Like a Damp Wedgie

Jul 28 · 9 min read
Image by Mario Battaglia from Pixabay

He told her, “Tomorrow will be a very special day for you, little one.”

Continuing with devilish confidence as he spoke. “Be prepared. You will crave me — more than you imagined you thought you could. By the end of the night, you will practically run to any place you can find privacy, all so that you may rub your kitty and cum. All so you may beg me for permission to cum.”

“You will feel insatiable, but ‘insatiable’ seems like not quite strong enough of a word. Ache? Yes, you will ache for me to fill you with this hard cock, but even ‘ache’ seems inappropriate.”


No, not quite it either, although you definitely will crave me.

Thirst and hunger, like a starving woman dropped off into the middle of the Sahara Desert, finding your way amongst the seemingly endless miles of heat and sun and sand, seeking out safe-haven wherever you can, spotting each oasis along the way, becoming encouraged, all so that you may find out that you were looking at a mirage on the horizon the whole time.”

“All day long — right on the edge.”

“Clit throbbing, like it was shocked by a car battery.”

“Thump, thump, thump.”

“So wet, your panties will feel like a damp wedgie, and everywhere you walk, your folds will be stuck to your panties. Each step you take, for hours and hours and all you will be able to think of, is getting fucked — by me.”


“Is there a word for that kind of ache and crave? If there is, please add an exponent to it, and now we are somewhere in the vicinity.”

“It may be a gas station bathroom you find yourself at. It may be your car. It may be your bed. Wherever you are, at midnight, like Cinderella, when the little hand hits the big hand, your entire life will change.”

“You will be unable to think of anything else until then, and you will only find a substitute that is somewhat tolerable for the real thing when you are finally free to touch your needy pussy and cum for me.”

“But touch, you cannot do. Not during the day. And no, you cannot cum. Not until I say so.”

“Now tell me, and be honest, did hearing that all just make you wet?”

Yes, Sir.

“I already knew, Princess. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Now, here are your instructions.”

“I know that you get lots of emails, social media notifications, text messages, and things of that sort on your phone throughout the day.”

“Each time your phone sends any alert of any sort — you need to tally it.”

“First thing in the morning, I want you to fill your needy little hole with Ben Wa balls and I want proof that you did it. Then I want you to sum up all your notifications when you first wake up, as well as throughout the day as they come in, and multiply them all by ten.”

“5 unread emails to start the day? Five times ten; that’s fifty. Three text messages: that’s thirty.”

“Fifty what or thirty what, you may be asking?”

“My answer: I’m not finished talking yet, and interrupting just bought you another minute.”

“Yes, fifty — seconds. Thirty seconds.”

But I didn’t really interrupt, that was just..,” she says.

“That’s two minutes,” he responds.

“Now I know you are thinking — what is all this time tallying for?”

“Each time you get a notification, for ten seconds, I want you grinding your needy clit up against anything you can possibly find. All day, and all night long. No naps. No cheating by changing your alerts. No lying about it. No hands.”

“Nope — you, leaning into whatever you can find, grinding.”

“Sounds easy for ten seconds, right? Wait until 3 pm and you are grinding your clit for a few minutes, for the tenth time of the day, full with balls, soaking wet, with me sending you the most detailed words you can imagine.”

“Then you can tell me how easy this is.”

“Each new ding — ten Mississippi’s — bumping and grinding your slutty little pink bean up against a rail at Costco or your couch arm or anything else in the area. Trust me, you will have this thought: “I look like a fucking weirdo.” This part I love and want you to tell me all about it the next day in your journal.”

Image by Lisa Runnels from Pixabay

She wakes up, like clockwork, five minutes before her 6 am alarm goes off.

Just before her feet hit the floor, she remembers what her day is going to look like. “Oh shit, she thinks to herself. I am afraid to even look at my phone.”

Thumbprint press down, opening her iPhone, checking first her text messages, then emails, then each social media platform she has on her phone.

Text Messages: None. “Whew, she thinks. Looking good so far.”

Email: Three — Okay, I can do this one, no problem. That’s 30 seconds.

Social Media: Twelve — “Are you fucking kidding me? That’s two minutes alone. Fucking Instagram!”

Getting out of bed, she hops in the shower, gets ready for the day, and after her morning routine is done, she knows it is time to her little game for her Dom.

She walks over to the side of her bed, pulls the Ben Wa balls out of their bag, and slips them in, one at a time. She is already wet with anticipation, feeling like a little filthy slut for him and although she kind of hates admitting it, she already fucking craves him — at a very visceral level.

“Fuck, I haven’t even started yet and I am already horny as hell,” she thinks.

One by one, the first ball goes inside her and her walls pull it upward. The second one needs a little extra help but soon enough, it’s stacked inside her and she is wet and full, ready to start her day. She thinks, “well, it’s a Sunday, so social media and text messages will probably be more frequent, but email alerts will be down.”

