On the Razor's Edge of Paradise

by Carolyn Faulkner

  As I pressed the rose to my nose and inhaled its lovely scent, I ran the events of the past evening through my mind with a bit of a frown—especially when I moved and was reminded of just how hard he had pounded himself into me, taking his pleasure of me and leaving me wanting.

  And wanting badly—it was probably the most sexually frustrated that I had ever been in my life. No one had ever told me that I could feel free to touch myself whenever I wanted to, though—the few Doms I'd been with had all immediately banned me from doing so—but I could see that his method was much more devious than theirs, allowing me to bring myself pleasure but never fulfill it.

  I decided that he was a terribly awful man as I got up and headed for the bathroom, my gait very awkward and every step uncomfortable, very much as if I'd just gotten off a very large horse I'd ridden for a very long time, when it was the opposite of the reality. A very large horse had ridden me—several more times in the night and once—probably just before he left—in the rosy light of dawn.

  All without the slightest scrap of completion thrown my way, not that he didn't tease and touch me, he did—all while watching me carefully for any signs that my climax was anywhere near imminent.

  As I stepped into the shower, I considered my alternatives. I could just make myself come—he would never know. But I knew I couldn't do that. It negated everything I really wanted from him—if I wasn't going to allow him to control me—this exact kind of thing about me—then why not just find a vanilla guy and ditch the D/s?

  My hands found myself—slick with body wash—and lingered there a bit, but I was so sensitive—had such a hair trigger—that I didn't want to press my luck and I quickly resorted to simply washing myself in a perfunctory manner instead of trying to stimulate myself any more.

  I didn't need further stimulation—and I didn't really want to tell him to take his edging and stuff it—I liked him, a lot more than I wanted to at that moment. I just needed him to give me at least one, good, hard come! And it didn't look as if I was going to get it anytime soon.

  My hair wet, dressed in comfortable pajamas he hadn't allowed me to don last night and a big, fluffy robe, I made myself some breakfast and headed for my chaise, where I ate as I checked my phone.

  There was one message from him.

  Good morning, sunshine! I hope you're not too sore this morning. I wonder, are you regretting having agreed to become my sub?

  He'd sent it a couple of hours ago, probably knowing I would still be asleep. He hadn't been surprised, though, each time he'd awoken in the night to have me that I was already awake. A bit sorry for me, but not surprised.

  "It's the sexual frustration," he'd whispered into my ear as he sank all of his considerable length into me at once—and he was right—it wasn't getting any easier to accept him. "It might give you a little trouble sleeping at first, but I promise you, it'll pass."

  It'll pass. I would have repeated the phrase in my head if he hadn't been touching me while he fucked me—which was a hugely potent thing to me—but he was very careful to make sure that only one of us was allowed to achieve satisfaction.

  Now it was all I could think about.

  Just how long did he intend to tease me, I wondered, feeling a bit alarmed at what I thought the answer might be.

  I wrote back, Good morning. I'm fine, thank you. And no…

  His response took mere seconds. LOL. I'm glad you're fine. I wish I could have stayed to give you some much needed TLC, but I have to leave on a business trip this afternoon, and I had to get packed and take care of some stuff.

  Then, And I'm very glad that I haven't made you regretful. I was rougher and more demanding with you last night than I should have been—it wasn't necessarily the best introduction to how I will be as your Dom, but I suppose if you're not asking to be released, then that's good.

  I returned immediately, No, that's not the kind of release I'd be looking for.

  I didn't know there was an "evil grin" emoticon, but he apparently had a shortcut for it.

  I wasn't inclined to respond to that, so I dug into my scrambled eggs before they got cold and took a few fortifying sips of my coffee as I turned on Father Knows Best to play in the background.

  Are you a morning person, love, or a night owl?

  I'm definitely a morning person, just not a social one.

  I sent that, then thought a moment and added, I really should just leave it at 'I'm not a social person'.

  I don't know how it happened since I really didn't know him that well, but I could hear everything I was reading in his voice, as if he was sitting next to me saying it. I understand. I don't want you to feel you have to talk if you don't want to. In fact, I have crap to do, so I'll let you go. I really just wanted to let you know two very important things: one, that I'm going to be on a very long flight so I'll be incommunicado much of the next day or so—

  Day or so? Where the hell was he going? The moon?

  The flight to Australia is interminably long.

  Well, that answered my question. And big points to him for using "interminably" in a text.

  I didn't want you to think I wasn't attending to you as I should, as I would have if I had been able to stay with you. I would have put you into a long, hot bubble bath to soak your aches away—well, some of them, anyway—and fed you a good, nutritious breakfast, and then played with you and fucked your brains out all day.

  Christ, it was hot in here! I unbelted my robe and slipped out of it, losing the bottoms to my pjs and just sitting there in the tops, my bare—still very sensitive—bottom cradled by the soft upholstery of the lounge.

  But I did notice what he didn't say—he didn't say that he'd let me come.

  I'm so sorry that I can't be there to do that for you. It chafes my inner Dom not to—leaving you this morning was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, because it went against all of my instincts.

