Edged
I’m blaming today on you. You. Yes, you. You know who you are. Today is your fault. The reason I’m tapping up this post right now? You.
You kept talking about being edged like it was this big thing that I was missing out on — and wasn’t I missing out on it? Not getting what I wanted has never been something I’ve been brilliant at dealing with, my impatience driving me to come even when I’m told not to, so I’ve never paid much attention to the idea of not coming, or edging.
I get bratty when I don’t come, when I’m not allowed to come. I know that some people enjoy denial, but the frustration of it all drives me to actual stupidity. I love to come. I love it when someone makes me come. I crave it, and once is never enough. Some days, when I can’t do it, it’s the only thing I can think of. I get so turned on that just clenching my thighs together as I sit at my desk is all it takes to feel a hot flood in my underwear, and if I keep going – clench-unclench-clench – I can actually make myself come.
But I was intrigued by what you kept saying about not being allowed to come, not letting yourself go. I wanted to know more. I wanted to feel the way you said it felt: stupid and giddy and so ready to let go — but also determined to carry on so that it would feel mind-blowingly explosive at the end.
And that’s exactly how I feel right now: stupid and giddy and so ready to let go, but I don’t get to let go. There’s no finish. No ending in sight. I drove myself to stupidity and giddiness and desperation, but I can’t finish it off.
I’m just… left here.
I can feel the blood literally pumping around my body, but especially in my cunt. I can sense my pulse there, like a steady, fast-paced drumbeat. Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. I can hear it. It’s in my head, a thunderous noise that takes over everything else. I can’t hear the TV or the music playing from the cars outside, or even the people as they go about their day; it’s just the sound of my own desperation surging through me. Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud.
Edged
I edged myself for two or three hours in total, drifting towards orgasm before letting it subside, over and over and over again. I had the house to myself, new toys waiting to be tested, and I was so fucking horny. Beyond horny. Desperate even before I made myself desperate.
I was wet before I even grabbed the playthings from their boxes and positioned them within easy reach on the bed — and if we’re being really, super honest about this, that’s all your fault too.
You made me desperate. You keep making me desperate. That’s why I edged myself properly, seriously, not getting overtaken by my impatience for the first time ever.
I played with myself. Toyed with myself. Tested new ideas and positions and enhancements. I used my hands and my playthings, my imagination, plus porn on my iPad, daring myself to get as close as I could to orgasm before demanding that I walk myself back a few steps.
I cycled through each of the settings on the new toys, allowing myself to dance dangerously close to the edge before turning them off, waiting, and then repeating the process with the next setting along. Some of them took longer to get me there than others, but all of the vibrations did the trick eventually. One after another, seven settings on one of the toys and ten on the second, letting myself get right to the very line of orgasm, but not letting myself step over it. Because you made me not want to. This was your idea, remember?
I told myself that I would let myself come just as soon as I got a text message to say that my alone time in the house would be coming to an end. The text would signify my twenty-minute warning, and I definitely knew I could make myself come at least twice in that time. But I didn’t get the warning text message. I didn’t get any warning at all. I just got surprised by a key being forced into the lock and the handle being turned.
“Baby, are you home?” I heard him shout out.
“Give me two seconds,” I shouted back in response, locking, shutting, and turning off everything in sight as quickly as I could.
Frustrated, I checked myself over in the mirror before I exited the bedroom, taking a backwards glance over my shoulder to ensure I’d safely stashed the tools I’d been using in a safe place until I could clean and then put them away properly.
I don’t think he knew what I’d been doing. He didn’t acknowledge it in any way. He must’ve seen the flushed colour across my cheeks and chest, though, and how I was visually panting.
There’s no way he wouldn’t have been able to tell from my glassy eyes that I’d been edging myself to oblivion for the last two or three hours and hadn’t yet found my release.
How could he not have known that I was a ruined mess? The desperation must’ve been dripping from me. The desperation IS dripping from me. I can feel it right now, pooling in my underwear, making my crotch sticky when I sit down and causing a serious concern that there’ll be a damp, dark patch on my jeans when I stand up.
I’m just waiting for my chance to finish myself off. To clear my head and regain my equilibrium. To end the game I started.
Because my cunt is still throbbing and I can still hear my pulse pounding through my skull.
Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud.
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