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Posts tagged ‘sexuality’

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.

Aug 19

4 Comments

Chastity fetishist?

Reader Jane Docent asked this in a comment to my post We Talk:

More to the point – are you kinky? Or have you fetishized this one element of arousal – enforced chastity?

While I’m pretty sure I know the answer to her question, I did stop and think about it for a second. And then a few more.

The Random House Dictionary describes kinky this way:

Marked by unconventional sexual preferences or behavior, as fetishism, sadomasochism, or the like.

While the American Heritage Dictionary says this:

Showing or appealing to bizarre or deviant tastes, especially of a sexual or erotic nature

So, according to Random House, even if I was just a fetishist, I would still be kinky. Either way, I feel very comfortable identifying as kinky. My sexual tastes are “unconventional” and, IMO, “bizarre or deviant”. Way. But, more importantly, have I developed a fetish over enforced chastity devices?

To be sure, enforced chastity turns me the fuck on and my interest in its implements is extensive. I’m pretty sure I’ve looked at the websites of all the commercially available devices (some dozens of times) and would love to have any number of them locked onto me by Belle (with a special proclivity towards the stainless steel variety). But, the operative part of that statement is “locked onto me by Belle”. More than the device, I kink on the power exchange. The device neatly dovetails into other kinks and interests (CBT, bondage, masochism, gadgets), but I also obsess over things like this and that and the other which have nothing at all to do with enforced chastity but do have a lot to do with my other kinks.

The reason enforced chastity and the device gets so much play here, I think, is because, of all my sexual perversions, power exchange is the one we engage in the most. For whatever reason, I don’t find myself tied up and beaten very often, but she can deny me orgasm several times a week and leave me locked up for weeks and weeks. All of that energy and desire gets channeled into orgasm denial, enforced chastity, and – ultimately – the device itself.

Aug 15

6 Comments

We talk

“Why do you do that? Why do you always go there? Saying we need to just chuck the whole thing whenever we hit a bump?”

She was referring to this comment from my previous post:

This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on.

I’d say I don’t always go there, but I have, on occasion, suggested we should end our experiment in D/s. For me, whenever I come to doubt that she’s getting anything out of what we do, a complex series of things spring up.

First, I fear that she’s sacrificing her own sexuality in order to serve mine. Nothing else would be more appalling to me. This is not to say I don’t think she should ever do something just because it pleases me. Hardly. That give and take is the foundation of any relationship, sexual or otherwise. However, the idea that she would wholly subsume her sexual identity under the weight of mine is something I’ve feared multiple times. If that were ever to be the case, that her control was merely a construct formed by her desire to see me happy, the entire thing would come crashing down. Her desire for control must be authentically hers.

Second, I immediately start to feel guilt over the ridiculously complicated nature of my sexuality. Why should it all be so fucking hard? Why can’t I be like the other boys? She doesn’t need any more complexity in her life and I feel that I’m only becoming more complicated as we go along, introducing new “rules” and concepts she needs to keep in mind. Sex should be fundamentally easy, shouldn’t it? Sex with me, at least from her perspective, is anything but.

Third, I feel shame. I am ashamed at the things I want from her. My desire to be controlled, to be bound, to be hurt. She’s a nice Catholic girl and I’m nothing more than a perverted deviant (and a heathen to boot) bringing implements of bondage, floggers, and other apparatus into the bedroom. I want her to do unspeakable things to me. Things that are fundamentally not within her nature. I’m a freak.

Fourth, there’s that fundamental difference between us sexually. She wants sex to be spontaneously conducted upon soft, down-filled bedding on bright, sunny Spring mornings with the sounds of birds outside and the scent of lavender on the cool breeze. I want it to be done in the dark, by candlelight, with black leather and stainless steel. I want pain and domination and inequity. Nothing about what I like is spontaneous. We are from polar-opposite regions. I fear she never gets what she really wants in a sexual encounter (think Jane Austen) because she’s always catering to my fetid desires (think Marilyn Manson).

We discussed all this. We will work on all this, especially trying to find ways in which her idealized sexual experience can be combined with mine. She doesn’t want me to feel shame, though I still do. We both feel guilt. We both worry about disappointing the other.

Specifically regarding last night’s encounter, I found myself saying something unexpected. I accused her of being selfish. She was stressed and our sex life was only adding to that angst, so she pulled the plug on it. Not only had she released me, she ended my denial. Capriciously, I thought, since her orgasm was already attended to and didn’t require me to be released. I said I thought that was selfish because I was in a really good place at the time. I was thrilled. The issues were hers and we should have talked them though instead of her, under the guise of being in control, unilaterally acting. It’s was hard for me to say that to her because I’m generally predisposed to accepting her control and serving her selfishness and generally being submissive, but I thought the way in which she acted last night was above and beyond all that. She was actively trying to kill the dynamic, at least for a little while. I had no desire for it to end. Certainly, there must have been another way that would have preserved what we each needed.

