It was the Saturday of my first week (would it be my first and only, I had no idea) of orgasm denial. I had spoken to Jon nearly every night and he wickedly put me through my paces, coaxing me to diddle my clit or lift a breast to my mouth, sing-song-ing his commands and asking me to repeat our well-worn litany with me talking in my little girl voice, but he hadn't yet let me come. That I hadn't just orgasmed involuntarily or that I hadn't masturbated when out of his hearing was as much a testament to how much I wanted to obey the man, as it was how I couldn't do anything but.

Funny thing about orgasm denial, or at least what I was learning about it, was that although the first few days had been hell, especially with Jon's nightly phone calls, by that just past Thursday morning I found I was enjoying that roll-up-stuck-on-the-precipice-dangling (what I had read was called 'edging') as I would have had Jon let me release. This was a most exquisite torture, seemingly part and parcel to my further study as his little girl and I was loving every blessed minute of it.