Ancilla

Yesod

   Flat on my back. Tied down in the spread-eagle position again. Working on grounding and centering, and focusing energy, again. Grounding my energy involves associating it with a sensation of being secure, which, for some reason, means being secured, and no doubt figuring out the link between being secure and being secured will be a great moment of satori for me; centering involves me trying to concentrate and hold my meditative focus while he finds ways to distract me.

   We do this a lot.

   Today's variation involved infinitely delayed orgasm – mine, of course. It's been a good three hours. He'll do something with his hands or tongue or with some item pulled out from his dresser drawer of doom that almost gets me coming, and then he stops just as I show signs of an impending climax. Worse, I have to help him do this. Now that my face and upper chest are stuck in what would ordinarily be a purely temporary state of crimson flush, I've been given leave to say "edge" whenever I get close to orgasm so that he knows when to pause what he's doing to prevent me from climaxing. If I catch myself starting to orgasm before he notices or I warn him, and I let myself, there will be penalties, and I don't feel like dealing with them today.

   I've lost count of the number of times he's pulled this now. I'm on the edge of screaming, but it's from frustration rather than pleasure, and of course I can't do that, either, because this is energy work, and I am under silence.

   I'm almost tempted to ask myself if this is all worth it and if I really want to be here.

   But that's just the frustration talking.

   I know I am more than a bundle of frustrated nerve endings. I am a soul, a soul that has a body, not the other way around. I am trying to hear my soul around the din of anguished nerves.

  November. The path in the nature preserve near my house is mucky from fallen leaves, and wet with freezing rain. A wind blows against me. I shiver in the chill.