Category: Life with Belle

Stuff that really happened to Thumper and/or Belle Fille

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Metrics

I’m well past the stage of keeping track of how long Belle’s had me locked up or when my last orgasm was or anything like that. I used to, excessively. I knew what my record was and was always advocating for beating it or whatever, but ultimately I figured out (as I hope any guy will who wants to be in my kind of spot) that if you’re going to let someone else control you, they have to be the ones to make those decisions without your input or concern. This ends up being quite a bit hotter, to be honest.

I say that to preface the next bit. I’m keeping track of when I’m locked up and in what purely for the statistical data. I’ve often said things about how often I think I’m wearing a device or how many times I come in a year, but I don’t really know. I lose track. So I’m using a little time tracking app on my phone to quantify these things. I hope to create a log that covers the whole year. I started tracking at the end of December when we got back from Hawaii. For instance, I know I’ve been in the Steelheart 313 hours this month. That’s out of about 345 elapsed hours in 2016 as of the moment I’m writing this. That’s about 91% of the time. I’ve had one orgasm this year back on the 3rd. 

The nerd in me thinks it would be very interesting to have this quantified data about myself. I’m all about quantified data. I love that my watch quantifies a bunch of stuff and if I can’t run with some kind of tracking device that adds my mileage and performance stats to what’s come before I nearly feel like it doesn’t count. There are people who get this (like me) or people who don’t (like Belle, actually). In a perfect world, this record would reflect the way Belle managed my erections and orgasms when left to her own devices. I don’t lobby, I don’t comment, I don’t say what my desire is regarding orgasm one way or the other. The only input I have in her decisions is how I act and that’s not entirely under my control. 

Of course, there’s this thing called the Hawthorne Effect in which the act of observing a human behavior affects how the behavior occurs. It’s possible now that I’ve said I’m doing this that Belle will somehow change what she otherwise would have done, but if that happens I don’t think it’ll be by much. I wouldn’t want to keep this a secret for a whole year. That seems wrong. 

Over on the Tumblr, it was pointed out by someone that my previous post about scales and ranges and the different vectors that make up human sexuality was flawed because I used the Kinsey Scale to demonstrate innate gender preference as opposed to reported experiences which is what it was designed to describe. This is true and I knew when I wrote it I wasn’t being perfectly true to the scale’s intent. In my defense, it seems to me that how I used it is in keeping with how most people think about it nowadays. It’s become a shorthand for what we desire. Or even how we identify. In any event, what I’m really interested in when discussing human sexuality is the differences between innate desires versus expressed desires versus actual experience and then all that versus how we identify. I’m super interested in how we are as opposed to how we say we are or how we allow ourselves to think about our desires. 

Belle is off on one of her overseas trips which means the Steelheart (barring some kind of emergency) will be on for 100% of the time over the next two weeks. I hate it when she leaves. Bah. I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately and usually when she’s not around to regulate my cycle I tend to get worse sleep. Hopefully that’s not what happens. We’ll see.

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Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do

Most every morning, the first thing I do when I wake up that time – the time I know I’m going to get up and not just roll over again – is grab my phone. On it, there’s usually a dozen or so notifications of things that happened when I was asleep, 97% of which are nothing of consequence. This morning, there was only one.

4:27 AM CNN Breaking News: David Bowie has died at age 69.

FUCK.

There are different levels of emotion one feels when a famous person dies starting with indifference. Like, oh that person is dead. Next thought. Then you get to the, Oh, that’s sad. Next thought. Skip a few levels and you end up with the ones you cry over.

The last famous dead person I cried over was Steve Jobs. Just a bit because it had been coming and we all knew. Those are the situations where you get to mourn in slow motion for a long time. Steel yourself. In the case of Steve, that was months if not years. But Bowie just happened. Like that bolt painted on his face on the cover of Aladdin Sane.

