Category: Life with Belle

Stuff that really happened to Thumper and/or Belle Fille

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HNThumper XXXVI: The great outdoors

Still on vacation! I scheduled this HNT twofer before I left.

I am, at heart, a nudist. Belle calls me an exhibitionist, and that’s probably true, too, but I don’t think they’re the same thing. I really like to be naked but I’m not particularly interested in being caught in that condition.

As avid readers of this blog may know, Belle and I are fortunate enough to have access to a family cabin deep in the north woods of Minnesota (not all that far from the Canadian border). In years past, I’d get away from the bustle of multiple families all piled on top of one another in its relatively tight quarters by heading off into the woods. Sometimes on a bike (though not recently – I really need a new mountain bike), but most often in a kayak. Whether on forest road or river, this part of the state is sparsly populated. I go for hours and never see another person.

Which is good, because as soon as I’d think I was well and truly removed from view, I’d often strip off my clothes. No, not all at once. Usually just the shirt until I was able to stoke my courage, then the full Monty. As long as I remembered to apply generous sunscreen and bug spray before leaving, it’d be bliss. The feeling of the warm summer sun washing against the whole of my body and the calm, cooling breezes stroking every last hair: chest, legs, and pubes. Inevitably, the heat of the sun on the penis would cause it to twitch and stir and lengthen and do all those things penises do. It’s not that I wanted to be naked for sexual reasons, but the excitement of being that way, totally and completely, in a place where anyone could come across me (either by coming down the road in the opposite direction or by me paddling around a bend and finding a boat of quiet fishermen just sitting there) inevitably caused my heart to start pumping and the rest would just – ahem – come naturally. (OK, maybe I am just a smidge of an exhibitionist.)

One time, in the kayak, I stopped at a giant boulder in the river (probably 20 feet across) and splayed out over it with my clothes back in the boat too far away to get to unnoticed if anyone came upon me. The heat of the rock on my back and the heat of the sun on my front and my hand on what was, at the time, my stiff penis with nothing but the eyes of the eagles and deer and whatever other fauna came across me. I jacked off on that rock, leisurely, enjoying my feeling of oneness with the great outdoors. Of course, I eventually left my seed there. Once it spurted out of me, it seemed to take my courage with it and I scrambled back to the kayak to be closer to my clothing.

Today (eleven days prior to this post), I found myself in a similar situation for the first time in a long while. I was out on the same stretch of secluded river and felt the need to be free of my clothing. Once I thought it was safe, I was kayaking in the nude with only the buzzing dragonflies as my company. This is the first time I’ve done this in a steel tube and was interested to find that, even though it was now sitting in full sunlight, I could feel the metal cool once it was free of the steamy confines of my pants. Then, after a few minutes, it assumed a wonderful heat that was especially evident when a breeze would blow over me and cool the rest of my body while the encased penis stayed warm. I paddled that way for quite a while, keeping my eyes and ears sharp, wondering what I’d do if discovered. The brave naturist in me said I should do nothing except smile and wave (and wouldn’t it be great if we lived in a world where that was possible?), but the reasonable adult in me rehearsed the movements I’d need to execute, aware that to do them too quickly might cause the tippy little boat to capsize.

I never came across anyone, but I did happen by two campsites. After the first, I put my shirt back on and placed my shorts over my lap, but I never saw another person. About 90 minutes after putting in, I stopped on a little spit of land to rest, drink some water, and be naked. The tree cover was sparse, but the position was perfect to see up and down the long river in both directions.

Of course, things are not as they used to be for me. While my heart still pounds and the warmth and breezes still work their magic, the little penis is locked away in a steel tube. I wanted at it badly, but accepted it was not to be. Instead of dwelling on that, I walked down a trail running the spine of the little peninsula. I found a rough campsite (fire ring and left-over wood), but it hadn’t been used in a while. Then, as I came over a rise, I saw in front of me a canoe pulled up into the reeds. Inside was fishing tackle and a bucket. Whoever’s this canoe was, they were not far away. I turned my white ass to it and headed back to the kayak. I decided to get dressed again, but not before I took the first of today’s HNTs (after the jump).

