I was feeling sleepy on a lazy afternoon at the cabin so I went to our bedroom for a nap. I stripped down and slipped in between the cool sheets and, naturally, was suddenly not sleepy. I looked at my phone…Facebook…Twitter…Tumblr. Uh-oh. Really not sleepy now.
June metrics
The end of June marks the end of the first half of 2016 and means another check-in with my ongoing chastity metics project.
I was barely out at all in June. There was one weekend she left me in the whole time. I had about ninety minutes of release for a massage and a few other times for an hour or so to fuck, but it wasn’t until late in the month she let me stay out overnight. After that, I switched from the Steelheart to the Looker 02 and stayed in that until yesterday. All that adds up to over 690 hours in a device, or about 95% of the month (579 hours in the Steelheart and 111 in the Looker o2). This is a marked increase in from the previous two months when I was locked up about 70% of the time.
For the year, the penis has been secure nearly 3,300 hours (about 137 days). That’s 75% of the time and a four point year-to-date increase from the last check-in at the end of May. The Stealheart continues being Belle’s go-to device making up more than 3/4 of the time the penis was secure this year.
On the orgasm front, I had one kinda-mostly accidental orgasm back on the 11th which was good enough to count. That brings the total for the year to 12 which averages to about one every two weeks (though it’s been about three weeks right now). At the end of last month, the trend was towards 26 orgasms in 2016 but now that’s down to 24, assuming she continues to let me do it at the average rate established.
July won’t be as severe as June if only because we’re out of town for the 4th for a few days and she let me out before we left and didn’t tell me to bring a device with us. I figure I’ll get minimally 120 hours of free time this month. She used to let me come on major holidays but isn’t so reliable with that anymore so we’ll see. No idea when I’ll come next. She hasn’t given me any ideas.
To be a clear and to remind everyone, I’m measuring these things for no other reason than to have the data. I’m not trying to influence Belle or sneakily lobby for one thing or another. She’ll lock me up when she wants to and make me come when she wants and all I’ll do is report it.
I can’t say
I’m not allowed to tell her what I want out loud. To put words to my desire. My craving. So I scream it in my head. With each thrust into her, “Let me come!” With my eyes, “PLEASE.”
She smiles back at me.
I whimper.
“What?”
I can say it now so I do.
“No you don’t. Thanks for the fuck, though. It was a good one.”
The Father, the Son, and the semi-automatic assault rifle
I’ve been struggling with what to say about Orlando. I have so much sadness but it’s mixed with so much anger that I can’t tell them apart. They taste the same in my mouth. I need a word for that. A word that means, “sorrowful rage.”
I hear this massacre isn’t an LGBTQ thing. It’s about mental illness or religious radicalism or easy access to firearms in a country awash in them, but it could have happened anywhere. A movie theater or a coffee house or a sports arena. It’s distasteful for gays to make this about them. But it didn’t happen in any of those places. It happened in a gay nightclub because it was a gay nightclub. Of course, this event is about mental illness and religious radicalism and too many guns, but it’s also very much about being LGBTQ. The hatred for LGBTQ people is the thread that ties all those other things together in this case. No, not thread. Rainbow ribbon.
The shooter, it is now reported, frequented the club and was active on gay hook-up apps like Grindr. He liked the boys and liked dick. Maybe not to the exclusion of women, but he was definitely on the Kinsey scale above a one. And he hated himself for it. Hated himself so much. Why? Where does that come from? My kids don’t hate gay people. They don’t fear them. One of my kids identifies as bisexual and does so in a very open and heathy way. Why are my kids well-adjusted about sexuality while the shooter in Orlando was as unadjusted as possible?
Religion.
His faith teaches that gays are an abomination. Subhuman. He was raised being told that by his clergy and his dad. By his friends. But it’s what he was. This kind of cognitive dissonance will make some people kill themselves. Some others will live sad, stunted, hateful lives. Others, the fortunate few, will come out from under the spell and build a life of freedom from religious bullshit filled with love and friends. A few buy assault rifles and walk into gay nightclubs to kill as many people they can. Literally killing the part of them they’ve been taught to hate. To abhor. There is a grim logic in their actions.
Impossibly, I find myself feeling sorry for the shooter. For the pain he endured and the pain he caused as a result. I didn’t think it possible. I don’t know where it comes from. But there it is. The fact that he clumsily associated himself with those who personify on earth the extreme intolerance for things like homosexuality was nothing more than an attempt to find a fire hot enough to burn it out of himself. But this isn’t about ISIS. They’re a bit player in the drama and are accidentally benefiting from the kind of publicity they crave.
