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Posts tagged ‘BDSM’

Mar 22

7 Comments

Meat this!

Tom’s got another meaty one. (Perverts. Post. He’s got a meaty post.)

I’m going to start by highlighting the bit I especially loved.

[B]eing locked up does not make me feel less manly, less assertive, less randy, or less anything. It makes me feel … more.

Way. In my experience, denial is like turning the saturation way up on a TV. When it’s really humming, it makes all my senses crackle. It’s a beautiful thing. Regular readers will know that I don’t always feel this way and sometimes being denied does result in me feeling less, but I think that’s more a result of Belle and I still getting a hang of all the buttons and switches (overlaid with the normal ebbs and flows of the human psyche) than it is the fault of the denial.

And who in fuck’s name would want to feel less? Can that even be a thing? Getting off on feeling less? Anyway…

Tom goes on to say:

Personally, I’ve been reading so much about what people consider to be “submission” and “submissiveness” that I have decided to disassociate myself from the term altogether; virtually nothing of what I’ve been reading seems to apply to me, so instead of trying to defend my own submissiveness, or more correctly, those certain feelings that I get that I used to associate with submissiveness, I’m just going to move on to some other scale and call it something else. Or maybe I won’t call it anything; I’ll just feel them and describe what I can.

This really speaks to me, too. I mean, that’s kind of what this was all about, right?

The way my brain figures out new things is by looking at similar things to understand how they’re supposed to work. I suppose everyone does this to some extent, but I do it a lot. Pretty much to a fault. Sometimes, this is a really good strategy (like when learning language or how a logical system operates), but in the case of human sexuality, this is a really lame way to go about it. Coming to all this submissiveness stuff late in life, I did my usual thing and looked for analogs of what I thought I was. Tom was one of those as were a number of other bloggers (along, even, with some porn which, of course, is a Really Bad Idea™). Bottom line is I kept comparing myself to a bunch of “ideals” and coming up short. There are a few I feel I’m more like than others, but none of them fit. Obviously, this is because human sexuality is infinitely variable. It’s not an operating system or a machine (even though I used that metaphor above). It’s a messy tangle of crossed wires and gooey dark corners that’s always bubbling and morphing and slithering along in unexpected directions.

Long way around to say the obvious: labeling a human’s sexual quirks can be damaging. If Tom wants to shed his submissive cloak, more power to him. I think there are more ways for otherwise “submissive” men to be different than there are for them to be the same. Case in point is our views on service, but I’ll get to that later. First…

It’s amusing to see that the selling points for male chastity devices tend to focus on either making your man more “romantic”, or on making him do more household chores. … But is this actually true, or is it a stereotype that plays on the idea that sex is something that men want, and  women parcel out according to whim?

I have tried to run away from this stereotype and in doing so have beat myself up (only figuratively, alas) for not Doing It Right, but the thing is, yeah, being locked up and denied does tend to make me a better mate to Belle. I’m much more attentive to her, much more in tune with what she needs, and much more willing to sacrifice what I want in order to give her what she wants.

But for us, the device is only a catalyst. What it represents is a level of commitment on Belle’s part to our relationship that, frankly, I didn’t feel for years (and she didn’t feel it back from me, either). Now, because she locks up the cock, because she denies me orgasm, because she takes advantage of my desire to serve her, I am fully engaged with her and our relationship like I haven’t been for about a decade. Likewise, she sees a commitment from me though my dealing with the device, giving her the cock to control, and trying my hardest to be of service to her. Did the device do that? Or did I? I think it was both of us.

Too many people think chastity devices are like magical talismans that are good for whatever ails you. Like any tool, it’s how you use it that counts. Just because there’s a thing involved, people incorrectly assign the improvements in their relationship to the device when in fact they should be taking the credit themselves. Successfully integrating chastity is hard work that, when done correctly, bears a lot of fruit. But it’s the fact that they’re doing the work that makes it work, not whatever thing they’ve chosen to play with.

Never not once has any woodworker said, “Gee, that hammer really made a great bookcase!”

The last bit of Tom’s post I want to flog is the part about service. Or, more specifically, how the concept of being a service sub just isn’t lighting any fires over at the Allen Ranch. I tried to find that one salient blurb that fully captured his sentiment, but really, it’s the entire last four paragraphs of his post. If you haven’t already, go read it.

I’ll wait…

OK.

He does a pretty good job of knocking the whole service concept about the head and face, and I think that we probably have a fair bit of common ground around this, but I also think he’s missing some of the point.

I know (or, at least, I read) that some people actually get a sexual charge from performing service. I do not. He talks about how he doesn’t “drip with sexual excitement” when he brings Mrs. Edge a cup of coffee, and while I get Belle coffee all the time, it’s never caused me to drip anything (other than the occasional bit I’ve spilled). It isn’t the act of doing what she says that gets me off. In fact, it’s often a bit of a downer. I’d rather be updating my portfolio or playing on the PS3 or whatever. But, in a way I admit to not being fully able to put into coherent words yet, I love being her tool. I think of myself as her live-in manservant. Whatever she tells me to do, I will do, whether I want to or not, because that’s my position. I live to serve her. Even when I don’t want to, I want her to make me.

