Argh. I’m trembling all over. My pulse is hammering and it aches. So damp, so wet. I’ve curled up like the fetus in my womb, both hands gripping my phone tightly, holding them away from that soft pink warmth begging to be touched. My digits are quivering. It isn’t just a little tingle at my magic spot—it’s humming loudly enough to drown out all other thoughts.
Yet I’m doing well… refraining from touching myself the way I’ve done for more than twelve months now, and certainly not before January 2nd when I hit that milestone of five hundred days. With great effort, I have squelched the inner urge whispering at me to cheat and release my own pleasure. That “just an edge” excuse always seemed to lead to other boundaries being crossed.
But I must stop counting down each day. Instead, I need to savor this moment, hoping it becomes my permanent future. My dream is to have truly earned this status as a lasting role, secured through good behavior and a sunny, grateful heart.
My control over orgasm and denial strengthens my submission. There are mornings like today when the tight coupling feels burdensome. I’m on the verge of tears because I am so incredibly horny.
Still, my pleasure belongs to another; it is a gift meant for me to receive. Being held in this heat feels loving. The teasing and denial elevate me here, keeping me rooted.
Now that I’ve stopped masturbating, I find myself delightful to play with, so I get played more often. Feeling horny means I’m happy and healthy. Always wet, always ready, thus ever pleasing—which is what they tell me. I feel high right now, bursting with pent-up pressure. Like a large red balloon squeaking under fingertips, feeling sticky and clingy. It would be tragic if I let myself deflate prematurely.
God, this is so difficult. [my journal entry written a few days ago]