Belle’s return

Belle’s return on Friday was fantastic. Not that anything really mind-blowing happened, just that she was here. With me. When we’re apart, I’m not unlike a compass that can’t find North. When together, I understand my purpose for being.

While she was still en route, I cut out of work early so I could come home and tidy up. Something like a nesting instinct came over me, except instead of being a 8.5 month pregnant woman, I was a naked 40-something guy with an expensive tube of plastic locked to his unit. Yes, even though we have vast expanses of windows in our house (all with working blinds, I should point out), I felt the need to be as nude as I currently can be while performing the household tasks. More than that, I even went so far as to insert my trusty old Doc Johnson butt plug which, owing to the paucity of backdoor action I’ve experienced in the past several months, left me feeling satisfyingly full in spite of its modest size. You’d think the nakedness, the aloneness, and the hunk of rubber shoved up my ass would conspire to distract me from the tasks at hand, but in fact, I imagined the whole time that Belle was observing me in that condition and that succeeded in keeping me focused (and buzzing). Since we live with two kids, the opportunities to perform these kinds of tasks for her in the buff have numbered exactly zero. Now that I’ve imagined what it would feel like, I’m going to keep thinking about it until it happens for real. I’ve said lots of times that being naked before her with the device clearly visible still leaves me selfconscious. The thought of being forced into that position, while servicing her through household tasks, all in the bright light of day was, clearly, arousing. Basically, being naked before her for no reason other than she wants me that way is enough to set me spinning.

In any event, I folded all the laundry, made all the beds, cleaned the kitchen and bath and generally picked up so that the house looked maybe the best it’s ever looked upon her return from a trip (with the movements of the plug causing the occasional burp of precum to ooze out of me being my modest reward). I know that some people feel eroticizing housework is misogynistic, which it may be, but it’s also a potent turn-on for me when I’m in the right state. Belle’s said it turns her on, too, so my position is, misogynistic or not, we’re gonna keep doing it.

She looked amazing standing on the curb at the airport when I picked her up. She shone among the herd of tired, stressed, and impatient travellers. Once I had her in the car, in our own world, whisked away from the craziness of everyone else, I was in heaven.

Later that night, she allowed me to bring her to orgasm, but not before abusing me un peu: pinching (and pulling, and twisting, and general evilness) to the nipples, some scratching, and fingernails driven into my ass. Bliss. When it was her turn, I found her to be incredibly wet with open, inviting lips. God, I missed her body. It’s sudden naked, aroused, and ready presence made me ache inside. The intensity with which my inner sex lizard demanded I replace my fingers with the cock desperately trying to achieve full erection between my legs was strong enough to leave me feeling slightly dizzy. It took a disappointingly short time to get her off. The lizard was not happy.

All day yesterday I was coming on to her with a zeal that would cause a strict interpreter of our Covenant to cry foul. Every kiss, every touch, every long look filled my plastic tube with frustrated desire. Device or not, it was my clear intention to fuck her that night with whatever piece of me I could get into her. I was beyond simple desire. I had crossed over into biological imperative territory. An entire generation of internal passive rabbits was at stake.

However, Belle had a different agenda. After dinner, she had me clean up while she read a book in front of the fire the unseasonably cool day had caused us to light. Lights low, Madeleine Peyroux on the iPod, fire cracking, and several glasses of pinot grigio conspired to leave Belle supremely relaxed. After our daughter was asleep (the boy being at a sleep-over was out of the picture), I sat on the floor near her head while she luxuriated on the couch, our dog laying on her torso. I looked at that dog and felt petty jealousy rise within me. He was getting the attention and body contact I wanted. Damned dog. I was on the floor while he was getting scratched behind his ears, head resting on her breast. Fucking dog. He looked at me with an expression that seemed to ask tauntingly, “Who’s alpha now, sucka?”

She didn’t ignore me, though. I was getting some gentle stroking that clearly wasn’t heading anywhere fruitful which eventually turned into scratching. To be honest, I don’t always enjoy the scratching she inflicts upon me in these unfocused ways, but the fact that she has the right to hurt me in any random way she wants makes up for that. In any event, I was getting impatient. The clock was ticking and with every passing second she was moving further and further away from a state that would result in me getting some action. Finally, she handed me the dog to take outside for his final piddle of the day. He and I exchanged words outside that clearly reasserted his position at the bottom of the social order, and as soon as I got back upstairs to Belle, she handed me the foot lotion and towel.

I’ll stop right here and say my feelings were not acceptable. Natural, understandable, but not acceptable. Or, at least, any hint that I was feeling them was unacceptable. It’s like I can’t figure out what I want. On the one hand, I crave her control. I want her to rule the cock. I crave submission. On the other, I want to fuck. And those two conflicting objectives often clash within me.

