Edging, a form of orgasm denial, can be excruciating. Building up your desire only to stop just before you reach the peak. Ohhhhhh, it makes me shiver with delight.
I’m a greedy little girl who wants what she wants, but I’m also the submissive who yearns to give up control and float along on the whims of a Sir.
I’ve been subject to many instances of edging. Masturbating while on the phone, in the privacy of my bedroom, only to be told to stop. I whine and whimper, but I love it. I’ve received the text message while at work to go to the ladies room and edge myself, making me a needy little girl with the waft of my own sex following me for the rest of the day.
I’ve been given instructions to edge throughout the day, between meetings, at random, whenever – and to report each time that I’ve edged. There is something seedy and salacious about sitting in the ladies room, alone in a stall, knowing the women around me have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve had to maintain a conversation with a co-worker while edging. My hand flat against the side of the stall, my other working my clit furiously, my voice never allowed to waver as I continue discussing business, all while a sheen of sweat forms on my upper lip. It’s both dirty and delicious. My own little secret.
After a day of edging, though, I’m a bitch in heat willing to do anything for release. I will beg and cry to touch my swollen clit and my soaked cunt. I will rub myself against the corner of my bed, painfully pressing my pussy into the mattress and covers. I will finger-fuck myself so hard that my own fluids splash around my hand, my palm smacks my clit, and the squelching sounds fill the room. When I finally cum after being denied so long, my hips lift into the air and I squirt so hard that I splash the bed and my thighs. Trembling and gasping for breath, I eventually come back down to earth from the upper stratosphere that I flew to.
God, I love edging.