My primary sex organ at this point in my life is the middle finger on my right hand because that’s the finger I use to stroke Belle’s clit and make her come.
It’s the first and, often, only part of me that gets to enjoy her hot, wet snatch and the sensations I receive from that touch feel as powerful to me now as what it used to feel like when I was allowed to regularly slide my erection into her. It’s maybe even better than that since this touch tells me in a nanosecond how well I’ve gotten her warmed up and ready. I can feel how wet and full and open she is. How receptive to my attention. The way her lips slide under my touch and open for me as I move the tip of my finger across and into them sends shuddering waves of pleasure through me that’re both very different than feeling the hard contents slide in but also very similar.
The uninitiated might read that and be horrified at the prospect of being driven to the point of not thinking about one’s actual sex organ as even secondary or tertiary let alone primary. Realistically, the contents of the device doesn’t even rank. And that’s good. For me, anyway.
By narrowing all my sexual focus to the tip of my finger, which cannot come too early or fail to stay hard or make me in any way self-conscious , I am far more focused on Belle’s pleasure. Instead of thinking about when I get to fuck her which makes me impatient and rush and lose my focus on her, I’m actually incentivized to make it last as long as possible. Since all I’m going to get is what it feels like to get her off and, once she’s had her orgasm, my time sharing that pleasure with her comes to an end, I work to make it last as long as I can and that enhances and extends her pleasure.
Her pleasure is my only priority.
I can’t really give her any pleasure with the contents anymore. When she last let me inside her with it, I came in about a minute. I can’t fuck with any kind of authority or rhythm. I can’t do anything that really makes her feel as though she’s been or is being fucked. I have zero confidence when trying to use it and knowing all that makes me a nervous wreck. Knowing that she can see it our touch it makes me terribly self-conscious because being essentially permanently encased for the past several years has left it a weirdly stunted and unattractive specimen.
The entire experience is just not good for her and if it’s not good for her it’s not good for me. If I can’t be pleasurably useful to her, then what’s the point?
She’s told me twice now that that last fuck wasn’t worth it for her. The cost in what it did to me and how it impacted our dynamic wasn’t outweighed by the pleasure she got out of it.
And, of course, it’s all tied together. I stay locked up and don’t get to fuck her because it’s not worth it for her because I’m a lousy fuck because I’m always locked up. ♻️
Feeling the ever-present frustration of being perpetually locked up is, for me, far preferable to the nothing I feel after I have an orgasm. The frustration powers my dedication her pleasure and keeps me energized to service her. I get so much more satisfaction knowing how I’m kept makes me a more attentive and skillful lover for her. Feeling something other than just pressure on the contents would be really nice, of course, but that’s just not in the cards for me.
So be it.