So I said to myself, FUCK, and opened the apps and read the news. I wasn’t ready for it to hit me like it did. In fact, it wasn’t until I got into the bathroom to get ready for work an hour or so later and started playing my Bowie playlist that it became real and I felt the emotion and that made me cry. Honestly, I think of people who cry when famous people die as marginally unstable. They don’t know them. Sure, it’s fine to feel a sad, but to cry. That’s for people you really know. But that’s not what happened this morning. I was crying for Bowie. Then I’d stop and the song would change I’d do it all over again. Streaming tears. What the fuck?

David Bowie was the featured artist on the soundtrack that was the John Hughes movie of my young adult life. The first time I have any memory of hearing one of his songs was relatively late considering he started releasing albums in the 60’s. I was at a friend’s house who was one of the first I knew who had cable and MTV and it was just on and playing in the corner as a bunch of us hung out. This was also the first time I ever saw MTV and the video playing was “China Girl.” And man, that voice. I recall just staring transfixed. Then I bought Let’s Dance then I ended up hanging out with people who had the whole back-catalog and then he was always just  there.

David Bowie was the first person upon whom I ever heard the label “bisexual” applied. I knew he was it before I knew I was. Even today, if you told me to say the first thing that came into my head upon hearing “bisexual” I’d probably say Bowie. Then “Dancing in the Streets” came out and there was the guy he was supposedly bisexual with (among others). For a really, really long time the entire universe of out bisexual people I could point to was David Bowie. And in a way, the fact that he just was bisexual without any politics or flag waving or carrying on was quietly and powerfully influential on me. I never realized how much that meant to me until I was standing in the bathroom this morning feeling stupid about the tears running down my face.

Funny thing is, I kinda stopped following Bowie after “Blue Jean” was released. We do that sometimes, I guess. The best music is the music that was made when we were 17. I’ve lost time for music now. All I do now is consume information. I listen to the news and podcasts and hoover up as much info as possible. Who has time to listen to new music when the world is still full of so many interesting things I haven’t learned about yet? But every time I heard he released a new album, including his last just a few days ago, I’d think a happy thought. He was still out there. Still doing his thing. Still reinventing himself.

I’m forty-eight. Not old but not young. Old enough to know better than ever that I’m not going to be around forever. That more of me is in the past than in the future. The death of David Bowie is also the death of a chunk of my youth. This is what getting old is, I think, more than the ache and the lines on your face. When you become aware that the things that mattered to you before you developed a sense of your own mortality are literally dying around you.

God, it fucking sucks he’s dead.

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Kinsey is not enough

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Alfred Kinsey’s scale. You know, the one that supposedly explains the difference between gays and straights by assigning a number between zero and six where zero is totally, 100% straight and six is totally, 100% gay. And I’m thinking, not for the first time, that it’s totally insufficient to describing human sexuality. At least, my sexuality. Probably yours, too.

First off (and forgive me as I’m not a biologist, sexologist, geologist, or really any sort of oligist at all) there’s this concept called normal distribution. The idea in nature that any given set of variables measured over a large population of beings will end up distributed on a scale in a shape resembling a bell. You know, the bell curve. Why do we think that’s not applicable for sexuality? According to popular culture, human sexuality is more the inverse of that. Lots of straight people, a smaller yet significant number of gay people, and then a bunch of confused weirdos in the middle who, if we’re honest, are probably going to end up gay once they get their heads out of their asses. In my experience, both internally and externally, that’s a load of bullocks. Humans have way more variability in what makes their sexy bits throb and plump than that simple binary (especially women). But anyway, that’s not really the point of this. It’s just an observation. 

Seems to me (and I apologize because I may very well have expounded on this at various times and in various ways already), the Kinsey Scale is one axis of minimally three axes that describe our sexuality. Kinsey’s is all about that sexy throbbing and plumping. As in, what gets us going. What do we want to fuck/be fucked by, etc. I think it’s the most lizardy aspect of our sexuality as it’s the most deeply wired and involuntary. There’s little thinking about it. Dicks get hard or they don’t. Pussies get wet or they don’t. We see what we like and our bodies respond. 

