The Pleasure Protocol
Nothing.
The wave rose and rose and hung there, shimmering, a breath from breaking, and then it simply hung. It wouldn't fall. She slowed, then sped up, and rubbed her clit until it hurt, until she was sobbing air, until her wrist ached, and the pleasure got worse and brighter and still wouldn't tip her over.
"Come on," she whispered. It was almost a snarl.
The water turned lukewarm.
She hardly noticed. She went on, desperate, her forehead against the tile and her body singing, every inch of her screaming yes, yes, almost, please, and nothing came.