Two years ago, I decided to dress up for him for New Year’s entirely in red. Red bra, panties, stockings, garter, and see-through apron. The only thing was that I didn’t manage to find any red panties before I left to visit him for the holidays.

Red Boyshorts

We fixed that, together, stopping at a department store and grabbing whatever was in the budget bin. The pair of red lace boyshort panties went best with the rest of my outfit, I thought, and so I got them.

I discovered that New Year’s that some boyshorts have a strange “fringe benefit”. They cut so tight through the crotch that it’s like I’m in bondage, particularly through the ass. (Maybe thongs do this–I’m still naive enough not to know. Still, the phrase “butt floss” perfectly describes what those boyshorts did to me.)

I told him this sometime around October. It took me that long to 1) realize he’d want to know that they felt this way on me; 2) want to let him take advantage of the knowledge; 3) get over the embarrassment of having to describe it all out loud. My reward was a trio of boyshorts for Christmas (among many other presents).

I wore a white pair he’d given me yesterday, and was acutely aware of it, and of him. These are the kind of things that maintain my connection to him, and remind me of past and future submission.

They are not, however, assigned tasks. I have never succeeded at submitting at distance, but I circle around the idea, like a curious animal . . . and perhaps someday I will pounce . . . or it will.

* * *

I asked him for a specific kind of task last night; before giving it to me, he reminded me of my notoriously poor history at fulfilling tasks. I love the idea; I hate the reality. I complain that the tasks are too detailed, too burdensome, too complex . . . (Do Masters have some kind of OCD that makes them think of fiendishly, almost uncomplete-able fantasy-style assignments? Mine gives me quite modest ones, but I am far less organized than he, and they chafe.)

Cucumbers . . .

Most of all, I think, I feel bereft at his apparent lack of interest in “how it was for me”. Here I am, miles away, having a full, complete, intensely physical and sexual experience of his design. I want to tell him about it. For him, the act seems to be complete with the design–whatever benefit (or irritation) I get from it is mostly mine, and doesn’t need reporting in minute detail. At least, that’s my perception. When put that way, it makes sense to me. If I were to give him a task, I’d want him to just do it, and perhaps be appreciative, maybe, at most, tell me about any insights when we were together.

But for me at least it doesn’t work that way. When I am in a couple, a solo sex life is not exciting. Online submission doesn’t thrill. We want each other badly right now–and we want the real, full, three-dimensional thing. It has been too long. Tasks seem like they might fill the gap, but they never do. Only him, and his real-life domination, sates my need.