There's nothing quite like the fear of dying to sharpen the senses. 

I cling to shreds of inner resolve like my toes clamp precipitously over the rock edge facing the ocean. Staring down into the surf at a truly heart-stopping angle, the only thing preventing my fall is Madeleine’s grip bunched around my ponytail. A delicate English rose suspended by a strong French vine.

I'm captured until she decides I'm ready. Until I deserve crushing release from the fingers of her other hand tucked inside my bikini bottoms, curled up into my sticky folds, lemon fabric stained with juices. Her palm collects the constant drip drip drip of arousal. Of need.

I'd been here a thousand times in my dreams; my fantasies. Her breath in my ear, like the sea breeze that flits strands of my strawberry blonde mane. Her delicate scent mingling with the tang of sea salt, coastal gorse and hawthorn. And my whimpers mimicking the beat and swell of the waves several hundred feet below the cliff edge. Balanced. Hanging at her mercy. Desperate to cum, wherever we are, whenever she tells me I can.

My predicament is symbolic of her hold over me. Her power; my submission. The thrill at giving myself to her never fades. Every orgasm she allows me to take is like flight. A weightless gift I savour. Under her spell, I let myself go every time; as much a sign of respect as the fact I'm unable to do anything else amid the quaking, clenching totality of freefall.

Madeleine gets me. Understands my desires. She knows the façade I present to my employees is just that; an act. A different hat. A bigger hat to the one I wear in the bedroom when I'm transformed into a kitten.

Her kitten.

Whether we're in her bed or mine, whether we're against a tree in a secluded wood with her fingers buried inside me, or at a restaurant where she has my panties next to her napkin on the table, I surrender completely. Trust her to break me apart and rebuild me. And when she makes me cum—allows me to cum—I'm transported here like a broken time machine. My favourite part of the English countryside. My sanctuary.

Time and again, she's brought me to this place in my rapture, to the brink of insanity. Perched on a ledge in my own mind, a single breathy word away from crashing into the waves of ecstasy and being tossed around like a lifeboat in a storm.

The shivers that she awakens in me reflect the desolate, raw beauty overlooking the Atlantic from this most southerly tip of the UK. Lizard, Cornwall. My safe space. My nirvana.

She’s an expert at keeping me on edge, thrashing and twisting and gasping until I'm a mere shell of who I was moments before. Yet somehow more whole because of it.

But this time? This time I can't move for fear of dying. It’s not memories mixed with the crushing heat of her immediacy, nor is it limbic echoes of the windswept coastline that carries her drifting scent. No. This time it's real. And I'm halfway between elated and petrified.

It's a handful of minutes till sunset, the fireball’s blush staining the waves pink across the ocean. Our private canvas is uninterrupted and endless, save for the occasional dog walker on the headland behind us. They pay us no attention. We're tucked away on this jutting rock we had to swim to reach. The one I used to scale in my teens. To reflect. To escape. Because nobody likes being reminded they're different when life's all about fitting in.

The vista is as beautiful now as it ever was. Worth every scuff on bare feet, knees and hands from weathered barnacles and craggy peaks during the climb. If anything, it's even better to be able to share it. To be free.

The occasional turbulent wave smashes into the rock and sprays upward as nature closes the day’s chapter and settles in for dusk. Even on a relatively calm day like today, the sea’s power is breathtaking. But my lack of breath and the tightness in my chest isn't solely through awe.

It's through necessity.

One buckle of my knees and she'll lose grip. One misplaced twist of my hips and I'll tumble in freefall to goodness knows what beneath the waves. Rocks? There are some, deep. I used to snorkel then dive to stroke their slippery surfaces. But are they deep enough? I can't recall. Earth's ever shifting geology might have altered the subterranean landscape.

I shiver. Focus hard as her fingers dig deeper. I drip further. My cry is whipped away by a gust, hair tangling in my lips before I can shake my head to free it. Close behind me, she offers encouragement.

“Good girl. Hold on. Not long now.”

“Ohhh God. How long?”

“Soon.”

I tense, from shins to shoulders. Double down in concentration. Bite my lip. “Please.”

Her cadence is sing-song. Amused. “Please? Is that all you have to offer?”

Of course she's playing this game. It's her favourite.

“Please can I cum? Prett—” I gasp as her fingers reach new depths, “pretty please?”

“Mmm. Better.” Her pause stretches, timeless like the sea. “No. You're not ready.”

“Fffu—”

“Uh-uh,” she scolds. “No naughty words.”

“Fff...” I keep my tongue in check.

She chuckles. “What did you say you wanted? Back at the house, what did you say? You wanted to…”

“Fly.”

“Fly. Yes. So how can you fly if you're not already soaring? Hmm?”

The deeper squelches from my sodden snatch precede my gasp. She crooks her fingers in a steady beat that matches the waves lapping and sloshing below us. My bikini bottoms are drenched. Might as well not be wearing any.

“God, Maddy. Plee-heeese.”

“Arms up.”

“W… what?”

“Like you're flying.”

