New rule

From this point forward, I am never again to refer to the chastity devices Belle puts on my body as anything other than Belle’s property. I have become too possessive of them and have lost sight that they, like that which they contain, are and should be Belle’s.

Further, when they aren’t locked onto the penis, Belle will have possession of them. She will decide when and for how long each is used on me. I will hand over to her any devices not currently in use.

That is all.

The first rule of Fight Club

The other week when the kids were at camp and Belle and I were alone, she offered me a night of whatever I wanted. All I had to do was tell her what that was.

Of course, I couldn’t. I couldn’t say what I wanted because, kinda like Santa Claus, once I said the truth the magic was gone. This is, obviously, very unfair to Belle. And counter-intuative. But it’s how I work. If I said, “do this and that,” then I would have a hard time accepting those things from her.

What I wanted was something like that one night we spent in a hotel last year. Major hot mostly because I didn’t really know what was happening at any given moment. It was all spontaneous on Belle’s part and it was fantastic. But, assuming she can’t pull a rabbit out of its funk every time, how are we to proceed? When the rare free night presents itself, how can we be sure to take whatever advantage Belle’s willing to let us have? Part of me thinks she should grok where I’m coming from since my kinks are well known to her now and we’ve had some practice at this stuff. Part of me also thinks we shouldn’t have to wait for special events to be able to indulge in a little quality time. But part of me also understands that none of this comes naturally to Belle.

Her idea was for me to write here what I wanted her to do. I can speak here more freely and more completely. I was supposed to do this a while back since this week is the last kid-free one we’ll have for a while, but I didn’t get around to it for whatever reason. Usually, when I know I have something to write for the blog, I’m anxious to write it, but this time I sat on it. And it, in turn, caused me to stop writing here almost altogether. I think my reticence is all tied up in the sub’s paradox of not wanting to be proscriptive but also needing to communicate their needs. I have needs, but relating them is hard. But let’s give it a shot.

In general terms, what I want it to lose control. To be tied up with my hands over my head and my feet to the footboard. To have the device taken off and the penis stroked until I can’t stand it anymore. And to be brought back to that place over and over. Until my high-level brain loses its ability to rationalize my desire not to orgasm and I truly need to come. Until I beg for it. And then, of course, I want her to not let me. To ice the penis into submission and lock it back up without ever letting me touch it.

Then I want to be hurt. Not too much, at first, but eventually quite a bit. I want angry red marks standing up from my skin. I want her to beat me and whip me and flog me and clamp my nipples and punch me in the nuts. We have a cane we’ve never used. I can imagine her gently hitting my ass and upper thighs with it before building ever so slowly to savage whipping that sends me falling deep into endorphin-fueled subspace. Where I stop pulling away and fearing each new fall of the cane and start to lean into them and crave them and feel the pain’s warm wave wash over me. I want her to build up a sweat from the effort of beating me. And I want to feel the sting of it every time I sit down for the next three days.

That’s what I want. And that’s what I can’t say. Because talking about the bubble makes it pop. Because this particular part of our relationship is a bit of theater. I need to buy the fiction that she hurts me because she values my suffering. Because she wants me to. I need to feel as though I’m giving her my pain in a reciprocal exchange. But I know she’s not a sadist. She doesn’t really like to hurt me. But she is a spouse willing to try to give me what I need. Unfortunately, it’s all so complicated.

Wanting it

Had to take the JB off due to a sore spot. Nothing wrong with the device. It’s just what happens from time to time.

That meant, when Belle told me to give her an orgasm later that night, there was available erectile tissue at hand if she wanted it. At first, it didn’t look like she did (as usual), but after a little bit, she pushed my hand aside and climbed onto me. She guided the penis into her pussy and slid down on it. She moaned, I gasped.

Obviously, my biggest concern was coming before she was able to. I more or less let her drive and tried to keep the penis (now pretending to be a cock) in one position while she moved over it.

BASEBALL, I thought. With all my might, I thought about baseball. Green fields. Division standings. Etc. If I even twitched I felt the orgasmic mechanisms start to move, so I avoided twitching and tried not to think about how I was in her for the first time in six weeks. Batting averages. On-base percentages. Earned run averages. Statistics. Not how fucking amazing her hot wet pussy felt moving over the several million deprived nerve endings in the erection.

The trickiest bit is when she’s about to come. Her movements become faster and more dramatic. I pretended like it wasn’t my concern and just kept sucking on her nipples.


Then it was over. She came. And I hadn’t! But holy shit, was I close.

As she laid on top of me, glowing, I tentatively moved the penis in and out three times.

“Who said you could do that?”


She moved off of me and the penis slapped back wetly. I pressed into her, whimpering just a bit.

“What do you want, Thumper?”

“I want to be inside you.”

“You just were.”

