A lazy summer, missing the Master, has left me mostly uninspired. Six months minus the love I’ve known for years. It has been conspicuously quiet around here. Just me, T, and the kitty.

The last few months have had me scratching at an itch. Master has forbidden me, you see, to engage in any non-vanilla activities. My kink button is screaming to be pressed, down, hard.

Last night I opened my drawer, the one brimming with leather and bristling with buckles. I ran my hands over His tools, untangling the doe-skin flogger with my fingers. My fingers itched to shackle myself, my inner mind craving the presentation of it, limbs bound, holes lubed, the selection of toys lined up at the ready. I sighed deeply, for these things are not for T. Only my Master and I. The drawer remains closed.

So I throw myself at T, my hunger burning in my throat, and I engulf him, swallow him whole. By the end he can’t stand, can’t walk straight, sweat pouring off his face and splattering my breasts. I am sated, but not satisfied. My hunger has retreated to the pit of my belly, where it remains, itching, until I can stand it no longer. Sex is incomplete; I must have his hands around my throat, must feel my resistance slipping from me like an exhaled breath. I crave the headspace. The rush.

Three weeks until I see my Master again. I have been instructed to bring my assortment of toys, enough toys to make airport security do a double take. Toys, and lube, lotions and cuffs. I feel like it’s Christmas, and I can’t wait to unwrap my present. I have been spending hours dreaming up scenarios, his hand twisted in my leash, yanking my collar at his will.

Master hasn’t been helping my desires. He and I have been exchanging naughty text messages, discussing my upcoming training. A new province, a new home, a new life, just me, and my Master. His kitten, his pet, his wife-to-be.