My Mission

In the dim light of my computer screen, it was Saturday night — a night like any other, marked by the passage into the early hours of Sunday morning, precisely half an hour past the midnight hour. The apartment was hushed, save for the alluring murmurs from the speakers that filled the room with a sort of seductive tension. I reclined in my chair, cursor hovering over a plethora of open tabs that catered to my specific, eclectic tastes. There was a sense of ritualistic familiarity, a comforting routine that I had established after years of refining my late-night habits.

With a practiced hand, I gave in to temptation, losing myself in the heightened pleasure of the moment, culminating in the cathartic release that typically marks the end of such evenings. A wash of contentment rolled over me as I sank deeper into my chair, physically relaxed and emotionally sated.

But then, a thought emerged from the depths of my post-orgasmic haze, unbidden and irrevocably compelling: "I should not cum for a week."

At first, the idea seemed utterly preposterous. Forgoing pleasure? Denying myself the one constant source of relief that punctuated my days? The thought lingered in the air, almost as if challenging the very core of my hedonistic tendencies. However, the more I pondered the concept, the more alluring it became. I felt invigorated by the sheer audacity of the idea.

By the time Sunday's daylight broke through my curtains, I was busy, caught in the web of errands and obligations that usually make up my weekends. Yet, the thought of the challenge wouldn't stray too far from my mind. It kept gnawing at me, teasing me in idle moments until I was forced to confront its potential reality. Finally, as evening descended, I committed to the daunting prospect: No orgasms until Friday, the day designated for what I anticipated would be an unparalleled experience — a 'super wank' so to speak, one that would likely culminate in not just one, but a series of explosive releases.

As if to sweeten the proverbial pot, I resolved to take it one step further. To elevate the tension, to make the eventual orgasmic release the most potent it could be, I would engage in a weeklong game of sexual brinkmanship. A game that would necessitate watching but not touching, fantasizing but not actualizing. Teasing myself, without allowing any form of resolution. The prospect seemed both exhilarating and excruciating in equal measure.

Yes, this self-imposed challenge would undoubtedly be torturous. A week of agonizing arousal, punctuated by the constant, gnawing reminder of what I was denying myself. My body would be screaming for release, the 'blue balls' a palpable, almost unbearable physical ache, a testament to my dedication to the challenge. But, oh, the rewards that lay at the end of this masochistic endeavour seemed nothing short of divine.

And so, with a sense of exhilarating dread and tantalizing anticipation, the challenge began.

Sunday

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon as Sunday evening settled into its twilight haze. The air was tinged with a stillness that felt almost palpable, my senses heightening in the quietude of the night. Ensconced in my chair, I opened my laptop, the screen flickering to life, casting its glow across the room like a siren beckoning me into its embrace.

As the virtual world unfurled before me, I navigated to my usual sites — trusted bastions of kink that have always been reliable purveyors of pleasure. I found a video that seemed particularly promising; female domination was the name of the game tonight. The elegant interplay of submission and control, the very power dynamics that tugged at the very core of my desires, unfurled across the screen.

My hand instinctively moved to my already eager cock. Its readiness was almost comical; as if it had been lying in wait, keenly anticipating this very moment. Within mere seconds, it transformed from dormant to defiantly hard. My grip closed around the unimpressive length, and I initiated that age-old ritual of arousal.

The more I watched, the quicker my hand moved. My eyes glued to the spectacle of servitude and punishment playing out on screen, every slap, every command, intensifying my lust. I felt the heat gather in the pit of my stomach, felt my arousal climb to a peak as my hand picked up pace, threatening to tip me into that all-encompassing abyss of pleasure.

And then, abruptly, I stopped. My hand released its grip. My cock, so agonizingly close to release, twitched in a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. Denied its customary climax, it seemed almost to quiver in the still air, as if protesting the unfairness of its situation. I glanced at the computer clock: 23:33 on a Sunday evening. A symbolic moment, the first of what would be many acts of self-denial throughout this challenging week.

But I wasn't done just yet. No, the night was young, and my newfound game had only just begun. I proceeded to stroke myself to the very precipice of orgasm four more times that Sunday evening, each time retreating just as I was on the brink of tumbling into ecstasy. With every bout of edging, the tension mounted, my body humming with a potent mix of frustration and exhilaration. It was agonizing, it was intoxicating; it was a sweet, self-inflicted torment that I would subject myself to for the rest of the week.

Monday

Ah, Monday—usually the dreaded beginning of the workweek, yet for me, it was the start of an altogether different kind of challenge. The atmosphere in my home office was no different than any other Monday. The usual distractions were there, the tantalising temptations that often break my workday focus, but today those urges took on a new layer of complexity.

