From an ad in today’s New York Times:
Out for the weekend
Saturday morning, Belle says to me, “We’re going to have sex in a few minutes after I have a little more coffee.”
“And what do you mean when you say ‘sex’?” At that point, I was wearing a chastity device still brimming with morning enthusiasm.
“The normal kind. I’m going to unlock you because I want to have my cock.”
“OK,” I replied. Sounds good to me, I thought.
“How do you feel about that?” she asked. I guess we’re still in communication mode following last weekend’s issues.
“I’m fine with it. Do you want me to come?”
“It doesn’t matter to me if you come.”
Silence.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means, given a choice, I’d rather you have a point of view on the matter. Even if you don’t, I’d like you to say you do. It doesn’t really work for me if you don’t care one way or the other.”
We’ve had this conversation before, but apparently she forgot. She decided I would not get to come. I offered to go clean up from my week or so’s imprisonment and she got the key while I pulled down the covers and exposed the device. She fiddled with it.
“It won’t go in,” she said.
“What do you mean it won’t go in?”
“The key. It won’t go in.”
“Are they the right keys?”
“They’re the only little keys I have.”
“Here, let me try,” I offered.
I took the little key and lined it up with the keyhole. It wouldn’t go in. I turned the key around. No dice. They were the right keys, but for some reason, they weren’t fitting into the lock. A mild wave of panic came over me.
I tried forcing the key, but it’s just a little wisp of a thing and I was afraid of breaking it in the keyhole. After some consistent pressure, it slowly slid into place and, begrudgingly, turned. The lock popped open. The little brass lock with the sharp edges – the lock that originally came with the CB6K – had corroded.
With the lock open, I went and removed all the polycarbonate from her cock, cleaned it up, and shaved off the stray little hairs I couldn’t get to with the device in place. I walked back into her bedroom.
“Wow,” she laughed, “it looks so different like that!”
She wanted “normal” sex meaning I got on top and fucked her. I spent some time working her with my fingers hoping to get the ball rolling a little before I was expected to give her an orgasm with the cock that wasn’t allowed to come. She was good and wet by the time I put the cock in her, but I kept my mind on other things and my tongue on her nipples, trying not to hear the sounds of ecstasy she was making as I stroked in and out of her. As I pondered the Dodger’s playoff chances and whether or not it would be better for them to be playing as the division leaders or from the wild card spot, I noticed her breathing and sounds of pleasure begin to indicate she was getting closer to our objective.
“Deep, Thumper!” she yelled, “Deeper!”
Obediently, I fucked her more deeply, driving the cock all the way in as far as I could. Her approaching orgasm was the freight train while mine was the little roadster racing for the railroad crossing. Either she was going to cross first, sending me smashing into oblivion, or I’d get there first and sneak one in right in front of her. I was rooting for her.
She started to come and, as soon as I knew she was well over the falls, stopped all motion hoping and holding my breath against the orgasm I knew was astonishingly close. Regardless, I felt the cock start to pump its payload into her, but without the motion, missed the full sensation of a normal orgasm. Laying next to her afterward, I felt myself somewhere in between a real orgasm and a ruined one. I sort of half came.
A little while later, I was at my workbench putting several drops of 3-In-One into the keyhole. When it leaked back out, it was brown with rust. I put more oil in it and worked the lock until it felt smooth and easy. That oil came back out clear.
The rest of the day found us shopping, going to a movie and then to dinner, enjoying our time without kids (they’re with the in-laws all week up north). Our plan was to watch another movie at home, but soon after we got in the house, she informed me we were going to have sex again.
In bed and naked, I started to rub my face against her body through her pajamas. I worked my way down until my face was between her legs, kissing and biting with my lips the soft warmth of her pussy behind the thin fabric. I buried my nose in her, deeply inhaling her essence and felt the cock harder than it had been in a long time. I pulled her bottoms down and started to devour her, licking and sucking at her clit, rubbing my nose and face in her juices. I may have “half come” earlier in the day, but it had done little to lessen my arousal.
I changed my position so that I could reach up with both hands and play with her nipples, leaving my face deeply planted in her snatch and the hard cock grinding into the mattress. I was hungry for her pussy and it, apparently, was hungry for my tongue as her hips were bucking and her juices were flowing freely, running down my chin. Her eventual orgasm seemed much more powerful than the one from the morning and she clamped onto my head with her thigh muscles, forcing my nose and mouth into her and cutting off my oxygen. She was coming hard, so I kept my tongue in motion as her legs painfully pressed against the sides of my head.
