Libéré en étant enfermé
I seem to be in a bit of a rut already on these Sinful Sunday posts. All very similar. So many views of our bed and window. Ah, well. It’s not like anyone can ask for their money back. This one might be my favorite.
Continue reading “Sinful Sunday 3: Third in an apparent series”
Belle and I got to go out to breakfast by ourselves this morning. The kids were both still sleeping like the dead/teenage years so off we went with the New York Times to a little French place in Uptown.
Prior to that, we had been laying in bed wrapped around one another and being groggy and wonderfully Saturdayish. I was pretty hard up and she just started her period so my prospects weren’t very good, but did I mention how hard up I was? Normally, the Steelheart would have been biting hard, but I’ve been wearing it with its original 45mm ring which is too big to bite (though, on the downside, when also worn with my 4ga PA ring, it’s not unlike a cowbell hung around my balls). My pathetic whimpering caused her to asked what I wanted.
Ooo, what I wanted. I wanted to jack off. I really did. I wanted to get the Steelheart off and jack off in front of her until I almost came, then stop letting the ejaculate splurt weakly out of the hard penis in a ruined orgasm. That’s what I wanted. But I felt bad saying it.
“I want to jack off.”
Ugh. OK, I guess I can live with feeling bad.
“There’s no chance that’s going to happen.”
“OK. Sorry.”
More snuggling, more attempted hard-on, more smelling her hair.
“I could jack you off,” I said helpfully. Sure, she was on her period, but I knew my way around that snatch and could get plenty done regardless.
“You’ll have go close the door.” So, you know what happened next. God, I love feeling her come. I love her hard nipples in my mouth and my finger on her clit and my face in her neck when it’s all over and she’s basking. And, as usual, as soon as it was over, I felt the penis start to lose its pressurization. Stupid fucking penis. Then she left me to stew.
So yeah, anyway, off to breakfast. When the food came, she asked me about my impending trip with Drew to visit Steelwerks in Montreal. She was asking about the hotel and looked it up on her phone to see where it was. We talked about what would happen there and then segued into chitchat about another dominant male who reached out to me via Facebook and what I thought of that. You know, what every other married couple talks about over breakfast. If I started to clam up, she prodded me to say more making sure I was aware she was perfectly comfortable talking about such things (yes, that’s for you, reader who assumes I’m still dragging Belle by her hair into my depravity).
The travel security has been figured out. I’ll go to the airport unlocked and take the Steelheart through the TSA checkpoint and put it on as soon as I’m on the other side. It’ll stay on until we’re either on our way to the airport again or we’re there and heading toward security. While visiting Steelwerks, I’m going to get measured for a device though we have no immediate plans to get one. Figure I might as well not waste the opportunity. The trip there is really for Drew and Axel and their needs, not me and Belle.
Even though it’ll be fascinating seeing the Steelwerks production facility and getting a behind the scenes view of where easily the most beautifully handcrafted chastity devices are made, I’m still struggling with my issues of separation anxiety. I know the trip will be fun and interesting, but I get anxious thinking about it and feel the need to cleave to her all the harder. I was feeling it last time I left her for a week, but she let me come the morning I was leaving and, like magic, 84% of the anxiety fell away. It’s clearly hormonal. I can rationalize it all I want but I can’t stop feeling it. Can’t stop the fluttery insecurity that builds in my chest when I think of being away from her. I think a big part of my sleeping issues lately have been because of this (not just the trip with Drew, but another week-long venture later in the month).
I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to come. Not really at all. Yes, of course, I have a huge urge to orgasm, but that’s not the same thing. Belle thinks I should see someone. Not sure what I’d say. “Yeah, my wife controls my orgasm and hardly ever lets me have them so I’m unnaturally attached to her…that’s OK, right?”
Pfft. It’ll be fine. I’ll get over it.
Some people don’t like that I’m bisexual. Some don’t like that Belle and I are in an open relationship and I’m allowed to get fucked by guys and have one that does so pretty regularly. They might not like that I enjoy playing with my ass or occasionally wearing lacy (men’s) underwear or am politically left-leaning or whatever.
