Category: Life with Belle

Stuff that really happened to Thumper and/or Belle Fille

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Just do it

This past weekend was the one year anniversary of my most recent foray into physical fitness. I feel like saying something to mark this occasion because it really does mean a lot to me and has had a huge impact on my entire sense of wellbeing, but I don’t want to be one of those annoying screechy preachy types who, after finding their One True Way, keep telling you how you’re living your life all wrong. There are some who’d say I do enough of that with the whole chastity denial thing as it is.

I admit, I’m fortunate because I’m able to hire a professional to kick my ass several times a week. Even on those days when I don’t want to drag myself out of bed, I do because there’s a dude I already gave money to waiting for me at the gym. I’m not, therefore, a typical example. But. What I can say is, trainer aside, I know I’ll be active for the rest of the time my body will let me. Every day, I crave the activity. I crave the treadmill or the weights or just sweating. I want to run more than my legs will take me. I want to lift more than my joints will allow. If only I had started doing this ten years ago. Or twenty.

And that, I guess, is the thing. I’m 45 and might be in the best shape of my life right now. Maybe. I’ve been in OK shape before, but it’s likely that, big picture, I’ve never been fitter. I have actual muscles in places that have never shown them in the past and my resting heart rate is in the mid to high fifties (not bad – could be better). I’m losing weight, though not as quickly as I’d like. Still, it’s heading in the right direction. Problem with the weight thing is, all the charts say my maximum healthy weight is 188 pounds or so. I’ve been that low in my adult life, but I was a skinny punk. I can’t see how muscly me will ever be that low.

But whatever. What I’m saying is, if you’re unhappy with your appearance or are tired of feeling tired and old, now is the time. Not tomorrow. Not next month. Now. It doesn’t matter what shape you’re in or your age or anything. Start small. There are pretty cheap of gyms out there (like Snap or Anytime) and you can go in and do lower-impact stuff like the elliptical or bike for half an hour three times a week. Eventually, you could work with a trainer (they usually have them on staff) even if it’s just once a week (my trainer has several once-a-week clients). If you do that and stick to it, I guarantee your body will start to ask for more. Your cloths will start fitting different and you’ll see a new person in the mirror and people who see you every day will say something. It works. You’ll go from being tired for no reason to being tired from making yourself move. That’s the best tired there is. And even so, you’ll crave more.

And, since this blog is purportedly about sex, I’ll tell you it improves that, too, no matter how you take it. Belle seems especially affected by my arms now. So much so that I am now certain when a chick sees a muscly guy and tells you, “Well, I don’t like men with too many muscles,” they are probably lying. Also, when you and your partner are feeling more energetic and overall better about your self images, chances are you’re likely to want to be naked together and do naked stuff.

A typical day with the FuelBandThe final thing I’ll say on this topic (for now) is to recommend the Nike FuelBand. In a nutshell, this is a little gizmo that measures your activity during the day (like the FitBit  or Jawbone Up or a few others) but it also does some kind of proprietary mumbo jumbo that turns that into something called NikeFuel. Basically, a point system. It’s not the conversion of activity into points all by itself that’s genius. The genius part is the accompanying iPhone app and/or website. You can set a daily goal for yourself and make tracking your activity level into a game. I have, in the past, made a point to go to the gym because my Fuel was too low and I wanted to keep my string of achieved daily goals in tact. In fact, even though my calves were aching last night and I really should be taking the day off today to recoup, I’m thinking of doing it again today because I’m only at 816 at 1:00 and I need 3,500 before the end of the day and have managed to make my goal six days in a row. Anyway, there are a bunch of devices on the market now like this and I’ve tried several of them. The FuelBand is the only one I really like (even though it doesn’t track sleeping like the FitBit or Up). It syncs wirelessly with my phone and looks good on my wrist. I like it so much, I got one for Belle and my son, too.

One of the greatest, most perfect slogans in the history of marketing and advertising is Nike’s “Just Do It.” You can’t even understand how good it is until you take its advice and get up off your butt and do something. Listen to it and you’ll be thankful you did.

Preachy bit over.

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Chitter chatter

Quite a lot of comments on the last post in a short period of time.

Did you cry? I would have.

