Control

There’s a spot in my chest, just to the left of dead center, where I experience the most twiggy, wiggy, warm, and lovely sensation. It feels like a piece of me about the size of my fist, somewhere deep inside, becomes less dense than the rest of me. It’s an airy, lifty kind of feeling. It’s where the fluttering carnivorous butterflies roost. I’ve come to crave that feeling. Call it the feeling of being controlled, denied, submissive, or all of them rolled together. Whatever. I’m feeling it now and it’s wonderful.

It’s been nearly a month since I last felt it like this. A month with crossed wires, illness, awkwardness, and absence. A month where I felt little flickers of the feeling, but nothing that kindled and flared like right now. I’ve read backward on this blog to try to find the moment where the feeling started to diminish. As far as I can tell, it was when Belle released me from the chastity device.

So, doing what I do, I think about this. What does the device represent? Denial, bondage, frustration, discomfort, and sometimes even embarrassment or humiliation. But ultimately, what it represents is control. Her control over that part of me that I ceded to her. At the end of the day, what I crave more than anything is that feeling of her control.

My Belle is such a caring and giving person, I think it’s sometimes hard for her to treat me in a way that best represents her right to control me (or, at least, the way I’d prefer she treat me). She gives me choices when I’d rather not have them. She asks how I’m feeling in a way that suggests a level of concern and maybe even worry I wish she didn’t have. In short, she’s just not mean enough about it. The chastity device, however, has no qualms about its job. It is always impassively cruel. It hurts, gets in the way, complicates my life, and frustrates the living hell out of me. It is the bad cop to Belle’s good cop. It does the dirty work for her and it’s with me every hour of every day. Remove the device, and then it’s all up to her.

And she’s very lenient. Last time she let me out, she gave me blanket permission to play with her property (but, of course, not to go all the way to actual orgasm). I ran with that. Whenever I had a chance, I’d rub it, stroke it, edge myself, and even go so far as to abandon some orgasms. I did not (until that one morning after our miscommunication) ever go so far as to actually achieve orgasm, but I went right up to that line – as close as a guy can. According to much of the femdom literature on the web (example), it’s the man’s excessive use of masturbation that limits his ability to properly serve his woman. I want to feel that on some level that’s a crock of shit, but for me, I know it’s true. When I feel this little knot of airy submissiveness in my chest, I crave opportunity to serve her (preferably sexually, but in all kinds of other ways I never though I would). And I am really and truly happy. But it’s not masturbation in the sense I’d define it that’s the problem (that is, jerking off until I come). It’s just having access to the plaything, and taking advantage of that access, that starts to bleed off my submissive energy.

And that gets us back to the CB6K. Maybe it’s because I’ve become so used to no longer having orgasms in anything like the frequency of the past, but being denied the feeling of a fat, hard cock in my hand is harder to deal with than not being able to pull on it until it squirts. That lack of access, of craving a full and satisfying erection, is what stokes the feeling I love so much. It’s the ultimate irony and the single most difficult aspect of all this for Belle to understand, it think. I derive pleasure and happiness from the searing physic pain of being forced to submit to her control.

I’m not sure what any of this means from a practical perspective. I suppose I’m arguing that she should leave me locked up more often than not. That she should let me out when she wants to feel a real cock inside her or wants me to come, but otherwise keep it encased. Or, when it’s not protected, that she forbid me to use it in any way that gives me pleasure outside her company. Sort of move the denial goal posts back a bit, if you will. In any event, I think I’ve identified the single ingredient that creates that happy little spot in my soul.

Absolute, smothering, unquestionable control.