Member Master D.D. Tom has ordered this confession, in case others would like to learn a thing or two to exploit.
D.D. Tom likes to play with my tolerance levels. He likes to provide detailed descriptions of how I shall spend my days — and nights. He’ll control and limit my sleep; decide what, when, and if I’ll eat; make to-do lists of chores and corporal punishments — and masturbation sessions.
But D.D. Tom refuses to allow me to orgasm.
He likes me frustrated, tired, and more than a bit angry. He doesn’t mind my anger any more than he minds my exhaustion — in fact, he loves both. Does his best to bring it out in me.
He wants me to hate serving him, hate my helpless position doing what he says because I am bound to Blackie’s terms of service.
He combines the control of basic necessities with forms of mind control — trying to make me adopt ideas and ideals intolerable to me. It’s difficult to explain… Here are some examples:
- Masturbation sessions to Rush Limbaugh and Fox news, so that I learn to associate them with pleasure (or connect my helplessness to conservative power?)
- Masturbation sessions interrupted by “domestic” tasks to perform, to accept that my pleasure is not only secondary to his (or any man’s) but entirely meaningless
- Repetitive writing exercises in which I must copy “A woman’s place is wherever a man says it is,” or “I am a woman; I can’t do the things a man can,” or “I am a sex object and servant only, not an equal – anywhere,” or “Dirty girls with dirty thoughts have not been busy enough; idle hands mean her man isn’t satisfied,” 100 times — by hand. Like Bart Simpson at the chalkboard, only neatly on paper.
He manages me mainly through NF messages, emails, and Twitter posts — the timestamps of my confessions (my descriptive messages, photos of hand-washing my panties and the bruises on the insides of my thighs, scans of my handwriting copying over & over & over again what he wishes me to believe) are proof of my compliance — so that even while he sleeps, he does so satisfied that I am doing as he wishes.
(He also likes to message Blackie and Marc detailed descriptions of his opinions, and this, along with my commanded confessions, is how he finds out how to push my buttons.)
All of what he orchestrates via messages builds to a rather short phone call, during which he quickly orders performances to exploit the aches, pains, and frustrations he’s created during the day.
He knows to use physical pain to tamper with my temper, using violence to force past my anger and resentment, shoving me into a sexual ache. Oh how I ache for that orgasmic release from him — even as I hate myself for doing what he says.
Satisfied he’s got me hungry past reason, he then supervises my masturbation.
He listens to the noises I make, manipulates me by his will, if not his actual hand, and makes me beg and cry for what I desire. I beg quickly and far too easily for an orgasm. I hate it. Am humiliated by it. And he knows it. When I’m too close, he’ll order me still and silent while he speaks…
He’ll speak softly, but with an icy steel command that forces me to listen while he calls me names; tells me how it pleases him to make me, a slutty bitch who doesn’t know her real place in life, do what he says; tells me that he enjoys knowing he can make me hate him, yet reduce me to tears and begging for a release I know I won’t get…
I listen in humiliated anger and shame while he masturbates to his own blessed event.
He makes sure I know he comes. His sighs of pleasure echoed by my whimpers of desire, tiny sobs I try to hold back out of pride, and despair.
Then, in a voice that sounds like a condescending pat on the head, he tells me to go to bed “like a good girl, now — no touching, no sin, just sleep.” That’s if I’m lucky. Usually he gives me some other service to perform, to make sure my hands aren’t idle and so have no time to stray…
In any case, just before he hangs up, he laughs — at me, enjoying the knowledge that he leaves me to my aching misery.
