The Ring - orestes

It was an act of initiative, but not wholly so. Up until only a few days prior my interaction with women on Second Life had been in the position of a dominant. I loved it. I loved power and I loved the trust. I was used to it. It was old leather to me and so much so that I wanted to better understand what it was the women I would dominate so enjoyed. I felt I owed them that much and that, perhaps, to better understand the thing they loved would be to better dominate them. I began to explore.

I had found myself a Miss who graciously took me into her training collar. She had a full submissive whom she had told me wore something called a “cock ring” daily as a sort of tribute to her. Now you must understand that though both male and heterosexual and as obsessed with my own bit of anatomy and its functions as most other men, I'd had little exposure such things—perhaps judging them to be on par with Viagra for performance enhancement and thus beneath the notice of young, virile man. Nonetheless it was clear from the way Miss spoke of it and of her submissive that she deeply enjoyed this act of devotion and here I discovered something that caught me a little off guard—I wanted her as pleased with me.

She had instructed that I should get such a device for myself and, woefully ignorant as I was, I proceeded to a local shop and purchased a mid-sized steel ring. What I did not know at the time was that the ring worn by her submissive was latex and that she had intended that I get something similar. This would turn out to be painful lesson in making sure I understood the orders given to me -before- executing them...but more on that later.

I was both excited and fearful as I drove back to my apartment that night. My imagination was abuzz with activity. Fear fed excitement and excitement fed fear as I lay awake in bed a bit longer than usual. Something in me was revolting against this—something of my inner dominant. The idea wrapping that bit of metal around my cock upon the instruction of a woman was, in itself, a blow to his pride. What was worse, however, was the admission that had to be made—I was enjoying this. I liked the idea and, in liking it, I had to hate it and, in hating it, I had to like it all the more. I was confused and it made matters worse once I understood. To like what was hated—to enjoy the wholesale destruction of pride—this was humiliation...and I enjoyed it...and the enjoyment humiliated me all the more.

I began the next day on campus at the university where I presently study. The ring still held its fascination. I had brought it with me and, all through my first two classes, I could not for the life of me concentrate on the lectures and it helped not at all that one of the debates that sprang up between classmates in my Literary Theory course hinged itself upon whether or not Jacques Derrida was, academically speaking, a prick. The word itself was enough to make me reach down to the small pocket of my backpack and feel the circumference of the ring tucked away inside.
And -this- was the act of initiative: I determined that, after class, I would slip into a stall in one of the bathrooms and wear the ring. There would be a couple hours before my next class for me to accustom myself to the feeling. I would feel it, I would understand it, and when class was ready to start, I'd slip it off again and finally be able to concentrate. That was the theory.

Now, having never had a cock ring before proved to have its drawbacks. Que “Flight of the Bumblebee” and fast-forward to a downward camera-angle of a young man in a public toilet stall with his pants midway down his legs, swearing like a sailor under his breath and dancing about whilst trying to work out a four-piece rubix cube: two testicals, one shaft and a steel ring. Thank God the computer lab was just down the way—I ended up having to google it and come back.
The ring was in place. It was cold at first...that faded. It was tight and it was heavy and it was it was hard. These sensations alone, to my shock, caused a small surge in my blood. I watched in fascination as I began to swell slightly. The steel grew tighter...I swelled more...I grew nervous—claustrophobic. I forced myself to relax and took the ring back off...for all of 3 minutes. I was too fascinated. Remembering the experience of 3 minutes earlier I remembered, beneath the fear, a deep and sweet urgency that now took hold of me again. I put the ring back on.

I went to the computer lab and logged on to Second Life where I found my Miss. I wanted to tell her. She hadn't instructed that I should wear it yet and wondered if what I had done was acceptable...fear intensified. Other thoughts amplified the ever-present sensation of unyielding steel entrapping me—entrapping the blood within me—forcing me to remain hard. I could practically feel the purple veins straining against the thin skin of the imprisoned shaft in my cargos. I looked around the lab, face flushed. What if someone knew? It was completely irrational to think that they might but fear doesn't follow rationality. What would they think if they saw this proud young academic hopelessly trapped in a perpetual state of arousal. The humiliation was...delicious. I desperately wanted to touch...to feel that involuntary hardness that I could not dispel. How could I, though, being in the computer lab? All this only made the blood pulse harder. I could feel my heartbeat in my cock now—it hurt. The tightness of the ring had become a deep, burning pain.

Humiliated again—I was a masochist.

I had to tell her. I needed to feel how real this was. I needed -someone- else to know...to validate the feelings of helplessness...pain...arousal. When I told her, she simply smiled and, like the true Miss she is, gave me all those things—talked me through them all without diminishing them in the slightest...only helping me to understand and accept a simple, terrifying fact:

There is a submissive in me.