People have left comments here before about this and how it’s not really service and that all I’m doing is being a responsible partner in the marriage, yadda yadda. First of all, I think they’re underestimating the amount of work I do for her. I do 98% of all the laundry in our house of four people. I cook most of the meals. I make the beds, etc., etc. As Belle has said, she doesn’t really need to do much of anything around the house anymore. She will do things, but only because she wants to, not because she has to. Also, they miss what can’t be seen on the outside. It’s my intention to serve her. When I do it, I may not be enjoying the actual work, but I get a warmnfuzzy feeling inside. When she tells me I’m doing a good job, I similarly feel a warm flush. This isn’t necessarily sexual (though the context of when she says it makes a difference).

Here’s an example. As I said in my previous post (which, by the way, I’m really not that happy with – they can’t all be winners), Belle offered to let me out of the device so I could enjoy the cock being played with, but only if I got all the laundry done on Saturday. That was a lot of laundry. It took hours. But, when we were in bed and she had unlocked me and she was petting the cock and telling me what a good job I had done and how I had earned the time out…Jesus! I was over-the-moon kind of happy. Maybe one of the most satisfying few moments of our entire D/s adventure thus far. I felt totally beholden to her. I felt so happy that she appreciated my work. I felt totally and completely under her control. It was awesome.

Unlike Tom writing in general about service and not getting in the slightest turned on by it, my writing the previous paragraph has left me with a seriously full tube. So he doesn’t work that way. Whatever. Does that mean he’s not a “real” submissive? Fuck if I know. Honestly, who cares? I feel kind of the same way about the sissified guys out there who want to be put in panties and frilly little dresses as he does about service. Does that mean I’m not submissive? Or they’re not? Or they are, but too much?

As long as, at the end of the day, we’re all healthy and happy, then we’re Doing It Right. Call it whatever you want.

P.S. I apologize for the lame post title, but after all that, I couldn’t come up with anything pithy. It happens to all guys sooner or later…or so I’m told.

Jan 3

3 Comments

Change of plans

So yeah, last night was my supposed to be my next chance at an orgasm, but no, it didn’t happen. Belle came down with menstruation early in the afternoon and, since she prefers I come inside her, she decided to postpone the event. Instead of coming, she said I’d get a little personal abuse time. To be honest, I felt it was more than a fair trade. Like last time, it consisted of using the butterfly clamps on my nipples combined with testicle pain. The thing that made it especially notable is that Belle’s getting really good at this stuff.

She started out by attaching the clamps flat against my chest as opposed to perpendicular as before. This meant any pulling of the chain not only pulled on my nipples, but also twisted them. In addition, she clamped just the very tips. How they stayed on without gripping any of the fleshy bits is beyond me, but the sensation was a laser-intense pain on either side. Instead of just pulling randomly, she would wind the chain around her finger, slowly and purposefully, raising my expectation of the coming hurt several notches. Then she’d pull. The shorter chain meant more intensity and sensation with her every movement. She also used the chains to more purposefully direct my movement, like a bridle on a horse. God, they still hurt right now, almost 24 hours later.

She also mixed up how she slapped my nuts around. Instead of single hard impacts, she’d perform a series of light slaps that escalated in force until she was rapidly slapping me rather hard. Again and again, she’d build a cascade of slaps up to nearly a hard punch at the end, intermingled with light and really rather pleasant stroking of what had become a very tight scrotum thanks to the steel ring and swelling cock. Before long, the lingering pain from each assault coalesced into one long, aching torment. That unique pain radiated into my guts and down into my inner thighs as she moved back in for each round, pushing my legs out of the way if necessary. It was…fucking awesome. I passed over the threshold of involuntary self-preservation and started to open my legs wider, leaning into her strikes. Craving them. Silently urging her to hit me harder.

When she was done with me, she gently stroked my inner arm, a place of heightened sensation for me. She uses that place to calm me down and it works. Even with throbbing, burning nipples and aching balls, shortly after she started I felt the bite of the Steelheart’s ring ease as the meat inside released its erection.I felt very spacey, very warm, and very happily hurt.

“I’m going to do this for 30 more seconds, and then you’re going to get Pink,” she whispered in my ear.

She didn’t seem interested in having an orgasm earlier in the evening. Had the infliction of pain on me aroused her? I don’t know. I still haven’t asked. But as soon as she stopped, I reached into my drawer and took out her favorite sex toy. As she came, she grabbed the device out of my hand and pressed it hard against her clit.

Another intense orgasm for her. An awesomely satisfying scene for me.

Nov 4

4 Comments

Punished

Apparently, I was being snarky. That’s what Belle said, anyway. I certainly was poking fun at her, but, you know, in the most respectful and loving way possible.

Whatever. She didn’t appreciate it.

“You think that’s funny, do you?” She asked.

“Kinda, yeah.”

“OK. Get the Icy Hot.”

“What!?”

