Shower Wand Edging for Kendra

Kendra, it’s Benedict, and I am standing in the shower I finished renovating yesterday, twenty-eight years old, already talking to you out loud because that is how you told me to do this. You are twenty-six. You said it this morning with your hand flat on my chest and that strict little smile, before you left, blouse gaping when you leaned in to give the order one more time. Think only of my body, you said. Use the new handheld wand you just watched me install. Edge yourself thoroughly with the pulsing water. Do not cum. Come back and recount every denied orgasm so I can hear how desperate you got for me. I am doing it. The tile is warm under my feet. The glass is starting to fog. The wand is in my fist, hose uncoiled from the mount I drilled last night, and the pulse setting you picked out is already hammering my open palm hard enough to sting.

I have not really started and my cock is thick against my thigh anyway, heavy from nothing but your orders. You wanted the tension before the water even touched me. You have it. I twist the collar until the stream narrows into a fast, mean pulse and test it once across my stomach, watching the skin jump. The pressure is nothing like the old fixed head. It is focused, cruel, the kind of jet that could make a man shake if he aimed it at the wrong inch of himself, which is exactly why you wanted it on the wall before you gave me this. My balls hang full and warm in the steam. I soap my shaft once, slowly, just to feel how sensitive the skin already is, then rinse the suds away so there is nothing between the spray and me but water and the ache you ordered.

The mount holds when I tug the hose. You sat on the closed toilet in your panties while I installed it, twenty-six and smug, telling me to make sure the pulse was strong enough to be mean. I promised you it would be. I tell you again now, even though you cannot hear me yet, that I will not finish. I will edge three times. I will hold every one of them back. When I am dry I will find you and give you the whole filthy recount, because you asked for the story and not the cum, and I want to obey you badly enough that my cock is already lifting, the head darkening, a clear bead pushing out of the slit before the wand has touched it. This is the setup you wanted. The new valve hums. I am ready to aim it where you told me to aim it.

I picture your body the way it looks when the water is on you. Full breasts, heavy and wet, nipples drawn tight and dark, the soft undersides shining when you arch. Wet curves at your waist, the flare of your hips, your ass round and slick when you turn your back to the spray. I aim the strong spray directly at the underside of my cock and balls, and the first true pulse makes my mouth fall open. It drums the sensitive ridge, rattles my sac, and my shaft jumps and thickens until it stands straight out, throbbing in time with the jets. I wrap my free hand around the base and stroke slowly, long pulls that stop just under the head, because you wanted the water to do the teasing and my hand only to keep me honest.

Your breasts fill every thought I allow myself. I see them sway when you breathe. I see shower water running between them, over your stomach, into the dark hair between your thighs. The rhythmic pulses find my frenulum and stay there. Each beat is a small shock that climbs my cock and settles behind my navel as heat. My shaft throbs so hard the vein stands up under my thumb. I do not speed my hand even when my breathing quickens. I keep the stroke slow and mean, the way you stroke me when you are deciding whether I deserve to get close at all.

The first time I nearly lose it, my hips start to buck toward the spray on their own. My thighs lock. That sweet dangerous pull gathers low in my balls, the one that means ten more seconds and I will cum all over the new tile and fail you. I pull the wand away. The pulse slaps the wall instead. Cooler air hits my wet cock and the orgasm retreats, leaving me swollen, angry, and leaking a thin string of precum that stray droplets wash down over my balls. I stand there breathing hard, fist loose at the base, letting the ache subside just enough to start again. Not all the way. You did not want it gone. You wanted it waiting under the skin, building the desperate need you said I should feel for you.

I bring the wand back to the same place. Underside. Balls and frenulum. Strong spray. Slow stroke. I think of your wet curves under my hands, of your full breasts pressed to my chest, of your ass filling my palms while you grind back against me in the steam. The pulses tease my frenulum until my cock jumps with every beat. Breathing quickens again. Hips buck. I yank the wand away a second time, sooner than my body wants, and the denial lands harder. My balls feel heavier. My shaft stays thick and dark and throbbing, refusing to soften even a little. The need stacks, layer on layer, exactly the way you ordered it.

I count breaths the way you make me count when your mouth is on me and you stop. Four slow inhales with the spray gone. On the fifth I bring the wand back a little off-center, so the jets drum the side of my shaft and only kiss the frenulum every few pulses. It is worse that way. My fist stays loose. My thumb drags the underside in the patient, cruel rhythm you use. Precum beads, spills, gets blasted away before it can even string. I imagine your nipples against my tongue, hard and wet, your full breasts heavy in my face, the slick curve of your waist under my hands. When my hips start to roll I know the second edge is cresting for real. I hold one extra second, long enough to feel the cum surge toward the head, then I rip the wand aside and squeeze the base until the surge dies into nothing. A broken sound leaves my throat. My denied cock twitches in the open air, leaking, shining, nowhere near finished and nowhere near allowed to be.

