He sits now at my feet, not only minutes ago moaning and squirming in my bed as he exploded into his hand and down his stomach in spurts.
Today was his masturbation day.
Each week he is required to masturbate on the same three days, sometimes supervised sometimes not. Today I watched. I scratched his thighs, bit his nipples, flicked his scrotum and breathed heavily in his ears, inching him closer to ecstasy. I enjoy watching the sheer panic mixed with pleasure that comes over him in waves. I tossed him a towel and calmly walked out and gave him his next orders.
“Bring me a drink in one cup and ice in another,” I say.
He agrees and then asks a question.
“May I please have an ice cream Mistress?” the boy asks softly.
“I’ll think about it,” I say leaving him alone to clean up his own mess.