And it went on like that with me begging and squirming and trying to talk her out of it. Eventually, she made me get up and retrieve the tube of devil paste from the bathroom. I got back into bed, placing it on my nightstand, and tried to distract her. I was hoping to be able to wait her out. Soon, she’d be sleepy and maybe I’d get off the hook.

After a few minutes, “Get naked and under the covers.”

I did so, still hoping there’d be a reprieve. In theory, I want her to punish me when she sees the need. In practice, Icy Hot hurts like fuck. Plus, I wasn’t really prepared mentally since I wasn’t even aware I was committing a punishable offense.

“Give me the Icy Hot,” she said. I gave it to her while still doing my best to talk her out of it. She seemed to very much enjoy my pathetic protestations.

“Close your eyes.” Whimper. I closed my eyes and opened my legs, exposing the poor, unsuspecting scrotum.

I heard the cap open…I heard the paste squeezed out…I heard the cap snap shut…a few moments of silence…then I felt her fingers smearing the cold lineament across my skin. As usual, for the first several moments it just felt cold. Then even colder as whatever hellish combustion process it utilizes started to take effect. Then hot. Then really hot. Motherfuckinghot.

I tried not to make too much noise, but each wave of burning was greater than the last. I rolled over on my knees and spread my legs so my nutsack would hang freely. She placed her hand on my back in a gentle, loving way as I clenched my eyes shut against the burning. The fumes of the Icy Hot were traveling up my crack and started to provide my ass with a contact burn. That was new.

She must not have put nearly as much on as last time. The burning waves seemed to start to subside after the forth or fifth. Soon, all I felt was a lingering, low-level heat. As I moved about, the burning would intensify for a few moments and then retreat again. I felt well and truly punished.

The next morning, all the burning just a memory, I still felt the difference. I was much more contrite and feeling the subbie vibe. Icy Hot is almost too intense for us to use in a scene now, but as a punishment it was quite effective. I enjoyed the psychological afterglow of being punished even though the actual act was hard to take. From her perspective, its impact far exceeded the effort she needed to put into it. All she’d have to do in the future to make it a more severe punishment would be to increase the amount applied. Since I really don’t like it all that much, I will truly want to avoid it.

I’ll have to do something about the snark.

Oct 10

18 Comments

Table talk

Belle and I had a lovely time out last night. The kids were at a community group event designed to give parents some off-leash time together. Belle thought a nice dinner would be a good use of our three hours while I voted for rolling around naked back at the house. She gets three more votes than me, though, so off to dinner we went.

We talked about a lot of things, even real life things like work, before turning to our relationship. At first, it was one of those general conversations where we reassured one another that we’re happy and satisfied. Even after a year (yes, it’s nearly been a year!) of larking about like we have, it’s necessary to keep checking in with one another to make sure we’re still on the right track. Once we had that out of the way, we talked about several things I think are worth relating here.

Belle told me I had been slipping lately in the service department, especially with regard to my morning duties (which are really quite simple). I told her I would endeavor to improve and found myself bringing up the idea of punishment again. As I’ve said here before, punishment is not the same as masochism for me. It’s really more about power exchange. That she would have the right to physically punish me based on her subjective opinion as to how I’ve served her, and that I would be required to accept her punishment regardless of my personal feelings as to its justification, makes my ears flush red. It’s not just playing at power exchange, it actually is power exchange. I crave that kind of submission. It speaks to the very base of my submissive nature and works on a lot of levers I’ve carried around since childhood. It was hard for me to even look at her across the candlelit table as I talked about it. It’s a very powerful subject for me.

I also feel that the threat of punishment will help focus me on doing the things for her I know I need to do but don’t always get to fast enough for her. I really want to be better at serving her in whatever way she requires and, like most people, I suppose, I often find myself slipping and doing things I want to do rather than those things I need to do. It’s not as though I have no intention of getting to those things, I just do the stuff I want to do first. Currently, there’s little downside for me reprioritizing things on my own. If she took the step to make me uncomfortable and embarrassed, I think it’d help me be more focused on my responsibilities.

So, with that all in mind, she asked me if I wanted her to kick it up a notch. Did I really want her to pile on some tasks? I told her I did, that I wanted to do whatever I could that would make her life better. That said, she gave me a number of tasks I had to perform this morning (all mundane) that she had planned on doing herself. That relieved her from running around like a headless chicken right after she got up and also gave her time to get her nails done (where she is right now).

We also talked about the idea, recently left by a reader in a comment here, that I should strive to be the “little woman of the house” (at least when Belle’s not around). I admit freely that the concept of the sissified submissive male is an alien one. Submission, for me, does not equal weakness or connote a feminine quality. I think part of the problem submissive men deal with (even in the BDSM world) is the perception that they’re all pink, frilly, or weak. I’m not weak, frilly, pink, or feminine, nor do I wish to be any of those things. I certainly don’t have any issue with those who do, but I ain’t one of them.

