Solo

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. ↩