No, of course I didn’t. Haven’t you been reading this blog? I only would have been disappointed if the number had been less than 24.

Mykey said,

I suspect belle will miss a good hard fuck before then.

And…

I’m surprised she doesn’t miss that more given it used to be one of her favourite things. What’s changed in her mind?

Belle had a pretty good fuck on Sunday and I didn’t come. Pretty good fucks don’t have to have a guy coming at the end. With regard to Belle changing her mind, I don’t think she has. My demonstrating that she can fuck me and get her orgasm while not leading to my own is, I think, the one thing that makes this long-term stuff possible. Even now, she’s said it’ll be July 27, 2014, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be way more shattered about screwing up before then than she will. I think she thinks not coming is my problem, not hers. As long as she gets what she wants, it works for us.

He also said,

If you continue with an orgasm once a year and a half, I will have more (delicious) orgasms in the next month than you will ever. Just thought that idea might tickle you!

And yeah, in a fucked up way, knowing others are having all kinds of orgasms while I get none does make me itch a little inside. Irony. Or just a demonstration of the “divide by zero” nature of orgasm denial. At some level, logic fails.

Atone and I had an exchange about whether it’s better to know the length of time involved or not. Is staring down the throat of 566 days worse than just knowing it’s not today or tomorrow or next week?

I think this is going to be different for everyone. Personally, I don’t think of the period of denial as something I have to get through before I get to come again. It’s something I get to go through before I have to come again. And it’s so far away I can just live my life as though orgasms are not something I’m ever allowed to do ever. The one on Saturday was a good example of whatever conscious or subconscious combination of discipline in my head allows me to get fucked by her and not come “rounding up” and letting it happen since The Day was so close. If The Day is fixed in time off over the horizon somewhere and not a nebulous “not right now, maybe soon, maybe not,” for whatever reason, I find it’s usually easier to keep the natural response to the fucking at bay. That’s what works for me and us.

In a way, I think we’ve finally come to the logical extension of where we’ve been heading for the past four years. I like myself better when I’m not having orgasms. Both my attitude and affection and behavior are more Belle-focused and I feel more alive and invigorated with my arousal on a hair trigger. I think Belle likes me better this way, too. I have wanted and hoped Belle would take my orgasms away completely for a long time. And now, essentially, she has. Combining the period we’re in now with the one we just finished (and assuming there’s no accidents along the way), I will have had only two orgasms in over two years. If that turns into one every 18 months or so or none ever, I’m really OK with that. I can’t explain it and I’m not going to say it’s the logical extension of how everyone should play this game, but I couldn’t be happier with where we are right now.

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30

As you probably know, Belle previous said I would’t come until a “random date” in 2014. Tonight, we used a random number generator I found on teh Google and told it to pick a number between one and 52. Since Belle always does these things on a weekend (and nearly always on a Sunday), what we asked the site to do was pick which weekend of the year it would take place. Belle wanted to put a bunch of pieces of paper in a hat and make me pick, but you know, that’s a lot of work. Cutting, writing 52 numbers, etc. This was just one click. Presto.

The number was 30. That ends up being Sunday, July 27, 2014. Five-hundred fifty-nine days from today. Unless I screw up somewhere along the way.

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One week down, 50-100 to go

“Can I come?” I asked, feeling the desire to do so build with each thrust of my hips.

“No, of course not,” she said with a laugh.

That was yesterday, just a week into the period of indeterminate length (at least a year but possibly two) in which I won’t have any orgasms. It’s as close as one can get, I guess, to living without them at all and that’s fine by me. I did want to come and would have if she had said I could, but she’s not going to let me. Not one more time this year. Not on purpose.

The last time I came prior to the weekend of January 5th was way back around July 4th. The date she had picked out for me to come again was January 6, but it actually happened accidentally the day before. She let me out that Friday from the Looker 02 I had been in nearly continuously for about six weeks. She may have been more turned on by the idea of fucking me than the other way around and on that Saturday, she climbed up on me, all naked, hot, and wet. It had been so long and we were so close to D-day that six of the seven seals I try and keep up in those situations were hanging loosely on their hinges. It was, for both of us, a very fine fuck. I was in OK shape until I felt her start to come and I found myself completely unable to hold back. Belle just felt so fucking good bouncing up and down on the penis. Turns out, I was a dead man from the moment she got up there.