That being said, there is an aspect of male submission in the context of the whole “female-led relationship” thing that does suggest the transfer of certain activities or attitudes that our society identifies with specific genders. Traditionally, the female attends to meals and cleaning up, certain child duties, the laundry, etc., while the male initiates sex and, more often than not, is the primary beneficiary of sexual satisfaction and is generally allowed to wallow about the house while she attends to him (which is not to say she necessarily likes that arrangement). These are all stereotypes, of course, but stereotypes aren’t invented. They usually have some basis in fact. In some aspects of our relationship, I am very much “the woman” while Belle assumes what most would think is the man’s role. Mostly in bed, but even in other areas. However, I’m still very much a man and she’s very much a woman. She hasn’t become butch and aggressive while I haven’t become effeminate. But I do acknowledge that some kind of transference has taken place (and continues to evolve). I don’t have a problem with this or deny it, nor can I even describe it very well, but it’s intriguing to me. It’s too bad there are so few (if any) cultural archetypes to look at as our dynamic is developing. Images of men wearing hot pink chastity devices (to keep their hands of their “sissy clitties”, natch) under their fish net stockings and French main uniforms are certainly no help to us.

Another comment from the blog that we discussed was Sera’s thoughtful reply to my post about how Belle and I are slowly but surely having less sex as the weeks and months go on. She said:

It might be informative here to bear in mine that for women as well as men, it seems to be that sexual desire is a kind of “use it or lose it” thing. So that if Belle is not getting enough stimulation of the kind that gets her off . . . well, she’s not going to be in a position to give you the kind that gets you off.

And so I asked Belle, was she getting what she wanted? Was I providing her what she needed to get off? Turns out, maybe not so much. Belle said she needed to “connect” with me more than she’s been able to recently. I can’t say I entirely understand what that means yet, but it sounds to me like maybe we’re talking too much about ourselves and our relationship lately and not enough about our shared life. Over dinner, we talked quite a bit about our shared life before we moved on to discussions of relationship and sex and she said she needed more of that. I suppose posting almost every day to a blog that deals exclusively with issues related to our sex life and relationship doesn’t really help her feel as though I talk about anything else but those things. It’s another area where I, someone who literally carries a totem of his sexual relationship around 24/7, feels like I’m hardly ever talking about it since every word out of my mouth isn’t about our dynamic or sex or whatever. But she, who probably isn’t thinking about my chastity device or how many days it’s been since I came or how fucking horny I am or whatever for four out of every five minutes in the day, thinks it’s all we ever talk about. I understand and will try to do better.

So, as if to drive the point home through my thick, hormone-addled skull, once we got home and I put the kids down for the night, Belle let me bring her to orgasm. Stimulus…reward. Stimulus…reward. It’s the same way you train dogs. Anyway, it was your typical Belle ‘n Thumper orgasm and I was left very hot and horny and with a fully pressurized chastity tube while she was left relaxed, sleepy, and orgasmically sated.

In other words, exactly as things should be.

Oct 3

3 Comments

Clamps

He kneeled before her, hands behind his back and looked down at his chest as she affixed the black Japanese butterfly clamps to his nipples. They bit into his soft flesh with an insistent ferocity causing him to suck air between his teeth. She lifted the chain connecting them and held it before his face.

“Put this in your mouth and keep it there,” she directed him. He opened his lips and she placed the chain between them. He bit down gently on the thin, hard metal. The chain was too short for him to raise his head without pulling on his nipples and causing the clamps to bite even harder, so he kept his head bowed.

She grabbed as much of his short-cropped hair as she could and pulled his head back. The pain in his nipples flared as the chain in his mouth was pulled tight and his pink flesh stretched against the clamps. He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut against the flood of sensation.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” she said firmly. Whimpering, his eyes opened and looked into hers. Her gaze penetrated him, seeking.

She smiled.

Sep 12

5 Comments

Birthday presents

Belle’s back and the world is right again. We were both pretty tired last night (she from getting up early for her flight, me from getting about seven hours of sleep since she left), so nothing of consequence happened other than I got to lay with her, spoon into her, be naked around her, etc. When you’re in my position, you glean what you can from what you get.

Even though I was totally exhausted and I felt the kind of contentment her presence always brings to me, I still had a hard time falling fully asleep. The weather is more humid and warm than it has been, and that contributed, but I just couldn’t get to the point where the buzzing in my head finally succumbed to the fuzzy blanket of sleep. I’m sure her hand resting on the top of my naked, uncovered ass had something to do with that. I was sort of half dozing for I don’t even know how long, well after she was totally out. The cock kept swelling up inside the device at random intervals and I once again experienced its autonomic rhythmic pulsing as though it was trying to pump out the contents of my swollen prostate.

For those of you keeping score at home, tomorrow will be three weeks since I last came.1 Three weeks where nary a drop has escaped me. Driving around today, I swear I can feel it in there. The pressure from sitting on the firm seat in my truck and the vibration from the engine and road worked together to pinpoint the area under my perineum that feels plump and overly sensitive. This morning, as I went about my business getting her coffee, bringing her the paper, etc., I found gobs of clear, sticky fluid leaking from the end of the tube.

