A Failed Attempt at Celibacy

Once upon a time, I decided I would become a sperm donor.

The process was at once more long and involved than I anticipated, and more simple. I went to a small clinic on Harley Street, and there answered questions about my job, my family medical history, my taste in films. The assessor looked at my eyes. On the form he wrote, Deep Brown.

Then I was shown into a small room with a handbasin, a bench, and some vulgar, tattered pornographic magazines. I wanked into a cup. It was not hugely satisfying.

The first sample was (to my immense smugness) extremely healthy. Motile, they said. Well-directed. My sperm were competent little swimmers. But they didn’t like the cold; the sample hadn’t survived the test freeze. They needed me to come in and provide another, this time with a longer period of celibacy.

Celibacy. No wanking. No sex that resulted in ejaculation. Three full days before the appointment at least, but longer if possible.

The woman I was playing with at the time found this hilarious.

“You?” she said. “Three days? You’ll die. Can you die from sexual frustration?” We usually fucked three or four times a week – every other day sometimes. “What happens if you don’t come? Does your body just stop making spunk?”

“It’s to get a higher sperm count,” I told her. “For testing.”

She snorted. “What are we going to even do if you can’t fuck me?”

We went for dinner. Someplace nice. I used the money that I’d been paid for my first test sample and we both ate steak, rare and lightly bloody. Throughout the meal she kept returning to the issue of celibacy. “Guess you’ll get a taste of what it’s like when you tell me I’m not allowed to wank,” she said. “It’s a pity it’s not longer. They should make you wait a week.”

I had made her wait a week once. It was early on in our relationship, when we were exploring our limits, finding out the depths of submission she wanted to go to. She had lasted five days before giving in and masturbating. As punishment, I’d fucked her roughly in the arse, whispering in her ear the entire time that this was happening because she’d been bad, because she’d disobeyed, because she’d been unable to control herself.

We finished our meal. In the Uber back to her house, she whispered in my ear: “Imagine how good it would feel after a week of waiting. You’d have so much come. You’d make such a mess of me. I love the feeling when you drip out of my cunt.”

And later, in her living room, the house above us quiet: “How long do you think you could go before you start having wet dreams? Huh? Before you just start leaking come in your sleep like a dodgy tap?”

I was hard. Had been hard for a while as we watched a film. Chatted pointlessly. Did everything but fuck. Why had I come to her house? Why had I arranged to see her when I knew I couldn’t do what we always did? The evening felt long, tense, aimless.

Finally, just as I was about to leave, she took another jab. “If you give in and wank before the three days are up, does that mean I get to fuck you in the arse?”

It wasn’t the words that did it. It was her tone. The note of triumph in her voice – savage pleasure that she could get away with saying all the bratty things she never normally would. Pleasure that she had, in a sense, won something.

She was supressing a smile, still, when I slapped her in the face. Hard. For a moment her expression went slack, a kind of blank shock mixed with abrupt arousal. She loved being slapped in the face. It was a way of making her almost instantly horny. On this occasion, however, she mostly looked puzzled, as though she didn’t know how to feel, how to react. As though I’d short-circuited something in her brain.

Then I had a hand around her throat and the question of how to feel was, by this, obviated. She scrabbled at my arm, cheeks pinking, eyes almost crossing. I held her for a moment, then put her face down on the sofa.

I rucked her dress up. Panties down. I was inside her in seconds. She clutched at whatever parts of me she could reach, spluttering as she tried to form words.

“Anything else to say?” I said. Whispered. Right into her ear.

She gaped for a moment. I dug my cock into her. She squeaked. “No, Sir,” she said. The triumph gone from her voice, now. Small voice now. Submissive voice.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” I said.

 “Yes, Sir.”

For a moment I thought, regretfully, about the awkward phone call I would have to make tomorrow to rearrange my appointment. The inconvenience I would have to bear in moving it. And then my partner squirmed a little underneath me and I returned to the present moment. I tightened my grip on her.

“Good. You got what you asked for. Now stay still and take it.” I put the load that I had been saving for the clinic into her cunt. And it was good. Far, far better than a plastic cup.