She has still not allowed me to touch myself, a deprivation she maintains with wicked glee. She knows I attribute my unrequited yearnings to her. Abstinence is my obedience, my submission to her hand of dominance reaching across the country.
I would never defy her, intentionally plunging my oiled fingers between my wet labia lips and into my vagina. (Sigh.) But it spurs thoughts of how it could happen “accidentally.” It wouldn’t take much to send me into shudders of orgasm.
(Suddenly, I long to ride a horse.)
The real temptation is in the shower with a soapy loofah sponge. I have to clean myself, right? Yet cleaning time seems to be slightly less than what it takes for orgasmic “accidents” to happen, however primed I already am. My “Amanda-conscience” will not let me linger long enough.
On the phone I tell Amanda I now will consent to sex with total strangers.
She laughs, saying, “This is a new thing?”
“I maybe never said it before.”
“You gave me full control long ago.”
“I know. Just sayin’.”
“You,” she says, “would fuck anything right now, wouldn’t you.”
“I like keeping you this way,” she says.
When Amanda visits in a couple weeks, she says she will allow me to climax. She says it will be in the woods where I like to go these days. She will make me naked. And she will watch.