It took a while for us to find one another, and a little while longer to find out if the other had received the same message, but it was really only a matter of time. That night I took off my engagement ring, and never wore it again. The breaking of that arrangement and the resentment and fall-out from it, I won’t go into here; it is not part of this story.

David and I were both thrown together on the same residential summer-school course for the next eight weeks. Gradually we found out more and more about one another. Attending the same college, but different faculties. Our homes were a thousand miles apart, but that hardly mattered. We were never apart for more than a day from that time on. We had Christmas at my house one year, at his the next.

One of the early things that we did was to swap fantasies: “What do you think about during sex?” Difficult to admit to an interest in genital modification, circumcision and more, but after a few hesitant circumlocutions we found that this interest was also shared.

……..

Roll forwards the clock fifteen years or so: graduation, establishing careers, setting up house together, a mortgage and two kids – for a while all our spare time was heavily committed. With both kids away at summer camp for the first time, and David off work recuperating from an injury, we found ourselves with unaccustomed time on our hands. We had recently been reading about past life regression through hypnosis. Everybody knows, of course, that this is a load of baloney, but with our own experience of love at first sight, it seemed to provide an explanation, so we decided to give it a try.

I proved to be a reasonably easy hypnosis subject, or maybe he was an adept natural hypnotist. Whatever. We tried it the other way around, but I could not induce any sort of trance in him. He soon had me recalling past lives in which we had had similarly intense relationships. But then I started to recall lives in which genital mutilation played a significant part, and then it started to become very clear why we had these fantasy interests.

One of the first lives I explored seemed to be in a primitive African tribe. As a young child I remember living in a large extended family with several mothers and lots of kids. All the children had to work tilling the fields and caring for the cattle. The family was spread over several round mud huts, and my mother lived with me and several other children in one of them. Our father was one of the village elders; he had many wives, and when our mother’s “time” came around, after the last child was weaned, she would spend the nights in his hut and we would be left in the care of an elder sister.

We had a single word in our language for a person who had reached puberty, but was not yet fully grown: here I’ll call them “fledglings”. In the evenings, when it became too dark for work, we would watch the fledglings dance to the light of a big fire and the complex rhythms of the drums. First, the young men would dance, and tell how they would go out and defend our cattle and grazing grounds. They wielded spears and shields, and had mock fights in the dance. They were trying to impress the fledgling girls. Then it was the girl’s turn to dance, and they would sing about how they would only have sex with the strongest and bravest of the men, those who were already out protecting the village and the cattle and how the ones who had been dancing were mere boys by comparison, and had yet to prove themselves. This teasing and interplay went on until one by one the fledglings would pair off and have noisy and exuberant sex – always in the dog position, never face to face. This was done with no embarrassment, and quite openly, and the same pairings were rarely repeated – there was not thought of nor understanding of love – it was simply the exploring and satisfying of lust. We younger children would envy them and look forward to the time when we would participate, instead of just watching and practicing our dance-steps along the side.

There was never any pregnancy despite the frequent couplings. I do not know why this was, but it seemed that the girl could simply decide not to get pregnant and it didn’t happen.

From time to time there was a bigger celebration as a group of fledglings was deemed to be full-grown. For the boys this meant circumcision and then leaving the village to live in the bush to protect the village from wild animals and neighboring tribes. It could be years before we would see them again, if at all. For the girls it meant circumcision and marriage.

For these events, preparations would last for several days. Fermented liquor would be brewed, a young bull calf would be killed and roasted, and some of the youths would come back to the village to assess and hone the spear-throwing skills of those about to be circumcised.

The male circumcision was a brutal one, and the men were expected to stand there unflinching as the cut was made. A spear-point was guided along the upper side of the glans under the foreskin and then forced through the two layers of skin, tight against the corona. Then the whole glans was forced through this tight buttonhole slot. It left the whole foreskin as a loose tassel on the underside, whilst the skin on the topside was taut enough to cause the penis to curve upwards. It then took a couple of moons before the man was fit to go out to the job of border guard.

