Libéré en étant enfermé
Someone found this blog today by typing the following into Google:
what you can do with a cockring
As far as I know, cock rings have exactly one intended purpose. I’m sure there’s a wide variety of “off-label” uses one could find for the things (“Why, I can make a hat or a brooch or a pterodactyl…”), but as far as I know, I’ve never written about them.
Tuesday just kinda sucked from all kinds of angles, none of them related to Belle. I found myself at the end of the day in a frame of mind not unlike the one I would have found myself in a year ago – distracted by external factors and not emotionally present with Belle or the kids. It pissed me off. While that was normal ten months ago, it feels oily and distasteful to me now. We went to bed and I was still distracted. It’d only been about five days since I last came, so I’d only just begun to feel the return of of the effects of denial, but the distraction of the day totally overwhelmed that. My sex drive – a nearly constant companion for so many months – was absent. I wanted it back.
Belle gave me permission to take off my clothes and I immediately latched on to her. I didn’t really feel it at that point – in the old days, it would have been easier to just let her fall asleep – but with each kiss I planted on her face and as my hand passed over her body and across her skin, the desire to feel her have an orgasm started to incrementally build. I sensed she wasn’t entirely there and had she told me to get off so she could go to sleep it probably would have sent me into an emotional funk, but she didn’t
I finally asked, “What can I do for you, Belle Fille?”
“You can give me an orgasm.”
“How would you like to come?” I asked as I involuntarily pressed the stiff erection into her thigh. I wanted to fuck her now. A lot.
“With your fingers,” she said. “I like your fingers.”
I was not disappointed. The subby bunny was coming out of his burrow and the need to feel her pleasure was more pressing than worrying how it came about.
As I started to work on her, little waves of warm energy pulsed through my brain. This was right. This was good. She would come. I would not. She would feel satisfaction and fall asleep easily. I would not. She clearly wasn’t worried about my frustration or the hard cock pressing into her or what it meant or would do to me afterward. She felt no guilt. She wanted me horny and unsatisfied. This was about her pleasure.
For me, the best part of giving her that orgasm was at the end when she took a handful of my hair and used it to roughly pull my head from her nipple. No words. Just an abrupt motion that said, “That’s it, tool. I’m done.”
I didn’t start the evening in my “zone of denial”, but I was there by the end. I was desperately horny. She allowed me to enter her after her basking and glowing period and it felt fantastic. Of course, I was never going to come. I never got close. But the fucking. Sweet Jesus. I just adore her pussy. Every bit of it. Every tiny, little, wet, hot bit of it.
While she was indulging me with access to her body, I told her things she already knew. I said I never, ever wanted to come again outside her presence. I told her how thankful I was for her accepting control over my sexual release. How happy it made me.
Eventually, it had to stop. She told me the ride was coming to an end, but the struggle within me over the idea of pulling out was difficult. Millions of years of reproductive evolution was screaming within every fiber of body to keep going, but my mind – the part that embraces her control – eventually got the upper hand. I withdrew from the warm confines of her body and felt the cold air of control wash over the hard, wet meat.
Yep. It was a good night.
It’s totally predictable now. Orgasms = diminished urge to blog about not having orgasms. Interestingly, my interest in non-orgasmly focused topics goes up. If this blog covered other aspects of my life, then I’d still have something to talk about, but since it’s so focused on our sex life, it suffers when she lets me come.
My last post was very hard to write simply because I lost the desire to write about it. Looking back, I’m not that happy with it, but there it is. Belle let me come again on Saturday morning, but it wasn’t her idea. I was feeling pretty frisky, what with the unencumbered man meat I was sporting, and I made that friskiness known by climbing up on her and gyrating said man meat into her. Subtle, I know. Not exactly respecting her personage, but I totally would have cut it out if she had told me to. And that’s the thing about respecting her personage. I know I get more sex (or, what passes for sex for me) when I can come on to her. The trade-off is, she’s under less pressure to give in and is therefore happier. I’m left recognizing situations in which I probably could get her to let me do stuff, but I’m forced to let them pass due to our agreement. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying. That’s what accepting her control means, right? Saturday morning, though, I pushed the limits knowing she was in a good mood and we had nothing much to do and the kids weren’t all in our face or anything. She indulged me.