Beyond that, she struggles (continuously) with the need to satisfy. That my satisfaction comes, in part, from being unsatisfied is very difficult for her. She also draws a line to my sexual dissatisfaction and my infidelity. In fact, it was my dissatisfaction with her general apathy towards sex that sent me away, not with the sex we were having. In any event, she says she fears that we’ll end up there again. I can’t imagine that now. Sex before didn’t exist between us. Now, it’s front and center. How we were a year ago and how we are now are totally opposite.

In any event, we need to redefine for her what “satisfaction” means to me and to not confuse it with satiation. I am very satisfied now with being totally unsatiated. We can have that bright and lavender-scented Jane Austen-style sex some Spring morning, but I’ll be happier at the end if I’m left hard and frustrated and grinding into my chastity device as opposed to spewing my seed into her. We can both be happy as long as we accept new, flexible definitions of “happy”. She may I think I secretly want to come all over her. In fact, I want to want to come, but not actually do it.

And seriously, I don’t want to come. If, in the course of her fucking me because that’s what she wants, I happen to come because I can’t control myself, then so be it. I only hope she takes the opportunity to tease me about it (hopefully with punishment). However, and for the foreseeable future, I’d rather be left wanting it rather than having it. If she wants to torture me with forced orgasm – to rip it from me against my will – then fine, I guess. That can be hot. But that’s not what last night was about. That was about the opposite.

I have more that I could say, but the conversation was very emotional. I cried very hard a couple of times, and she cried too. I’m feeling a little wiped by the whole thing and sort of puffy-faced. In the end, of course, we didn’t decide to end our experiment. We talked our way through and will keep trying to find the right path. We hugged and kissed and cared for one another. It was all very Austen-esque, except when we were done, she locked her cock back up in plastic. That never would have happened to Mr. Darcy.

Jul 22

16 Comments

Four (mostly) unrelated things

Here’s a post that starts on the other end of the day.

Belle usually wakes up kinda early. Five-thirty, or thereabouts, and once up, she immediately gets on her computer and starts clickity-clacking. I’ve trained myself to fall back asleep after her alarm (and first snooze, and second snooze, and third snooze) goes off, usually by snuggling up against her while she replies to all the email she’s picked up overnight.

This morning was a little different. For whatever reason, I woke up and didn’t find her sitting up with her laptop. Even in my groggy state, I realized it was a rare opportunity for some mid-week morning snuggle time and wrapped myself around her (of course, in a way that respected her personage and all that).

She laid there, stroking my head, and said, “Thanks for putting me in charge, Thumpie.” Just like that. Thanks for putting me in charge. I hadn’t said boo to her up to that point. It was entirely unsolicited.

I was dealing with the typical morning chastity tube issues, but upon hearing these words, my issues were suddenly bigger (or trying to be). Besides the physical reaction, I felt a surge of warm excitement fill my chest. I embraced her harder, kissed her, then pressed my face into her. She made me very happy.

Minutes later, she was up and the clickity-clack had started. I had rolled off and was laying next to her on my back, tenting out the covers regardless of the plastic contraption. I was thinking of getting out of bed, but before I did, she placed her foot on my left hip and burrowed her toes into the space between my inner thigh and nuts. And she just left it there. On the one hand, it was just her foot – nothing special. On the other hand, I’m more than three weeks denied, so any contact with my nakedness is cause for attention. Also, I felt pinned. I’m quite sure I was projecting into her action, but to me and the nice buzzy headspace which her earlier comment had created, it felt like a very possessive, almost aggressive move. Of course I wasn’t physically pinned by her, but mentally – emotionally – I felt as though she was directing me to stay where I was. So I did.

–

The previous evening, she related an exchange she had with a couple of female coworkers. One of them had been complaining that she resorted to giving herself pedicures and was unhappy with the result.

“You should make your husband paint your nails,” Belle suggested.

She then told them that she did, in fact, have her husband paint her nails. The one with the ugly toenails said she would have her husband paint them, to which Belle responded, “You might find it turns you on.”

Zing!

I have to admit, the first thing to go through my mind when she related this to me was concern that they’d get the wrong idea and think I was [fill in your choice of submissive male negative stereotypes], but then decided I like that fact that I had given her something to brag about in front of her friends. Who cares what they think? They probably think she’s lucky. I hope she feels that way, too.

–

Dev’s recent post about her potentially doing things in bed more for the benefit of her partners rather than herself touches on something I find myself worrying about with Belle. Specifically, that she has done so much to help me make several of my sexual fantasies a reality and I have done basically nothing to help her achieve hers.

Which is not to say I haven’t tried. I asked her a little while back (about the time I wrote about how her having a boyfriend would turn me on) what her fantasies were. What’s the craziest thing she’s ever wanted to do because I want to help her do it.

Something vaguely about another woman. Nothing specific. Not like, I want to fuck a girl. No, it was just kinda sorta a fuzzy thing about another girl. Maybe kissing one. Not actually doing anything. Just…a girl. She had to pick the one thing I couldn’t do for her since, you know, I’m a boy.

It’s hard for me relate since my fantasies are so very specific (“No, this goes there, that goes over there, and then you do this with it, unless it’s Tuesday, in which case…”). I don’t vaguely do anything in my fantasies. Mine are epic Ben Hur-like productions with extras and period costume and herd animals and massive sets.