She tugs on my ponytail as if giddying up a horse. Trust stretches, heart hammering as I gingerly arc my arms out, then up over my head, Superman style.

My centre of gravity shifts and my toes tighten against the sharp rock edge. I squeeze my eyes shut, mostly to block out the terror at being so high, but they fly open again when she resumes fingering. Heat creeps up my tummy, swirls my breasts, nipples straining against the flimsy material, and spreads upward to my outstretched fingertips. I ache to transfer the energy. To touch myself. To squeeze my tits. Pinch the caps. Glide down over my hips and inwards to scuff my electrified clit. I'm desperate for release. A moan escapes. Long. Sustained. Throaty.

The delight in her voice rings out. “Oh, kitten wants to cum.”

I sob, “Yes. Pleeassse.”

She slips her fingers free and scissors them forward, either side of my nub. Doesn't close them like I crave. “Pity.”

I shudder at her denial. “Noooo. God. Pleeease. I'll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Her pause is even more maddening than the first, and I wish I'd kept quiet. Physics is the only thing in my favour. Eventually, she speaks. “Okay. Next time we're out for dinner, you wear that little black dress. The strappy one that shows off your tits. Nothing else. No bra. No panties. Just the dress, and your remote vibrator.”

I groan. “Fffu… Okay.”

She chuckles again. “So needy. You don't even know how much I'm going to ruin you at the table. How much of a show we'll put on for the staff. How hard I'll fuck you in the bathroom. Yet you agree?”

"Yes! Yes. I agree.” My voice almost isn't my own. Hollow. “Touch me.”

With measured slowness and a resolve I clearly don't possess, Madeleine closes her knuckles, capturing my clit and gradually increases the pressure. I gasp. Teeter. Clamp everything to prevent my orgasm ripping me in two for the duration of her pinch. I can't fail her. Not now. Not here.

She eases and my groan follows. Involuntary. The echo of her touch zips through me, connecting every nerve ending, every pore, every hair follicle that amplifies the breeze brushing my skin. I'm one breath away from release and she knows it. Waits. Lets me stew in my need. My desperation.

Then, like I'm the violin and she's the bow, she withdraws fingertips and glides them back inside me.

My cries—part joy, part frustration—join the caw of gulls and trill of kittiwakes. A disharmonious symphony lost to the power of the forces below me.

I bite my lip. Tremor. Exhale. “Ohhh, Maddy. God. So close. Sooo close.”

“I know. Good girl. You can hold it.”

The gentle sawing of her fingers produces fresh wetness that the breeze and dying rays of sunlight fail to dry. She toys with my resolve like it’s the last commodity on Earth. Like she's mining for a rare mineral buried in my pussy. She repeats I'm her good girl for holding back, even though every atom is shredded and taut and screaming to spin free.

A wave thumps into our rock, the bass rumbling up through my toes and I swear the spray dapples my sizzling skin. I know it's a trick, the force of the air maybe, because it's too far below to reach me. But it's no less frightening.

The sun dips a degree lower, its remaining crescent bleeding red sparkly tendrils across the waves towards us. She's probably waiting until it disappears fully before she lets me cum. Or maybe she'll make me wait.

Oh god. What if it's tomorrow? Surely I'll combust before then.

Dread flashes through me at the prospect of having to fight this any longer. Balanced at this angle—what, thirty degrees from vertical? Forty-five? The constant tension of my hair wrapped around her fist is my only lifeline. What if I buckle when she says I can cum? I'll send us both tumbling off this cliff to our deaths. She's clearly crazy—that's what I love about her—but has she thought this through?

We've done mad things before. Stupid things. She fingered me in my airline seat on our way to Thailand, under a blanket, with a businessman gently snoring alongside me. At my friend's wedding, we sat on the back pew and she slithered off the bench to kneel between my thighs, licking my slit as they took their vows. My panties were in her bag all day.

And at Alton Towers, she fingered me in the Wicker Man queue until I was a jittery, desperate mess, then finished me off on the rollercoaster itself. It was liberating to be able to groan and scream alongside all the other thrill-seekers and have them oblivious to the fact it wasn't solely the G-forces at play.

This stunt, though, is probably the riskiest one ever. I'm terrified what will happen when—if—Madeleine lets me cum. My toes are white curled over the rock edge. Her hand's tucked under me, fingers at their deepest extent inside my slippery pussy.

She pauses. Adjusts my weight between my hair and slit, and worms her thumb between my butt cheeks. Her digit is already wet and she massages my dark knot, then presses in a fraction as she resumes fingering me.

My gasp rings out. “Oh god, Maddy. Please please,” the last one is a whisper that dies in my throat, “pleease.”

“Please what?” She digs and twists and rocks her hand with unyielding determination, penetrating both orifices. My cry is louder, absorbed by the steady whump of the waves below. With my arms still outstretched it's like I'm perched on the edge of the universe, ready to metaphorically dive and soar like the birds that swoop overhead, regarding our invasion of their habitat like the imposters we are.