I did not intend to come as I did not have permission, but I let my concentration slip as she approached her orgasm and came anyway. I kept right on pumping through it which caused the head of the cock to burn in oversensation, but she needed to come still. Afterward, she told me I could go but, you know, I already had. How do they not notice? I’m literally spraying fluids into her and she can’t feel them? Oh, well. Coming accidentally didn’t make me feel all that bad because I now know I really can control my orgasm, even after more than three weeks. It’s just a matter of practice. Lots and lots of practice.
In the days since, I’ve felt wispy feelings of denial start to creep back (which might explain why I’m here). She’s been playfully touching her cock and saying little things at random times and that helps a lot. Last night, after she told me to get naked, she gave it the most gentle little strokes as she fell asleep – like petting a small animal – with random thwacks at my nuts mixed in. It was nice. Very nice.
In general, I’m feeling really, really good about where we are now. It’s like we’ve settled into a nice little groove. I feel her control with me all the time. The idea of coming absent her go-ahead is alien to me now. Plus, I’m not all freaked about how my feelings have changed since I know it’s temporary (and the 10-14 days after the orgasm give me the highest high anyway). She seems very comfortable in her role and, as I said, is being playful about it. In short, things are awesome.
Nowhere to go but down, right? 😉
An edited text exchange between Belle Fille and me from Wednesday night:
BF: Hi. How about some hot vibe action with I get home?
T: Um, you betcha.
BF: Be naked and ready.
T: Give me 5 minutes warning.
BF: I will. Can I be on top?
T: You can be wherever you want, but what’s that got to do with vibrators?
BF: There might be guests.
T: WTF?!
There were no guests. She was just fucking with me. She was at another work dinner function thing and apparently felt like playing with her rabbit’s head.
As I heard the garage door opening, I hurried around the room, turning off lights and lighting candles and stripping down to just my skin and attached plastic. I laid her two vibrators out on her side of the bed and then reclined on my side, as ordered: naked and ready.
After settling into bed a little while later, she opened her nightstand drawer and removed the key on its chain.1
“I want my cock tonight, is that OK?” she said as she unlocked the device.
“Of course it is,” I replied.
“Of course it is,” she repeated, more slowly.
Luckily, I had earlier given it a really good cleaning, so it didn’t have the rest stop men’s room bouquet it sometimes has at the end of the day.
“Here’s what I want. Tonight, I will demonstrate my control over you by not having control. You will make me come any way you want. And, when I’m done, you can come. Call it my passive-aggressive dominatrix style. It’s Minnesota nice. In fact, when you write about this on the blog, I want you to call it Minnesota Nice.”
“OK,” I replied, worried that people not in Minnesota wouldn’t know what Minnesota nice was. “When you say I ‘can’ come, does that mean I have a choice?”
“No. You must come.”
“Oh. OK.”
I hadn’t been expecting this. I assumed (for whatever reason) that she’d let me come on the weekend. I hadn’t been mentally prepared for needing to bring myself to a place where I could come at all. I started some general pleasuring stuff while trying to rally the troops, but found that I couldn’t get it up. I don’t know if it was the 20-some days of orgasmless existence or the almost two weeks of chastity or what, but I could not get it up. The poor, neglected, abused little dick just flopped around, insistently flaccid.
I didn’t let it freak me, though. I moved over her body and let my torso and legs lay against hers. This kind of large-area skin to skin contact hardly ever happens anymore and feeling her smooth warmth all up and down my body fired off a few critical synapses. I still wasn’t hard, but I could feel it coming. To help it along, I started to rub the head of the cock against the lips of her pussy. She made little sounds at this which also helped the momentum. Soon, her biocock was at full mast.
Once her wet heat enveloped the cock, I sensed that there was a chance I could get her off without coming. Maybe it was the total surprise of the event, but I felt my own orgasm was far enough away that, with sufficient mental discipline, I’d be able to control myself. I started a slow and steady stroking while flicking my tongue over her nipples. The slightly contorted position works in my favor as it helps to take my mind off the action below. I focused as much of my mental energy on her nipples as I possibly could, doing my best to not feel myself fucking her at the same time.
