As a writer, Amanda was facing a somewhat unusual problem. Not that she was ever short of inspiration; rather, she had too much of it. As she always liked to say, she could not control the dazzling speed of the stream of dirty fantasies running through her mind. This might seem like an insurmountable obstacle for a writer. But in her case, it was not, for she was entirely specialized in erotic fiction. She was only frustrated that her writing could not keep up with the pace of her imagination.

On this particular Friday afternoon, her thoughts were quicker than usual, preventing her from laying down a clear plot. Tired of chasing a focus that kept eluding her, she decided to give up and let her mind wander. She tried to recall how she ended up with such an unusual career.

Everything started while she was studying literature at the university. On her lonely evenings at the dormitories, she had discovered the joy of "edging": she would bring herself to the brink of orgasm, stopping there and starting to please herself once more after a short break. Again and again. She would delay the orgasm as much as she could, usually going several days without climax, but getting as close as possible. However, inevitably, she would take things too far and, both relieved and disappointed, find herself crushed by waves of orgasmic pleasure.

After a few years of this practice, she became quite frustrated with her masturbatory routine. The skin of her genitals tended to become irritated from the repeated rubbing, and with time, she found it increasingly harder to consistently reach the edge. She tried to quit, but normal, quickly-reached orgasms had become boring to her. The fun stopped as soon as it started, and she was yearning for never-ending pleasure. She would have lost all interest in sexual matters if, one day, while roaming the university library, she had not found a misplaced volume of erotic fiction.

Out of curiosity, she picked it up. Although she originally did not expect much from this reading, she could not help noticing the increasing wetness between her tights and the growing tingling of her clitoris. Intrigued by the curious response in her body, she focused more on the text, being careful to picture in her mind every scene depicted in the outrageous novel. Increasingly, she felt an irresistible urge to touch herself. But she was in a respectable library, so this was out of the question. Still, she went on with the reading, and the desire became so strong that she could feel it physically, as if the book had invisible hands stroking softly all the sensitive parts of her body. Shivers of pleasure were sparkling in her lower belly, spreading all the way to her thighs. Her nipples were fully erect, and her clitoris was engorged. She knew that a single touch down there would be enough to send her over the edge. She had discovered a new passion, which she would pursue for the rest of her life: filling her mind with dirty fantasies while soaking her panties.

Over her first years of university, she realized that her mood was entirely correlated with her libido. When she had a high sexual drive, her days passed like a pleasant summer breeze. The caresses of the wind on her youthful skin were a playful tease sent by the earth; the friction of her tight jeans on her clitoris made the shortest little stroll enjoyable, and she could not resist wearing G-string underwear, such that she could savor all day long the delicate presence of the fabric between her buttock cheeks, gently stimulating her sensitive anus.

She even found a way to appreciate her interminable commutes to the university by trying to get as close to the edge of climax as possible from the vibrations of the train. A low sexual drive, however, was the guarantee of a boring day and a sulky mood. Erotic fiction was the magic concoction, the mental aphrodisiac that provided her with the lust she could not live without.

Every morning and evening, she was reading, forcing her mind to go through the enticing words, no matter how crazy the images running in her head made her, no matter how strong the begging of her clitoris was, no matter how fuzzy lust was making her brain. She wanted to see what the limits of her frenzy and of her pleasure were, if any. For that purpose, she took the habit of delaying as much as she could her masturbation sessions. She let the lust rise and rise, reading raunchy novels one after another without allowing herself any release, and finally, when she felt utterly unable to deal with her libido anymore, she would gently reach between her thighs, and after a few seconds of slow touching, let herself explode.

At some point, she even fancied coming from mental stimulation alone. But no matter how hard she tried, thoughts and words were not sufficient to bring her over the edge. She got caught by surprise in the train, though, as the vibrations of her seat coupled with a particular frisky passage got the better of her. She did a poor job at containing her moans, and although having vaginal contractions surrounded by a myriad of strangers had definitely been an interesting experience, she did not wish to renew it.

After graduating, she started to work for a publishing company, and she insisted on reviewing only erotic manuscripts. She was very successful at her job. Her colleagues were impressed by the long hours she was putting in, which, as the careful reader might deduce by now, were not causing her any effort at all. After a few months, she decided she could write much more enticing fiction than any of the authors she was reviewing, so she decided to submit her own manuscript. It was immediately accepted and rapidly became a bestseller.

But on this late Friday afternoon, she was too tired and horny to get any more work done. Of course, if for once she allowed herself an orgasm, the constant throbbing of her clitoris would go away temporarily, and she could probably focus better. However, that would not be of much help since her inspiration would be gone. Such was the conundrum of her literary life. She could not wait any longer, she decided. She would come tonight, when Dave would be home.

As if some god had read her mind and granted her wish, she heard the entrance door open. She flew out of her office and jumped into the arms of her husband, frantically kissing him.

"Hello, honey," he greeted her when she finally removed her tongue from his mouth. "You seem all worked up today."

Not even bothering to respond, she covered his neck with kisses while unbuttoning his shirt. Soon she was on her knees and unzipping his pants. She started to wrap her lips around his erect penis and to lick him enthusiastically. While going through her expert moves, she was covering his hard sex with her saliva and soaking her panties with her juices. She loved giving oral sex. Providing pleasure without receiving any was the favorite among all of her many fantasies. She would always initiate sex this way, and unless he stopped her, she would make him finish in her mouth, not asking nor wanting anything in return. Often, he could not resist.

But sometimes, like on this particular Friday, he would gently caress her chick and signal her to stop. Then he would bring her to the room and enter her forever-wet pussy. He missed cunnilingus, but she preferred penetration. His tongue would provide way too much stimulation for her sensitive clitoris.

He started to thrust vigorously, paying attention to her moans of pleasure, which were growing louder and louder. Each time he entered her, his pelvis was rubbing her clitoris, bringing her closer to climax. He always tried to last as long as he could, hoping for her to reach orgasm before he did. But he realized that this time he should have stopped the fellatio a bit earlier, had he wanted to maximize his stamina.

Despite his best efforts, Dave could not last more than a few minutes, and when he came, he left Amanda right on the edge. Just where she wanted to be.