One reason

There seems to be a lot of never-ending web chatter asking and discussing why men like to be denied, locked-up, etc. I can’t answer for all men, obviously, though I’ve been thinking recently about what makes me like it and I think it might apply to many other men. For me, it’s above and beyond simply being a common ground where many of my kinks come together.

Belle and I have been married for eleven years. For the past several, leading up to my infidelity, we had what the textbooks refer to as a “sexless marriage”. We did have sex, but on average less than once a month. After my infidelity and the exploration of our relationship that immediately followed, our sex life picked back up. In fact, it was better than it had been at any point in our entire marriage. Then, we got kinky.

As I’ve said before, I “discovered” my denial kink late one night while surfing the web for sex toys. I stumbled upon a site that sold chastity devices and was off to the races. Prior to that, I knew little and hardly thought about chastity, denial, or D/s. Certain elements of those things kept coming up in the porn I liked, but the inclination to engage in them never coalesced into reality. Because we were in a very open and communicative mode, it wasn’t hard for me to show Belle what I wanted to experiment with and she, because she’s wonderful, agreed to try it all out.

What has become obvious to me now is that by engaging in that kind of play – by transferring to her total control over the most basic expression of my sexuality – I have, in effect, bound her to our sex life. We can never drift apart again since, for me, she is the only way I can get any kind of sexual relief. She cannot disengage because I will always be there, horny and desperate. In effect, my denial is like a little bell tied to a fishing line indicating even the smallest change in status.

It’s not as though this is the primary purpose of our arrangement. I found chastity and denial and immediately had a deep and visceral reaction to the idea. Never did the cause and effect of it flash though my mind or even enter my conscious thought until much later. In short, I am not using this to achieve the end of keeping her engaged with me sexually. That’s just a happy side effect.

So, as I’ve read more stories on teh interwebs from men who are desperate to get their vanilla wives to plug in to their domination and denial fantasies, I can’t help but wonder how many of them are doing so, consciously or not, in order to “trick” their wives into being more involved with their sex lives. I can’t imagine anyone going so far as to bring enforced physical chastity into their relationship unless it tripped one of several kinky triggers for them, but who knows?

The bottom line is, moving in the direction that Belle and I have places a tremendous load on the woman in the relationship. Especially if she’s not instinctually dominant or sadistic. Yes, there are a lot of benefits for her, but they come at a cost. And the man gets what most men want more than anything else: A partner intricately and permanently involved in a prolonged sexual adventure.

It was my fault

The issue seems to have been that I was not acting submissively enough. I can see that. In fact, I haven’t been feeling very subbie since Sunday’s ruined orgasm (which leads me to think it wasn’t as ruined as I thought). She picked up on my changed demeanor and reverted out of Belle Fille, owner of Thumper’s cock, mode and back into my wife of eleven years. This was me giving her mixed signals. I totally get that.

I asked her, next time that happens, to call me on it. Not so subtly, she should say my attitude needs adjusting and if I don’t fix it myself, she’ll take care of it for me. If, of course, I don’t want to adjust it, we can call a time out and discuss the arrangement of our power exchange, but for the past few days I just drifted out of tune somehow. I did recognize it, but didn’t connect that with how I may have been acting the other night. I was probably too aggressive, definitely did not respect her control as much as I should have. So, I’m taking full responsibility. Hopefully, she’s better prepared with how to deal with me next time I drift.

During our conversation, she reaffirmed that she does see the benefit of our arrangement. She’s not just doing this for me. I need to hear that, of course, because if it ever turns out to all be an act to make me happy, the potency of the exchange will evaporate. I need to know she appreciates the benefits of the exchange – basically, that she’s getting something out of exploiting my condition. That warm, tight, unfair feeling I get in my chest is what I get out of it. That’ll only exist if I know she’s not just playing along.

In other related news, I’ve now been locked-up longer than any other previous stint. Fourteen days. No idea when I’ll get out. She’s not dropping an hints and I’m not asking.

The fight

In the past few months Belle and I have fought just a handful of times. I attribute that to our having strengthened our relationship overall in the wake of my infidelity last year. Better communication, more intimacy, and frankly, less resentment towards each other has kept us from tripping on the small stuff. Now, apparently, we only fight about big stuff.

I have no idea when last night’s conversation turned the corner from a discussion of how we deal with my increased sexual interest vs. her non-interest to an all out screaming slugfest that, at one point, had her telling me to sleep downstairs. And it’s still so fresh and intense that I’m not sure I’ll be able fairly relate her point of view. I do know that the entire D/s framework that we’ve built around our relationship is barely standing this morning.

