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“Good morning, Goddess,” he typed.
A moment later a response appeared. “Good morning, pet.”
He smiled, then sent another message. “It’s the 16th.”
“Indeed,” Ms. Morrigan replied. “And?”
“So, NOvember is half over.”
“Hmmm.”
The ambivalence of her response caused him to inhale sharply. He had been hoping for a “congratulations” or a “good boy.”
After a too-long moment, another message appeared on his screen. “So, NoVEMBER is half over. NO-vember doesn’t have to be.”
He felt a cold spot inside his chest, even as he also felt the cage tightening around his genitals.
and she silently smiled in her own perverse way as she felt his anguish grow. She was indeed pleased.
So to continue, On the first of November, he had started channeling his pent-up energy into carving little animals out of soap. At first it was just a lark, not really even necessary. Two or three days without an orgasm was nothing to even think about.
After about a week, he found himself challenging himself to start getting more intricate in his designs. Although, spending an hour on the task instead of fifteen minutes didn’t distract him. Quite the opposite. Every minute, no matter how hard he concentrated on manipulating the soap and the little carving knife, he was only that much more aware that he was doing this instead of stroking himself, instead of experiencing the quick but intense pleasure of the male orgasm.
And now, halfway through the month, he had lined up his little sculptures, in three rows of five, on top of his dresser. His dresser, from which he had cleared off everything else, to make it into an altar to her. And his carvings were his offerings to the Goddess. Each one a little sacrifice, a carefully crafted commemoration of each of the fifteen days — so far — when he had surrendered his greatest pleasure to her. Fifteen days, out of his finite life, in which he had not cum, and now would never get istanbul travesti back… given to her for the pleasure she received from knowing he was denied.
He felt himself feeling thick but restrained inside his cage. But, in a sudden fit of inspiration, he got his phone and took a picture of his precious offerings on his Goddess’ altar. He craved her approval, her assurance that his sacrifice was appreciated — even more than he craved his long-denied orgasmic release. He sent the picture to her.
A minute passed. And then several. Then finally, blessedly, the little notification icon popped up on his phone. He opened her message.
“Very nice.”
A pause.
“Which one are you again?”
It felt a little like a ballpeen hammer to the sternum. Not “who are you,” but “which one.” However, before he could even think about how to respond, yet a third message arrived.
“LOL.”
He exhaled and shuddered. Of course she was just toying with him. Her ability to do that to him is why he adored, worshipped her. But, still. In the seconds between her second and third messages, his heart had nearly shattered.
And his cock had nearly split open his chastity device.
NOvember, the explanation.
“Which one are you again?”
The message from his domme and keyholder had taken his breath away. Even after she had added a quick “LOL” to assure him that she was only teasing him, his knees were still weak and his head was spinning a bit.
He knew he was being silly. Of course he had no reason to expect that his dommewasn’tengaging with other submissives. It had always been understood that his fidelity to her was a one-way street. In fact, her freedom to enjoy the attention of other men, and other women, was something that she frequently teased him with; and he had grown to be deliciously disturbed and aroused by the lack of reciprocity in their relationship.
But that was before he had impulsively travesti istanbul agreed, on Halloween, to lock himself up for her for the month of November; before he had begun to commemorate each passing day of chastity by carving a littleobjet d’artfor her, before he had cleared his dresser top to convert it to an altar to his Goddess.
For fifteen days, he had been focusing on making his chastity into a sacrament, a daily ritual of sacrifice to her. He had long ago grown accustomed to the angst of thinking of other men touching her, tasting her, pleasing and enjoying her in ways he could not; that was mere cuckoldry. The notion that others were gifting her with their chastity hadn’t occurred to him.
Uncertainly, he stumbled across his room to the side of his bed, phone still in his hand. But instead of lying down on it, he found himself lowering himself to the floor beside it, until he was sitting on the floor on one hip, leaning up against the side of the mattress, his head on the edge of the bed, like a chastened puppy.
His phone vibrated and he looked at it desultorily. “Are you there?” she was asking.
“Yes,” he answered, because “uh huh” wasn’t an autofill option.
“I love your little collection of carvings,” she told him. “Fifteen of them, I noticed.”
He exhaled in relief. She was so perceptive. He loved that about her.
“But my asking you which one you were really bothered you, didn’t it?”
Yes, she was perceptive. Sometimes he hated that about her. He just couldn’t hide his emotions from her, even over a text message exchange.
“Poor boy. You didn’t think you were the only man who I had locked up for NO-vember, did you?”
He leaned into the bed and stared at his phone, until he realized that she was waiting for a reply. So he typed in, “I guess I hadn’t thought much about it.”
“Hmmm. Does it bother you to think that there are other boys who are as desperate to please istanbul travestileri me as you are?”
He gulped, but felt the cage tightening around the base of his cock. God. It was arousing him to admit this. But he replied, “Yes.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s a good thing. I like boys to be desperate.”
Well, he thought, she was certainly getting that from him.
“Will it be easier, or harder for you to go the rest of November in your cage?” she asked, “Knowing there are other boys just as desperate as you are?”
He swallowed hard. Definitely harder, he thought. Or at least, he was already feeling definitely more desperate. But instead of telling her that, he had to ask: “How many other boys?”
There was a pause. Then, “Lots of them.”
Another pause. “So many.”
He closed his eyes, concentrated on breathing steadily; but with his eyes closed he couldn’t see his phone, and the ache between his legs was more intense. The phone vibrated and he opened his eyes.
“You’re thinking about all those other boys, aren’t you?” she had texted.
“All the other gifts that all the other boys are giving me, every day,” she continued. “To remind me that they’ve gone yet another day without an orgasm, just for me.
“Maybe you should rent me a storage locker for all of those gifts.”
He groaned. As happened so often, her words exploded into a vivid image in his brain. A storage unit. Unpainted concrete walls. A bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Floor to ceiling wooden shelves, packed with gifts, tokens and trinkets; his menagerie of little sculpted figures pushed into one corner, not even at eye level. To be so easily forgotten. Like all the days he had spent without orgasms this month. And then someone pulled the little string on the lightbulb, and the room went dark, and the plain wooden door swung shut on his sacrifice.
He suddenly realized he needed to sit up with his back flush against the bed, and spread his knees apart, before he squeezed his thighs together so hard that he triggered the unsatisfying orgasm that he was on the verge of having.
The phone vibrated again.
“You’re excited, aren’t you?”
He quivered. She knew him so well…..
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