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Focus-pocus

Here’s one for you. I can’t remember when my last orgasm was. It was either April 28 or May 2. Maybe Belle will remember. In either event, it’s been a while and I can feel it. [UPDATE: Turns out, she can’t remember, either. Glad it’s so important that neither of us can remember the last time it happened. (Insert little eye-rolling emoticon here)]

Saturday night, I really wanted some action. My daughter had a friend over for a sleep-over so Belle was disinclined to do anything athletic (and didn’t even let me sleep naked). In the past, I might have pressed my luck and gotten annoying. The desire was sitting there, just beneath the surface in the middle of my chest, but I felt very much controlled and calm. She wasn’t being particularly dommy or anything, but nonetheless, I kept my hands to myself. It was a nice feeling, knowing that I really badly wanted to make a move but respecting the line we’ve constructed. I didn’t cross it and was pretty happy with my myself.

But just as we were drifting toward that zone where the lights go out and we go to sleep, she asked for a quick, stealthy orgasm. Of course, I was immediately engaged and, with the help of Pink the vibe, got her off as efficiently as possible. What I liked about that was, since I wasn’t pushing, she had asked for the orgasm purely out of her own indulgent desire. This wasn’t about making me happy or anything. It was all about her wanting a lil’ sumthin’ before going to bed. All I got out of the deal was her thanks and little kiss (which, of course, was A LOT).

Last night, similar situation, except this time I slipped. My hand absentmindedly found her nipple through her shirt and was swirling around it making it stand up. She said she wasn’t in the mood for anything like that and I immediately felt bad – much worse than I really should have. Apparently, I’m only capable of maintaining my subby exterior when actively concentrating on it. I felt a little ashamed and more than little disappointed in myself for slipping in such a small yet egregious way.

After the mishap, I asked her if she was happy. If she liked the arrangement we were living under. If I was doing a good job or if I could, in any way, do a better job. You know, typical submissive angst. She, of course, said everything was great. That I was great. That I was doing a great job, etc. But I know I could do better. I know there are more things I could do for her and that I’m not always as timely in doing the things she’s already put on me. But, she’s very sweet and probably thought I was fishing for compliments or something.

A week or so ago, she told me I wasn’t going to come before Memorial Day. Last night, I asked her how far she thought I could go. While talking about it, she admited to letting me have orgasms in the past when I become difficult to maintain. She recognizes the line where, once crossed, it’s just easier for her to let me squirt than it is to deal with my elevated hormones. Being in that sweet spot at the moment where I can still deal with my hormones but also am approaching the peak of my desire to serve her, I hear that as a failure on my part. At some point (that she’s recognized but I haven’t) my focus slips. Just like my fingers accidentially finding her nipple and touching it in a way they shouldn’t have, I lose a necessary level of control over myself.

In any event, Memorial Day is still two weeks away. Part of me wants her to keep pushing me well into June so I can demonstrate better self-control. I’m in that weird, headspacey placy where I want to be denied, denied, and denied some more. Oh, and locked up. Like, for a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she’s a better judge of these things. I think I’ll just do what I have said I’d do: let go and let her decide.

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Nuts!

Even now, after Belle and I have done so many things with (and to) one another over the past six months or so, I still find it difficult to tell her about some new perversion lurking deep down in my nether-psyche. There’s still a layer of embarrassment mixed with vulnerability mixed with guilt that gets dredged up alongside the revelation. No, there aren’t too many things out there that are actually new (as opposed to variations on already established themes), but even taking something we already do at one level up to the next is hard for me to talk to her about.

While I was on my trip, during the evening I couldn’t sleep, while looking at too much porn and struggling with the fact that I couldn’t relive my surging desire while simultaneously unable to stop building on that desire by looking at the fucking porn, I found myself more and more desperate for some kind of sensation.1 Had I the appropriate tools, I’d have probably gone after my ass since it can provide me with a lot of sensation. But I didn’t have the appropriate tools and nothing at hand I could press into service. All I had was my brain, my hands…and my balls.

