I can’t even remember the last time Belle let me give her an orgasm. Seriously. Looking back at the blog, it may have been ten days ago. That’s a whole long time for a guy like me. I assumed I’d get to give her some homestyle bunny lovin’ this weekend, but she had a bunch of work to do and was too uptight about it all on Saturday and just wasn’t much in the mood Sunday. So, yeah, ten whole days. And counting.
Last night, laying next to her as she was trying to get to sleep, was maybe the hardest thing I’ve done since ceding complete control over our sex to her. I wanted it so bad. And by “it”, I mean her. I wanted to touch her and smell her and taste her and feel her pleasure radiate from my hands or mouth or her cock or whatever. But, you know, it’s not for me. It’s for her. She decides. She chooses when it happens. And I just wait until she’s ready.
Don’t misunderstand me. We’ve been here before, haven’t we? I know how I’m supposed to act now. I can’t paw all over her, I’m not supposed to bring it up or try to force it on her, and above all, I am not to be moody or pissy or in any way express my dissatisfaction with the arrangement. That’s the deal. I am submissive to her. I know. I need to focus on those things I can do to make her happier, not the other way around. But damn, laying there stewing in my hormone encrusted state, naked except for the device, and not doing anything about it…geeze, they just don’t teach this stuff in school, you know?
On the positive side, while I wasn’t doing too good of a job hiding the state I was in (though the damned plastic did a fine job of concealing the erection), she didn’t seem at all perturbed by my condition. I think she may have acknowledged it in some small way, but she didn’t show any guilt or seem to feel any angst and, above all, made no move to resolve my issue. She was tired, I was horny – so what else is new?
And that was awesome. Just awesome. I really and truly felt my role. While in the past, my frustration led me to act out in ways inconsistent with our arrangement, I was somehow able to turn my frustration around and use it to feed my submission. I craved her attention so much it almost hurt, but, at the same time, I was able to identify that near-hurt as a direct byproduct of how I want us to be. I was not the injured, piqued, ignored husband stewing in resentment. I was the unused tool. The horse left in the stable. The locked-up, denied, sofuckinghorny guysub who knew his place and who bloody well kept his hands to himself and went to sleep like she told him to.
I am, in fact, just where I want to be and I’m glad to finally have the sense to recognize it.