The evening started out great. We were laying in bed, making fun of the news and generally being wise asses with each other. Lots of laughing. Then, the TV and lights went off, she told me to get naked as usual, and I folded myself into her. For me, approaching two weeks without a proper orgasm, that kind of contact with her in that unclothed state makes me think of pretty much one thing. When she moved my hand to her breast, I took that as a positive sign. Apparently, though, she didn’t want sex and only wanted me to hold her. Most nights, she assumes her roll as Belle Fille and shuts Thumper down. Last night, she was my wife and I was (apparently) making her feel guilty for not giving me what I wanted. This initiated the conversation. I said I didn’t need sex from her every night, but that I did need to see some engagement by her in the power exchange dynamic. She said she felt inadequate to the task, didn’t want to always be playing the game, and worried that I was unhappy. Eventually, the conversation burrowed all the way back to the infidelity and her fear that somehow her denying me (to which, of course, I’m a party) would lead me back to the frame of mind that allowed the infidelity to occur. Then, at some point, there was yelling.

Of course, the whole D/s thing was totally shattered. I felt ridiculous as the only naked person in the room, doubly so with the stupid polycarbonate attached to my dick. I very nearly got up and removed it about a half dozen times, but I never did. Somehow, it was the last vestige of what we had built up and to remove it would signal a total collapse. I didn’t want it on me, but I wanted it off even less.

I suggested to Belle that perhaps this type of dynamic was inappropriate for us to play with. If she could tie it somehow to the years of issues that led to the infidelity – a position I can’t understand as I see the attention and commitment to our D/s as proof of how far we’ve come from that time – then it was either not the right thing for us in general or it was the wrong time for us to do it. If she’s going to have a hard time dealing with my perpetually high sexual needs, to the point of us having a screaming fight, then we needed to get rid of them.

I don’t know what all this means. I don’t know where we are now. I am completely taken aback by what happened as I was pretty happy with where we were immediately prior to the fight and had no idea it was coming. Further, I have no idea how I’ll feel if we pull the plug on our D/s experiment. We’ve invested so much into it. It’s become something of a compass for me. If it were to suddenly disappear, I fear we’d be adrift. At least temporarily.

Obviously, we need to talk.

I’m fat

No, I’m not. But I feel fat. I am on the fatter side of what’s acceptable for me. I’m in the far suburbs of Fatsville. I can see the glow of it on the horizon. I am unhappy about that.

I’m six feet tall and weigh something like 215 pounds. If you saw me, you wouldn’t think I was too bad, but I’d much, much rather be at least 25 pounds lighter. Why am I telling you this? Because now it’s out there. I have to do something about it. I mean, I tell you guys everything, right? I can’t just pretend I’m a Brad Pitt look-alike and tell you all about how the wax splatters on my hard, rippling abs now, can I? Nope. I’m telling you because by doing so I’m keeping myself honest. It’s out there. I am going to lose 25 pounds.

OK, that’s out of the way.

I have been wearing the CB-6000 since the 19th of February. Twelve days. I’m pretty sure my record is thirteen, so yay for me. The thing is, the device is unbelievably comfortable now. It hasn’t woken me up in days. In fact, it feels so normal and natural that it’s starting to feel like an extension of me. I’ve totally adapted it to my life. Yes, it’s still a bit of a pain depending on what clothes I’m wearing, but there’s nothing I used to do that I can’t still do except pee standing up. Oh, and beat-off. Oh, and fuck. But besides that, the poly and I are living very well together at the moment.

So of course, it’s time to screw it up! I’ve been on the fence regarding what ring size to wear and have been in the 1.875″ ring this time around. My comfort is getting so ridiculously high that I’ve decided to finish this stint in the 1.75″ ring. Why? It’s not a lot more secure than the 1.875″ ring. It won’t be more comfortable (at least at first). I guess the best answer I have is the same mountain climbers use: because it’s there. Stay tuned for whiny missives on sleeping issues.

Belle and I tried to ruin my orgasm on Sunday morning so I could fuck her better with her cock. It all started OK, but she decided she wanted me to work on her a while before we got to me. Mistake number one. My Belle’s orgasms are not unlike freight trains. Once they get going, it’s hard to stop them or change tracks. In this case, I started working on her with my fingers. Once she was on her way, she decided I wasn’t going to stop. She wanted to come. But, she wanted me to make her come with my mouth. Super! But, after it was all said and done, the starting and stopping and thinking about it left her with a fair to middling orgasm. Not nearly as good as it could have been. Plus, there was the little issue of me, out of the device for the duration. She wanted to know if I could ruin an orgasm by fucking her. I thought I could, but really, why? She already had her go. I was just the redundant horny guy in the room who needed to put the plastic back on. Nope, she wanted me to ruin an orgasm inside her. Okey-doke, I’m on it.

Since I had such a focused purpose, hadn’t come in ten days, and knew she had already had her O, it took a remarkably short time for me to get to the place where I could spurt. I started to come, but never stopped fucking her. It was intense. The sensation coming off my head of the cock was almost off the charts, and not in a good way. I kept on going until the little soldier plopped out, all squishy and soft. I was panting and tired, but did not feel as though I came. One orgasm, perfectly ruined.