Continue reading “HNThumper XXXVI: The great outdoors”

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Just under the wire

OK, so maybe I will squeeze in one more post before I’m out of here…

Regarding the Jail Bird, it’s not going to happen. Aware that I’ve never been able to stay in that device for more than a few days without developing significant discomfort and suspecting that it’s likely a fit and spacing issue, I decided to try something I read about on Chastity Forums. Not sure who it was that did it, but they were able to create a little extra space between the bottom of the cage and the A-ring by slightly bending the post upward. I tried this yesterday afternoon and the post promptly snapped off. I don’t know much about metal work (whereby “not much” I mean “pretty much nothing”), but I thought welding would create a stronger bond between two pieces of metal. So now, if I ever want to wear the JB again, I’ll need a new A-ring. Which I probably needed anyway.

And, as I’ve been harping on, this now means I’ll be unsecured for the duration of the trip. Belle does not want me in the Steelheart and I guess I understand. Regardless of understanding, it’s her decision. It doesn’t help that I’m in that golden sweet spot where the device and I feel fused and there’s little to no discomfort and I’m even sleeping through the early morning tightness and find it creates a comforting sense of security rather than being something I need to endure. I don’t know if when this happens that anything physical has changed or if it’s all in my head, but I’ve even found myself, when waking with a fantastically full and tight tube, flexing the penis in order to feel more tightness and constriction. As with so many other things, my level of tolerance increases over time.

It’s not like I’ll have ample opportunity to take advantage of my temporary freedom, but I really don’t trust my hand and the penis together unattended even for short periods. There will be little moments (and the chance for several hot, soapy showers in hotels on the way there and back) and, of course, every morning it’ll be all perky and proud and asking for attention. Thing is, when you’re a man in my condition, you end up thinking about what’s in your crotch an awful lot regardless of its state. However, it’s an entirely different flavor of obsession when a healthy ribbon of opportunity is swirled though it. I will try to be strong. Upon return, I will no doubt be anxious for Belle to put me back in.

Belle and I chatted a bit last night about some of the recent blog posts. She’s mad at me (or trying to be) for taking the device off without her knowledge (though I strongly disagree I did it out of spite, as she suggests). While I took it off, I also put it back on, so I feel like I should get some points for that. Also, we talked about my reaction to being belittled, humiliated, made fun of, etc. She says she can’t really see herself humiliating me, but is OK with belittling me. I don’t see much of a difference, but if she can find it in her heart to make fun of me every once in a while, I’ll be happy.

In a related development, I’ve decided to update Thumper’s Rules of Usage and Style regarding how I refer to the sex organ attached my body. It’s clearly established that I never refer to it possessively (it’s not “mine”). I either refer to it as a separate object (i.e., the sex organ) or as hers (though I tend to favor the former style because the latter can be confusing to new readers – “Wait a sec. She had a cock?”). I have typically called it a cock but have just decided to no longer use that word. To me, “cock” implies something unrelated to me or it. A “cock” is an aggressive, action-oriented thing meant for fucking. An in-your-face kind of tool that’s been designed for erect penetration. My little piece of meat doesn’t do any of that. It’s very seldom any longer than the 2.75″ allowed by the Steelheart. From the outside, it never seems to change at all, regardless of how I’m feeling or how much pleasure Belle’s letting me give her. It certainly has practically nothing to do with Belle’s pleasure like a cock would. The only time it gets to be inside her is when she’s giving me one of my infrequent orgasms. Last two times it happened, I’m not even sure she had her top off. It may give her emotional pleasure to let me orgasm, but the act itself doesn’t provide much sexual pleasure for her. The thing’s roll has been demoted to little more than an instrument of prostate maintenance. There’s no aggression down there and certainly little action. It’s not a cock at all. It’s just a penis. And that’s what I’ll be calling it from now on.

I can almost hear eyeballs rolling in some sockets from here, but it’s my blog and I can call it whatever I want. So there. At the end of the day, for me, words have significant value and power. Thinking of it as just a penis strongly resonates with my submissive core. Thinking of it as a little penis just about makes me swoon.