I spent years thinking that was it. I also spent years bought off on the idea that if I wanted to have sex with men I was gay, period. Based on some previous comments from readers, there’s a fair chance you think something like that yourself. It’s wrong. Yes, I do like having sex with men. But I also like having sex with women. I might also like having sex with a trans man or woman, but I’ve never had the opportunity. Bottom line, based on old Kinsey’s reckoning, I’m right down the middle. And, because I’m a know-it-all bisexual, I have the feeling you’re probably somewhere on the scale yourself. Not a zero or a six. Maybe a one and a half. Of a four and three quarters. Or even a .25. Doesn’t matter. I believe in absolute zeros and sixes as much as I believe in the Easter Bunny. 

Which is not to say there aren’t straight people and gay people. We round ourselves off. If you’re a 1.5 you likely identify as straight and that’s fine because it’s simple and you’re really only a little more than incidentally bisexual. Likewise, if you’re a 4.75 you might decide to call yourself gay. That’s cool, too. I’m saying there’s a difference between what we are and how we indentify. I also think identification is very much a higher brain activity that’s influenced by all kinds of emotional and cognitive bullshit our sex organs care little about. Who do we feel more comfortable with? What do we feel more comfortable being? If there’s one thing living as an orgasm denied person can teach you it’s that our brains and our genitalia are on entirely different tracks in the old sexuality train yard. 

Bottom line, for me, I’m less interested in identification politics as I am in actual in-born stimuli reactions. I don’t think and would never say that a man who identifies as straight is not what he says he is because seeing two dudes go at it makes his dick chub a little. But I think it’s critically important for us to acknowledge that that is a thing that can happen and aforementioned dude should not feel weird or end up bashing some poor gay boy because it threatens his image of himself.

Anyway, that’s the part I most closely associate with Kinsey. Involuntary response, not identity. The second dimension is emotional capacity. There’s probably a scale to that, too, but it’s often rounded off like sexuality. Homoromantic vs. heteroromantic vs. biromantic (not to be confused with New Romantic which is what I styled myself as in 1985). For simplicity’s sake, imagine the same zero to six scale. If on the sexual response scale I land at about a three, on the emotional response scale I’m more like a five. I can almost get to the point where my feelings for someone of my gender could reach critical mass and become romantic, but it’s never quite happened with anyone and I assume never will. I am totally into chicks when it comes to emotional response. For me, guys are for sex. And playing video games. And seeing a ballgame. Maybe both video games and ballgames as long as I get to suck them off after. You get the idea. 

I think this emotional response scale is where we tend to find our sexual identities. A “straight” man who falls at about a two on the Kinsey scale rounds off as straight because he feels deep and satisfying emotional connections to women. A gay man might occasionally think about a particular kind of woman sexually but finds himself fitting into a relationship with a man so he’s “gay.” This is where I think the idea of “sexuality is a choice” comes from. Someone might occasionally get a boner from a person of their gender but they choose to do nothing about it because they love someone of the other gender so therefore anyone who “goes gay” is choosing to do so. Of course, that’s nonsense but since we only think of sexuality as a linear A/B scale it must be true. 

The third axes of our sexuality involves power. As Oscar Wilde said, “Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” I believe we’re all on a spectrum of being more interested in having power in a sexual dynamic or giving up power in a sexual dynamic. Or sometimes enjoying a bit of both. I think this is drastically under appreciated when we think about sex and relationships probably because being overt about it is kinky and kinky is weird and bad and why can’t we just be happy falling in love forever and fucking like missionaries until we die, right? But the internet is rife with stories of men who have discovered their submissiveness later in life and how that plays havoc with their partners who are either totally out of touch with their own “power response quotient” or are simply incompatible power-wise or too hung up on the weird kinkiness of the whole thing to be able to cope. Also, not withstanding my bell curve rant at the top, there seems to be a lot more submissives of all genders than dominants. So who knows. Personally, on the power spectrum (assuming zero to six again), I’m like a .75 absolute tops. Probably not even that high.