I couldn’t breath, my tongue was cramping in effort, and sharp pains were shooting through my jaws as she squeezed me, but the orgasm was remarkable. I could feel it. Its energy radiated out of her pussy and into me, filling every corner of my body with its power. Her orgasm was our orgasm, and it felt deeply satisfying.
She finally released me and I laid with my head on her inner thigh, face still close to her pussy, panting and feeling her orgasm ringing within me. This feeling of attachment to her pleasure is one of the most satisfying side-effects of orgasm denial. Somehow, her sexual satisfaction can transfer to me leaving me feeling a kind of post-orgasmic high, though doing nothing to diminish my arousal.
I moved back up towards her face wanting to be closer while we basked in the afterglow. I was careful to move the cock so it pointed down and lay against her labia instead of accidentally entering her. After a few moments, she told me I could go inside her, though not come, of course. I hadn’t expected this and wasn’t prepared. The cock was already losing its stiffness in the aftermath of the orgasm she had just had, but I ran its head up and down her outer lips and it was ready for action after just a few seconds.
And then I fucked her. I fucked her and fucked her. Like an animal. All there was in the entire world was her pussy and the cock that was plowing it and I wanted to keep doing it forever. I started to grunt with every downstroke and felt myself nearly get lost in the action. A thin tendril of control was all I had to pull myself back from the edge, just a few strokes short of orgasm. I slowed, but tried not to stop. I felt the orgasm retreat, but not my desire to fuck her into a quivering puddle. The driving male need to fuck fought with me. I withdrew from her, placing me face against her stomach, and I felt the power of my desire buckle under the weight of her absolute control. The animal within howled in protest and I moved back up, trying to get back inside her.
“That’s all you get, Thumper,” she said. From deep inside, I started a low, long moan of anguish. Not in protest of her decision, but from the agony of my internal conflict. I would not feel her heat wrap around me again.
Later, I laid with my face against her chest and fell asleep with remarkable ease. Happy, horny, and satisfied.
Lippy rabbit
Sometimes, I forget why I’m doing this.
Tonight, Belle got home later than usual following another happy hour. They seem to have at least one a week where she works. No big deal for me since the kids are off with the in-laws for a whole week. I worked out, showered, and then started watching TV waiting for her to get home. She pulled into the garage at about 9:30.
In general, I’m pretty excited about this week alone since we should get plenty of personal time together. I’ve been locked up for eight of the last nine days and haven’t come since Saturday. Not a huge period of denial by any stretch of the imagination, but tonight I’m particularly pretty horny what with the “adults only” vibe and the slowly building hormone levels. Typically, she comes home from these happy hours in a pretty good mood and she’ll let me pleasure her. When she finally got home tonight, I was horny and expecting some action.
She wasn’t thinking the same way. She snuggled up against me and we watched some TV together but I was jumpy with desire. I felt down around the opening of the CB6K’s tube and found it slick with precum. I was dripping with anticipation and all she was doing was stroking my ribs while she watch Everybody Loves Raymond. Once Ray was over, I started in with my nuzzly, kissy stuff hoping to coax her into something, but she as already getting sleepy. At least she recognized my state.
“I like it when you’re like this,” she said, “Right here on the edge. I’m going to leave you there tonight.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked hopefully.
“You can rub my feet.”
“Is that all you want rubbed?”
And then we exchanged words regarding my poor attitude. She was right. In retrospect, I acknowledge I was being lippy. She actually raised her voice with me and then accused me of being defensive. I probably was being that way. I shouldn’t have been. But god, I’m so horny.
I rubbed her feet with the lotion and, as I expected, she fell asleep half way through. I felt disappointment. I felt a little resentment (we haven’t had sex since Sunday). I was kinda mad at her. Oh, and I felt very horny.
Then I remembered what she said. I like it when you’re like this. I was so interested in getting her to let me get her off that the words rolled right off me. I was thinking too much about my own needs again. I laid there and pondered my predicament as I fingered the little brass lock with the sharp edges. She was asleep, feet massaged, perfectly content while I laid next to her, horny as hell, cock locked in plastic, wide awake and buzzing. And she likes it when I’m like this. Warm pulses of energy filled my chest as I lowered into my submission. If only I had been focusing less on my own desire and more on hers, I could have felt that earlier with her. She was holding up her part of the deal while I was being selfish and petulant.