The job was important, and it was really a means of maintaining the population of the area at a sustainable level, however, we didn’t think of it in that way. We merely knew that grazing ground was scarce and had to be defended if our tribe was to survive. Grazing was sparse and cattle raids from nearby tribes were frequent. Battles were bloody and no prisoners were ever taken. From time to time, a man would limp back to the village hideously wounded and no longer fit to fight. He would be given a hero’s welcome and would become an honored member of one of the Elder’s households, generally his own father, unless he already had another son living there, when another Elder, who had perhaps lost all his sons, would adopt him. Eventually, when the old man died, the younger man would take over as village Elder and head of the household.

Many young men died in the bush, of course, and for this reason there were far fewer men than women. And for this reason, each man had many wives.

The circumcision of girls was also attended by celebration, but not as big as that of the boys. When a group of girls was recognized as full-grown, their dancing took on a subtly different flavor. Now the focus of the girls’ attention was also on the Elders, and we would sing of our fitness for childbearing and of the number of boy children we hoped to have. We still took the fledgling boys as lovers but made sure that the Elders could witness our skill and enthusiasm in sexual action. We knew that circumcision was coming and with it the end of pleasure in sex, yet there was no questioning of this – it was the way that things happened.

There would be meetings and negotiations between the Elders, and the father of the girl would be expected to pay a certain number of cattle to the intended husband to take the girl off his hands. There was never any question of love or affection, merely a type of cattle trading.

Part of the preparation for circumcision of the girls was time spent in the “fattening hut”. Here we were fed the most fattening foods, and sat around all day. It was the only time of our lives that we were not working from dawn to dusk. Instead we heard all the stories of the history of the tribe, the battles fought, the heroes deeds, especially, why each of the Elders deserved our respect and admiration. For two moons we sat around in the darkened hut and grew fat and pale from lack of sunlight. For two months we grew frustrated from lack of sex, for we knew nothing of masturbation – our only orgasms had been in the company of the fledgling boys.

And then it was time for our circumcision. Like the boys, we were expected to show no pain. It was considered a test of our ability to bear children – a girl who cried out would never cope with the pains of childbirth. A girl or boy who did so would be ridiculed and banished from the tribe, sent away to wander alone or to be eaten by the hyenas. It happened, I saw it several times.

The pain was atrocious. I held my breath for the entire duration, and kept my eyes fixed on a pinpoint of light that found its way through the thatch of the roof. Afterwards, I looked down between my legs to see the bloody hole that was left where my clitoris and labia had been. We spent another moon in the hut recovering before joining our new husbands.

Mine was an old man, with about ten wives and a hoard of children. I had seen him about, but had never spoken to him. Nor had he ever appeared to notice me in any particular way. He had been back in the village for a long time, having had a serious leg injury in a battle. One leg was withered and useless. He also had several other terrible battle scars, on his chest, face and neck.

We knew that there was a peculiar frisson for the men to have sex with a girl still sore from her circumcision, to feel her battle with the pain, to feel her wanting and trying to orgasm but unable to do so. And so, on my first night out of the fattening hut, I was sent for by my new husband and made to kneel with my legs apart for him to enter my still aching vagina. I felt aroused, wanting an orgasm after so long without, knowing that it would be impossible, but still wanting and trying. His hard and leathery penis burnt my wounds, and the tassel of foreskin underneath stretched my newly formed scars. Because of his age it took a very long time for him to ejaculate. Afterwards, I was sore and aching. Then I realized that there was another man in the hut, younger, also injured and no longer able to fight. This was the older man’s adopted son, the one who would succeed him as Elder. These younger men were supposed not to have sex, but the old man gestured to him, and he came across and took me from behind. He spent quickly, and we all lay together on the mats to sleep. In the early morning, whilst it was still dark, the younger man took me again – the old man was still asleep.