Imagine a world were we were aware of all three of these spectrums and our places on them and were able to communicate openly about it to one another and our prospective partners. I have to think it would lead to so much more satisfaction and intensity of experience. 

The more I think about it, the more I think there may be more spectrums. Is pain one? Either the desire to feel it or the desire to inflict it? Is there something more about gender in there? Not just what we respond to but how we need to express our own? Where does androgyny fit? What about bondage? Is that a thing unto itself or just a manifestation of the power exchange thing? Like I said before, I’m no sexologist. I’m not trained in anything useful, really. This is just a bunch of stuff that’s been bouncing around in my head for a long time. 

At the end of the day, sex and sexuality and human relationships are infinitely more complicated than we tell ourselves they are via popular culture. Once you have a peek into the complex nature of it, you realize there is no “weird” because there is no “normal.” There are just too many possible combinations to think there’s one predominant way of being. There’s the way we all choose to believe is “normal” but hardly any of us are that. We just play at it. We fill the roll chosen for us because we think it’s what’s expected and we typically so badly want to fit in. That’s too bad. And it’s too bad too many of us don’t figure this shit out until we’re middle-aged. But at least we figure it out at all. Well, some of us anyway. 

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GGG

After we got back from Hawaii, Belle and I headed to the store to restock the fridge we emptied out before we left. Along the way, we listened to episode 478 of Dan Savage’s Savage Love Cast (Magnum edition, natch). In it, the term “GGG” was mentioned. Belle had forgotten what that meant.

GGG stands for good, giving, and game. As in, good in bed (or striving to be as good as you can), giving “equal time to equal pleasure” (i.e., give as good as you take, give your partner as much pleasure as they give you), and game for anything your partner wants to do (within reason). If you’re GGG, you’re doing it right. If you’re not, you’re not.

Belle said she didn’t think she was very GGG with me. No, seriously. She said that. And apparently not in jest.

I think Belle’s the exemplar of GGG. She knew when she married me that I wasn’t like the average bear, sex-wise. But she had no idea where we’d end up. She couldn’t have since I really didn’t, either. But she’s more than rolled with it. At the start, she seemed as though she was humoring my kinks more than actually participating, but she’s evolved right along side me in her own way and has interegrated the expression of her sexuality into how I need to express mine. Rarely has she ever made me feel anything but loved and accepted.

Beyond that, she’s allowed our relationship to open up in a way that lets me seek out the kind of sex I can’t get from her, both with a man and sex that includes the kind of optional add-ons I like and she’s not really into, even if that’s with another woman. I mean, come on. GGG to the max.

But in her mind, since she’s not into some stuff and doesn’t indulge my desires (like being tied up and beaten, for example), she’s not GGG. She even said something to that effect. “There’s things you want that I won’t give you.” But that’s not GGG.

Being GGG does not mean doing any and every thing your partner desires. It means being willing to do those things they’re into, even if you’re not especially, because they’re into them. That’s the third G. Game. But it may be the case that you can’t be enough into them to do them correctly or with the proper technique. In my estimation, Belle is all the Gs rolled up in one package even if she doesn’t tie me up and slap me around, etc.

I said that to her. I also said there were maybe a couple thousand guys on the internet who would love to have a wife as non-GGG as mine. Which is to say, I’m a lucky bitch and I know it and so should she.

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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.

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New rule

Belle doesn’t have than many rules for me, if you think about it.

  1. I can only come when she tells me to and if she tells me to I have to.
  2. I must to wear a chastity device whenever she says.
  3. I must never play with the penis without permission.
  4. If I have sex with someone else, I have to be locked up.

That’s about it, really. Everything I do and how I act flows from those. But today I asked that there be a new rule.

  1. I’m not allowed to tell her how I feel about coming (whether I want it or not) while we’re having sex unless she asks me.

