20 [F4M] You don't get to finish until I say so
You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve hit the edge. Your hand is moving on autopilot now, a rhythm I set for you the second you looked into my eyes. Your focus is gone, replaced by that glassy, mindless stare I love so much. You’re just a body responding to my voice—obedient, quiet, and completely under my thumb.
Every time I lean in close, your heart rate spikes. Every time I pull away, you ache. I’ve got you so conditioned that you don't even think for yourself anymore; you just wait for my next command. I like the way you tremble when I tell you to slow down, and the way you gasp when I force you to stop right when you're about to lose it.
I’m a 20-year-old athlete, and I treat this like any other drill—I’m in total control of your performance. You’ve been edging for so long that your brain feels like static, and the only thing that's clear is my voice. Your pleasure isn't yours anymore; it’s a reward that I’m choosing to hold over your head.
You’re leaking, you’re desperate, and you’re begging with your eyes, but you haven't been given permission yet. You’re going to stay right there, perfectly focused on me, until I decide you’ve been a good enough toy to earn a release. And right now? I’m having too much fun watching you struggle.
Stay focused, baby... I’m not done with you yet.