tug and touch

I’m at the airport with Master M and Maria, waiting for our flight, delayed an hour by a late incoming plane. I have some moments to write.

The two board retreats are over. Master M thinks this second one was quite successful, though he ran into some issues with the first one last weekend. He is referring to business matters; logistically, they both went off smoothly.

Maria is exhausted, and even fell asleep against my shoulder in the Uber to the airport. Master M promises us a non-work day tomorrow, Monday.

---

In D/s terms, the retreats were uneventful. Maria and I managed to consistently address Master M as “Mr. McKenna.” The retreat was kept buttoned-down, so to speak, just as I was. I wore a collar and short dresses (without a bra, of course), making me look MILF-ishly non-corporate, different, garnering me second glances — but that and a few conversations were the extent of my submissive experience these two weeks.

Perhaps I should have expected that, but beforehand I had feared any number of scenarios in which I might be humiliated publicly. As it happened, well… nothing happened.

Because of this, I have been both submissively and sexually deprived during this time away. I don’t mean that as a complaint but as a fact that explains some things going on in my head… and, well, other parts of me. And I find this a bit alarming.

I hate to think I can’t go for just fourteen days without my submissive sexuality being touched. This has been just a short vanilla while, and I’m already crazy in craving. I mean, I lived deprived in Pennsylvania for nearly a year (although, I actually did go crazy then too). But my craving seems to come more quickly now and is more urgent and wanton than it was then.

I am always submissive to him, always feel owned, but it’s the moment-by-moment hands-on experience of being kept and dominated as a sexual object that I miss, and apparently must have. Again, Pennsylvania, of course. Yes, I went without, but now I am different, more needy for it, and in such a short time as two weeks. This is my shame.

I feel I have crossed a threshold and cannot go back again. I’ve gotten conditioned to need it — the active tug and touch of submissive sexual experience — presently and constantly and immersively. Without it, I am more than a little lost.

---

Master had arranged for a late check-out from the hotel, giving the three of us time to pack up supplies into boxes and prep them for shipment back home. By 1:00 pm, all the board members had left.

I had packed my suitcase, and found myself alone with Master in the elevator down to the lobby.

I couldn’t help myself. “I really, really want to suck your cock, sir,” I said, “just so you know.”

He took a short beat. “Where would you be willing to take my cock?”

“Here in the elevator.”

“It might stop at other floors.”

“I don’t care.”

“Are you begging me for it, Shae?”

“Yes, I am begging.”

“I hear you’re good at that now,” he said referring to my recent “adventure” in the neighborhood, begging door-to-door.

This made me blush, and I said nothing more.

The elevator stopped at the lobby level, and we exited, but Master had us stay in the elevator bay, continuing: “If I let you, would you take my cock here?”

My initial question was uttered out of my exasperated desire, and in saying it, I knew he would not likely say yes. When he didn’t say no immediately, I knew I had to be willing to follow through. I couldn’t bluff. My bluff has been called too many times for that. Our elevator repartee was possibly hypothetical but potentially real. While I knew it was unlikely Master would have me drop to my knees in front of a bank of elevators, I had to be willing to actually do so.

I looked up at him, fully aware of what I was committing to. “Yes, sir, I really would.”

“What if I pulled you into the men’s room down the hall? Would you take my cock there?”

“Yes, sir, I would.”

“What if other men were there?”

Again, I doubted he was going to have me do this, and I well knew he would not be able to assume or arrange for other men to be using the restroom. But other men could be there. But I had to answer truthfully as to what I would do.

“They could watch,” I said seriously.

Master looked at me , his mouth even-set, and for a moment I thought he was going to have me do it.

“My answer is no. We have a plane to catch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But your begging reminds me of what a slut you are and how far you’re willing to go.”

I nodded, accepting his characterization of me. I was not surprised, slightly disappointed, cringingly aware of what I had begged him for, embarrassed for how needy I am.

“Thank you,” I said.

But even in rejecting my begging request, he had spoken to my submissive desire, dormant for most of fourteen days. After two weeks of his being important and doing real-life business, I was needing to know I still had a place in his life, even if that place was on my knees before his naked cock. He said no but had engaged the conversation, and that was the tug and touch that my submissive heart needed. I was still his sexual possession.

---

It was later, in the airport, as we were waiting to board, that Master and I were sitting across from each other in the waiting area. He was reviewing some notes from the retreat.

I glanced up from my laptop, and his eyes met mine. Across the aisle, I knew what he was thinking. I had committed to something, and he will take me up on it.

He will pull me into a men’s room, order me to get on the tile floor.

I will take his cock in my mouth.

And there will be men. Watching.

Someday. When, I will never know.