So, finally, this is the last post I’ll make until I’m out of the woods sometime after the 17th or so. As I said yesterday, there’s an HNThumper loaded up for next Thursday, but that’ll be all. I might be able to reply to comments depending on access to cell reception. We’ll see.

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Road trip

It’s late and I should be asleep, but I’m not that tired. Last night was the same way. Too horned up.

This might be my last post for a while. Maybe I’ll get another in, but the boy and I leave on Wednesday for a long camping trip out west. We’ll be gone for more than a week. I have scheduled an HNT post for while I’m gone, but that’ll be it for a while.

Belle’s told me I’ll be unlocked on the trip. Last year when I went camping, I didn’t have the kid tagging along and had much more privacy than I’m going to have this time. I could clean the tube every morning and had no issue being locked in the woods. I really regret not being able to maintain my chastity for so long. It sounds weird to say it, but I’m actually already mourning my secured state. Like having free meat is some kind of loss. Weird. I know.

The issue really is one of hygiene and, in discussing it with Belle tonight (when we agreed that we both prefer me in steel at all times), it occurred to me that I could wear the Jail Bird on the trip. It wouldn’t need to be cleaned quite so thoroughly as the Steelheart. It could even be done with handiwipes. I’ve put it out there for her. It’s her decision. I hope she lets me at least try. Worst case, I would have a key with me. I could always take it off…

If anything interesting happens in the next few days, I’ll try to get some time to share it. Otherwise, this’ll be it until the HNT runs on the 14th.

See ya!

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Fog of war

Last night, Belle and I had a fight. A screaming, nasty, bitter fight. It wasn’t about sex or anything like that, but it was unresolved when she fell asleep and we woke up this morning on tender hooks around each other and even this evening (though perhaps less so).

After she was asleep, I popped the emergency key and took the device off. The scope and scale of the altercation made it simply impossible to keep it on. Right around 4:00 AM when I’m awoken by nearly six inches of hard cock trying to fit into less than three inches of steel tube and my nutsack is stretched tight around my testicles, heavy and swollen with unreleased ejaculate, the only thing that makes it all bearable is knowing that’s how she wants me. But, of course, last night I didn’t give a fuck how she wanted me to be so I took the damned thing off.

I was tempted to jack off. Very tempted. Perhaps I should have. On the one hand, it would have allowed me to think a little more clearly and be focused on the argument’s aftermath, but on the other I know I would have been wracked with guilt and remorse 2.33 seconds after the sticky white goo splashed all over the sink. So I didn’t. I did jack off in the morning, but not so much that I came.

In any event, I was out all day and all day I felt weird. Hand in my pocket, I’d reach over and feel this big squishy mass where my usually hard and smooth “cock” would be. My nuts were wandering all over the place and felt all goofy and absurdly random and the little soft penis (without any PA jewelry at all) was like a Mister Magoo worm nestled among them. That cock – my old cock that I gave to Belle – doesn’t seem like it belongs there any more. Certainly not now at roughly a week and and half since I last came (right about the time the desire and frustration come back from the dead). I realized sometime in the afternoon that I wanted back in the device. Not because she wanted me there, but because I wanted to be there.

Also, I found it hard to maintain my righteous indignation left over from the fight. Not that I didn’t have a valid position, but the more I thought about being back in the Steelheart and the more I thought about my last post and the kind of interesting new thoughts in my head the fact that all the naked people over on the Portfolio made an erection in my pants that – gasp! – people could actually see if I stood up…I just didn’t want us to be fighting any more. There was not a point where we made up or further conversation leading to a mutual understanding or any of that adult, reasonable stuff reasonable adults do when they fight. It was just me, the little rabbit, capitulating and wanting like hell to be back in my cage.

So, back I am. I put it on just before dinner. I doubt she even knew I was out. As I slipped the cold steel tube over Mister Magoo, I knew it was right. It felt right. And I wonder, had I jacked off last night when the thought struck me and had I squirted all over the sink and smelled the pungent odor of manhood again, would I have felt the same? Would I still be angry with her instead of whatever I am now? And would that be better or worse than what I am now?

