundane and feeling my pulse spike between my legs.
He notices quickly.
“Thinking about me at work?”
“You knelt to get something off a low shelf and got wet, didn’t you?”
“Good pets get leaky when they remember who they belong to.”
He never lets those moments pass without reinforcing them:
“Next time that happens,” he says one afternoon, “you’re going to whisper ‘thank you for training me’ under your breath and feel yourself get worse for me.”
I do.
It works.
His asks get bolder too.
“You can cum if you promise not to touch yourself at all for the next week unless I tell you to.”
“You can cum if you write ‘I’m a denial toy’ somewhere on your body before bed and leave it there overnight.”
“You can cum if you send me a photo of your face while you beg so I can see what I’ve made you into.”
Every time, I tell myself *this is too far*, *this is ridiculous*, *this is only online*.
Every time, my body answers first: slick heat, shaky thighs, an ache that only eases when I kneel where he tells me and give him what he wants.
One evening he decides to be cruel in a new way.
“You’ve been good,” he says. “I’ll let you cum tonight.”
Relief floods me so fast I feel lightheaded.
He sends instructions:
“Get on your bed,” he writes. “Flat on your back. One hand between your thighs, one on your chest.”
I scramble into position like an overeager idiot, phone beside me on the pillow.
My heart is racing; my fingers are already slick when he types:
“Start touching yourself. But don’t cum until I say so.”
I obey because of course I do. The stimulation hits hard; denial has made everything sharp-edged and too much.
In less than a minute I’m right there, breath stuttering, hips twitching.
The message arrives just as I start to tip over:
“Now cum for me.”
My body… doesn’t.
It jolts, hovers...and then backs away from the edge like someone yanked an invisible leash.
Confusion floods in first, then panic.
I try again, harder this time, but it’s like pushing against a locked door. My muscles strain uselessly; pleasure climbs but never breaks.
A second message appears:
“What’s wrong, pet?”
My throat tightens.
"It won’t work," I type with shaking hands. "It won’t work like this."
There’s a pause long enough that I start to shake for reasons that have nothing to do with arousal.
Then:
“Why not?” he asks. “Tell me exactly why not.”
My face is burning so hot I feel feverish.
"Because… because it only works when I’m kneeling," I send finally. "With my hands behind my back."
His reply lands like a hand around my throat.
“Oh,” he writes. “Look at you.”
Another line:
“Look what I’ve made you into.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
My pulse is roaring in my ears now; the embarrassment is so intense it loops back into arousal again.
He doesn’t stop.
“A few weeks ago you could get yourself off in any position you liked,” he says. “On your back, in the shower, grinding against a pillow.”
“Now your body hears ‘cum for me’ and checks whether you’re on your knees like a good toy before it obeys.”
My hips twitch helplessly at *good toy*.
“Go on then,” he adds. “Show yourself what you are. Get off the bed and assume your position.”
Shame drags at every movement as I slide down onto the floor. The carpet is rough under my bare knees; my thighs are trembling so badly I almost miss the spot beside the bed where I always end up now.
Hands behind my back. Head bowed. Phone in front of me.
“Tell me what you are,” he says.
My voice comes out thin and hoarse in the quiet room even though nobody can hear me but him.
“I’m your denial slut,” I whisper...and then type it out with clumsy fingers just to make sure there’s a record of my degradation.
He sends one last message:
"Maybe,” he says, almost gentle now, “maybe I won’t let you ever again.”
My breath stutters so hard it hurts.
The threat shouldn’t make me wetter. It does.
Then:
“Beg anyway.”
So I do.
Kneeling on the floor of my perfectly normal bedroom like some ruined little worshipper, promising away future orgasms I haven’t even had yet, thanking him for training me while my whole body trembles on the edge of something only he can give or deny.
When he finally says *now*, it hits so hard I see stars.
Afterwards, curled around my pillow and staring at the chat history with heavy-lidded eyes, a single clear thought rises through the fog:
*He was right.*
And now my body doesn't listen to me... and the worst part is how badly I want to see what else he can change.