In the past, I’ve found pleasure in the sensation of having my balls squeezed and pulled or even stung by Belle’s little flogger. Enough that I could see, through the crack of the door, that there was a larger room back there. A deeper desire for testicular torment. I suppose one could make the argument that enforced chastity is, in itself, a form of extended cock and ball torture, so it’s not much of a stretch to think someone who gets off on that would get off on other forms of CBT.

*smack* *whack* *THWACK* (Yes, it was just like an episode of Batman.)

I started smacking them around. Gently at first, but later with more force. Testicular pain is, as any guy can attest, unique. I’m not aware of any other part of the body being able to generate the same kind of sensation. Plus, it’s form changes as it becomes more intense. Low levels of force create small, localized ripples that can make you jump but are over as soon as they come into being. Ratchet up the force, and you’ll find yourself experiencing pain that reverberates through your whole body. It will radiate out of the testes, flood from head to toe, and quickly coalesce into an aching, cramping pool in the pit of your gut where it lingers. This is not the surface pain of being flogged or spanked. This is interior pain. This is reaching deep inside, to the center of one’s being, and making it hurt.

All the plastic in the area complicated the vector of attack, but also did a good job of keeping the targets together and vulnerably positioned. I found that, even in the middle of a series of steadily building smacks on either side and the resulting waves of pain crashing over me in quick succession, that I wanted it harder, more painful. Each time, after a dozen or so strikes, I’d end with a hit as hard as I could possibly bring myself to use. Then, I’d writhe on the bed, doubled over, holding gently the objects of my torment, and absolutely luxuriating in the sensation. Once the pain had fully retreated, I’d crave it all over again. Really, I craved it. I could not get enough.

I also found a certain amount of psychological interest in doing this. The idea that I would actively inflict pain on the one part of my body I’ve always been conditioned to protect – to exploit the most potent of all a man’s physical vulnerabilities – was incredibly stimulating. I was pushing myself to find my limit, to hit my most delicate body parts harder and harder each time. I’m not sure I found that limit. Each time I ended with a harder smack than the last time (and suffered through the resulting torment), but never found one that went too far, that hurt too much. In way, it was kind of scary.2

Eventually, I had to stop. The abuse had left my balls swollen, flushed with color, and aching. They ached all the next day, but not in a way that made me sorry I had done it. On the contrary, the lingering pain left me desirous of the time I’d be able to do it all over again.

And that led me to last night when I finally found the intestinal fortitude to tell Belle that I wanted her to hit my balls. I felt very vulnerable and even embarrassed. She took it in stride, though, and did her best to make me feel at ease for telling her. But then I went further and told her I was also fixated on crushing them using a physical device (like maybe this, or that – but don’t even get me started on this admittedly non-crushing yet still deliciously evil thing *swoon*).

At this, she balked. Belle’s got this thing about bringing objects into the mix of our sex (which is hard to avoid when playing with BDSM). She continues to deal with it to this day. I don’t think she’s entirely comfortable with the cuffs and straps, etc., involved in bondage and flogging. She’s resisted the introduction of a strap-on for me to use on her saying she prefers the real thing (which is sweet) even though she’s never had a high quality dildo inside her and certainly not while it was strapped to my bucking hips. She hardly ever even puts me in my collar.3

Also, there was a tone in her voice that she meant to be playful, but I heard as bordering on teasing or mocking. Not only didn’t she want to add any more accoutrement to our portfolio, but she seemed a little squicked-out by the whole crushing thing. That sent me into an immediate subby tailspin. I closed my eyes, unable to look at her.

Luckily, we worked it out. As usual, “working it out” means I gave in. Hitting, slapping, punching the testes is OK, crushing them will not happen. I have to admit that I’m not sure how I’ll approach the next revelation regarding my ever-evolving perversions. I know I need to communicate and tell her what I’m thinking and what I want, but I still fear being judged by her. It’s still very hard to unearth and expose these things that have always festered secretly inside me. I can’t say this experience helped me get past that issue, but I’m sure it was the right thing to do and a step in the right direction.

I don’t know. As long as she occasionally punches me in the balls, I’m sure it’ll all work out for the best.

