Chef
I try edging next because I’ve never had the patience to try alone. I circle my clit until I’m right there. My thighs are trembling, my breath is coming in gasps, and then I stop. I pull my hand away and lie there, panting, my whole body screaming for release.
It’s torture. It’s exquisite.
I do it again. And again. Each time, I get closer. Each time, the pleasure builds higher. Each time, stopping feels more impossible. By the fourth edge, I’m whimpering, my hips fucking the air, my clit so swollen that I can feel my heartbeat in it. I need to come, but I keep denying myself.
And every time I bring myself back from the brink, I think about Patterson watching me squirm, begging for it. The way he’d tell me not yet, to hold it, to wait for him. The way he’d finally give me permission and watch me shatter.
“Please,” I whisper to myself. When I barely touch myself again, the orgasm rips through me.
It’s the hardest I’ve ever come alone. Wave after wave rolls through me. My back arches off the bed. I’m shaking and crying and laughing, all at once, because I didn’t know my body could do this. I didn’t know I could feel this much without him even touching me.
Kendall
Chef
Into the afternoon, I pull my vibrator from the back of my nightstand drawer. Now, with my body this sensitive and my mind full of Patterson, it’s exactly what I need.
I press it against my clit on the lowest setting and still nearly levitate off the bed. The vibration is different from fingers or water, more focused, more relentless. I can’t control it the way I can control my own touch. Even at the lowest setting, it’s almost too much, but I experiment with the different vibrations.
Slow pulses make me squirm. Faster ones make me gasp. I press it inside myself, searching for that spot, and when I find it, I see stars.
The orgasm takes me over. My body is teaching me things today, showing me capabilities I never explored because I never had a reason to.
Even with the vibrator buzzing against my G-spot, it’s the thought of him that tips me over and gives me another one without a break between them. I’ve never done that before. I didn’t know I could.
Kendall
Chef
One more. I don’t know if I have another one in me. Every touch sends sparks of pleasure-pain through my oversensitive nerves.
But he asked for ten. And I want to give him ten.
As the sun sets, I roll onto my stomach and straddle my pillow, grinding down against it the way I’ve seen in porn. The soft pressure against my clit is gentler than my fingers, gentler than the vibrator, and my hips start moving on their own. Slow rolls at first, then faster ones as I chase the friction.
I think about Patterson watching me do this. I think about him sitting in a chair across the room, hard and wanting, telling me to keep going while he strokes himself. He’d cross the room, shoving the pillow aside and replacing it with his thigh, making me ride him while he whispers praise in my ear.
“Come for me,” I almost hear him say.
The orgasm builds differently this time. It’s not concentrated in my clit, but spreading through my whole body. The warmpressure expands outward from my core. I grind harder, faster, my face buried in the mattress, my hands fisting the sheets.
Then it hits me.
“Fuck,” I groan out.
A gush of wetness spreads between my thighs, and for a moment, I think I’ve lost control of my bladder, but then another wave of pleasure crashes through me, and I realize what’s happening. I’m squirting. I’ve only ever done that with Patterson. Never alone.
I sob into the mattress as it keeps coming. I’m making a mess of my sheets, and I don’t care because I’m being ripped apart. It’s like Patterson has reached across the distance and commanded me. When I return to reality, I collapse onto my side, gasping, crying, laughing. My sheets are soaked. I feel empty and full at the same time, wrung out and more alive than I’ve ever been.
Kendall
Chef
Twenty minutes later, my phone rings.
“Congratulations.” His voice is wicked. “How do you feel?”