After a little bit of that, it became apparent that I’d have to come up with another strategy. I needed a distraction. As usual, I turned to baseball. Very specifically, I started to thing about my favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. The Dodgers have been playing some really good ball lately. Now that Manny’s back. In fact, they just swept the Reds at home which is something like 11 or 12 straight home wins…
fuckfuckfuck, don’t come!
GREEN GRASS! They play on the green grass of Dodger Stadium, built by Walter O’Malley in Chavez Ravine the year after he moved the team west from Brooklyn. Such a beautiful stadium nestled up in the hills, beautiful green hills. I remember as a kid watching the nearby firefighter’s school do practice water drops on those green hills during the games…
fuckfuckfuck, DON’T COME.
MANNY! I’m really not a fan of Manny Ramirez anymore. Not since the whole drug thing. I mean, I gave those hated Giants such shit when they played Barry Bonds even after all his drug stuff went down. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t feel the same way about Manny. Besides, the Dodgers totally rocked while he was serving his suspension. Who needs him and his $24 million dollar salary…
Ooooooh GOD, don’t come!
I kept up a steady rhythm, not very fast but not too slow, and didn’t have to stop once (though a few times I missed a beat while finding something else Dodger-related to think about). Finally, at about the time I started to worry about how the Dodgers would get past the Phillies to advance to their first World Series since 1988, she started to make sounds like she was going to come. She shifted her hips and I could feel the head of the cock touching her cervix and it was getting harder and harder and harder to hold back the now completely inevitable orgasm.
“OH! Good job, Thumper!” she exclaimed in my ear. That’s it. She had come.
BING!
One and a half strokes later, I was coming, too. Big, fat spurts of three week’s worth of ejaculate. It felt so, so good. She told me how proud she was that I was able to hold it back. Very impressive, she thought. And I admit, I was pretty happy, too.
After I collected myself, I went to the bathroom and was struck by the overpowering smell of semen. It’s such an infrequent part of the action and I go so long without smelling it. Maybe it’s because it was aged and concentrated or something, but the smell of male sex was everywhere.
Back in the bedroom, Belle asked me to hand her Pink.
“Didn’t you come,” I asked, momentarily horrified by the thought that I had misread her and come before she did.
“Yes,” she said, “but I want to try this. Call it an experiment.”
“I’m all in favor of experiments,” I said as I handed her the discrete little vibe. The thing is, Belle never comes more than once. Like, ever. Her’s are more like men’s orgasms in that once she’s had one, it takes her a long time to build back the ability to do it again. Also, she’s usually unable to enjoy sexual stimulation right after due to over sensitivity. This was a very unusual event.
As she was using it on herself, I laid there and reflected on how that moment, right after I came, was so different than the other times I had been forced to watch her pleasure herself. It was interesting more than it was hot. None of the previous feelings of neglect and pain and injustice. But then, I noticed how nice her tits looked from my perspective and I started to wonder if the vibe slid in easier and felt different since she was lubed up with my recently expelled come. I felt a stirring in my groin.
As she continued to use the vibe, her face contorted several times into expressions I’d more easily associate with pain than pleasure. The sounds she made were more like those of someone being hurt. My Belle’s no masochist, so this made it even more unusual. Eventually, she came, but not as boisterously as she had the first time. I’m not sure if this is going to be a regular occurrence now or if it was just a one-time thing.
So now I’m back out of the device and the boulder of orgasm denial has rolled all the way back down to the bottom of the hill. Being allowed the one fantastic orgasm has left me feeling the need for another more than the three weeks of not being allowed to come. Weird how that works.
—
1 Yeah, I thought she was supposed to be hiding it better, too. ↩
Here’s a post that starts on the other end of the day.
Belle usually wakes up kinda early. Five-thirty, or thereabouts, and once up, she immediately gets on her computer and starts clickity-clacking. I’ve trained myself to fall back asleep after her alarm (and first snooze, and second snooze, and third snooze) goes off, usually by snuggling up against her while she replies to all the email she’s picked up overnight.
This morning was a little different. For whatever reason, I woke up and didn’t find her sitting up with her laptop. Even in my groggy state, I realized it was a rare opportunity for some mid-week morning snuggle time and wrapped myself around her (of course, in a way that respected her personage and all that).