The orgasm I had was unlike any I can recall having before. The typical male orgasm, if you graph it, has a period of build-up followed by a relatively short “oh my Jesus, here I come” segment followed by the back-of-the-head-eye-rolling spurting bit and finishing with the crash and sleepy-time moment of zen. This one, though, had all the grace and elegance of a tactical nuclear device. One second, I wasn’t coming, the next I was. And it was so intense and overwhelming that it pegged every sensor in my body. I tesned up solid and couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t as much distinct spurts of ejaculate as what felt like a jet of goo painting the walls of her snatch. Then, as soon as that was over, I could feel – distinctly – each and every one of the nerve endings on the penis head firing little individual needles into my cerebral cortex over and over again. I had to ask Belle to stop moving as it was all too much for me to bear.

So yeah, I came. Explosively. If I only get a handful more in my entire life like that, I’ll count myself a lucky man. But, it wasn’t the day, so she made me do it all over again the next morning. This time would be different. I’d be on top and, according to a previously negotiated agreement, if she hadn’t come before me, I would have to make her come by eating her out. Honestly, she wasn’t even trying to come before me. I was up there doing my best and all she was doing was letting me. As I got closer, a little voice in my head reminded me that no matter how hot I thought it was at that moment, I really wasn’t going to like the clean-up and that was sufficient to hold me back a bit, but the inevitable inevitably happened and I shot a healthy load deep inside her.

She gave me a few moments to bask in which I started to feel the revulsion of what was about to happen. I rolled to her side and started to finger her, hoping to get her into that and avoid my end of the bargain, but no dice. Actually, that made things a bit worse since I could feel how slimy and loose I had made her. Accepting my fate, I got to work, though I couldn’t allow myself to open my eyes and concentrated all my attention on her clit. Sensing this, she brought her hips up making me slip down and allowing my tongue to slurp in a gob of my revolting seed. God, the smell of it. Finally, she came and I was out of there in a flash. My own ejaculate was all over my nose, cheeks, and lips and ran down my chin.

And that was that. Last one of the year. I’m still not sure how she’s going to pick the date in 2014 on which I’ll be made to come again, but obviously, there’s no rush. We have all of 2013 to get through yet.

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Not horny

This morning I was feeling it big time. From the second I woke up (really, from the second the lights went out the night before). I would say “horny” but, as I was thinking about how I’d describe what I was feeling, I came to the realization that “horny,” as a word, sucks.

The thing is, it’s too tactical. Too in the moment. It’s transitory. What I feel isn’t transitory. It comes and goes (really, waxes and wanes, swells and subsides), but it’s not insistent. It’s not the kind of thing a regular guy would feel which would make him jump his bed partner or, if that was unsuccessful, go rub one out. I don’t do that. The end of horny is orgasm and I rarely (and even more rarely soon) do that. 

But I don’t know what word to use instead. I’m not sure we have a word for what guys who are not allowed to orgasm feel. Yes, horny, but so much more. So much deeper. This morning, I was dressed to go run in my shorts and had not yet put my track pants over them (since it’s freaking cold here and while I run on the treadmill in my shorts, I don’t get from my door to my truck to the gym in them). I hopped up on the kitchen counter and watched Belle make another cup of coffee and she came and stood between my legs and ran her hand up my thigh and under the flimsy running short material. I dropped my face into her neck and smelled her and whimpered. Then, as I was about to leave, I went into the bathroom where Belle was applying her makeup to give her a kiss. Her lips were full and plump and tasted of sweet coffee and I kept kissing her and pressed my body against the length of hers and wrapped one knee behind her where I also slipped my hand so I could finger the cleft above her ass and I just kissed and kissed her and felt a swelling both physically in the device but also emotionally in my chest. I left weak-kneed and light-headed. I fucking wanted  her. I wanted to feel her hot, wet snatch and suck her tits and hear her ragged breathing and tense up as she did and feel my own pale reflection of her release as she arched her back and came under my fingertips. How does “horny” capture that?

