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My breath gets ragged, heartbeat louder, the world outside just a distant echo. In this trance, every touch feels like a spark, a promise of what's coming but not yet allowed. It's an ache, a thrill, a slow dance with myself where pleasure teases at the edge of release.
But I'm not giving in yet. No, I'm riding that edge, pulling myself back each time, savoring the build and the tension that comes with it. It's almost maddening, this self-inflicted torture, but there's a part of me that craves it— this pulse that promises something explosive if I just hold out a little longer.
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