Forced masturbation; the torture of pleasure (2)

Continued from yesterday's post, a slightly edited version of the day's correspondence; day devoted to orgasm-less masturbation, every 2 hours. An activity meant to submerge me in my service as my Master's sex slave.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.

This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.

For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.

That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)

My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]

Again?!
Already??!!!

Yes, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]

Torment.

Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...

"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.

"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."

"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"

"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."

You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.

I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.

I belong to you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.

For you, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now you may post.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you, my Lord.

And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time for another round, my Lord.

My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.

You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.

I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.

You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.

We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.

My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.

I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.

The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And so, my Lord.
The last time.

I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.

The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.

Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.

I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.

I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.

We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.

I love you, my Lord.

And my body yearns for yours.