Write or Edge? (Living Life in Parentheses)
I am extremely horny right now. Like, I keep debating whether I should write or edge.
The problem is, I’m currently not allowed to edge “normally” (is there really anything “normal” about edging? Do “normal” people regularly masturbate until they’re about to cum, and then suddenly stop? Do “normal” people drive themselves to the brink of insanity with a lack of orgasms, only to have the thought of the possibility of an orgasm constantly fill their minds, throughout their everyday lives until they can’t concentrate at work and start fantasizing when they’re supposed to be doing something actually productive? I think not. Anyone who chooses this lifestyle prefers insanity to normalcy.)
(Do normal people write entire paragraphs in parentheses? I think it underlines the fact that life really lies between the lines. It is the afterthought that really matters…the residue that is left behind, the impact. It is our memories, our perceptions of life that count, not the reality of the events. Live life in the parentheses. It’s what happens when you’re busy making other plans, you know. ;-) )
Ohhh goddamn my clit is sooo sensitive right now….
Anyway, what I mean by not being able to edge “normally” is that I have to use my magic wand to edge. This makes edging all the more difficult because, in order to play with my pussy, I have to retrieve said wand and plug it into an outlet, which means I can’t just slide my hands down my pants and start masturbating whenever I start feeling horny (which happens quite often when I’m sitting on my couch or just generally alone at home. It’s more of a hobby than a sexual practice.) No, I have to put actual effort into my edging (Unbelievable, I know. :-p) Not only does having to use my wand require more effort, but it also makes just edging more difficult. That all-powerful vibration right on my clit makes me want to cum almost instantly. Oh, my clit is all abuzz just thinking about it (Pun intended. You‘re welcome).
This is how this particular requirement began:
My sir came back to my house after we went to a BDSM community event last night (more on this later). We were spooning. He wrapped his hand around my throat. I sighed and ground my ass into his hardening cock. He tightened his grip on my neck and whispered into my ear, “Slut”. I moaned, and a shiver shot down my spine. His mouth still shooting his hot breath into my ear, he slid his hand down to my tits and started pinching and pulling my nipples. I gasped.
“So,” his deep voice rumbled into my ear, “I think I need to make edging harder on you again. Wouldn‘t you like that, slut?”
“Say it, slut,” he commanded.
“Yes, what, slut?” he asked.
Twist. (It’s like a sexual version of the “Bop It!” game: “Twist it! Pull it! Spank it! Bop it!” Oh, someone needs to invent this, like, right now.)
“Yes, sir, I want you to make edging harder for me,” I said.
“Good girl. From now until I tell you otherwise, you are not allowed to use your fingers to edge,” he ordered.
“Do you understand what that means, slut?” he asked.
I knew perfectly well what he meant. He wanted me to undergo the humiliation I had endured a couple weeks earlier when I had only been allowed to edge if I did it by humping inanimate objects (Damned @femsubdenial. More on this later.)
But I didn’t want that. I know this isn’t about what I want, but I thought I’d play dumb anyway. I knew what he meant. He knew I knew what he meant. But I thought I’d give it a shot anyway.
“I can only edge if I use my wand?” I asked meekly, smirking.
He paused. “Hmmm…that’s not what I was going for, but okay, from now until I say stop, you may only cum if you use your wand.”
He agreed! Hooray! No humping my couch for me! My wand is so much better, right?
“Now, what do you have to do, slut?” he asked. He has become rather fond of this lately: making me say out loud what I have to/want to do. (Is there really any difference between what I want to do and what I have to do anymore? Probably not.)
(Having to say out loud what I want is just so horrible, I know, but I’m not very good with the verbal thing, and sometimes saying these things out loud embarrasses me.)
“I have to use my wand to edge,” I said timidly.
“That’s right. Good girl,” he whispered into my ear.
He started to slide his hand down to my already wet cunt, but then he suddenly stopped and grumbled into my ear, “Get your wand, slut.”
I pulled my wand out of the drawer, plugged it in, and laid it on my leg, expecting him to pick it up. He picked it up and put it back into my hand. “Well, get on with it, slut,” he ordered.
I’ve always been self-conscious about masturbating in front of other people. It’s embarrassing. I don’t know why, but it always feels dirtier to me than other sexual acts (Considering the shit I’ve done, I know this makes no fucking sense whatsoever, but it makes me feel dirty all the same.)
Which is probably exactly why I need to do it.
I had never used my wand to edge before. Every time I had used my wand, I had cum.
But I wasn’t allowed to cum this time.
I put my wand against my clit.
The vibrations swelled my pussy, made my clit stand on edge. I whimpered. Oh god. I wasn’t going to be able to take this.
My sir giggled at me. He slid his fingers inside my slick pussy. Over and over again, he thrust his fingers inside me and rubbed my G-spot while I held the all-powerful vibrations of my magic wand up to my clit.
(Okay, you know the machine the bad monsters make in the movie Monsters, Inc.? The one that sucks the screams out of children? That’s how I picture my magic wand. It sucks the cum right out of me. :-p)
“Something the matter, slut?” asked my sir.
“Oh—it just—oh—it just feels so goddamned good,” I managed to get out.
My sir giggled at me again. So goddamned infuriating. It’s not fucking funny. This is serious business, damnit.
“Oh, does it feel good, slut?” he taunted.
“Uh-huh, yes, sir,” I said.
He slid his fingers out of my soaked cut and pushed my wand full-force all the way down on my ultra-sensitive clit and flipped the switch to High.
“Does that feel good, slut?” he teased.
I nodded. It took everything I had to keep myself from squirting my cum all over my bed.
“Say it, slut!” he commanded, rubbing the wand around my clit.
“Yes…sir…it feels…good….” I answered.
He giggled again. “Good girl. Are you just so close to cumming right now?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, I am very close t-to cumming,” I said, and it was the goddamned truth.
He flipped the switch of the wand to off and pulled it away from my very, very soaked cunt. My insides vibrated.
“Ah, well, don’t want you to cum accidentally, slut” he said.
I whimpered. I had been so close. Trying to hold my orgasm in was torture, but the withdrawal from the pleasure was worse. I needed to be touched. I needed the stimulation. I craved it.
I might be a bit of an attention slut.
After a few minutes, he made me put the wand back on my clit. My clit was even more sensitive. He stopped me again.
“Can you handle more?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I answered. I craved more, whether I could handle it or not.
He continued this over and over, making me turn the wand on myself for a few minutes, and then making me stop for a few minutes, over and over again until I was a sopping wet mess of tingling nerves and aroused to the point of his tiniest touch sending shivers down my spine. Over and over again until he finally said,
“I think that’s all for tonight, slut.”
Relief and disappointment washed over me.
Sometimes, I am just a hot mess.
So today, I have been recovering from our wand experiments.
My clit is standing on edge.
And, excuse me, but I think I’m done here.
I’m going to get me some more.