So anyway, I know that Belle’s getting lots of great orgasms and everything but I want to fulfill her not just physically, but also mentally. I want her to live her imaginary fuck. But, you know…it’s just this girl.

–

I’m getting my hair cut this afternoon when my guy (who, of course, is gay) and I overhear someone else and their client talking about a new tattoo the client got and we both look trying to get a peek but we can’t see anything (which is unfortunate). Then he asks me if I have any tattoos.

“Not yet,” I reply. Belle’s already told me she wants me to get the thing she drew on my ass tattooed there, but I haven’t done anything about it. Not that I’m opposed, I just haven’t gotten around to it. In any event, he’s kind of surprised by this. That I would get a tattoo.

So I tell him I’d be more than happy to modify my body more than I have, but my job kinda makes that difficult (since I’m often trying to talk relatively conservative people into give me large sums of money). Then he tells me that the other guy with the tatted-up client has a boyfriend who’s thinking of getting a piercing.

“You know,” he says, “down there,” motioning with his scissors toward his navel.

“What kind?” I ask innocently.

“The kind that goes through the you know…”

“A Prince Albert?”

“Yes!” he hisses.

Maybe I’m jaded since I come here and frankly discuss dicks and pussies and physical beatings and all kinds of raunchy kinky shit, but I suddenly found it incredibly funny that I was having a conversation with this grown up gay man in which he couldn’t bring himself to use real words to talk about cocks. Also, I had to make a choice. I, of course, know a whole lot about being pierced down there. Should I spill the beans? I mean, if you can’t talk to your gay hair stylist about your genital piercing, who can you talk to about it?

So, as he was wrinkling up his nose at the prospect of not having sex for a whole month after you get it done, I dropped it on him.

“What?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard me.

“I have one of those. A Prince Albert.”

“WHAT!?!” he exclaimed, blushing deeply. It was hilarious.

Then, of course, the questions came pouring out. How much did it hurt, does it make sex better, what’s it like peeing, did I do it before or after having children, etc., etc. He also wanted to know if you got hard during the piercing. I told him getting hard was the last thing that was gonna happen during the event.

In retrospect, this was quite clearly the longest conversation I’ve ever had about penises (mostly the one on me) with a man I had never and would never have sex with.

Jul 19

6 Comments

Authenticity

I admit right up front, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about here. See, over the past ten months or so, as it’s become more and more clear that I have a side of me that is this odd creature called a “submissive male”, I have thrashed about trying to find a construct under which to operate. Some kind of framework assembled by those who have come before me to help me find The One True Way I will find happiness with my otherwise vanilla wife.

The web is terrific for this kind of thing. Well, I should say, it’s terrific at disseminating and echoing the prevailing thought. As has been pointed out recently by Ranat1, according to the web, there appears to be two One True Ways to be submissive and male at the same time:

  • The he-slime, boot-licking, worm fodder kind of malesub
  • The Arthurian knight-in-shining-armor kind of malesub

 
Neither of these things work for me so much. For one, I have simply too high a regard for myself to follow the he-slime model (for more than 45 minutes or so, that is) and the whole “good knight and m’lady” thing just seems kinda like it stems from those frustrated that their days in high school drama class are too far behind them. And, of course, at the end of the day it’s still just me and Belle, the two who have been married almost 12 years (11 of which occurred before my descent into depravity).

What’s become clear to me (and what Ranat’s post and the subsequent conversation about it have helped along for me) is that there is this other way. In fact, there are lots and lots of other ways. In fact, the best and most successful way is the other way. That is, everyone’s unique and they’re partnered with equally unique people. In some cases, there’s a huge overlap between what they’re capable of doing within their relationship and the prevailing paradigms, but in others, there’s less. Some poor bastards never figure that out. They look around, see guys in chastity belts and French maid outfits, and assume that that’s the way they need to express their need to submit to a strong woman. Unfortunately, the poor mate in this scenario a) may not be strong or much interested in pretending to be, and/or b) may not really want to live with a chastity-wearing male French maid since, you know, she’s probably attracted to virile men since that’s what she paired off with. These guys are doomed to failure. Years and years of failure.

Why? Because they define the way success looks based on their perspective (which, in turn, is formed by this fucked up, limited, web-propagated crap). There might be a way forward, but it sure as fuck doesn’t look like anything on the web. The measure of success Belle and I have enjoyed stems from being authentically who we are and not who others are or think we should be. In fact, we are the Borg. We (mostly I) troll the web looking at all the options, reading the perspectives, picking and choosing those that look like they might fit, trying them on, keeping some, discarding others (most). What we have created (and continue to create) is something wholly unique to us because we are unique people. It works for both of us, not just me and not just her. A lot of guys (and even me, sometimes) forget that there’s this whole other person in the relationship with their own turn-ons and fantasies and potential kinks who needs to be just as authentic as they do. IF they’re successful after the kink is introduced, it will only be because they are both being themselves, not because she finally clicks into one of the limited precast roles he’s trying to define for her.

