Cum tomorrow and cum yesterday

- but never cum today.

Nor tomorrow, in fact.
Nor yesterday, of course.
Later in the week, he said.

Yes, my Master, I said.

Later in the week.

Everything is easier to swallow when he addresses me as "my pet." Which he did. I melted into acceptance. But still. I had a hard night and a hard day. An intense night and day. Spent apart yet together, the day was intense and wearing and emotional and demanding. And now I'm worn out, with tears dammed between my heart and my throat.

It was all very private and intimate and involves things I never talk about here. And in some ways, it was very beautiful, touching on emotions that don't often get discussed. So I won't share the details, but it's not something to worry about. Still an orgasm would help. Not from a sexual point of view (though the arousal I spoke of yesterday continues to eat at my cunt), but for the sake of the release. For the sake of the cataclysm of sobs that would erupt as the tension explodes and my womb contracts. I would start to cry and then roll over and the sobs will trip over each other on their way out, and my body will shake and everything that has been bottled up for weeks and weeks will be flushed out on the tail of the tears, staining the pillow with my pain and love.

A caning would do that, too, of course.
Or a nice long flogging.
Or a serious spanking.

Or looking in my Master's eyes
as he pinches my left nipple and
pulls me down into his soul
and I lose myself inside him
as he reads the love inside me
and the other things inside me
that I will never know.
And I make love to his cock
while I'm looking in his eyes
and I channel his arousal
and my tears flow when he cums.

However.
Not till later in the week.

I think I should start a cumming calendar. Or at least mark a little "c" on the days that I cum. Or a big "C". Or a giant round "O". Because by now I have no idea how long it has been. Weeks and weeks for sure. Which was no big deal in winter, but now that it is spring and there is maple syrup instead of honey running down my thighs, it would be awfully nice to cum.

But it would be even nicer to be with that selfish, sadistic, miserly man who keeps my orgasms locked away in an old wooden sea chest, bound around with iron staves and padlocked with three heavy locks.

That cruel and gentle, poetic and pedantic, controlling, guiding, sweet and selfish sadistic man who binds me with his words as surely as if they were long links of chain.

So.
No orgasm tonight.
Later in the week.
And with that I must be content.