Blissful Torment

I love orgasms.

The way they start in my sex, make it tingle, then quiver, followed by the feeling of hormones rushing through my body, making my toes curl and my eyes roll up, followed by a guttural moan from a constricted throat. Orgasms are amazing. Like a gigantic wave crashing over me, they are like a deluge of pleasure.

However there is this point, just before an orgasm, where I figuratively stare at the wave, wanting it to drown me in bliss. We call it the edge. That moment makes me groan and whimper, even if it's less intense than delicious climax. But unlike the tsunami of climax, reaching the edge and then stopping is like the tides; They come and go every day, never stopping, never faltering. Every edge erodes a few more grains of my restraint, making my body more sensitive, empowering all the edges that follow.

Orgasms are exhausting and soon leave me disinterested. But edging? The more I do it, the more I want it. After a week I am constantly aroused. After two it's hard to think about anything else. After a month, I'm just a willing slut to whoever I need to ask for permission to cum. I ask, and I beg, and I hope they deny me.

I love orgasms, but I lust for denial.