suckyD


suckyourbum Male Submissive, 49, huntington	suckyourtoes Male Submissive, 55, Akron, Ohio	suckytom Male Submissive, 49, Kansas, Missouri

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	About suckyD Seeking My Guiding Light Hello! I'm a 65-year-old widowed gentleman, enjoying a comfortable retirement with a good pension. I'm fit, healthy, and always eager to learn and grow. Throughout my life, I've found fulfillment in a submissive role, and I'm now seeking a strict yet nurturing lady to guide me on this exciting journey. If you're a confident, self-sufficient woman with a strong sense of self-worth and character, and you're looking for a partner to explore the world with, please reach out. Age is not just a number, I'm open to anyone within a decade of my own. Physical attributes are not important to me.

Spot The difference

Mark had a secret, one he kept even from himself most days. Tucked away in a encrypted folder on his laptop, labeled "Tax Records 2018," was a collection of stories. They were all variations on the same theme: powerful, confident women taking lovers while their husbands watched from the shadows, sometimes in anguish, sometimes in ecstasy. For Mark, these were a potent escape. In his mundane life?as a mid-level accountant, as a husband to the lovely but predictable Sarah?he was anything but powerless. He managed their finances, he decided on home repairs, he was, in every measurable way, the man of the house.

The fantasies were a complete inversion. They were a safe, controlled way to experience the loss of control. The humiliation in the stories was a curated spice, a theatrical performance of vulnerability that held no real-world consequences. He'd read them late at night, the glow of the screen illuminating his face, the scenarios playing out in his mind as a form of psychological release. He imagined the mix of jealousy and arousal, the complicated knot of emotions that made the fantasy so compelling. He even toyed with the idea of bringing it up to Sarah, but the words always caught in his throat. How could he possibly explain wanting to feel small and insignificant to the woman who relied on him to be anything but?

The fantasy was a perfect, self-contained jewel. The reality was a shattered mess.

It started with a shift in Sarah's behavior. A new, almost furtive energy. She started wearing perfume to work, which she hadn't done in years. She became protective of her phone, turning it screen-down on the counter. Mark, armed with the "knowledge" from his stories, told himself he was being paranoid. This wasn't like the neat narratives he read. There were no knowing glances, no whispered confessions. This was just? weirdness.

The confirmation came not through a dramatic confrontation, but through mundane technology. He was syncing their family photos to the cloud and her phone's camera roll automatically backed up as well. There, amongst pictures of their dog and a recent work event, was a short video. He tapped it, expecting a clip of a friend's birthday.

It was Sarah, on a hotel bed he didn't recognize, her head thrown back in a laugh he hadn't heard in years. And there was a man's arm, a tattoo of a coiled snake on its forearm, wrapped around her. The sound was off, but he didn't need it. The intimacy in the frame was a physical blow.

In his stories, the moment of discovery was the climax. The husband would feel a jolt of electric humiliation, his stomach would clench with a painful, illicit thrill. He would be aroused despite himself, his body betraying his mind as he watched the scene unfold.

Mark felt none of that.

He felt a cold, sickening hollerness in his gut. His hands started shaking so violently he dropped his phone. The screen cracked, spiderwebbing over the image of his wife and the snake-tattooed arm. He didn't feel a perverse thrill. He felt like he was going to throw up. The air in the room became thick and hard to breathe. This wasn't a carefully constructed narrative of power exchange; this was a raw, ugly betrayal.

The fantasy had always been about *him*. His reaction, his journey, his complex feelings. The wife was a catalyst, a powerful figure in his psychodrama. But this reality wasn't about him at all. It was about Sarah and her secrets. He wasn't an audience member in a consensual performance; he was the fool who hadn't even known he was off-stage.

When Sarah came home, she saw his face. She saw the phone on the floor. The story tumbled out, messy and tearful. It wasn't about power or dynamics; it was about loneliness and feeling invisible and a stupid, drunken mistake at a conference.

As she spoke, all Mark could think about were the stories. The clean lines of the text, the articulate descriptions of agony and desire. They were a lie. They were pornography, not reality. They had romanticized a pain that was, in truth, just jagged and brutal. There was no arousal in his devastation, no liberation in his humiliation. There was only the crushing weight of a broken trust, a thousand times heavier and more real than the paper-thin fantasies he'd used to distract himself from the very real possibility of such a pain. He had wanted to play with fire in a controlled environment, only to discover that in the real world, you just get burned.