So I am not actually mad at the shooter. But I am mad. Furious. Seething. At who?
On Saturday, Mike Huckabee and those like him, if asked, would have told you gay people are going to burn in hell for their perversion. That their push for marriage equity would destroy the family and a trans person’s need to urinate would lead to children being molested and woman attacked. On Sunday, though, he was praying for them as victims. In the fucked up algebra of a far-right shitbag, the only thing that’s worse than a club full of happy faggots is a radicalized Muslim shooting at them. Good to know.
While the good governor was running for US President last year, he and fellow governor Bobby Jindal and Senator Ted Cruz shared a stage with a man named Kevin Swanson who literally called for gays to be put to death. Today. In America. He didn’t say it at some fuzzy distant time. He said it that fucking day just before inviting the three of them onstage to share in the limelight. And they just let him. Because political points are worth more than the lives of LGBTQ people. Because pandering to a hateful audience of zealots, calling for innocent people to be killed for how they were born, is the course of action most expedient to gain their support.
And then these sons of bitches have the fucking nerve to PRAY for the victims. The shooter was Muslim, but he was playing their tune. And so they prayed. For the victims. The ones they either explicitly or implicitly called for. Mike gets the spotlight here, but he’s hardly alone. Any moralistic asshole in government who grovels for votes and campaign contributions from radical Christians and then decries the very acts their benefactors called for the day before is a sad, disgusting son of a bitch. The blood of the victims in Orlando is on their hands. It’s on their clothes and fills their shoes. It’s soaked through their very souls.
And it’s not a fringe thing with the Christians. Today, Pat Robertson on The 700 Club said, “The left is having a dilemma of major proportions and I think for those of us who disagree with some of their policies, the best thing to do is to sit on the sidelines and let them kill themselves.” Someone’s going to need to give me a decoder ring or something because I can’t tell the radical Christians from the supposed “normal” ones.
But, you might say to me, I’m a Christian. I’m not like that. We’re not all radical nut jobs. Problem is, as a person with many Christian friends and who’s active on social media, I never see one of them calling these bastards out. I never see them say they’re perverting the word of Christ. I see Muslims dragged out before cameras every time one of theirs loses his shit or ISIS or whoever bombs a plane or shoots a passerby. That’s expected and required, though many non-Muslims will still try and frame Islam as a religion of hate and violence. As if their holy hands are clean, which they are not. Not even a little. But the only time my Christian friends come out and say anything is when they’re afraid of being lumped in with those who are damaging their holy brand. And they do it without any self-awareness that it’s the exact same fucking thing they do to Muslims every goddamned day.
Jon Stewart once said, “Religion. It’s given people hope in a world torn apart by religion.” And we laughed. But it’s true. It’s fucking crystal truth. Our love of imaginary sky friends and the things we invented for them to say outweighs our own humanity. Our human decency. Our fear of death causes us to make a deal with the proverbial devil to despise and distrust and dehumanize others whose holy texts tell them to hate and distrust and do violence in only slightly different ways. I’m sick to death of it. Almost literally to death. Had I been in that nightclub, it could have meant my death.
There are 49 dead people in Orlando who were in their safe place. The place where they could be themselves and celebrate that and each other. And a religious nut job came in and slaughtered them. And he did it for his god. The same way Pat Robertson and Kevin Swanson think it should happen. The very same. They are the same.
Controlling the denial
My goodness, but we kinky folk like to define things, don’t we? I wrote about May’s stats and that triggered Charmer to write about whether she and Snake are doing orgasm denial or orgasm control. I suppose the terms are used interchangeably by a lot of people and I probably used them that way, too, at least at first. I now think a couple of things on the subject.
First up, it kinds of depends on one’s point of view. In my case, I’m being denied when Belle has me locked up but I’m also controlling myself when she lets me fuck her or otherwise fiddle with the penis absent permission to come. From her perspective, she’s controlling me when I’m locked up and denying me what millions of years of evolution is pounding away at me to do when the penis is inside her. So, looked at that way, control and deny are yin and yang-ish.
But can I be really denied something I don’t want in the first place? In that case, it’s all control, right? Pure willpower over the autonomic response from having the penis in a warm, wet place and pushing it in and out. Thing is, my higher brain may be able to sit in its wingback chair donned in a smoking jacket, snifter of brandy in hand, and have a William F. Bucklyesque cerebral discourse on the subject but my lower brain — my lizard brain — only wants one thing. And it’s all my higher brain can do sometimes to ride that lizard and keep it in check. So absolutely, lower lizard is denied what he wants through the control of Mr. Buckley upstairs.