Being horny is about craving the thing that makes you not horny. I crave that on some level, but more than that I crave the craving. I crave the feeling that sinks its structural elements and builds a foundation on “horny.” The thing I don’t have a word for. The thing that makes me love being essentially orgasmless.

Yeah, I need a new word.

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A couple of unrelated things

First thing…

I had a weird dream last night. I don’t often have sexual dreams, even in my denied state, but this one was. I was at some office or meeting place or something with this other guy. I knew who he was (we had come together) but he wasn’t anyone I know in real life. The people we were there to meet never showed up or were late or something and next thing I knew he was unzipping his pants and shoving my face into his crotch. This didn’t seem strange to me in the dream but I know it wasn’t a common occurrence in the dream world since I was pleasantly surprised to find his dick was on the large side. After I started sucking him off, I found myself naked but never actually got undressed (you know how it is in dreams). The dude I was blowing was fully clothed which had me in that awkward spot of being the only locked-up naked dude giving blow jobs in the conference room (not again) and, of course, the door was open. I think I saw a secretary or something sitting outside in plain view of what was going on. He kept trying to reach down and grab the penis on me but it was locked (in a CB-6000, oddly) and I was trying to hide that fact and keep him from finding it out, but he eventually did get his hand on it. I could feel the heat on my face as I blushed but I kept sucking him. He didn’t say anything. Somehow, I knew he expected to find it that way. Then he started to shoot his load with his cock shoved deep down my throat so that I swallowed it all but didn’t get to taste any of it, but my gag reflex must not exist in dream world since there was none of that. And then the dream ended.

Second thing…

I was in the gym with the trainer dude the other morning and he was having me do bench presses on the Smith Machine, but these weren’t normal presses. He wanted me to push the bar off my chest and toss it up away from myself and catch it on the way down (on a Smith, the bar is on rails so it wouldn’t have gone flying across the room or anything). I had never done this before and while it seemed perfectly safe, I put the safety stops up so that on the odd chance I missed or couldn’t hold the bar, it wouldn’t land on my chest and crush my ribcage. That’d suck.

Anyway, the thing about weight training with another guy is whenever you do something like that, you get shit for it. Like how I wear gloves to work out in because I don’t have nasty callouses on my hands or put the pad on the bar when I do squats so it doesn’t press directly onto my spine. But, you know. It’s all in good fun. Or something.

So yeah, I put the stop in and the trainer dude gives me shit. Something like, “Oh, you need some protection or something? Is that like your chastity device?”

I shit you not. He says this (or something very close to it). And I think a couple of things at once. First, what the fuck sense does that make? How do you go from the built-in safety feature on a weight machine to a chastity device? Second, even with my odd bulges and weird muffled clanking, he’s obviously not ever caught on because then he said…

“You know what a chastity device is, don’t you? You know what it’s used for?” in a tone like he’s telling me some kind of clever dirty joke or something.

“Yeah, I got a pretty good idea what it is.”

You might think that was some kind of passive-aggressive way of him saying to me he had caught on at some point, but trust me, he hasn’t. No clue.

In any event, I did the weird presses just fine. No crushed bones or anything.

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Visions of suger-pegs danced in my head…

And so begins 2013. Four days from my first orgasm in six months and what will likely be the only one I’ll have all year long. The thought of it is enough, on occasion, to make my balls tingle. I admit, there’s a part of me that wants it and gets excited thinking about it happening. But there’s a larger part of me excited by the prospect that it will be a singular event, at least until the big ball drops again.

I had another bought of denial insomnia the other night. Wound have been handier on New Year’s Eve, but it came the night before, meaning I couldn’t stay up until midnight and welcome in the new year. I wasn’t up all night this time. Can’t be sure when I finally fell asleep since I was purposefully avoiding seeing what time it was, but I expect it was at least three or four in the morning. The issue this time had nothing to do with Belle. I wasn’t sleepy when she went to bed so I bounced around on my phone for a bit and eventually found myself reading porn and that was it. Try as I did to keep the thoughts from my hormone-addled brain, they’d come. The device was especially present in my mind. I’d lay on my side and I’d feel it’s heft pull on my nutsack. I’d lay on my stomach and feel the plug push even more deeply into me. Then it’d try to get hard and there’d be squeezing. Then I’d try to think about something else. Repeat. Ugh.