Thus I spent each of the next several nights until my period arrived. I was not pregnant. I was sent away to sleep in the hut I shared with another of his wives and several of her children, until my period had ended, and I was called back again. I soon became pregnant and was glad, for it ended the frustration of futile and joyless sex.

I had many children in that lifetime, and more than half reached puberty. Only one of the boys ever came back from the job of protecting the village.

Later I was to explore a number of such lives, that all appeared to be in some African tribe, where circumcision of both men and women was accepted as the norm. The details varied from full infibulation at the one extreme to a partial clitorectomy at the other. The ages at which it was done varied from soon after birth to when I was expecting my first child, but the favorite time seemed to be just after the onset of puberty. From my point of view, doing it at that age certainly maximized the trauma: to have just discovered the delights of the orgasm and then to have its possibility surgically removed always resulted in intense emotions of loss and frustration, arousal and sex always associated with pain.

……….

The next life we explored seemed to be in England in the middle of the nineteenth century. I was one of several children of a wealthy aristocratic family living in a large stately home. It is not always easy to tell the date in these past lives; there were a few railways in other parts of the country, but they had not reached our area.

As children, we stayed in the nursery wing of the house looked after by the nursery staff: a nanny at the head, several governesses teaching the older children, and nursemaids for the younger ones. We saw our parents on a very few formal occasions. When they were at home, (which seemed not to be very often), we would have a family tea with them once a week at which we had to be on our best behavior. The direst threat from the nursery staff was to “if you do that again, I shall have to tell your father.” Our very rare visits to his study on these occasions generally had a very painful outcome.

The days were all much the same: lessons in the morning, sewing in the afternoon, with a walk after lunch, free time and then bed in the evening. I liked to spend my free time reading. In bed I would always comfort myself to sleep by gently rubbing between my thighs until a little surge of feeling left me relaxed for sleep. I noticed my younger sister beside me, (we all slept two to a bed in the nursery), would do the same thing – we thought nothing of it.

The older children and adults in the household went on an endless round of weekend house parties. They would disappear in carriages on Thursday or Friday, depending on how far away the party was, and reappear the following Monday or Tuesday. Once a year we took on extra staff and the house party took place in our house. This was the only time the younger children had any notion of what went on.

The first thing to happen was the arrival of hoards of extra servants; where they came from I have no idea. Then bunting would appear all over the trees around the terrace. Inside was a constant bustle as rooms that were rarely used would be opened up – dust sheets removed from furniture, the windows opened to air the rooms and the beds made up. Everywhere there was dusting and polishing.

All day Friday, carriages would roll up the drive and strangers would disgorge into the house, their baggage following in the arms of servants. Friday evening would be a modest supper for tired travelers with some light entertainment: singing, charades, or somebody would play a musical instrument.

On Saturday, the men would go out hunting in the morning, whilst the women stood around in groups chattering and exchanging news; some of the younger women went out riding – side-saddle of course. The big event was on the Saturday evening with a grand ball in the great hall, a small orchestra playing. We were allowed to look down from the gallery in the early part of the evening, to watch the dancers and hear the orchestra playing. Dinner was a very formal affair, with many courses – we would get some of the leftovers in the nursery. Then there would be paper lanterns with candles in hanging from all the trees all round the terrace. We would look out of the nursery bedroom windows and see couples or groups wandering around with drinks, and hear the music wafting up to us. The most amazing thing was the gowns and jewelry on the women, sparkling and dazzling, big wide skirts, amazing hairdos.

On Sunday, everyone went to Church in the morning, and in the afternoon there would be a tea. This was where we children would actually meet some of the guests, we would be introduced to important people, Lord and Lady this, General that, and I would have to curtsey politely and answer the inane questions politely and with a smile.

