I have not ejaculated in nearly two weeks. Nor has Hannah felt like prostate milking me. To say that I am eager is a perfect understatement. Hannah knows because I tell her. This morning she took my cock in her hand and I was instantly hard. And filled with anticipation.
Hannah was not, herself, particularily in the mood and while she had told me to wash my hands which is often a prelude to my giving her pleasure, when I got back to bed the moment had passed. Hannah is not unmindful of my needs and, as she expertly played with my cock she said, “Well, you could get your cup.”
I thought about this for a little while. I could get my cup – and no doubt will in the next few days – and under Hannah’s supervision and to my very great humiliation, take care of my needs by masturbating into it. But, here is the critical thing, until the urge becomes unbearable, my chastity, my sexual denial, is my gift to the Lady of the House.
“No darling, unless you tell me to; I’d like to go a little longer. You know how there is so much more to our lives than my sexual needs. I can easily subordinate those needs to all the other things we do. The corner time, clips, the paddle, the cane, slipping into something a little more feminine when you come home: all your little requirements are all the better when I am on edge. So, no. Thank you for offering. But my chastity is my gift to you.”
“How sweet,” Hannah exclaimed dropping my cock. “Go and put the kettle on, turn on the heat and open the curtains.”
I had been teased and very much denied.