  The second thing I wanted to say to you is that your lovely submission to me—much too early on in our relationship, despite how powerful it was—I hope to the both of us—truly humbles me, because I know it's something you don't take lightly, nor do I. I hope when I return I will be able to give you a better experience of me that won't have me worrying that you're going to tell me to take a hike.

  Feeling feisty, I replied, an orgasm or twelve would have gone a long way towards negating that possibility.

  I did not find his :)))))))) in the least amusing and refused to respond to it, turning my attention to what my friends were doing on Facebook and reading emails on my laptop instead.

  Neither pouting nor whining is allowed, just so you know.

  No? They're not? I can't possibly imagine why not.

  I got his "…" and then, shortly afterwards, And I am not at all above making you self-spank while I'm gone, Isabella, and having you send me pictures of your red bottom as proof that you were as thorough with yourself as I would be if I was there.

  Self-spank? I was flabbergasted. I'd heard of it, of course, but no one had ever threatened to make me do it.

  As quickly as I could, I texted, I'm sorry, Daniel.

  His answer was, I'm not opposed to sarcasm as a rule, just that which I think smacks of disrespect. Understood, little sub?

  Yes, Daniel.

  Good girl. Now, as much as I really, severely don't want to, I must go. Don't be surprised if communication is spotty, but feel free to email or text or call me any time you'd like, and definitely any time you might have a question about what I might or might not allow you to do. And please accept my heartfelt apologies for having connected with you on such a deeply intimate level and then leaving you by yourself to think about it, but I just couldn't resist the opportunity when it presented itself. I really hope you won't think badly of me—or Heaven forbid, reconsider altogether—because of it.

  Considering the way my privates were still in an annoyingly tingling, almost painful uproar, I felt no compunction whatsoever to address his apology, however sincere it seemed.


  Wait, before you go, how long are you going to be gone?

  There was a long pause before I got, Trips down under are very expensive, and, because of that, are never made for less than two weeks. Take good care of yourself, Isabella, the way I would if I was there. Ciao, Beautiful.

  Stunned that he was going to be gone for so long—there went any hope of release in the very near future—I typed the ever boring, have a good trip, because I was so surprised—and my disgruntlement was immediately compounded by a factor of a million, too, of course, as I suspected he knew it would be—I couldn't come with anything more creative.

  Two weeks! I would bet my life that, even if we did get to chat—or perhaps Skype—while he was gone, that he wasn't going to let me come, regardless.

  Bastard!

  AND I WAS DEPRESSINGLY, annoyingly, achingly right. This was definitely one of the rare times I wasn't at all happy to have been.

  But I still managed not to inundate him with messages or phone calls—partly because I could never seem to get the hang of the time difference and I didn't want to call him in the middle of what was probably his work day or interrupt his sleep—and partly because—despite a truly desperate need such as I couldn't even begin to know how to deal with—I didn't want to come off to him as needy.

  And he, in turn, didn't overwhelm me with messages, either, although I had no way of knowing whether that was by design or because of technological challenges. I did get the occasional email—sometimes quite long, lovely ones, romantically expressing how much he missed me in a manner that put the Bard to shame, as far as I was concerned, and then the ones—thankfully less frequently—that I came to dread, like,

  I want you to practice edging for me. Make yourself comfortable on your bed—or wherever you usually do such things—with a bottle of lube next to you—although I'd be surprised if you needed it, considering what I was treated to Saturday night!

  Put porn on, if that's to your taste, or do whatever gets you preliminarily horny.

  There was no preliminarily about it—I was forever and permanently made horny, thanks to him!

  Take your clothes off—but only the bottoms. That always seemed to me to be a bit naughtier—as you were doing this furtively and wanted to be prepared to quickly pull the covers over you in case you were caught. Spread your legs and let your fingers find your little bean. I wonder, is it still swollen like it was? You haven't disobeyed and brought yourself off, have you?

  Touch yourself until you're right there, until just before the end is imminent. If you accidentally go over, that's okay—you're just beginning to learn how to do this—but you are required to remove your hands, and any toys you might be using, from your person. Only I have the right to give you that ultimate in pleasure.

  If that happens, get up—leave your clothes off—and come back to try again in twenty minutes.

  Do your best to learn where that special point is for you, and practice bringing yourself to it, then stopping.

  It's going to be hard at first, but I want you to keep trying. But you must obey my rule about not touching yourself if you begin to orgasm, Isabella. What you got Saturday night will seem like a good night kiss in comparison to what you'll receive if I think you've actually been pleasuring yourself and not edging.

  And I'll know. I have a sixth sense about these things.

  The first time you try, I want you to edge twice, morning and evening, then stop completely. The next day, I want you to edge two times before discontinuing. Add two to every other session, each day until I tell you differently. I expect to find you even more deliciously juicy and incredibly horny by the time I get back!

  He was right, it was a very hard thing to do, made just that much more so by the fact that—even when I was unable to stop myself from falling over the edge into what would have been the involuntary contractions that signaled my orgasm, I wasn't allowed to touch myself through it, and thus I ended up just that much more frustrated each time it happened.

