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Weeknight surprise

As I said at the end of the last post, Belle takes off for a few days on Sunday morning. This is particularly crushing for me since we’re really into each other right now. My assumption is this is some kind of lunar or hormonal rhythm thing, but I’m neither questioning nor complaining.

I told my Belle Fille last night while making dinner that I really needed some quality time with her again before she left. Sunday mornings have recently been a highly reliable time of the week where the lack of job, kid, or trainer obligations coincide with an increased energy level on her part. If she’s not on the rag, I can usually depend on some kind of bunny lovin’ before we start our day. But, this week, she’ll be leaving and the hole her absence leaves both in my heart and schedule has been hard to accept. All I really needed was to feel her come to sate me until she gets back.

Happily, she wanted to come. And, it turned out, a bunch more. She unexpectedly stripped down leaving me to discover her nakedness. My usual state when going to bed is to be naked, so we basked for a while in the sensations of the full length of one another’s skin pressed against each other, with the small exception of the well-packed steel about midway down.

“What if I unlocked you?” Hell, yes. What if? Oh, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease unlock me. And she did. I shall remain unlocked until she leaves or feels I need to be in again. I am a spoiled rabbit.

My Belle has a long refractory period. Girls don’t usually have to recharge following orgasm like guys do, but my Belle is special. So, going for three orgasms even in six days would be a challenge. But, it was a challenge I was happy to accept.

After the penis was released, we laid beside one another some more, this time with a hard and poky member between. Her hands on the penis was heavenly and I realized how well she’s used the device to manipulate my desire for her recently. Note that I’m perfectly happy being manipulated in this way. I said as much to her.

“I love how this makes me feel,” I breathed out between kisses, “I love how this makes me act toward you.”

“I love how this makes me feel,” she replied through her wonderfully full and fragrant lips, “I love how this makes us.”

Yes, exactly. Sacrificing my orgasm and free access to the penis in exchange for a stronger and more intense emotional bond seems a bargain in my book. I never ever want to be anything other than totally sexually controlled by her.

She climbed on top of me and guided the rigid meat home. The heat and ease with which it slid in made me gasp as she settled down to business. But this wasn’t the usual fuck for her. Instead of quickly finding her rhythm and riding me to a relatively quick orgasm, she lingered. Slowly moving up and down of the shaft, luxuriating in the sensation of being penetrated by her cock. There was no rush. There was no reason. This was about the ride, not the destination.

“I’m acting like you,” she said about half way along, meaning this was fucking for fucking’s sake. She had no motivation other than to enjoy it.

I soldiered along. Sucking her tits, nibbling at her neck, running my hands down her back and over her ass, I tried to contrate on everything other than her gyrating hips and the pussy between them and the part of me the whole kit was enveloping. I wanted to go for however long she needed me to, but I don’t think I made it longer than eight or ten minutes. The thing that finally got me (what can almost always get me) was what she said. She repeatedly told me how good I felt inside her using language her mother would not find acceptable. Thing is, it’s really hard to cultivate a nascent small penis humiliation fetish when your partner tells you every chance she gets how awesome she thinks your erection is. So yeah, I had to stop.

But it was just for a moment. She rolled on her back and told me to fuck her instead. I did as commanded as best I could, withdrawing at least three times to clench back an impending rush of semen. Twice, I managed to keep it in, but once I didn’t and thick slug of the pungent goo landed on the sheets. Regardless, I went back in because she wanted to feel me in there.

As I fucked her, she was constantly moving beneath me, gyrating and reciprocally thrusting and generally really getting into our sex like a hormonal coed. I found myself feeling oddly non-subbie. Yes, she still owned my orgasm, but I felt like I owned her. She was my woman. I cradled her head while slowly fucking her, one hand in her hair, the other holding her jaw. I nibbled, kissed, and cooed at her. I felt like my larger male frame was shielding her. I could feel my ass muscles flex and contract as I repeatedly claimed her with every thrust. My fucking woman.

