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The most effective chastity device

Over on Tom’s site, Miss Tease (the author of yesterday’s super-hot link) said this in a thread about the CB-6000:

…[T]he CBx000 series provide almost zero protection against masturbation. The vast majority of males seems to be able to pull out their penis of the device even when additional accessories such as points of intrigue are applied. Getting back into the device also does not seem to be a problem using a certain technique incorporating a nylon stocking or pantyhose. A potential solution could be a piercing, but this always bears the risk of migration or being ripped out of the wearer’s skin during physical activity.

Altogther, I would not call a device that can cause significant health problems while not fulfilling its intended purpose adequate. I agree that as a sex toy for beginners, the CBx000 devices make for a hot fantasy, I am just a little disappointed that they are so inadequate as real chastity devices.

While I greatly enjoy Miss Tease’s prose, I have a fundamental issue with her POV regarding chastity devices. What she seems to be looking for is the mythical undefeatable belt (you know, the one those guys are locked into against their will for years and years in all the hawt chastity p0rn). One that will never allow her man access to his wee-wee without her knowledge and frustrate his every attempt get it. I suppose an actual metal belt-type model would do this, but I’ve never seen one that didn’t cost north of $500 (and usually, well north).

For me, there seems to be two ways to cheat at “enforced” chastity. One is slipping out for a quick wank and then slipping back in with hopes no one noticed. The CB-X000’s, unmodified, certainly allow this, as, I suspect, do most of the other “trapped ball” devices out there. The other way to cheat is to physically defeat the device (cutting the lock, etc.). Regardless of the caliber of your device, there is a tool that will break it (and a lot of guys probably already own it). As far as I’m concerned, there’s not a huge difference in either scenario because the commitment to chastity isn’t made at the moment the device is placed on you. You have to bring that with you beforehand.

My best advice for Miss Tease (or anyone else, be they the keyholder or the locked) is to depend on the chastised male’s brain as the ultimate chastity device. The physical representation of the keyholder’s control hangs off your dick. The actual control exists between your ears. All any CB can be is a deterrent. It’s there to help you through moments of weakness or extreme arousal (or maybe even create moments of arousal), but none ever devised can absolutely guarantee denied access.

So, that said, where do I come down on the whole “the best chastised male is the one who doesn’t need a device” argument? Well, as usual, Tom’s got it covered pretty well. As he says, “Some of us just happen to kink on the physical restraint. It’s okay. Really.” That’s why I’m in it. Not because I can’t control myself, but because I like carrying her control around with me. It turns me on.

Which brings me back to Miss Tease (or, more specifically, her boyfriend). He shouldn’t wear it if it’s because he needs it. If he needs it, she’s already lost her control. If he wants it or likes it, bingo. If that’s the case, then she’s already got a lock on his mind and, as everyone knows, that’s the most dangerous sex organ of them all.

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Go read this, part II

Not sure if it’s real or not (or if it really matters, ’cause it’s pretty frickin’ hot), but there’s a new blog called A year of teasing and denial. It’s written from the point of view of a woman supposedly allowing her boyfriend “only” 52 orgasms in 2009. While 52’s starting to seem like a ridiculously indulgent amount, it’s certainly fun to read.

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Three times

Saturday afternoon, we successfully extracted Belle Fille from the regional airport. She’d spent the better part of a full day coming back from the other side of the world and felt like it. We whisked her home and shortly had her soaking in a hot, sudsy bath.

One of my favorite non-sexual ways to service her is to wash her hair. I don’t do it like they do at the salon. For me, getting her hair clean is secondary to the main event which is to massage her scalp, neck and shoulders and spend as much time as possible just touching her. I sit behind so I have full access, but I have to be careful since I have strong hands and she prefers a firm yet gentle touch. In any event, after I had washed and rinsed and had just finished applying the conditioner, I was cradling her head by holding her along the jawline just under her ears. I was experiencing the greatest urge to reach down and touch her naked body. My fingers remembered the feel of her pussy and I knew I could be there in seconds. There was a time when I would have done just that, but I resisted. I resisted even reaching down and touching her breasts which were bobbing there, half covered in bubbles and water. I just sat there, holding her, my head down, and let all these desires resonate within me. I wanted her badly, and she knew it.

