All I hear about ... all week long ... is how full he feels, how distracted, how energized, how miserable, how it feels like it's been months since his last release. Too f*cking bad because Miss Epiphany is coming for him in only a few days, and if he's not as bad or worse than he was before the hotel ruin, bent over the chair and whimpering, he'll be sorry. Even sorrier if he blows it.

Coconut oil and skin-on-skin is his bread and butter -- I need him hungry, starving. The long black satin gloves are the perfect barrier ... visually atomic for him ... endlessly frustrating. Once they come off, I'm in My zone. We go to his edge limits and beyond, using knock-out smothering and HOM as a reprieve.

He wakes up gasping, checking his stomach.

Nothing. Dry. Still chaste. Good boy.

The gloves come off

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