Month: May 2009

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Defining vanilla

“I just want to have plain, vanilla sex,” said Belle Fille.

“Vanilla as opposed to…?” I asked.

“You said you wanted me to hurt you, but I don’t feel like that right now. I just want sweet, vanilla sex,” she replied.

“OK, I can do that.” And I did. Plain, missionary, sweet, wonderful fucking. However, vanilla or no, she still needed to come before me. Always. Cardinal rule. I felt myself getting closer and closer and sensed she was getting there, too. It was going to be a photo finish.

I came, but again, fought it to give her more time. Turns out, she came, too, at the same time. We seem to be doing that quite a bit (well, maybe not “quite a bit” because I’m certainly not coming “quite a bit”, but when we do both come, it seems like we’re doing it at the same time more often than not).

“You can come now,” she purred into my ear after I stopped thrusting.

“I did,” said I, only slightly miffed she failed to notice. “We came at the same time.”

“You didn’t have permission! Who said you could?”

“What do you mean? You said we were having ‘vanilla sex’. That means I get to come.”

“Cheeky. You only come when I say you come.”

“But you did say I could come!”

“Yeah, but not until after you already did.”

Sigh.

OK, note to self: “Vanilla” no longer means “vanilla”. In truth, we don’t have “vanilla” sex any more. Under no circumstances will I have an orgasm without prior, explicit permission.

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Expectation

Many times on Friday Belle dropped hints that we were going to have sex that night. Pretty much the only thing she didn’t say was, “We’re going to have sex later.” According to her established pattern, this would be expected on the second day following my release from a prolonged period of denial. Unsurprisingly, we did have sex.

With candles lit, I started to get undressed at the foot of the bed. As soon as my underwear dropped to the floor, she said, “Who said you could do that?” Oh, it was going to be like that, was it?

I sheepishly stammered some half-formed thoughts and pulled my underwear back on.

“Can I get naked, Belle Fille?”

Pause for effect. “Yes, then get into bed.”

I finished stripping and got into the bed, on all fours, burrowing my head into her side and the bed. That’s my “sorry, mistress” position.

“We’re going to have sex now. Get started,” she said (or something to that effect). It was to be another session where I was primarily there to pleasure her where very little energy would be expended tending to mine. My heart sank a little at this as I’ve developed a hunger for her attention, in spite of my otherwise subservient position. She assumed a posture of repose, expecting and requiring my services. I got to work.

After a few minutes, she may have noticed that my initial erection had flagged a bit because she grabbed the cock roughly and said, “Get this ready because I’m going to fuck it pretty soon,” followed by a severe tug on the meat. I felt the blood surge back into the cock. She was in a mood.

However, the ministrations of my fingers over her clit proved a compelling distraction. She teetered on the verge of letting me bring her to climax manually. I felt the stiffness of the meat she had manhandled earlier start to waver and whispered, “Your cock is ready,” to let her know as subtly as possible that she needed to make a decision.

“OK, I’m going to fuck you now,” she replied. She’s going to fuck me. I guess, since she’s the only one of the two of us who currently owns a cock, that’s the correct way to say it. A thrill ran down my spine.

Even so, she continued to linger on my fingertips for a few extended moments before indicating it was time for me to get on my back (another symbol – those fucking are on top, those being fucked are on the bottom – the last four times I’ve penetrated her have been from underneath). She positioned herself so only the outer lips of her pussy made contact with the hard cock. I reached under a few times to try to get it lined up for penetration, but it never seemed to make its way in. I tried a couple of other maneuvers with my hips with no success. I could feel the head of the cock rub against her clit and if I could only move up a few inches, I’d get inside her. I so badly wanted to get inside her.

Finally, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get it inside you.”

“Well, knock it off. It’s good just where it is.”

OK, I thought. I’ll get it in there as soon as she’s done. Yes, at this point, I fully assumed I was going to get to come again. It’s usually the case that she lets me come several times after a prolonged denial and I expected I’d get to do so again very shortly (and was quite looking forward to it since my last orgasm was unsatisfactory). As she worked her clit over the swollen member, I projected myself forward to a moment in the not-so-distant future where I’d feel it slip inside her, slide in and out, and eventually erupt in a torrent of mind-blowing passion. Jesus, I wanted to fuck her so bad. I could already feel it happening.