“I used Pink three times while I was gone,” she said quietly.

That got my attention. My head snapped up. “What?”

“Three times,” she repeated. “I used Pink three times.”

I had several opportunities to talk to her over the course of her trip and she never said anything about this. She told me how busy and tired and stressed she was so I assumed she never got around to it. Assumed and not surprised. But no! She did. Three times. The realization of this flooded through me. She, of course, has no restrictions against sexual pleasure of any kind. I suffered while she was gone, unable to sleep or think about anything but her, while she was half a world away with a vibe sticking out of her pussy. The searing inequity of our predicaments burned and delighted me.

—

Saturday night, she was finally next to me in bed. Finally, I could turn over and see her there. My former self, feeling what I was feeling, would have been nothing but hard-charging hands, but this new me just laid there, smiling, and taking the occasional kiss.

Her lips. Oh, god, her lips. Knowing as I did that I was not going to archive orgasm that night – indeed, that I wouldn’t even come out of the CB-6000 – everything else about her was amplified in my mind. The touch of her lips on mine was exquisite. The smell of her breath, the taste of her mouth…all of these details that might normally be missed or minimized on the way towards the inevitability conclusion of the past became my entire reason for being there. Her. All of her. And whatever she wanted or needed.

It’s cliche, of course, but life with orgasm denial is about the journey, not the destination. It’s about driving the slower, scenic route instead of the highway or deciding to cross the country via rail instead of jet plane. Slower travel means greater anticipation for the arrival, but it also means taking the time to absorb the dozens of little details from along the way and letting them – the small pleasures – accumulate and outweigh the one that’s big, simple, and selfish. So I smelled her, felt her, tasted her, and loved every fiber of her – all through my lips.

Eventually, she told me to get naked. I did and embraced her fully, feeling her body against mine – finally! – and pressed into her the hard plastic that had become my manhood. We kissed even more passionately and I felt pressure build in the tube. She started to claw me. Driving her nails into the flesh around my groin, raking them across my back, ribs, and ass. Twisting, pulling, and stretching my nipples. Heavenly. Finally, she took firm hold of my trapped scrotum and began to squeeze it hard while chewing on my neck. The flood of sensory input quickly overloaded me and I actually screamed blissful agony into her pillow. She stopped and I collapsed, panting, glowing, warm with her abuse.

After I collected myself, I said, “Funny, I imagined something sweet and gentle on your first night back.”

“Starting now, it will be,” and she pulled up her top.

Cutting to the chase, I don’t think I’ve ever felt her wetter. Using my hands (and wishing they were my mouth), she started to make sounds like she was coming. They went on and on. Minutes ticked by. Eventually, it ended with a flushed, exhausted crescendo.

Hang it from an aircraft carrier, boys: Mission accomplished.

—

Sunday night and I’m making dinner while she sips her wine and reads Denying Thumper at the bar. She hasn’t spent much time looking at all the thousands of words I wrote for her while she was gone. Too busy, she says. Fine, I think. Not that it would have taken much time, but I guess I’d rather be here with her when she sees first sees them. Nervously, I watch her for reaction. Whenever she give little laugh, I ask, “What?” I walk behind her to see where she is. The waiting is killing me.

When she gets the end of the last entry, she’s crying. I’ve moved her. I come around and hold her and kiss her and thank her for being with me, even though I’m annoyingly complicated and high maintenance. She says I’m her favorite person in the word and she isn’t a big fan of simplicity, anyway.

After dinner, I ask to be released for hygiene purposes. We’re in the bathroom and I’ve got my encased unit exposed, waiting for the key, when she pulls my head down by the hair and just looks into my eyes. She’s waiting for something. Ouch. What is it? Oh! I tell her my phrase, the one that reaffirms my purpose and position. She releases my hair and unlocks the device.

“Tonight, you’re going to rub my back and massage my feet and then I’m going to sleep, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After the cleaning, I bring the lock back to her. She likes to be the one to make it click. We’re in our room and she’s got me by the hair again. Quicker on the on uptake this time, I say the magic phrase and she locks me up. Without warning, she has me by the balls. Really, she’s got my poor, stretched balls in her grip and she’s pulling HARD.

“How was the shower?”