I look down and the sight makes it meaner. My cock is flushed almost purple at the head, the slit winking with every throb, a fresh bead of precum welling and stretching. My balls have drawn up halfway and they feel tender when leftover spray flicks them. I am twenty-eight and shaking in my own shower because you, twenty-six and strict, told me to suffer for your body and then report back. I want that. I want you to hear how thin my voice gets when I describe this. I reset my grip. I am not done. You said three. The third one is going to be the one that nearly breaks me, and I am going to hold it anyway, because that is the order.

On the third edging I stop pretending I can be gentle with it. I press the wand’s pulsing jets firmly against my frenulum, right where the underside of the head meets the shaft, and the pressure is so direct my knees nearly fold. My other hand grips the base of my cock tightly, a hard choking hold that pins the cum down low even while everything above my fingers swells and begs. I imagine your mouth wrapped around me. Not soft. Your mouth the way it gets when you have decided to ruin me and then stop, lips stretched wide around my shaft, tongue flattened hard against that same frenulum, suction steady and mean, your eyes lifted so I would have to watch you take me if you were kneeling in this steam. The water does the work your tongue would do. It massages that spot without a pause, pulse after pulse, a hard little heartbeat hammering the most sensitive inch of my cock while my fist refuses to stroke and only squeezes.

My balls draw up tight against my body. I feel them crawl, heavy and hot, the skin of my sac pulling snug until there is no hang left, just a packed ache tucked up under my shaft. My cock swells painfully hard inside the grip at the base. The shaft above my fingers thickens until the skin shines tight, the head flaring so wide I have to adjust the wand to keep the jets centered on the frenulum and not lose them to the curve. Every muscle strains. My stomach locks into a rigid band. My thighs shake. My ass clenches and my toes curl hard against the wet tile. I fight the urge to cum exactly as you instructed. I do not thrust into the spray. I do not loosen my fingers. I hold the wand steady and let the water drive me to the brink and pin me there.

It is not one second. It stretches into a long trembling chain, and I stay inside it because you told me to. The orgasm sits in my balls and in the root of my cock and tries to punch upward past the choke of my grip, and I deny it over and over without ever letting the wand leave that spot. Precum pours out of me in thick pulses. The spray blasts each one away the moment it appears, and every lost drop feels like a tiny ruined cum that makes the real one angrier, heavier, more desperate to break free. I see your mouth in perfect detail. Your lips shiny with water and spit. Your tongue working the frenulum in the same ruthless rhythm as these jets. Your free hand cupping my drawn-up balls the way I wish mine could, rolling them while you refuse to let me finish down your throat. I hear you. Not yet. Hold it. You want the story, not the mess on the tile. My breath comes in ripped sounds I do not recognize. My hips try to buck and I lock them so hard my lower back cramps.

One second becomes the next and I count them the way you would if you were here with your mouth an inch off the head, breathing on the wet slit, denying me the last swallow. Two. The pleasure climbs so high it edges into pain, a bright white ache right under the head where the jets never let up. Three. Four. My balls are drawn so tight they throb in time with my cock, a hot knot jammed up against the base my fingers are crushing. Five. A spasm rolls through my shaft and for a bad instant I think I have lost the fight, that cum is going to blast out despite everything, a hot rope across the glass, failure you would make me describe in shame. I squeeze harder, crushing the base until my knuckles ache, and the spasm dies into a violent twitch that gives up only another heavy leak of precum, thick enough to string from the slit to my wrist before the water cuts it. Six. Seven. My arms are shaking. Sweat and shower water run together down my chest and over the clenched muscles of my stomach. The vein in my cock hammers against my thumb like a second pulse, fighting the one from the wand.

Eight. The wand slips a fraction in my wet hand and the jet slides up onto the head itself, a brutal drumming right on the slit, too much, and a raw sound tears out of me. My cock kicks. I correct it fast, panting your name. I plant the pulses back on the frenulum where you would have kept your tongue, firm and centered, and I stay. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Long trembling seconds. My vision sparks at the edges. My jaw locks. Every muscle from my calves to my throat is strung tight, fighting the cum that wants out of me so badly I can taste copper and heat at the back of my tongue, the way my body gets when you edge me with your hand and then smile like you own the ending.

