Vignette

You kneel there, trembling slightly. You've been edging for hours. Not going over. Never cumming. He wouldn't like that.

You wait for the words to appear on your screen. Finally you see, "Are you there? You'd better not make me wait for you." You snatch up the device, "I'm here, Sir. I'm waiting like you ordered. Husband's gone to bed. I've been edging like you wanted."

"Of course you have," you read. "You'd never disobey me; you practically wet yourself for the chance to follow my orders. You're too well-trained, little pet, to be anything but predictable. Especially when you're this needy. Are you my needy slut, pet?"

"Yes, Sir," you hear yourself say. You bite back the sassy answers that run through your mind, run like rabbits escaping a forest fire. Now you never dare say anything except, "Yes, Sir. I'm just your needy slut, Sir."

He doesn't acknowledge your comment. He has no need to. He simply asks, "You have your gear?"

"Yes, Sir. I have it here, Sir."

"Good. You're so quick to do as you're told. It makes you so wet to obey me, I can practically hear you dripping. You're pathetic. Put in your gag. Then put on your collar. Tight. Last, put on your cuffs."

You scramble to obey, careful to do things in the order he requested. It's not like he can see, you haven't turned on your camera. But to do otherwise is simply unthinkable. You can no longer do anything except obey his commands to the letter. You awkwardly text, "Ready, Sir,"

"Good. Edge for me." He no longer has to bother cautioning you not to cum. You've conditioned yourself to be incapable of having an orgasm without permission. His, or your husband's. And since your online master has come into your life, you never get permission from your husband. Not any more. Only your master can give you release or relief.

You feel your mind slipping unbidden into subspace. Fuzzy. Hard to think. No matter. You don't need to think. You only need to obey. His pleasure is everything. You mean nothing. Your pain gives you your meaning. Your satisfaction.

"Let me see," he orders. Clumsy in the cuffs, you send off pictures of the ball gag, the collar, the leather cuffs clipped together on your wrists. "Good. Good little pet. Keep edging. Not with your hands. Use a dildo, like the slut you are. Oh, I love how needy this is making you. Look at you. You're a mess. But so willing to suffer for me. Admit it. You love being my plaything, don't you?"

You pause in your edging to type, "Yes. Sir. I love being your plaything. I admit it. I love being your toy so much."

After a moment you read, "That's my good girl. So obedient and loyal. My favorite slutty little pet. I suppose you want a treat, pet?"

You sense a trap but don't know how to avoid it, so you stall. "Sir?"

"You're not grotesquely stupid, don't play for time, it's beneath both of us. I asked you a question."

You type back, "No, Sir, I don't want a treat."

"Is that the truth? Or is that just what you think I want to hear? Don't play games with me, pet. I want the truth."

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir. Yes, I would like a treat. I haven't cum for 16 days, Sir. I want to cum, Sir. Please, Sir. I'm having trouble at my work. I'm wet all the time. I'm not thinking right, all I can think of is how needy I am. Yes, Sir, please, may I have a treat?"

After a moment, you see your answer: "No. You seem pretty coherent to me. So no, you don't need a treat. You don't get permission to cum tonight. Not from me." You can hear the sneer in his words. You both know permission won't be coming from any other source.

"Just keep edging. I want 50 edges before you go to bed. And you are not to be late for bedtime. So get going."

You have fewer than 90 minutes to crank out 50 edges. And if you miss bedtime you'll be punished with more days of no-touch tacked on to your sentence. "Text me when you're finished. And send me a picture of your pussy, and another of your sopping ruined undies. I'll text you back when you report for good night."

And he's gone. It's just you, rubbing yourself for him. Not daring to touch your clit. Rubbing desperately to get 50 edges in hope that maybe this time you'll please him. Maybe this time you'll get a little reward, a pat on the head, a "good girl" from your master. You won't. You know you won't. But you obey, rubbing away in your aching puddle of need. Obedience and submission are all you have. It has to be enough.

Maybe tomorrow...