There really is something worse than not being allowed to masturbate.
He won't let me write.
I know. It doesn't make sense. Here is this greedy, possessive man, who went after me so he could own not just me but my words, my mind, my metaphors. And now he won't let me write for him. No poetry. No stories. No stimulating little vignettes to incite erections and make his hands clench around an imagined strip of cherry wood as he remembers my screams of pain. Completely illogical.
Except, of course, that it is not.
My sadistic demon muse has come to terms with my ADD. He has decided that the best way to teach me to serve him is to slow down, concentrate my attention, teach me how to do one thing at a time and then another thing and then eventually put them together.
And he doesn't want me distracted by my rampant, creative mind.
He is training me.
Training me to please him.
It reminds me of when I lived in Wales and learned European-style knitting over the radio. He describes what I am to do and I practice and I report. Very challenging. But I am working very hard because I want to please him. I want to be his good girl, his clever courtesan, his gifted geisha, kneeling before him and pleasing him.
I may get to demonstrate what I've learned tomorrow.
If we can coordinate it.
The advantage of working 10 minutes from home.
coming back to work
with marks on my neck
and marks on my ass
and tears in my eyes
and my mind
He usually makes me masturbate for him.
He usually makes me cum for him.
That will be nice.
But what I really hope,
oh, I do so hope,
maybe if I do a very good job,
please, Sir, if I do a very good job,
may I please write for you again?