I finally drifted off fantasizing about being pegged by Belle. This isn’t something she’s offered or even shown the slightest interest in, but I focused on how one would design a dildo so that it could be worn by a woman and still give her some clitoral feedback from her effort. I know such things exist, but working on ideas like this in my head helps me get to sleep sometimes. There are few more intimate acts than being fucked. Pegging, while a very hot concept for me, would seem like prostate-centric kabuki if there wasn’t anything in it for the pegger. So I pondered that and how it’d work and how wonderful it’d be to know she was pleasuring herself while penetrating me and actually coming from fucking me and…and…what do you know. I fell asleep.

In any event, in my head, I imagined something very much like this.

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01-06-13

Oh gosh, look at the time. Quarter to two and I’m up and doing this instead of sleeping. This is, I think, the evil denial insomnia rearing its head again. They say one tactic in helping to defeat sleeplessness is to get out of bed, so here I am. Maybe when I’m done writing to you, I’ll get at least a few hours before it’s time to hit the gym in the morning.

So Belle told me on Christmas Day, after a small amount of prodding on my part, that she’s going to have me orgasm on January 6. That will be almost exactly six months from the last time it happened. As I’ve said in the past, I was hoping she’d make me hold out for longer (perhaps indefinitely) but no. Sunday, January 6, 2013. That’s my day.

I spent the next day thinking on that. A bit of apprehension settled over me. Not so much because of the orgasm itself. I know from experience that just one isn’t quite enough to knock me totally out of the zone. I’ll likely experience a day or so of absence from want before I’ll really want a second. That’s what the apprehension was about. If I come twice in short succession, I’ll well and truly be all the way back to zero on the craving scale. I really, really don’t want to feel that way. Since July, I’ve had nothing to worry about except an accidental orgasm. I knew Belle wasn’t going to let it happen, period, so my entire mental approach to the possibility was different. Unless one slipped though under the wire (as it almost did the other day), I didn’t have to dwell on the possibility.

And before July, I would dwell. There was never any knowing when she’d tell me to go so it felt like I was always living under the constant threat of it happening. Yes, that’s me. The guy who doesn’t want to come. The six month schedule was a comfort to me. But now that is coming to an end. I’ll shoot one on the morning of January 6 and then…what? Back to every few weeks or months? I know, I know, I know. It’s not my call. But still, I personally much prefer the long and certain wait. I also think the absence of my orgasm has helped level out some of the hills and valleys we experienced in our D/s overlay before.

Tonight, just before she went to sleep, Belle stroked my balls and fingered the A-ring on the L02. She got me pretty worked up (hence, perhaps, this early morning missive). Just this simple touching was fantastic. When she was done, I even dribbled a little precum on her hand as I snuggled up next to her. She thought it was funny, I thought it was a little embarrassing.

Anyway, before she was done, we talked a bit more about January 6. She told me that after that one, that perhaps my orgasms would become more of an annual affair. In fact, the idea she toyed with (and seemed to like) was placing some “random 2014 dates” in a hat picking one to be the date of my next release. Which, means, of course, after the six month experiment she’ll be denying me for at least a year. Possibly much longer.

Of course, hearing that made the struggling penis struggle all that much harder. I love this idea. And I love my Belle Fille. She makes me very happy. I only hope I make her just as happy in return.

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Knife’s edge

Last weekend, Belle let me out of the Looker 02 for 24 hours. This wasn’t because she thought I needed a break or, I presume, particularly cared if I did. It was because she wanted a fuck. I would come out Sunday morning and go back in Monday morning.

The lock slid out of the L02 and the fat end of its plug slithered down the inside of the penis where it had been lodged for two weeks. That led immediately to an erection so insistant that it was almost painfully hard. Sometimes, even if I’m out, if it looks like she wants me to finger her to an orgasm and not want the available erectile tissue, the penis will actually go soft. It’s been trained over the past several years that it and sex aren’t necessarily connected anymore. But this time, it and I knew where it was going and we were both pretty happy about it.