I can do better than that.
HNThumper VI
The new lock, doing its thing.
You can also see the growing cracks on the CB6K. Gonna have to do something about that pretty soon..
Previous HNThumpers here. Read all about Half-Nekkid Thursday over at Osbasso’s
Chastity fetishist?
Reader Jane Docent asked this in a comment to my post We Talk:
More to the point – are you kinky? Or have you fetishized this one element of arousal – enforced chastity?
While I’m pretty sure I know the answer to her question, I did stop and think about it for a second. And then a few more.
The Random House Dictionary describes kinky this way:
Marked by unconventional sexual preferences or behavior, as fetishism, sadomasochism, or the like.
While the American Heritage Dictionary says this:
Showing or appealing to bizarre or deviant tastes, especially of a sexual or erotic nature
So, according to Random House, even if I was just a fetishist, I would still be kinky. Either way, I feel very comfortable identifying as kinky. My sexual tastes are “unconventional” and, IMO, “bizarre or deviant”. Way. But, more importantly, have I developed a fetish over enforced chastity devices?
To be sure, enforced chastity turns me the fuck on and my interest in its implements is extensive. I’m pretty sure I’ve looked at the websites of all the commercially available devices (some dozens of times) and would love to have any number of them locked onto me by Belle (with a special proclivity towards the stainless steel variety). But, the operative part of that statement is “locked onto me by Belle”. More than the device, I kink on the power exchange. The device neatly dovetails into other kinks and interests (CBT, bondage, masochism, gadgets), but I also obsess over things like this and that and the other which have nothing at all to do with enforced chastity but do have a lot to do with my other kinks.
The reason enforced chastity and the device gets so much play here, I think, is because, of all my sexual perversions, power exchange is the one we engage in the most. For whatever reason, I don’t find myself tied up and beaten very often, but she can deny me orgasm several times a week and leave me locked up for weeks and weeks. All of that energy and desire gets channeled into orgasm denial, enforced chastity, and – ultimately – the device itself.
Twice on Sunday
Sunday morning I woke up very eager to please Belle and told her as much.
“I want to make love to you,” I said.
“How are you going to do that? I wasn’t going to let you out today.”
“We don’t need that to make love.”
“But what are we going to do?” she asked.
“Have sex. You know, the kind of sex we have now. The kind that doesn’t require the cock. There are so many options…” I trailed off as I planted sweet little kisses along her jaw and neck.
“Hmm. That’s confusing to me,” she said, “We need to call it something else. You can’t make love to me when you’re locked-up.”
“OK, how about saying I just want to make you come?”
“I’m good with that,” she said.
My thinking with regard to calling it “making love” versus just saying “making you come” was to help close the divide between what she likes and what I want from sex. For me, when she lets me pleasure her, it’s every bit as meaningful as when she lets me fuck her (whether or not I come), but I think in her mind, those acts are very different (one perfunctory and one-sided, the other romantic and inclusive). I’d like her to start equating all of our sexual encounters as acts of love making because that’s how they feel to me, even the ones where I’m left throbbing and frustrated. Guess I’ll keep working on that.
“Why do you want this?” she asked. I assume this question stemmed from of our recent bout of communication.
“Because I’m horny,” I admitted. “I’m horny and need to feel you come. You come for both of us now. And, of course, I want you to feel pleasure. And I need to feel you feeling it.”
I suppose a really good submissive would have led with the second part of that, but I just said the first thing that came to mind. I was on her because I was horny and wanted to feel the release of our (her) orgasm. Even if we were having “normal” sex, I’d still be initiating because I was horny and wanted to fuck her, right?
“OK,” she said, “Close the door.”
—
Sunday night, I rubbed her feet while watching the Mad Men premiere. When it was over and the TV was off, I started kissing her again. Not sure what I expected to happen since she had just come that morning, but I like the contact even when it doesn’t end in sex.
“You know,” I said tentatively, “When you leave me locked-up – when you deny me for a long time – I feel more cared for than when you don’t. It makes me feel loved.”
“Really? That’s an odd thing to say.”
“Well, I know it’s harder for you to deal with me with I’m like this, so when you do it you’re demonstrating the willingness to maintain me. I like how that feels. Like I said, it makes me feel loved. Special.”