In the evening, there was again some light entertainment. Again, people would sing or play charades. Perhaps a conjurer would do a few tricks. And then on the Monday, the coaches would roll up the drive again, the servants would load up the luggage and they would all depart. The extra servants would take down the bunting, replace the dustsheets and then disappear to wherever they came from and life would return to humdrum normality once again.

When a girl reached puberty, she had to start wearing a corset, and this was the signal to begin to take her to the weekend house parties. When my turn came, I had to be fitted out with an extensive wardrobe of ball-gowns, evening dresses, dresses for afternoons, dresses for breakfast, dresses for every conceivable eventuality. I was given a selection of suitable jewels from the family collection.

I still slept in the nursery, as I was still being educated, but because so much time was spent traveling to and from the weekend house parties, this was a much smaller part of my life than formerly. At each house party, we would arrive on the Friday and be shown to our rooms. Sometimes I would have a room on my own, and be treated as an adult, but sometimes, especially in some of the smaller houses, I would have to share a bed, usually with another girl of similar age.

The first couple of times I was sharing a bed, the girls didn’t seem to know what I was doing when I was pleasuring myself. One didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she was too polite. Another asked me what I was doing and I told her it is something that I found relaxes me for sleep, and showed her how to do it. One time, I was with a much older woman, a widow, presumably attending the party in the hope of catching another husband. She warned me not to get caught by the wrong person as some people disapproved and considered it very immoral. She showed me how two women could do it to each other, and how to do it with tongues, which was a delight. She told me about what happened between a man and a woman after marriage, facts which normally were carefully kept from such as me. She told me that she missed the pleasure her husband gave her which is why she had to resort to the use of her fingers. The few nights we shared were some of the most memorably pleasurable of my life.

I was more cautious after her warning, but eventually not cautious enough. On this occasion, we were in a fairly small house, and I was sharing with one of the daughters of the house in the nursery. She became very shocked when she discovered what I was doing, and got up and went to tell the Nanny/Governess. This was a formidable lady of steely disposition. I was taken to her room, where I was physically examined and extensively questioned. There was a tremendous row, and my parents were sent for.

This soon escalated into an almighty scandal. I had brought shame upon our good name. We had to leave immediately, before dawn on the Saturday. Throughout the journey, I was berated for my shameful behavior and told that I was immoral and called some terrible names that I hardly understood. I was banned from weekend house parties from now on. How would I ever get a husband after this scandal? Everybody would know – who would want a corrupt wife? Oh, the shame, you wicked girl!

Back at home, there was an exhaustive inquiry into how I had gotten into such immoral ways. The culmination was that the entire nursery staff was sacked and new staff brought in. These women were of a very different disposition from the gentle and kindly ones now gone away. It transpired that one of the nursemaids had been in the habit of soothing babies in this way, and so all of us had learned from the cradle that this was a good way to get to sleep.

We were firmly admonished to “corrupt ourselves no more” and to regard our bodies as a God-given temple not to be sullied by immoral practices. I tried to go to sleep without doing it, but, having done it all my life, found it very hard. And the feeling of need just got stronger and stronger until I fell to temptation again and again. Now I found that instead of just needing to do it at bedtime, I wanted it all the time. I was distracted in my lessons. I messed up my sewing through wriggling on my seat.

I was caught again and again; we were being very carefully monitored and spied on. The doctor was sent for. Several remedies were tried, including tying my hands to the bed-rails at night, a sort of chastity belt that I had to wear all day, and of course, increasingly severe corporal punishment. This was inflicted first by the new nanny and later by my father who would lecture me and express his disgust and shame in me before beating me. I was given the strap on my hands and also on the part of me that I had abused, (lightly covered by a single thin garment for modesty), which hurt very much.

Before long, I found that I could make the nice feeling come without any touching, (touching was now impossible for me with the appliances that I had been fitted with), just by rhythmically squeezing my internal muscles. I would try harder and harder not to do it, but then the feelings would overwhelm me and it would happen again to my deep shame and mortification. It was not long before this was discovered, and the doctor had to be sent for again.