As I said above, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about. Some bloggers are really good talking about the Big Picture. I have been relegated to quite happily making the kinds of posts Steve called the “progress” type, as though my relationship were a train stopping at well-known femdom stations before we “got there”. Truth is, I’m still way too early in this to really know where that station is or what track will get us there (or even to know when we’ve arrived). I’m the reporter who says what happened to who at what time and in what way. I leave the why’s and what it all means to others. At least for now.

–

1 I’ve linked to that post now, like, 56 times which, from all the pingbacks it’s created, makes me look like I’m desperate for attention which, of course, I am but I don’t particularly enjoy looking that way and, in this case, is overstated. In any event, go read it and all the comments, because it’s some of the best intercourse on the subject I’ve seen in all the time I’ve been looking for such things (and yes, I said “intercourse”). ↩

Jul 16

8 Comments

Dev and Thumper talk

Transcript of an instant message conversation in which Dev helps Thumper figure some shit out. After-the-fact commentary in italics.

—

Dev: I read your post.  It was more positive than how you described it yesterday, which must be a good sign.

Thumper: i have two other bile-filled ones I never finished

Dev: I have an only semi-related question for you, or two questions really: (1) Are you able to cry? and (2) How does Belle respond if you do?

Thumper: (1) I can and have, but not in a while. (2) Hmm. Usually by trying to comfort me. Fix what I’m crying about.

Thumper: Last time i cried it was about feeling weird and guilty and like a freak for bringing kink to my marriage

Dev: right, maybe you blogged about that, it sounds vaguely familiar

Thumper: i think i did

Thumper: that was it

Thumper: there was lots of crying around the time i told her about the affair

Thumper: natch

Dev: yeah

Dev: She should have apologized about falling asleep.  Definitely.

Thumper: she eventually did, but in that pissy “i’m only doing this to shut you up” kind of way

Dev: But (IMO) she is right that you should stop pushing the dildo thing.  Like, a while back already.  (Sorry.  Please don’t hate me.)

Thumper: totally

Thumper: actually, when she finally put it that way, it really turned me on

Thumper: if only she had let it lie

Thumper: “pushing the dildo”

Thumper: snerk

Dev: lol

Dev: btw, when Jos and I fuck, and I get to the point where I want to come (which I can’t from just fucking) or I am tired of him stopping (so as not to come) then I stop him and I use my vibrator while he fucks me with his fingers.  Fingers work much better than a dildo for me personally

Thumper: “pushing the dildo” would be a good name for a blog

Thumper: belle’s unusual in that she can come solely from fucking. i don’t need to stimulate her clit to make her come.

Thumper: i only know that’s unusual since i listen to dan savage’s podcast

Thumper: the difference between you and she is also that she *does not care* that I need to stop. she won’t let me.

Thumper: i think it’s one of the reasons she moved to the top recently

Thumper: so i can’t stop

Thumper: that *sounds* hot (Yes, it does!)

Thumper: but it isn’t

Thumper: not really (Yes, it is.)

Thumper: i obsess. (Jesus, lighten up!)

Thumper: during the fight night, she said she was “letting” me come in those situations

Thumper: when, in fact, i did not want to.

Thumper: she was actually “making” me come

Dev: yes

Thumper: seriously against my will

Thumper: which, again, could be hot (No shit!)

Thumper: if played the right way (Ding ding ding!!)

Dev: Sounds more like she is making you lie there and get fucked regardless of whether you come or not.  Which is also hot.

Thumper: that’s it

Thumper: if i don’t come, good for me. if I do, so be it. suffer the consequences.

Thumper: maybe i’m looking at this the wrong way… (Ya think?)

Thumper: cause right now, it sounds pretty good (Oh, yeah it does.)

Dev: I think there are ways she could put this to you that are very hot, but she’s not likely to find them and you don’t want to do too much coaching.  If you can find it in yourself to translate for her to yourself, it would work

Thumper: god, that’s smart

Thumper: that’s it exactly

Dev: I only really “got” the right words to say to Jos after he said them to me when we were switched, and it was so fucking hot that now I understand it deeply and can carry out my side of it better than ever before

Thumper: in fact, there’s so much i need to “translate” within myself

Thumper: hmmm

Dev: but I don’t think you’re going to switch with her so I don’t think she’s going to get it that way, if she even could, which is doubtful

Thumper: nope, she’ll never switch

Dev: but it’s clear that she just wants to fuck you and get her pleasure from fucking you without having to have a bunch of angst over whether she’s allowed to do stuff that (incidentally) makes you come

Thumper: that’s right. she could have said that

Dev: and that is a totally cool thing to want (IMO as a non-participant in your relationship)

Thumper: the denial is fine until it gets in her way

Dev: She CAN’T say that because for you it would imply that she doesn’t care whether you come or not and you can’t handle that

Thumper: she once said she didn’t care and that was bad. but, if it was just another form or torment…

Thumper: of testing me

Thumper: and punishing me if i failed (I think he’s starting to get it…)

Thumper: god, that would be cool

Dev: …which is how she handled it last time

Dev: now, it would be better if she would just beat you for your failure rather than doing the sort of “no sex, no touching” thing, but she’d have to be comfortable with that

Thumper: icy hot

Thumper: she already knows that’s close to my limit

Thumper: at least the way she applied it last time

Thumper: fuck, that hurt

Dev: And if it was right after you came it wouldn’t be sexy either, until later

Thumper: god no

Thumper: *or* she could make me clean it out of her. that’d totally do it for me

Thumper: without the pain, too…

Dev: But she might not feel like it, after coming herself.  I don’t know what she’s like.