She laid there, stroking my head, and said, “Thanks for putting me in charge, Thumpie.” Just like that. Thanks for putting me in charge. I hadn’t said boo to her up to that point. It was entirely unsolicited.
I was dealing with the typical morning chastity tube issues, but upon hearing these words, my issues were suddenly bigger (or trying to be). Besides the physical reaction, I felt a surge of warm excitement fill my chest. I embraced her harder, kissed her, then pressed my face into her. She made me very happy.
Minutes later, she was up and the clickity-clack had started. I had rolled off and was laying next to her on my back, tenting out the covers regardless of the plastic contraption. I was thinking of getting out of bed, but before I did, she placed her foot on my left hip and burrowed her toes into the space between my inner thigh and nuts. And she just left it there. On the one hand, it was just her foot – nothing special. On the other hand, I’m more than three weeks denied, so any contact with my nakedness is cause for attention. Also, I felt pinned. I’m quite sure I was projecting into her action, but to me and the nice buzzy headspace which her earlier comment had created, it felt like a very possessive, almost aggressive move. Of course I wasn’t physically pinned by her, but mentally – emotionally – I felt as though she was directing me to stay where I was. So I did.
—
The previous evening, she related an exchange she had with a couple of female coworkers. One of them had been complaining that she resorted to giving herself pedicures and was unhappy with the result.
“You should make your husband paint your nails,” Belle suggested.
She then told them that she did, in fact, have her husband paint her nails. The one with the ugly toenails said she would have her husband paint them, to which Belle responded, “You might find it turns you on.”
Zing!
I have to admit, the first thing to go through my mind when she related this to me was concern that they’d get the wrong idea and think I was [fill in your choice of submissive male negative stereotypes], but then decided I like that fact that I had given her something to brag about in front of her friends. Who cares what they think? They probably think she’s lucky. I hope she feels that way, too.
—
Dev’s recent post about her potentially doing things in bed more for the benefit of her partners rather than herself touches on something I find myself worrying about with Belle. Specifically, that she has done so much to help me make several of my sexual fantasies a reality and I have done basically nothing to help her achieve hers.
Which is not to say I haven’t tried. I asked her a little while back (about the time I wrote about how her having a boyfriend would turn me on) what her fantasies were. What’s the craziest thing she’s ever wanted to do because I want to help her do it.
Something vaguely about another woman. Nothing specific. Not like, I want to fuck a girl. No, it was just kinda sorta a fuzzy thing about another girl. Maybe kissing one. Not actually doing anything. Just…a girl. She had to pick the one thing I couldn’t do for her since, you know, I’m a boy.
It’s hard for me relate since my fantasies are so very specific (“No, this goes there, that goes over there, and then you do this with it, unless it’s Tuesday, in which case…”). I don’t vaguely do anything in my fantasies. Mine are epic Ben Hur-like productions with extras and period costume and herd animals and massive sets.
So anyway, I know that Belle’s getting lots of great orgasms and everything but I want to fulfill her not just physically, but also mentally. I want her to live her imaginary fuck. But, you know…it’s just this girl.
—
I’m getting my hair cut this afternoon when my guy (who, of course, is gay) and I overhear someone else and their client talking about a new tattoo the client got and we both look trying to get a peek but we can’t see anything (which is unfortunate). Then he asks me if I have any tattoos.
“Not yet,” I reply. Belle’s already told me she wants me to get the thing she drew on my ass tattooed there, but I haven’t done anything about it. Not that I’m opposed, I just haven’t gotten around to it. In any event, he’s kind of surprised by this. That I would get a tattoo.
So I tell him I’d be more than happy to modify my body more than I have, but my job kinda makes that difficult (since I’m often trying to talk relatively conservative people into give me large sums of money). Then he tells me that the other guy with the tatted-up client has a boyfriend who’s thinking of getting a piercing.
“You know,” he says, “down there,” motioning with his scissors toward his navel.
“What kind?” I ask innocently.
“The kind that goes through the you know…”
“A Prince Albert?”
“Yes!” he hisses.
