Month: December 2015

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Pussy first

Belle and I are in Hawaii for Christmas. I’ve never been here before since previously I was a Caribbean snob (and might still be; jury’s out). We’re staying in a redonculous house sitting on a lava rock-encrusted beach. Crashing waves, lively tide pools, and sizzling sunsets galore. Oh, and the occasional gecko slinking by.

When we travel together, Belle’s less stringent with the device. I’ve been free since we left home Sunday morning and remain that way today. I brought the Steelheart in case she wants me in it, but so far no. I find it a challenge to stay focused on my position when I’m not locked up. To not act needily neglected because there’s nothing locked on me. The feeling of the penis moving around in my board shorts or the PA jewelry sliding through the piercing can be quite distracting and that leads to me letting my eye off the proverbial ball. In turn, that can lead to unexpected moodiness and me being too pushy in bed.

To help remind me I don’t control the penis (or feeling like she’s somehow forgotten that), I’m wearing the aluminum cock ring whenever I’m not locked. It’s light and comfy and, when the penis isn’t surging, it’s hardly there but, when the penis is, it’s just tight enough to be very there. In a way, it’s more maddening than the Steelheart because it makes the penis harder and fatter and more sensitive when it’s turgid but that enhanced state is also an effective reminder of possession and control. Even though it ratchets up the feelings of stimulation when the penis is hard, it also keeps me centered.

There’s the old trope that men are simple and woman are complicated. Seems to me this mirrors our respective anatomy. Penises are all outward and obvious. When they’re hard, you know what’s going on. Pussies, though, are less obvious. To take their barometer (without sticking your finger in) one usually needs to gather a variety of inputs from a woman’s body and then divine what she’s thinking or wants. Our culture places an urgent priority on hard cocks. Once one appears, it needs to be attended to until it’s no longer that way.

But for me and our dynamic, that’s not the case at all. The penis, when it’s out, will often be hard when we’re close and intimate. Belle’s not nearly as likely to fall into the cultural bias trap that it needs attention when it’s like that, but it still occasionally happens. I’m totally invested in the idea that a hard penis between us means nothing more than when it’s a hard steel tube between us. Still, it’s all too easy for my reptile brain to overpower my rabbity sensibilities and make me pushy in those situations which, in turn, can lead her to letting me do things she may not really feel like doing.

To help alleviate that, our new rule is when we’re in bed and being close, rather than me intimating her desires through a filter of perception that’s biased towards pushing parts of me into her or waiting for her to say, “Thumper, get me off,” I’ll know she wants to take things further if she touches the penis. Until she gives it a touch (in a way that’s more than obviously incitental or accidental contact), I’ll assume she’s content with hugging and kissing and my hand caressing her ass or whatever. This morning, she never touched it so we never moved beyond simple affectionate snuggling and petting even though the penis was achingly hard and eventually leaking. She felt no pressure from me and I knew exactly where she was and what she wanted.

Because penises are obvious and pussies are secretive, penises tend to get top billing in sexual situations. Our entire dynamic is about reversing that paradigm in the extreme. The pussy is all powerful and penis is not. I’d say the pussy is first and penis second, but it may not even be second. Even if she wants me to get her off, that doesn’t mean anything involving it will follow. In a way, FLR femdom-type dynamics are all about reversing the concept of penis entitlement. The pussy is entitled to whatever it wants. The penis is entitled to nothing more than the pussy is willing to give it.

Anyway, this “no sex until I touch the penis” rule made this morning exactly what she wanted. Intimate and sweet and warm and tender with no pressure other than the hard grip of the metal ring around the straining erection. But that’s not her concern in any way. She snuggled in and was very happy. And so was I.

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So I wait

Last weekend, I was out of town. The weekend before that, Belle was. She’s in Chicago today. It’s been a while since we had quality time together, let alone had sex, because it’s a busy time of year all the way around. It’s during periods like this when being locked up is it’s most difficult.

I mean, sure, being locked up when your face is buried in her pussy is hard, but it’s the kind of hard you want. This is the kind of hard you don’t want. The kind of hard that, for a normal man, would be lessened by a few jack off sessions to take the edge off and relieve the boredom. I’m not a normal man, though.

These extended periods where life gets in the way of the hotness and push the dynamic we’ve both worked to achieve into the background are so hard because it keeps me in a kind of limbo. I just sort of endure. In the past, I’d struggle with keeping my emotions under control in these times. I probably still do, but I’m at least more aware of myself now. My fuse tends to be short and my mood swings quickly but I just sort of keep my head down and push through knowing it’s temporary.

This is when the real dedication of releasing control over oneself kicks in. It’s not fun. It’s not exciting. It’s dreary and can seem pointless. Last night I was in the otherwise empty bed and my hand was on the Looker and feeling as much of the penis inside as I could and poking at the hard rod deep inside and my balls hanging down fat between my legs. That can be a deliciously frustrating situation but it can also make me feel like nothing much at all. Not a man. At least not like any other I know. I realize that in a way my sexuality is all about others. Like a reverse vampire, it’s only visible when reflected off someone else. I am still craving some kind of sexuality (not just sex, but the feeling of being sexual) but absent Belle as a focus, I don’t really exist. I mean, yeah, that’s a bit dramatic and probably not true, but it’s how that situation can feel.