Perhaps too happy. During the warm up period where I was sucking Belle’s tits and rubbing her snatch and generally letting her juices get flowing, she reached down and gave the stiff penis a few strokes (as if it needed the encouragement). I felt immediately how just that contact got the internal ejaculation gears moving, but put it out of my mind. I was confident. I had already been fucked by her at least a half dozen times in a row and didn’t come once. I could do it again.

She mounted me and slid her hot wetness down over the needy hard meat. The feeling made me groan with equal parts relief and unsated desire. I wanted to fucker her senseless, but she was on top and needed to get her orgasm before I could even consider my own needs. Again, I felt the familiar tickling of oncoming coming but clamped down and soldiered on.

Part of the trick is to just present the hard penis to her by clamping my ass cheeks together and thrusting them off the bed slightly so she has maximum ability to use its entire average length. No reciprocal thrusting. If I fuck back, the game is over. She doesn’t seem to want that, anyway. Just be the tool, Thumper. Another part of the trick is for me to put my mind as far away from the actual sex taking place on my body as possible. In the summer, I use baseball for that. This past fall, I used the elections (and thought of bad outcomes specifically). Now, though, I got nothing. It has to be a series of thoughts. A logical progression of considerations that keeps my attention focused elsewhere while she impales her hot went snatch over and over again, letting its juices run down over my balls and down my ass crack, and her breathing becomes sharper and shorter and the fucking gets harder and quicker and…STATISTICS. I need some fucking statistics. Electoral College math or fucking on-base percentages or league standings or something. Desperate, I thought of a video game I had been playing through lately. Lego Lord of the Rings, to be precise. A very pale substitute.

Finally, she came in a shuddering orgasmic crash. Holding herself still over me, I withdrew the penis and let its tip rest just inside her. I could feel it pumping semen. Surging its weeks-long buildup of payload past her quivering lips, filling her up. But it wasn’t really an orgasm. I didn’t feel like I was coming. I could feel the fluid leaving me but none of the mental fireworks associated with the event. Somehow, my orgasm had been ruined.

I know that now. Then, I wasn’t sure what was happening. I could smell my ejaculate and I didn’t like it. I could feel the slippery sliminess all over her pussy and GAH! It wasn’t supposed to be there. I was too distracted. I could still feel the horniness inside me, but the negative connotation I now associate with my own ejaculate was too much to take. The penis went limp and stayed there. I was supremely frustrated while Belle was bemused. She kept telling me how my window of opportunity was closing while I tried to stroke and pet the reluctant member back to life. Eventually, she told me that was it. I couldn’t get hard so I didn’t get to fuck her.

“At least it’ll give you something to blog about,” she said as she left me cold and sticky on the bed.

My period of freedom was extended by another day. Even though I had two showers and several hours alone with the penis, I couldn’t bring myself to take advantage of the situation. I wanted…something. But jacking off alone didn’t feel like it. Monday night, I got what I wanted.

This time, she wanted Pink to get her off. My fingers weren’t enough and either she wanted Pink more or didn’t want a replay of the previous morning’s misadventure. Either way, when she was done, I was allowed to fuck her. And, again, almost immediately I felt the orgasmic mechanism engage. From the very second I slipped into her. I can’t even say how many times I had to stop fucking her to keep the orgasm back. I never really felt like I got into a rhythm. Not like the last several times where the orgasm felt miles off. This time, it was always hovering just behind me. Eventually, I found myself skating down the knife’s edge, right on the cusp of it. Every fiber of my physical body cried out, desperately trying to draw it forward, while every bit of my higher brain pulled just as hard in the opposite direction. No, you CAN’T come. You CAN NOT.*

Emotions run high at these times. I felt almost as though I wanted to dry. Instead of the more typical animalistic feelings toward her where I’d want to fuck her into a pulp and then fuck whatever was left, I held her tenderly as if she was fragile and might break from my thrusting. I caressed her and breathed her scent deeply and she was all that was perfect and beautiful and my love for her nearly overwhelmed me. I thanked her. For everything. For letting me fuck her, for giving me the second chance at it, for not letting me come, for just being. Powerful shit, that.

Finally, she told me it was over. And I reluctantly pulled out. And I fell asleep clutching her tightly.

* Feel free to imagine a small Lego Gandalf confronting the Balrog on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, if you like.