Thumper: oh, yeah

Dev: and that sounds more like a treat than a punishment

Thumper: true

Dev: to me

Thumper: it helps that you’re a female

Thumper: here’s a crazy idea. would you mind if i copied this exchange, removed the real names, and posted it?

Dev: Not at all

Thumper: sweet

Thumper: thanks

Dev: :)

Jul 16

14 Comments

Fight night

This is my 18th day since I last came, but, more importantly, it’s the fifth day since I was last able to give Belle an orgasm. It’s starting to get to me. Her release is my release and when I’m not able to achieve that I start to get squirrelly. Just as our yellow sun provides Superman his powers, contact with Belle’s flesh and exposure to her pleasure keeps my submission on the side of truth, justice, and the American Way. Absent that, and it’s Bizzaro Superman: dark, imperfect, wrong.

Complicating my feelings today is a rather large fight we had on Tuesday night. We hardly ever fight anymore. I think this is at least partly because my ego is less of an issue when I’m in the subby mindset. However, I can still get pissed, as I did Tuesday.

It started with a conversation about the dildo/harness thing again and she, yet again, expressed no interest in it. I tried to lobby for it the best I could, but she finally pulled the Dominant card. Is she not in control of when, where, and how we have sex? Yes, of course. OK, then. I promise never to bring it up again. I’m sorry.

But she wouldn’t drop it. She accused me of wanting to introduce it to our stable of toys primarily for my pleasure. In fact, that’s entirely untrue. Yes, there’s a part of me that really gets off on the idea of fucking her while not fucking her – of replacing my meat with something else – but the primary reason I want it is because I know how much she enjoys the act of being fucked by me. And yeah, I like fucking her. But, when I’m being denied, the act leaves me an emotional wreck. Nine times out of ten, I come (especially if it’s been a while). I do nothing but obsess and worry while it’s happening and, afterward, I really and truly feel like shit. So, yes, I would get something out of it (submissive charge from being “replaced”, freedom from orgasm angst while pleasuring her), but she would also get something out of it (enjoying a good fuck more often, enjoying a phallus engineered to give her pleasure). But she insisted I was not telling her the truth. That I was trying to spin this as a plus for her when, in fact, I was thinking more about myself. That pissed me off.

Then, of course, there was the other thing. Even though I’ve written about how I really never want to experience true sexual satisfaction again – that is, I never want to come so much that I lose my constant desire to come some more – I’m not sure she really believes it. So I was pouring my soul out about this significant change in me and my approach to my sexuality, really trying to make her understand how profound I find this realization – when, at the end of my little oratory, I found she had fallen asleep. Yes, it was 10ish, yes, the candles were glowing, yes, we were laying in bed and, of course, she had consumed her fair share of the wine, but come on! She fell asleep on me. While I was emoting.

Poof. Any and all subspace totally evaporated. That left me a pissed off, horny, locked-up dude (if not for the device, I’m sure I would have rubbed one out right then). I blew out the candles and put on some clothes (sorry, did I not mention I was naked through this whole exchange?). She woke up, tried to pretend she hadn’t fallen asleep, and then the fight part started. She was pissed at me for being pissed at her for falling asleep. I thought that was total bullshit and told her as much. Evidence of the bunny was nowhere to be found. So, we yelled at each other for a few minutes before finally settling in to talk some more.

Bottom line for her was two things. One, she felt sex had taken over our relationship. I told her, IMO, sex was our relationship. I’m a guy. Guys need sex. We equate sex with love and connection, etc. This had been covered at length in our counseling. If she thought I was placing too much emphasis on it, that’s fine, but, as far as I am concerned, we have just enough sex in our relationship right now. If she ever thought I was making too big a deal over it, she was entirely within her rights to tell me to back off. In fact, she could even do so within the construct of our dynamic and still give me a form of what I was looking for.

Second thing for her was her continued insecurity with regard to her role in our dynamic and the potential that she was not living up to all the things I wanted from a dominant partner. She was afraid of disappointing me. I told her I fully expected her to disappoint me. I totally accept that nobody could be the perfect dominant I have in my head. In fact, I’m not even sure what that ideal would look like. Disappointment in any relationship is par for the course and unavoidable. All I want from her is to be as comfortable as possible with herself and let the rest happen as it will. In fact, I am, as I have said here multiple times, over-the-moon happy with her and our relationship. I am happier now than I have ever been with anyone, even her for the first 10 years of our marriage. I have shared things with her and done things with her I never though I would do with anyone. I could not be more satisfied with her or where we are as a couple. Except for this gnawing insecurity on her part. I worry that she’s only going through the motions to make me happy. That she really doesn’t want to live this way or do these things. She says that’s not true. She says she likes where we are and likes to keep me locked-up and all that. I believe her, but struggle to make her understand that, more than the ideal dominant partner, I need a confident partner and that she has every right to feel confident in her role right now. She rocks. She’s amazing. She is so, so good for me. I say it all the time (or, at least, I feel as though I do), but her doubt and insecurity lingers.

