It’s been 11 days, and I can hardly recall what it feels like to get a full erection, let alone reach orgasm. My wife and I were out for dinner when I asked her if she’d thought about my release date yet. She gave me a smile and countered with how long had it actually been? “Ten days,” I replied, “nearing eleven.”
She chuckled, saying that wasn’t really all that much time. But I confessed I’m not sure I can last this long anymore. Her advice was to hit the treadmill for about 30 minutes; she thinks it will help me endure. I admitted that her punishing approach does encourage me to keep order and follow the rules.
Still, I pressed on whether she had considered my release at all. She said not really, as there is much occupying her thoughts now, so I shouldn’t worry too much—it’s ultimately up to her choice. Then she asked if 45 minutes of treadmill time would make it clear for me.
I got the hint, looked down at my plate and nodded yes. Looking back up at her beautiful, smiling face, I remembered why I agreed to this arrangement in the first place.
I love her.