—

1 Desperately seeking an alternative to orgasmic release is, for me, one of the signature components of denial. It’s what leads me to find sexual satisfaction in her orgasms and powers my desire to serve her. It also leads me to try or imagine things I wouldn’t have otherwise. ↩

2 I know, I know. This is potentially dangerous stuff. Don’t worry, I have a pretty good resource and am aware of the potential issues. ↩

3 All that said, she sure does like her vibrator, doesn’t she? 😉 ↩

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Going down

Earlier, in the kitchen, I was kissing Belle in that endearing, pathetically horny way I have when I whispered that I needed to do something for her tonight. Mind you, I wasn’t asking for sex because I’m not allowed to do that. Rather, I simply had the urge to service her in a direct way (as opposed to the indirect ways around the house, etc.)

Once in bed, she told me she was going to let me rub her feet with lotion, but that I had to take my clothes off first since it was much hotter for her that way (and, you know, I hate being naked around her). I got the lotion, dropped trou, and straddled her legs to get better leverage. I try to go about about 10 minutes per foot and found that half way through the first one that I was getting a light sheen of sweat all over my body from the effort. She commented on it. I’m sure I was glistening well in the candlelight.

Once the feet were soft and rubbed, I wiped the sweat from my forehead and rejoined her at the head of the bed (though, I’m careful to be lower in the bed than she is so I’m always looking up and she’s always looking down). I then received the very happy news that she was going to let me give her an orgasm. Normally, I’d ask how she wanted it, but I really wanted to go down on her so I neglected to request direction. That’s possibly a violation of the spirit of our Covenant (going for what I wanted sexually) and she can punish me for it once she reads this if she wants, but it turned out pretty well for both of us.

I warmed her up a bit in the usual manner with my hands in her snatch and my mouth on her nipples before diving in. Half the pleasure of going down there is to bask in her scent. The denial amplifies the phermonal effects (or something). Even as I write this, I can still smell it on my face and hands and it’s wonderful. There’s something very primal about rutting around in your mate’s scent. I feel marked.

Anyway, I was lapping her up and sucking on her clit while fingering her and really having a good time. However, I sensed somehow that it wasn’t really heading in the direction she wanted. Not sure what that’s about, but I’m so attuned to her sexual pleasure now, I think I just picked up on a vibe or something. I assumed a more typical approach (mouth on nipples, fingers in snatch) which seemed to be having a more salutary effect when I heard those magic words every locked ‘n denied boy both craves and fears:

“Get the key.”

No questions, no delay, I hopped right up and got her key. She unlocked me, then pushed me gently onto my back. The tube was difficult to get off since the cock was semihard, but not hard enough to penetrate her. She stroked her property for a few seconds (in and of itself, sheer heaven) before mounting me. I tried like hell to focus all my attention on her tits while she rode up and down on the cock. I really really really didn’t want to come accidentally. I could tell by her manner that this wasn’t going to be one of those mutually satisfying occasions.

Happily, she came well while I was able to keep my own climax at bay. While she laid on top of me, basking, I flexed the cock, half in and half out, and generally enjoyed what I could in the few moments of wet pussy time I had left. As she rolled off, the cock plopped out and sprang up, fully and (now uselessly) erect. She redressed herself and got up to use the bathroom leaving the hard cock and I alone in the same room together.

I assumed she wanted me back in the device (since it’s normally my job to put the sex toys away when she’s done with them) but she told me to leave it out for the night and to clean it up in the morning before putting it away. Then she rolled over and went to sleep, but not before I thanked her for the opportunity to service her and the free night.

Unfortunately, the cock flopping around has left me distracted and unable to go to sleep. Hence this post. She’s been asleep for hours but I’m wide awake being kept company by my restless, unfettered little friend.

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Cock shots

In the spirit of my recent rant about dudes posting shots of their cocks locked in CB-x000 devices, I offer you, my faithful readers, the following.

cock_shots

Unfortunately, I don’t have the guts to post these shots sans pants (unlike Tom, nobody’s asked me to anyway). In the least, I imagine they can be used as educational examples of how one looks while packing plastic. The one on the left was taken during my flight home yesterday and the one of the right today while sitting in a four hour meeting (in both cases, I was discrete – nobody saw me take them).