She came and collapsed onto me. (It’s almost time!) She basked, breathing heavily as the waves of post-orgasmic pleasure washed over her. (Just a little longer – let her do the afterglow thing.) She laid there, sighing in total satisfaction. (Patience!) She…continued to lay there. (Um…hello?)

“Thank you, Thumper,” she finally said. It wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it. That was it. We were done. Impossibly, it was over.

Fuck! Goddamn it! FUCK FUCK FUCK! AAARRGGHHHH!!!!

“Thank you, Belle Fille,” I replied in the only way I could, doing my best to stifle a whimper.

She eventually got off and I pressed desperately into her, still hard. I ground into her more than would be usually permissible. Despite my best effort, several whimpers did escape me.

“Relax, Thumper,” she said firmly. Translation: knock it the fuck off, rabbit boy.

Eventually, I did relax. I felt the crest of my anticipation and frustration and desire slowly seep away, and with it, the erection which had insistently refused to depart. I slept.

The next morning, we both awoke at about the same time. I snuggled into her, kissed her, slipped my hand under her shirt.

“You tricked me last night,” I said, “It’s not nice to trick people.”

“I did not trick you,” she retorted, “Who said you were going to get to come? Sounds like you need to keep working on when to expect things you have no control over, huh?”

“I guess so.”

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Double release

Thursday night, after we had driven four hours to the family compound in the North woods, Belle let me out of the device. On the one hand, I was surprised because she had dropped zero hints leading up to the unlocking, but on the other hand, I fully expected her to unlock me at some point over the course of the weekend. Yes, it would have been nice of her to do it before we left home and the fucking A-ring got to ground my balls to pulp for four hours, but whatever. I hardly have room for complaining. Eighteen days in the box is over.

And I went right into my new chrome cock ring. I had received it earlier that day from Stockroom.com. It was on sale. Anyway, it’s the same diameter as the A-ring I had just been released from. I’ve found I’ve become accustomed to feeling something holding my root and miss it when it’s not there. The substantial weight of this thing is hard to miss (like, if it was chucked at someone’s head with sufficient force, it’d probably kill them). It was too late to actually fool around, though. Time for sleep.

Sleeping all loose and floppy is actually more distracting than being locked up once you get used to it. It seems like the dick gets hard more often. It gets to feel all those exciting new sensations from rubbing against the sheets, Belle, etc., plus, of course, it’s out. It seems to me a chastised dick gets hard less often than an unchastised one because it knows there’s no point in doing so. In any event, it was plenty hard for most of the night and kept waking me up like a puppy wanting to play. The next morning, its hardness was accentuated by the fat silver ring. I practically begged Belle to let me give her an orgasm, which she allowed me to do.

All I wanted was to feel her come. I did not expect I’d come, but after a few moments of the usual manual approach, she told me she wanted to come on her cock and that she expected me to come, too. My heart leapt as she rolled me onto my back and mounted her hard, throbbing, nearly-four-week-denied cock.

I didn’t last long. I really was doing my dead level best not to come before she did, but I knew I was allowed to and all of my usual barriers were gone. I could feel my juices bubbling up inside me practically from the moment her soft wetness enveloped me. Two or three minutes later, I was fighting for my life trying like hell to stop what had, at that point, become inevitable. I was fighting so hard, I didn’t notice she was coming at the same time and hardly had a chance to enjoy it. On a scale of one to ten, I’d rank that one about a 3. Twenty-six days where nary a drop of precum had leaked out of me were capped by another pathetic squirt.

I told her immediately afterward how hard it had been to resist the orgasm. That her telling me I was going to come somehow released all the safety mechanisms inside my head.

She told me I was like a well-trained dog, coming when called.

“Good boy,” she said while patting my head.

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Morning angst

Belle had a business dinner at what’s probably her favorite restaurant last night. While she was dining, I dragged the kids off to Target to stock up for our Memorial Day weekend trip north then did my best to haul all the crap into the house and get it put away. Oh, and did I mention it’s in the high 90’s here? Flippin’ hot.