I had already lit every candle in the room, so it was fragrant and warmly glowing when she told me to undress. As I did so and the usual quick flush of embarrassment that accompanies the exposure of my condition washed over me, I had the palpable feeling of the device no longer being a separate thing. It was not quite a part of me, but it was, in fact, my normal state. It’s contents securely locked away, impotent, unneeded, and inconsequential, I was as I should be. Especially at that moment when we were clearly not headed toward any kind of sexual contact. The fact that I even had a penis attached to my body and was suffering from the side effects of it was purely my problem and not germane to the situation. Potent, heady stuff. All felt in the flash of a second before I knelt before her feet and started my work. Had it been possible, I would have been sporting a raging boner.

After her feet were well rubbed, I was back laying next to her and her hands wandered over me. I suggested it was time to sleep as a way to signal she didn’t need to continue if it was only on my account. I knew the score (which is to say, I knew there would be no score that night). She agreed, but didn’t quite stop. She didn’t really open her eyes, but her hand found its way to my crotch. Unexpectedly, she smacked at my balls. It was too light a tap and in the wrong spot to hurt, but my reaction suggested otherwise (gasp, jump). I laughed at that and told her it didn’t hurt (which caused her to do it again, this time causing just a twinge).

“Can I show you the right way to do that?” I asked.

“Sure. Later. Time for sleep.”

I got up and blew out all the candles. While on her side of the bed, she said, “You’ve got a cute ass, Thumper.”

Fat lot of good it does me, I thought as the last of the little flames went out.

2 Replies to “Belle’s return”

  1. You know, I’ve been mulling over the idea that a submale doing the housework (as a form of service) is misogynistic. I can see why it might be, but I think the context matters a lot.

    Like: is it a turn-on because it’s “degrading” to do “women’s work”? Or is it a turn-on because it’s a form of service to Belle? I haven’t seen anything from you that suggests it’s the former and not the latter. So I don’t really see a problem here.

    If it were the former idea, well, then I think it would be misogynistic. But that doesn’t seem to be where you’re coming from.

    I’ve heard critiques of housework-as-service which claim that it’s misogynistic regardless of context. I think you’d have to take an essentialist view of housework as “women’s work” in order to see it that way in the first place!

    (It’s like the people who think men being pegged is misogynistic because it’s a mockery of a “woman’s position” in sex or some such…which always makes me ask why on earth being penetrated should be the exclusive domain of women.)

    I think that’s more misogynistic than housework-as-service could ever be.

    1. Pegging? Misogynistic? Does that mean my prostate is misogynistic, ’cause it just *loves* attention like that. It must be the frickin’ president of the He-man Women-hater’s Club or something.

      Performing service for Belle does not turn me on because it’s “woman’s work”. It turns me on because she’s telling me to do it and, presumably (though I’ve never experienced this), there would be some kind of ramification from poor performance. It turns me on because she’s using her influence over certain parts of my body to “force” me to do things for her. It turns me on because it’s a demonstration of her position over mine. (I’m getting a stiffy just typing all this.) I crave the feeling of doing something for her as an act of our power imbalance.

      That being said, I don’t think I’d judge anyone who got off on it (or anything, for that matter) for reasons like misogyny. Most of the stuff I find hot I find that way because it’s taboo (which, I supposed, applied to most people). In a way, misogyny is a taboo. So, if I did consider my service to be her forcing me to do “woman’s work” and it made me hot, who’s being harmed? Especially if she got off on it, too. I think a lot of pegging starts out that way (the taboo of male anal sex and how that supposedly emasculates the recipient, the transfer of the title “fucker” going from her to her), but then loses it’s “forbidden” hotness once he figures out how amazing it feels.

      Honestly, I wish there was something I wasn’t into that she was that she could make me do. If, for example, she forced me to go down on her even though I didn’t like it (in reality, I might like it more than she does). *Anything*. This is the only way I’d get off on something like forced feminization. I don’t have any interest in wearing women’s underwear or clothing (certainly not in public). I don’t want my nails painted. I don’t want to wear make-up. I’d be mortified if she saw me in any of those. (Note that my mortification might *also* be construed by some as misogyny when, in fact, they’re just byproducts of the culture in which I was raised). Ergo, if she really wanted to throw her weight around, she’d make me do those things. Embarrassment, discomfort, pain, denial – they’re all potential outcomes of my submission and potent turn-ons.

      All we have, though, is stuff like housework. I hate that shit. Luckily, she actually does get a little turned on watching me do it.

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