I’m processing the question and the pain at the same time. I don’t really answer as much as I utter an incoherent sound.

“How. Was. The. Shower?” SQUEEZE.

“GOOD! It was good, thanks,” and she releases me.

“That’s nice,” as she leaves the room.

Finally, later that evening, after the massaging is over and she’s smelling of scented oil and is all rubbery and relaxed, I ask her about my release schedule. Was she serious about three times in 2009? No, not exactly. Three more times is what she meant.

I will get to come three more times this year.

I shudder at the thought. The chastity tube instantly starts to throb painfully. Three times. For real. I will only have three more orgasms all fucking year. I’m turned on and terrified. Can I do this? I’m babbling and fumbling and scared as hell while trying to process that yes, for real, she’s serious. She will come and come and I will…wait.

“I know you’re always trying to be an over-achiever,” she says, not incorrectly. “This’ll give you something to blog about, won’t it?”

Fucking christ. What have I done?

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Enjoy me

Finally! The last post in the 9-part magnum opus of posts related to the task left to me by my Belle Fille before she left me, high, dry, and horny for a week. The title of this one’s a little weird, but I wanted to keep the the whole “<blank> me” meme I had going. You’ll get the picture.

—

Belle,

Up until now, I’ve pretty much focused on what I want with these posts. The list of desires pent up in the perverted imagination of your sexually deviant spouse is extensive and I wouldn’t blame you if it’s left you spinning and anxious over the numerous things I’m asking you to keep in mind all the time, every time we go to bed.

I won’t bother with the typical prattle about how glorious it is to be a dominant woman with a subbie, servile husband willing to dote on you hand and foot. First of all, you know that’s not the best description of me. To a certain extent, maybe, but not entirely. Also, I know you. It’s really hard for you to let others do things. There’s too much of your mother in you for that. And to suggest that my engagement level with you should be predicated on flooding me with repressed sexual desire is silly. If I can’t be a focused, loving spouse without all the D/s stuff, then the D/s stuff is only there to mask a huge underlying problem (kinda like a men’s room air freshener). In any event, we’ve already had our huge, underlying problem exposed and have gone a long way towards addressing it. Yes, I will be more interested in you in every way. Yes, I will want to do more things for you. I won’t be able to help it. It’s hormonal. I won’t totally discount the value of the extra attention, but I’m not so naive to forget it comes with a cost of additional work on your part to maintain and/or fend off my constant sexual desires.

When I say “enjoy me”, I mean this should be fun. Not just hot and sexy and blood-pumping, but really and truely joyful. You are my best friend. I have never been closer to anyone ever in my life. When it comes to our sex, I don’t want us to get bogged down by all the shit that comes along with it. That shit’s supposed to work for us, not against us. So, don’t ask yourself if you’re being dominate enough. Don’t try to do it “right”. Don’t worry about coming up with words you wouldn’t normally use or try to say them in a manner you’re not comfortable with. Have fun with it. Embrace the silly nature of it all. Joke about it. Don’t think it’ll bother me at all if you do because I fully acknowledge the silly, silly things I’m asking you to do. We make each other laugh in every other aspect of our lives, why not this one, too? And if we get to have a bunch of hot, sweaty sex along way, fan-fucking-tastic.

As I’ve said before, I’m only interested in doing all these things with you. The real you. The you I fell in love with and made babies with and want to spend the rest of my life with. No one else. I don’t want and would never ask you to become someone else to indulge me. Do what you can. Do what you enjoy. The rest will work itself out. We’ll keep talking. We’ll keep adapting.

So with that, I have faithfully completed the task you assigned me. I consider myself very lucky to have a beautiful, caring woman who is willing to accept so much and go so far for me. I deeply appreciate all that you’ve done thus far and all you’ll ever do for me in the future. Never forget that I am, right now, exactly where I want to be. By your side.

Yours in every way,
Thumper

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Quick tip

Here’s a quick tip for all you other neophyte bloggers out there. Wanna draw a bunch of traffic to your site? Just make a post with the title “Fuck me”. Doesn’t matter if you actually want to be fucked (you could talk about strawberry preserves, if you wanted to), all that matters if that you say you do. They’ll be drawn to you like ants at a picnic.