Chastity and long-term denial aren’t just sex games. They can radically alter how you think and feel in unexpected ways. I can’t answer my questions from the last paragraph, but I do know that almost six inches of swollen penis meat packed into a less than three inch tube is really the only way I want to be. And when it wakes me up at 4:00 AM, maybe it’ll be bearable because I know that’s how it’s supposed to be.

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Just a theory

Following up on yesterday’s post, I’ve been wondering something.

I said:

Being diminished in that way really worked for me.

And…

I like the feeling of being optional and a beneficiary of her charity.

And…

I felt she knew exactly what she wanted for her and was in total control of how it happened.

And it was good.

And then in a comment:

If I can stay in the right frame of mind and recall the feeling I have right now, then completely severing any right of mine to her pleasure – to really and truly accept my role – could be revelatory and powerful.

What I wonder is if this isn’t where the cuckold fantasy comes from. It could be just a natural progression from…

  1. Learning to pleasure a woman without your cock, and
  2. Starting to think of her pleasure as your pleasure, and
  3. Reveling in her becoming more confident in finding a way to her pleasure that’s all her own, and
  4. No longer thinking of your cock as something that’s part of the sex she’ll have with you, and finally
  5. Learning to take pleasure in her pleasure regardless of whether or not you’re involved.

No, I’m not a cuck and Belle has never shown any interested in being with another man and I’m quite sure there’s a whole lot more going on in relationships where this has happened, but for me, I can see the path to the fantasy pretty clearly. I want her to be totally and completely sexually fulfilled. It has, truly, become the primary way I find my own fulfillment. I also have developed a taste for being treated quite unfairly. Even to the point of liking it when she belittles and humiliates me. I really like it. I can’t think of any more potent way to do that than taking another lover. A more satisfying one.

I have a bunch of fantasies that would never work outside my head. This might be one of them. But, the progression makes sense to me. Not that I’ll ever find out, of course, since Belle’s demonstrated zero interest in heading off in that direction.

That being said, if she was interested in plucking these particular heartstrings of mine, she was heading in the right direction the other night. Were she to remind me that, while I may be adept at utilizing the tools that lead to her pleasure, I’m not the actual implement of that pleasure. She used Pink during her night in the hotel spa just fine without me, after all. In fact, I’m not even capable of being the implement of her pleasure. I can barely last a full minute inside her now. There’s little chance I could satisfy her in the condition I most often find myself. She could remind me of that. How this cock I’ve given her isn’t much use for anything anymore.

It seems counterintuitive to treat your lover with such disrespect. It goes against everything you see in popular culture and learn through normal socialization. But, yeah. I get it. I really do.

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Bit part

Let’s see, where was I…

As you might have guessed, Belle let me come about a week ago. That’s not entirely why I wasn’t blogging, but it was a big part of it. I was also distracted by some other stuff (nothing related to Belle or anything I write about here), but mainly it was the orgasm.

I can’t even recall exactly when it was now. A week ago? Maybe ten days? We were up at the cabin and she unlocked me unexpectedly, but didn’t really do anything with the cock. Then, back home, she was stroking me in bed and generally working me up when she told me I could go inside her. I fucked her enough to get close once or twice (doesn’t take that long anymore) when she told me I could come but if I did, it’d be the last time before August sometime. I hesitated for maybe 2/10 of a second and plowed forward, coming like a fire hose moments later. Lots of come. Oodles and gobs.

Then she left me unlocked for a while. That didn’t help me get more focused. Truth is, now, I can’t really feel normal without the device on. Even after I come and it feels all clunky and alien, I feel more “put together” when it’s in place. Last Friday, she had a night at a nice hotel and a morning spa treatment (her Christmas present), and before she left she had wanted me locked up but forgot to make me do it. I popped my spare key and locked myself up. It was what she wanted and I was more than a little craving the feeling of captivity. That was just four days ago, but it’s like it was never off. Peeing in it, sleeping in it, sitting with it squashed between my legs are all the normal feelings. And now I’m well and truly horned up again so all those other feelings are punctuated by the occasional throbbing pressure of a stifled erection. That little tremulous quivering of unrealized desire is never far away.

