Mistress Sayako:

In our session you told me to brand your image onto my mind, to take a mental photograph, and that I must train myself to see only you when I close my eyes, when I fantasize, when I fuck. I’ve begun the program.

Late at night I gaze at the pictures of you that I downloaded. Technology’s so wonderful...I’ve saved them to a folder in Iphotos, so that I can create a slide show of your images. Each second a new picture of you appears on my screen. My cock stands at attention, and my entire consciousness is focused on you. My trousers drop to my knees. I can’t even wait to fully undress. With each photo I find a new detail that I crave. Some cause me to shudder in lust, others to wince at the pain of your beauty. My cock jerks and bobs in the air, as though it’s trying to crawl away from my body and offer itself to you.

I stroke myself as the images continue to scroll, and finally, the hot milky fluid bursts from my cock.

Finally exhausted enough to sleep I climb into bed, but having spent so long adoring your photographs, the images of you continue to race through my mind, and I’m tempted again to turn on my computer and pass a sleepless night fantasizing about your form.

The evidence mounts that I’m fulfilling your program:

Some days after our session I met a girl, much younger than myself, and easily seduced her. Late at night, back at her place, I slowly stripped her and lay her onto her bed. She lay back on her pillows, tensing in pleasure as my tongue did its work. She was so wet, clearly aroused. How would she have felt to know I was imaging myself kneeling before Mistress Sayako?

As the night wore on she climbed onto my cock. And as she rode me, I realized I wasn’t going to come from the feelings her body gave me. So my mind wandered and I was no longer in that room, on my back on her bed, being fucked by this girl. I was on my back in the dungeon being sprayed by Mistress Sayako’s hot piss. Now how would THAT have made her feel?

I came.

I’m astounded at how quickly my consciousness has turned in your direction. And I worry: It was so easy for you that you’ll grow bored, and demand a more complete allegiance.

I imagine myself held in pain and desire, not allowed release unless in your actual presence.

I’m permitted to look at your photos--in fact, commanded to do so on a daily basis. But I’m not allowed to gaze at them without wearing a chastity device. After placing it on my cock, I open your photos. I’m so hungry for the experience, and my cock fills with blood. But as it grows, the device constricts my tender flesh. I can no longer experience the pleasure of gazing at you without pain. The more pleasure, the more pain.

And because I’m kept in a state of frustration, the more my desire grows, the more my satisfaction is inhibited.

When I finally am permitted to arrive at your doorstep, I’m trembling with the lust built up from weeks of frustrated desire. My cock is rock hard as I ring your bell. Just the thought of being in your presence has that effect.

Now, at your knees, I’m commanded to not touch myself, not even for a second. We both know what would happen. The slightest touch would cause me spill everything I’ve saved for you. So we take our time.

The contrast between our moods is remarkable. You are cool, aloof, mildly amused at my predicament. I’m squirming in lust and anticipation, red in the face, shivering. My need for you is total, but you’re just bored by the idea of my being a plaything that can be used in any way. It’s just too easy for you.

Despite the fact that I’ve followed your instructions, that I’ve cultivated an obsessive desire for you, that I’ve not touched myself for weeks, you feel rather fickle, and you’re not sure you want me to come. I have to plead my case.

You sit comfortably, gazing languidly down at me. I implore you for a moment of release, vowing that I’ll think of nothing but serving you as I spill my come. And that tonight at home I’ll begin the program all over again.

As I beg and cajole I look downward at your boots. I bend my face as close to them as I dare, relishing the strong smell of leather. You extend one heel and I take it in my mouth and begin to suck. You snap at me because you didn’t give me permission to cease begging. I’m forced to speak in garbled tones because your heel is deep in my mouth.

Finally, whether from mercy or just boredom, you decide to grant my wish.

But I’m only allowed to gaze at your boots. I’m not allowed to look at your body or your face.

That can wait for another session. Like I said, we like to take our time.

It only takes seconds for it to happen, and I collapse to the floor, sweating and panting and grateful for that moment of fulfillment, grateful for a moment of respite from the torture that will begin again as soon as I leave your presence.

As I finish typing this, I’m staggered by the immense gravity of that last image. What other woman has the power to make me grateful to come as I scrutinize her boot heels? It’s overwhelming.

Am I a junkie? Yeah, I’m a junkie.

Billy

End