I am wired.
Can’t sleep. Vibrating with frustration. Earlier, I used the Pure to pummel my prostate senseless. Now, I’m tired. So tired. But humming. And clutching. At the steel and it’s living contents. Feeling the gland inside my body swollen and tender and the device heavy and so perfectly locked.
Belle sent me a text from New York. I didn’t see it until 24 mintes later. In my writhing and tossing and clutching, I missed the thrum of the phone.
Just in an elevator with Jay-Z
Once I saw it, I texted back, “Are you still awake?” I wanted to talk to her so bad. To admit my condition. To admit I abused myself without her permission. To ask – no, to beg that she let me get myself off. To put me out of my misery. I’ll accept any condition. Any punishment. I have a key, secured by a plastic tag. Say the word, Belle. Please. Let me out. Let me come. Fucking hell, I want to come.
But she didn’t answer.
I put the cruel little clamps on my nipples and pulled and twisted and felt the white hot pain and heard my little moans in the quiet dark bedroom and realized I could not hurt myself enough. The pain was not pain. No pain at all. It was all going right to the cock. As the clips chewed and bit the tube filled and was made tight by the meat. The needy meat. I pulled the clips harder. Harder. The nipples stretched and screamed and I twisted and pulled and pulled. Finally, even their mean little teeth couldn’t hold on and first the left, then the right slipped off with a pair of brassy, tight-springed snaps. Now the nipples sting. But I need more. I need so much more.
I need my Belle.