Anyway, I was laying in bed after getting both kids down for the night panting for the wrong reason and watching the Daily Show when Belle got home. She got into her jammies and plopped down next to me and immediately closed her eyes. I, of course, was hoping for some kind of interaction with her since I hadn’t seen her all day, hadn’t come in three weeks, etc. She did tell me to strip which I appreciated since it was so damned hot.

So there I am, naked except for the CB6K, laying next to her, both of us above the sheets due to the heat. I’m still somewhat self-conscious when totally exposed in the device and being in that state automatically drops into a subbie mentality. But, as soon as Stewart was done, she rolled over to go to sleep. I got nothing – no talking, no touching, hardly any attention at all, really. She wanted me to spoon into her, but it was too hot. That, and I was feeling sorry for myself.

Figuring out how to deal with the feelings of disappointment – even touches of resentment – is something I really need to do. I’m better than I used to be, but far from where I feel I need to be. I hate that I still have expectations with regard to her attention. If I was being true to my stated goals, I’d stop doing that. The constant craving for her interaction with her should be rerouted into more productive avenues. It’s OK to crave her, but not to expect anything from her. But it’s getting harder (pardon the pun) every day now. The incline of my denial is getting steeper and steeper.

And yet, I fear my own eventual orgasm. I don’t want to lose the way I feel right now. I like how denial keeps me focused on her and I don’t want to wait the week to ten days needed to build back to this point. No, I don’t want my feelings to get so strong that they become an impediment, but at the same time, losing them is also an impediment. I’d really like to find a way to skate the seam between overwhelming frustration and satisfied apathy.

Anyway, there you go. A piping hot heap of angst to accompany your morning coffee.

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Easy access

Reader ritemate left the following comment to the post Tube Talk:

One thing I don’t understand: How are you able to switch rings when you’re locked? Shouldn’t Belle keep the keys?

To which I replied that Belle doesn’t hide the key or keep it with her. It hangs on its chain with the rest of her necklaces. I let myself out about once a week for cleaning and general maintenance and lock myself back up, usually in the morning after she’s gone to work. This has never seemed to bother either of us since the device is just a symbol of her control over the cock. The actual control is between my ears.

But ritemate’s question has been lingering in my mind. I assumed, since Belle doesn’t like to wear the key all the time (regardless of how hot I find it), that it was only natural that she’d keep it with her other jewelry. And, since my intentions were pure, it was OK that I occasionally let myself out without her specific knowledge, as long as I had a reason.

But here we are three weeks and a day following my last orgasm (a new record) and two weeks and a day since the start of my lock-up (the longest period this year) and I heard myself thinking this morning that maybe I needed to get out after Belle left so I could…could…well, just because. Because I could shave, clean, etc., but also so I could simply touch myself. Wouldn’t that feel nice? Just for a bit. Then, right back in. Yes, my precious. That’s right. Nasty dommeses wouldn’t mind. You have a right to touch the cock, don’t you, precioussss….?

Yikes.

So, before she left, I asked Belle to hide the key. Now I have no idea where it is and there’s no way for me to get out of the device absent real, honest cheating. And you know what? The whole thing just got about 14% hotter for me. Now I will only get out when she consciously decides I will. No more sneaking around behind the Hobb– er, I mean, Belle’s back taking advantage of a vague technicality. In actual fact, there’s no real reason I have to get out, anyway. I can clean very well using the little angled squirt bottle thing I have and can shave well enough around the device. Unless she wants to play with it, she can keep it in there indefinitely at this point.

Now if I can only figure out how to deal with my sudden urge to take a bite out of a live fish…

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The choice

Saturday night, Belle gave me a choice I didn’t want. She told me that she was going to unlock me so she could play with her cock but, as long as she got what she wanted, she really didn’t care if I came. Those are the words she used.

“I really don’t care if you come or not.”