I told her last night that really, truly, this is what I want. I want the denial. I want the control. I want to live with the constant sexual frustration. I want the basic unfairness of the arrangement. Really. I will never, ever hold it against her. It’s how I want to be. All she has to do now is believe it.

Feb 19

1 Comment

Going gay

Over on Fetlife, a guy started a thread called “Effects of Chastity on young males” in which he expresses his concern that being in chastity was turning him gay. Apparently, after being locked up for six weeks he had found himself craving assplay and was becoming aroused by the idea of “servicing” another man (or rather, being “forced” to do so by his domme). This guy was really worried that chastity was causing him to become something he felt was morally wrong. I don’t bring this up in order to make fun of him (though, based on some of his comments, I think he should be made fun of). Instead, his post has made me, a guy who’s enjoyed his fair share of assplay and “servicing”, ponder what it means to be “gay”.

For most of my living memory, I’ve been attracted to both genders. Many of my most vivid memories of childhood are those in which I engaged in sex play with my friends (going back to seven or eight years old, even). Most of the time, those friends were boys, but not always. As I got older and my equipment started to develop into something I could actually do stuff with, it was still the boys I was fooling around with most of the time. I think this was primarily due to the fact that boys were around me in large numbers and, it turns out, were just as horny as I was. I had several “partners” in my formative years who today, no doubt, would identify as the straightest of straight men and would totally repudiate any claim that they could be otherwise. But that doesn’t change the fact that other guys were cheap and easy and, as an added bonus, I liked their cocks as much as I liked my own.

At some point, I realized this wasn’t “normal”. Not only was playing around with sex a bad thing (as defined by my parents and other adults), but doing so with other boys was a Bad Thing™. And, since I often was the one to instigate it, I was doubly bad. The idea that I might be gay bubbled up in my head. Gay, as in faggot. As in all the terrible things young men call each other. As in the type of person others in my family detested and derided. That did not make me happy.

Once I hit high school and discovered the wonders of personal hygiene, the opposite sex discovered me. And I discovered I liked them, too. In fact, I liked them just as much, though differently, as I did the boys. I found girls and boys to be different in all kinds of wonderful ways. Like, when I kissed a girl her spit was mild, fragrant, and not as thick as what I found in a boy’s hot, steamy mouth. Girls were all soft and curvy and had these neat extra parts while the boys were hard and pushy and more familiar. Girls were a mysterious game, where the rules were always shifting and winning was hard, while boys were direct and simple (even the straight boys were easy to beat). I was an equal opportunity player and game for just about anything. For a while there, my girlfriend was best friends with my best friend’s girlfriend. We’d hang out in his room after school making out with the girls and, when they left, we’d make out with each other (and much more). This did not seem weird to me at the time.

If I identified as anything then, it was bisexual. I really hate the term bisexual (then and now), but it was the best I had to work with. I knew I wasn’t straight since I liked cock, but I wasn’t gay since I liked nearly everything about girls. I bristled then (and still would today) at the suggestion some of my gay friends made that I was confused. I was not confused about what I liked. I was confused about what that made me and how I was supposed to fit into a world where people like me didn’t seem to exist.

Eventually, I realized that while I could be sexually satisfied by both genders, there was a hole in my soul only a woman could fill. True, with a woman there were cravings for certain sex acts and body parts that would go unfulfilled. I decided, though, that I would never be emotionally satisfied with a man (though not before treating like shit the only one I ever loved). In fact, I was not gay. After a while, I got married, we had kids, bought a house and dog. But I still resist calling myself straight or bisexual. I am just me, the guy who’ll fuck anyone.

While I don’t consider the gender we crave for emotional satisfaction a choice (and, therefore, homosexuality isn’t a choice), I do consider the acts in which we engage to be a choice. I chose to have sex with men. I do not choose to find them attractive, they just are. I don’t choose to like taking up the ass, I just do. However, engaging in homosexual activities does not make me a homosexual (any more than my voting for Ronald Reagan makes me a Republican – but that’s another story). I think this is where a lot of “choice” arguments come from. Religious/conservative types who, in their youth, played around with guys like me and then, when they got older, assumed anyone who engaged in hot guy on guy action was choosing to do so, rather than doing what they felt most comfortable and natural doing.

So, long way around, the dude on Fetlife who was having urges to suck guys off and let them fuck him wasn’t going to end up any gayer than me, Rick Warren, or the man on the moon. You can only be gay when you’re gay. Straight boys who like cock are nothing more than that.