Reaching for her phone, she wonders if she got any new alerts when she was in the shower.

“What the fuck? 6 Text Messages!”

“It’s him. What a sadist,” she cries.

The messages, which easily could have gone on one like, are sent, one word at a time, and go like this:








She can’t help but laugh, get turned on, want to punch him in the dick, and of course, like always every single time he talks like that to her — or talks at all to her — she finds herself a little wetter.

But she has some business to take care of, and so she gets to work. “15 plus 6 is 21 she thinks — 210 Mississippi — otherwise known as 3 minutes and 30 seconds,” and she leans up with her jean shorts on and makes the first contact with her clit against the chair in her living room.

“Oh my god, I look like a fucking idiot,” she thinks.

Embarrassment is all she thinks for the first ten seconds, and then it dawns on her, “goddamn this feels good.”

Then it dawns on her, “shit, I have three more minutes of this torture, and then I can’t cum! It’s not even 7:30 am! Fuck!”

Image by Kari Shea from Pixabay

The next few hours are hell. Costco, Instagram is going off. Then Twitter. “Fuck. Nine Alerts in 30 minutes!” She proceeds to put her groceries away and then lean up against her new SUV, bumping and grinding her clit in the parking looking like a complete freak. She has to stop this time midway through to avoid cumming right then and there.

Each time, as the day progresses, the orgasm potential gets closer and closer. The first time, it would have taken three minutes. By noon, it was a minute. Now that it’s 5 pm, and she just bumped her clit over the countertop in the bathroom at her friend’s house for a painstaking 27 Mississippis, she is completely dreading drinks with her girlfriends later this evening.

“Fuck. He was right. My clit is throbbing. Fuck I need to cum!”

Out with the girls, she can barely hold a conversation. It’s 9 pm now. Then 10 pm. She starts feeling excited for the end of the night and the phone call that . is going to come.

Meanwhile, he has other plans.

At 11 pm, he starts tracking her location on her phone, sees where she is at, and drives over close to her and parks, not telling her about it. She has no clue whatsoever he is even in town.

It is Sunday night and most people are in bed by now. The alerts are less frequent now and she has 50 seconds to grind her now thoroughly aching pussy. At 1155, she says goodbye to her friends and heads out to her car, first rubbing her pussy on the rail of the entrance and he is sitting across the street just watching it all unfold. He thinks to himself, “that’s my girl. Never been more proud of her that right now.”

Sitting in her car, 1200 can’t come soon enough. 11:58. “Uh…come on.”

11:59, she starts unbuttoning her jean shorts. Getting in position for that sweet rapture she has been aching for.

11:59 — the phone rings.

I am dying to cum!!! Please please please let me cum!!! Please!


Meanwhile, he is walking over to her car and she has no idea. He is hard as a rock just from the begging.

Please! I can hear you breathing!

He says, “wouldn’t you rather just have me devour your pussy? Or fuck you, and make you cum that way?”

Um,” she doesn’t know what to say.

“I was asking you a question. Would you, or would you not want me to make you cum myself? You don’t want another 10 Mississippis, do you?” he said.

God no. Yes, of course. Of course, I want you, but you are all the way in…

“Just look behind you. Step out of the car and look behind you, darling.”

She jumps out of the car in seconds flat — the urge to cum is so bad that formalities and the need for answers are quickly replaced by the need to be fucked, sucked, licked, whatever.

Pushed up onto the hood of the car, jean shorts ripped off.

His tongue hits her clit and begins flicking back and forth at a mile a minute with precision, raw and passionate as it ever fucking gets. Nobody else is around, and even if they were she wouldn’t give a fuck anyway.

Like a bolt of lightning, she cums almost immediately. “Ten seconds? Fifteen? That was the quickest orgasm I’ve ever had in my…”

Another one hits. Then another. Then he keeps his mouth flicking away and pulls the balls out to find a pussy so wet they practically drop into his hand. Slick is an understatement; flooded is more appropriate.

Fingering her G-spot and giving her oral like no man ever has before her, she lays there, looking upward at the orange lights of the dim parking lot and cumming more rapidly than she has in her entire life.

Another one.

He slides her down, stands on the bumper, pulls his hard cock out and fills the world’s most needy pussy with thick hardness and the feeling of sweet bliss covers her from head to toe. The internal orgasm is the most intense one and like the others, it comes way sooner than she realized was even possible for her body to allow.

She briefly thinks, how is this even possible, but then quickly forgets what she was thinking as the head of his cock is battering her cervix and she cums again.

He eventually unloads inside her, collapses on the hood of the SUV, pants around their ankles and her being thoroughly tortured and fucked for the better part of a Sabbath.

“My God,” is the only this that seems appropriate for her to shout.

The Romantic Dominant

Written by

Erotica from a male perspective. Middle-aged American Dominant. Read-Enjoy-Touch. Website: Medium archive:

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