To play a round, masturbate to edge, using whatever media or tools you find appropriate. Hold your breath, and the edge, for ten seconds. Then take your hand away and flip a coin.
If it’s tails, you don’t get to come. If you wish, you may wait five minutes without touching yourself, then play another round.
If it’s heads, you do get to come. Get yourself off and say a silent thank you. Then take a permanent marker and draw a small tally mark somewhere private on your body–say, the inside of your thigh.
The next time you play a round of the game, you have to flip the coin one extra time for each mark you’ve made on yourself. If any of those coins are tails, see the “if it’s tails” result above. If all of them are heads, you do get to come… and add another mark.
Those of you who can do a little quick math have already realized that the odds of your being permitted climax will rapidly diminish. If and when you get desperate, there are two ways to reset the count. First: if you wait long enough that the marker washes off your skin, to the point where a given mark is actually no longer visible even if you’re looking for it, that mark no longer counts toward your total. Second: if you have sex that involves your being penetrated, you may draw a line through any one cluster of marks, and ignore them from then on.
There’s only one more rule to this game, and I’m afraid it puts the lie to earlier, when I told you it was for one player.
Once you’ve started playing, you aren’t allowed to quit until you ask.
Honestly I really wish there was something that could (for awhile) make me physically unable to cum without permission. Anything so that I could stay right on the edge, trying as hard as can but I can’t get over. Reduced to a writhing, desperate, begging slut who’d do anything you wanted, but you still say no.
What an interesting idea.
Jewel
She’d been a little nervous, at the clinic, as they lifted up the silly little gown and rubbed the topical anesthetic onto her. He’d held her hand, and winked at her, reminding her of the time they’d tried playing with numbing gel to desensitize her. (It hadn’t worked, of course; she just got too excited, too sensitive inside, and came anyway. Hair-trigger girl, she scolded herself.)
But her anxiousness was unfounded: she didn’t feel a thing as they did the installation, and it only took a few minutes. The crystal pattern they’d picked out together was a little extra, but he’d been more than happy to pay for it. “I like that you’ll be able to see it when you look down, just a little,” he said, holding the mirror for her as she gently traced her finger around the edges, watching it glitter as she breathed. “I like knowing that you’ll remember, even if the implant’s turned off.”
“And how often are you going to turn it off?” she smirked.
It turned out the answer was “never.”
It drove her fucking crazy. As soon as it became clear she wasn’t allowed to come, wasn’t ABLE to come, it was all she could think about. She thought about it at work, in the car, at her book club, at dinner. Her friends started teasing her about her attention span because of how often she got caught staring off at nothing, lips slightly parted, lost in embarrassing thought. The whole situation kept her so wet that she had to start carrying a spare pair of panties in her bag–then two pairs. When she opened it at the end of the day, she could smell her own need, and she usually had to shove a hand up her skirt and edge right then and there.
That only made it worse, of course. She’d known the implant would let her edge but not go over, but she hadn’t known, really known how high and keen that edge could be. It was a ragged knife inside her, a clamp on her brainstem, a drug that hooked her on her own cunt. He didn’t even need to get out her vibrator–though he still did anyway, sometimes. Just his cock or his fingers inside her were enough to send a spike of desperation all the way up her spine, and there was absolutely, positively no answer to her screamed or whimpered prayers.
“So,” he said softly in her ear, spent and satisfied as she lay there, breathing, lost in the throb of her own constant need. “Four weeks since the appointment. This is when we were going to decide whether to keep it, right?”
“Uh huh,” she managed, as if she’d had any idea. Had it been a day already? Had it not been a year?
He traced one finger from her mouth down her throat, over her arching belly, to brush the sparkling glow between her legs. Her body was immediately ready, deep ache wrapped around sharp pleasure. “What’s it like to be a hair-trigger girl,” he asked, “when the safety’s on?”
“Dangerous,” she whispered, and let him pin her into place again.