Maybe I’m jaded since I come here and frankly discuss dicks and pussies and physical beatings and all kinds of raunchy kinky shit, but I suddenly found it incredibly funny that I was having a conversation with this grown up gay man in which he couldn’t bring himself to use real words to talk about cocks. Also, I had to make a choice. I, of course, know a whole lot about being pierced down there. Should I spill the beans? I mean, if you can’t talk to your gay hair stylist about your genital piercing, who can you talk to about it?
So, as he was wrinkling up his nose at the prospect of not having sex for a whole month after you get it done, I dropped it on him.
“What?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard me.
“I have one of those. A Prince Albert.”
“WHAT!?!” he exclaimed, blushing deeply. It was hilarious.
Then, of course, the questions came pouring out. How much did it hurt, does it make sex better, what’s it like peeing, did I do it before or after having children, etc., etc. He also wanted to know if you got hard during the piercing. I told him getting hard was the last thing that was gonna happen during the event.
In retrospect, this was quite clearly the longest conversation I’ve ever had about penises (mostly the one on me) with a man I had never and would never have sex with.
Odd thing last night. We’re in bed1, the candles are glowing and smelling nice, the kids are down for the count, and she’s told me to get naked, and…and…that’s it. For the longest time, I was just laying there with her and not roiling in repressed sexual energy. I wasn’t particularly fighting with any urges to attack or otherwise manhandle her. It was weird. I knew I was horny and, as soon as she let me rub a knot in her back and was therefore touching her skin, I started to really feel it, but beforehand, it was like the dog: present in the room, but not engaged in any way. Like my sex was idling until she called for it. I don’t know how I feel about that. She complimented me on controlling my urges and all, so I guess that’s a good thing, but it was very strange finding myself in a situation like that and not feeling the way I’m used to feeling.
It’s been twenty-two days since I last came and just over a week now in the device. The twenty-two days is a record, I think, but the week is nothing special. I’ve done way longer. I also noticed, as I find every time I’m locked up, that situations that would normally cause me to get an erection don’t. Like it’s not worth the bother. So it makes me wonder if this is all just a side-effect of her being in control or if I’ve gone around the curve and am losing some of my sex drive (which, from what I understand, can happen to those denied for a long time). It’s not like I’m worried about it since, once she let me rub her back, I was horny again in a second. I know it’s still in there. But where was it hiding?
The other thing is, since I’m supposed to be under control and respect her personage, I find the little things turn me on a lot more. Well, “turn me on” isn’t quite right, because it feels different. Like when I was touching her back. I put my face down on her skin just to feel the contact. I felt a stirring in the tube, but I never got a raging hard-on. It was more like a man dying of thirst being able to splash water on his face. Then, when we were done, I rolled over and she placed her hand on my lower back/upper ass. Fuck! It made me whimper. Again, no hard-on, no urge to rip her clothes off. It was much less specific. Kind of a free-floating desperation.
I don’t know what it is, but I know I haven’t felt exactly like this before. It’s like I’m becoming more docile. Like sexual release is off the table and all the hormones know it. My body craves…something, but it doesn’t manifest as any specific activity.
She said, just before she let me rub her back, that in the past she might feel sorry for me at this point. That she might let me get a little something out of pity. But not now. She recognizes where I am and I suppose feels something, but not a compelling desire to allow me relief. I’m not unhappy and she’s perfectly satisfied with my behavior and the sex she’s getting.
So, whatever I’m feeling, I’m going to assume it’s OK.
—
1 I haven’t done the math, but I’m pretty sure something like 96% of all my posts start with us in bed. That’s OK, right? ↩
Further pondering following my previous post on how to be happy as a guysub in an otherwise vanilla marriage.
Over on Dev’s blog, I made a comment that I didn’t understand the difference between a top and a domme. I might still not totally understand it, but in reading on the subject, I think I’ve come across some insight other submissive dudes might find helpful. It’s this: Belle does not dominate me, she tops me. OK, fine, all you crusty old timers roll your eyes or whatever it is you do, but I think a lot of guys who slant towards the sub side of the range confuse domination and topping. They’re subtly yet significantly different.