I was taken into a small surgical home in a big city. There was no chloroform in those days. Without any anesthetic except a little laudanum, they removed the seat of my pleasure and corruption. The pain was intense and every time for the next several weeks that I became aroused, the pain would burst out afresh. I had to train myself never to get aroused, never to think any of the thoughts that would excite and stimulate me.

Not much later, I was married off to an elderly, (or so it seemed to me), widower: big built, balding gray hair and rather fat. He already had several children from his previous marriages, the eldest not much younger than myself, but I was expected to be mother to them all, especially to the youngest, still a babe in arms, whose birth had killed her mother. Soon, I too was pregnant and seemed to remain so until I too succumbed in childbirth a few years later. He was a big man and generated big babies that were a trial to deliver. Sex was painful, for I was always dry and unaroused, but he knew the full story of my corruption, and told me that it was my punishment for my sinfulness, and continued to take his pleasure with me – there was no pleasure in it for me.

I saw several such lives, I came to think of them as “poor little rich girl” lives, where strict nannies or governesses try their uttermost to suppress masturbation and eventually resort to clitoris removal as the final solution.

One life seemed to me to be totally unbelievable, as it was so utterly perverse, until I did some research and found that girls who had been sexually abused by an adult actually were sent to a reformatory to have the corruption beaten out of them.

The first one that I came across, I was about nine or ten when an uncle who had been stationed abroad came and stayed in the house. He was deeply bronzed and seemed so handsome and exotic – I found him fascinating and went out of my way to spend time with him. He seemed to enjoy my company and started to tell me “secrets”, gradually drawing me into the web of deception by telling me things that young girls at that time were not supposed to know. He warned me that if anybody discovered our secrets they would stop me seeing him, and this seemed to me to be something to avoid at all costs.

Eventually, things progressed, much of them at my instigation, I might add, to where he was touching me and giving me pleasure, and I was touching and feeling him. I suppose that it was a year before I wanted to find out what full sexual intercourse felt like – he had explained it to me but said that I was still too small. I had tested my capacity with a succession of objects that I felt were the right size and insisted that we try. And before long we were regularly having sex. There was no risk of pregnancy as I was still far away from puberty.

Eventually, we were caught. My uncle, who nowadays would have been put in prison for a very long time, was sent away – probably abroad again. I never heard of him again. I was found, after a doctor’s examination, to have been “corrupted”: my virginity was no longer intact. I was sent away to a reform school.

The school pupils were all girls who had been corrupted in some way, although we were not allowed to talk of such things. Nowadays a girl would be encouraged to talk about her experiences to a professional counselor; then we were told to forget that it had happened, and to put all corruption out of our minds. We had to pray frequently. We had to learn vast tracts of the Bible by heart. We were daily inspected for signs of corruption: a flow of sexual fluids being a sure indication. Any sign of masturbation was heavily suppressed by a combination of punishment, (corporal, severe), religion, (prayer and sermonizing about morality and purity), lifestyle, (early morning cold baths, vigorous exercise and a bland diet), education, (a strong moral focus), and medicine, (blistering ointments, restraints, and if all else failed, the operation).

There was a gentle but inevitable and inescapable escalation of the regimen until each girl either stopped the habit through her own will or had the focus of the habit cut out. I survived about two years of brainwashing and beating before my clitoris was deeply cut out from me. It was another year before I was pronounced cured and sent back to my parents. They straightway put me into a convent, where I stayed for the rest of my life in a state of enforced purity whilst secretly longing and grieving for all that I had lost.

Strangely, perhaps, I felt no resentment forwards the uncle who had corrupted me all those years ago. Rather I longed for him, dreaming that he would somehow find me and rescue me and that I would once again fall into his arms and everything would be as it had been once before. Consciously, I realized that this was impossible, but dreams and fantasies are not like that. His identity? You guessed it.

…….