She was trying a new tack – that of “casually indifferent domme”. She was casting me in the role of inconsequential accessory which, normally, I’d totally appreciate, but, since the bedrock of our relationship paradigm is her control over my orgasms, to say she really didn’t care kinda sorta knocked the foundation out from under my motivation. I instantly felt this. If she didn’t care, why hadn’t I come in three weeks? If she didn’t care, what was all the suffering for? In fact, the suffering is for her, but now she’d basically said she didn’t want it. Of course, I knew I had taken it to the nth degree – beyond what she intended – but that’s how my hormone-addled brain processed it. She wasn’t really saying she didn’t care. It was just part of the scene. I should have said something but I was in that weird subby headspace that stops me from telling her when something doesn’t work for me and I remained silent.

As we started, I was having an internal debate. Should I come or not? She had basically given me tacit approval to do so, but she didn’t actually say I could. Also, I didn’t want it to happen this way. Not through her apathy (feigned or not). I come when she says, “you can come,” not before. I needed her to let me. So I decided I would resist and try to keep it inside.

What followed was pretty hot. I started out rather clumsily and distracted since I was having that “should I or shouldn’t I” debate in my head, but before I could get too far along, she took over and told me she wanted to be on top. I rolled over and she took it from there. I lined the cock up with her pussy, but instead of sliding right down and getting on with it, she eased onto it s-l-o-w-l-y and then stayed down, moving subtly with me completely inside. Then, again slowly and purposefully, she’d go up, then back down – like regular fucking but in quarter time. I tried to engage her nipples, but she said not yet, leave them alone. I tried to get into a reciprocal fucking rhythm, but she told me to stop. I looked up and saw her head back, a rapturous look on her face. She was fucking the cock, not me, in her own way and as she wanted. I was just the thing her dildo was mounted on. The thought of that almost made me shoot my load. In fact, seeing her enjoying me in that way brought me very close, but she slowed and paused at exactly the right moment and I avoided falling in. My breathing was coming in short, shallow pants. It was all incredibly sensual. After a bit, the pace quickened, but not as fast as it would normally be. I was allowed to engage her nipples and from that point on, I was all business. I could, of course, still feel her sliding up and down on the stiff meat, but I was in the zone. My near-come had pushed the urge back.

After she climaxed, I felt instant regret at not coming myself. I felt like a dupe for not taking the chance I had. I laid there, confused and more than a little anguished with a steady, insistent erection. By the time I worked up the nerve to ask if I could ruin an orgasm (if, for no other reason, than as a consolation prize), she had already drifted off to sleep.

I’ve grown enough in this role of denied horny guy to not let the resulting disappointment get me too far down. Yes, the whole “I don’t care” thing did leave me an emotional slag heap, but I also knew that my feelings were par for the course. It is expected that I’d feel this way from time to time (if not most of the time). If anything, I could take pleasure from the knowledge that Belle has gotten really good at taking the initiative and doing what she needs to do to get off, regardless of my satisfaction (or if I’m even involved). That’s where I wanted her to be (and it’s a place I wasn’t really sure she could get to). So, annoyed at myself just the same, I was able to turn the disappointment back on itself and feed my submissive little rabbit with it. I was pathetically horny. She was blissfully satisfied. All was right in the world.

The next morning, Belle slept in, so I went and replaced the CB6K. She had said she wanted it back on me “sometime” on Sunday, but I wanted it back on as soon as possible. I wanted to reassert the control she pretended to cast off the night before. Later, once she was awake, I brought her a cup of coffee and the Sunday Times. As soon as seemed appropriate, I told her how the previous evening’s vibe was wrong for me. I told her I was worried she’d feel guilt or that the misstep would feed lingering insecurity. She told me she recognized the issue and wouldn’t take that approach again, but that she felt no guilt whatsoever. You win some, you lose some, seemed to be her point of view. What else matters except that she got what she wanted? Suck it up, rabbit boy.

Damn, why didn’t I just fucking come when I had the chance?!

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Tube talk

Seems like we’ve been talking a lot about sex and emotions and shit lately. I’m feeling the need to give the chastity nerd inside me a little love…

Remember the hair experiment? I can continue to report that keeping a nice, smooth, hairless area around the ring circumference maintains a significantly more comfortable experience than not. I haven’t had any issues with razor burn or stubble. I shave it every other day or so, always with lubricated skin (soap, shaving cream, or just the silicone lube I use to keep the device moving around easily) and a well-used yet still serviceable razor (learned that lesson the hard way). So far, I give close shaving a thumbs-up.