Lessons learned:

  • If she wants the cock to make her come, we need to deal with the ruined orgasm prior to touching her.
  • I would have been left with a higher level of frustration if, after the ruined O, I had to get hard again and fuck her to her orgasm.
  • I think not getting aroused again did leave me slightly less frustrated than before the ruined O. It wasn’t nearly as good as a real orgasm, but for the remainder of the day and most of the next, I could feel the difference. I got a lot of enjoyment from the quick fuck and we didn’t do anything to re-frustrate me afterward.

Of course, the other way to ruin an orgasm is to abandon it. Next time, I’d like us to experiment with that.

Reading this blog recently, you may get the idea that I don’t think we ever get anything right. Well, the past weekend was filled with mistakes and missed opportunity. That’s OK though. We need to figure this stuff out, right? Trying and failing is a far better prospect than not trying at all.

The nipple meat follies

Infants are wonderful, glorious, magical little creatures…who suck all sexual energy out of a person and shove it down a deep, dark hole – never to be seen again. Luckily, Belle and I are past all that now. Ours are grown sufficiently to get up by themselves and more or less deal with life while mom and dad “sleep in”. Belle’s sister and her husband, though, are still about five years, ten months out from that luxury.

Last night, they brought their two-month-old baby over to us so they could attempt reentry into adult society. While we were hanging with the little peanut, they went and sat in a bar before having a lovely meal, uninterrupted by crying babies, in a dimly lit restaurant – only to spend the entire time talking about the baby. By 10:00, they had returned, packed up, and gone back to the hellish existence called “new parenthood”.

I was thrilled because 10:00 isn’t crazy late for a Saturday and Saturday is the one night I look forward to all week long. Nine times out of ten, we have sex on Saturday night. And not just any sex. It’s usually the night we use to break out of the box and try new things. However, this Saturday night was that tenth night where, because the bouncing baby sex energy black hole had tired her out, Belle was uninterested in hanky-panky.

We should have left it at that. Sucked it up and considered it a donation to the young couple with the screaming ball of joy. But, either due to her lingering desire to please me or my pathetic, deprived posture – or some combination of the two – we did not leave it at that. Belle, bless her heart, decided to experiment some more.

Let me say right off, I am a big fan of Belle’s experimentation. I do not fault her at all for what went down. Just so we’re clear about that. You win some, you lose some. Last night was a loser.

She wanted to know if I could sleep with clothespins on my nipples (and not the wimpy wooden ones we have, but the firmer plastic kind with rubber ends for better gripping). I told her I wasn’t sure if I could, though I immediately felt trepidation. Even if I could fall asleep pinned, should I? Could I be damaged by leaving clothespins on my nipples all night? Also, was I supposed to try to keep them on all night? What if they came off? Should I put them back on? What were the rules here? I didn’t ask any of these questions, of course, because I was in my subbie painslut headspace. I dutifully got the clothespins and gave them to Belle.

Her intention was to put them on me, then go to sleep. She was tired and didn’t want to do anything but also didn’t want me to go empty handed. Very sweet, but more warning bells. Pain is not a passive plaything. Bondage can be (hell, I’ve been in bondage for over a week 24/7 if you count the CB6K), but pain requires attention. I endure it – the really strong stuff – because of her feedback. She inflicts it and I absorb it because she inflicted it and, presumably, wants me to absorb more. The idea that she’d set me up then roll over and go to sleep just felt wrong. And I should have said that. But I didn’t.

So, on went the plastic clamps. She’s figured out that by not grabbing a big hunk of nipple meat she can make it hurt more. She pinches just enough to hold on and that creates a more intense pain. I reacted immediately. It felt really good and I got pretty hard. She was touching me, asking me how it felt. It was all great. But then she started to drift off. She knew I wasn’t in the right place and asked what my score was, but I answered with the pat, “I want to do what you want me to do,” line. She wanted me to sleep with clamped nipples. OK, I’ll do that. But I knew it was not going to be good.

I actually did skate pretty close to sleep a few times, but the clamps kept my brain anchored to wakefulness. Belle, eventually, started breathing deeply and regularly. Then I felt neglected. The pain turned that corner from warm and pleasant to harsh and mean. It wasn’t feeling good any more. Since she was out for the next eight or nine hours, I was in limbo. What was I supposed to do? I wasn’t going to fall asleep. Should I lay there for hours awake and hating it? Should I wake her up and ask her what to do? Should I just take the friggin’ things off, roll over, and go to sleep? No option seemed good.

It says something about the state I can get in that I felt paralyzed by the options before me. I did nothing for a long time because none of them seemed like the right way to go. I didn’t want to disappoint her, I didn’t want to disobey her, I didn’t want to bother her. Of course, I removed them. I rolled over onto my stomach and felt bad. Belle, asleep, instinctively moved her hand to touch my side when she felt my movement, but she didn’t wake up. I could have cried. I felt like shit.

The important and good thing from this experience is that I was able to talk to her about it this morning. We both know now why that didn’t work. We know where not to go in the future. As long as we’re always moving forward and learning new things, I’m perfectly fine with the occasional potholes.