I think of your full breasts again because you told me to think only of your body, and I am not allowed to let my mind go anywhere else even here, right on the razor. I imagine them wet and close to my face while your mouth works my cock, the weight of them, the hard nipples brushing my stomach if you leaned in to take me deeper and then pulled off just to watch me suffer. I imagine the wet curves of your back if you turned and looked at me over your shoulder, ass pushed out, water running down the cleft, telling me to hold it, hold it, don’t you dare cum until I say. You have not said. You will not say, not in this shower, not until I have the story and I am standing in front of you aching. So I hold. Twelve. Thirteen. My cock swells another unbearable degree, painfully hard, the skin so tight it feels thin, the head a deep flushed color I can see even through the blast of the spray. My balls are cramped up into me. A second spasm hits, stronger than the first, and my whole shaft kicks inside the grip, a mean upward jolt that should have been a cum and isn’t. I bear down. I squeeze until it hurts. The kick produces nothing but a fat spill of precum that the jets smear across my fingers and my tight fist. I am right on the edge and I stay there, shaking, moaning your name into the steam, not yet, not yet, Kendra, not yet.

Fourteen. Fifteen. The tremble is in my wrists now. The wand buzzes against the frenulum so steadily it feels like it has become part of the nerve, a relentless massage that will tip me if I give it one more breath. My hips stutter despite the lock. My ass clenches and unclenches around nothing. I feel the orgasm crowd the gate of my grip, pressure insane, a flood waiting for one loose finger, one slip of the wand back onto the slit, one stroke I am not allowed to give myself. I do not give it anything. I give it the choke and the count and the picture of your mouth stretched around me, eyes up, tongue ruthless, telling me with a look that I do not get to finish. Sixteen. Seventeen. My thighs are vibrating. My stomach is a knot. Precum keeps leaking in helpless little pulses, and each one feels like my body begging you through me, please, please, let it go, and the answer is still no because you already gave it. Hold. Edge. Do not cum. Tell me later.

I hold those last trembling seconds the way you ordered, cock throbbing so hard it aches in the bones of my hips, balls tight and hot, every muscle straining, imagining your wet breasts against me and your mouth wrapped around the head while the jets do your tongue’s work and I refuse the ending. The pleasure is a bright wire pulled tight from my frenulum to the root. One more second and it snaps into a cum. I know it. I feel the cum crowd up behind my crushing fingers, a hot heavy load that wants your throat or the tile or my own fist, anything, and I deny it the way you told me to deny it.

Then I yank the spray away.

The third edge snaps like a cut cord. My cock kicks hard in my fist, furious, throwing nothing but a thick strand of precum that swings and sticks to my wrist and my thigh and the back of my hand. The orgasm slams into the wall of my grip and has nowhere to go, so it reverberates through me, a full-body jolt that whites out the edges of the shower and drops my shoulder and knee against the tile for balance. I am still standing. I am still squeezing. I am still not cumming. I keep the choke on the base until the kicks slow to mean little twitches that wring out more leak and nothing else. I do not stroke. I do not bring the wand back, no matter how much my cock pulses toward the hanging spray like it could find your mouth in the water. I stand in the steam with my denied cock purple-red and shining and still rigidly, painfully hard, balls cramped up under me, gut fluttering with all the cum I refused to spill, exactly as you instructed, three edges and not one finish.

I breathe hard for a long moment with the wand hanging from my fist, dripping onto the tile, my denied cock still twitching and leaking down over my fingers in slow fat drops. The orgasm sits in me unfinished, a hot knot that will not loosen. My balls stay tight. My shaft stays thick and angry, pulsing with every heartbeat, the head so sensitive that even the falling mist makes it jump and spill another bead. I turn the valve off. The pulse dies. The shower goes quiet except for the drain and the rough sound of my breathing. I stand there dripping, twenty-eight years old, cock still hard because you told me I was not allowed to cum, and I obeyed every word.

I step out onto the mat and dry off, rough over my chest and arms and stomach, careful and miserable around my cock because every drag of the towel feels like it could restart the edge and ruin the denial you wanted kept. I do not stroke. I do not finish. I do not even squeeze. I wrap the towel low on my hips and feel my shaft press up against the cloth, still leaking, a wet spot already spreading where the swollen head rubs and throbs. I am going to walk out of this bathroom and tell you every explicit detail of how I edged myself three times with the new shower wand while thinking only of your body. I am going to describe aiming that strong spray at the underside of my cock and balls, the slow strokes, the way I pulled it away twice when my hips started to buck, and the third time I pressed those pulsing jets firm against my frenulum and gripped the base and imagined your mouth wrapped around me until my balls drew up and my cock swelled painfully hard and I held the razor edge for those long trembling seconds before I yanked it away. I am going to stand in front of you aching and desperate for your touch exactly the way you wanted, denied and dripping, so you can hear how badly I need you.

My cock is still twitching and leaking under this towel, thick and angry and nowhere near done, and I am going to make you listen with my pants open and this denied, throbbing shaft in your hand, wet at the tip, balls full and tight, while I beg you not to let me cum until you have used every filthy second of it to keep me desperate for your mouth.