The right tool for the jobWith that condition in mind, and also thinking about her statement that I would relive that pressure though milking rather than ruined orgasms (not that I could ruin an orgasm with this thing on me), I started to release some of the money I collected on my birthday and bought a specialty tool from Stockroom.com. It’s called the G-force and it’s a hard silicone dildo with a handle on one end and a bulbous knot on the other. It’s specifically designed for reaching those hard-to-get-to spots. I have a few different items (one, two) designed to stimulate the prostate, but I find they’re hard to manipulate in tight quarters. I like the look of the G-force’s Kung-Fu grip. Usually, I play with the toys I already have all alone, but I’m hoping that the G-force will prove easy and effective enough that Belle will use it on me. More and more lately, anything I do of a sexual nature by myself feels inappropriate with respect to our arrangement.

I picked up a few other things, too. One was a heavy steel ball stretcher that I’ve kinda sorta been obsessed with for a long time now. It comes in two halves which screw together with an allen wrench and pulls down on the testes with over a pound of weight. I’ve played around with suspending weight from by balls in the past, so I know I can take it for at least a little while. For me, this has been one of those objects I’ve just been unable to stop looking at. So, you know, perfect thing to blow some birthday money on. I also got a pair of black Japanese clover clamps, but they’re on back-order.

The other thing I got, even against the assuredly correct advice of Tom, is a replacement for the cracking and soon to fail CB6K we’ve had for almost a year now. I considered a stainless steel model, but eventually decided to go with another CB6K since doing so would leave me extra cash to blow on other objects of perversion. While I could have just replaced the tube, I instead went for the chrome-looking device. I like the shiny appearance, like the idea of it hiding the cock away from view, and I like that the other parts are black, not white. I’ve never been a huge fan of the clear and white parts. It’s makes the device look almost clinical or something.

With the exception of the nipple clamps, it should all arrive by Tuesday. Now I need to figure out what I’m going to tell people when they ask what I spent my birthday loot on.

–

1 When I mentioned to her that I up against three weeks (and my record, BTW), Belle would only say I had “a while to go yet” before I could come again. I have a feeling I’m not even half way there. ↩

Sep 4

6 Comments

Rika arrives

I finally got around to ordering Uniquely Rika the other day and it showed up last night. I’ve seen it talked up on other sites and, after finding myself again on her old website (now defunct, but still available if you know how to use the Internet Archive), I decided to pop the $30 and get the book. I’ve purchased books like this in the past (specifically, about female dominance), but I can’t say they’ve been particularly helpful. On the one hand, it has been hard picturing either Belle or me living the lives they describe (though, to be fair, the life we are leading is evolving at a fairly rapid rate – there are things I embrace now that I eschewed six months ago). On the other hand, I was the one reading the books, not Belle (for the most part – we did read parts of one or two together). I really don’t consider me to be the target audience for these. Belle is.

So, after leafing though it last night and seeing that Rika isn’t batshit crazy or anything, and after recognizing that the majority of the book consists of Rika speaking to the F in the FLR, I decided to basically ignore it. It’s Belle’s to read. If there are sections within that she thinks I should look at, then I’ll be more than happy to do so, but otherwise, its secrets will be hers. And really, they should be. If I’m to truly submit to her, then she needs to craft a flavor of dominance she’s comfortable with all on her own. She needs to own it and let me live within it. It can’t really be community property. I’m not saying I need to sublimate all my needs and emotions or anything like that, but in whatever way we’re able to practice D/s, she needs to bring the D and I need to bring the s. It seems to me, the less I think about how she should or should not practice domination, the more confident she’ll be in how she approaches it and the more energy I can expend being a better submissive. That’s the idea, anyway. She agrees the book is for her, not me, and started to read it last night. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

While she was reading it, I was giving her a foot massage. It felt really, really good for me since it’s been somewhat busy around the house over the past week and my opportunities to service her have been few and far between. I have been able to cook the dinners and clean up and such, but that just kind of feels like my job now and not so much a chance to make her especially happy. So, while she filled out the questionnaire, I spent 30 minutes lovingly caressing her feet.

Afterward, she asked for me to continue on her shoulders and neck, which I gratefully did. That kind of massage is fundamentally more intimate since she’s typically topless and I usually get more contact with her body since I straddle her legs while doing it.

At one point, I was kneeling just below her ass and laying over her to get a better angle on her shoulder muscles.

“That feels nice,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“The way you’re thrusting into me like that.”

I hadn’t even realized I was, but once she mentioned it, I saw that my motions were causing the CB6K to rhythmically grind into her ass. Had I not been wearing it, and had we both been completely naked, it wasn’t very dissimilar from a position I’d use to penetrate her from behind. After all this clicked into place in my head, I felt the pressure build in the device and the nature of my position – the denied, chastised male dedicated to her pleasure – fall upon me in full weight. I was already sporting a healthy subbie buzz, but this sent it flying.

“Maybe we should try this position sometime,” she continued, suggesting I could fuck her from behind while massaging her shoulders. Whether or not that’s even possible, the idea of trying it, and her talking about sex while I was physically incapable of it, caused me to breath very heavily as my face hovered above her bare skin. It was wonderfully tormenting.