I find my voice. “Make me cum.”

“Like you've never cum before?”

I sob, “Yes! Yes oh God, yes.”

“Like you're flying?”

“Yess, ohhh.”

She drives her fingers and thumb inside me. Faster. Relentless. My insides twist and I fight to not transfer the action to my teetering frame.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of cour… course.”

“Good. Touch yourself. Touch your clit.”

In a flash, I'm no longer Supergirl, I'm Gaspergirl. A few needy revolutions of my fingertips against my slick and aching button through the fabric is all it takes to propel me right to the brink. My world starts to close in, jaw dropping open, eyes lidding. Every brush of the sea breeze against my skin amplifies the heat radiating from my core.

“I didn't say you could cum.”

“Ffaaahh!” I tear my hand free. Force my eyes open to stare at the sun disappearing behind the horizon as I tremble in Madeleine’s grip.

The moment stretches, her fingers keeping me maddeningly on the edge, figuratively and physically. The glow behind the infinity of sea intensifies. Spreads. Everything except my heart rate slows. The world takes a breath with me and her voice cuts through the pregnant, salty silence.

“Cum now. Fly.”

I don't need a second invitation. My fingers mash into my clit. Once, twice, three times, and I cave.

My breathy thank you is lost to the elements as she lets go of my hair, her fingers slither free of my clutching holes, and I begin to freefall, arms flailing.

Her fingertips crook and catch in the bikini waistband, holding me at an even steeper angle for a moment that feels a lifetime.

Then she lets go.

Panic grips me as my insides clench. A scream tries to form but can't penetrate the adrenaline spike that fuels the spaceless seconds; the calm before the orgasm will rip through me. My last la petite mort just ahead of la grande mort, dashed to pieces in the swirling, rocky maelstrom.

Falling is nothing like the movies where there's buffeting wind and endless noise as the waves rapidly approach. There’s complete silence due to the all-encompassing totality of climax. Three, maybe four, seconds of utter tranquility and sheer terror thrown into the same cocktail, and shaken vigorously.

At home I'd be arching off the bed, weightless from the edging, breath held as my heart thumps, just before the pulsing spasms kick in, pussy winking hard when my core goes supernova.

Out here, I'm plummeting, tumbling, gravity my silent partner, heart racing, breath held, insides taut as spray begins to pepper my face. Instinctively, I thrust my hands out to break the surface and plunge into the turbulent surf.

The moment I'm submerged, my orgasm grips, pounds, grips again, the weight of water slowing my descent, enveloping me, cocooning me. I want to gasp but can't. My body pulses in a fat pocket of bubbles, tickling my skin, stimulating every erogenous zone at once as they rush by, and my pussy throbs. Oh how it throbs.

Slowing enough to be suspended in the swell of the ocean, at terminal depth, I jam my fingers into my bikini and crush my clit, plunging inside myself where Madeleine used to be. I lose myself in the sensory vacuum. Cum hard. Harder than I've ever known. Sparks fly and are immediately extinguished by the sea. I jerk and spasm in the endless dark blue envelope, massaging my jewel with unpolished, desperate abandon, bubbles forced from my nose and mouth with each snort as the orgasm racks me. Consumes me. Floods me with dopamine. Makes me glow, despite the shock of the freezing water.

As the pulses lengthen, peak and diminish, I gradually rise, exhausted, a haphazard grin forming. With each metre, the surface looms, shimmering. Bubbles are tossed away from me, the tranquility of depth replaced with the swell of the waves. My body’s contractions fade as I'm buffeted to and fro, fingers still buried in my snatch, riding the tail of bliss as I break the surface and haul in oxygen, kicking off a second wave of orgasmic clenching.

I bob in the ocean. Just a head, spray rebounding off the rock as I bask in the euphoria. Cumming and cumming around my buried digits, groans pinging off the crag.

I'm barely aware of the more controlled splash several metres away of Madeleine diving in to join me. Only when she swims to cradle me, strokes my cheek to sweep plastered hair away and kisses my lips do I appreciate the heat of her pressed to me.

My hands grope her body. Clutch at her curves. Hold her in a silent prayer. She slithers a hand into my panties and coats her fingers in my juices. I feel her grin against my mouth, and pull my lips away, slapping her shoulder.

“You scared the fuck out of me.”

A harsh wave breaks overhead, dousing us in saltwater. She swipes raven hair strands from her cheek. “But was it worth it?”

My mind’s still swimming. Tangled. Elated. “Out of this world. Truly.”

She beams and kisses me. “Perfect. Race you to the shore. Loser has to eat the winner out on the beach.”

With feline grace, she kicks away and dives into a reflected wave, surfacing the other side of it and swimming towards the deserted patch of sand beyond our rock. My limbs are still trembling from the aftermath of climax. The chemical flotsam flooding my senses clouds my ability to do anything but watch her recede.

But it doesn't matter. I float. Rise and fall with the tide. Savour the long tail of climax as she front crawls into the distance.

This is one race I definitely don't mind losing.