hanging in a dead faint like that, Isabella would have contacted him soon afterwards to see how he was. Not a bit of it. She didnât bother to call, evidently didnât care one way or the other what state he was in.
Hours passed, days passed, weeks passed. There continued to be no word from her. It was the same old waiting game for David. Once in a while, heâd wake up and gaze out of the window at another day, and think despairingly, I cannot play this game any more. I cannot spend all day every day fending off the fact that Isabella isnât going to call and doing this by jerking off all the time, kidding myself that todayâs the day she will call.
Hell, she might very well not be in Brighton a lot of the time for all he knew, might even be out of the country altogether. Waiting for her constantly and libidinously like this was pointless, absurd, ridiculous.
It was all so utterly hopeless. This was a woman David worshipped and adored and for whom heâd do anything, but who didnât even care a damn for him, never mind love him; a woman who hardly ever wanted to actually be with him, and who kept him in this priapic state of suspended animation all the time.
He ought to give Isabella up; David understood that at some level. But he knew that he couldnât give her up, it was impossible. He was powerless to resist her because sheâd changed him into someone else. Sheâd changed him into a person for whom she was everything, a person who wouldnât really exist without her.
David thought about just how much Isabella had changed him. His obsession with her consumed his waking hours, his sleeping ones too. Life went on of course but it unfolded around him in a haze. He thought about the extent to which his view of the world had been transformed, narrowed into nothing more nor less than his obsession with Isabella. David found that he spoke to hardly anyone nowadays. He had a naturally antisocial nature anyway but he had now become a lot more than antisocial: heâd become positively reclusive. David wanted to concentrate all his thought on Isabella. He didnât want the distraction of talking to anyone else if he could possibly avoid it. And that even included Matthew â not that he ever called anyway.
David didnât understand quite how Isabella had reduced him to this state and didnât actually care. All he knew was that she was his Mistress and he was her slave, sheâd told him so. He knew that she could do anything she liked with him, no matter how sadistic and perverted, and that as long as she wanted to keep him as her slave heâd do anything to satisfy her demands.
Because David didnât take anything for granted, you see. He knew that any time Isabella chose to she could decide that she no longer wanted him as her slave and that would be the end of that. Finito, end of story. The thought of it made his stomach churn, made him feel sick, nauseous.
David knew only too well that every time Isabella contacted him it could be the last time. One of these fine days sheâd set him free, he feared â no, dreaded. And from then on all he would have left would be memories: memories of the delicious torment of waiting for her calls, of the intense pain and pleasure â the pleasure-pain heâd experienced as a result of the fierce beatings sheâd administered to him; of the way sheâd stretched his anus with a big strap-on dildo and tortured his nipples and marked his body with livid welts; of the incredibly cruel way sheâd always treated him; of the way she had displayed almost complete indifference to him right up to the end when that indifference had finally become total and sheâd dumped him altogether.
Perhaps, David thought, slipping into despair, Isabella had already got to that point already and had decided to finish with him, give him his wholly unwanted freedom. Perhaps heâd never hear from her again. Perhaps she
Hours passed, days passed, weeks passed. There continued to be no word from her. It was the same old waiting game for David. Once in a while, heâd wake up and gaze out of the window at another day, and think despairingly, I cannot play this game any more. I cannot spend all day every day fending off the fact that Isabella isnât going to call and doing this by jerking off all the time, kidding myself that todayâs the day she will call.
Hell, she might very well not be in Brighton a lot of the time for all he knew, might even be out of the country altogether. Waiting for her constantly and libidinously like this was pointless, absurd, ridiculous.
It was all so utterly hopeless. This was a woman David worshipped and adored and for whom heâd do anything, but who didnât even care a damn for him, never mind love him; a woman who hardly ever wanted to actually be with him, and who kept him in this priapic state of suspended animation all the time.
He ought to give Isabella up; David understood that at some level. But he knew that he couldnât give her up, it was impossible. He was powerless to resist her because sheâd changed him into someone else. Sheâd changed him into a person for whom she was everything, a person who wouldnât really exist without her.
David thought about just how much Isabella had changed him. His obsession with her consumed his waking hours, his sleeping ones too. Life went on of course but it unfolded around him in a haze. He thought about the extent to which his view of the world had been transformed, narrowed into nothing more nor less than his obsession with Isabella. David found that he spoke to hardly anyone nowadays. He had a naturally antisocial nature anyway but he had now become a lot more than antisocial: heâd become positively reclusive. David wanted to concentrate all his thought on Isabella. He didnât want the distraction of talking to anyone else if he could possibly avoid it. And that even included Matthew â not that he ever called anyway.
David didnât understand quite how Isabella had reduced him to this state and didnât actually care. All he knew was that she was his Mistress and he was her slave, sheâd told him so. He knew that she could do anything she liked with him, no matter how sadistic and perverted, and that as long as she wanted to keep him as her slave heâd do anything to satisfy her demands.
Because David didnât take anything for granted, you see. He knew that any time Isabella chose to she could decide that she no longer wanted him as her slave and that would be the end of that. Finito, end of story. The thought of it made his stomach churn, made him feel sick, nauseous.
David knew only too well that every time Isabella contacted him it could be the last time. One of these fine days sheâd set him free, he feared â no, dreaded. And from then on all he would have left would be memories: memories of the delicious torment of waiting for her calls, of the intense pain and pleasure â the pleasure-pain heâd experienced as a result of the fierce beatings sheâd administered to him; of the way sheâd stretched his anus with a big strap-on dildo and tortured his nipples and marked his body with livid welts; of the incredibly cruel way sheâd always treated him; of the way she had displayed almost complete indifference to him right up to the end when that indifference had finally become total and sheâd dumped him altogether.
Perhaps, David thought, slipping into despair, Isabella had already got to that point already and had decided to finish with him, give him his wholly unwanted freedom. Perhaps heâd never hear from her again. Perhaps she
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