Belle wanted an orgasm the other night (Saturday, I think) and threatened me with not only not having my own, but not sharing hers. Oh, I could be present, she said, but maybe that’s all. What use am I all locked up, anyway? At the time, I was horrified. The idea of not being allowed the touch, taste, and scent of her sounds too terrible to imagine, but in retrospect, I find the threat kinda hot. Being diminished in that way really worked for me. Also, I believed she might actually go through with it.

As it turned out, she wanted me to go down on her and doing it after the threat and subtle degradation left me feeling very confined in my small steel space. She backed off and said nicer things to me, afraid, perhaps, that she had hurt my feelings, but I have to admit, it wasn’t necessary. There’s something difficult to capture in all this. I like the feeling of being optional and a beneficiary of her charity. Even as I was eating her out, she reached into her drawer and took out Pink. She turned the little vibe up to high and inserted it under my lapping tongue making me hold it there with my chin, fully engaged with her G-spot. I was not the star of her ringing orgasm. I was a co-star. Perhaps only a featured player. It made her powerful and me less so. I felt she knew exactly what she wanted for her and was in total control of how it happened.

And it was good.

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Needy meat

I am wired.

Can’t sleep. Vibrating with frustration. Earlier, I used the Pure to pummel my prostate senseless. Now, I’m tired. So tired. But humming. And clutching. At the steel and it’s living contents. Feeling the gland inside my body swollen and tender and the device heavy and so perfectly locked.

Belle sent me a text from New York. I didn’t see it until 24 mintes later. In my writhing and tossing and clutching, I missed the thrum of the phone.

Just in an elevator with Jay-Z

Once I saw it, I texted back, “Are you still awake?” I wanted to talk to her so bad. To admit my condition. To admit I abused myself without her permission. To ask – no, to beg that she let me get myself off. To put me out of my misery. I’ll accept any condition. Any punishment. I have a key, secured by a plastic tag. Say the word, Belle. Please. Let me out. Let me come. Fucking hell, I want to come.

But she didn’t answer.

I put the cruel little clamps on my nipples and pulled and twisted and felt the white hot pain and heard my little moans in the quiet dark bedroom and realized I could not hurt myself enough. The pain was not pain. No pain at all. It was all going right to the cock. As the clips chewed and bit the tube filled and was made tight by the meat. The needy meat. I pulled the clips harder. Harder. The nipples stretched and screamed and I twisted and pulled and pulled. Finally, even their mean little teeth couldn’t hold on and first the left, then the right slipped off with a pair of brassy, tight-springed snaps. Now the nipples sting. But I need more. I need so much more.

I need my Belle.

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Weiner

I work with a lot of women. It’s just how things ended up, but at my company, most of the people are of the fairer sex. So I’m sitting at a conference table with three of them yesterday and the topic of Anthony Weiner comes up (you must know who that is by now, right?).

Now, I’m a guy who knows a thing or two about putting pictures of my junk up in public. Yeah, I do it like all the time. I am obviously without issues in that regard. I get a little thrill from it. Why else do it, right? I can tell myself it’s educational or some shit like that (and a few of them are, to be sure), but at the end of the day, I get something from knowing that thousands of people saw my bits and pieces. That’s not exactly what Mr. Weiner did. He sent photos to individuals who presumably knew who he was while I broadcast mine to everyone under the guise of my secret identity (no, really, my name isn’t actually Thumper). What this means is, obviously, I will find a soft spot in my heart for penis picture perps.

Back to the women. They were unanimous in their condemnation. Not just that he was married (more on that in a bit), but that he did it at all. And how that made him some kind of freak. A pervert. Or whatever. And I defended him, to a point. They asked, “What kind of person does that?” and I replied, “Lots of people. Lots of otherwise normal looking people.” Because it’s true. Not just me, but obviously a metric shit ton of others (there’s even a fucking word for it). It can’t be that everyone who snaps a quick pic of their member and sends it out is a borderline sexual predator (of course, the context of the sending is important). I’m just saying, all things being equal, I see nothing wrong with this behavior.

