Ch. 3 Chat Box Dominant: Diary of a Broken Me


 

Diary of a Broken Me

Vacation for a slave? Laughable.

 

Dear Permission Department (Or Lucas),

 

You’ve been away on holiday for a week now, it doesn’t change things for us, since you exist only inside my chat box, Sir. I know, you hate when I point those things out, but Sir…you realize it’s true, right?

You’re on vacation with your wife and three kids, and I’m praying you send me an email. What the fuck’s wrong with me? Your being away hasn’t helped my self-doubt, Sir. Daily I wonder if I’m good enough to even serve you? How fucked-up is that? You’ve another life without me, and I want to make sure I’m enough for you?

It’s not as screwed-up as it sounds, Sir. I’m just venting my frustrations, and since you aren’t available to do so in person, or through a chat box this week, the poor journal gets my venom. There’s an old song called You Picked a Fine Time to Leave me Lucille … That’s my theme song this week, except you’re not a “Lucille” of course.

I miss you Sir.

I wish I could hear your voice again. Oh, you do give me the best surprises like that one. Allowing me to hear your voice. I suppose, maybe that’s why I still hold on. I also supposed it could have to do with you, Sir. Did I mention I miss you? I wait with bated breath for the next email, yet when I read them, I miss you ever more, Sir.

Last nights email was the most unexpected, and yet deliciously deviant. It’s the first time since your departure that I was granted permission to cum, but you left explicit instructions on how it’s to be carried out. Trusting me enough to follow your every command. I was instructed to write you a dirty story to read when you return. That’s tonight Sir. Can’t wait to hear your voice, you’re calling me at 8pm sharp. I’ve instructions regarding that also, Sir. You’ve left nothing to chance, and that made we wet just reading it, Sir.

I had the room all set-up just as you asked. Candles spaced so the lighting’s just enough to create an ambiance of orgasmic splendor in my bedroom. I had read your instructions a least fifty times if not more, and I knelt in the center of my room as requested. My pale, milky skin was bared just for you, Sir. My amble breasts just as you said, ached for your touch, my touch— any touch.

No touch came, for my fingers were laced behind my head, and my elbows sat high at shoulder level. Each direction was to help me feel you here with me, even when in reality you can’t, and may never be, Sir. Thank you for making it so perfect.

Each moment that passed, my body began to sing a tune of devotion to you. My pussy hummed with need for touch, more than even my rock hard nipples. Ten minutes on my knees thinking of you, as if I could’ve thought of anything else, Sir.

Really?

I thought of little else, if anything, and once I laid my naked, svelte frame in my lush king sized bed, nothing else crossed my mind. My thighs painfully gaped wide, my knees bent, and my feet planted firmly near my plump ass cheeks. My eyes closed, and my fingers slipped through the wet folds of my cunt lips, and I feverishly began to stroke my pussy into a frenzy.

All carefully constructed by you, and I was so close…so very fucking close, and— I stopped. My hands upon my head, my hips still thrashing into the empty air, and I panted through the tremors that threatened to erupt. Counting aloud easing the pending orgasm that raged out of control back into its cage.

Only to do it over again.

Once, twice, nine times I worked myself almost to that last stroke, and stopped because you said so, because you commanded it, Sir. I lost track of time, but I knew thirty minutes had passed, and that meant the next time— the very next time I was allowed to cum, and I was to scream your name.

My greedy pussy gobbled my fingers up like it was the last supper, and in and out they fucked me harder, faster, and more. I not only screamed your name, but I think I screamed my own, Sir.

That orgasm was nothing like I had ever felt before. My body was yours to command, even without being here, without being in my chat box, or my IM’s …you forced me to do your will. Thank you for that, Sir. It wasn’t an instruction in the email, but once I regained my senses, I crawled from my bed, and knelt for another five minutes. This time I bent at the waist, and pressed my cheek into the carpeted floor. I imagined your feet were near me, Sir. I imagined I was thanking you for allowing me to be yours, allowing me to serve you.

I think you should know, last night was the most connected to you I’ve ever felt. It was as if you were here with me, Sir, right there in my ear urging me on, coaching me into the next step, coaxing my pussy to whisper to you, to finally scream at the top of its lungs to you. Thank you for allowing me such pleasure, Sir.

I have instructions for tonight as well, so I must stop writing now, but you understand, right? I’m going to have my pussy waxed for you today, number six on the list of 7 things to prepare for your welcome home.

I don’t just get to hear your voice tonight, Sir.

We’re going to Skype.

 

Waiting with An-ti-ci-paaaaaaaaaaaaa-tion,

The not so Broken me (Or Macy)

 

4 responses to “Ch. 3 Chat Box Dominant: Diary of a Broken Me

  1. OH this is a much more hopeful Maci. She’s impressive. I don’t know how people stay true to online relationships. I don’t get that much out of them. Plus, been burned too many times.

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