How many Dommes have found this to be true?

The Servant's Deceit

I kneel before you, head bowed low,
A perfect picture of compliance,
But every "Yes, Mistress," every "No,"
Serves only my own private science.

You think my submission is a gift,
A treasure I place upon your throne,
But in this carefully constructed rift,
I'm serving only myself, and you alone
Are but the mirror to reflect
The pleasure that I truly seek,
My true allegiance to respect
Is nothing but a game, a trick.

You bind my wrists, you chain my soul,
And think you've captured my desire,

Sunday Morning Comin' Down

Wakin' up in the quiet haze,

On my knees, I start my days.

The sunlight streams across the floor,

As I crawl to your bedroom door.

The coffee's brewin' in the pot,

Another command from you I've got.

Your feet need worship, that's my task,

No questions that I need to ask.

The paper's waitin' on the lawn,

But your desires are never gone.

I bring you breakfast, serve with care,

Your collar's waiting for me there.

The morning's peaceful, I'm content,

In this submission, heaven-sent.

Your pleasure is my only goal,

The sweet surrender of my soul.

The boring life I left behind,

In chains of love, I'm now confined.

Each Sunday morning, I embrace,

The power and the joy of your grace.

A day in service.

The morning light finds me on my knees,

A feather duster clutched in my hand.

My only garments are these metal pieces

And leather tight about my neck, so branded.

The cage is cold, a constant, weighted shame,

That shrivels what pathetic manhood grew.

She watches from the doorway, lips aflame,

With scorn for every single thing I do.

"That spot, you missed it, worthless little worm!"

Her voice is acid, sharp and cutting clean.

"A child could clean with less to be concerned,

But you can't even function on the scene."

She points and laughs, a sound that cuts the air,

"At what they've locked away in there, so small.

It's more a keychain than a thing to spare,

No wonder it doesn't function at all."

I scrub the floor, my back beginning to ache,

Each movement jiggles my ridiculous cage.

Another failure for her to mistake

For evidence of my inadequate age.

"The baseboards, look! You've left a line of dust!

My useless, tiny, disappointing toy.

Is there one task that isn't built on rust?

One single moment you don't disappoint?"

I finish, broken, kneeling at her feet,

The house is clean, but I am still a mess.

She clips a leash to my collar, a treat

For being best at nothing, I confess.

"Good boy," she purrs, her hand upon my head,

"At least you know your place, beneath my heel.

Now rest your minuscule cock in bed,

And let this empty, hollow feeling feel."

Ode to Her First Locking

Her fingers, steady, hold the gleaming steel,

A promise whispered, made to feel so real.

I stand before her, vulnerable and bare,

As she prepares the device I'm meant to wear.

The metal touches skin, so cold, so stark,

A sudden gasp ignites within the dark.

She smiles to see my body's quick response,

This first step in our intimate, new dance.

Each adjustment made with practiced, tender care,

Her breath upon my neck, a whispered prayer.

The cage slides into place, a perfect fit,

As I surrender all control to it.

The lock aligns, a moment of suspense,

She watches for my compliance, my consent.

That final click echoes in the silent room,

Sealing my fate, banishing all gloom.

Her key now dangles, precious, silver-bright,

The symbol of her power, day and night.

My ownership is confirmed, my purpose clear,

In this act of submission, void of fear.

My body now belongs to her alone,

This cage of steel a comfort, not a groan.

For in her dominance, I find my release,

My mind now empty, my desires at peace.

So hail the cage, placed by her loving hand,

That makes me truly hers on this new land.

For in her control, I'm finally free,

To be the man I'm meant to be, with thee.

The silver circle gleams in firelight,

A hollow promise, cold and bright.

She holds it like a favored gem,

Between her fingers, diadem

Of her control, his sacrifice,

The metal ring, the final price.

"Twenty-five," she whispers low,

Her fingers tracing, slow,

The path his tongue has yet to take,

A journey for her pleasure's sake.

One by one, they'll be accounted,

Each when she has mounted

His willing mouth, his eager face,

In this most intimate, sacred space.

The lock clicks shut, a tiny sound,

That echoes in his soul profound.

A key now rests between her breasts,

A promise of his future quests.

He feels the weight, the cool restraint,

A newly formed, delicious pain.

"Begin," she says, and spreads her thighs,

A universe before his eyes.

His first obeisance, his first task,

No time for questions that men ask.