You may be wondering how it is that I seem to have a number of lifetimes going on apparently simultaneously. I seem to have seen many quite long lifetimes all set in the Victorian era, for instance. You will have to consult an expert on past life hypnotic regression to get the answer. One explanation is that one can have simultaneous lives. Another is that some of these lifetimes occurred a long time ago on another planet that was then going through a similar phase of history. Another explanation is that these are not necessarily my own lifetimes, but that I can somehow tap into the memories of other people’s lives.

…….

One other type of life worthy of mention that I several times experienced involves being the daughter of a woman who had herself suffered clitoris removal to prevent masturbation. Here there was common knowledge that masturbation was OK. In many cases this was understood and openly stated by the mother, but she could never get over the fierce indoctrination of her childhood culminating in the removal of her clitoris. For her, any manifestation of burgeoning sexuality in her daughter filled her with shock and horror, a post-traumatic effect, probably. The daughter sensed this and heavily suppressed her own sexuality, giving herself, in effect, a mental clitorectomy. In a few cases, indeed there was clitorectomy. I later found that, at least in the USA, until about 1970, a parent, merely by going to the right doctor, could elect to have her child’s clitoris removed without there being any medical justification for the procedure.

This reminded me very much of my own mother’s behavior towards me during my childhood. I wondered if she had been one to suffer this, but I never had the courage or the right moment to ask.

…….

Eventually the kids returned from summer school and things got busy again. It was many years later before we again had an opportunity to explore hypnosis again. By that time the kids had graduated, left home, started establishing careers, married but had not yet started having kids of their own.

This time, I wanted to try an entirely different tack. I wanted to experience clitorectomy first-hand, but not permanently. I wanted to experience myself the inability to get an orgasm, rather than feeling it vicariously through another person’s observed life-experience.

For me, the orgasm has always come easily. I have heard of girls who rarely get orgasms in sex, and have difficulty getting there when masturbating. I rarely miss out in sex, and I masturbate a lot, often several times a day, reaching orgasm within a few minutes unless I take steps to prolong it. Since puberty I had rarely gone more than a day or two without orgasm. We had experimented with denying me during sex, but a few moments with my fingers after meant that this did not satisfy my craving for the denial experience. We thought about a chastity belt, but the restriction of movement that this sort of apparatus would cause did not fill me with enthusiasm.

Together we planned a series of hypnosis sessions.

In the first session, we set the ground-rules. The first thing was to define a “safeword”, a key phrase that could be used to set everything back top normal. In my normal everyday life, I would be aware that the situation that we would develop was all in the imagination, merely a product of hypnotic suggestion, but the moment I started to become sexually aroused, the thing would become real.

In our second session, he had me discover an abnormal swelling on my clitoris, and had me making an appointment to be seen by my gynecologist, a Dr. Brownlow. At that appointment, he examined the swelling and arranged for some tests to be done. This required a hospital stay, which was the subject of the third session.

During this hospital stay, I was given a series of tests, including a needle biopsy, (very painful), and afterwards the doctor came to me and said that he was sorry but I had a cancerous condition which was very rare. It seemed to be confined to the clitoris, which had to be removed as a matter of urgency before the cancer spread. He scheduled the operation for that afternoon.

I remember being wheeled to the operating theater on a gurney. I remember the anesthetist injecting me with something and then waking up again in the recovery room with an ache between my thighs and a catheter coming out from under the bandages. None of this was real, however, all simply false memories generated by the hypnosis, and in my normal conscious moments, I was fully aware of this. Given any level of sexual arousal, however, and this was all I knew.

In a subsequent session, I spent the next few days in the hospital whilst the doctor tested to make sure all the cancer was removed. Eventually, they took my stitches out and removed my catheter and I was allowed to go home with a lot of advice about wound care and not to resume sex too soon.

