As I write this I am sticky and satisfied, flushed and slightly breathless, coasting on that delicious loose-limbed whole body high that is the result of a really good orgasm.

As I write this I am sticky and satisfied, flushed and slightly breathless, coasting on that delicious loose-limbed whole body high that is the result of a really good orgasm. And I’m holding on to it for as long as I can, because I don’t know when I’ll be allowed another.

Despite being a stubborn and intractable little animal I have rules that I follow in my relationship. There are small elements of protocol in the ways I am to behave or the things I am allowed to do. I have a personal difficulty with identifying as submissive – currently, I prefer to think of things in terms of control and power exchange – but having rules is the most classically D/s element of my relationship and for someone who struggles with that terminology they are surprisingly important to me. Moderating the things that I do for no other reason than the whim, pleasure or amusement of the person that owns me makes me feel a lot of things, but right at the top of the pile is how it makes me feel closer and more connected to him.

One of the rules is that he will tell me I am not allowed to masturbate for periods of time, usually until we see each other again when we apart. Most often that’s less than a week although between holidays and travel it can be longer. Sometimes I can ask for permission which may or may not be granted, but I find asking for things quite challenging, so I ask only very occasionally compared to how much I actually want to wank. Which is normally at least once a day, usually more. When I’m not allowed to though, I almost immediately find it difficult to focus on anything else and want to all the fucking time. 

Case in point: I was abroad for ten days on a family holiday – my parents had taken me and my siblings to an all-inclusive resort which was wonderfully luxurious but mind-numbingly dull. Rest and relaxation are hard for me – ask anyone else who works in circus, by the by – and my sleep was particularly bad, so I was already a jittery ball of restless energy. Add in the slow and dawning realisation that I was probably falling in love, that nervous excitement that feels like both dread and joy unfurling inside you. On top of that add on that I wasn’t allowed to masturbate, and I was, to put it plainly, a wreck.

It was quite literally all I could think about. At night in bed I would have to sit on my hands so that I wouldn’t touch myself. Sunbathing next to the pool was regularly interrupted by trips into the water because I needed a more wholesome reason for my bikini bottoms to be visibly wet. I would get up every morning before dawn to run on the beach for miles in an attempt to tire myself out of those thoughts. It didn’t work.

He came to see me the night I got back. When he rang the bell my heart started beating so hard it felt like my whole body was pulsing with it. Trembling. It felt like years, waiting for him to climb the stairs to my flat. When he eventually arrived (fresh and cold and smelling of frosty air) he kissed me only lightly, pulling away when I tried to press myself into him. I was burning, clumsy, desperate. I couldn’t look at his face. Couldn’t speak. He put his hand under my clothes and held it between my legs, inches away from my cunt. I was so aware of the heat radiating off me, of how he wasn’t touching me. He was holding me so I couldn’t press myself down against his hand, and I had one hand grasping his shoulder, holding myself up because my knees had gone weak and I couldn’t quite keep myself standing. And his other hand, right there, so close, never touching. 

When he took his hand away and walked into the bedroom I had to sink to the floor and calm my breathing before I followed him.

That feeling – the need to be fucked so badly that you cannot focus on anything else, that you stop being able to function normally, words gone, unable to even ask for the thing you so desperately want. All whines and whimpers and urgent, grasping hands. Frustration that feels physically painful. All of that burning inside you so bright you feel like it might burst out of you, break through your skin, like your body can’t contain it. 

I like being able to touch myself whenever I want, but that complex knot of feeling I get from not doing so at the whim of the person who owns me, and the things I will feel when I see him again – I like that more.