So many sluts are asking important questions: what is edging? How do I do it? Is it really better than cumming? Lucky for you, I have all the answers you could ever want. All you have to do is follow along.
Edging is simple. You touch yourself, build toward orgasm, and then... stop. You pull your hand away. Right before you tip over. Right when every nerve in your body is screaming more, please, don't stop. You let the wave recede. And then, when you've caught your breath, you do it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
For the dumb sluts with no attention span, that's all you need to know. But for those that want more, consider reading under the cut...
Why It's Better
Some of you have been cumming far too much. Whenever the mood strikes, you touch yourself, you finish, and it's over. A few seconds of pleasure and then nothing. You’re empty. Already forgetting what it felt like.
Edging is different.
When you edge, the arousal doesn't disappear. Each edge layers on top of the last. The pleasure gets deeper, more intense, more consuming. After a few edges, you'll be so sensitive that the slightest touch will make you gasp. After a few more, you'll be shaking, leaking, barely able to form coherent thoughts.
Edges linger. They keep you warm and wet and wanting for days. Months, if you're disciplined. You’ll walk around with a constant ache between your legs, a secret you're carrying, a reminder of what you're denying yourself.
And when you finally do cum... when you've earned it or been given permission. It's not just a few seconds of mediocre release. It's the kind of orgasm that leaves you sobbing.
And that's not even the biggest reason it's better.
The real reason is what it teaches you. That pleasure isn't yours to take whenever you want it. That anticipation is sweeter than satisfaction. That discipline feels better than indulgence. That you like yourself more when you're denied.
You learn to associate obedience with pleasure. You train yourself to get wet from being told no.
That's why it's better. It conditions you.
How to Do It
Let's practice. Right now. While you're reading this.
Get comfortable. Somewhere private. Take off whatever's in the way and push it aside. We need easy access.
Now start slow. Don't rush. Run your fingers over your inner thighs, your stomach, everywhere except where you actually want to be touched. Tease yourself. Make yourself wait for it.
Feel how your body responds. The way your hips shift, trying to guide your hand where it wants to go. The way your breathing changes. You're already getting wet. Just from anticipation. Just from being told what to do.
Now touch yourself. Lightly. Barely there. Softly, with not enough pressure to do anything but frustrate you. Feel how swollen you already are. How sensitive. How badly you want more.
Give yourself more. A little more pressure. Find the rhythm that works for you, the one that makes your thighs tense. Let the pleasure build. Let it climb.
You're getting close now. I can tell. Your thoughts are getting fuzzy. Your hips are moving on their own. Everything is narrowing down to that single point of contact, that desperate need to crest.
Stop
Take your hand away. Right now.
Feel the way your body protests. The ache of being denied. The almost painful throb between your legs, begging you to finish what you started.
That's the edge. That's what you're chasing.
Sit with it. Let the wave recede. It takes a minute or two. Your heart will slow. The desperation will fade to a manageable simmer. You'll still be turned on, still be wet, but you won't be right on the brink anymore.
Good. Now do it again.
Build yourself back up. Take yourself to the edge. And stop.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, you'll get more sensitive. Each time, stopping will be harder, and you'll understand a little better why this is worth it. Why denial is sweeter than the release. Why good sluts edge instead of cumming whenever they want.
How Many?
As many as you can stand. Then one more.
If you're new to this, start with three. Build yourself up, stop, let it fade, repeat. Three edges and then you're done for the night. No orgasm. You go to sleep aching.
Tomorrow, do it again. And the next day. See how many days you can last before you're begging for it to end.
It's going to be hard, but eventually the denial becomes the reward. You'll find yourself craving that desperate, dripping, mindless state more than you ever craved orgasms.
mom on all fours in front of you, invitingly swaying her ass side to side while you try to work up the nerve to slide your cock back into the pussy that you came from
You've already brainwashed yourself with porn. You've turned yourself from an intelligent person into a mindless thing that rubs itself stupid to whatever its algorithm serves up. You're a slave to the internet, your brain smoothed over by people much smarter than you. Be a good puppet and keep rubbing for them
Everyday I spend not being forcefed edibles until I'm so high and incoherent I can't do anything but drool and whimper completely at the mercy of whoevers fucking me is a day wasted
I should be stuck in a daze being overstimulated with my only thought being how sensitive I am and instead I'm forced to be a productive member of society
You'd planned for months, but had been waiting for three agonizing weeks. You went to the same coffee shop as always, at the same time as always. Medium, hot, oat milk, 2 sugars. Turned the same way exiting, tracing the same route to the same library you visited every weekend.
She was the first girl to really get it. Your last ex left you because you wanted to do a safeword ignoring scene. Well, they said it was for other reasons. But you knew. You knew you really understood kink, and needed people who really understood kink in your life.
So when she steps out from the side alley, knife in hand, you play out the scene as planned. You don't have to work as hard you thought to make the trembling convincing. She's brusque, in person, and the knife is much bigger than you thought. Your heart races as she ratchets the zip cuffs around your wrists, and places the bag over your head. You wrinkle your nose, it stinks.
"Zoe, can you-"
"No talking. Move." She kicks at your calf, and you have to stumble forward, catching yourself by half steps, landing face first in what must be the open trunk. Musty blankets and itchy trunk liner. Hands, groping in your pockets for wallet, phone, keys. Zoe grabs your thighs, and lifts. Grunts. You dolphin a bit, folding yourself into the trunk. Its not accurate, but you don't want the scene to get stuck here.
The trunk slams shut. You're left in hot, scratchy silence. Short breaths. Musky might be the right word for the smell.
