He loves to play these games with me, teasing, denying, making me wait until he decides I’m allowed to fall apart. He knows my habits too well. Most days, I get myself off two or three times, sometimes even more if I’m really wound up. It's never been a secret; if anything, my greedy appetite for pleasure amuses him, excites him. There’s something about knowing I can’t keep my hands off myself that drives him wild.

But tonight is different. Tonight, he set a rule:
Don’t touch yourself while I’m gone. Not even once. Wait for me.

He wants it to be his hands, his mouth, his command that finally tips me over the edge. It’s about control, the anticipation, the denial, the sweet agony of restraint. He wants the tension to coil tight, to stretch every nerve raw so that when he finally gives permission, my surrender is explosive. It’s his way of claiming me, of turning my constant hunger into something we share, something we both have to endure.

I promised I’d try. I always do.

But desire is a slippery thing. My promises and my hands rarely stay on the same side once the need sets in.

Now here I am: sprawled on the sofa, knickers bunched at my thighs. My hand trembles just above the heat of my body, and I know I shouldn’t give in. The edge is already there, taunting me. I bargain with myself: if I just touch, just a little, surely it doesn’t count? If I don’t cum, is it really cheating?

A stray hair brushes my cheek, dragging my attention from the fire inside me for a moment. I blink and press my fingers back between slick folds, lightly circling my clit. Teasing only, I tell myself. My body isn’t convinced. It shudders at a single brush, need coiled so tightly that every nerve sparks. My breath grows shallow, hips twitching even as I command them to be still.

I glance at the coffee table. My favourite vibrator lies there, practically burning a hole in my resolve. I’d pulled it out earlier, just in case. I wanted to be strong, but couldn’t resist the safety net of having it nearby. Stupid, really, setting myself up for failure from the start. The promise of deeper relief is almost more than I can bear.

Every time my hips rock forward, my mind screams:
Don’t cum. Stop before you cum.

I reach for the vibrator, my fingers trembling as I wrap around its familiar shape. It hums softly in my palm, a promise both cruel and intoxicating. I press it lightly against my clit, the sensation electric yet gentle, barely there, just enough to stir the fire instead of fanning it.

Slowly, torturously, I draw it in tiny circles, gliding just over the most sensitive spot. My breath catches, my hips twitch, but I pull back. I edge closer to the brink, each pulse of pleasure soaring higher, pushing harder against my resolve. I’m a breath away from breaking, so close I can taste it, feel it pressing at the edges of my mind.

A creak from the old wooden floor beneath the sofa breaks the silence for a heartbeat. I clamp my eyes shut, willing it to stop, willing myself to stop. I pull the vibrator away, heart racing, fingers slick with need. But the ache deep inside me claws for more, teasing, tantalising, refusing to be ignored.

I bring it back, just a whisper, a tease. My body stiffens, trembling under the exquisite tension. I’m desperate, not just for release, but to prove I can hold out, to show him, and maybe myself, that I have the strength to obey.

And so I keep the rhythm slow, slow enough to deny the rush but fast enough to keep the flames licking. Each moment teeters on the edge, joy and agony tangled tight. I’m drowning in my own desire, begging my body to be still, begging my mind to win this impossible battle.

I linger there, suspended just before the tipping point, savouring the ache, the burn, the sweet torture of denial. Another stroke, and I might lose everything. But I don’t.

Not yet.

I bite my lip, bearing down with all the willpower I have. The vibrator hovers, a hair’s breadth from the place where pleasure turns into surrender. Heat courses through me, hips already shaking, the muscles in my thighs drawn tight as wire.

Just a little more, I plead with myself, barely breathing. The tip of the toy glides in the smallest, laziest circles, each one igniting a fresh spark behind my eyes. My moans have turned into gasping sounds. I’m thinking only in gasps now, with nowhere in my body untouched by the ache.

Closer. God, I’m so close.

I tense, one stuttered, shivering heartbeat from tumbling over that bright, shattering edge. As the wave rises to drown me, I wrench the vibrator away, cursing, choking down a sob, my whole body trembling with the torture of being denied the thing it needs most.

My cunt throbs, desperate and empty. I press my slick thighs together, ride out the rolling aftershock of denial. The frustration is so acute it’s nearly painful. My breath hiccups in my throat. But as the urge falls away, just barely, relief and regret snarl within me, a wild tangle of victory and defeat.

My mind floods with him. The things he’d say, the look he’d give me if he walked in right now and saw me wrecked and ruined but still unsatisfied, still holding the line.

But the ache doesn’t fade, not really.

I bring the vibrator back, slower this time, soft, reverent, as if teasing myself could become worship. My body arches to meet it. My whole world contracts to a single sparkling point of need. I ride the edge again, closer, closer, so much closer. I can feel the orgasm building, cresting, a dam swollen to bursting.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare,” I whisper frantically, as if words could anchor me against the storm. My hand hesitates, my hips betray me, chasing that shimmer, that shock, begging for oblivion.

