I haven’t had an orgasm since the 19th.

It was rushed, forced, quick. You gave me a time limit. “I want you to cum in the next fifteen minutes.” It was hardly worth even counting; small, and leaving me wanting more.

I’ve been allowed about one a week for the last little while, I’ve been counting and tracking, because once in a while you ask me, “when did you last cum?” and I have to think and count back how many days since you last granted me permission to play with myself, or let him do it for me.

I agreed to this.

I enjoy it.

Just the thought of being told ‘no’ is enough to get me started and it’s proven just the worst and most wonderful thing ever.

I’m denied for the next week, unless I can bring myself to beg.

That would make it two weeks.

And my hormones are just out of control right now, and my dreams and thoughts have been flooded with visions of you and your control, your hands about my throat, and my wrists against your headboard; how sweet it would be to beg and plead and make those little, fickle demands.

And the sad thing is, you know how to turn me on. You know exactly how to tease me when you’re here and when you’re not.

You came to visit. We had coffee, a chat, worked through my stress a bit, the fact that I’ve been grumpy and distant and cranky. And then you let me suck you off, and taste you, drink you in, devour your seed. I suppose I was so wrapped up in my own pride, and my own enjoyment, and that odd sense of pleasure that comes from pleasing you and hearing you say those two sweet words, good girl, and how I swell with pride, that I almost forgot to say thank you.

Somewhere in that time, in that little tableau that played out, you announced you’d deny me. I asked you later on if it was punishment: maybe I’d done poorly.

No, you said, it was because you can. Because you love it when pretty girls beg. Because you know it gets me off in that fucked up, round-about way.

I’m not sure if I’ll resort to begging. That’s a real expression of vulnerability and weakness. I trust you with my body, and my mind, and my being; I trust you to know what’s best for me. But I also value what pride I do have, and calling you up, pleading on the phone, whining, wanton and craving, breaking and buckling to hedonism…

I’m torn.

I really am.

I begged for you once. Just once, when you had me forced against the window, cars driving by watching you fuck me. You told me to beg and I did; and I wanted it, I truly wanted it so badly. I’d waited two weeks. You’d tormented me those two weeks. It was wonderful. Satisfying. That torment, that taunting. And all the pent up desire all culminating in one moment that left my legs trembling, that left me glad for the cold glass of that window that held me up, and the chance to kneel when you were done so perhaps you wouldn’t catch on that I couldn’t really stand.

And it sparked in me a sense of greed. I want it now more than ever, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion that it’s downhill from here. How deep does the rabbit hole go?