We then had a brief exchange where she accused me of previously saying it wasn’t harder for her when I’m locked up, but, as I wrote here on Saturday, I totally acknowledge the extra effort it requires. Since we never got a chance to talk about it, I was never able to clarify my position on that. I think that helps explain my negative reaction to what happened later that night…but I’ve already covered that ground.
In any event, I was distracted by some part of her and just enjoying the access (even though it was through her pajamas) until she tapped me on the head with something hard. It was Pink, her favorite vibe.
“Do you want me to use that on you?” I asked hopefully.
“No,” she said, “You’re fine where you are.” She slide the vibe into her pajama bottoms and I heard its low thrum as she clicked it on.
“Do you want me to do…anything?”
“Nope. I’m good.” I could feel the vibrations radiate through her and into the mattress.
When she was done, she reassured me that the solo action wasn’t the result of anything I had done wrong. She wasn’t punishing me. It was just how she wanted it.
“You know if you could, you’d do the same thing yourself. Sometimes, that’s what I want, too,” she explained.
What I find remarkable about this is the old Belle Fille (the one married to the old Thumper – the ones who hardly ever had sex) would have never masturbated in front of me, let alone do so with no expectation that I’d have any role or reciprocal attention. It was what she wanted, pure and simple. I was not necessary and, due to her growing sexual confidence, felt no guilt with regard to my frustration whatsoever.
I think that’s beautiful.
We talk
“Why do you do that? Why do you always go there? Saying we need to just chuck the whole thing whenever we hit a bump?”
She was referring to this comment from my previous post:
This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on.
I’d say I don’t always go there, but I have, on occasion, suggested we should end our experiment in D/s. For me, whenever I come to doubt that she’s getting anything out of what we do, a complex series of things spring up.
First, I fear that she’s sacrificing her own sexuality in order to serve mine. Nothing else would be more appalling to me. This is not to say I don’t think she should ever do something just because it pleases me. Hardly. That give and take is the foundation of any relationship, sexual or otherwise. However, the idea that she would wholly subsume her sexual identity under the weight of mine is something I’ve feared multiple times. If that were ever to be the case, that her control was merely a construct formed by her desire to see me happy, the entire thing would come crashing down. Her desire for control must be authentically hers.
Second, I immediately start to feel guilt over the ridiculously complicated nature of my sexuality. Why should it all be so fucking hard? Why can’t I be like the other boys? She doesn’t need any more complexity in her life and I feel that I’m only becoming more complicated as we go along, introducing new “rules” and concepts she needs to keep in mind. Sex should be fundamentally easy, shouldn’t it? Sex with me, at least from her perspective, is anything but.
Third, I feel shame. I am ashamed at the things I want from her. My desire to be controlled, to be bound, to be hurt. She’s a nice Catholic girl and I’m nothing more than a perverted deviant (and a heathen to boot) bringing implements of bondage, floggers, and other apparatus into the bedroom. I want her to do unspeakable things to me. Things that are fundamentally not within her nature. I’m a freak.
Fourth, there’s that fundamental difference between us sexually. She wants sex to be spontaneously conducted upon soft, down-filled bedding on bright, sunny Spring mornings with the sounds of birds outside and the scent of lavender on the cool breeze. I want it to be done in the dark, by candlelight, with black leather and stainless steel. I want pain and domination and inequity. Nothing about what I like is spontaneous. We are from polar-opposite regions. I fear she never gets what she really wants in a sexual encounter (think Jane Austen) because she’s always catering to my fetid desires (think Marilyn Manson).
We discussed all this. We will work on all this, especially trying to find ways in which her idealized sexual experience can be combined with mine. She doesn’t want me to feel shame, though I still do. We both feel guilt. We both worry about disappointing the other.
Specifically regarding last night’s encounter, I found myself saying something unexpected. I accused her of being selfish. She was stressed and our sex life was only adding to that angst, so she pulled the plug on it. Not only had she released me, she ended my denial. Capriciously, I thought, since her orgasm was already attended to and didn’t require me to be released. I said I thought that was selfish because I was in a really good place at the time. I was thrilled. The issues were hers and we should have talked them though instead of her, under the guise of being in control, unilaterally acting. It’s was hard for me to say that to her because I’m generally predisposed to accepting her control and serving her selfishness and generally being submissive, but I thought the way in which she acted last night was above and beyond all that. She was actively trying to kill the dynamic, at least for a little while. I had no desire for it to end. Certainly, there must have been another way that would have preserved what we each needed.
