Depleted

I want to write for you. I want to write something titillating and salacious, about spanking and canings and being led around by a leash and cocks stuffed down my throat. And especially about anal sex. I think there are more hits on the anal sex label than on all the rest combined.

But of course I still haven't had anal sex. When I do, I promise I'll let you all know, even if I have to stand up as I type.

The thing is, I'm exhausted. Having that wretched virus was far worse than being beaten by the sadist. Oh, the pain from his pinching my nipples is much worse at the moment it is happening - it's not just pinching, it's a horrible twisting, it's awful, I can barely stand it, why is my cunt pulsing, why do I feel my panties getting wet as I talk about it, why am I regretting that I am on permanent orgasm restriction and that I have certain things to do tonight, certain exercises that will have me screaming for release which will be forbidden...

I've written about this before. I actually love orgasm restriction. In a way it is like prolonged foreplay. I love the pain of heightened, extended arousal. I love the feeling of being controlled. I love willingly giving over the control. Still...

This is the only place I can write about what I want. Well, I can elsewhere, but shouldn't really. The sadist is always reminding me that it is in no way about me and my desires. It is all and only about him and his needs and his desires and his urges... especially when the beast emerges. I will not forget that soon. The last time he was here I was seriously punished for daring to suggest otherwise.

There is always more to learn.

What I want doesn't enter into the Irishman's mind, either. But he's nicer about it. And in fact it does enter into his mind, because when he calls he doesn't order me to service him. He is asking me. Such a sweet man. It's only when he arrives that his own beast emerges. It fascinates me, the way I see it come over his face as he comes up the walk. And then it's all about him. I am but a collection of holes.

I wrote him a short poem signaling that I'm getting better.

I can't help letting the philosopher know what I want. But then he knows anyway. And we both know I may never get it. Except that in a way I am getting what I want. There is still that thin chain running up the New Jersey Turnpike, binding me to him. He is no longer pretending it is not there. How long it will survive and what it actually means is a mystery. But as long as it is there I'm ok.

For now, I need sleep. I need another day off, with no trips back and forth to town and no committee meetings.

And then?

I need to be taken by the beast and dragged off to his den.

I need to be spanked.
I need to be caned.
I need to feel a chain
pulled
tight around my neck.
I need to be dragged by my hair
and thrown onto the bed.
I need to have my nipples
twisted
and pinched
until I think it would be
less painful if he
just
sliced
them
off.
I need him to bite my neck.
I need him to bite my lip.
I need him to kiss me
deep and sensuously,
richly and softly,
fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
Fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.

But oh,
most of all,
and here
my eyes fill with tears
so I know it is true,
most of all

i need to be loved.