After serious consideration, the philosopher agreed last night to my request for thrice weekly cunt maintenance treatments using an inserted phalloid object. He cautioned, however, that this was not to be taken as an opportunity for unbridled pleasure. His goal is purely to keep his property in working order, along with furthering the objectification of his slave kitten, who at times displays an excessive exuberance of bounce and independent thinking. (I suspect this increased objectification will appeal to Deity.)
After further discussion of the process this morning, followed by an elaborated promise of a thorough caning whenever the philosopher finally feels ready to take a few days' break from the Damn Dissertation, I was quite ready for my first session of Cunt Maintenance Masturbation. I can now reassure my master that the activity most definitely felt more like a cathartic form of physical therapy rather than a session of self-love. I achieved a reasonable orgasm, although of course that was by no means the goal of the exercise. The fault, if such there be, was not due to my vibrator, of which I am quite fond - and not just because it was a gift from the philosopher. It is sturdy and blue and quite filling, while the addition of the bright yellow asterisk on the speed control creates a color scheme that brings to mind both Sweden and the University of Michigan. (There's nothing like feeling the urge to yell Go Blue! while shoving a phony phallus up one's vagina.)
The main reason for my success at feeling that I was but performing a necessary function as the philosopher's property is that, while I dearly love fucking, I'm very much a clitoris girl when it comes to masturbation and orgasms. Until recently, the only vibrator I had was bought back in the 70s when my employer's inside sales staff, of which I was a member, undertook what would now be called a Team Building Exercise by constructing an Orgasmatron from a large metal closet that was being sold to hold computer components. Since I was the one who, looking all of 12, had to venture into a very creepy-looking "Adult" shop to buy the thing, I got to keep it when we finally disassembled our masterpiece. It was an ugly item, hard plastic, no lovely penile curve, very noisy, and with only two settings: on or off. I used it occasionally but was much happier with my talented and well-trained fingers.
Still, there is always the chance that I will learn to derive true erotic satisfaction from my vaginal workouts, which would thwart my owner's intentions. Luckily, I am not the only middle-aged sex slave who needs to be serviced in this way, and franchises have been cropping up here and there to fill the needs of absentee and workaholic slavemasters. I haven't been able to confirm who owns the company, but suspect it was developed by Otto Von Madd in cooperation with Jiffy Lube.
Cunt-o-Lube offers doms monthly and yearly contracts with a choice of services to keep your slave's parts in good working order. The basic package offers professional vagina work-outs performed by trained technicians wielding the latest in dildos and vibrators. Slaves are positioned on stainless steel tables akin to those used at veterinarians, with stirrups to keep the legs in the appropriate position and electronic sensors strategically placed to measure physical response to the stimulation delivered. Although providing an orgasm is not the main goal, one per session is allowed as an incentive for arriving promptly for the scheduled appointment. Slaves who arrive more than 10 minutes late will still receive the contracted treatment but will not be allowed to cum.
Full reports on each session are provided to owners, including physical response graphs and video recordings of the procedure. Options can be added to the basic package, including anus training. The deluxe package includes regular spankings and canings, again delivered in the most detached and objectifying manner. This is perfect for the long-distance dom who feels the need to provide regular physical chastisements but doesn't want to risk an attachment developing between his submissive and his agent.
The philosopher has tasked me to find out if Cunt-o-Lube offers student rates, and in any case is inclined to sign me up for the one week free trial. Meanwhile, I will do my best to get the job done with the help of my maize-and-blue friend, which is delighted to be allowed out of the bottom drawer.
Though really, have you ever considered how bizarre a condom looks on a vibrator? There's that little empty sperm reservoir on the top, a little empty latex hat, waiting to be filled with the sperm that will never come. So sad...
(By the way, I was not so successful with my recent plea to the philosopher to allow once-a-day perusal of my stats. At least not this week. The situation will be reconsidered Saturday, after I have proven my ability to control myself for an entire week. I'm not thrilled with the answer, though I appreciate the philosopher's continuing attempts at teaching me self-control. And I love how owned it makes me feel. Still, it would be nice to know my readers are out there, so I hope you will sign my guest book as it were by leaving a little hello.)