Jan 28

1 Comment

Personal Jesus, the second coming

Wow, how many people have I insulted in how many ways with that title?

There were some really great comments in Personal Jesus that I wanted to address, so I’m moving them out here so I can do so more publicly.

First up was Dev who said:

I think the suffering thing is one of the hardest for the dominant partner to deal with, even if the dominant partner happens to be a sadist (like me). Because to really push the suffering can mean really taking the partner somewhere that they really do not want (in the moment) to go, but are deeply thrilled by. It takes a lot of trust to know that this is really all right. It takes a lot of times of them coming back later and telling you how awesome it was for them.

I have seen a change in Belle’s behavior regarding the suffering as we’ve gone along. Before any of my sexual oddities became clearly known, she always knew I liked a little pain in my sex. She’d twist my nipples or scratch my back and it was all good, but it never really hurt. She was holding back because I’m sure she didn’t know how much pain I really wanted or could take. Now, she’s freaking medieval with both her use of nails and when she abuses my nipples. After each event, I have been careful to tell her exactly how much I liked what she had done and, as best I could, describe how much pain she had inflicted. She’s become quite adept at making my nipples scream and knows the tender places into which she should dig her nails. She has, on several occasions, really hurt me which, of course, I adore. A newer thing for us now is CBT. With that, we’re about where we were with the nipples three months ago. Each time, she hurts me a little more, but she hasn’t yet crossed my limit. And don’t even get me started with the biting. I get positively weak in the knees, the way she bites me.

Then Tom Allen said:

[I]f you want to suffer, then how can you really call it suffering? And if Belle doesn’t care one way or the other about it, then you’re going to feel that she’s doing it simply to satisfy you.

I can’t really answer that first question. It’s a conundrum. As I said above, I’ve always enjoyed a little pain in my sex, but to truly suffer – to be taken to the edge and beyond – I think that’s different. I can’t say why exactly, but I want to suffer for her. I want something above a dash of painful spice. And it’s reciprocal. I want to feel it from her and for her. This is altogether different than anything I’ve expressed or desired before.

And as far as figuring out what to do if she never really enjoys it and is only doing it for me, I guess I’d respond that everyone in a relationship does things like that (or should). It’s a give and take and while I need to be prepared to do for her things I know she likes that I don’t particularly care for, I expect she’ll do the same for me. And I need to get over the fact that she’s not enjoying it as much as me. My Belle is the personification of the good, giving, and game partner, as I also try to be for her.

Tom went on to say:

Ms. Rika has an interesting take on this – she writes (her website has been hijacked) that it’s more important for her to find what she wants, and to dominate from that perspective. Later, when she’s more comfortable, she can “reward” you by doing things that make you feel good, simply because one acknowledges that partners should make a point in pleasing each other a little bit, as long as it’s not too far out of their comfort zones.

I think that’s a very sensible approach and one I think we should work on. I want Belle to find the vector into this that rings her bell. I will endeavor to be patient while we find that path.

You need to stop feeling disappointed that she doesn’t “get” what you get; and start supporting what she does get. Remember, you’ve had years and years to develop your twisted, perverted fantasies; she needs time to catch up.

Maybe I sound disappointed on the blog, but I’m really not. I appreciate so much what Belle’s been willing to try and how much she has given me in a relatively short time. I do get impatient but it’s because I’m so damned horny all the time. I’m not a patient person to begin with. Mix in some hormones and it’s even worse. Nevertheless, I know I’m a very lucky man to have such a mate.

Then Dev came back and said:

One thing I’d recommend – and since I don’t know either of you, this could be totally horrible advice, but that’s what you go to the Internet for, right? – is that you be really, really open to hearing from Belle the truth about her own personal experiences. Use your very best encouragement and just handle whatever you hear back. And do this often, like all the time.

I’m doing this. At least, I think I’m doing this. At least, I’m trying to do this. I’ll ask her to make sure I’m doing this.

I remember pretty early in my relationship with Jos, we were lying in bed and he asked me what I wanted to do. I couldn’t figure out the answer, because the question I was actually asking myself was, “What would be [from an outside or 'objective' perspective] sexy to do next?” And then suddenly I realized that, no, I can just do what I actually want to, and it will be all right.

That must sound really basic and messed-up not to “get” but it actually took trust for me to promote my own wishes in bed rather than thinking of it from some overview perspective about what is sexy or right or good to do, etc. Having a partner who encouraged honesty was a big deal in that process.

Who am I to criticize someone for not getting something obvious? This whole blog has been an exploration of me figuring out otherwise obvious things.

So did Jos do anything to help you come to that realization or did you get there all on your own? I agree that women are socialized to consider the needs of others before theirs, even in bed, but I really want Belle to do what she wants first and primarily. This is very hard for her. She’s been brought up in an environment that was about putting others first. When it comes to our sex, I want it to be about her first, second, and third.

I read what I just wrote and realize I need to fight the urge within me to want to be treated unfairly and to suffer. I need sexual gratification. I need it to be about me every once in a while. I know that. I’m not saying I want to live some kind of malesub porn fantasy where she brings me out to worship her pussy every night and then kicks me to the floor when she’s done. No, not that or anything like it. I do, though, want our sex to be about her mostly and for most of the time.