I’m kind of in a weird area now where the 1 7/8″ A-ring on the CB-6000 is a little too big but the 1 3/4″ ring is a little too small. I can wear the 1 3/4″ ring without issue during the day, but find an annoying amount of testicle pain at night (and not pinching of the scrotum, actual testicular pain from my balls being crushed…wait, don’t I like that?). Also, I find the inevitable erection seems to back up behind the ring and cause more internal discomfort. What I need is a size somewhere in between – the Goldilocks ring – but it doesn’t exist. It continues to surprise me how big an impact such a small relative difference in size makes. In any event, I switched to the 1 3/4″ ring this morning and am going to leave it on for the duration of this stint. It feels more secure than the 1 7/8″ ring, doesn’t hang as low, and in general makes for a smaller feeling package to carry around.

I’m not sure what all the variables are, but I can remember when the 2″ ring was too tight and the 1 7/8″ ring was barely wearable. I know one of the things that changes during wear is skin on the scrotum, so maybe I just need a little more stretching there to fully adjust to the 1 3/4″ ring. The 1 5/8″ ring is insanely small, so at some point, the junk just don’t fit. I cannot imagine ever being able to wear that second-smallest ring, even for a few minutes.

I’ve also started wearing the smallest KSD-G3 all the time now. It does increase security, but I find the ancillary effect of it holding the penis down into the tube to be a bigger benefit for me. It helps with lining the urethral opening up with the slot and, even though I’m unable to pee standing up due to the PA piercing, that helps with cleanliness (which I’m a bit of a nut over). I do find that it occasionally will cause superficial “cuts” that don’t break the skin on the top of the shaft, but so far during this stint, they’ve been nothing I can’t deal with.

Speaking of peeing standing up, I recently acquired an external, “Texas” style condom catheter. Basically, it’s a rubber with a short tube at the end and some sticky stuff on the inside to keep it from leaking or falling off. I haven’t put it on yet, but I’m wondering if that will be my ticket back to vertical peeing. I worry about what keeping it on all the time will do to my skin and I’m also wondering what the hygiene implications are. In any event, I’m thinking of trying it out during my next confinement. Anyone else out there ever play around with one of these?

Finally, I can’t forget to ping Tom’s excellent Birdlock review. It’s a very thorough account of the device from an expert point of view that any enforced chastity fan will appreciate. He basically answered my biggest concern regarding the likelihood one could squish and squash oneself to orgasm while wearing it. Turns out, yes, you can, so my fascination with it is essentially over.

There. I feel better now that I’ve gotten all that chastity nerdery off my chest. Our regular programming will resume shortly.

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Pink punishment

I have been punished. Well, at least I feel like I’ve been punished.

Last night, Belle said I was going to rub her feet, which is all well and good and very expected since she just had a pretty terrific orgasm the night before, but before I got started, she asked for Pink, the little vibe that could.

“Get that smile off your face. You’re not going to be involved in anything,” she said.1

Really? … OK.

So I got Pink out of the toy chest and handed it to Belle in much the same way a dog might hand its master a rolled up newspaper if, in fact, dogs could do such things. Then I rubbed her feet for 20 minutes as we watched AC360.2

When the rubbing was done, she was pretty relaxed and, had I not handed her a vibrator 20 minutes earlier, I would have expected she’d be drifting off to sleep. In fact, she looked like she was drifting off.

“What are you going to do with Pink?” I asked, as if I was inquiring about the day’s weather forecast, trying to sound disinterested.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she replied sleepily.

Gah! What!? Why!? Jesus, let me! I didn’t say those things, but they all leapt to mind simultaneously. I didn’t even know where Pink was. She was still in her nightclothes, covers pulled up over her breasts, all cocooned and sleepy looking. No outward indication that she wanted to get off at all.

So, back to AC360. He was saying something about something3, but I wasn’t paying much attention. Too distracted by the mysterious and unusual thing happening next to me. Then, about three minutes later, I noticed a little motion under the covers in the general vicinity of her crotch.

“You’re doing it right now!” In front of Anderson!

“Mmm-hmm.”