The first time I thought about sex after this, and started to feel aroused, the dreadful pain that I had experienced during regression occurred, a deep aching pressure as if something would burst inside me, only this time it was me instead of another that I was observing. The pain was less than some that I had previously experienced, duller, because of the medication that I was on, (I was not really on any medication, I just imagined that I was, such is the power of hypnosis – I even popped an imaginary pill whenever I experienced this arousal). I took a mirror a few times to look between my thighs, and could see the livid red scar line where my clitoris had been.

Eventually, (in reality only a few days – several weeks of my alternate self being compressed into just a few days under hypnosis), I was healed enough to try sex again. By this time I was becoming deeply frustrated and really needing an orgasm.

David was really gentle, being careful not to hurt my newly formed scar tissue. It felt pleasant, some residual pain but nothing to cause me to stop. It felt pleasant but not pleasure inducing. There was nothing happening to bring me towards orgasm. I was aroused, highly aroused, but between my thighs just a distant dull ache where once would have been a focus of intense building, growing feeling. In some ways it was like oral sex, me going down on him: giving pleasure without any of my automatic responses happening. No clenching, no feeling of need to thrust back at him in response. Of course, I could thrust and clench, but this was consciously done and just for him, nothing was happening inside me to make it happen. In some ways I felt strangely in control – distant and detached, not taken over by the feelings. The overwhelming feeling was one of intense fantasy fulfillment yet at the same time dreadfully disappointing and frustrating.

Afterwards, I lay on the bed bathed in sweat and frustrated arousal. I tried masturbating, but there was nothing there to do anything with. I lay awake a long time wanting, yearning, my unfulfilled need aching deep within me, before eventually sleep overtook me, a sleep filled with strange dreams linked in many ways to some of the other lives I had previously visited.

In the morning, David offered to release me – a single trigger phrase would do it, but I declined. I wanted to see through a longer period, to experience the true measure of long-term frustration that those alter egos had experienced without that option. I asked him to wait several months before suggesting it again.

He missed the experience of me having an orgasm with him. This was an unexpected complication, but I became adept at finding just the right rhythm of clenching and thrusting to allay this aspect for him, and indeed there was pleasure for me in achieving this without my own corresponding experience happening.

My frustration built up over a few weeks to the point where I started to have strange sexual dreams. They were not orgasm dreams, as such, for there was no orgasm, but strangely diverse sexual experiences, sometimes on my own or with different men or women. I would wake up dripping with vaginal secretions, wanting sex, needing sex, and would often impale myself on my sleeping husband’s nocturnal erection, and bring him off almost before he woke up.

Later, however, after months of unfulfilled lust during which sexual frequency had increased, I started to feel a reluctance for sex, my level and frequency of arousal diminished, and I started to become depressed. We knew it was time to reverse the process. He said the trigger phrase, and that night for the first time in months, I had an intense orgasm, so strong it was painful. I had orgasm after orgasm until I passed out with it.

It took a while for me to feel the need to experience that denial again, and this time we made some variations. This time we did it in such a way that orgasms were not entirely absent. Now I could never get an orgasm on my own no matter what I did. In sex with David, they would only come at my fertile time of month and with difficulty after a long period of hard sex with no interruptions or distractions. If he climaxed too soon, I would be left frustrated.

…..

I’m feeling so very frustrated and aroused just now. It has been several months since I last had a climax. I often wake up in the morning still aroused after failing to reach a climax the night before. Sometimes, I feel that I am so close that it is just about to happen, then he finishes, and once again I am left in an agony of frustration. I look down at my poor cleft. I can lift my hips so that I can just see the empty cleft where my clitoris had to be removed. With a mirror I can see the little white scar-line. Dr. Brownlow warned me that it might be difficult to get a climax after the operation, and that some women cannot get one at all. I suppose I am lucky that it does still happen from time to time. Last night I was so very close, but then I heard a police car siren a few streets away, and I got distracted at the wrong moment and lost it. I have a vibrator, a really intense one driven by outlet power, but I cannot seem to get anywhere with it. Hopefully, tonight it will be better.