Finally, after the massage was over, she produced Pink, her little vibe. Even though she’s still on her period, she wanted me to get her off. I very happily complied, especially when she told me to get naked. She came quickly and intensely.

This morning, she was lazy in bed because she had the day off. While snuggling and spooning, she started to touch me. While chastised, I find myself especially sensitive to her touch all over my body. I’m not the first person to observe that locking away the primary male erogenous zone causes the remainder of the body to pick up the slack. She can touch me anywhere and set me off. In this case, it was my chest. Gently, she ran her fingers through my chest hair and down along my ribs. I felt myself melt. She traced down my side, over the top of my thigh, and found my balls. She may have also been touching the cock in its plastic case, but there’s no way I can feel that. As her fingers lightly caressed me, I felt my normal morning thickness try to grow against its encasement. The device, along with its contents, pulled up and away from my body. Laying on my back was intolerable. I turned over and got up on my hands and knees. Suspended from above, the straining package was more comfortable, but she continued to trace the contours of my stretched scrotum and I felt the tube of the CB6K throb as the meat it secured became more engorged.

“God, it’s so tight,” I gasped.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked while not stopping.

*whimper*

Finally, “No. Don’t ever stop.”

Aug 26

9 Comments

Hot and not

I’ve been thinking lately about why people read this. You know, all of this – the highs and lows of our nascent BDSM “lifestyle” and shit. I suppose some of you are here for the hot sex, and that’s cool, but then I’m also sure if that’s the case you’re likely annoyed when we inconveniently expose ourselves as real people with emotions and foibles and all that. I feel like I’ve been doing a lot of that recently.

I used to follow some blogs just because they were hot. Not hot in the way I wanted or expected my interaction with Belle to be, but hot nonetheless. Because I’m stupid, I would read these blogs, mostly written by submissive men, and think they were real – that people could really live like they did, where the otherwise vanilla wife could suddenly be turned into a she-wolf dominatrix and the husband into a sexual object and plaything. Right, hot, but not real. Which is not to say they’re total fabrications, but I do wonder why so many seem to lack anything like real human interaction. Belle and I have been able to pull off some admittedly hot stuff in the past 10 months or so and I could have only posted about those things. In doing so, I would have given those browsing the web with one hand plenty of pleasant moments, but it would have been a lie. A half-truth, at best. In any event, I’ve stopped reading blogs without relationship content because that’s what I’m in: a relationship. Not a fantasy world.

I do not think of this blog as an educational tool or anything, but I do want it to represent an authentic journal of our experiences. Some people are where we are, some are in an earlier stage, some much later, but nonetheless, I am trying to speak to real people about real people. Some bloggers share only their sex and do it solely to titillate people like themselves. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume what they write about kinda sorta happened as they say, but I know from being in a relationship that they’re leaving out the boring, non-erection inducing parts. Those are important, too. To me, blogs like that eventually come off sounding soulless. Hollow. Plastic.

So where am I going with this? The point is, if you read this blog mostly for the hot sex scenes, please do not compare my life with the idealized life found on some others. Anyone who thinks, for example, that I should be forever grateful to my domme wife for consenting to top me, regardless of what that means with regard to her actions and my feelings, is not here for the right reason. I am grateful to my wife, but I’m also a real person with my own needs and thoughts and emotions (as is she). It may sound hot to totally submit – to be run over by a dominant woman, to have no say, to become her plaything – but in reality, it’s not that simple. I have to believe that if you think it is, then you either 1) have not actually done this kind of thing, or 2) are into something very different than I am.

So, in summary, please always remember that the events portrayed in this blog actually happened to actual people. The porn is plainly labeled.

Aug 26

3 Comments

Floggers and crops

My birthday is right around the corner. I’m going to be forty-somethingmumbleorother. With that in mind, and in the shadow of our one and only flogger meeting its demise against my ass the other day, I showed Belle the items I’d like to see fill my birthday stocking:

  • The first is a 12″ suede flogger. I’ve had my eye on its larger 24″ brother for a while now (and the dude modeling it – oh, mama), but after thinking about it, wonder if there’s enough space in Belle’s bedroom to swing it. I picked suede over smooth leather purely for aesthetic reasons (I can almost feel the suede running over my back and ass already). It looks like a quality piece of kit that won’t fly apart like the cheap little thing it replaces.
  • The second item is a short riding crop (oh look, there’s that guy again!1). As it expired, the old flogger kind of turned into a ghetto-style crop and I liked the difference in sensation. This one’s also on the shorter side (as the name implies), but has a wider head than some.


Belle, after seeing these, says, “Maybe they can be from your mom.”

*Snort*, I said. “Sure, maybe I can send her the link.”2

“No, silly, she left me some money for your birthday.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“How much are those?”

“About a hundred bucks,” I said, “How much did she give you?”

“A hundred bucks.”

Sweet! I get new hitty things! I’ll be doing my best to forget who they’re from, though. I’m not that weird.

