Still floating from my Master's visit on Friday, the 2nd in 3 days. I was tired and happy and painfully aroused. But my pleasure belongs to him. I don't even touch without permission, let alone cum. So I suffered. I wrote him and I suffered and I squirmed and I twitched, and my suffering was compounded by watching Ohio State destroy the University of Michigan (how can anyone doubt that I am a true masochist?!) and my messages became more rich and creative and really -
that was my mistake.
Because that's when he said it.
I don't believe I will permit you to cum for a whileNow being a poet and all, I noticed something very sinister about this statement. Look carefully.
There is no period at the end.
There is no end.
It goes on and on...
And the prohibition had exactly the effect my Master was hoping for. The effect he was expecting. Because, of course, by now he knows my responses. He knows that if he twists this, bites that, spanks with a finely calibrated degree of force, he will elicit from his malleable pet precisely the sounds and colors and words and welts he is after.
My Master is very pleased.
And the prohibition continues.