I turned off the TV. With it out of the way, I could hear the muffled thrumming of Pink on its lowest setting. Louder, then quieter, louder, then quieter as it was moved up and down, in and out. I started to feel the oh-so-familiar pressure between my legs while I divided my attention between the rising and falling motion of the covers and her face, brow furrowed, eyes closed, mouth half open.

It took much longer than I thought it would. If it had been me doing it, I’d have had her off in half the time, but she wasn’t working her nipples and, while I knew that would help her, I didn’t move in as I wasn’t allowed to be involved. I just laid next to her, eyes darting up to her face, then back to the covers, gripping my pillow and feeling the throbbing inside my tube.

Her breathing turned to shallow pants and the thrumming of the vibe became more insistent as she kick in it’s highest setting. Her hips started to gyrate and the rising and falling of the tent became more noticeable. She was really starting to fuck herself with the little vibe and her whole pelvis was getting into it. She turned her face away from me and started to arch her back and neck. Her heavy breathing became mixed with quiet, rhythmic moans as she got closer to the edge.

I whined, scrabbled at my confinement, and felt totally powerless.

The little rhythmic moans became little rhythmic “oh, fuck”s as she spread her legs open more and, I assume, shoved the little vibe all the way home for the finale.

She came, while inside, my boiling desire howled in protest.

Afterward, I felt…weird. In the past, when she’s masturbated in front of me, we were both naked and I had some involvement. This time, I wasn’t even a spectator. I was less than that. I was immaterial. She was fully clothed, totally covered. She wasn’t putting on a show for me, she was getting herself off in much the same way she would had I not been there. It was 100% about her.

My head was buzzing. I was so turned on, but knew there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t use her pleasure to bleed of my excess pressure since she had blocked my access to it. It was done. And all I could do was lay there and churn. She was spent and satisfied and I was ten times hornier than I would have been had I been the one to make her that way. It was torture.

Her hand came out from under the covers and she handed me Pink, wordlessly. Where I had once been the jockey who rode the races, I was now the lowly stable boy left to tend to the tack after the race was won by someone else. The vibe was deeply warm. I resisted the urge to lick it, to suck off her essence. I simply held it and contemplated how well this event demonstrated her position over my sexuality.

I got out of bed to wash her toy and replace it in it’s case in the toy box before climbing back in. She never moved.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” she purred.

“Why did you do it yourself? Why didn’t you want me to help?”

“Look, don’t give me that whiny crap–”

“I’m not whining! I just want to know, that’s all.” I felt extraordinarily submissive to her at that moment. I felt tiny and expendable.

“It’s my decision and that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want you involved.”

“OK,” I said, meekly.

Yesterday, I suggested it would be tricky figuring out how to punish a masochist. Today, I know how. This is how. Deny my totally. Nothing for me, everything for her. That’s punishment. Cruel and effective. The mere suggestion of being put through this again will keep me in line.

As sleep approached, I felt disconnected from her. Normally, I spoon into her as I fall asleep, but I couldn’t. She was laying on her back, arms and legs out, in a position that made spooning impossible and, since I still wasn’t sure to what extent I was allowed to engage with her, I didn’t try to put my arms or legs over her. Snuggling felt inappropriate, as if I’d be intruding. Her entire attitude, even in how she laid there, sprawled across the bed, more than a little asleep, was self-centered. I even had to shift my position to make room for her legs on “my” side of the bed. Her embrace of the dominant high ground was striking.

This morning, I’m fucking wired. The sub energy is humming inside – to such an extent that I still feel like I can’t touch her and have a hard time looking her in the eye. She, however, looks at me in an admiring, appreciative way suggestive of a jockey/horse, gearhead/hotrod, master/slave relationship. She owns me. She owns my cock, my sex, my heart, and she owns my soul. And, she knows it.

—

1 As usual, all dialog is approximate yet accurate with regard to intent.↩

2 So what about that Anderson Cooper? Gay, right? He’s like a cute little gay elf you just want to put in your pocket.↩

3 Saying something bad with his mouth, but something good – oh, so good – with those steely blue eyes.↩

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Subbing from on top

Pursuant to my previous post, Belle now says I will lose “privileges” if my performance is sub-par. Still feels a little squishy, but I’m guessing she’ll be judging how I well I’m completing certain tasks and, at some point, there’ll be an accounting. Kinda gets into that whole “how do you punish a masochist” quandary, but I’m sure we can come up with some ideas.

