Long Distance

"Good morning, Connie," I say to my administrative assistant as I enter the main office. As usual, I'm right on time, and she's already at her desk. She returns my greeting and stops typing to watch me hang up my coat and start to make the coffee. I never expect her to make the coffee; in fact, I don't let her. I've been woke since before that was a term.

"You look relaxed this morning," she comments, and I look over to see her knowing smirk. Connie can always tell when I got laid last night. Every single time. It's become something of a joke between us.

"It's a beautiful day," I deflect, and then ask her about her evening. She talks about family stuff, her son's baseball game. I chat with her long enough to be polite, then excuse myself to go into my small office. She's right, actually. An evening of sex usually does put a figurative spring in my step, and more importantly, it seems to clear my mind. As soon as I clear e-mail, I should be able to tuck in to my planned day of lecture notes and the next chapter of my manuscript with great focus.

The focus will last until this evening. Then I'll go home, feed my demanding cat, make a martini, and settle into the sofa with my laptop and start obsessing about what happens next with last night's date.

A college campus is a good place to be a middle-aged single man. Lots of professional women and support staff, many of them divorced; and ample time and excuse to wander from department to department and flirt with them. And of course, the occasional star-struck graduate assistant. I know it's a cliché, but I've had my share.

The thing is, I do have a weakness for getting into relationships. I should stick to friends with benefits and booty calls. And from what I can tell, Anna, the research assistant from the Chemistry department who took me home last night, might be completely happy with an arrangement like that. I'll still send her a "thanks again for last night" text, of course, but then I'll obsess about reading between the lines of her reply. The fact is, I do like the pursuit. I enjoy getting to know a woman, the energy of a budding relationship. But that invariably eventually leads to awkward conversations about "So what are we doing?"

So after a quick polite text, I log into one of my kink sites and start scrolling through my feed and my discussion groups.

My kinks aren't all that unusual, really, but they do exceed those of most women I've met on campus. I've been a big fan of tease and denial for years. That shouldn't be a deal-breaker, should it?

There are plenty of dommes to follow online. I "like" their posts, and frequently comment. Sometimes when they respond to my comments, I'll send a DM. I have no problem with being asked for a tribute to continue a conversation. I get a kick out of the play.

For the past few weeks I've been exchanging messages with a particularly interesting "goddess" who is articulate and playful, and just ever so slightly aloof. Her pictures are alluring and discreet. Alluring because they are discreet, I think.

She's asked me before if I am interested in being put into chastity. I'm playing hard-to-get. Actually, yes, I have enjoyed playing with a chastity device. Sometimes I'll put one on while I'm chatting online, just to enhance the arousal and edge myself a bit. And in the past, I've worn one for as long as a week, but that was with the collaboration of a playful partner who was giving me lots of daily teasing to reinforce the delicious frustration.

One of the things I learned that week is that there's an order of magnitude between denial and chastity. I've often spent weeks in denial, "enforced" or otherwise. I'm so very productive when I've just had an orgasm. When I haven't had one for a week, I find that sex creeps into my brain whenever I stop doing what I'm doing. I can write, I can teach ... but when the focused activity stops, my mind turns to desire, particularly when that desire is attached to a woman who has been withholding it from me.

When I'm in *chastity*, I'm never NOT aware of the desire. The hard plastic reality of my cage is always there, even when I'm behind the podium. I can push my way through it, but it never leaves.

But being in chastity for an online domme? The idea is clever and amusing, but it's not something I'm really interested in.

Tonight, I see my goddess has posted a little update inviting her subs to spoil her with something from her Amazon wish list. I click through and take a look. One of the items is a very lovely set of periwinkle sheets. Not too expensive. Unfortunately, they are out of stock. I had already started to construct a fantasy about buying them for her. I know she indulges cuckolding fantasies, too, so I'm not forcing my kink on her by suggesting something. I picture her accepting my gift, then sending me a picture of those sheets, rumpled and with an obvious wet spot, and telling me that she wished I was there ... to launder them. I go to her page on another platform and send her that story as a private message, along with a moderate tribute.

A few minutes later I get a message back from her. It's a locked message, requiring, well, more than a token payment to see. I'm intrigued. I make the payment, and the window opens. It's a single sentence. "That would require a larger tip than that!"

Ouch! I feel like I've just received a whack from her crop. Any other model I've chatted with on this site, I would be annoyed. But, I find myself smiling. I kind of liked that whack.

I send her a message letting her know that I accept the reprimand, and she replies again with another comment about chastity. Shortly after, she's gone. We're in different time zones.

I shake my head. The idea that this woman seems to really want me in chastity is ... erotic. I'm enjoying these exchanges. I'm getting my needs ... well, not *met*, but certainly stroked and teased. And she seems to be enjoying herself too. At least, she doesn't seem to be acting like I'm wasting her time. She seems to really like the idea of having me in chastity. Amused, I close the computer and turn on a baseball game. During the commercials, though, my thoughts return to my long-distance domme. It's been 21 hours since my last orgasm, and I'm beginning to get that pleasant sense of pent-up desire.

Later that night, as I get into bed, I open my laptop to check email and my vanilla social media accounts. Then I check my other platform. There's another message from her. "So tell me," she says. "Is having me lock you in chastity just a hot fantasy, or are you ready to sign a contract?"

I suddenly realize that I have an erection, harder and faster than last night when the research associate unbuckled my belt. And it occurs to me that Anna hasn't yet responded to my earlier text. Maybe she's not interested, maybe she's playing hard to get, maybe she's just busy. She's a lovely young woman who shared her warm supple body with me last night, and she's just a few blocks down the street. But my arousal tonight is sparked by a woman who I've never met who is 9712 miles away.

I type my response, "Send the contract."