It's not uncommon for me to use masturbation as a form of escapism during working hours. A quick wank here and there to relieve tension and momentarily escape the drudgery of work. Today, however, each urge that bubbled up came with an insidious twist—there would be no climactic end. Every time the pull grew too strong to resist, I surrendered to the sensation, but each session culminated in the antithesis of satisfaction. If anything, the lack of release compounded my frustration, my body becoming a cauldron of pent-up sexual energy.

By the time the clock struck midday, I was ready for a change of scenery. As I navigated the aisles of the supermarket, I noticed an unfamiliar sensation: a dull ache began to manifest in my balls, like a nascent storm cloud threatening a downpour. I was irritable, yes, but more so than usual. The bustling crowds and the mindless chatter of other shoppers grated on me like never before. Was it just another manic Monday, or was my irritability a by-product of sexual frustration? It was difficult to tell, but I suspected the latter.

Returning to the monotony of work, the dull ache had matured into an unmistakable throb by dinner time. Hours of teasing had left me at a fever pitch of arousal, every thought tinged with the reminder that I was deliberately overdue for an orgasm. I had set myself a target, and though I was not keeping score, it was beginning to feel like a Sisyphean endeavour.

The evening unfurled in a similar vein to the rest of the day—a constant parade of sexual yearning, each session ending in a state of unfulfilled desire. I counted, or rather lost count after, edging myself a staggering 13 times. On one heart-stopping occasion, I veered dangerously close to failing my self-imposed trial. A bead of cum meandered its way out, dribbling down in a most unsatisfying manner, a cautionary tale of just how perilous this game of brinkmanship had become.

And so, Monday concluded, a day of simmering tension and unrequited release, setting a precedent for what promised to be an excruciating yet thrilling week of self-denial.

Tuesday

If Monday was an experiment in self-denial, then Tuesday was its malevolent escalation—a day teetering on the edge of sensory overload. The struggle to concentrate was real, as my focus oscillated between work tasks and the ever-present distraction between my legs. My attempts to partition work from pleasure were futile; let's be brutally honest, the scale tipped heavily towards self-gratification over actual productivity.

This wasn't just a matter of mindless edging; oh no, today beckoned a descent into the world of BDSM, a realm that added an entirely new layer of complexity to my ongoing challenge. Rummaging through my box of sadomasochistic toys, it was time to up the ante.

The first tormentor to make an appearance was a device known as 'Kali's Teeth,' a malevolent metal ring designed to gnaw into a man's most sensitive flesh. The more aroused I became, the sharper those internal spikes dug into my shaft, creating an excruciating but oddly tantalising pain. Accompanying this contraption was a ball crusher, which clasped onto my already aching testicles, applying pressure in a manner that made their dull throb feel like a crescendo in a symphony of discomfort.

The masochistic dance didn't stop there. After extricating myself from the grip of these devilish devices, I experimented with an assortment of instruments: a Wartenberg wheel that teased the skin with its prickly spines, an electric shock device that sent volts of sensation zapping through me, and a penis pump that added vacuum pressure to the mix. But perhaps the most frustrating was the penis extension, its thick rubber engulfing my desperate erection, effectively eliminating any chance for stimulation.

By this time, my willpower was stretched thin, and the sight of a magic wand vibrator proved irresistible. I pushed its buzzing head against the thick rubber, edging myself perilously close to the very climax I was supposed to avoid. The dance with pleasure was intoxicating, but I reigned myself in just in time.

Yet the night was far from over. A new video caught my eye—a young domme physically dominating her sub while riding him. Her visible enjoyment from his pain resonated so deeply that it almost shattered my resolve. Like the day before, a tiny bit of cum leaked out. That slippery substance became a lubricant, further tantalising my now uber-sensitive shaft as I stroked myself back to the edge, but stopped just short.

Fifteen counts of edging marked the close of Tuesday. It was the third day in a series of escalating challenges, and the constant ache in my balls had settled into a state of persistent discomfort. Oddly enough, the ache hadn't intensified as much as I thought it would—yet. I still had two more days to endure before the coveted Friday release.

Would I succeed? The margins were thin. It would take just a slip—a momentary lapse in judgment—to topple from the edge into full-blown pleasure. Moreover, the wild card was my girlfriend. What if she initiated intimacy? Could I withstand her touch without unleashing an orgasm powerful enough to rock both our worlds?

And so, Tuesday ended—not with a bang, but with a whimper, quite literally.