According to Sex-Lexis.com (a dictionary of sexual terms), domme is defined this way (and all the emphasis is mine):
A female-dom or dominatrix , a woman who enjoys dominating role in a dominance-and-submission scene, as opposed to sub (a submissive).
And top is defined this way:
In sex games and activities, the sexually dominant or active-partner (as opposed to bottom or passive), the one who controls the stimuli of a scene in both physical and psychological (fantasy) play.
And…
In BDSM, the person who controls, restrains, or administers the discipline , the player who inflicts sensation and/or bondage on another.
There are other definitions of both, but these are the ones I think are relevant. The key difference is the domme enjoys the dominant role while the top is the one who controls – no particular enjoyment is mentioned. Which is to say, a domme surely tops, but not all tops are dommes since domming suggests one should get off especially on the topping. Savvy?
OK, put it this way. Subby guys all want the domme. They want the woman who will get off on crushing them under foot in any and multiple (loving, of course) ways. In fact, they should be looking for those kinds of women to have relationships with. But, a lot of men, for whatever reason, don’t figure that out until after they’ve made a life with a woman unsuspecting of this desire. In those cases, it can be that the guy lucks out and finds his wife/partner is secretly his opposite number, but most often it’s the case that she’s not. So, the best he can hope for is that she’s OK topping him. You cannot make a person who does not get off on power exchange get off on it, but you might be able to talk one into doing it situationally for your benefit.
This requires that one has a GGG partner. “GGG” is a term coined by Dan Savage that stands for “good, giving, and game: good in bed, giving equal time and equal pleasure, and game for anything—within reason.” If one’s partner is not GGG, it is unlikely they will be willing to top. For the most part, that’s where I am with Belle. She’s not a domme. She’s just not wired that way. But she’s figuring out what trips my trigger and is eternally GGG. She has her limits, but is willing to explore whatever I want within those.
If Belle and I have succeeded at this, it’s because I never asked her to be my domme. I told her what I wanted and asked that she do it to me, but not to fundamentally become someone she’s not. Because she’s wonderful, she does most of what I’ve requested. She’s getting better at it all the time.
I can ask for nothing more. And really, neither can you.
I admit right up front, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about here. See, over the past ten months or so, as it’s become more and more clear that I have a side of me that is this odd creature called a “submissive male”, I have thrashed about trying to find a construct under which to operate. Some kind of framework assembled by those who have come before me to help me find The One True Way I will find happiness with my otherwise vanilla wife.
The web is terrific for this kind of thing. Well, I should say, it’s terrific at disseminating and echoing the prevailing thought. As has been pointed out recently by Ranat1, according to the web, there appears to be two One True Ways to be submissive and male at the same time:
Neither of these things work for me so much. For one, I have simply too high a regard for myself to follow the he-slime model (for more than 45 minutes or so, that is) and the whole “good knight and m’lady” thing just seems kinda like it stems from those frustrated that their days in high school drama class are too far behind them. And, of course, at the end of the day it’s still just me and Belle, the two who have been married almost 12 years (11 of which occurred before my descent into depravity).
What’s become clear to me (and what Ranat’s post and the subsequent conversation about it have helped along for me) is that there is this other way. In fact, there are lots and lots of other ways. In fact, the best and most successful way is the other way. That is, everyone’s unique and they’re partnered with equally unique people. In some cases, there’s a huge overlap between what they’re capable of doing within their relationship and the prevailing paradigms, but in others, there’s less. Some poor bastards never figure that out. They look around, see guys in chastity belts and French maid outfits, and assume that that’s the way they need to express their need to submit to a strong woman. Unfortunately, the poor mate in this scenario a) may not be strong or much interested in pretending to be, and/or b) may not really want to live with a chastity-wearing male French maid since, you know, she’s probably attracted to virile men since that’s what she paired off with. These guys are doomed to failure. Years and years of failure.