It’s one thing to try (for instance) beating someone. It’s another thing to know that you’re going to have to claim that you liked it, or that you insist on it, or that it wasn’t for them at all but for yourself. You (the dom) should be able to actually just do it, and then reflect on how it was for you, and be honest if it didn’t work.

I agree. But what’s my role as the sub? Am I allowed to ask for things that she doesn’t like? Or should I just accept what works for her and move on? This is the tricky bit for me because I’ve never been submissive before in anything. I have no idea what the rules are. I said above that I assumed we should continue to do for each other things we know the other likes, even those things we may not be individually thrilled with. Does that continue to apply in a D/s dynamic? Should she do things she’s OK with mostly because I like them?

I don’t know. This is getting to be a ridiculously long comment.

And that’s turned into a rediculously long post in response to your rediculously long comment! Regardless, thank you both so much for your thoughts. I really appreciate them.

Jan 27

4 Comments

Five and five-eighths

Ranat over on Beyond the Hills posted a terrific rant entitled Big Cocks and Why They Are Stupid. Here’s a sample:

Oh, and let us segue into the idiotic myth of the infinitely stretchy continuum of the vagina that can somehow magically accommodate anything. Reality check: it ends. Ultimately, the vagina has a finite length. You hit the cervix, squeeze into the deep spots on the side, and you’re done. Can’t go any farther. I can only speak from personal experience, as I have not put anything up anyone else’s cunt but my own, but to tell you more about my internal proportions than you ever wanted to know, more than five inches? Impossible. Utterly. Five. Inches. Four on a sore day. Five and a quarter on a particularly stretchy day. Do you have any idea how annoying it is that the standard size for dildos is seven inches?!?!?

This tickles me for a number of reasons. First, it makes me recall a question once posited by my boyfriend in high school. I paraphrase, but it went something along the lines of since guys are so hung up on length, do you suppose girls sit around and talk about depth? He also says I at one time said my dick was bigger than his and I suppose I may have said this, but I honestly have no recollection of it, and besides, he’s extraordinarily well proportioned, so I don’t know why I’d make such a demonstrably wrong comment. Usually, when I say things that are wrong, I try to make them difficult if not impossible to prove. It’s kinda stupid to be laying in bed with a guy and say your boner’s longer than his when, well, they’re right there.

The other reason I find Ranat’s rant funny is I was just measuring my erect penis the other day. I know this sounds fishy, but I had a really good reason. As I’ve mentioned a few times, I’m seriously hung up on this idea that Belle will someday make me fuck her with a strap-on while I’m in chastity. To that end, I was dildo shopping and trying to find one that more or less matched my size (like Ranat, Belle is disinterested in a seven-inch wonder schlong). For those keeping score at home, this one’s not too far off.

Whilst measuring, I was surprised to find I was not as long as I thought I was. To the best of my recollection, I am six inches long. The handful of times I had measured before, I was always six inches on the nose (or whatever). This time, I was about five and five-eighths. I have to admit, this bothered me, even though Belle (the only person who really matters) finds it to be a perfect five and five-eighths. In fact, it’s been the perfect length for every women I’ve ever been with. I can even remember tickling a few cervixes, so anything more would have been too much, which is exactly what Ranat was saying to begin with. I’m also comforted by the fact that, according to Wikipedia, I am positioned at the very tip top of the bell curve when it comes to erect length and girth. Yay for normal distribution.

So, the old boyfriend’s question and Ranat’s post got me wondering what the average female depth is. Turns out the average aroused vagina is between five and six inches long. In other words, perfect for my Mr. Winky. But what’s really funny is how differently vaginal depth and penis length are discussed on Wikipedia. There is exactly one paragraph (that I could find) dealing with vaginal depth. And here it is:

The human vagina is an elastic muscular canal that extends from the cervix to the vulva. Although there is wide anatomical variation, the length of the unaroused vagina is approximately 6 to 7.5 cm (2.5 to 3 in) across the anterior wall (front), and 9 cm (3.5 in) long across the posterior wall (rear). During sexual arousal the vagina expands in both length and width. Its elasticity allows it to stretch during sexual intercourse and during birth to offspring. The vagina connects the superficial vulva to the cervix of the deep uterus.

Notice no mention of what the aroused state’s length is, just that it gets longer when wet. Keep in mind that that paragraph is just a small part of the main vagina article. Now, contrast that with the penis. Penis length has been dedicated an entire article all its own. It has ten (count ‘em, ten) sections. How to measure the penis, studies on its size, its size at birth, how its size changes with age, differences between flaccid and erect lengths (with pictures), how to enlarge it through surgery, historical, modern, and popular perceptions of its size, etc., etc. I mean, come on guys! Obsess much?

Turns out, there is an approved way to measure one’s penis and I wasn’t using it the other day. It’s entirely possible I am six inches or I’m only five and a half. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Just like Mary Poppins, it’s practically perfect in very way.

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