Erotica: ‘The Edge’

This is an excerpt from "The Edge" on AURORE, an online collection of erotic stories. It has been republished here with permission.

The first time he gives me control of his orgasm, I am afraid of breaking him. I give it back in 22 minutes - I know this precise number because I go back and read the texts. There’s just a few back and forths, begging and teasing. He must have put the phone down after I said yes because he’s quiet for several minutes. I have to imagine what he looks like, falling over the edge, flying, his face contorted as though in pain but internally floating lazily like a feather.

I am so curious why he likes being told not to cum, even as I am delighted to play the game with him. Separated by time zones, a pandemic, and the last shreds of our professional ethics, virtual sex games like this one are a revelation. Is it just because he likes to give up control? When I deny him, he says he’s in agony - why ask for agony? At first I feel a little bad, guilty, but he reassures me several times that he wants this, could go multiple days, even.

My relationship to my own orgasm is very different. It doesn't feel like something I can control. I can be touching myself for hours and feel no closer to cumming, running through my Rolodex of fantasies, running down my vibrator battery, and then something will click and I'll be over the edge in 10 seconds. There is certainly something appealing to the idea of getting to know and love the edge. It also re-frames all that masturbation time. I'm not "failing to cum," I'm edging. I'm tending to my erotic flame so that it doesn't go out, but doesn't explode either.

The next time we have a dirty Zoom date, I don’t dress up in a cute bra and panties to give him a nice visual show like the last few times. Instead, I come in red faced and sweaty from having just worked out, hoping he can feel my "I don't give a fuck" energy over the video.

“What do you want?” he asks.

We both know that there is very little he would say no to, but it still feels strange (and thrilling and transgressive) to ask my former boss to show me his cock. “Show me your cock,” I say, half borrowed bravado from the role I’m playing, half real hunger to take him apart. “I’m not sure I believe you about how much I turn you on. I need to see it,” I say.

I am surprised at his expression of relief and gratitude as he stands up and shows me the pre-cum staining his pants and the outline of his erection. There's something about seeing arousal in pixelated form - it takes me a second to believe it's real. I'm not watching porn, there is a real human being who is aroused because of me and I'm doing things to them in real time. I'm usually a touch-oriented person so it doesn't always feel the most natural to put sexy things into words or visuals. But I believe the need in his voice if nothing else.

“Bring it closer to the camera,” I command. He struggles to comply - learning the right angles for Zoom sex is an ongoing challenge. But I’ve seen enough videos of him submitting to his ex to know that awkwardness is, in this case, a feature rather than a bug.

“Stroke it for me. Slower...slower than that.” Zoom doesn’t have enough frames per second for a horny man. It is not an HD, well lit, artistically composed porn experience. It’s a Tuesday after work in his basement and my bedroom. I have to pick whether I see his cock or his face. But he follows my directions to the letter, even as he grunts and sweats and swears at me.

“How much do you want to cum?” I ask. It is both fun to tease him with these rhetorical questions, and gratifying to my ego that I turn him on this much.

“Ugh, so much,” he replies.

“But that’s really up to me, isn’t it? And I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.”

Zoom fatigue is real even for hot sex, and he begs off to go make dinner. But our date isn’t over. I still haven’t given him permission to cum. He sends me videos and texts throughout the course of the evening. My favorite is filmed in the bathroom mirror, where finally I can see his face and his hand working his cock at the same time. He stops, abruptly, and pulls his hand out of his pants to show me that he is still following the rules, even as he grimaces in pain.

And then real life, and our real life partners get in the way and suddenly it’s bedtime and I still haven’t let him cum. Incidentally, I haven’t either, and don’t really want to. I love the sense of erotic control; I don’t want to get less horny and less invested in our scene. I need a certain amount of mental absence to reach orgasm and I don’t want to miss a minute of this. And anyone who would start a sexual connection with someone that they won’t be able to see in real life for months has a high tolerance for delayed gratification.

Of course I dream about him, my brain awash in hormones and trying to process the experience I am still inside of. We are in the same room, and we can touch each other, but touch is one of those senses that is hard to access in dreams. It still feels like I am running my fingers down the screen, not his body; grasping air, not his salt and pepper curls. He is speaking but I can’t hear him. I can feel my own body, though - aching and out of control, unable to find my own release.

In dream-logic, we can only communicate with each other through Reddit posts. It actually makes perfect sense; he is the one who got me into Reddit, that bottomless pit of horny internet strangers.

I wake up with an idea.

Good morning, I text. How's your cock?

In agony, he replies quickly, with a photo - his bedroom, filled with sunlight, his cock just peeking out of striped sheets. I don't know what those sheets feel like on my skin, but I want to.

Want to keep reading? Get the rest of the story on AURORE.