Someone recently asked me “why are you into ballbusting, did something happen to you as a kid?” Suddenly a wave of memories hit me, something I hadn’t thought about in over thirty years. I had experienced cock and ball torture as a kid.
It took place in the playground in school, I guess you could say I was bullied by a girl in my class. But it was consensual bullying, I let her do it and I didn’t fight back.
I don’t really remember much about this girl, other than her name was Rebecca. Part of the playground had high brick walls around it and Rebecca would make me stand in the corner.
Then, with her back to me, she’d stand in front of me and crouch down a little. She’d then reach behind her back and grab my cock and balls in her hand through my thin school trousers and squeeze.
While she was squeezing she pushed her ass into my groin and moved from her crouched position by straightening her legs. This resulted in her ass and hand being pushed harder against my balls and using her ass she’d push me up the wall. She basically had me suspended by my balls and she’d hold me in that position for a few seconds before releasing me.
Despite the mild pain and discomfort, it was quite a thrill and a situation I kept putting myself in by gravitating to that part of the playground and hovering around near that corner while Rebecca was near. It was a while before a girl hurt my balls again, but it wasn’t for trying. A few years later I remember I used to play with a girl from down the road called Jemma. We had two large apple trees in our garden and it was the time of year when the unpicked apples would fall to the floor, often rotten and mouldy.
I remember plotting a game where I would put one of the rotting apples into my pants and Jemma would kick me and crush them. At that age I might not have been ready for the pain of a kick in the balls and had we gone through with this plan it would have been quite messy and I’m sure I would have found it difficult to explain to my parents.
Luckily, for whatever reason, we didn’t play that game. However, I do remember showing Jemma my dick in the garden shed at about the same time, she commented then on how small it was, saying it looked like a cocktail sausage. This was something she reminded me of a few years later when we briefly dated, in fact, I lost my virginity to Jemma.
As adults we never explored any ball-kicking games but during one evening together in bed, Jemma was giving me a blowjob. She readjusted on the mattress, which resulted in her accidentally nipping the head of my cock with her teeth. Nowadays I love the odd bite while being sucked, but back then I wasn't prepared for or used to the unexpected burst of pain and I instantly lost my erection. Today it makes me hard just thinking about it.
Perhaps the accidental bite wasn't really a moment of domination, but it was at around the time I lost my virginity that I experienced my next bit of femdom conditioning when I met a girl called Emma.
Emma, my first love, wielded an unforgettable and profound influence on my sexual preferences, shaping a predilection for submission to women that remains steadfast. Our paths first converged during a weekend job at a local supermarket. Emma's stint there was fleeting, yet our bond persevered, evolving from mere colleagues to best friends and finally to intimate companions. Although our bond deepened, I yearned for an amorous connection she perpetually denied.
Upon acquiring my driver's license, we spent countless evenings meandering through the rural lanes surrounding our small town in my vintage blue Ford Fiesta. Emma, younger yet sensually matured, ensnared me effortlessly. A paradoxical blend of soft tenderness and intoxicating sadism, Emma held the reins of our relationship from the onset.
Our clandestine escapades frequently found us in secluded spots, our breaths mingling in the quiet confines of my car. Emma, always the instigator, began with gentle caresses of my hand that gradually escalated into a sensual game of tease and denial. Her nails skated across my skin, sometimes tenderly, other times with a painful bite that echoed in the marks she left behind.
Over time, our intimate play evolved into a carnal exploration of my tolerance. Emma would lift my hand to her lips, sinking her teeth into the flesh until white imprints became a testament to her power over me. The quiet exhibition of her sadistic pleasure at the sight of her marks etched onto me only served to ignite my arousal further.
One extraordinary night, under the inky canvas of the evening sky by the murmuring river, Emma heightened the stakes of our game. Our mutual friend Lucy occupied the back seat, oblivious to our intimate exchanges. Emma, ever the enchanting tormentor, draped her legs over mine, her heel landing with a tantalising pressure between my legs.
Skilfully, she used the subtle motion of her foot to apply pressure and manipulate my growing arousal, stoking the sexual tension that buzzed between us. Her actions were tantalisingly slow, a controlled dance that kept me in a state of longing and anticipation, teasing me into a state of perpetual hardness. Despite the intense stimulation, her foot's rhythm was too slow and deliberate to bring me to climax - this was her game, a masterful play of tease and denial. Meanwhile, Lucy sat in the back seat, completely unaware of our secret shared experience.
Once Lucy's house disappeared from our rearview mirror, Emma and I surrendered to the lingering tension. With a gentle forcefulness, she guided my hand beneath her jeans. Familiar with her silent requests, I ventured further into the soft warmth of her panties, my fingers making contact with her drenched intimacy. Under the cover of darkness, parked haphazardly at the end of a deserted residential street, I navigated the landscape of Emma's desire.
Her reclined position, the rhythm of her breath and the sudden tightening of her thighs around my hand, painted a vivid picture of her climax. Yet, the satisfaction derived from Emma's pleasure was always dampened by the constant denial of my own.
As our relationship deepened, Emma and I continued our amorous encounters at her house whenever her family were out. Our affectionate embraces on her parents' living room sofa gradually escalated to more daring explorations. I would often find myself leisurely exploring the soft folds of her femininity, my fingers guided by her soft gasps and whispers. Her back would arch in response as she laid back on the plush sofa, her eyes half-closed in blissful surrender, her breath hitching in her throat as waves of pleasure crashed over her.
The intimacy reciprocated only twice, and these instances remain etched into my memory. In a role reversal, Emma would invite me to lay on the soft carpet, the glow of the TV casting silhouettes against her concentrated face. With the deftness of a lover, she would stroke me to a much-anticipated climax, her touch both intoxicating and soothing as it pushed me over the edge.
