Confessions from the (table) edge…
Dear James and his horny collection of wet, desperate, deprived sluts.
It’s been five days since my last orgasm. My Sir likes to make me come once a week. And then he likes to tease me.
I’m writing this from bed, with a glass dildo in me, which I just used to edge. Now all I’m allowed to do is hump a little (my hips aren’t allowed to be not touching the bed) and squeeze myself around it. For an hour. Before I’m allowed to move. From the wet patch I made all over my sheets. So this is a good time for my confession:
Yesterday at work, I was working on a super important document, editing away, and all of a sudden, out of the blue, I was struck with the most graphic, visceral memory.
In the middle of the room, it was like I could feel his hands on me, touching me, holding my head back by my hair while he pushed his fingers inside me and whispered what he was going to do to me in my ear. In that tone that makes me melt.
It was like I went from 1-10 horniness in second. I was soaked, sitting at my desk. In front of people I manage.
I texted him, and asked if I could touch, and he said that I could only do it if I did it somewhere public.
There’s a cafe in my building. I still can’t believe I did this, but I went, bought a coffee, and desperately hoping no one could see, rubbed myself to the edge while I drank it.
I showed Sir your confession post, and his suggestion was that I can cum any time I want for the next two weeks, but only if I do it at that table. But he says he reckons you can make it worse.
Meg, Meg, Meg – going to edge yourself to relieve the mental pressure, that, I can understand. But being so desperate that you’d agree to do it at a table in a cafe, well that’s just another order of desperation.
I love it.
Honestly I love your dom’s suggestion. But I think making it optional is a bit too easy. So here’s me making it worse.
You have to cum three times in the next two weeks in public. The first, in the same cafe ideally, is to be ruined.
The second, is to be done at a similar type of location, somewhere you can sit and rub under a table, but you need to be on the phone or texting him while you do it, and he decides at the last minute if it’s another ruin, or you can cum.
The last, if possible, will be with him, in person. Failing that, live with him on the phone, watching you.
See, that’s why he sent you my way. Isn’t that more fun!
Don’t forget to clear up the mess… or that’s a whole other punishment.
Let us know how you get on, Meg!