Masturbation.  I like it, I really do. After years of not knowing it was a thing, I learned to enjoy it.

However, when you are alone and apart time-sometime sub, masturbation becomes the only way for pleasure. So you do it often. You fantasize and pretend you are with Daddy. You change it up, you get toys, you watch porn. Guaranteed orgasm. You know where to rub and pull. You know when you’re feeling like an ice cube may do the trick or lay in the sun risking being seen by neighbors.

Then one day you realize it has become as routine as brushing your teeth. You use the same toy repeatedly because it does the trick the fastest and requires the least solitary effort. You masturbate less and less because you know you can do it whenever you want. It is similar to having horses in your backyard. You know they are there so there is no urgency to ride them.

Yes, you have your orgasm. Physically you are satisfied with a tremble and quiver as your body responds. Then you clean the toys, put them in their place if honor until next time. Turn down the bed and climb in.

You snuggle down in the blankets and sheets and reach across the bed to find nothing but empty space. You are slapped with the obvious. You are still alone. Just like last night and the night before that, and the night before that, and so on and so on.

Masturbating has become something that makes you sad. It reminds you of your solitude and isolation. It forces you to remember the loneliness you spent the entire day denying. It weaves the need for his touch, his voice, his smell, his breath into a weighted blanket that smoothers you, leaving you gasping for air and screaming his name in shallow whispers.

You cry yourself to sleep hoping that when you wake there will be a text, a request to see you, a sign you have been missed. When you wake your first move is to check the phone. No sign you have been missed, no text, nothing.

Masturbation is no substitute for Daddy. It just becomes this sad thing you do to pass the days until he makes time for you again.

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