So I wait

Last weekend, I was out of town. The weekend before that, Belle was. She’s in Chicago today. It’s been a while since we had quality time together, let alone had sex, because it’s a busy time of year all the way around. It’s during periods like this when being locked up is it’s most difficult.

I mean, sure, being locked up when your face is buried in her pussy is hard, but it’s the kind of hard you want. This is the kind of hard you don’t want. The kind of hard that, for a normal man, would be lessened by a few jack off sessions to take the edge off and relieve the boredom. I’m not a normal man, though.

These extended periods where life gets in the way of the hotness and push the dynamic we’ve both worked to achieve into the background are so hard because it keeps me in a kind of limbo. I just sort of endure. In the past, I’d struggle with keeping my emotions under control in these times. I probably still do, but I’m at least more aware of myself now. My fuse tends to be short and my mood swings quickly but I just sort of keep my head down and push through knowing it’s temporary.

This is when the real dedication of releasing control over oneself kicks in. It’s not fun. It’s not exciting. It’s dreary and can seem pointless. Last night I was in the otherwise empty bed and my hand was on the Looker and feeling as much of the penis inside as I could and poking at the hard rod deep inside and my balls hanging down fat between my legs. That can be a deliciously frustrating situation but it can also make me feel like nothing much at all. Not a man. At least not like any other I know. I realize that in a way my sexuality is all about others. Like a reverse vampire, it’s only visible when reflected off someone else. I am still craving some kind of sexuality (not just sex, but the feeling of being sexual) but absent Belle as a focus, I don’t really exist. I mean, yeah, that’s a bit dramatic and probably not true, but it’s how that situation can feel.

I find I need to focus on the act of submitting. Just doing it is what matters. That the nothingness of being locked and unable to pleasure myself or give her pleasure is, in itself, valuable. In fact, if I can’t do it when it’s not fun, then it has no real value. I have ceded control over myself and accepted my submission even when it’s hard and it is my job to endure those times. It’s the deal I made and the commitment I signed up for and I know she wants me this way and appreciates my difficulty. Also that we’re both happier this way and it’s how things must be.

So I leave my hand on the warm hard metal and feel my heavy balls with my fingers and rub the little bit of remaining foreskin that sticks out between the bars with my thumb and I draw strength from the steel. Its contents have never felt less like something I control or own. Referring to it as “my” penis has never felt more wrong.

No, I’m not a man. Not a normal one. But that’s not my fault. We just don’t have enough words to describe the variations of manliness. But I am me. I am nothing else but. And I am for her and she is for me.

So I wait.

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