I don’t know about other guys, but it’s that push and pull between the two parts of my brain where I really get off on denial. It’s like surfing, in a way. Needing to maintain balance and poise while constantly judging and compensating for this wild force of nature. The feeling of your toes hanging over the board and the wind in your face as you skate the edge of failure while riding that sucker all the way in. That, in and of itself, is a kind of energy altogether different from fucking and coming. Yes, absolutely, coming is wonderful. But sitting in that pure space between desire and objective while waiting for someone to tell you what happens next. The lack of control over one of the most basic human urges. That’s the stuff.
Her denial depends on my control. Her control over me leads to my denial.
Usually.
This morning was different. It started out well with the fingers in the pussy and the nipples in the mouth and, thanks to a kid-free house, Belle yelling her heart out as she came. Then I got to fuck, but all her vocalization had left me right on the edge from the get go. I found myself immediately in that space between wanting it and getting it and was trying to surf right down that pipe and was doing a fairly good job. Minimal leakage, but lots of starting and stopping.
But then she stuck her tongue in my mouth. And…I don’t know. I can’t tell you what happened. It was like her tongue, once it was past my lips, was ticking the penis directly. The pipe started to collapse and I held the penis stock-still in an attempt to keep things going, but her tongue wouldn’t stop. I wasn’t fucking her, but I started shooting inside her. The pipe crashed down and my board went up over my head and I may have bumped into a shark, I don’t know.
It was a really weird orgasm. At first, I thought maybe it was ruined. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing so she didn’t know what was going on. Then I felt the prolactin hit my brain in three beats of my heart. Like someone had injected me with it. BLAM. Went down like a sack of bricks and was quickly in sleepy-bye land. There was no explosion of dopamine that usually goes with orgasm so it didn’t feel like one when it happened, but I was absolutely post-orgasmic once my load was drained.
Siting here now, I don’t really feel like I came. I’m still pretty horny. Easily turned on. But also kind of grumpy. I can tell my temper is shorter than usual. Part of it is being annoyed at myself for kinda coming, but it’s more than that. Hard to explain. Brain chemistry is tricky, I guess.
Whatever, that’s what happens when the control fails. The denial ends. You can’t have one without the other.
Give and take
She told me it was time, so I climbed between her legs. She took the hard shaft in her hand and, as usual, placed its leaky tip against the lips of her freshly orgasmed pussy. I tilted my hips a bit and felt it. That feeling. Of warm, wet, soft envelopment. Not confinement. Not hard steel. The feeling that makes my eyes roll back. She made a little sound of pleasure.
I left it right there for a moment, then pulled it out until I felt her lips slip past the sensitive flare of the penis, then pushed it back. Just about a third. In and out. In and out. Not too much. Not yet. God, I wanted it all in there. I wanted more than I had inside her. I wanted to feel every bit of her pussy push back against me, but that’s not something the penis can do on its best day and, if I were to try, it would be more about what I wanted and less about my job. She likes to be fucked. She likes to feel a hard man inside her. She wants to feel him take his pleasure from her pussy, but were I to do that the whole thing would be over too quickly. I might even come.
I fuck her for her when she lets me. It’s like a dance. A performance. For her benefit. I pretend to be a man concerned only with his own ends because that’s what she wants to feel. If I forget myself and become the part I’m playing, I lose my control. I can’t lose control.
I shift my weight forward and feel her pussy grip the penis about two-thirds up. I wrap my arm over her shoulder and behind her head. She brings her hand up (the one that put the penis in the spot she wanted it) and feels my bicep. I flex it hard as part of the dance. She purrs.
Her breathing is pronoucned in my ear. Her eyes are closed and she’s enjoying the feeling of being penetrated by a real hard shaft. I turn my head a little to the right and put her nipple in my mouth. I lick and suck it while pushing in a little deeper. I quicken my pace. Won’t last too long at this speed, but I know my limits. I know when to stop. In and out. In and out…
Right there.
I freeze. A hot shot of fluid flexes out of me and into her. Another. Ejaculation without orgasm. I wait a moment. Let the urge drain away. That’s it. Push it in a little. Pull it out a little. The orgasm, which was so close, now is far away. I can get back to my job. I won’t get close to coming again.
The consistency of her snatch has changed. It’s super wet and slippery with the added ejaculate. I fuck through it and pretend it’s not my mess. That she’s already been taken and these are his sloppy seconds. The penis, if flagging at all, regains its strength. Full pressurization.