Thing is, some people want me and my relationship with my wife to fit into their neat little fantasies. They forget that I’m not writing a choose-your-own-adventure novel here. This is a (relatively constrained) view into our real life. And rather than let it roll over them in a way where they can simply absorb an account of yet another in the infinite number of human sexual variations, the extra bits they don’t relate to annoy them. They want to cut them off. They want to put themselves in Belle’s place and lash out in her honor rather than accept I do nothing that she isn’t 100% A-OK with.
I do get it. I understand. Who hasn’t been reading a novel (or, more likely for this crowd, some porn) and been unhappy with the author’s choice of action? I know I have. And then I either walk away or find a way to edit on the fly around the offending item. Or I just accept it for what it is. Of course, this isn’t a novel and it’s not porn (though it can be pretty steamy, I admit). This blog and my words shouldn’t be confused with those things and no amount of “constructive criticism” can change that. You get me as I am and you read what I tell you. If you don’t like that, then you should dynamically edit, skip, or leave.
Nothing in particular made me write this today. It’s just something that popped into my head. Something I wanted to say. This is real life, people. Not a performance.
“I’m going to help you sleep tonight.”
I’ve been struggling with sleep for the past few days. A bought of denial-induced insomnia.
“How?”
“By letting you give me an orgasm.”
Unf. “I don’t think that’ll help me sleep.”
“What would?”
“You letting me come.”
Snort. “That’s not going to happen.”
Whimper.
“You don’t want to come anyway.”
Whine.
“Say it. ‘Belle Fille, I don’t want you to let me come.'”
Whimper again. Squirm.
“SAY IT.”
Quietly, “I don’t want to you to let me come, Belle Fille.” It was truth, but being forced to say it was like a high heel grinding my inner sub into a tight, hard corner. The kind of space where it’s most content.
“Of course you don’t. You want to get me off and then, because my orgasm is your orgasm, you’ll get sleepy after and fall asleep.”
I had my doubts. Especially when she started talking about her “boyfriend” and how he’d never say anything like that to her. That he and his big cock always came. All I could do was whimper into her nipple as she said these things and I fingered her clit and thought about this mythical alpha male who’d likely laugh at the locked penis and the way she kept me.
“I’m going to make you work for this one, Thumpie. I’m going to enjoy myself.”
URRRRRGH.
It did take a while. She got wetter and I kept sucking and fingering but I never felt her start to get close. Eventually, she took over her own tits and was tweaking and twisting her nipples while I watched and kept my finger on her snatch, rubbing and flicking and penetrating in all the ways I know, through hours and hours of practice like a musician knows his instrument, she liked best. Even that wasn’t enough for her and she got her vibrator and gave it to me but quickly took it back leaving me nothing more than a spectator to her self-pleasuring.
She came, slowly and deeply, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel her pussy clench against my fingers or her back arch or any of the waves of ecstasy that go with her orgasm. I didn’t share it. I heard it and saw it, but I didn’t know it like I usually do. It didn’t go through me. I was just the fluffler that got her into position.
Of course, I don’t begrudge her anything. We have sex so she can come, always, and however she wants. We never have sex so I can come. Whatever we do, if it’s what she wanted, is what we should have done and I don’t have a right to take issue with any of it. She’s right that even though I may crave my own orgasm I never want her to give it to me. I don’t need any orgasms. I only get them when she wants to feel me come in her. Even that can feel more about her than me.
She was left drained by her effort and its successful culmination and I was left pretty much as I was before. Tired but not sleepy and now that much more wired and trying to push images of her and another man out of my mind. She fell asleep quickly and I tried but couldn’t connect with it. I kept thinking and tossing and feeling separation angst (I have some trips coming up) all the while trying to keep sexual images and thoughts as far away as possible.
At about 11:30, I got up and took the last Tylenol PM in the house. I don’t like taking it but I could feel the kind of panic in me that usually unspools into zero hours of sleep. Then I went in the living room and read more of the book I’m getting through. By 12:30, the pill was taking over and I was yawning. I sent back to the bedroom, stripped, crawled in next to her, and tried to get on the road to Sleepytown.
