What No Submissive Ever Says About Testicles
Those of you who write to me suggesting topics for me to write about usually insist on two things. If it’s fiction, the one obsession is sex between relatives and all its murkier variants. If, instead, you’d rather ask me for confessions from my real life, the undisputed star is Miss Virginity. You love imagining the first time something ventured inside me. Sorry to disappoint you, but today I’m not giving you that pleasure either. Pleasure is something I only give my Dom, and this time he hasn’t ordered me to write about anything in particular, which I appreciate, because when it comes to obeying with a pen I’m such a disaster I barely recognize myself.
Weeks ago he ordered me to write a story four-handed with Noa, a friend from the network. I titled it Two Viper Tongues and there it still sits, bogged down at a page and a half. I know that when I finally finish it, some punishment will come down on us and we’ll have to swallow it with our heads bowed. For now he waits patiently, silently sharpening the idea of what he’ll make me pay. That patience of his, believe me, is scarier than any shout.
Sorry for going off on a tangent. What I came to tell you about is my relationship with that part of the male body almost no one mentions without laughing: the testicles. The balls, the gonads, the bloody sacred balls, as we say where I’m from. It is, without a doubt, an neglected territory. An honest question: what do submissives do with our Dom’s testicles?
Dommes have it sorted, or at least their repertoire is well known in the scene. They squeeze them, ring them, milk them, shave them, pinch them, pierce them, hit them, staple them, whip them, burn them with hot wax, insult them, stretch them, and anything else you can think of and then some. They are the favorite target of their calculated cruelty. We, the ones on the other end of the leash, are pretty lost when it comes to possibilities.
We’re practically limited to licking. And almost always as a mere preamble, a courtesy procedure before moving on to the true star of the show: his lordship the cock. Granted, at the height of innovation, a Dom may ask you to stuff them whole into your mouth. I confess I have no idea what kind of pleasure that gives a man, but I can assure you that having two full balls inside your mouth doesn’t make my top two hundred list of exciting things. It’s more of an exercise in patience and not choking.
***
I remember perfectly the moment I looked closely, and with real attention, at a pair of testicles for the first time. Let’s travel back to my university years. A diligent student, prissy and a bookworm like no other, I had finally —at last, hallelujah!— gotten myself a proper boyfriend. And by proper boyfriend I mean one you have sex with. Because I didn’t lose my virginity until I got to college. I knew that damned little subject would end up poking its head out sooner or later.
I keep good memories of that boy, and this is one of them: being able to inspect that forbidden area to my heart’s content. It was in his room. He lived in a run-down apartment rented to students, near the university but miles from anywhere anything interesting happened. I spent more than one afternoon there, getting started in matters I had until then only known in theory, from books and from whispered conversations with my friends.
Among the activities of those slow afternoons, genital inspection slipped in. I had already given him a blowjob or two, yes, but a blow job doesn’t give you the right perspective to linger on the details. You’re focused on something else, eyes half closed, with no room for anatomical curiosity. That afternoon, though, before my lips did anything, I asked him to stay still. I wanted to look.
He laughed, a little awkwardly, and spread his legs over the rumpled bedspread.
—What are you doing? —he asked.
—Research —I told him, very seriously, as if I were wearing a white coat.
And that’s what I did. I touched first, to check the consistency. I felt them with my fingertips to understand how they hung and from where, that hidden root you can’t see but can sense. I was surprised by the weight, by the way they settled in my hand like two living, independent things. The scrotal raphe caught my attention, that central seam dividing the skin into two almost symmetrical halves, as if someone had sewn it by hand. There’s something amusing about the way the hairs grow there, scattered apart like lone trees in the clearings of a forest.
I spent a good while like that, studying the furrows of the skin, the thin veins running through it, the temperature, everything that felt utterly new to me even though I already knew the theory by heart. Because knowing is one thing and having it in front of you is something very different. I spoke to him softly while I did it, asked him if it hurt, if he liked it, and he answered in increasingly broken monosyllables.
The most fascinating part came when, without quite meaning to, my other hand started taking care of what was beside it. And then I saw live what I had only read about until then: how the skin of the scrotum tightened and drew up, how the testicles tucked back toward the body as he got more and more aroused. It was like watching a mechanism react to my orders. That sensation of cause and effect, of my hands producing a physical, measurable change in another body, was probably the first spark of what years later would become something much bigger.
What marked me most was not the physical discovery but the attitude I took toward him. For the first time, I was not the one waiting for instructions. I was the one deciding the pace, ordering him to stay still and watching the effect of each caress like someone testing a hypothesis. He, so sure of himself outside that room, came apart under my fingers without quite knowing what to say. That momentary reversal of control gave me a tingle I couldn’t name then. It took me years to understand it, to discover that mine was exactly the opposite: that my pleasure lay in surrendering, not in commanding. But that afternoon, without realizing it, I tried both sides of the coin, and I liked both.
He finished sooner than I expected, looking at me with a face that didn’t quite understand what I had done to him. I was left satisfied, not because of the ending, but because of the lesson. That afternoon I learned more anatomy than in an entire semester, and something else no syllabus ever included.
***
Now, as a submissive, I know the map of that area of my Dom’s body —and of all its surrounding territory— better than he does himself. I know the exact point where the skin is thinnest, where a brush makes him bristle and where a pressure just a little firmer cuts his breath off. Caresses and licks to his balls are always part of the game, unless expressly ordered otherwise. And as the old legal saying goes, what is not forbidden is permitted.
That’s why, without anyone asking, I never stop running my tongue and fingers over that area. I start slowly, almost reverently, tracing that central seam I discovered so many years ago in another bed and another city. I do it with my eyes lifted, seeking his gaze, because half the pleasure is there, in that silent permission he grants me by not stopping me. Sometimes I bury my nose in the heat between his thighs and stay there a moment longer, breathing, before going on. He knows it. He likes seeing me devoted to a detail most people would dismiss in two seconds.
But I have to confess I miss variations. I have no calling as a ball-crusher, nor do I think my Dom is inclined to imitate the submissives who are willing to take part in those arrangements. What we have goes in another direction, more about quiet surrender than displayed pain. Even so, I’m a little frustrated by how limited the repertoire is. There’s a whole world of refined cruelty at the dommes’ fingertips, and for us, barely a tongue and patience.
Maybe that’s exactly where the appeal lies. Maybe submission consists precisely in that: turning a tiny gesture, repeated a thousand times, into a ritual. In licking what others despise and doing it with such devotion that it stops being a mere procedure and becomes an offering. When he rests his hand on the back of my neck and leaves me there a little longer between his legs, unhurried, I understand that power doesn’t always need instruments. Sometimes all it takes is an obedient mouth and all the time in the world.
And yet, I admit it, the curious university girl I once was is still alive in some corner of me. The one who wanted to investigate, to touch, to understand how that unknown mechanism worked. So if any of you can think of a different way to play with a Dom’s balls —something I haven’t tried, something that’s escaped me— I’d be grateful from the bottom of my heart. I take notes on everything. And if he doesn’t like it, he can always forbid it. Though, knowing him, I doubt he will. Patience, as I told you, is his favorite way of punishing me.
Mara V.
