So I rise and enjoy the cold steel around me, a clasp that grasps and holds me. Three days you are away and I need to own this to show you I can. To prove your control fits me well. You release me from it when it pleases you. Control is the harness I wear for your pleasure.
I ponder this as I lube my slumbering cock and ease it into its holster. No matter how much I wipe my hands, fingers slip on the steel and frustrate my attempts to close tight the ring with everything held in, like repacking a case at the end of a holiday. Already I feel its pull like your hands upon me. It hangs like a clockweight to regulate my body and mind across the day. And the movements of my hands.
On the train is the thrill of carrying a secret. My thighs squeeze it and there may be pinches and sliding burns, winces and turns to escape a sharp nip as the carriage passes over a bump and we lurch towards work. Where I will sit and take moments between the busy, to feel your pull, safely encased and utterly beholden. I’ll offer up silent thanks to your desires, feeling fully pinned to my seat.
And the burden will pull and the heat will make me peel clammy flesh surreptitiously. I’ll walk in a series of adjustments along the crowded pavements, with an unnatural hand casually placed in a pocket. The itch that cannot be scratched drives desire that cannot be sated.
At bed I uncase the shrivelled prisoner who senses quickly his chance to escape, to cause an uprising. And the aches, itches, twitches and suppression of the day are released as it grows fat in my hand. But there is no parole tonight.
The ritual of limitation can sit heavily sometimes. But somewhere far away, you are drifting off to sleep. The thought of my cage is still fresh in the flush of your breasts and the wetness of your fingers. And knowing that creates the glow that sits in my centre as I wish you goodnight.