Yesterday evening, I asked if I could suggest something. According to the Covenant, I can’t ask for sex, so this was my way of asking her for permission to break the rules a little. She said it was OK so I suggested, since she’s such a big fan of the cock, that she let it out for a little while so she could ride it to orgasm. We’re now fairly certain my last orgasm was on 4/26, about two and a half weeks ago, so I’m not so far gone that I’m trying to find any way I can to come, but the idea of getting the dick wet is very appealing to me. My desire to pleasure her is rising and I can’t think of any more intense way to do that than penetrative intercourse. Anyway, she said she’d take it under advisement.

Later in the evening, as we lay in bed and she was instructing me where and how she wanted to be stroked and petted (affectionately, pleasantly, non-sexually), she said I would be allowed to pleasure her. In fact, she was going to give me free reign to make her come in any way I wanted…

*SCORE!*

…as long as I kept the device locked to the meat.

*FAIL!*

The cruelty of this flipped over in my chest again and again as my fevered brain tried to find the loophole that wasn’t there. I removed our clothes and mounted her as if I wasn’t locked and the feeling of her skin against mine, all up and down our bodies, instantly flooded me with the desire to fuck her. Yes, of course I wanted to do that anyway, but when you’re locked and denied and know you can’t fuck your sexual desire becomes free-floating and abstract (which is how it attaches to things like body service, housework, and her orgasms). Now, in this familiar position with a brick-hard yet trapped erection, I wanted to, very specifically, fuck her living brains out. I pressed the tube of the CB6K to her open snatch, feeling her wet heat through the little bubble of flesh that presses out of the slot in the end yet totally unable to feel anything else except intense pressure. I rubbed the tube against her clit, making it wet with her juices. I wanted to grind it into her, but feared the lock and protrusion of the posts would hurt her. Regardless, my hips moved on their own as if I was entering her. This was the first time I had ever been in that position, making those motions yet receiving no physical sensation. I nearly swooned from the intensity of my arousal. The desire to bite her was hard to contain.

I finally backed off and buried my face in her pussy. I licked, lapped, and sucked her soft, wet folds until the entire lower half of my face was covered in her juices and they were running down my chin. Then, I moved my mouth up to her tits and used my fingers down below. I fucked her with one, two, then three fingers while she spread her legs wider and wider, wanting to feel more and more of my hand inside her. She lay there, on the brink of ecstasy and milking every bit of pleasure she could from what I was doing, while my balls were made painfully tight by the plastic cage pulling up and away from my body by its swollen prisoner.

She came hard over several minutes, then just laid there, eyes closed, face turned away from me, basking. I remained on top of her, vibrating with desire for her and wishing, now more ever before, that she’d let me fuck her with a strap-on. I know she’d like it. I know she would. And being so close to the mindfuck that chastised intercourse would be reinforced to me how much I’d like it. All I can imagine is she’s denying us this in order to deny me the sensation. I know she’s got a thing against objects in our lovemaking, but she felt the same way before the vibrator showed up and now she loves it. She’d love the strap-on after she tried it, too. I know I’m not supposed to lobby about such things – that she’s in total control of our sex – but, goddammit, I’m lobbying hard for this. She’ll have to punish me to shut me up. It just seems so obvious to me.

When it was all done and I was spooning into her, feeling the lust within me devour itself yet again, she said she might let me come sometime around Memorial Day. That’d be pretty close to a solid month since the last time and the longest she’s made me wait to date. If she keeps me locked up until then, that would also be close to a record. The fucked up part is me thinking that Memorial Day is dangerously close to the end of the month. The competitive, obsessive part of me wants to see what it’d be like not to come for a whole month – to sail through May without any kind of orgasmic release and to be locked up for four solid weeks. The remaining 98% of me, though, thinks that’s insanity and wishes it could figure out how to kick the ass of that annoying, overachieving 2% dickwad.