Memories of your cock

What is it about a computer in my lap that makes me start to twitch? And not just in my lap. When I turn on my computer at work, I feel the pressure build, running back and forth from my still virgin butt hole through the sodden valley of my cunt and up to my clit, where it twirls around a few times and heads back the way it came.

My face grimaces, and the contractions begin. They seem to begin in my anus, then travel over the land bridge to my labia and the drooling pussy within. Finally, I feel them in my womb, and then, with a moan of inevitability, I start to write.

I used to write for the philosopher. I couldn’t stop writing for the philosopher, even at work, despite his scoldings and interdictions. I wanted to be connected to him every minute of the day. We inspired interactive creativity and urgent desire, before our ever having met. We spent hours writing, and then hours talking, and had a hell of a time getting anything else done.

We don’t write like that any more. He needs to be able to get everything else done. He no longer denies that there is “something between us” but except for some occasional mild teasing and flirting, our correspondence stays away from the passion. We stay away from BDSM. We stay away from sex.

I’ve stuffed it into a strong box, bound it with chains, and secured it with a padlock. A trunk with a chastity belt. Sometimes fumes sneak out through wee holes in the wood, but I hold my nose or leave the house.

Sometimes they catch me unawares and I have memories… I push them away. They come less often now. The memories of being draped over the ottoman… they come less often now… the memories of those four final cane strokes… of huddling over on the floor, draped in an afghan, shuddering in collapse as he ran upstairs for a bag of frozen peas for my battered butt… of his calling me his good kitten… they come less often now.

Sometimes I think they are gone for good. Sometimes I think they are purely a matter of habit or buried genes, a kitten who occasionally remembers her leonine ancestry.

Thoughts of the philosopher inspire feelings of love, which in fact are probably more dangerous and unwise than urges towards submission. And now my demon muse is back, who acts as a safety valve for the rest of it. He siphons off my urge towards submission, keeps me from sucking random cocks, and inspires an onslaught of poetry both erotic and deferential. And there are other feelings he raises. Different ones… my submission to him is different. There is a true sense of worship, of adoration, and now even deeper trust than there was before The Rupture. I know this probably doesn’t make sense to some of you but yes, I trust him more now. And I truly believe that his plans for me, however much they may be based in his own perverted and sadistic needs, are basically good for me. I suppose he’ll sneer at this, and make some snide comment, but I am his creation. I don’t know what his goal is but I think it is something he will take pride in as well as enjoy.

So except for passing teases, I try not to push the philosopher to react to me erotically. Oh we had such a dispassionate discussion of a kinky horror movie he suggested I’d like. It’s hard enough dealing with how I just want to curl up and cuddle with him, let alone want to be spanked by him. And even those warm creamy vanilla desires get buried, since I mostly try not to think about them. The desires of all kinds come back when we talk, and even when we e-mail back and forth, but the interchanges happens so rarely now (by mutual agreement to shield him from implied demands) that desire is enjoying a long hibernation.

Except sometimes it will be surprised by an anarchic rooster. Like this:

I dreamt about your cock last night. We bathed together and you allowed me to trim your hair and then you threaded your hands through the hair on my head as I knelt before you on the bathroom floor, and by my hair you pulled my head to your stiffening cock, “suck me, Leigh,” you commanded.

I got this far on Elspeth’s blog and started to cry. Not even this far. I got to where she talks about trimming his hair and I started to cry. And oh, I wanted so much to send you the link – or better yet, to paste the piece right into a message so I could edit the bit where he refers to “daddy’s cock” because you would never refer to it as that… you’d say hoarsely “suck me, kitten” and then push my head down on your cock as the look came over your face that betrayed how the veneer of civilization had been driven away by need and dominance.

I wanted to send it to you.
I wanted to let you know that it made me cry.
I wanted to let you know that I hadn't forgotten.
I wanted to let you know that I still thought of you.
I wanted to let you know that everything is still there.
It's just asleep.

And when the time comes
if it ever comes
we'll claw our way through the thick, prickly vines
we'll cut away the brush and the briars
and we'll kiss it awake.

And then we'll see what happens.

But meanwhile,
for now
there are the memories.