Eventually, I did.
And on the third day, she let me out of the Steelheart. But she didn’t let me come. Oh no. Not that. The penis got wet, but the balls are left churning.
I saw this on Facebook…
My immediate feeling was to say, “Fuck you,” but since it was probably my mom who posted it, I refrained. As the father of a preteen girl, I want her to express herself as she is most comfortable. If she wants to look like the girl on the left, fine. Like the ones on the right, fine. Or anywhere in between.
My second feeling was, man, this is some grade-A sex negative slut shaming right here. Humans are sexual beings. Many, many girls at 14 are biologically prepared to have sex. Our culture says they shouldn’t and I’m not advocating they should, but we also can’t stick our head in the sand and pretend they’re not going to do it or they’re not going to feel like expressing themselves sexually. Neither is it possible to assume those girls on the right are any more likely to engage in sexual behavior than the girl on the left. Never mind the fact this kind of assumption is next door neighbors with the “she had it coming” rape response. Bottom line, it’s bullshit to judge anyone based on their appearance, especially girls.
Thirdly, the skeptical side of me kicked in. We don’t know the age of any of these girls. We don’t know how the ones on the right dress all of the time nor do we know if the one on the left has ever dressed differently. Also, not for nothing, “when I was 14” probably wasn’t last year but that car is definitely relatively new. So, assuming any of them are 14-year-olds, it’s obvious girls dress both ways now. Also also, having been a 14-year-old myself more than 14 years ago, I can tell you for an absolute fact some girls dressed just like the ones on the right, only without the ability to record it as a selfie.
Lastly, I wonder what would compel someone to even create this. What kind of judgy, insecure, pitiful, unhappy soul sits around and worries about how girls dress? This is more a “I wasn’t a slut” statement and my basic assumption is those who sit in judgement and go to lengths to say what they aren’t pretty much all of the time are.
Here’s a fun exercise: Imagine what the boy version of this would be. Chances are it’d be more about race or social status with no mention at all about sex. That’s because young men are quantified by their capacity to commit violence and young women are quantified by their capacity to have sex. Because we’re fucked up. Because we’re afraid of boys hurting us and we’re afraid of girls controlling their own bodies.
Sex is good. Sexiness is good. All these things are perfectly natural. We should embrace people no matter how they choose to express themselves. Even (especially) young women.
Another primer! This time, thoughts on keyholding from the point of view of a guy whose key is being held.
I figure most of the time, any given keyholder is introduced to the concept of enforced male chastity, somewhat ironically perhaps, by the one whose key they’re being asked to hold. The one being locked is usually the one who wants to be locked and the one doing the locking often never even considered doing anything like it beforehand. So you can image they’re not always prepared for the demands of what might seem on the surface is a fairly low-key (ahem) responsibility.
I’ll say right up front I’m not about to lay out the One True Way. Every person in every relationship, not only sexual ones or kinky ones or ones involving hardware on penises, needs to find how they’re made satisfied and happy by it. It’s also true that in a lot of cases, guys getting locked up have been thinking and fantasizing and jacking off to the idea for a long time and they know exactly what they want (or think they know what they want) and will do their best to try and fit their keyholder into that ideal form. The keyholder is and should be free to accept their locked man’s position as nothing more than a kinky version of the picture on the outside of a TV dinner box: A serving suggestion. They need the room to make keyholding they’re own, not some pre-cut, pre-packaged idea distilled from captions on Tumblr images.
So guys, while this is mostly about what you need from your keyholder, what they need from you is space to make holding your key something they get off on, too. If you don’t give them that and are too prescriptive, you run the risk of turning them off to the idea altogether. Always remember they’ve not had the same amount of time or intensity you have thinking about the best, most hottest way it should be done. fapfapfap
Additionally, there’s no secret to how long to keep him locked up. As long and as often as you want (and/or he can stay that way without being injured by the device he’s in if it’s cheap or ill-fitted). He’ll either beg to be let out or imply he wants to be locked up and denied longer. Chances are, whatever you do, he won’t be happy about it. But the deal is, he gave you the key and the control so yours it is. If you want him out for a fuck, then let him out. If you don’t, don’t. If you want him to come, let/make him. If not, don’t. If he can’t handle that, then take the device off him and tell him it won’t go back on until he’s ready for the reality of what giving up control over his penis really means.
