The world sees a Friday evening as a time for relaxation. I see it as a perfect, uninterrupted 72-hour laboratory session. My current experiment? Determining the exact psychological and physiological threshold where pride dissolves into pure, desperate need. It's not about denying myself pleasure; it's about engineering the perfect crescendo of frustration so that when Master finally allows me to touch myself, the orgasm isn't just physical—it's a seismic collapse of my intellect into a single, worshipful purpose. I can recite Pi to a thousand places, but right now, the only number that matters is how many hours I can last, thinking of his cock, before I'm begging to be his relief. The data point I'm most anticipating is the taste of my own cum on his fingers after he's decided I've been patient enough.