Edging Enthusiast

It’s been days. Maybe three? You’re losing track because counting is getting fuzzy, and Master hasn’t cum yet. He’s edging you both, but it’s hitting you harder. Every time he holds back, that locker stays shut, and your head gets emptier. Your thoughts aren’t about work anymore. They’re about his cock, his hands, the way his breath feels against your neck. You’re turning into this needy, wiggly little mess. You’re starting to talk in this high pitched, bubbly squeak, all “pretty please, Master” and “I’ll be so good!” It’s humiliating, but that just makes you wetter. Even so, some responsible parts of you are still floating around in that empty head, frantic to make him cum so you can snap back to normal. After all, you don’t want to be this drooly mess forever, right?

Yesterday, you tried the subtle route (well, subtle for you at least). Slipped into this tiny pink thong and a crop top that barely counts as clothes, bouncing around the apartment like some slutty schoolgirl. You “accidentally” dropped stuff in front of him, bending over slow, ass up, giggling like an idiot. He just smirked, adjusted himself, and kept scrolling on his phone. Didn’t even touch you. Asshole. So today, you’re desperate. You’re on your knees by the couch, nuzzling his thigh, pawing at his jeans like a kitten in heat. “Master, pleeeease,” you whine, lips pouty, eyes big and glassy. “I need it so bad, I’ll do anything!” Your voice is all sugar now, dripping with slutty little trills. You’re not even sure what “it” is anymore — his cock, his cum, your brain, whatever — just something.

He looks down at you, “anything, huh?” he says, unzipping just enough to tease you. You’re drooling already, practically humping the air, your hands fumbling to get closer. You’re not thinking straight, honestly, you’re barely thinking at all. The locker’s got everything sharp and sensible locked tight, and what’s left is this horny, ditzy puddle of a girl who’d do anything for a taste. You start licking at him through his jeans, sloppy and eager, moaning like it’s the best thing you’ve ever had. “Mmm, so yummy, Master!” you chirp, and you mean it. Your brain is too fizzed out to care how pathetic you sound.

But he’s still holding back. He grabs your hair, pulls you off just as you’re getting into it, and laughs. “Not yet, princess. I like you like this.” And oh god, that stings so good. You’re leaking through your panties now, thighs sticky, and you can feel yourself slipping further. Words are getting harder. Big ones like ‘con-se-quence-es’ or ‘dig-ni-ty’ aren't worth the effort. Too many syllables. All that’s left is “cock” and “please” and “now.” You’re grinding against his leg, babbling nonsense, “Master’s so mean, so hot, need need need” and he’s just watching, letting you come undone.

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, your skirt flipped up so he can see how soaked you are. “Look, Master, I’m all drippy for you!” you plead, wiggling your hips, trying to grind down on him. Your hands are everywhere. On his chest, his hair, clawing at his belt like a dumb little pet. You know you'll burst if he doesn’t give in soon. But he grabs your wrists, pins them behind you, and leans in close. “You’re not getting it yet,” he whispers, and you whimper, because you can feel him hard against you, but he’s still not letting go. It's been days of this, and you’re a wreck.