No, don’t be a bitch. Don’t be unnecessarily mean. Talk to him about how he’s feeling and what he’s thinking and let that influence you as much as you want, but this game needs to have some ground rules and rule number one should be the one who holds the key is the one who makes the decisions about the lock and all the other rules.
The only things he really needs from you is an understanding that you haven’t forgotten he’s locked up, you appreciate this predicament, and you take the key very seriously. There are countless stories on the web about those who get talked into holding a guy’s key even though they’re not really into the idea and they “set it and forget it.” This is the worst from the locked man’s perspective. As a keyholder, you’re really only reminded of the chastity dynamic when you can see his locked penis or he says something to you about it or you want to have sex. For him, it’s something he’s aware of all of the time. If you lose sight of that fact, chastity can feel very lonely and even pointless for him. He needs to know you cherish the “gift” of male chastity and know it can be hard (even if that knowledge won’t get him out of the device any sooner).
And the key. It’s really important to him. He wants you to treat it like a treasure because it represents so much. Do you hide it or wear it or secure it in a known location? Doesn’t matter, as long as you just don’t leave it laying around or, god forbid, lose it. Also take his locked state seriously. Occasionally, he may need to be away from you for travel or whatever. Come up with a system in which you can be reasonably sure he’s locked if you want him to be (things like texting a picture, etc.). You may not really care, but he needs you to act like you do. If you don’t think you can come up with a system, then tell him to do it for you. Trust me, he already has a lot of ideas about it.
Especially at the beginning of a chastity dynamic in which the keyholder wasn’t the originator of the idea, it’s not always easy to essentially play act your role. However, if my relationship with Belle is any indication, in time you may take your responsibility very seriously. Even more seriously than he’d like you to. And that, more than any fantasy porn scenario, is infinitely more satisfying for both of you.
Any other tips and ideas from my readers? Leave them in the comments!
Reader Mike left this comment to my last post:
Do you ever think the day will come when you are simply not bisexual and the phase will be over? I’m sure that would be welcomed news to Belle and Drew’s husband, but I think it would make you unhappy and I’d hate that. So, best of luck with the kryptonite.
Drew read that as well-intentioned but misguided. I just read the misguided part and called him an idiot. Why to touchy?
I’ve been thinking on that because the comment today doesn’t seem as obnoxious as it did yesterday. I think there are a couple of things that set me off.
Do you ever think the day will come when you are simply not bisexual and the phase will be over?
Ugh. So, so close to calling my sexuality a “phase.” I literally cannot think of a more demeaning and insulting thing to say to a person who identifies as something outside the heteronormative hegemony. Also especially problematic for me since I totally bought off on that “phase” narrative for years and had no real emotional or sexual relationships as a result. I’ll grow out of it. I’ll “decide.” And I was wrong. There was nothing to grow out of. No decision to make. I am what I am.
And, in a theme that will be repeating, I’ve blogged about my sexuality many, many times. My assumption about anyone who reads me is that they’ve been reading me and know the whole backstory and that’s probably wrong. I don’t know anything about Mike or if that post was the first he ever read. Maybe. But it still set me off.
I’m sure that would be welcomed news to Belle and Drew’s husband…
How many times have I written that both our spouses are really, super OK with me and Drew’s relationship? I grow weary defending it and the implied damage our combined openness must be inflicting on them. I am tired of the assumption that what we’re doing is cheating. I’m so fucking tired of the judgement. Ugh!
…but I think it would make you unhappy and I’d hate that.
Which, OK, I totally skipped over the first time through. I was already seeing red and didn’t pick up the apparent concern/care. But even this suggests I’m perfectly happy to make Belle unhappy so I can have gay sex with Drew…?
So, best of luck with the kryptonite.