At the last second, I snatch it away again, cursing under my breath, legs splayed and useless, heart drumming, desperate and wild. I nearly sob. The pressure inside me is relentless, thick as thunder. My skin is hypersensitive, every nerve alight, prickling, vibrating with the effort it takes to deny myself.

How many times have I managed this now? Three? Four? Each time I circle closer, each time I dangle on the precipice just a little longer.

My thighs are drenched. My chest is flushed, glowing with sweat. My jaw aches from gritting my teeth, but oh, I am alive. I am on fire.

And still, somehow, I refuse release. Not yet.

Not until my body wins, or my mind loses. Not until I can’t hold back the tide.

But that edge is blurring now; each denial wears my resolve thinner, makes my body bolder, more desperate, more wild. And somewhere in the haze, I know soon I’ll fall.

And I won’t have any choice but to let that pleasure claim me.

I bring the vibrator closer again, the tiniest brush sending aftershocks rippling through me. My hips jerk on their own, mind and body no longer in sync. Every pulse of the toy is like lightning under my skin, sharp, bright, and absolutely impossible to ignore.

I’m beyond begging now, hovering between moans and curses, letting the pleasure rise until every inch of me is burning. Each time, stopping gets harder. My thighs clench tight, glossy; juices pooling beneath me, the ache at my core relentless and bottomless.

A sudden chill from the draughty window touches my bare skin, making goosebumps race up my arms. For an instant, my focus blurs, replaced by annoyance at the cool air, and then the next pulse of pleasure crashes through, dragging me back.

The edge is blurring. My muscles are taut, trembling; with every pass, every withdrawal, I’m barely saving myself from tipping over. I am fighting myself, every nerve raw, desperate, fevered.

"Just a moment longer," I pant, voice cracking, hand shaking as I drag the vibrator away once more. My pussy throbs, emptiness magnified by the denial. My clit pulses with desperate hunger, skin flushed and glowing with need.

The ache becomes something animal, primal. I can barely hold the toy steady. Still, I tease myself, again and again, circling, barely brushing, slower, softer, crueller. My body is begging, pleading, open, gaping, soaking. I am soaked, pooling in my palm, my lips spread embarrassingly wide by my own arousal, so wet and puffy I feel obscene.

Nothing in me wants to resist anymore, yet somehow, from somewhere, I scrape together the last drops of willpower. I grit my teeth. I plead with myself in ragged, incoherent whispers, ‘Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t give in.'

But my body doesn’t understand rules, doesn’t care for obedience when every pulse, every squeeze of my cunt is crying for release.

I fall into the rhythm again, circling, pressing, hips rolling hard. This time, stopping is impossible. My hand tightens, grinding the vibrator in frantic, messy bursts. My leg spasms; my whole body bows up. My stomach knots, heat floods my spine, and I know I’m lost.

Pleasure explodes in me, uncontainable, monstrous. I’m crying out, loud, needy, helpless, as my orgasm crashes over me in waves. My pussy clenches and then opens wide, helpless, shuddering, gushing. I squirt, a hot rush bursting from deep inside, soaking my trembling thighs and the cushion beneath me.

I thrash, caught in the throes of shaking, soul-wrenching ecstasy, my muscles contracting, fingers clenched, head thrown back, eyes rolling as the pleasure drowns my consciousness, leaving me floating, empty, glowing.

I ride wave after wave, the world narrowed to body and need and fierce, blessed release. My orgasm leaves me wrung out, limp, whimpering, every inch of me slick and trembling and sated in a way that feels almost holy.

In the hush that follows, I swallow down shivers and stare at the ceiling, awestruck by the force of what just tumbled through me. Every muscle is slack, every thought a haze of relief, guilt, and dizzy, exhausted joy.

When it fades, I am left shaking. Guilt settles over me, heavy and familiar. I didn’t mean to fail. I really did try. The memory of his rule, his control, lingers just beneath the afterglow, sweetened by the thought of what he’ll do when he finds out.

Will he be angry? Disappointed? Or will the fire between us only burn hotter, the punishment itself feeding desire? My heart hammers with every possibility, wild anticipation twisting the guilt into something exquisite.

I clean myself up and return the vibrator to its drawer, legs still trembling. My skin feels too tight. Every nerve is awake. In the silence, the echo of his absence and my failure is almost louder than my climax. I promise myself, next time, I’ll hold out. Next time, I’ll be strong.

But desire is a wild animal.
My promises, my hands, and my hips each have a mind of their own. And until he comes home and takes control again, all I can do is wait, aching and guilty, for his return.