Regular readers of my blog know that once a year around my birthday I've tripped to Chicago to get fff/m tortured at The Studio in Chicago by Mistress Xena and her merry and sensually sinister fellow dommes. This year that date will fall on May 19, a 3-hour session starting at 11:00am.
You'd also know that I'm in the incredibly lucky position of getting my feet tickled every two weeks at the end of a reflexology appointment by a tall, blonde, gorgeous and surprisingly surprisingly deviously skilled massage therapist. It's been my habit at the end of those appointments to treat myself to - shall we say - fireworks in my domain once she's left the room to cap off these exhilarating experiences.
The old Seinfeld sitcom had an episode where the main characters had a contest. The goal was to see who could go the longest remaining "master of their domain," as they say. If it's not clear... here's the start of that conversation.
George: "My mother caught me today."
Jerry: "Caught you doing what?"
George: "You know... I was alone..."
After my appointment on April 25th, in my greatly relieved euphoric state, I got to thinking what it would be like to be master of my domain for the entire length until my appointment with the dommes. In the past they've been fiendishly successful in coaxing their own fireworks out of me using all manner of tools, techniques, oils, teases, touches and cooing. I admit that I haven't resisted much. But how much would it be magnified if I walked in with my nerves already in overdrive from a month of pent-up lack of release?
It has now been eight days. I am still master of my domain, for the longest stretch since I first discovered fireworks as a teenager. There are 372 hours (give or take) left until those 30 fingers descend on my tightly bound and unclothed body.
In between now and then, I will have one reflexology appointment. I think I can pull through.
Last night, while tutoring a college sophomore for two hours, she walked in and first thing was to kick off her boots, announcing this to me as if she knew how passionate I was about tickling feet, and the quest of denial that I am on. About a dozen times she crossed one leg over the other such that it brushed mine, or her perfectly arched, athletic sole with pink nail polish was inches from my left knee. One time, she folded her legs Indian-style so that I could see every ridge in her toeprint. Coincidentally my nails were a little long, perfect tickling length. I could easily have reached out and put this girl into a frenzy, the kind that would last a memory's lifetime while ruining my job. I had an endorphin rush going the entire two hours. And still, I emerged from the evening as master of my domain.
On to tomorrow. Perhaps I will have more tales of victory to tell.
You'd also know that I'm in the incredibly lucky position of getting my feet tickled every two weeks at the end of a reflexology appointment by a tall, blonde, gorgeous and surprisingly surprisingly deviously skilled massage therapist. It's been my habit at the end of those appointments to treat myself to - shall we say - fireworks in my domain once she's left the room to cap off these exhilarating experiences.
The old Seinfeld sitcom had an episode where the main characters had a contest. The goal was to see who could go the longest remaining "master of their domain," as they say. If it's not clear... here's the start of that conversation.
George: "My mother caught me today."
Jerry: "Caught you doing what?"
George: "You know... I was alone..."
After my appointment on April 25th, in my greatly relieved euphoric state, I got to thinking what it would be like to be master of my domain for the entire length until my appointment with the dommes. In the past they've been fiendishly successful in coaxing their own fireworks out of me using all manner of tools, techniques, oils, teases, touches and cooing. I admit that I haven't resisted much. But how much would it be magnified if I walked in with my nerves already in overdrive from a month of pent-up lack of release?
It has now been eight days. I am still master of my domain, for the longest stretch since I first discovered fireworks as a teenager. There are 372 hours (give or take) left until those 30 fingers descend on my tightly bound and unclothed body.
In between now and then, I will have one reflexology appointment. I think I can pull through.
Last night, while tutoring a college sophomore for two hours, she walked in and first thing was to kick off her boots, announcing this to me as if she knew how passionate I was about tickling feet, and the quest of denial that I am on. About a dozen times she crossed one leg over the other such that it brushed mine, or her perfectly arched, athletic sole with pink nail polish was inches from my left knee. One time, she folded her legs Indian-style so that I could see every ridge in her toeprint. Coincidentally my nails were a little long, perfect tickling length. I could easily have reached out and put this girl into a frenzy, the kind that would last a memory's lifetime while ruining my job. I had an endorphin rush going the entire two hours. And still, I emerged from the evening as master of my domain.
On to tomorrow. Perhaps I will have more tales of victory to tell.
