Refilling

This period of Bear’s illness is taking its emotional toll on me. There’s not been any teasing for 2 days, and very little of anything for over a week. He still has me wear the cock ring every night, which I really appreciate. This is nobody’s fault, and I tell myself to be patient. And still, it’s difficult.

I go to bed around 11, and Bear comes to join me later. I don’t know when, it may have been 1AM. He wakes me and gives me the cock ring. I thank him and put it on. When he’s ready, he slips under the covers and puts his arm over me. I am waiting, hopeful, to see whether he’ll do more. He doesn’t. I get that. I give a small sigh.

“This is emotionally difficult for me,” I say, after a short while.

“Hmm? What is?”

“I just can’t wait for you to be well again. I miss your hand on my cock, and I miss being caressed, and I miss giving you pleasure. You’re ill, and stuff happens, and this is nobody’s fault. And it’s emotionally difficult for me,” I say.

“I understand,” he says. “I should be good in another day or two.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“So am I,” he says.

He puts his hand on the covers, over my cock. Good, but not what I am craving. Still, I’ll take what I can get.

After a little bit, he reconsiders, and moves his hand under the covers, touches my cock. I give a sharp inhale of pleasure. I moan a little, and wiggle a little.

“Thank you,” I say, very softly.

“You are welcome,” he says. “It’s late, I wasn’t sure whether it was too late.”

I think for a moment, then I say: “The way I feel when you touch my cock and caress me – the connection I feel, the devotion to you I feel – that is why I do this. It’s never too late, or too early.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

“Do you want me to stroke you?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “I didn’t think you wanted me to, but I thought I’d offer.”

I think a little more. “In the past,” I venture, “when I’d feel a bit lonely, or empty, I’d just masturbate. And I’d get my pleasure apart from you. But I can’t do that any more, now.”

“No, you can’t,” he says. He pauses. “I didn’t really want you to do that then, either.”

“You never said I couldn’t!,” I say, somewhat surprised.

“I know,” he says.

“You always said it was okay if I stroked myself. As long as I didn’t come,” I say. I take a breath. “Well. So now that’s different, and I am glad we are closer to what you want. Now the only way I can get that pleasure is through you. My sexuality is bound up with yours. And that’s good – and that gets emotionally difficult when life and illness get in the way.”

“I understand,” he says. He runs his fingers lightly over the underside of my cock, touches the places I can no longer touch. I shudder, and feel myself filling again with devotion to him.

“Make time to do my nails,” he says. “They’re sharp.” He touches my chest to demonstrate.

“I will,” I say.

His hand is back between my legs. “And I want breakfast at 8, not 7.”

“Yes,” I say. Teasing and being commanded. I have the best husband, ever.

“Thank you so much,” I say.

“You’re very welcome,” he says.

And with that, his hand is gone, and we go to sleep. My reservoir is no longer running on fumes. Not full, not by a long shot. But re-filling.

 

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