What do you think? A little obvious?

As I’ve posted before, I’ve kinda gotten over worrying if people notice my queer bulge. I’m not going out of my way to show it off, but as you can see, there’s only so much I can do hide it. I’ve tried aligning it with the center seam of my pants, but that looks just as weird since the tip of the CB6K’s tube is somewhat pointed and the seam will usually fit right into the tube’s slot. Nice thing about our sex averse society is no one’s likely to ask me about it even if they do think there’s something weird going on down there.

Quick update on the hair management front: I can report after four days that I have none of the usual issues with skin irritation and pain around the A ring and no razor burn or other issues due to shaving. I’m being very careful to lubricate my skin before removing the stubble each morning and have found much of what I used to assume was skin getting pinched in the seams of the A ring was actually hair getting stuck and pulled. This may be the most comfortable I’ve been while in the device so far, even after days like today when I was sitting at various conference tables pretty much nonstop all day. Color me very happy with my Friar Tuck pube-do.

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Sleepless (again)

For the third time since beginning our program of my prolonged orgasmic denial, I went an entire night with little or no sleep. I’m beginning to think this will happen every time Belle and I are apart since the other two times I was alone, just like last night.

The formula looks a little like this: First, mix in two parts heightened hormonal level. Then, add one part hours of continuous porn consumption (my need for which is driven by three things: a) I’m a guy, and b) I’m fucking horny, and c) Did I mention I’m a guy?). Shake (don’t stir), then remove all my clothes and put me in bed. My imagination and the concomitant swell and release sensations that emanate from the tube are enough to keep me going pretty much all night.

Besides all that, three other events conspired to keep me restless:

  • At 11:15, housekeeping knocked on my door. I had been asleep immediately prior to this for less than an hour, but awoke with a start and a slight amount of viscous fluid on my thigh. If that was a wet dream, it may have been the first of my life (and absent any dream). Anyway, the housekeeping guy. He was there to deliver a new remote for the TV I didn’t ask for.
  • At 1:30, I heard the sound of a very drunk girl trying to open my door with her key. She didn’t seem to understand what the problem was, so she put the key in the slot and jiggled the doorknob about 500 times (I assume just to make sure she was doing it right). Her male companion (who sounded much less inebriated) suggested maybe she had the wrong room.
  • Approximately 20 minutes after the attempted break-in, I heard the same inebriated woman screaming at the top of her voice, “FUCK ME! FUCK ME! OH, GOD, FUUUUUUCK MEEEEE!!!” No lie. I’m laying there, horn-dogged to the hilt, and there’s a fucking porno shoot going on next door. So, I did what anyone else in my situation would do. I put a pillow over my head and tried to go to sleep. I went over to the adjoining passage door, dropped to the floor so I could hear better, and listened to the “FUCKING STUD” slam the hell out of the poor drunk girl. At one point, I thought they were done, as the screaming had stopped and there was general rustling around, so I went back to bed, but moments later FUCKING STUD was back at it and she was taking the Lord’s name in serious vain. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, FUUUUUUUCK MEEEE!!” Then I heard him grunt a few times and knew, now they were done. Of course, I was wondering if he gave her an orgasm first. Pretty sure he didn’t based on the tone of her slurred speech and what I think was an offer to come back to bed. I actually feel pretty sorry for her because the FUCKING STUD was gone less than ten minutes after he came.
  • About 20 minutes after all that, I heard the drunk girl throw up. Hopefully, in her toilet.

So here’s the funny bit. I met that girl at lunch. She was at the same table I was. I know this because, while he was busy making small talk and trying to get his clothes back on as quickly as possible, they were discussing the company she works for (the only person from that company at this event). So yeah, I met her, but couldn’t remember what she looked like other than she was blondish and OK looking. If she had been really hot, I would have totally remembered and been able to retroactively fill in the images to the porno soundtrack I had, but no dice.

So now, I have to speak to a couple hundred people and do some kind of video interview thingy and travel home all on about 45 minutes of fitful sleep.

