Please, Sir, may I cum for you?

I’m begging you. With words, just words at first. Please, Sir, may I please cum for you? Please, Sir. I beg of you.

On my aching knees. Feeling the unyielding, cold floor and wishing you could see me beg. Bending forward in supplication, hands in front of me, tits pressed to the floor too. I wish I could crawl to beg at your feet, to look up at you, to see your eyes and know, guess, try to understand what your eyes tell me. I want to show you how desperate you’ve gotten me, I want you to see the way my body squirms every time you speak. I need you to see the bruises on my body and the words you asked me to write on my skin, so you can see the impact of the tasks. Every single one done to earn permission to cum. And still NONE of it matters if me cumming doesn’t please you. If I don’t get your permission.

I beg of you, Sir. Please. Please, may I cum for you?

I’m sinking deeper with every plea I write down, every word I whisper as I write this.

Please, Sir, please, please. Please tell me to cum for your pleasure. Please take pleasure in seeing me shatter for you.

There’s this wild desire, the one you stoked with every order you’ve given me for weeks, with the touches you granted and the ones you withheld. With countless edges. With the way you fucked my mouth, my throat, my pussy, my ass, and my mind. No matter how wild and desperate and shivering with the need to cum I get though, I can’t. Can’t cum without you commanding me to. I need your permission. I need to know it pleases you.

Please. Please, may I cum for you, Sir?
Please.

There’s only one image left in my mind, seared into it through all the times you reminded me how I'm going to shatter for you. How often you were going to have me cum for you. It’s all I can think about now.

Please, Sir, please make me cum for you.

No more whispers. Whimpering. Speaking the words out loud, begging louder every time I write down another plea.

These are the only words I have left.

Please, Sir.