The car kicks to life. Your knees press uncomfortably against the trunk edge as Zoe accelerates. A sharp turn - your head smacks into the side wall. She's not a very good driver. You try to count the turns, the time between jerks of acceleration. How you would if this was real. But your focus is drawn away by what comes next, and it all blends into an uneven gait beneath you.
This is what your idiot former partners never understood. Light bondage here and there, oh, yea, indulge the idiot pervert girl in her damsel fantasies. None of them had been willing to do this for you. Zoe had never failed. She texted every morning, and remembered every detail.
Finally, the car rolls to full stop, and rumbles off. And you wait. And wait. This is it. The climactic scene where she stops "on the side of the road" and forces you to service her at gunpoint. Really, her backyard. With takeout after.
The trunk clicks open.
"Out."
You unfold sore limbs, helped not too kindly by Zoe's yanking. You stumble, catching the ground, and let her lead you by the wrists. She stops.
"There's three steps down in front of you. Right foot first."
There were no steps, in the plan. Your heart races. Zoe added something extra, just for you. You tentatively reach down, and hear the hollow metal clank of a steel stair. Two. Three. She has her hand on your neck, and ducks you through what must be a inner short door of a bulkhead entrance. Shuffle forward on stone.
A metal clasp bites around your exposed ankle. The hood comes off, and even the gloom is blinding for a moment.
Every post you've ever written. Some you didn't write, where you added long and rambling tags. DMs to her. Messages in public servers. Posts from accounts you never told her about, Instagram and LinkedIn. Photos rendered in flat, laser-printer color. Taped together in a sprawling mosaic across the concrete wall of a small room of her basement. You turn back to see the stairwell you'd descended. Heavy interior door, open to the stairs up to the storm door.
And the shackle, unplanned, padlocked onto your leg, a thick, short chain anchored to the corner, where a dog bed sat.
"Zoe, uh. Wow, this is amazing. You really added to the scene. Can. Can I get a check in before we keep going?"
Zoe looked at you with a pitying stare, and a lazy grin. She turns back to the stairs.
"I've got to go tie up some loose ends. Quit your job, send some mean texts to the friends you have left, dump your phone at a bus station. Hard to wait when I'm so close but, it's just a few more hours. I'll be back to talk about our new life together, sweetheart."
She closes the inner door of the storm stairs with a solid thump, plunging you into true darkness.
Okay so ironically for me it was my fear of hypnosis. So whenever I would see it on tv or in movies I would have this pit in my stomach over it but it weirdly was like a special interest too.
One summer I decided to confront this fear head on by trying some SFW hypnosis files I found on the internet and when I woke up, I was like, "really is that it?! that's so stupid." Thinking I did it wrong I then spent YEARS trying to achieve the most squishy brain and find that trance state that would feel like the movies told me it did. Not only did I successfully achieve that (with YEARS of conditioning, training and just fucking around and finding out and not always in the good ways) but in the process I turned hypnosis into my ultimate passion, kink and now my full time job.
that video you posted of yourself taking your tits out at work was so unbelievably hot
i cant stop imagining being your boss... id call you into my office, showing you the footage from the recently installed cameras...i wouldnt leak the video...as long as you gave me free reign to suck and fondle on your puffy breasts whenever i wanted...is this anything?
(The video)
God I can’t imagine how scared and wet I would get standing there watching that video with you. I would unbutton my top nervously, maybe tearfully, but the moment you were suckling at my breast, I would lose myself and moan.
Goddd maybe over time i would notice my tits getting fuller and heavier. Just the brush of my thin shirts against the sides of them would make them hot and tingly, and eventually I would whimper to you that they feel sore. Logic would say I’d want you to stop nursing, but I’m swaying towards you tits-first, leaning into it as you begin to rhythmically massage my other breast as if milking it.
You taste my milk several times over the next few weeks, but never tell me. I only find out when a stream squirts out of the teat you’re not sucking, wetting your hand and your nice suit. I’m overwhelmed and humiliated knowing my body has been transformed by the control you have over me. And I’m ashamed of how much I like having full udders, being the boss’s little milkmaid. But it makes sense. The problem always was that I was too comfortable being a slut at work.
And now I’m hardly more than a pair of udders to you, spending my work hours sitting on your desk with my shirt open and my milky tits bulging over the cups of the bra I’ve outgrown, waiting for you to grab me by the hips and drag my teats close enough to suckle.
It's very exciting to think about feeling cum splashing deep inside someone, or being able to feel every spurt landing in you but there's something about that you might not know.
Not every person can feel the physical act of having someone ejaculate inside them, as much as we might want to believe that.
Some are very sensitive to it and can feel every warm spurt coat all the surfaces inside them, painting their hole with potent sperm.
Others only just feel the warm sensation of being filled up--the temperature difference of hot cum being released.
Some people feel nothing at all, but can only know you're about to release through your actions, gestures, sounds, and words.
This is why it's so important to communicate that you're about to give it to them deeply. Tell the person you're fucking that you're about to cum, and shove in as much as you can when you do. Let them feel the weight of you pressing in between their legs. Grind your pelvis against theirs. Let yourself be heard: don't suppress any grunts or vocalizations as you feel your load rising and rushing out of your scrotum and into your partner. Don't. Cum. Quietly.
Tell them it's happening. Make them feel used, or special, or slutty. Give them feedback that you're emptying your seed inside.
They should know it's happening, that it's real and there's no turning back. This is it, this is the moment you flood them. Help train them to feel *something* when receiving your cum.
put me on my knees @fanged--teeth - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
