Given that this is supposed to be a sex blog, there's not an awful lot of sex here. But then, there's not an awful lot of sex in my life these days.
What with the 250 miles separating me from the philosopher, and the chapter-and-a-half separating the philosopher from his PhD, there in fact hasn't been much body-to-body contact at all in the last year. But there was still plenty of sex. And a lot of denial of sex. Which can be pretty sexy in its own right depending on how it's done.
I hate not being allowed to cum.
I love not being allowed to cum.
Because I love being controlled.
Orgasm denial makes me feel ropes around my wrists. I feel a collar around my neck. Not the hard cold metal choke collar that the philosopher bought for me in the pet aisle of his neighborhood CVS or Rite-Aid or whatever they have out where he lives. It's a leather collar I feel, snug and definitive. There is a leash attached. Despite spanning 4 states, the line is taut. The philosopher looks up from his writing and notes the rising musk, as my fingers absently twine amongst the trimmed red cunt curls. He gives a tug, and cuts short my brief rebellion against his clear command of "No touching. No cumming."
Recently, as things grew difficult, he relaxed the order. Touching was ok but cumming was still out. The fondling was comforting but not all that satisfying. Still, it was better than nothing.
But now our words are few and far between. There are new rules as we curtail our interactions for the greater good. Since we started this diet about a week ago, I have been granted but 3 wake-up calls to him and the one precious night when he called to tuck me in. No long meandering sadistic loving babbling tormenting phone calls, though he did leave me with some beatiful rubber band welts when he put me to bed Friday night.
So there has been no discussion of my needs. And as the stress grows greater, I've gone beyond just touching. Not out of rebellion but out of need. There have been orgasms, efficient and powerful orgasms, with great heaving sobs and torrents of tears.
And what do I want now that I've confessed my sins? I'm not sure really. The philosopher is usually delighted to have an excuse to punish me. Of course, as he never fails to remind me, he doesn't need a reason, he can cane me whenever he wants. (He spanks me, too, and has a fine old time with his belt on my ass, but caning seems to possess an inherent air of punishment.) I'm not sure whether it's his Catholic upbringing or what, but he seems most satisfied when the beating is preceded by a recitation of my sins. He loves how upset the scolding makes me, even when the sins are either totally fabricated or highly embroidered versions of the high-strung behaviour that any kitten will manifest, even one that has been enslaved and should know better,
I could, in fact, use a good punishment. I feel cleansed afterwards, and leave behind significant wet spots. But a proper punishment requires a lot of attention, and the philosopher has set aside much of his sadism while he crawls at the feet of his cruel dissertation. So I don't expect a punishment. And that still wouldn't solve the problem of relieving my stress until my master can resume his duties.
I don't think a free hand in the matter is what I need, either. I've been feeling so much stronger and clearer since the philosopher has been controlling at least parts of my life that especially now, when I need to use my submission to get through this period of semi-detachment, prescribed limits would help.
So maybe a finite number of orgasms per week would do. Can one dom onesself if one's owner can't fulfill all his responsibilities due to other pressing matters? I doubt I could make myself feel the tug on the leash. But maybe it's worth a try.
Until then, those remembrances of canings past triggered a bout of nether twitching that needs attending to...