Now the penis is fully inside her. I’m fucking her deep – well, as deep as I can – trying to hit her cervix. Push it in, pull it out a centimeter, push it in, pull it out a centimeter. Her nipple is back in my mouth. She’s liking this. The penis is how she likes it. The fucking is how she likes it. We both pretend like I’ll come in a minute. But I won’t. I just keep fucking and sucking. I keep giving her what she wants. And she keeps taking it.
May Metrics
We’re in June now so that means another month is in the books and another post in my metrics tracking project is at hand. At the end of April, I had been locked into a chastity device 70% of the time. In May, that year-to-date percentage increased slightly to 71%.
The Steelheart remains by far Belle’s most-used device and accounted for two-thirds of the time I was secured in May. The Holy Trainer is on the charts for the first time this year making up the balance of the time. I wore it for about a week and a half leading up to a trip the two of us made to DC. I needed something that would pass through security, though she left me unlocked throughout the trip (accounting for the lion share of the 24% of May I was unlocked).
She let me come two more times in May bringing my total number of orgasms on the year to eleven. She didn’t think she was letting me come that much but, after seeing the list, I think was a little surprised at how often it’s happened. Belle isn’t planning on letting come again until at least August when she sees TOG. At the current rate, I’m on track to come 26 times in 2016 (which seems like a metric shit ton of coming to me), but if I don’t come again until late summer, the trend will be towards 18. Even that seems like a lot based on past experience, but Belle decides and all I’m doing is tracking, not lobbying.
I was planning a trip this month which could have led to being unlocked for about a week, but work is conspiring against that opportunity so I expect June may end up looking a lot like January during which I was locked up 94% of the time.
HNThumper LXXV: Packing it in
I’ve had a lot to get hard over lately. Plus, we’ve had some fairly frisky mornings. That can make getting back into the steel more problematic than it would be otherwise.
Pic after the jump…
Can’t stop the feeling
There’s this feeling I’ve been having that I want to write about but I haven’t been able to figure it out. It’s the kind of thing I will noodle on while trying to fall asleep because sometimes, in that space just between wakefulness and sleep, inspiration will happen. Sometime I find I wake up with the idea ready to go. It’s weird, but it can work. But not this time. Not really.
There are two things I know about myself. Well, lots more than two, but two that are related to this feeling. One is my need and desire for orgasm has totally been reprogrammed. I find that I think about wanting one while inside Belle maybe 30% of the time (a percentage which is much higher when I know I might be able to have one versus knowing I will not be given permission) and I’ll occasionally want one when not fucking her as a result of looking at porn or whatever, but that’s a lot more rare. Regardless of my relative desire to come, I always know I’ll be happier if I don’t. In fact, the more desperate I am to come and am denied the experience, ultimately my…satisfaction (seems a weird word to use to describe not getting something I crave but we don’t seem to have a word that describes contentment from being unable to satisfy a craving and being satisfied by the want instead) will be higher. Also, if I come more than once in about 48 hours it absolutely negatively impacts my mood for about a week. In short, how my brain used to work with orgasm is gone. The firmware has been replace. So that’s thing one. Thing two is the longer I’m left locked up the more I want to be locked up. Being unlocked with a crotch unemcumbered is by far a weirder feeling for me than the opposite. Belle could make a rule for me tomorrow that said I am to always be locked unless she’s using the penis and I’d be thrilled. Being in bed and rolling over on my stomach and not feeling a hard lump pushing back at my hips makes me feel a little less grounded and centered. Having a constricted, inaccessible erection is deeply satisfying (that word again) and even comforting.
So, to recap, I don’t want to come and I want to always be locked in a device.
The feeling I can’t capture is how very deeply this sits within me. To the extent that I don’t really feel like a man anymore. I mean, sure, I feel masculine and look and act as masculine as I ever have (which, admittedly, isn’t always super masculine), but there’s an assumption of what being a man is that doesn’t quite fit me anymore. I don’t want to spread my seed and I don’t want to be able to play with myself. I even fantasize about my wife taking a lover she finds so satisfying that she no longer needs me for penetrative sex. In fact, the only thing that keeps me from feeling disappointment when she unlocks me for sex now is that I know how much she enjoys the feeling of being fucked. I’m doing it for her, I tell myself. Sure, it feels good. It feels really good, but I’m not motivated by that. I’m motivated by the desire for unrealized sensation more than the sensation itself. So what kind of man would rather his woman get fucked by someone else, doesn’t want to come ever, and hopes he’ll remain locked in a chastity device forever? And if I’m not a man, what am I?
