Pants around my ankles, legs spread wide around the seat of the toilet, fingers on my clit, the words and images of the dirty, taboo fantasy he and I share dancing in my mind, driving me forward to the edge –

Whereupon I teeter, biting back a gasp and a whimper, my fingers straining to keep up their tempo, to drive me over the edge…  

Except no. That was not what I had been told to do. My instructions were to get there and STOP.

I pull my fingers away as though burned. I don’t want to make yet ANOTHER punishment-worthy mistake.

That’s right, this was a punishment. And he was making me do it at work! I’ve never been someone that enjoys edging (pushing myself to the edge of orgasm, but then denying it. Sometimes over and over.) Rather, I have found it frustrating in a not-good way. And then to require me to complete that punishment at work, where there is scant privacy and the bathroom stalls are the kind that are open, with only partial walls? A recipe for an unhappy Jade, for sure.

But, well, it was a punishment, after all.

The exact punishment was that I had to edge every time I had to pee for two days – at the office, at home, at his house, at the Botanical Gardens where I had gone with friends the night before. Every time. And heaven help me if I lost control and orgasmed accidentally. That was what had gotten me into trouble in the first place. I’d bought a new Waterpik showerhead and was…experimenting…with it…

Apparently I had “experimented” too hard – and the orgasm that resulted had been expressly forbidden to me prior to said experimentation. I did try to stop it, but trying to stop an orgasm after it has started is like…trying to stop a sneeze. Only harder. At least the effort was rewarded: this was a much lighter sentence than the last time. The time before, when I’d deliberately allowed myself to cum, after having been told not to? Ack. Let’s just say I got intimately familiar with my closet after a long dry spell, and V made sure I never looked at a certain coffee cup the same again. It doesn’t bear speaking of, truly. (Well, it does, and probably will be spoken of here at some later time. Because, you know, kinky, sexy, smutty fun. Even if it was punishment! But I digress…)

It started out with that transgression on Day 1. Things escalated quickly on Day 2. Because that’s how punishment works with V: he tells me what the punishment is, and I will do a, b or c (hopefully as directed!) and then report back to him when each task is complete. If I fail at any point, there is an additional task – usually more difficult or unpleasant – added to the first. And it starts over.

I’ve never been in a punishment dynamic. I find I rather like it.

Perhaps I should clarify that statement. I don’t like being punished. I do like being held accountable for my actions. I don’t deliberately set out to disobey … except when I do, because okay, there is a part of me that Adam calls “Sassy Jade” or maybe “Bratticus”, and there is a part of me that likes to push to see what will happen, and there’s a stubborn part of me that crosses her arms over her chest and won’t give in when I should, and a part of me that Adam also has a name for, “Stompyfeet” – I even had a pink-ponytailed gnome character in WoW called it – that gets pissy and occasionally acts out.

But only occasionally.

Most times, my transgressions are just that, momentary lapses in judgement, something that requires a reminder about who calls the shots, or perhaps a bit of behavior modification. Very occasionally (as with the deliberate orgasm), a harder slap down is needed.

On the day of the edging above, the second day of my punishment, I had already started out on the wrong (stompy) foot. The day before had been a challenge. I knew I deserved punishment, I needed it…

But I had been unfocused, my head not where it should be: concentrating on submitting to my punishment. Instead every excuse to not complete my tasks came up. “I forgot,” “someone was in the restroom,” “I couldn’t concentrate,” “I put the buttplug in and forgot to edge…”

Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that part. There was a buttplug involved that day. Not as part of the punishment (at first), but just because he likes to have me do random, perverted things during the day. That day, I had to wear the buttplug to lunch with a friend. But the requirement to edge at every pee was still incumbent, even if I was at the restaurant. And, because I had neglected to do so when I had inserted the buttplug and peed earlier, he had decided that I had to wear the plug not just through lunch but until I had to pee next, and had to masturbate with it in.

On the toilet.

Do you know how difficult it is to keep a buttplug from falling out of your ass into the toilet while furiously masturbating? No? Well I’m here to tell you – it is no easy feat.

So, at the restaurant, I tried to hold my pee but couldn’t, and found myself in this janky public restroom with a plug in my ass, trying to concentrate on what I was supposed to in order to get excited enough to masturbate, all while worrying about, you know, the damn thing falling out of my ass and me having to fetch it out of the public toilet.

No no no no NO. Wasn’t happening. I walked out, hoping I wouldn’t pee my pants by the time I got back to work.

I can just see ya’ll chuckling at my consternation, don’t pretend you aren’t.

But okay, my Owner is not an ogre, nor is he unreasonable. He understood my dilemma. “You’ll just have to do it at work.”

Let’s just leave it that I was unsuccessful for the rest of the day, and then into that night. NOT for reasons of pissyness or Stompyfeet, but because…the stars just didn’t align?

Punishments don’t wait for the stars to align, dear.

The next morning I woke out of sorts. Here’s the thing: I needed to complete my punishment. I knew that, regardless of the stars aligning, I had been unfocused and – possibly – unwilling to comply. I needed to submit to get my world right.

I have standing orders that I am to adhere to each day, and on this day he had also given me other instructions. He had told me to do my morning stretches naked. I didn’t do my morning stretches, naked or otherwise. (A [deliberate?] misunderstanding on my part? I read an implicit “if-then” statement in there, as in, “if” I did my stretches, “then” I should do them naked. Newsflash: there was no “if,” implicit or otherwise.) I had also been told to style my hair a certain way, but I wanted to do something different. (I know, I know, this was not about what I wanted…) I did ask permission via text to do it elsewise – but assumed he would say yes and had not waited for his response. You know what happens when you assume something, right? When he did say yes, but with the instruction to send him a before and after picture, well, I couldn’t provide the “before” version.