–

1 OK, fine, for you straight guys and/or lesbian or bi girls, here’s the other flavors the flogger and crop come in. ↩

2 Not that she’d be at all surprised. Mom’s know, you know. Also, she walked in on/found out about enough stuff when I was in high school to suspect I don’t swing the bat like the other boys. ↩

Aug 25

13 Comments

Really bad, then really good

Saturday, Belle told me at some point that Sunday morning she was going to beat me. It’s been so long since she beat me. Yeah, she’s done little things here and there to hurt me (mostly nipple twisting and some ball slapping) which were all very nice and appreciated, but I’ve been feeling the need for a good whippin’ for quite a while now.

So, Sunday morning comes around and there’s no beating. We hang out in bed, she’s reading the paper and sipping the coffee I made her, and then…nothing. She gets up. I don’t say anything since Sunday’s a whole 24 hours long, but the little nagging feeling starts to creep into the back of my mind. She’s not into this. She doesn’t want to do it. She’s avoiding it. I stuff that back into the dark place it came from and go about my business.

At dinner, she tells me that tonight’s the night. She’s going to beat me before Mad Men (which she’s very excited about watching) so she can be asleep by 10:00 (her bedtime is very important to her). Swell, I think. That’s two whole hours away. She can leisurely whip me. The last time we tried this (which ended in disaster) she started out too hard too fast and I was not at all aroused. So, I figure, we have all the time in the world tonight. We can go slowly and do it right. It’s going to be awesome.

She gave me the task she wanted me to perform before the beating and I went off to do it. She had a little work to finish up and was apparently shopping for back-to-school clothes, but still, we were over 90 minutes from Mad Men. About 20 minutes later, I had finished my task (laundry folding) and was laying in bed, naked, watching the TV just waiting for her to finish whatever she needed to do. I finally heard her stir from her perch on the couch. Then I herd her cleaning the kitchen. Thoroughly. Then I heard her make her coffee for the morning. That’s my job. Why is she doing that? It’s OK, though, because we have more than hour still before Mad Men (though I’m starting to worry).

Next, I heard her take out the trash. All the way to curb. The garage door went up and she hauled the garbage can and recycling down the driveway. I could have done this had I known she wanted it done at that moment. Then I heard her take the dog outside. Again, something I could have done. Basically, everything she did (besides the work) I could have done if she had told me she wanted it done.

Finally, with just less than a half hour before Mad Men, she comes into the room. The feeling from the morning had come back and, far from being little now, had plopped it’s big ass down in a Lazy-E-Boy in my head. To me, she was obviously avoiding this task. I was deeply disappointed as we no longer had time to take it slowly. We’ve got less than 30 minutes. Now, there was stress. Now, the clock was going to be the third in our scene.

The window was closed.

So, as calmly and with as little accusatory tone as possible, I told her we didn’t have to do it. We could put it off (to god knows when). We don’t have time, I said.

“KNOCK IT OFF, THUMPER!” she yells at me, “DON’T START THIS CRAP! I KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO DO THIS!” I’m frankly taken aback by the sudden ferocity of her position. She’s yelling at me while I’m feeling vulnerable and disappointed and hurt. This is turning into a disaster.

“Look,” I say, trying to stay calm, “It’s not a problem. It doesn’t have to happen right now…”

And it just gets worse. She yells at me, and then I’m yelling back, defending my right to feel how I feel and denying the charge that I’m somehow the problem and that, really, we don’t have to do it right then.

She basically orders me into my collar, but she makes me put it on. Wrong. It feels wrong. I’m starting to crumble inside. She puts me in handcuffs, one side of which is affixed to the D-ring on my collar. The cuffs are biting into my wrists. They feel wrong. I try to say something, but she orders me onto the bed.

“Bend over, face in the pillow,” she barks.

WHACK! Jesusmotherfucking, that hurts. I close my eyes and try to hang onto the wispy feelings of sub energy that I’m feeling, but they’re not enough. Not nearly.

WHACK!! I sit up.

“Can I kiss you?” I need to get this anger out of me, this feeling that she’s angry. She kisses me, but not lovingly. My ass goes back up in the air.

WHACK!!! Fuck this.

I sit up again and say, “This isn’t right. It’s not working.” And then I break. Fury wells up from within me. My face contorts and I silently cry out and feel such pain and disappointment and the feeling that everything is wrong as my face heats up and the tears flow freely down my face. This is not working. She doesn’t want to do it and I’m a fucking freak for asking her to. And this was it, the only night this was going to work with the kids out of the house. It would be weeks before we could try again. And now, I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. Ever. Nothing that made me feel that bad could be worth doing. It was never going to work. I was angry, but not really at her. I was angry at the world for making me like this and putting me in this situation. All my fear and vulnerabilities reared up like dragons in my mind. I felt embarrassment at being naked, embarrassment at being collared, embarrassment for asking her to hit me.