Just service, hunger, devout need,

To plant his mouth's devoted seed.

He counts them not in numbers, but

In trembling thighs, in every glut

Of pleasure that he pulls from deep,

While his own promise lies asleep.

Twenty-four more, a worthy debt,

The finest surrender, truly met.

The silken ropes, a web both soft and tight,

Secure your limbs in the fading light.

You offer trust, a fragile, sacred thing,

Awaiting the pleasure your queen will bring.

Her eyes hold fire, her smile is sharp and keen,

The most intoxicating sight you've seen.

She moves with purpose, confident and slow,

And from a drawer, her chosen tools will grow.

The harness waits, of polished midnight black,

And as she lifts it, there is no turning back.

The leather sings a low and throaty sound,

As she first wraps the straps securely 'round.

A deeper creak as she pulls the harness tight,

A groan of leather, bending to her might.

The sharp-edged click of buckle meeting tongue,

The final sound before your song is sung.

It strains against her hips, a second skin,

A promise of the place you've never been.

The scent of leather fills the charged-up air,

A musky perfume, potent and beyond compare.

She turns to you, her shadow tall and vast,

This moment of surrender built to last.

The silicone now cool against your heat,

A strange and shocking, yet delicious, treat.

Your breath catches in a sharp, surprised gasp,

As past your final, guarded line she'll pass.

A world of pleasure, sharp and brand new,

Unfurls inside, completely owned by you.

And in the creak of leather, in her sigh,

You learn to fly, and learn to fall, and die

To who you were, reborn in this new role,

The willing vessel for her hungry soul.

A day in service?

I rise at dawn, my body sore,

To chores and tasks, and much, much more.

The floor I scrub, the dust I chase,

A flick of the wrist, a stern command sets the pace.

Her coffee brewed, just so, just right,

I dare not fail, in morning's light.

Her silk robe flows, a queenly sight,

I bow my head, avoid her light.

The day is long, a string of tests,

To prove my worth, to quell her jests.

A word of praise, a precious prize,

Reflected in her knowing eyes.

The afternoon, a humbler task,

Her boots to clean, that's all I ask.

To kneel and wipe, to polish well,

The story that my movements tell.

The sun descends, the day is done,

The final test has now begun.

She summons me with one sharp look,

My place is found, my writing's in a book.

Her throne awaits, a velvet chair,

I crawl toward her, breathless, aware.

The day's devotion finds its end,

My goddess, whom I can't transcend.

Her sacred space, my final quest,

My weary head upon her breast.

My tongue performs the rite so true,

My world is her, in every hue.

Upon His Knees

He kneels upon the plush carpet, time etched in silver at his temples,

A devoted servant to her throne of silk and shadow.

Her hands, adorned with crimson, guide him gently down,

To where her essence calls like honeyed nectar.

With reverence, he parts the petals of her bloom,

Tongue tracing ancient patterns of worship and surrender.

Each lap a prayer, each flick a testament to his devotion,

As she arches above him, goddess of his universe.

Her fingers tangle in his graying hair, a crown of submission,

While waves of pleasure ripple through her sovereign form.

He drinks eagerly from her chalice, deep and sweet,

Lost in the sacred ceremony of flesh and power.

Her thighs, strong and commanding, frame his weathered face,

A throne room where his service finds its highest purpose.

Her moans are royal decrees that echo through his soul,

As he worships at the altar of her divinity.

Bound by Control: A Lesson In Surrender.

Full story can be found on :https://www.thefetlibrary.com/story/1ead86ef-90ee-4925-b04d-93156fff8932

He woke up with a jolt, his body aching from the previous night's activities. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized he was alone in the room. Chrissie was nowhere to be seen. Panic surged through him as he tried to move, only to find his ankles still tied and something else. An unfamiliar weight on his cock. He pulled the thin sheet off and looked in horror. There was cock cage firmly in place

His heart raced as he scanned the room, his gaze landing on a note resting on the nightstand. With trembling hands, he reached for it, his eyes quickly scanning the contents:

"It won't come off without damage to your balls. I'll be in touch."

His breath hitched, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through him. Chrissie's words echoed in his mind, a reminder of her absolute control. He was at her mercy, completely dependent on her for release and relief.

He tested the cock cage, the cold metal pressing against his skin. The note was clear: it wasn't going anywhere, and he couldn't remove the cage without risking serious harm.

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About suckyD