Super.

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Active denial

Can’t sleep. Gee, wonder why. Maybe it’s because I sat in my room for hours looking at and reading porn without the ability to do anything about it. *sigh*

How’s it going in there, little dude? Cramped? No answer.

Anyway, since I’m not going to be sleeping any time soon, I thought I’d take a moment to define a term I’ve used several times here and with Belle. A term I’ve defined for her in person, but never in writing (at least, I don’t think I have).

To me, “active denial” is when she’s not letting me come but is doing all she reasonably can to ensure I’m as horny as possible as often as possible. This can be accomplished in several ways. If I’m really around the bend, simply letting me rub her feet can do it. Obviously, any time she lets me sexually pleasure her does the trick. Giving me a list of tasks to perform while she watches with her glass of wine on the couch can be good, too. These are the sort of “passive” ways she can actively deny me. The other ways would be to touch, tease, torture, or otherwise abuse my body. These can be doubled up like when she rides her cock to orgasm but doesn’t let me follow. That’s a twofer since I know how much she likes her cock and I get to feel her climax with my whole body, but I’m left hard and wanting when it’s over. In fact, any time I get to curl into her at bedtime with a hard, fat erection while she drifts off to sleep is good stuff. The other thing she can do to “actively” deny me is to simply talk to me. To tell me things like how horny I must be and how unfortunate it is that nothing’s going to be done about that. Or how hot it makes her seeing me perform household tasks driven by my deprived state’s desire to make her happy.

It does seem to be something of an oxymoron (how can you actively not do something?), but to me, it’s the opposite of just denying me access to any kind of sexual engagement. Locking me up and then not keeping me on edge and horny would be cruel. Locking me up while keeping the arousal stoked and glowing is the nicest thing she could ever do for me and makes being locked up not just bearable, but also enjoyable.

Well, that didn’t eat up as much time as I thought it would. Damn.

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Both sides

A cool post over on Outside Vanilla that is rare in that it contains both sides of the conversation. The original post, by MyKey (the denied dude), and a comment by who I can only assume is his female dominant, Sandy.

From MyKey:

If I didnt *really* enjoy it on some level she would not be doing it this way. But she knows full well that its a love hate thing, I do want to cum, I do hate the riding crop, and yet she will push these things further than I would go, for her own enjoyment. And that makes it so much hotter for me, her kink feeds my kink, her dominance feeds my submission…

And from Sandy:

It’s just so much fun, but it really is that much fun because of the feedback and connection it gives us. I’m not sure if this part of me is here to stay, but I already know it would be very difficult to go back to a more equal relationship.

Go read the whole post. Not only is it cool to see both sides of the coin, it’s also more than a little hot.

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Hair

poster2One of the things that bugs me about the CB-6000 is the joints between the ring parts and how they very neatly grab and pull pubic hair. I find myself sitting a lot in my job and, depending on how tight my underwear or pants are, my pubes will get caught and pulled hard enough to hurt like fuck but not hard enough to actually pull them out (which is good, I guess).

Debate on this subject is varied. Maymay says trim, don’t shave. I’ve also read on Aarkey’s FAQ that some prefer to keep it long. I can’t stand long, untrimmed pubes, so that’s out. Normally, I keep them about as long as Maymay suggests (around a centimeter), but that’s how I’m also finding myself getting caught. So, for this stint in the device, I decided to NOT follow Maymay’s advice and try a method I’ve seen a few men use via their obligatory online chastity shots.1

Basically, what I’ve done is shave an area about an inch wide all the way around the ring of the CB6K. I didn’t really start out going for an inch, but I kept trying to make it even and eventually just found myself there (yet another piece of advice from Seinfeld that I ignored). After a whole day in grown-up pants and my tightest underwear, I can report that I had NO discomfort around the top part of the ring at all. Normally, I’d be pretty sore up there and even red and irritated, but not today. Smooth as a baby’s butt and no pulling. I’ll have to see how it goes as it starts to grow out. Maymay warns of irritation as the ring interacts with the new hair and the shaving necessary to maintain it. If it all goes horribly wrong, I’ll come back here and tell you all about it.