“Yeah, but I had to concentrate so hard I couldn’t really enjoy it.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

It took me hours to fall asleep and, even then, I had a hard time staying that way.

This morning, I was again up against her.

“What are you thinking, Thumper?”

“I want to be inside you.”

“You already were.”

“I know. I want to go inside you again.”

This time, she let me. She pulled her pajama pants off but left her top. This wasn’t about anything other then letting me get the penis wet.

And it did get wet. She was so fucking hot inside it almost burned and, since there was zero foreplay beforehand, she felt very tight. It felt glorious. I have no idea how long it went on because whatever place I was in mentally didn’t have a clock. All I know is I fucked and fucked and fucked. I broke out into a cold sweat from repeatedly racing up to the edge before backing off. Slower, faster, slower, stop. Repeat. When I started, I didn’t want to come. But I realized at some point that now I did. And badly. And the only thing in the world keeping me from thrusting the one and half more times it’d take to spurt was that Belle didn’t tell me I could.

When I finally put words to how I was feeling, she made me stop. The ride was over. No orgasm. But holy shit, did I want one. My head was swimming in the need for it. I felt like biting her and squeezing her and having my way with her. But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I thanked her and she told me to make her breakfast. So I did.

The last thing I’ll ever post about “Fifty Shades of Grey,” I swear to god

A reader calling themselves Elle left this comment and I think it’s exactly what I was trying to say with my original post:

Of course Fifty Shades isn’t high brow literature. It’s not the best written, and there are surely faults. I found some. But then, I rarely read a book and get to the end and say “Everything about this was perfect!” My biggest disappointment from Fifty was that the kinkster had to have a traumatic background. Not the best message to send to the masses, but overall – the book has accomplished good things. In my opinion.

In my life personally? I recommended it to my best friends. And you know what? They loved it. Told me they liked their sex a little rougher than they’d ever hinted to me before. They even said, quite salaciously, *they liked to be spanked*. Wide-eyed but delighted by this information, I got brave and took the plunge. I told them I was kinky. That’s right! I told my best friends I was kinky, and it was all facilitated by this book. So maybe the way Fifty was written did some harm to the BDSM community’s image. But it surely also did a bit of good, even if we’d rather it were better.

Walking through Target this morning on a quest for children’s cough and cold elixir, I saw the entire series of books massed out at the end of a checkout aisle between packages of Oreos and The Avengers Blu-Ray preorder cards. I’m telling you, when books about kinky sex (even objectively bad ones) penetrate the popular culture to the level of blockbuster comic book movies and fucking Oreo cookies, it is a good thing.

Shades other than the 50

According to the dear readers of this blog, Fifty Shades of Grey sucks. Here’s my question then: If you could choose the work of erotic literature with which to introduce the unsuspecting masses to the world of BDSM, what would it be? As I said in my other post, I’ve never read Fifty Shades but I’ve also not read much else other than a large number of pornographic ditties.

So let’s have it. What deserves the attention Fifty Shades is getting? What’s a better choice?

Fifty shades of get over it

Over on The Facebook, I follow a technology website called The Verge. Great site. Probably one of the best tech sites on the web. This morning, they posted a link to an article about how Fifty Shades of Grey has become the top-selling series of books in the United Kingdom, surpassing the seven Harry Potter books. Along with the link, they added…

The correlation between popularity and quality grows ever weaker

Before I go any further, what correlation between quality and popularity?! It seems more often the case that things that are popular and of high quality are a happy accident than the norm. But I digress.

The article itself just covers the facts of the situation, but the comments are enlightening.

How sad…

I have no words to describe the sadness that I am feeling because of this.

Human kind has deteriorated.

I just died a little inside.

Etcetera, etcetera. It reminds me of the comments from the recent article on Karezza Tom pointed out. Discouraging.

Now, I haven’t read Fifty Shades because M/f dom/sub stuff just doesn’t do much for me. I’m more a little M kinda guy, after all. But I can’t think of anything better for those of us espousing non-traditional sexuality than this book. I mean, I’ve got boring, middle-aged hausfrau friends living in Connecticut reading this in their book clubs. Like, out in the open. And talking about it. With their friends. As a culture, we’re so hung up in our own fucking undies over sex that any popular work that helps thaw our icy Kegels has to be a good thing, high literature or not.

Four millions copies of these books have been sold in the UK alone since March. Imagine how many thousands of people may have been inspired by the story to open up to themselves and their partners about their own kinks. Something made somewhat more easy, I assume, since the work has been embraced by the popular culture. And if it leads to further interest in non-traditional erotic literature (like the works of Anne Rampling/Rice, for example), even better.

Fifty Shades makes being weird slightly less weird, so I don’t give a shit what it means to the Boy Who Lived. He defeated Voldemort, after all. He’ll get over it.