Beyond that, she struggles (continuously) with the need to satisfy. That my satisfaction comes, in part, from being unsatisfied is very difficult for her. She also draws a line to my sexual dissatisfaction and my infidelity. In fact, it was my dissatisfaction with her general apathy towards sex that sent me away, not with the sex we were having. In any event, she says she fears that we’ll end up there again. I can’t imagine that now. Sex before didn’t exist between us. Now, it’s front and center. How we were a year ago and how we are now are totally opposite.
In any event, we need to redefine for her what “satisfaction” means to me and to not confuse it with satiation. I am very satisfied now with being totally unsatiated. We can have that bright and lavender-scented Jane Austen-style sex some Spring morning, but I’ll be happier at the end if I’m left hard and frustrated and grinding into my chastity device as opposed to spewing my seed into her. We can both be happy as long as we accept new, flexible definitions of “happy”. She may I think I secretly want to come all over her. In fact, I want to want to come, but not actually do it.
And seriously, I don’t want to come. If, in the course of her fucking me because that’s what she wants, I happen to come because I can’t control myself, then so be it. I only hope she takes the opportunity to tease me about it (hopefully with punishment). However, and for the foreseeable future, I’d rather be left wanting it rather than having it. If she wants to torture me with forced orgasm – to rip it from me against my will – then fine, I guess. That can be hot. But that’s not what last night was about. That was about the opposite.
I have more that I could say, but the conversation was very emotional. I cried very hard a couple of times, and she cried too. I’m feeling a little wiped by the whole thing and sort of puffy-faced. In the end, of course, we didn’t decide to end our experiment. We talked our way through and will keep trying to find the right path. We hugged and kissed and cared for one another. It was all very Austen-esque, except when we were done, she locked her cock back up in plastic. That never would have happened to Mr. Darcy.
The unwanted orgasm
“Indefinitely” lasted until about 2:30 this morning. We had had a brief conversation about her comment to my last post where I basically expressed my confusion to her in person, told her I felt as though she had switched her position from the night before and made it sound as though I had put words into her mouth. But we never got to discuss it further – for me to also say I understand the extra effort denying me requires – since the kids needed to be put to bed and she fell asleep in my daughter’s room. I tried waking her a few times, but she wasn’t moving. So the issue was left hanging and I went to bed in a sour mood.
Around 2:15 or so, she was back in bed and on my side, arm over me. I was dead asleep and still conflicted about the strange way the day ended, but my hormones got the better of me and I felt the tube pressurize.
“Are you asleep?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, feeling the thick, hard root of the erection beneath the CB6K’s ring.
“I’m going to unlock you.”
What? “Why?” I asked.
“Because I want to have sex with you.”
Fair enough, but there was a sinking feeling in my chest just the same. She opened and removed the little brass lock and I removed the device. My trepidation had done little to lessen my erection and the sensation of the tube sliding off the hard meat caused me to sharply suck in my breath.
I turned to her, now totally naked, and she said, “And I want you to come.”
The sinking feeling sank faster.
“How do you feel about that?” she asked.
“I don’t want to come,” I replied.
“I’m ordering you to come.”
“It’s only been a week.” Actually, not even a week.
“I know.”
I started to run my hand over her, under her bedclothes, feeling her smooth warmth. But there was a heaviness laying over me. I really, really didn’t want to come.
“You’re in charge,” she continued, “I’m just going to lay here and enjoy it.”
Well, if I’m in charge, then I don’t get to come, is what I was thinking. My hands and mouth went to work. Emotionally, I was feeling very uneasy, but the hormonal sex lizard didn’t really care. The cock was achingly hard and insistently pressing into her leg. But it was not my intention to use it unless she ordered me to.
Her moaning and writhing became more pronounced. “How do you want to come?” I asked, knowing I had her right where I wanted her.
“I don’t know. That feels so good.”
No argument from me. I kept fingering her. Eventually, she came pretty good. No cocks involved.
As she lay there basking, I thought I could get out of the required orgasm I really didn’t want to have. But no. She opened herself to me, silently inviting me to mount her. I lined the head of the cock up to her wet warmth and drove it in. Of course, it felt heavenly.
“Do I have to come?”
“Yes.”