Wednesday

Strangely enough, Wednesday felt like a reprieve in this ever-intensifying week of sexual tension and restraint. Perhaps it was the exhaustion setting in, or maybe it was because my workday was demanding enough to serve as a distracting force. My libido, that ever-persistent motivator of my recent activities, seemed to be in a subdued state. Oddly, the tell-tale ache in my testicles, that near-constant companion since I embarked on this escapade, had inexplicably vanished.

Although one might think that a diminished sex drive would reduce the frequency of my self-stimulation sessions, that assumption would be incorrect. Perhaps it was force of habit, or maybe a subconscious attempt to incite that familiar pain and discomfort; but I found myself engaging in almost the same number of edging sessions as I would on any other 'normal' day. Each episode was an electrifying journey to the precipice of pleasure, but upon reaching that critical point, I diligently pulled myself back, adhering to the unyielding discipline this challenge demands.

Yet, despite these erotic encounters with the brink of release, that familiar sensation of 'blue balls' remained conspicuously absent. Even as my hand worked its magic, leading me ever closer to that glorious but forbidden peak, the ache failed to resurface. It was as if my body had acclimatised to this new normal of denial and ceaseless frustration.

In the grand scheme of things, this was still a day of 'success'—if one can term deliberate sexual frustration as such. There were no climactic events, quite literally. It had been five entire days since my last orgasm, and as the clock steadily ticks towards Friday, the anticipation for what promises to be an earth-shattering release continues to build. Yet, in the quiet corners of my mind, questions float like wisps of fog. Has my body adapted to this new regimen of tantalising denial, or is this just the calm before a storm of unbearable urges? Only time will tell, but one thing remains clear: Friday's impending release holds the promise of being nothing short of epic.

Thursday

By lunchtime today, all I could think about was wanking. The urgency of the tasks that filled my morning quickly subsided, replaced by a nagging craving for sexual release. Was it possible that the act of masturbation had become my subconscious coping mechanism, a way to decompress from the stressors of life? I pondered this as I dashed back home from errands, almost as if racing against my own relentless libido.

Upon my hasty arrival, I immediately sought refuge in the titillating world of online porn. Yet today, each stroke was tinged with a sense of futility. My usually trusty source of relief was now transformed into a cycle of futile arousal. I became more and more embroiled in my own sexual tension, a mounting crescendo with no final note.

Unable to extricate myself from this addictive cycle, I indulged further in fantasies of small penis humiliation. I watched a couple of JOI (Jerk Off Instruction) videos tailored to this particular kink. These voyeuristic experiences served as a sort of false summit, bringing me near the peak of satisfaction but refusing the final ascent. By dinner time, I'd already ridden this tortuous roller coaster ten times, each instance intensifying the persistent ache of blue balls that had lain dormant earlier.

But I wasn't done yet. Intrigued by a Windows/Android app I stumbled upon called 'Virtual Succubus', I decided to give it a whirl. To my delight, the interactive elements in the app delivered a surprising level of enjoyment, teasing me to the very brink yet again but never allowing the promised fall over the edge.

Now, with a tumultuous week of self-imposed deprivation behind me, I feel as though I stand on the precipice of an explosive release. Friday can't come soon enough, and the anticipation is nearly unbearable.

Friday

As the day dawned, I felt a blend of elation and trepidation. Friday had finally arrived, and with it the culmination of a week-long ordeal of edging and tantalising self-denial. My expectations were astronomical. In my mind's eye, I envisaged a moment of release so profound it would border on the transcendent.

But as I sat down in my familiar setting, laptop open and desires inflamed, I found myself navigating through a paradox. Despite my week of meticulous self-denial, my arousal seemed strangely tempered. Had I, in my perpetual state of edging, inadvertently reached a plateau of sexual satisfaction? Or was it the fatigue and daily distractions that dulled the keen edge of my desires?

Regardless, I pressed on. Eager to finally release the pent-up tension, I plunged headlong into my most reliable fantasies. Each stroke was charged with the urgency of a week's worth of unfulfilled cravings. Yet, as I reached the climax, the result was jarringly anticlimactic. I was neither shaken by a ground-breaking orgasm nor granted the two-stage release I'd occasionally experienced when being intensely teased. In the latter scenario, an initial unsatisfying climax often leaves me erect and primed for a subsequent, much more satisfying, orgasm. But today, none of that happened.

In the end, what should have been an epic culmination of days of sexual brinksmanship turned out to be just another run-of-the-mill wank. The ensuing sense of underwhelm was not unlike the lingering ache of blue balls, but it was an ache of a different kind: the ache of unmet expectations.