I believe i’ve mentioned before how much i enjoy masturbation. Over the course of years i have turned it into an art form. This coming from the girl who was a bible-thumping baptist. So masturbation was obviously taboo. But that did not deter me.

In fact, i began maturbating when i was oh, around age five? Probably earlier, because i remember playing doctor under our picnic table in my back yard with Bobby Bradley, the kid my mom was babysitting at the time. I had a crush on Bobby. He was cute. So we were playing “i’ll show you yours if you show me mine”.

I thought his was icky. He thought mine was neat.

We had neighbors with this yappy little mutt named Muffy. I remember i could never ride my bike without Muffy darting after me trying to bite my ankles. I used to kick out trying to get her to buzz off and leave me alone, nearly toppling myself and my bike over.

So one day, i was outside in my backyard kingdom feeling very powerful, stood up on my picnic table and decided the best course of action would be to moon the neighbors for their obvious lack of training of their beloved scruffy mutt. I believe i was around six years old at the time.

I pulled down my shorts and panties, bent over and wiggled my bare bum brattily for Mrs. Brown, giggling to myself in my upside-down state, when i heard my name loud as day followed by, “Get in this house NOW!” I froze and my heart stopped i think, realizing this as the voice of my strict, no-nonsense mother. If i swore at that time i would’ve said “shit!”, but instead, i quickly yanked up my bottoms and ran into the house, profusely making up excuses. What else could i do?

My mother was not listening, but instead had me by the arm and was dragging me to my room. Well, first she dragged me to her room to grab a belt that was hanging up in my parents’ closet, then she dragged me to my room and slammed the door.

“So. You want to have your pants down so bad?” she says as she yanks my pants down for the second time that day, “Good! You can have them down you …..”(mumbled words of which i have absolutely no recollection to this day)

And with that she began to light into my bare ass in earnest with that folded-over belt, whaling away at my poor bare butt. I began howling and yowling of course, in sheer agony, this being my first taste of the belt. My brother was outside the door calling his friends over to come “listen to this!!” … My wailing only became louder.

“And if you CRACK! ever do anything WHACK! like this again WHACK! i will beat you CRACCCK!! until you can’t KERACKK!! sit down WHACKK!! any more CRACCKK!! do you WHACKK!! hear me CRACKK!! or are KRACKK!! you ig- WHACKK!! noring meeeee?!!” CRACK! WHACK! CRACK! WHACKKKK!!

The woman had obviously lost it and was just beating the hell out of my bare backside. I was beside myself in pain and humiliation and fear and tears. It was a rapid-fire machine-gun style, yet short-lived beating that stopped as suddenly as it started.

“Now you can just stay in your room the rest of the day and think about what you’ve done! Wait until your father gets home!”

Parents of the sixties loved to say that.

So i stayed in my room the rest of that day, comforting myself. And what better way (the only way i knew how really) than talking to my stuffed animals, spanking one of them as well, and playing vigorously with my “tickie”. Yes, i had given it a name. My tickie was so-named because to touch it and play with it tickled at first. I fondled my tickie in hopes of working out much of my angst. I came quickly and did it again. And again. And again.

As i grew older, i had gotten into the habit of comforting myself to sleep every night. I was fond of my tickie and used to fantasize punishment scenes i knew of from movies i’d seen, or books i’d read. Many times the fantasies were of my own making: a rowful of bare bottoms sticking out through curtained windows, a paddle-Master going down the row one by one smacking away for some contest to judge who got the best results. *smiles*.

I would bring myself to the edge using my finger or the handle of a hairbrush or some other smooth firm object, and let myself hang there for a moment, then cut myself off; Just stop cold and wait awhile. Then i would rekindle the fire and bring myself back to the edge again. After doing that a few times i would finally let ‘er rip and have the most powerful body-seizing orgasms. This before i even knew that what i was doing had a name. All i knew is it felt really good and it made me feel powerful.

I remember finding out how wet pain really got me. I used to give myself pain for the express purpose of getting myself sexually excited before i realized that that’s what i needed it for. Instead of merely imagining a girl getting a hard hairbrushing, i would give myself one, then masturbate. My orgasms grew much more powerful from this experience and i was hooked.

It became a nightly ritual and i looked forward to going to bed. I pretty much only masturbated at bedtime. Never any other time that i can remember during the day. I was fond of hairbrushes. I liked the backside for spanking, (though it made loud cracking noises that inevitably had my mother yelling through the walls, “What’s that noise?” I was not deterred….”I’m clapping my hands!”) I liked the bristle side for laying my butt on top of, and pressing down onto the bristles. This made a lovely arrangement of pin-sized bloody holes in my skin and left beautiful red spots the next day. I had very potent orgams from stimulating my clit with the brush handle after doing this. Usually i would imagine i was being punished by some school figure-head.

School scenes were a favorite and in fact we had this Principal at my elementary school who had a gunshot wound in his neck so could never really lift his head. He was forced into a permanent head-bowing pose, but he was very tall and so he peered upwards over his glasses all the time in order to see properly. He was creepy looking. Reminded me of Frankenstein. And he used to paddle kids in his office.

I was sent to his office once. I had doodled on the inside cover of a new textbook and apparently the teacher thought it was either me or this other boy so we both got sent to the Principal’s office. Incidentally, also held in evidence was a spelling test on which i’d scored poorly and onto which i’d scribbled a few choice four-letter words. I was crying as soon as the door to his office closed behind us, begging not to be paddled. I wasn’t. I guess the girls got off lightly, lol. *Whew!*

And so it went throughout my childhood and on to the present day.

Now, my masturbation is, umm, monitored. Controlled. At least in terms of when it occurs. I am allowed to cum once a day, so long as the requirement of telling one new person each week i’m an Owned slave has been met for that week. And since i feel a sense of power from my masturbation, this certainly has impressed upon me my state of powerlessness as Master’s property. This has been the hardest thing to give up so far. And i haven’t even really had to give it up 100%, just greatly curtail it.

I am not really sure most Masters realize the full scope of what it is they own when they take away our masturbation. It is much more than just a few minutes of intense pleasure. Food for thought.

And on that note, i need to tell someone today. I didn’t get to masturbate yesterday because i didn’t tell anyone. Not that i’m particularly looking to have power, because the only power i have is faux-power that’s temporarily granted me. Master can give it and surely he can take it away again. Orgasm control is a very powerful tool in that regard. Oh well. It’s not for me to decide. And really, i’m glad. If you’re going to give up everything, having orgasms taken from you impresses that powerlessness so well. At least for me.

*twitchy, hungry clit looking for fun*

Ever notice how it takes on a life of its own sometimes? The clit?

*giggles and goes to take a cold shower*

Be well all!