I started to fuck her, but felt myself in a strange in-between space. On the one hand, I was fucking, which was good (really, really good), but on the other, I still really did not want an orgasm. These two parts of me agreed to disagree and her control was the deciding vote. I kept going. Eventually, I came. It felt different. Like it was someone else’s orgasm I was only observing or something. The euphoric wave was missing.
Afterward, she had her arms around me and asked how I felt.
“Like I came.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Her executive coaching skills at work.
I pondered the question but decided 2:30 in the morning was the wrong time to get into it.
“Why did you make me come?”
“Because I wanted to take the edge off.”
“But I like the edge.” It’s kinda the whole point.
And then we drifted off to sleep.
This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on. I feel she released me and ordered me to come last night because the whole thing had suddenly become to much stress for her. We never really talked about what her comment meant, but she knew there was potential complication there based on my initial reaction. In order to avoid that, she pulled the release cord. All the way.
The cultural paradigm of appropriately satisfying sex says what happened last night was all good since we both came. The thing is, though, I find more satisfaction and a greater feeling of love from her when she doesn’t let me come. Telling me to have an orgasm is easy. Making me wait longer – to control it – is hard. She took the easy way out. I suppose I could have put my foot down and refused to come, but really, what’s the point of that? It’s only sexy for me when she’s not letting me do it, when she’s asserting control. It’s entirely empty when I do it to myself. If I had done that and not come after she told me to repeatedly, I would have started crying and everything would have gone to hell. No doubt. I guess, at the end, it came down to two unsatisfactory choices for me. Avoid orgasm and be left with a pyrrhic victory or at least submit to her wishes, even though I didn’t want to.
If her reflexive reaction to this kind of thing is to pull the plug when it gets hard, should we even be doing it? It seems obvious to me she doesn’t really get anything out of leaving me frustrated. She doesn’t seem to be getting any kind of rush from controlling me the way Tom’s Mrs. Edge does in their relationship. She’s just doing it, letting it turn into this thing she starts to worry and stress about. I don’t want that for her. This is supposed to be fun.
I’m sure she feels that giving me an orgasm is a good thing, but I don’t want it. That is, I don’t want it as long as she doesn’t want me to have it. If she really doesn’t care either way and is only humoring me, then I’m investing a lot of emotional energy and enduring a lot of frustration for nothing. Maybe we should ditch this particular kink and find another outlet we can both enjoy fully.
An indefinite period
She’s going to leave me locked up indefinitely. I’m not sure how long “indefinitely” is, but this fact came up last night after more talking (since work’s beat her down lately, that’s about all she had energy for). I was telling her how much more comfortable it makes me to think she likes me locked up. I told her, since she’s not really left me in the thing very much lately, that I figured she wasn’t all that into it and was only humoring me. She reiterated that she does like me in it. A lot.
So why have I not been in it that much? Apparently, she lets me out when there’s other stuff happening around us. For instance, we have relatives over this week. There’s no reason at all that should have any bearing on the status of her cock, but she let me out just before they showed up. Yes, it’s true she also wanted to fuck it, but still. I told her I would be happier if she didn’t worry about how I feel about the device at any given moment. If I’m not squealing (aka, safewording), then all I want her to consider is whether or not she wants me in it. Not whether or not I want to be in it. If she’s thinking about my comfort (or whatever) and I know it (which I do) then I can potentially use that to my advantage and manipulate my status. It’s much, much hotter to think she’s only considering what she wants with regard to the device. Besides, for the vast majority of the day, the device might as well not be there. It gets in the way of practically nothing other than peeing, jacking off, and sex.
Which is not to say she can’t let it out to play if that’s what she wants. This kinda gets to the fact that she doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s locked up. If she wants to fuck it, she should fuck it, then put it back in. If she just wants to tease it, then she should. Getting in and out isn’t that hard. Will I want to go back in? Certainly not if I’ve come, but again, who cares? It’s her cock, it’s her CB6K. If she likes the idea of me being in it, then I should be in it.
So anyway, at some point in this conversation, she said she was going to leave me in it indefinitely. I like the sound of that. I asked her to err on the side of leaving it in there more often since, of course, she likes it that way. If she likes it, then I fucking love it. Recently, my appreciation of enforced chastity has been on low ebb. Suddenly, I find myself more enthusiastic about it than I was when we first bought the CB6K.
*Tried* out a new theme
Back to the old one. Move along, folks. Nothing to see here…