On Edge

His goal, when he masturbates, is not necessarily to come. An orgasm is a nice side effect, a pleasing conclusion to the act. But it’s not what interests him. Not right now. What interests him, right now, is lingering for as long as possible in the feeling that grips him just before he loses control. Just before he tips over the edge. Just before an orgasm is inevitable.

How long he can remain there depends on his mood. Sometimes the need to come is unbearable. He can’t help himself. He lingers for just a few minutes before taking himself over the edge. Sometimes, patient and languid, he can stay there for hours – masturbating himself with long, slow strokes. Letting go of his pulsating cock when he gets too close. Breathing slow and deep. Feeling the urges surge and relent and surge and relent inside of him.

He tries to time himself. To set limits. He’ll wait 20 minutes before he allows himself to come. 30 minutes. An hour. It’s torture to wait that long. To rein in his arousal time and time again when every cell in his body feels engorged, tense, quivering with the need to climax. But it’s worth it, too. Sometimes that urgency transmutes, and it feels like his body is singing, like every nerve is singing, like he is the core of a firework, primed to explode.