The conversation that followed was predictable because we’ve had it before. Basically, I accused her of not wanting to hit me and not admitting it to me (or maybe herself). She said she wanted it to be perfect and I said that’s crazy because nothing ever is perfect. We both admitted to having no idea how to do what we’re trying to do. I said I need her to stop treating these sessions like another chore, the thing she does after the dog’s been out and the trash is on the curb. It’s not a fucking chore. It’s an emotional and physical need that I, her husband, has and, if we’re going to do it, it has to feel like an act of making love because, as hard as it is for her to understand, that’s what it is to me. Yet again, I suggested we stop trying to do it. All of it. It’s just too hard. She said nothing in return.

It was horrible. Just horrible. I suppose we said many things we needed to say, but I was left emotionally wrecked. She rolled over and asked me to hold her, but I couldn’t do it. I just felt too raw. Too many things we’re still unresolved. She fell asleep and I got up to read a book.

Out on the couch in the living room, I couldn’t follow the words I was reading. Being a male, soon my hand was in my underwear and I was absentmindedly playing with myself. The cock being a cock, it responded and I found myself holding a stiff hard-on. I started to stroke it. I didn’t want to come, but I wanted the sensation. I wanted to feel something good that night. I kept going and the words we said earlier rang in my head and I became emotional again. I kept stroking. Why even bother anymore? Why keep making her do what she finds so hard? I kept stroking. I don’t know what the solution is, but it’s not worth the pain. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s supposed to be fun. I kept stroking. Then, I felt the point of no return rushing up. And I kept going. I let go and I came. Huge globs of it. God, it had been so long since I saw or felt or smelt that all by myself. I felt the waves of post-orgasmic pleasure wash up and down me, by myself, shirt pulled up, underwear down. Alone.

I didn’t feel guilty, but I felt very sad. I cleaned myself up, turned off the light, and went to bed.

–

The next day, I wanted to be with her. It was Monday, so that was a problem, but all day I thought about her and the night before and the yelling and the crying and I just wanted to be with her. On the way home, I picked up her favorite flowers (alstroemeria) and had them nicely displayed on the dining room table.

She got home and I was drawn to her. I held her and kissed her and found myself getting really turned on. Our status was ambiguous since the idea of not doing the D/s thing was never really resolved and the thought of just bedding her like in the old days, maybe even right there in the kitchen, really appealed to me. Just fucking. With two orgasms. Like other people do it. I could like that. Hell, I did like that for years and years.

Back in our bedroom, I laid her down with the intention of having some pretty swell make-up sex. She told me she really wasn’t much in the mood (or something to that effect) but that she did want to try slapping me around again.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure. Twice we had tried this and twice it had turned out badly. It felt too soon after the previous evening’s event to try again. But I was in the mood for it. And we were in a good place. I agreed to give it a try, as long as we started slowly.

I stripping my clothes off and, with her under me, she slapped my nuts around a little. Nothing too extreme, but the pain seemed to warm me up inside – clear out the receptors. Then she got up and left me on the bed, ass up and head down, while she got the flogger.

She ran it’s thin rubber tendrils over and around me – starting with my ass, going over my back, ending up on my balls. It felt heavenly. I love this feeling. The sweet stuff before she gets rough. Then she started to hit me. Not too hard. It felt good. I felt myself raising my ass up to meet the flogger sooner. This was good. It felt right.

Even though I was making copious happy noises in the back of my throat, she stopped to make sure I was OK. That made me all warm inside. This time, I felt the love with every blow. As she made them harder and the sting grew more intense, I could feel her love and her desire to make me happy and I loved her back and felt incredibly grateful to her. At some point, I felt myself slip past the point where the pain loses its sharp edge. It still hurts, but becomes something else. Something better. Something I crave.

Then, in a particularly cruel blow to my reddened ass, the flogger broke. The head of it flew acorss the room. It was just a cheap little thing she picked up somewhere, so no surprise, but yeah, that’s how hard she was hitting me with it. With the thin rubber tongues gone, it ends in a plastic cup into which they were glued. She tried whacking me with that and the pain was entirely different. It was more a like a crop now. I liked that. Mentally, I was already shopping for new implements of torture.

She picked up a flexible plastic ruler and started to use that on me. Intense pain. I found myself rolling over on my back and she started to (gently) strike my balls with it. My eyes rolled back in my head and I opened my legs to her blows. Heaven. The ruler was more stingy that I like on my balls, so I asked her to use her hands. Rapid slapping blows to my nuts sent me high up into the clouds. I love love love love love how that can feel.

By the end, I felt wonderful bliss. My ass hurt like hell, but it was all the right kind of hurt. I nuzzled into her, so grateful, so happy. Sitting here writing about it I can still feel some stinging, though I’m not sure it it’s really there or if I’m just remembering it. In any event, I love it and want more of it. We need to do something about our batting average (one successful attempt out of three will never do), but I know that it’s possible. I know she can do it and still make me feel loved and cared for. I’m just so incredibly happy that I have her and that she’s willing to try to do the things I need, even when she doesn’t really understand why.

Obviously, we have more to talk about. We’re not there yet. But we both need to remember, as we keep trying, that we can do this. We can make it work, and when it does, it’s amazing.

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