Why? Because they define the way success looks based on their perspective (which, in turn, is formed by this fucked up, limited, web-propagated crap). There might be a way forward, but it sure as fuck doesn’t look like anything on the web. The measure of success Belle and I have enjoyed stems from being authentically who we are and not who others are or think we should be. In fact, we are the Borg. We (mostly I) troll the web looking at all the options, reading the perspectives, picking and choosing those that look like they might fit, trying them on, keeping some, discarding others (most). What we have created (and continue to create) is something wholly unique to us because we are unique people. It works for both of us, not just me and not just her. A lot of guys (and even me, sometimes) forget that there’s this whole other person in the relationship with their own turn-ons and fantasies and potential kinks who needs to be just as authentic as they do. IF they’re successful after the kink is introduced, it will only be because they are both being themselves, not because she finally clicks into one of the limited precast roles he’s trying to define for her.
As I said above, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about. Some bloggers are really good talking about the Big Picture. I have been relegated to quite happily making the kinds of posts Steve called the “progress” type, as though my relationship were a train stopping at well-known femdom stations before we “got there”. Truth is, I’m still way too early in this to really know where that station is or what track will get us there (or even to know when we’ve arrived). I’m the reporter who says what happened to who at what time and in what way. I leave the why’s and what it all means to others. At least for now.
—
1 I’ve linked to that post now, like, 56 times which, from all the pingbacks it’s created, makes me look like I’m desperate for attention which, of course, I am but I don’t particularly enjoy looking that way and, in this case, is overstated. In any event, go read it and all the comments, because it’s some of the best intercourse on the subject I’ve seen in all the time I’ve been looking for such things (and yes, I said “intercourse”). ↩
I could dive into this thing (that’s also happening here and there), but I’ll save that for another time. Instead, I’ll make yet another “progress” post about trains and stations…or something.1
I was in bed with Belle Fille earlier in the evening (yes, this evening – can’t sleep), kissing her chin and jaw and face and trying my best to maintain a semblance of control. Since one of the things that’s put Belle off recently is my voracious approach to her body when I’m awash with wanton lust, we’ve established an expectation that I will treat her personage with the respect that it deserves and not as though it were my blow-up girlfriend or something. Steve’s Michelle calls it “queenly dignity”. We don’t have a phrase, but it basically means I can’t grab her tits, shove my hands down the front or back of her pants, grind any part of me into any part of her, get all Doctor Octopus on her, or kiss her in an extra slobbery or tongue-intensive way. Without permission, that is. Sometimes, that’s what she wants. Most of the rest of the time, it’s too much. Therefore, I respect her personage.
So anyway, I was respecting the fuck out of her personage in bed a little while ago, as I said, planting the sweetest, most non-slobbery kisses I knew how on her sweet little face, hand placed sweetly and especially non-grabby on her side and pouring all my desire to do more into my right foot which was thumping on the bed like…well, like Thumper, when she turned away from me and opened her nightstand drawer. A moment later, I saw she had Pink. At first, I thought she was going to hand it to me, but no. She wasn’t. Instead, she moved her hand under the covers, heading south.
“But what about me?” I asked stupidly, sounding hurt.
“You’re…right there,” she replied, “I see you. Sometimes, a girl just knows what she wants…”
“Can I…help?”
“I don’t need any help.”
And she began. I was very close to her. I placed my hand over her torso, not moving towards her breasts (respecting the personage and all) and hugged her close. So close, I thought I could almost feel the vibrations through her body. Her eyes were closed, neck arched. She was entirely within herself, miles away from me. I felt her move her legs further apart and the memory of the feeling of her pussy enveloping what used to be my cock flashed palpably in my mind. I ached, literally and figuratively, to fuck her. The tube was all I could feel now, and it was throbbing. Pounding. Balls aching from the pressure of the ring being smashed behind them.
I was so close to her, I didn’t need to hear the sound of the vibe’s motor becoming rhythmically muffled to know she was fucking herself with it. Twenty days of denial screamed at the injustice of missing a chance to participate in her pleasure. Her orgasm started to build and the pace of her movements under the cover quickened. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I moaned. She came. I whimpered.
After a few moments, I placed my hand on her face and stroked her cheek as she basked in her self-inflicted afterglow. I felt small, wounded, unnecessary – submissive.
“That wasn’t a punishment,” she finally said, “It’s what I wanted, so I did it.”
The pressure in the tube doubled as her words stuffed me deeper into my subspace.
“I love you, Belle Fille,” was all I could say in return.
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1 I’m not sure what it means either, but it might help if you go read the clusterfuck for yourself. ↩