Regardless, I’m not letting my pubes get bushy, I don’t care how bad it hurts when packing the plastic.

1 BTW, WTF is up with that? Does every guy in chastity think I or anyone wants to see yet another goddamned schlong locked up in a CB-x000? Seriously, the web is littered with these things. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all (but I do award bonus points for the guys in pink lacy underwear, stockings, or any type of French maid’s dress). And, oh by the way, I see one every fucking day on me. And yeah, I know, I use a variation on the theme up there in this site’s header, but the composition is very different. Personally, I’d much rather see guys in full belts or steel trapped-ball devices or anything exotic and stainless over one more pink sausage squished into a polycarbonate tube. Then again, had they not posted those shots I’d never had seen their hair management technique. So yeah, OK. Shutting up.

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000667

I’m on my business trip. The one that will keep me from home for three days. Belle had previously said she wanted me locked up while I was away, but she neglected to specifically order me into the device this morning before she left. I seriously considered not putting it on for a while. It would be so much easier, I thought, to sit in a plane for a few hours and get up and speak in front of hundreds of people if I didn’t have a fucking plastic tube locked on me. Since she hadn’t said to put it on, maybe she had a change of heart.

travel2_export
Inmate 000667 in solitary confinement

I knew what she wanted, though. I also knew, considering my porn/masturbation habits while in bland corporate hotel rooms, that I’d minimally be edging myself pretty much nonstop. I also knew that eventually my hormone-addled brain would find a way to sabotage my best intentions and I’d find myself covered in hot, pungent spunk. So I put myself in the device and snapped plastic lock 000667 into place. You can see it there in my mug shot on the right if you want proof (kinda blurry since I took it with my phone).

The thing is, I’m pretty sure I’d have blown it already had I not been locked away. Belle allowed me to bring her to orgasm with the vibrator last night and then let me spend about 10 minutes beating off…I really, really wish I could be doing it again right now.

Before that, Belle and I talked about the “week off” we just went through. It was a full week off since, besides the three orgasms she let me have at the B&B, she also let me come inside her Saturday morning (which I didn’t really expect). Thing is, it wasn’t all that great of a week, from my perspective. Yeah, I liked the spurting, but I actually missed the feelings that come from being denied by Belle. I like the kind of mate I am when I don’t come (either by my own hand or while having sex with her). I’m not as attentive to her needs and my timely contributions to the housework suffers. I’m not an asshole or anything, but I can totally see how I’m different and I don’t really like it.

It’s interesting to me how simple it is to fuck with millions of years of evolutionary programming. My inclination, when having “normal” levels of sexual release, is to be more self-interested and less aware of her and her needs. In the past, my interest in courting her was directly related to how badly I wanted in her pants. But it was always fleeting. Once I got what I wanted, things would go back to normal which all too often meant she carried too much of the household load and my interest in TV was greater than my interest in her. I am not unique. I suspect that the vast majority of men are like I was. To reverse all that behavior, all it takes is to move control over my sexual release to her. That simple little thing, and I’m all about her all of the time, constantly looking for ways to make her happy, which in turn, makes me happy. Happier than I am when I can come whenever I want.

The change in me is so profound, I’m sure it leads her to question a few things (at least it raises questions for me). Like why should she have to do this to make me a better mate? After considering it for a while, I think all we’re doing is exploiting how the male brain works. We’re basically tricking my brain into engaging a prolonged and heightened “courtship mode” – not unlike how it was operating at the very beginning of our relationship – by withholding its ability to do the one thing reptilian male brains were programmed to do: spread the seed. So it’s still me, still my feelings about her at work, but amplified. At the end of the day, I don’t ever want Belle to feel guilty for denying me. I don’t want her to feel as though she’s being unfair or mean to me. As I said, I like how it feels. Perversely, the more she lets me pleasure her while I’m denied, the closer I get to her. If she let me fuck her to orgasm five times a week, I’d find it easier to drift away from her. That’s irony.

Personally, I think we’ve stumbled upon the secret to a happy relationship. I think everyone should be doing it.