  Having to remove every bit of stimulation from myself at just the point when my body was craving it the most was the worst thing I'd ever been asked to do to myself, hands down.

  Or rather, hands off.

  And those experiences, one piled on top of the other, left me incredibly sensitive and out of my mind with desire. That entire area was in a constant state of not quite unpleasant enough arousal that had me hotter than I'd been when I was a teenager just discovering myself, by far.

  By just the third day of following his horrible instructions, after a particularly frustrating session, after which I broke down in tears, I whipped off a text that simply read, you are the most horrid, heartlessly cruel man I have ever met!

  Nothing.

  I had never—okay, rarely ever—begged anyone for anything, but I'd never wanted anything so fervently in my life, and I couldn't stop myself from doing it.

  Please, please, please let me come! I'll do anything you ask when you get home. Anything! Please!

  His response was a terribly depressing, flat out, No.

  And then, seconds later, and you'll do anything I ask, anytime, anywhere, because you are my submissive, yes?

  Sighing and clenching my legs together impotently, I typed back obediently, Yes, Daniel.

  Even though I'm the most horrid, heartlessly cruel man you've ever met?

  I both frowned and pouted, glad that he couldn't see me, knowing he would disapprove, but I was seriously inches away from throwing my very expensive phone across the room.

  Or, are you secretly loving this—what is my complete control over something so personal, so intimate, something you, as a mature, adult female should feel free—and probably has felt free all your life—to do any time she likes?

  I couldn't help it. I hit send in a moment of intense frustration. I hate you!

  As soon as I'd done it, though, I was horrified at what I'd just said to him. I'd almost never said those words to anyone in my life—I couldn't bear having them said to me, and I never wanted to make anyone else have to hear them—to make them feel that shitty.

  I'm so sorry, Daniel! I don't hate you—I don't! Please forgive me! I was out and out bawling by now, my emotions hijacked and beyond my control.

  I didn't get a text back from him, I got a call, instead.

  And he didn't sound like I expected him to from that great distance, somehow—I thought he'd sound all far away, as he was, but he could have been in the next room.

  Although I immediately began a weepy, watery apology, he said one word, not loudly, but forcefully.

  "Quiet," which I did my best to obey, still sobbing softly into the phone. Then very quickly followed by, "It's okay, Isa. I am not mad in the least about what you texted me. Not at all, honey, please hear the absolute truth of what I'm saying in my voice and take a deep breath."

  I ignored him, continuing to sob.

  "Isabella, I wasn't making a suggestion. I want you to take a slow, full, deep breath, now."

  "Yes, Daniel," I answered, doing my best to try to obey him, with mixed results.

  "Good girl, keep doing that while I talk to you, and remember that I am not angry. In fact, I'm incredibly pleased with and proud of you, sweetheart."

  I was so surprised, I stopped breathing completely for a long moment. "Say what?"

  He chuckled, then said, "It's very normal for you to hate me right now, and it's perfectly okay for you to do so—respectfully. Your body is being forced to deal with constantly coursing, very powerful feelings through it that keep building and building on themselves but have no place to go. You're probably crying much more often than you usually do, too, you're grumpier, more apt to fly off the handle—"

  "Yes!" How could he know what I was going through from so far away? "Exactly!" I was so relieved that he understood!

  "I know, baby, and if I was there, I would be able to punish you when you were naughty or just needed a good thrashing, which would back your frustration off a bit, but I can't, and I'm
sorry for that."

  He apologized more often—and in a sincerer manner—than any Dom I'd ever known or heard about. I liked that he didn't hesitate to admit when he was wrong—when he'd miscalculated.

  "But wait a minute—you said you were happy—pleased and proud? Why? How could you possibly be when I said something so terrible to you?"

  "Because it's verifiable proof that you've been obeying me, Isabella, even though I know it must be extremely hard for you to do it, and, like I said, I'm sorry you're having to do it alone, but you're being my very good submissive and doing exactly as you've been instructed, and I couldn't possibly be prouder of you than I am right now."

  I should have been over the moon—I should have been feeling terribly proud of myself at his words, but all I could do was cry.

  And he was perfect with me, bless him, murmuring soothing nothings until the storm abated a bit. "Look, we're going to leave the boonies and head for Sydney in a few days, where there'll be real internet at the hotel. Why don't we see if we can find a time that works for us to Skype? I need to see you and pseudo hold you in my arms."

  I even chuckled a bit at that. "Yes, please," I sniffed.

  "I'll message you with some possible times based on my schedule, and we'll get something worked out—I think this is something we both need."

  "Oh, yes!"

  "You are being such a good girl, Isa, and I promise that I'll arrange it that, when I get back, I won't have to leave you again for a while. This trip was planned way back, and I couldn't get out of it."

  I rubbed the sides of my hands over my eyes. "It's okay."

  He sighed. "Thank you for saying that, but it isn't to me. I should have laid off you while I was gone, but I'm so attracted to you, I have such a huge crush on you, that I just couldn't resist dabbling a bit."

  My entire body perked up at the words "I have a crush on you," although, of course, I snorted out loud in derision at the very idea. "You have a crush on me?"