This is a follow on from my previous post on talking about it while fucking her. As I said then, there’s no reason for me to say anything about it (really ever, but especially when the penis is inside her) other than for the part of my reptile brain that’s never accepted her control over my orgasm to try and manipulate her. I’ve been telling myself this new rule was a rule I was imposing on myself all week but this morning, in the passion of feeling her pussy and hearing her moan, I realized that a rule I never say to anyone is a rule I can’t be held accountable for.

On the surface, and when compared to the others, this new rule may seem like a little thing but I think it’s really huge. If I say what I want with regard to coming (either for or against), especially in the heat of the moment, then how committed am I to rule number one? You’d think, what with me being the big shot chastity blogger and all, that I wouldn’t need this rule, but in reality I’m always playing an angle with her. I guess that’s human nature, but when I can play an angle that means I have some modicum of flexibility and leverage and, truly, when it comes to my orgasm I don’t want any. I say that in the face of never letting go of that tenuous little thread.

The reptile part of my brain thinks she’ll always assume I want to come. That it will be obvious by my actions and how turned on I am and that I’ll be able to communicate my desire physically. The higher part of my brain (the bunny) clutches it’s little furry paws in hope that she doesn’t really think about it. That it doesn’t really matter.

So I asked this be a new rule this morning after I got her off. I was still locked up because she said she’s thankful for my chastity and this is Thanksgiving, after all. And I’m thankful for it, too. And her. Especially her. Once I proposed it and she quickly acceded to it, I could actually feel the control she has over that aspect of me ratchet down. That tiny wiggle space closed tight. The tenuous thread was cut. And it left me feeling warm and loved.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Posted on

Pieces on the board

Chaste Cyclist (of the great eponymous blog) said in response to my last post:

Even though it has only been about 9 months for us, I feel myself drifting ever closer to these same feelings. The other evening when she called me upstairs I found myself wanting to be out of the Steelheart but knew better to ask. I simply wanted to pleasure her…and that is what I got. I have stopped asking to get out.

And it made me have a thought about one of the primary differences between enforced chastity (in which a device is used) and the other kind (in which the man is restricted in how he enjoys his penis but is not in a device). This is just sort of a random thought that started out as a comment in reply to his but I decided to make a post out of.

I don’t claim that one way of doing chastity is better than the other. I’ve seen device-less types claim theirs is superior because being able to employ willpower over a physical restraint shows greater submission blah blah bullshit bullshit. They can think what they want. I simply prefer to say we all get to do things as we like to do them and there’s no one right way to approach anything of a sexual nature. As long as everyone’s on board and happy, you win.

But, it may be the case that those of us in enforced chastity are ending up (or may end up) in a very different place than our device-less comrades. For me over the time I’ve been locked up, I’ve learned to progressively demote the penis as a central actor in our sex. In doing so, I’ve been able to be more completely focused on her pleasure. If the penis is not a factor in our sex (and truly we can have amazing sex without the key ever showing up) then the focus of the sex and its outcome is purely about her getting off as spectacularly as possible. The further out of mind the penis is, the better to have sex that is as partner-centric as possible.

I know for myself, when the penis is out, everything changes. It’s an entirely different act for me, even if most of it is functionally the same. Emotionally and hormonally, my focus is divided. Belle let me out this morning and the entire time I had my fingers in her snatch and was kissing her mouth and nipples, I was thinking about what came after. I was imagining the penis in her. I was resisting the urge to climb up and take her before she was done. After she came, I basically did just that. She never told me I could, but I slowly moved in that direction until she guided the penis in with her hand. It was an amazing fuck for both of us, don’t get me wrong, and of course I didn’t come (URRRRGH) but since I was free and hard and she was naked and writhing the drive to be inside her was crowding away in my mind.

Again, I’m not making a judgement call. I’m making an observation. Having a locked up penis makes a man much more focused as a lover. Personally, that’s a satisfying state of being for me. If the goal of chastity is to create in the locked parter a state of focus, an effective way of doing that is to demote his penis to a secondary or even tertiary player. Take the piece off the board, so to speak. Nothing does that better than a tight tube keeping his hard-on in check.