As our routine of mutual hand relief solidified, Emma threw in a comment one day, her words innocently laced with a deeper implication. As she withdrew her hand from my eager length, she let out a chuckle, her eyes glinting with a knowing mischief. "It's like being back at school," she mused aloud.
Her offhand remark, seemingly jestful, struck me like a jarring note in our symphony of desire. At this point, I was 19 and had only had one sexual partner, but Emma's past encounters with other boys during her own teenage years were now mirrored in our intimacy, reducing my throbbing anticipation to mere adolescent fumbling.
The comment further underlined the tantalising distance between us, a chasm filled with my pent-up desires and her decisive control. It was as if she was playfully belittling our intimate acts, putting them in a frame of childish exploration, while I craved more profound experiences. It made clear the perverse thrill she took in denying me the 'adult' pleasures that lay just beyond my reach. It was a humbling and frustrating realisation, yet I found myself more captivated by Emma's intricate web of control.
However, this routine of mutual gratification soon shifted dramatically. I found myself taken aback when, on the cusp of another anticipated relief, Emma removed her hand from my engorged length and pressed mine in its place. A hushed command escaped her lips, "You do it," resonating with an unspoken assertion of control.
From that point on, our intimate routines followed this revised script. After leading Emma through the symphony of pleasure with my fingers, she would sit back, expectant, her gaze locked onto me. With her simple directive echoing in my ears, I would surrender myself to self-pleasure under her watchful eyes. There was an allure in her control, a magnetic pull that made me obey without question. I would give myself over to the sweet torture, a submissive participant in the dance of pleasure and denial that Emma orchestrated so masterfully.
A particularly memorable weekend saw Emma's parents out of town, and an invitation to a sleepover extended to me. Our evening was spent in comfortable camaraderie, followed by a suggestive proposal from Emma to share her parents' bed. The idea ignited a surge of anticipatory excitement within me, a sensation only heightened as Emma climbed on top of me, our bodies separated only by the thin layers of fabric.
She began to grind against me, her rhythm was a torturous dance, her heated core grinding against my strained arousal, the friction amplified by the delicate lace of her panties. As my breath hitched and my pulse raced, her hand slithered beneath the covers. In one swift motion, she yanked my boxer shorts down, my throbbing hardness pressing directly against her panty covered pussy.
The heat from her intimate area was a searing temptation, pushing me closer to the edge of ecstasy with each sinuous grind. As the crest of pleasure drew tantalisingly closer, I felt her movements intensify, driving me further towards the precipice.
In the midst of this escalating symphony of pleasure, Emma paused, her body hovering over mine. She looked deep into my eyes, her voice a breathless whisper against my ear. "Tell me when you're going to cum." The command, punctuated by the heat of her breath against my skin, echoed in the silence of the room.
I could barely manage a nod, my senses awash in the sensation of her body against mine. When the tell-tale shivers started coursing through me, I managed to gasp out my impending climax. No sooner had the words left my lips, Emma swiftly withdrew, rolling off my aching body. The sudden chill of her absence was a stark contrast to the fiery pleasure I had been so close to experiencing.
As I laid there in her parents' bed, my body yearning for the release it had been denied, I rationalised her abrupt withdrawal. She didn't want to tarnish her parents' pristine sheets, or so I reasoned. But the true thrill, the stark reality of our relationship, lay in her total disregard for my climax. Emma had once again asserted her control, leaving me helplessly tangled in a complex web of desire and denial.
This theme of tease and denial became a telling motif of our relationship. Our intimacy always culminated in Emma's satisfaction, yet my release was frequently denied. When permitted, it was only achieved through self-pleasure under her watchful gaze.
Throughout the course of five years, Emma reigned supreme over my sexuality, her unyielding control turning me into her willing plaything. This enduring dynamic has left an indelible mark on me, shaping my submissive predilections and forever etching Emma's power in my mind.
Looking back on my relationship with Emma, it seems to paint a picture of unconventional power dynamics, hallmarks of what many would term a BDSM relationship. But back then, there was no explicit agreement, nor full understanding, about the nature of our interactions. It just felt... right.
At the heart of any relationship, especially those that venture into the realms of BDSM, consent, communication, and respect are non-negotiable. Understanding and accepting the power dynamic is critical, just as crucial as it is for both parties to articulate their needs, define their boundaries, and to have these boundaries respected.
I allowed Emma's dominance because I was so much in love with her. I yearned for the closeness our intimate moments brought, no matter how they came about. I was a willing participant in this unspoken dynamic, although we didn't explicitly discuss or define the terms as one might in a BDSM relationship.
Was Emma's behaviour acceptable? Was she just using me? It's a difficult question. You could argue that Emma was just expressing her own sexual preferences and desires. Yet, if she consciously leveraged my feelings for her to fulfils her own desires, while neglecting my needs, her actions can be viewed as manipulative. However, in general Emma was quite a caring and supportive person who did understand my feeling, but then why would she take our relationship to an intimate level, knowing how I feel, when she had no intention of committing to me?
One thing that happened quite often with Emma is we'd have little playful fallouts. Emma would get annoyed with me about something and stop talking to me. I'd than have to beg for her attention and apologise for forgiveness. I didn't think much of it at the time, perhaps because I didn't understand it, but I used to get sexually aroused by this playful grovelling. It was only when I thought back much later then I realised I was getting turned on because of my submissive tendencies. I had the realisation when I noticed that would happen with other women too. One girl in particular who I had a crush on in work was forever exciting me with silly workplace arguments.
Many people have submissive tendencies but might not realise or acknowledge them until later in life, or until they're in specific situations that bring those feelings to the forefront. Often, it's only through reflection or additional experiences that people can pinpoint what specifically turns them on or off. I guess that's a part of the never-ending journey of self-discovery.
