An involuntary throb of tension pulsed through Brenna's pussy.
"I'm so close," she rasped. Caleb's eyes were fixed on her pink, dripping center as the vibrator shuddered away. His mouth fell open a fraction more as another spasm moved through her. His cock jerked, dripping a line of precum onto the sheets.
"Cum for me," he groaned.
"Not—yet!" she gasped. Brenna shot the vibrator across the bed. "Oh God, I almost came." Caleb's breathing hitched.
Teasing was their ritual. Every day of their year-long relationship ended like this: Brenna convulsing in ecstasy while Caleb watched, unable to cum. And while some men might enjoy this arrangement, it drove Caleb into fits of agony.
The specialists all agreed that his condition was neurological. Incurable. His peculiar problem was the envy of every man—the ability to dance on the edge of release for hours without tumbling over. The reality, however, was excruciating. Caleb's balls constantly ached with unrealized pleasure. His sensitive cock cycled through dozens of erections throughout the day. He had to wear custom-made underwear to restrain his perpetual excitement.
He hadn't had an orgasm in the whole twenty-six years of his life.
There had been wet dreams, of course. Several times a month he'd wake in the soak of his own cum, any memory of sensation long gone. His anorgasmia had destroyed relationship after relationship.
Until Brenna.
The two met in a chatroom for young people with sexual dysfunction. Her problem was virtually the opposite of his: multiple, rolling orgasms that turned her into a puddle of pleasurable mush at the slightest hint of arousal. Their edging ritual had fine-tuned her self-control; now, she only came when she wanted to. Brenna owed her success to a series of tantric meditations which she'd shared with Caleb in an effort to override whatever mechanism consistently failed to produce his release. In her mind, a long enough tease was the only thing standing between her lover and hollering ecstasy. This meant that he dedicated a half hour of each day to erotic exercises. It also meant that they'd never had sex.
Brenna's fingers closed around his cock.
"How are we feeling?" she asked. Caleb groaned. He couldn't cum, but he could certainly experience pleasure. She slicked a lotioned hand from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. Over and over again.
"Fuck," he rasped. He was right on the edge. The edge of nothing. A searing jolt of pleasure shot up his cock.
"Remember your meditation," she counseled. "No pressure. Just sensation."
Caleb repeated the words, picturing, again, a small point of light.
