Guilt Much teasing with little denial. (Originally published in Clean Sheets magazine, June 2010 under the pen name Johanna Dowson) “Slower! Just a bit slower!” I panted out. She added more lube and shifted into a twisting rhythm. I groaned, pulling hard at the restraints holding me to the bed. “Please,” I pleaded. “What should I do? Faster? But then it’ll end. Is that what you want?” she teased back. “No! No! I’m so close. I don’t know…” “I’ll make the call, then. You can cool down before we hit the edge again.” She squeezed and massaged my swollen testicles. My breathing steadied and some of my brainpower returned. “You see,” she remarked, “I truly struggle to understand why you enjoy it so much when I torment you like this. We’re quite different. I adore plenty of foreplay, but once I’m set, I just want to go for it. After all the tension drains away, I love resting my head on your chest and snuggling up. Sometimes I think that’s the best part; pure relaxation with your heartbeat lulling me toward sleep. But you could spend the whole day hovering near orgasm if I let you.” I gasped as she started stroking my shaft again, though she wasn’t ready to push me back over the edge just yet. She moved enough to keep me firm and occasionally twitching. “It seems odd, even to me,” I replied. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I believe I might have figured it out.” “I want to hear this, but we’ll wait for the next pause.” She tightened my ball stretcher one notch and knelt between my legs. She moved slowly at first, gradually increasing the pace. I tried to relax, floating on waves of pleasure, but felt my muscles tightening, hips thrusting involuntarily as tension built and heart thudded. Watching closely, she dropped the speed slightly. I moaned in frustration—so close! I wanted it, needed to finish badly yet craved that unbearable tension and ecstasy to last forever. Each minute stretched like an hour as she played my body like a musical instrument; she was the conductor of my symphony. During the adagio we crept stealthily toward the edge, teetering on the precipice before pulling back. With the allegro we raced toward the chasm until I thought we’d gone too far, but always she pulled me back just in time—a symphony without a climax! When the final notes faded, I was shaking, drenched in sweat, limb muscles twitching with exhaustion.
She knelt astride my face silently, and I put my tongue to work; it’s my absolute favorite activity. I teased her gently, but a sharp pinch to my nipple brought my focus back to her swollen clitoris. She climaxed hard, moaning in delight. My cock throbbed in sympathy. She lay close by, head on my chest, hand softly cupping my balls.
“Tell me your theory,” she said. “Well, as you know, I was raised religiously. Attended a church boys’ school. We had daily religion lessons and though we covered many topics, the one that stuck with us was masturbation. It was considered a terrible sin. If we masturbated, we’d burn in hell forever. The only cure was to confess our sins to a priest, pray the act of contrition, and do penance. I was terrified, yet still played with my cock every night. I remember the first time I ejaculated; just a small spurt followed by this wonderful spasm of pleasure, then immediately guilt set in. I knew I had to go to confession on Saturday. All week long, I prayed not to die before then, and the image of flames consuming me kept sleep away.”
“That was quite an upbringing for a child,” she said sympathetically. “As puberty hit, my genitals grew larger and more sensitive. I was horny as hell constantly. Lying in bed trying to fall asleep, but my cock had its own will—hard as iron, throbbing and driving me mad. I recall lying there desperately resisting the urge to touch myself, to relieve that terrible pressure. My arousal built until I knew if I just twisted slightly, the friction of the sheet against my glans would finish me off. I struggled so hard but always lost. Of course, once fallen, I felt damned, spending every free minute masturbating until Saturday’s confession. Those years of struggle, hovering between wonderful pleasure and terrible guilt, gave me a taste for edging.”
“Do you still feel guilty?” “No! Not anymore. Well, not intellectually anyway. There’s probably still an emotional response to all that conditioning, but nowadays it just enhances the pleasure. I also find that all that pent-up sexual energy creates a massive orgasm when you finally let me go.”
“I don’t have your capacity for endless edging, but I think I can handle one more round before big bang time.” She picked up her baton and began conducting the final movement.