It started with just a touch — slow, deliberate. I wasn’t in a rush. That was the point. The rules were mine tonight: no finishing, not yet. Just the simmering build of pressure, teasing myself to the brink and back again.
The lights were low, a single candle flickering in the corner, casting long shadows that danced across the sheets. My hands were warm — patient — tracing over bare skin, grazing across curves and valleys already aching for more. I told myself I’d stop if I got too close, but I was already toying with that edge, letting it come dangerously near.
Every inch of my skin felt heightened, hungry. My breath hitched as I dipped lower, barely touching — just enough to make myself want it harder, deeper, now. But no. I paused. Backed off. Just like I’d promised.
I imagined being watched. Restrained. Forced to obey the same cruel rhythm of build, stop, build again. Maybe a voice in my ear, low and commanding: “Not yet. Keep going. Make yourself wait for it.”
I arched, frustrated. My body begged for release, muscles tense, desperate. But I liked the ache. The denial. The control. My control — and the fantasy of losing it.
So I edged closer once more, slow circles, barely-there strokes, hips twitching at the phantom promise of what I wouldn’t let myself have. Not yet.
Maybe not at all.
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