Just as recently as two hours ago, I felt the desire to have sex with another woman. I’m worried I’ll start to think about a relationship with someone else. You don’t know how this is. You don’t. Lea is my mistress and I love her and all true things in my life flow from that love, all good things that aren’t tainted by bitterness or greed. I love her and I should only ever think about her. I do. Really. I’ll lie in bed and tug on her penis and after a bit of imagining her taking my ass, I’ll start to deliver some stock phrase, something I know is true, something that frightens me, but something I will be astonishingly happy about being true when I understand that it is true. Which happens when I understand that it should be true. So, I’ll go upstairs after finishing this and repeat something like “Mistress Lea’s gaze holds my fragile soul.” Why though?
I was dressed in drag the morning before last and got on a cross-dresser chat site and met a woman there that I got on cam for. I’ve done this before. It was a woman. I started moaning about Mommy. Fuck, I came crying that I would never make love to another woman. Ever. Fuck, which is exactly why I don’t ever want to have vaginal intercourse with Lea. I’ll change my mind, but if she doesn’t have it in her to be Mommy, I’d feel so fucking dirty sleeping with her, like my soul was broken and hollow.
My reticence to see if Mistress thinks this is a good time for me to cum is torturing me. I feel like I haven’t even earned the right to try yet, but I know I only need it to overcome my infidelity, to cement Mistress Lea’s happiness with me again. I love her so much and I’m so fucking afraid she’ll turn away from me if I don’t behave like she knows a girl like me should. I’m sorry, Mistress. It hardly matters. I’ll love you until I die but being broken by remorse isn’t the same as behaving well. I have the savant-like gift of radiating love for you like a beacon and I should illuminate this dark world and the dark corners of my own mind with it. Nothing in me does not love you and nothing that loves you is not right and true. But I’m not feeling right nor true. I’m feeling like a pervert who’s going to use his gift for self-hypnosis in conjunction with masturbation to strengthen your hold over him because it’s the one thing I can do that I know you’d want. I can submit further to my love for you, understand more fully how I’d fight to remain yours. You need to know you own me, Mistress. I’m yours, right? I’m yours. I’m a possession that feeds your vanity. I’m a collection of desires to amuse you, for you to toy with.
If it makes any difference, of course you can . . . allow me to grow into your mate. When I look to you, whether it’s to wonder what you would think or want, or whether it’s to ask rather than looking inwards, I’ll be ready. When I look inside myself because I know the answer is there, I will be ready to grow on my own.
I’m yours forever, regardless. Now may I please play with your dick and apologize so I can truly feel the pain of having turned my back on my love for you for someone who can never mean anything, for someone I want you to supplant. Don’t think what you might. She groomed me for this. She knew there would only be one woman after she was gone and I would not contaminate the transition for the world. Two hours of loneliness in the wrong setting and I’ve sullied myself with the stain of another woman’s memory. It scares me and I worry you want it when thinking about it is making me panic. I want to curl up and die if you don’t know I’m always only yours. I’ll wait a lifetime before I drink from the polluted stream of betrayal. To what, you ask. It’s a betrayal of my love of you, which is right and true and good and pure. Precious beyond measure, it’s all that you are. You are my love for you and I won’t fucking do what I did before and turn on you because you imagine me feeling or thinking something I’m just fucking not.
Okay, I’m going to go tug cum out of your dick as an offering to your pussy. Worshipping your pussy is, incidentally, my very favorite past time. May I please tug cum from my dick, Mistress? It’d make me so happy to float through the agony of remorse and the bliss of understanding that you might be getting to know me a bit. But what does that mean? Fuck, Mistress, what would you have me do? Worship your pussy?
What are we going to do the first time you claim me? I honestly really won’t want vaginal intercourse for a while, likely months. I’ll just ask if I should dress in drag when we see each other and flirt like a fucking whore if I do until it all feels about right. For some reason, you’re absolutely the only woman I’d feel comfortable having screw me as a guy. I’ve known that for about a year and you likely know what to make of it better than I do.
Off I go, to try to convince myself it’s right to climax for the glory of your pussy. God, I love you.