I read that as, “I hope you continue not being bisexual,” though I admit it could be interpreted otherwise. So many comments that are judgmental and homophobic and really awful that never get approved (here or over on Drew’s) carry a friendly, caring tone so that can almost set me off by itself.
He replied to me calling him an idiot with this:
Dude, im on your side here. I know you’ve always been a bi guy but since you are in a new stage of acting on it with your outside “relationship” I wondered if that’s maybe all you needed for your satisfaction. It’s only been a month or two, right? I don’t know what I meant about the spouses and I know they support you but it has to be tough at times dividing times and lives is all I meant but glad for you they do.
Again with the phase talk. As if all I need to scratch my bi itch is a cock in my mouth a few times. That’s not how sexuality works. Not from an orientation aspect, not from a kink aspect, not really in any aspect. Also, I’ve been with Drew a month or two? Nearly a year. Yeah, I know, maybe he’s new, but it doesn’t sound like it. More like there’s a reading comprehension issue.
Whatever. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have. I can be mean sometimes. Sorry.
I’m not going to say I feel 100% normal in the wake of whatever the fuck made me sick a couple weeks ago, but I’m getting there. Went for a run this morning before it got too hot and, while I didn’t make the full distance, I was able to manage 3.5 miles at a reasonable pace before wussing out. Also, there’s this…
Good news, everyone. I’m bisexual again. #whew
— thumper (@thumperMN) August 1, 2015
Which is not to say I’d be any more fun now than I was when Drew was here last week, but I can tell things are returning to normal. The percentage of images on Tumblr featuring men that make me withdraw like a snail with a poked eye stalk are down to about 23% (even when I’m my most biflexipanful, it never goes much below 13% — there’s some crazy shit on the Tumblr).
I kinda made a joke about it, but not being into all the genders for that little while was unsettling. I felt like one of my senses had been lost. Like a superhero without my superpower. I like being bisexual and love the equal opportunity nature of my nature and to feel half of it go dark like that wasn’t much fun. But stuff like this is starting to do it for me again, so the kryptonite or whatever is apparently off my neck now.
Belle and I had some nice sex this weekend, though she wouldn’t let me out for it yesterday. That was as she intended — frustrating. She teased me by stroking my balls and slapping them around a little while I sucked and licked her nipples. The cage was biting hard as she came under my fingers and knowing I wasn’t going to feel that hot wetness around me burned.
Today, she let me out and played with the free penis a little which was enough to make me melt with pleasure. Only when you can’t feel your penis will you truly appreciate how wonderful it can make you feel when touched by another hand. Being inside her felt like pure liquid pleasure. I’m so focused on her pussy now. Once that device comes off, it’s all I can do to keep my hips from homing in on hers.
I hoped like fuck, as she was approaching her orgasm, that she’d let me come. I so wanted it. Wholly and completely. When I got inside her, I slowed when I felt it coming since she hadn’t told me to do otherwise but the second time, I blurted it out.
“I want to come so bad.”
Without a second’s pause, “No.”
That led to a momentary burst of intensity in my fucking, but I also immediately started to feel guilty that I said it. So much so that the penis started to lose its internal pressurization. It still felt amazing, but my blatant disregard for the rules of the dynamic ruined my vibe. I stopped of my own volition and rolled off of her.
“I’m sorry.”
“There was a time,” she said, “when you’d say that and I’d feel a pang of guilt and it would leave me conflicted. But not anymore. Not at all. When I let you come, it’s because I want you to. When I don’t, it’s because I don’t want you to.”
And that, my friends, is what true denial is like. I wanted to come. Still do. But she wasn’t having any of it. I come when she wants, not when I want. Thanks to upcoming time apart, it’s highly unlikely I’ll have another chance to do it for three more weeks. And that’s just the way it is.
After she left the room, I put the Steelheart back on. I hadn’t been out for even an hour and spending some time without it would have been nice, but I felt as though I didn’t really deserve the free time and also felt a free penis would be too much of a distraction. When she felt the hard tube in my pants, she approved, called me a good boy, and I kissed her. Madly and deeply.