"I am here, Sir," she whispered huskily as she approached him. She sat up on her knees and wrapped her hands around his muscular thigh. She pressed her cheek against him, nuzzling like an adoring cat and almost felt compelled to purr.
In her dreamstate, Miriam slowly lifted her eyes until they focused on Sir's belt buckle. Her arms were still wrapped around his right thigh and even through his trousers she could feel the heat of his body. As slow as a snail's movement, she moved one hand upward; eyes still fixed on his belt buckle. She wanted to unbuckle it, wanted to pull his pants down and off, wanted to see his cock more than she'd ever wanted to see any man's.
She glanced quickly up to his eyes and felt a strange mix of icy chill and lava-hot intensity course through her as she realized he was watching her every movement. Slowly, slowly, her fingertips went higher until they slid -- like liquid silk -- over the head and shaft. She moaned a little at the touch. The head felt like it was the size of a ripe slick plum; the shaft rigid and thick. It seemed to go on forever and Miriam couldn't help herself as her lips parted slightly and she licked them. Her fingers curled when they reached his belt buckle and she tugged at it, wanting him naked and now.
His strong hand dropped to hers and he pulled her fingers away. She'd never heard his voice, but she imagined it was deep and resonant. Miriam winced slightly when she heard it rumbling down at her.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
She mewled, shrinking inwardly. A shiver moved through her and wracked her hips, leaving a hot pulse between her legs. Her mind was almost screaming in a whisper: "But I want it!"
And she came awake with the words still echoing in her conscious mind. As her eyes came open, she saw that she'd hiked her dress up over her thighs and her left hand was pressed hard against her panties. Her fingers felt sticky and cramped. "I want it," she repeated aloud. "Oh, Sir!"
In the brief time -- and in his every email -- he'd told her that she belonged to him; that she was never to masturbate unless he gave her permission or commanded her to do so. Now, when she remembered that, she squirmed on the couch and felt a powerful, painful ache. But she obeyed. Struggling and weak-kneed, she got up from the couch and went to take a shower before sleeping. The warm water flushed across her nakedness -- which she wanted so much to surrender to him, to his eyes, to his hands. Tumbling into her bed, she fell asleep, deeply, dreamlessly.
The weekend dragged on and on. With her laptop in for repairs and Sir's refusal to text, Miriam felt lost at sea. Even a few words -- anything -- would have assuaged her agony; her empty feeling. She tried everything to push away that hollowness at her core. Nothing worked for long and she'd find herself -- as if suddenly conscious from a dream -- staring vacantly at...odd things: the chain leash of someone walking their dog, the tight denims of some store window mannequin, the knurled fists of joggers, rainwater gushing along the concrete curb. They just reminded her of the leash she wanted in his hand, the dreamed-of bulge in his pants, his fist holding her hair tightly, her own gush of wetness.
Drag, and drag, and drag, the weekend seemed black and white, flushing her from light to darkness. She wasn't sure which was which anymore. Was the time without contact with Sir the darkness or was it the light? She'd catch herself plunging ahead somehow -- eating, sleeping, sitting in front of the television and feeling...uncomfortable, restless, blank.
Monday morning seemed brighter, the glare of sunlight -- after a weekend of drizzle and rain -- made her eyes squint, yet her body felt like it was being shocked with electrical blips. Monday! There'd be an email from Sir today! She knew it. She felt it deep inside her and anxiously waited in her office cubicle for the email from Sir to appear. Late in the morning, it finally arrived and she shivered, her finger pausing over the mouse to open it. For a moment she closed her eyes -- the clarity of Friday night's dream rushing through her mind. Her lips silently opened and closed over the words "Oh, Sir!"
She opened the email with a sharp intake of breath and read.
"I know what you dream," he'd written. "I can feel you when you breathe."
Miriam held her breath and gasped again when she felt herself exhale. She felt it was true. He could sense her despite the distance. He knew when she grew wet. He knew when the ache for him almost overwhelmed her. For brief moments sometimes she wondered at this...at his power to feel her, to know her thoughts, while she -- in turn -- did not know him, could not reach out invisible bonds to touch him, be inside him. But then she would understand his ways: he owned her; she did not own him. Never would, in that same sense. It was the way their relationship existed. And she felt, if she questioned it, if she doubted, if she probed the logic and sensibility of it, it would be disrespectful of him...and she would lose it all.
She closed his email and her eyes at the same time. Sighing softly so no one would hear, she felt the firm, secure embrace of his collar around her neck. A shiver went down her spine and -- as she squeezed her thighs together tightly -- felt the tremble circle her clitoris and pull at it and Miriam almost groaned out loud.
