Failing at Edging

As many of my previous stories have told, I'm an edging fanatic. I very rarely have a masturbation session where there isn't at least some degree of prolonging my orgasm, and preferably, there is a lot of it. If I haven't stretched out my session to the point of female blue balls and tortured myself at least moderately, it doesn't seem worth it. Sometimes, I do have a quickie on purpose, but I'm always disappointed. I tell myself, "You could have done better than that." I don't get worried about an occasional "accident" here and there where I blow my orgasm out of a lack of control. Mistakes happen. But I had a disturbing stretch of failed edging that went on for at least 5 or 6 masturbation sessions before I decided to address the problem head on and correct it. Here's what these accidents feel like. I will begin my masturbation session like usual, starting off with foreplay teasing on my vulva that gradually builds my arousal. I transition into masturbating in earnest after I'm ready. Again, the build up of arousal at this stage will be slow, controlled, and deliberate until I've reached a low plateau that is easy to hold myself at without much resistance. At this point, I'm fingering my clitoris in the very gentle controlled circles I've used for years to settle into a comfortable cruising altitude where I can zone out and enjoy the sensations without being concerned about an orgasm I need to fight off. A successful edge session will have me hover at this place for much longer, but a failed one will start with the temptation to stroke my clitoris harder. Most of the time, when my fingers give into the temptation to stimulate at a more intense level, I will put an end to it quickly. It needs to happen in seconds. I will backtrack to correct myself, bringing my arousal down with even more gentle strokes until I'm back at that low, safe plateau. These small slip ups are not a big deal, and I'm very experienced at catching them. During my run of failed edge sessions, however, I just could not catch and correct myself. My fingers were pressing into my clitoris's sweet spot and grinding it against my pubic bone, a big "no-no" when it comes to orgasm control. My genitals were enjoying every second of it. Oh, it felt so good! So, so good! My vulva and pc muscle were calling the shots. My brain pleaded with my hand to let up on the pressure and speed, but my hand would not do it. Over and over again, my brain commanded, but the hand did not listen. Round and round and round and round and round my firm, massaging fingers went on my clitoris. My arousal was like a runaway train. I wasn't having the orgasm, yet, but I knew that it was a fool's errand to keep on pretending I could stop it. There would be no way to recover my edge session. The closer to the inevitable I got, the faster the train flew. Before long, my orgasm would defeat me. I would find myself finishing off in the way I always do, fingers furiously drilling into my sweet spot--gasping, kicking, and shuddering in a humiliated loss. My next story will continue this one and describe how I came back from my string of failed edge sessions.