I find I need to focus on the act of submitting. Just doing it is what matters. That the nothingness of being locked and unable to pleasure myself or give her pleasure is, in itself, valuable. In fact, if I can’t do it when it’s not fun, then it has no real value. I have ceded control over myself and accepted my submission even when it’s hard and it is my job to endure those times. It’s the deal I made and the commitment I signed up for and I know she wants me this way and appreciates my difficulty. Also that we’re both happier this way and it’s how things must be.

So I leave my hand on the warm hard metal and feel my heavy balls with my fingers and rub the little bit of remaining foreskin that sticks out between the bars with my thumb and I draw strength from the steel. Its contents have never felt less like something I control or own. Referring to it as “my” penis has never felt more wrong.

No, I’m not a man. Not a normal one. But that’s not my fault. We just don’t have enough words to describe the variations of manliness. But I am me. I am nothing else but. And I am for her and she is for me.

So I wait.

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Stupid penis-having person

I posted a picture of me in the Looker 02 this morning and said there was a story behind it. It’s not a good story. It’s a story of me being a stupid penis-having person.

It starts last week. I was in the Steelheart and Belle was out of town over the weekend so I was locked up for a total of two straight weeks. Not that I got a lot of time out since I was locked up the previous two weeks, too, and she only let me out Sunday morning to fuck and told me I had to be back in by noon (which I was — made it with five minutes to spare). So, something like a month with about four hours of freedom, AKA the usual. By the time Belle got home I had been dealing with some burning inside the tube after I peed. It started out being mild and occasional and got worse and more frequent. Had she not been on the verge of coming home, I would have popped the emergency key and dealt with the issue, but since she was about to get home, I simply muscled though and amped up my hygiene by rinsing the tube each time I peed (it didn’t hurt at all in between). Turns out, there were two spots of red irritation that more or less lined up with the PA fixing bar.

That’s the second time in about six weeks that I was driven out of the tube for similar reasons, though this time was worse. Not sure exactly why this is suddenly an issue, but I suspect it’s because I’ve been very active lately and running a lot. It could be that it was just too much bouncing around. The area where this latest issue developed was in the excess skin under the penis’ head that is the remnants of my foreskin. I find I have a bit more there than the other guys I’ve been with, so it could be that it got caught between the ring and tube wall a little too often until it was rubbed raw. Or perhaps the increased activity should have been combined with an increased focus on hygiene. Don’t really know.

So she let me out. Luckily, that skin heals amazingly quickly and two days later things were in vastly better condition, though probably not healed enough to go back in. By Wednesday, it was in good enough shape that it wasn’t even sore to the touch anymore. Which is where the problem starts.

I was at home in the afternoon with only the dog as my company. I let him out the back door to do his business and, while waiting for him to find the perfect spot, found my hand in my pants. This is a thing a lot of guys do, of course, though I probably do it more than most when I’m unlocked if only for the novelty of feeling a squishy meat tube and not a locked hot metal one.

As god as my witness (and no, I don’t believe in him, but I’m trying to accentuate my conviction on this point), I did not decide to do what came next. But, as I looked out the back door at the dog, my hand started squishing and kneading the penis. The penis, being a penis (and a needy desperate one at that) started to do what penises do. My hand, being a guy’s hand (and being equally desperate and needy and apparently conspiring with the penis) did what hands do when they find hard penises in them. Next thing I knew, my pants were open and sagged down around my butt, my underwear was pushed down under my balls, my left arm was propping me up against the door to help me stay standing while the waves of pleasure coming from my jacking right hand washed over me. I was rushing headlong into an orgasm before my frontal cortex snapped out of its trance and noticed the dog standing outside the door watching me and wanting to know why I was making him stand around in the cold.

I felt terrible. Like I said, I never decided to jack off. I never decided not to, either. It just happened. As the kind of chaste man whose condition is enforced by steel, whatever muscles one uses to resist that kind of incident are flabby and atrophied. It’s not that I showed no will power. I showed nothing but animal instinct.

So I went upstairs and tried to do some work. That didn’t last long. I opened the Tumblr app and flipped through and the penis, which never really went all the way soft anyway, was back in force. I rubbed it though my jeans and felt the ejaculate my previous stroking pulled up had leaked all over inside my underwear and was starting to soak through the denim in a large dark patch. I flipped over to Literotica and found a hot enough story when my hand started pulling the buttons of my fly open and I finally found a way to stop the madness. It was incredibly hard (pun intended). My head was swimming in the hormonal cloud of intense frustration. My face felt flushed and I was even a little light-headed, but I knew I was heading into very dangerous waters. Yes, I had broken Belle’s rule about playing with it, but that’s perhaps a veinal sin compared to actually making myself come. This whole incident lasted maybe ten minutes, but I went from a simple, unsuspecting rabbit released on his own recognizance minding his own business to rabid drunken scofflaw Gila monster shooting up the town from the window of his ’73 Pontiac GTO.

I had to go back in. I had to. But I still wasn’t in the right condition to be in the Steelheart, so I rooted around until I found the Looker 02. I shoved it up the penis, turned the key in the lock, and put the key in the usual spot for Belle to find. She didn’t find it though and, when she noticed I was in it, she didn’t ask why. I never had the courage to bring it up. Good thing she doesn’t know about this blog…oh, wait.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up the Looker 02.