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Fuck me

Here we go again with another one of these posts related to the task my Belle Fille gave me prior to leaving on her trip. I know what you’re asking yourself. Is there anything this guys doesn’t want his wife to do to him!?

—

Belle,

I know, we’ve already talked about this. You’ve already said you didn’t think you could go there. I know. I’ve gone back and forth in my own mind several times as to whether I should even bother to write about this, but you did tell me to write all the things I wanted, and this is one of them. So, here it goes…

I want you to fuck me.

This isn’t just because I like taking it up the ass. In fact, my interest in backdoor action waxes and wanes rather dramatically and I don’t always think it’s all that and a bag of chips. No, this is more about power. In our society, the one who fucks is on top while the one getting fucked is on the bottom. This is true figuratively and literally. A cock equals power and to take one equals submission to that power. No, it’s not PC and I don’t really buy into it on a practical or logical level, but the symbolism of cock power remains deeply ingrained on our psyche.

Now imagine you have a cock. Imagine you’ve got me on my knees in front of you, holding my head in place with a handful of hair, and you’re slapping the sides of my face with it. Now you’re making me suck it. You’ve got both hands full of my hair and you’re pulling and pushing on my head as my lips slide up and down on your shaft. After a few minutes, you pull me up and bend me over the bed. While grabbing my collar for leverage, you line the head of your meat up with my hole and slowly ease your fat dick into my ass until it’s balls-deep. Then you start to slowly fuck me, almost gently at first, but building momentum with each stroke until soon you’re pounding my ass senseless. Eventually, you skip a stroke, shudder, and plunge your tool all the way into me as the orgasm washes over you. You collapse onto my sweaty back, wrap your arms around my chest, and kiss the nape of my neck.

That’s power exchange. That’s domination. And that’s what gets me off.

In the little story above, I didn’t even get to come. It was all about you. I was just a hole. I know, you don’t really have a cock, but there are wonders of modern science out there that are remarkable simulations. They’re even designed to allow a woman to bring herself to orgasm through the act of fucking someone else. It’s a great time to be alive, no?

I’m not sure exactly what about the act turns you off. Maybe it’s that you’d feel stupid strapping on a dildo. Well, I don’t blame you there. But it may not be necessary. Maybe you’re worried about hygiene. I can fix that with just a little warning. Maybe the whole “butt thing” just freaks you out. I know you can play with my ass because you have a couple of times (but, to the best of my recollection, you had had plenty of wine on every occasion).

Maybe, at the end of the day, you just don’t want to fuck me. That’s cool. The marriage will survive. I never want you to do anything you’re not comfortbale with. But, like I said, you told me to write it all down. So here it is.

Yours in every way,
Thumper

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Bad day in chastity

Yesterday was just weird all the way around. I think my issue with the device was that I reassembled it after cleaning using the smallest spacer. Even though it’s only a little smaller than the one up from it (which is what I normally wear), space is so tight down there that the tolerances are small. The ring pain I experienced during the day was, I suspect, mostly the result of not lubricating it properly, but the shorter spacer might have contributed. I know it was a factor in what I faced this morning. I can’t recall ever finding myself so tightly packed into the device as I was then. Just that small difference in tube extension made my normal morning erection (which, as every guy knows, is typically the strongest of the day) push every tiny bit of open space out of the tube. My flesh was extruding out of the side vents and slit like modeling clay and my balls, which are already swollen and sore from frustration, were pulled just that much further from my body and were tight and throbbing. I tried to pee and felt the urine travel down my urethra and then just stop about halfway down the shaft. The end of the penis was pressed shut. This has happened before and usually means I have to flex my kegels to spray it out in tight bursts, but even that proved difficult and it caused the urine to burn upon exiting so I eventually gave up. Probably the most uncomfortable I’ve been in the CB-6000. Odd thing is, it didn’t occur to me to just take it off.

But take it off I did while I was getting ready for work with the thought of moving up to the second largest ring. That’s when I discovered the spacer issue. I was standing there naked (I had just come out of the shower) fiddling with the pieces when I felt something cold on my leg. Looking down, I saw a long, clear, unbroken string of what I assume was precum hanging off the end of the cock and extending to my calf. That kind of oozing has been happening off and on for about the past 24 hours or so. I’ll just be sitting there, shift a little, and feel a small squirt escape into the tube. I wouldn’t have expected this for another week, based on previous experience, but I’m sure my hyper-arousal this week has advanced the schedule a bit.