Hand, meet cookie jar.

And there was that whole day before to account for…

V very nicely pointed out to me on the way to work, when I confessed to having failed at, hell, everything, “You are really discombobulated. I need to re-combobulate you.”

Day 2 was Jade’s Re-Combobulation. My instructions were as follows:

  1. I was to go through my morning stretches (not the full exercise routine) naked, in the (locking) shower room in my office building. It wasn’t that I would get caught that made it unpleasant…it was just…ignominious…being in that small, smelly shower room, naked, spreading my legs and bending over.
  2. I was to continue to edge every time I went pee, but with some structure added: I had to obtain permission to pee before I went, and at that time he would either give me a “starter fantasy” to work myself up to, or he would make me tell him something of my own. Sometimes I had to tell him what I was masturbating to before I went, sometimes when I got back to my desk. Now, I’m really bad at verbalising fantasies. But being made to do so turns me the fuck on. So most of that day was spent as a hot mess of want, aching for release, worrying about ‘fessing up to the dirty thoughts in my head, and wondering what next. Oh, and to ensure that I had to pee often, I had to drink one eight ounce glass of water each hour, reporting to him when I did. If I missed one, I had to drink two the next. I’ve been getting really good at getting my 8/8’s in, but it just enforced the frequency of my urination – and kept my mind on my punishment.
  3. Lastly, at the end of the day I was to wear a buttplug while doing my exercises in the small company gym in my building. I don’t think this was punishment – it was just another one of those “just because it amused him” things.

(I should point out, by the way, that my entire office, except for a skeleton crew of about 3 of us on my floor, were out at a company conference, so none of this interfered with actual work.)

It was a challenging day, though in different ways than the previous. There are lots of things we do that challenge me. There are lots of ideas, thoughts, images and concepts that he introduces me to that challenge me. He likes that struggle. He said that knowing I am a wet horny mess makes him happy, but knowing I am struggling is what arouses him.

He gives himself plenty of opportunities to get aroused by me struggling. I think it’s one of his favorite activities. And I can’t say I don’t welcome the struggle, most of the time. You know, when I’m not getting all Stompyfeet over it.

One of the chief ways he challenges me through imagery, fantasy and ideas about sexuality. I’m learning a lot. About the nature of desire, of my own desire, and my ability to be aroused by things I never would have thought I could be – and that, in fact, I usually resist with all the energy I can muster up. But gradually…almost always…I give in. I don’t think it has to do with the content necessarily, I think it’s just that my arousal is so deeply enmeshed with his, with him, that I can’t help reacting. And then the things I thought I’d never associate with sex…I do. Or the things I never thought I’d like…I do.

Take edging.


Hah, just kidding.


I HATED edging, before.

Some might think that edging couldn’t be considered a punishment, since I was obviously getting (very) aroused by it. But it most definitely was, for a couple of reasons. The first is because I don’t enjoy getting myself to the edge and then being denied the orgasm. There are reasons for it besides the simple “But I WANT to come!”, the main one being that I haven’t always been able to orgasm easily, so edging, for me, was an agony – and not the happy kind. If I could barely get myself there to start, it was unbelievably cruel to actually deny me the orgasm once I might actually have one!  And further, once denied, it was near to impossible to get my body to go there again. It knew it wasn’t going to get rewarded, so it would just shut down.

But somewhere along the way (perhaps with the advent of Baldy, my Hitachi), I started finding orgasming easier. Oddly enough, that increased sensitivity broadened to include using my fingers and other toys, and eventually to being able to orgasm during intercourse alone. It was like building blocks. Baldy showed my body how to orgasm, it started responding to my fingers, then to other toys, and then, one fateful day, after a screaming Baldy orgasm, I begged my lover to put his cock inside me and “just fuck me,” and BAM! I came almost immediately just from the sensation of him thrusting into me. That was such a startling, seminal moment in my sexual history that that particular act – being fucked right after a Baldy orgasm – is still a huge, huge trigger for me. And then, after that, it was like…well, like the seal had been broken, and I started having orgasms all the time.

I probably shouldn’t discount the role that BDSM played in my joyous entrance to the world of the orgasm, though. Play with Baldy coincided with BDSM play and dynamics, so perhaps it’s a chicken and egg situation. But who cared if it was Baldy or being bossed around that did it? I was having the time – and orgasms – of my life.

Edging, though, was still anathema to me. WHY would I want to stop myself from this glorious pleasure?? Why would someone else want to?

But oh how I love and crave being controlled. And being made to edge is an exquisite, delicious and deliberate form of controlling another person. Especially when that person doesn’t like it, but whose wiring is to submit. They hate it, but they want to submit so badly…they hate it, but they respond instinctively and deeply to your control…they hate it…but eventually, because it is tied to all those pleasurable feelings that submission elicits…maybe they (I) start to like it. Just a bit.  And then, occasionally, maybe, there comes a time when the pleasure is in the denial itself. Because I know that the denial of my own pleasure is what he wants…so it gives me pleasure, that moment of almost-pain when I want to come but I stop myself – because he wants it.

And suddenly, I like edging.

If I do eventually get to come.  When I don’t…well, then we’re back to Misbehaving Jade, stomping her feet and getting into all kinds of trouble. For which, yes, punishments are meted out.

But that’s another story.


  1. Megan

    I try to edge from time to time, but my willpower just melts away no matter how much I promise myself I am going to stop. I just can’t do it


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