Of course, not all things were equal. For one, he lied about it. Proves yet again that the lie is always worse than the act. If you’re a person who is in a public job with a recognizable name, it is only a matter of time before you’re…ahem…exposed. I get how the charge of doing it anonymously isn’t as high, but dude, have a back up plan. Get your story straight before you get caught so when (not if) it happens, you’ll just get up and keep going. But no, he lied. And then he tried not to lie within the lie (“can’t say with certitude”) and the whole world comes apart and he’s crying behind a podium and the law’s looking into it and fucking hell man, what were you thinking was going to happen!?  It could be that the only way this worked for him as a sexual outlet was by purposefully willing himself into thinking he’d never be found out. That’s probably true. On one level, he had to know it would happen, but it worked better for him if he pretended otherwise.

There are parallels in this for me. I have lots of pictures of myself here. Lots of pictures that, if they were to “get out”, would clearly have some affect on my life. I actually expect that they will someday. Sooner or later, how I have no idea, someone I know IRL will stumble upon this site and see the cock, locked up and otherwise. They’ll read all about our sex life and how I like to be tied up and beaten and dominated and all the rest. My plan for when (not if) that day comes will be to admit it. It’s who I am. It’s what I do. Can’t help it. In a way, it will be a relief when it happens. I abhor secrets.

The big issue with Weiner, though, is his wife who presumably did not know about his photography hobby. Had he only been single, how much simpler this would be (assuming none of the girls were underage, consensually received the images, etc.). But no. For me, it begs the question; Is what he did “cheating”? As a guy who actually did cheat, I’d say no, dick pics are small potatoes (especially when wearing one’s boxer briefs). As far as we know right now, he never met with or fucked anyone he sent photos to. But I am apparently in a very small minority of people in my opinion. The aforementioned females all thought he was off-leash. I’m not sure if this is a gender thing, but all the people I know who have criticized him for the act of sexting have unanimously been women (keeping in mind I’m surrounded by them daily). I guess my biggest issue with him is that he probably lied to his wife about it when it all blew up. I don’t dig betrayal and dishonestly, though as I said, I probably don’t consider the pictures themselves as an act of full-fledged betrayal.

It also bothers me to be reminded once again that we are a sexually fucked-up people. I spend so much time reading the words of others who, perhaps aided by the anonymity of the web, are so much more connected with their sexuality and exploring it and reveling in it that I forget the nearly everyone else is all bunged up and freaked out by it. That’s too bad. It’s the one way I wish we were more like Europeans in this country (well, that and the socialized medicine).

This was all pretty random, as have been my thoughts on the subject. I’m perfectly prepared to be convinced I’m wrong on a few points. I’m also perfectly prepared to see us move on from these ridiculous titillating voyeuristic side-shows and start focusing our considerable talents on things that really matter.

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Still alive

Usually, when I’m quite here, then there’s something going on in my head. That hasn’t been the case recently, I just haven’t had anything to talk about. Part of it could also be that she let me come again last weekend. We had been up at the family vacation compound for the holiday and she unlocked me for no apparent reason. Then, on Monday night, she let me fuck her and come in one of those purely functional ways – she waiting patiently with her top still on, me fucking like a naked mad rabbit. It had only been, what? A week? So indulgent of her.

In any event, unlike last time when the two squirts took the wind out of my sails for almost a week, this time I felt the stirrings again after about 48-72 hours. I measure this mostly by my relationship with the device which, typically, was strained immediately after I came but was back to normal by Wednesday-ish. Now I’m in that period of enhanced hornitude that comes about a week after an event and lasts for about a week. Belle’s out of town again starting Monday night, so there may be some sleepless times ahead for me. If she allows me to abuse myself, who knows?

My enhanced state of being was put into sharp relief today as I took care of a few random chores for Belle Fille. I was driving around the city lakes near where we live and, this being the first really nice weekend of the year for us (winter having ended about two weeks ago and not scheduled to return for another six), there were many fine examples of the human form on display for me to ogle lecherously and cause me to squirm uncomfortably in my bucket seat. As a person who admires both genders equally, I had plenty of things to distract me as I drove languorously around the broad circumference of the lake. I am so. FUCKING. Horny.

Aaaand, that’s about it, really. I have little new to report. Just thought I’d drop by and let you know that nobody died or was otherwise preoccupied with excessive navel-gazing. Just us, living our lives like normal people.