I guess a third thing about me is that I’m much more motivated sexually by giving pleasure or being a vessel of someone else’s pleasure than receiving it myself. Feeling Belle come from my touch, how she loses herself in the ecstasy in the moments before orgasm, that I took her there. Those are very great rewards for me. Even before I was aware of my submissiveness, I was significantly more interested in my partner’s pleasure than I was in my own. When I’m with Drew, it’s the same way. The things he wants and needs are my goal. I could get into more detail, but suffice it to say I endure more then I would otherwise because I know it’s bringing him pleasure.
I’m not saying I’m not a man in a way to say I’m a different gender. It’s not like that at all. But being someone who would rather want than have, who would rather give than receive pleasure, who can move from having sex with a man or a woman with ease makes me feel very other. I look at porn and I see “real” men doing what porn says they do (even the gay ones) and I don’t see myself. I like it. I get turned on by it. But it’s not me. I’m like a different version of a male. “Male B.”
I suppose it would be the most straightforward to just say I am me and leave it at that. But we kinky folk like to sort and label and identify. And that turns out to be a kind of itch I can’t scratch. Submissive is a good start, but doesn’t feel like enough. A masochist surely. I dunno. I am a being of desire who wants to satisfy desire. Someone who wants to make pleasure happen for others. Either the language is failing me or my comprehension of it is.
It doesn’t matter, at the end of the day. Things are working. I’m with a wonderful woman and have a rewarding sex life. I don’t need better words. I can write them all down like this and make you see the shading between the colors. And I know that because right now today I’m deeply horny and have felt the Steelheart’s bite many times over the past several hours, all these feelings are more potent and nearer the surface. But I still have this feeling.
And now, this…
If you don’t like J.T., we can’t be friends.
Going up, going down
We had to leave the northern retreat a day earlier than expected. On the long drive home, with my daughter and her friend in the backseat of the truck, I was unable to ask Belle the one thing I really wanted to know. In a moment of stopped traffic, I texted her…
Belle continues to be reticent when it comes to having me go down on her. When it happens, which is relatively infrequently, she always asks me if I’d do it. Asks. A) She doesn’t have to ask. She can simply tell. “Eat me out.” My only acceptable response to that is to put my face in her pussy. B) I always want to eat her out. I simply cannot describe how much I love her pussy and the closer and more intimate I can get to it, the better. There really is no way to get closer once my nose is buried in it.
I think women in general (not all, of course, but a fair number) aren’t as socially conditioned to have the same kind of feelings towards their junk as guys are. I don’t want to psychoanalyze, but it seems our culture spends a lot of time shaming the pussy and talking about odor or idealizing the labia-free image or whatever and that leads to a generally negative vibe in many cases. Personally, I think pussies should be celebrated. Belle’s is like the center of my universe. I want to touch it, taste it, be inside it. I just Want. It.
But even more than simply telling me to eat it, she seems even more hesitant to climb up and push it down into my face. But, invariably, she absolutely loves it after. It’s that moment when we reach the fulcrum of effort and she starts grinding and gyrating down on me more than I’m licking and lapping up at her and the pussy monster inside her gets feverish and insistent of its release that I love the most. When the lower half of my face is slick with the combination of my spit and her pussy juice and my face and mouth become an elaborate masturbatory aid and she lets her need for pleasure override any lingering reticence. She rarely seems to come harder than at that moment, squatted down over my mouth. Bliss for us both.
“Why don’t we do that more often?” she asked, still breathing heavily.
“I have no earthly idea,” I replied.
“Can you breathe when I’m up there?”
And I think, Obvioulsy otherwise I’d be dead, but I say, “Yes, easily,” and chuckle.
After, she went down on me. This always takes me by surprise because even before she kept the penis locked up most of the time she rarely sucked me off. She seemed especially inspired because I’m quite sure had she kept it up I would have come in her mouth. I am under explicit orders not to come in any circumstance, but in her mouth is a way I’ve never done it. It was surprising how good she was at is considering how rarely she does it. But oh fuck did my toes curl.
“Did you like that?”
“Uh-huh!”
“Good. I need the practice.”
For him, she left off because we both knew what she meant. The little bit she’s told me regarding what he’s said to her suggests he likes getting sucked off and expects her go down on him. I warned her getting me into her mouth is going to be easier than getting him, but I’m perfectly happy if she wants to practice a lot more in the future. It’s what makes us perfect, after all.