Belle sent me back to bed about midday because she wanted me to get her off. It was unusual in that we typically take care of that first thing, but I wasn’t going to argue with her.
In bed, kissing and rubbing and such, she had my balls in her hand I was feeling the pressure of being denied 483 days and said to her, “So it doesn’t really seem like you’re going to let me fuck you any time soon.”
She smiled and said, “You’re very good at satisfying me in other ways.”
This inferred to me three things.
One, our sex is about her satisfaction, not mine. At one point in our relationship, and even for some time after she started locking me up, having sex was at least incidentally about letting me have something, if only occasionally. And, at times, it was much more than occasionally. But not anymore. Now, she considered sex to be hers and about her. Why would I get to fuck when she was getting everything she needed already?
Two, I cannot satisfy her in that way. I mean, I already know this. But she was saying it by essentially shrugging and telling me I was good at getting her off “in other ways.” Manually, orally, etc. I don’t think she likes to say it explicitly. As if it will injure my male ego or something. My sexual ego has been whipped into shape enough not to be bruised that way. Well, not bruised so much that it would leave a mark. Of course I can’t satisfy her that way. I can’t last two minutes after insertion before I start spewing. There’s nothing in it for her, I know it, she knows it. Go back to step one: it’s not about me. So, no point.
Three, I was unlikely to ever get to fuck her again. That’s been my assumption for some time, but she’s not said it. But if her logic is sex is about her satisfaction and me fucking her doesn’t lead to her having much if any then I was unlikely to ever get the chance to regain something of my old skill and stamina in that department since, as far as I can tell, the only way to get it back would be if she allowed me to do it a bunch. But…the logic doesn’t go there. I’m no good at fucking her so I won’t get any chances at getting good at fucking her which will ensure I remain no good at fucking her.
While I was working at getting her off, she was being somewhat vocal since we were alone in the house. You’re very good at satisfying me in other ways, was echoing in my head amongst the above thoughts.
I asked, “You mean like this?”
“Mm-hmm. This is what you’re best at.”
Eventually, she came so hard she had to push my hand off her pussy. The contents are never tighter and my urge to be inside her is never more fervent than right at that moment, but I had to smile. I am good at this. It is what I’m best at. Now.
After we dozed a bit in her sparkly post-orgasmic cloud, I was tight again and pushing into her leg. She let me get on top of her and bring the titanium-clad contents up against her heat. I groaned in stifled desire.
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” she said to me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you want in there desperately but if I let you in there you’ll regret it as soon as you’re done.”
I put my head on her chest, feeling bad for indulging myself in that way. I don’t want to make her feel guilty.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No reason to feel sorry. I’m perfectly fine with you feeling desperate.” And then, “I know what’s best for you.”
Oof. Of course, she’s right. I really did want to fuck her. Badly. And it’s true that even though I would jump at the chance without hesitation at this point (483 days, after all), I would feel…conflicted after. But hearing this, on top of what she’d said earlier, made a pretty tight logical trap.
I said, “If doesn’t sound like I should have any reason to expect you’ll ever let me fuck you again?”
I really just needed to hear her say the words. Without ambiguity.
She replied, “You should have no reason to expect I’ll ever let you fuck me again. Eternally denied.”
There was a rush of emotion. Hearing it, finally. The weight of the reality that the part of my life with a functioning penis was over. She’d said it. We’d reached the logical end of the chain of events that began when I showed her the website listing with rudimentary “chastity” devices almost 15 years ago and told her I wanted her to control my orgasms. Every part of that evolution for both of us, emotionally and physically, pointed there. To that moment in our bed when she told me I was never going to fuck again.
“I understand,” was all I could say back to her. And I do.