Learning

Image from the incomparable Jackysis

Reminds me of a conversation Emily and I had years ago when we were first still figuring all this out. When my feminization was newer to her, when chastity was more a game than a way of life. I'm sure I've blogged about this before, or the theme, but here I am writing again.

*****

"It's been a month," I told Emily, in one of the longest times she'd kept me locked back then.

"I know," she smiled, "trust me, I know."

"I feel like I'm going to burst, please, will you unlock me so I can take care of it."

Emily frowned. 

"What?" I asked.

"I don't know, you look so pretty like this," she said.

"Thank you," I said, still enthralled she not only accepted the sissy part of me, but seemed to enjoy it as well. "Can we...will you..." I didn't want to beg even though I was all but begging.

"I don't mind, I just..."

"What?" I asked.

"I like it when you're soft and pretty and, well, you have this pattern."

"Pattern?"

"Pattern," Emily said.

"Yeah, when you wear this," she tapped the cage, "in fact, the longer you wear this, the more feminine you are, the more you want to dress as a girl, the more you act like a girl, the more you clearly let the feminine feeling run loose in your mind."

"Yeah," I agreed.

"But when you take this off it isn't a day before you're doing naughty things...don't think I don't know you do naughty things when I'm not here, I can tell, I know you make yourself squirt. And then you shut down."

"Shut down?" I asked, knowing full well what she meant, experiencing it for years, the cycle, the urge, the purge. I no longer purged, but she was totally right, after I did 'naughty things' I wanted nothing to do with being feminine for days, sometimes longer, sometimes weeks.

"Yeah," Emily said, "it's like your feminine desires leave the second you squirt, like you squirt them out along with, you know," she giggled, "the mess."

She was right, all the mixed-up feelings, the shame of not being able to be a man like every man I knew in real life, mixed with the shame of not being able to be a woman, either. It was a roller coaster. The longer I went between orgasms, the more feminine I felt but this contrasted with my building sexual desire, which, if fulfilled, spent my feminine desires. A vicious roller coaster.

"Emily, I...it's not like that," I lied.

"It's totally like that," she said, "it's like you're ashamed of it."

"I'm not ashamed."

"I think you are," she said, "ashamed, guilty, but the longer you go without...squiring...the less you feel that and the more you accept this, looking pretty, feeling pretty, being pretty. And I think this," she tapped the cage again, "prevents you from doing naughty things when I'm not here, breaking the cycle and keeping you from being ashamed of girlie urges."

"Em," I said, "I...please...can't I..."

"Let's let it go a few more weeks, she said, learning that the longer I was caged the more feminine I was.