Last night, I wrote down the dates for the next year’s worth of Saturdays on a sheet of paper, cut them all out, and tossed them into a hat. Of the 50-some little bingo ball-like clippings, Belle drew eight: the eight times I’ll be allowed to pleasurably achieve orgasm over the next 12 months. She didn’t tell me much about the dates (and, in fact, said, “It’s not for you to know or worry about. Just wait.”), but she did mention that there are three “dry spells”. Three rather long dry spells. And she intimated that I’m at the start of a dry spell right now.
The longest I’ve gone without coming so far is about three weeks. Now, I’m facing the prospect of twice that and probably much longer (52 weeks divided by eight would mean I’m coming every month and a half or so, on average). What constitutes a “dry spell”, anyway? I admit to being excited by the prospect, but I’m also more than a little nervous. I have no idea what I’m in for now. It’s all new territory.
As we discussed it – my orgasmic fate – the cock became very hard. Still free, I hoped against hope that she’d want to use it, (it’s been days and days since she last let me make her come), but she wasn’t all that interested. I never asked so she never said so directly, but she knew I was ready, knew how horny I was, but chose not to act on the opportunity. There wasn’t even a trace of impatience or angst within me regarding that. As I said in my last post, I totally accept that it’s her hand on the sexual rudder. My availability or eagerness is not that big a deal since I’m always eager and available. So we went to sleep, me spooned into her, hard cock again between us.
Before that, though, as we lay in the dark she said she’s worried about my prostate health as we embark on this new and greatly reduced orgasm regimen. I told her the science seemed to be contradictory on the matter, but we could always ruin one occasionally to blow out the pipes. She said she’d probably allow me to milk myself instead. In any event, it was also decided that, assuming she likes this method of determining when I get to come, we’ll select new dates each year around Labor Day.
In the mean time, I’ll be locked up again today. My short little stint as a free(ish) man will end due to Belle’s impending business trip. After she reminded me last night that I’d be reimprisioned before she left, I asked, “What, don’t you trust me?”
“No,” she replied flatly, “I can just see it now on your blog. ‘I was just blah blah blah and then…’ So no, I don’t trust you. You’re getting locked up.”
Whatever you say, Belle Fille.