Seventy-Eight Edges: Tuesday
I sat on the hay bale out in the barn with my legs spread wide. My boots stood on the ground beside me, leaving my bare feet propped up, my knees turned outward. I was leaning back and if you’d been standing there opposite me, you would have seen the look of pure bliss on my face, my right hand working feverishly between my legs, my petals wet and slick and spread. My shirt was bunched up, tugged toward my chin, exposing one breast, the nipple caught between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand and my chest heaved as I brought myself closer to orgasm.
Metaphorically it was like climbing a hill, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and laboriously moving to the top, frequently in pleasure, sometimes in pain. Orgasm is like that you know. And then, once you get to the summit, there is a cliff, a drop-off, a steep incline down. It’s an edge. And if you are lucky, you step off, or run off, or leap off into the abyss of orgasm, feeling everything at maximum intensity, falling down into sexual euphoria as waves of pleasure rock you. It is a sublime moment, better than all the drugs in the world.
Perspiration beaded my brow. It was warm inside, the back of summer not yet broken by fall’s approaching coolness. It was raining outside and cooler weather was expected later in the week, but then it was in the seventies already, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. Not that I was concerned. The blue denim skirt I was wearing was pulled up around my waist and my panties were wrapped around one ankle, a tiny flit of a red lace that seemed even naughtier than usual used as an anklet.
I felt it. The orgasm. It was cumming. I was cumming. Or damn close to it. And as I metaphorically approached the cliff, I began trying to stop, to hold myself back. My feet skidded, the loose soil at the edge of the cliff crumbled. I fell, sliding, my forward momentum too much to stop and it was only at the last second that I was able to grab hold of something and arrest my forward momentum, legs dangling in open air, shuddering.
I took my hand away from clit and struggled. It was so hard. I wanted to cum so bad. It was my third edge of the morning and I was so desperate, so wanting that I almost did it. But in the back of my head I knew the consequences were not good, so I held off. I stopped myself. Mind over matter. Brain over pussy. However you want to put it.
I sucked in another breath, my body trembling as the sexual urgency of my desire slowly faded. It’s a horrible thing, to be that close, and then be let down. Unfortunately it happens to women a lot. Especially during sex with guys. We get all revved up, ready and wanting, and by the time our engine is warm and we’re well lubricated and getting close to popping, our piston is finished thumping and then he goes soft, leaving us in sexual limbo – hot, bothered, and unable to get to the finish line ourselves.
I rolled off the hay bale and stood up. My head swam with endorphins and other chemicals released during the masturbation process, but the rush of adrenaline my body had been expecting never arrived and I suddenly felt tired, exhausted even. Groaning I picked up the Husky dildo that was my toy of the day and slid it back up into my slit. That movement, that penetration was almost enough to shove me back over the edge I had just left. I pushed my skirt back down to cover my nudity, then threaded my other foot back through my red thong before pulling it up into place. It held the Husky dildo in place, the feeling of being fully fucked not combining well with the burning desire I still felt. I got my bra back over my breast, then pulled down my shirt. Last came my boots and I jammed my bare feet into the footwear and went about my business. It wasn’t good.
The rest of this tale from Breanne Erickson is available in her book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut, Volume 8" available at Amazon.com. Click here to find out what happened next!