Finally, I was having a meeting this morning with some of the people who work for me and was doing a lot of getting up and down from my seat to write on the whiteboard. One time, as I sat back down, I left myself turned away from the table with my legs spread and noticed the guy next to me totally checking out the device’s bulge. He played it pretty cool and wasn’t ogling or anything, but I could see where he was looking. As nonchalantly as I could, I turned my legs under the table and dropped my hand to my lap to see how exposed I was. I’m pretty sure he was able to see the ridge of the glans molded into the end of the tube pressing through my pants. I have no idea what he thought of the show, but I can say I’m not too thrilled he got it. I’m not sure what to do about this issue. These are the baggiest pants I have. I guess I’m just going to have to start being more aware of myself or accept the fact that people are going to see it and think…well, I don’t know what they’re going to think. Maybe that I have a very short, fat erection all the time. Eventually, I suppose someone who knows what it is will see it. That’ll be an interesting day.

Belle Fille’s plane departs in about five hours. She’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. I am beyond excited to have her back. My little issue with sleep on Wednesday put me behind in finishing her task since my brain was hardly functioning yesterday evening. I have two more posts to write before I pick her up at the airport. Then, I’ll get to find out her reaction to all my gut-spilling.

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What’s that safeword again?

This morning, I took off the CB-6000 to give it a good cleaning and somehow managed to put it back on using the second smallest ring size. OH MY GOD, it hurts. I kinda thought it was feeling a little tight getting on, but figured I was just swollen or something. Then, in my last meeting, what feels like a vice at the base of my root slowly and menacingly started to clamp harder and harder. Sweet mother of god. If I had an erection during the middle of that, I’d have been a goner – passed out on the floor for sure. Good thing I don’t make swimsuit calendars for a living.

The funny thing is, while rummaging around in the CB-6000 case I happened upon one of Belle’s locks unlocked. I was thisclose to using it, but thought better of it at the last minute (it was purely a cosmetic decision – Belle’s are the little black Master locks which I think are bulky and ugly while mine is a sleek little chrome number). I’d have been really pissed if I had had to break into my key safe because I was too damned tired to know what I was doing this morning.

Speaking of tired…when’s nap time?

UPDATE: I’ve decided to tough it out. The pain’s starting to lessen and I’m getting kind of a thrill from being in the smaller size. What is up with that? All of a sudden I can fit (barely) in these rings that were too small a month ago. Maybe there’s really something to that whole “your penis shrinks in chastity” thing. 😉

UPDATE 2: Whoa, hold the presses. I was wrong. It was still the middle ring. I had neglected to adequately lubricate it this morning. I blame profound sleep-deprivation.

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My other cage

It’s 4:30 AM and I haven’t slept all night.

I am trapped in two cages. One is made of polycarbonate, the other is my entire body. The meat between my legs could be released from its cage, if necessary, but my mind is inseparably fixed within a body crawling with sexual energy. I am exhausted yet I cannot stop images, ideas, and scenarios from passing though my brain and causing the meat to swell and throb within its confinement. A tremulous desire for a woman half a world away vibrates in my chest and sends shivers down my spine. Flashes of electric excitement dance across the length and width of my body as I remember the things she’s made me write over the past week. Her place in the bed is cold and empty. Sleep is impossible. I am drowning in hormones.

On an episode of Kink On Tap, Eileen once said something about orgasm denial’s insidious beauty being how it essentially turns the submissive’s body against itself. I can relate. The funny thing is, I have it within my power to fix this problem. Since Belle has her key with her and all her locks are closed, I had to secure the CB-6000 with one of my own (its key on a chain around my neck – I am essentially my own keyholder). I could remove the blasted thing and quickly stroke myself to a shuddering orgasm. Approximately 23 seconds later, I’d be fast asleep. Did I say that was a funny thing? It’s not funny at all. Truth is, I could never do what I just described. I’m not even sure my body would respond if I tried. I made a vow to that woman that I would never achieve orgasm again without her permission. And I won’t. So…I suffer, pining for my Belle Fille.

*YAWN*

I am happy. It’s good to be alive.