It was weird. I haven’t felt that in a while.

One more close call in which I leaked inside her caused her to push me off. She still hadn’t come even though we had been going at it for a half hour. This is highly unusual. Even more that she was at an impasse as to what to do next. She wanted to come but couldn’t figure out how.

Sensing that she needed me to take a little more control over the situation, I said, “Can I go down on you?”

She purred at the suggestion at first but than said, “But you’re in there. You don’t like that…”

“I love it until I come,” I reminded her before heading south.

Her pussy was open and soft from the fucking and smelled and tasted like both of us. I eagerly tucked in and lapped up whatever juices I could, swallowing repeatedly the ample supply. I can’t tell you how much was her and how much was me, but it was all heaven. I reveled in the messy, sticky, humid and heat of her. As the minutes passed, I found myseld determined to make that pussy come if it was the last thing I’d ever do. Eventually, she did. Intensely. Electrically. But I lingered. As soon as her clit’s hypersensitivity had passed, I rubbed my whole face in her. I deeply inhaled her scent and could feel a powerful masculine response from a deeply encoded place. My fucking woman.

As I got up, I rubbed the excess moisture from my face all down my chest and stomach. Like I was using her essence as war paint. I wanted her everywhere on me. I didn’t even ask before reentering her and I continued to fuck her, slowly and gently, long after she came. It took a while, but the submissive resurfaced and I started to feel guilty for claiming such indulgence without her consent. She didn’t seem to mind, though. It wasn’t until she was pinching my nipples with all the force she could muster and biting my neck (leaving faint yet obvious monkey bites), that I crested one final time. Our long, wet, sticky, smelly and wonderfully glorious weeknight lovemaking session was over.

Well, for her. I was trapped in the hormonal spin cycle and could feel the entire night sleeplessly stretched before me. This time, though, before it got too late, I downed a couple of Tylenol PMs and was able to salvage four hours of very weird sleep. Weird in that my body chemistry pushed me in one direction while the pharmaceuticals pulled in the opposite direction.

Eventually, sleep. Then, too early, wake. Now, tired. But happy.

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The sex, o god, the sex

The best part of working out and getting fit and all that isn’t necessarily what it’s doing to my body. I mean, yeah, I like that, but the best part is what it’s doing to my relationship. Belle, as I’ve mentioned, has been going to see my trainer for the past six or so months, too, and the change in her has been remarkable.

It’s not just physical, though it is that. I often reach over to her in bed at night and everywhere I put my hands feels different (in much the same way I feel like a different person almost everywhere). And it’s driving me kinda nuts with desire. Luckily, these same changes seem to be simultaneously improving her outlook on our physical relationship. We had some of the best sex we’ve had in a long time last weekend (I’ll get to that in a minute since that’s why most of you pervs are here in the first place) and I can’t necessarily peg all of it on mutually inclusive positive body images (in that, she’s more comfortable with herself as I am and we’re both a lot more into each other’s new selves if for no other reason than the novelty of having hotter new spouses), but I think that’s a lot of it.

More than anything else, I’m very proud of all the work she’s putting into this, whatever the motivation and whatever it means in the bedroom. She’s healthier, happier, and helping to set a fantastic example for our kids.

So yeah, the sex. Oh, man.

Continue reading “The sex, o god, the sex”

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Wet, sweaty and smelling of pussy

Belle took me out of the Looker 02 last night. She didn’t have any immediate need for its contents, but would in the morning and she didn’t want to mess around with the key then. She wanted to be able to just roll over and fuck me, which she did. The penis, though, is stupid and didn’t understand the order in which things were going to happen. All it knew was the steel was off and out and all that normally compressed erectile tissue was free to go to town. I had a hard and persistent erection until I fell asleep.

Belle was funny when she let me out. She was obviously pretty excited to see the device emerge from under the covers.

“I like it when I lock you up and I like it when I let you out,” she said, “For different reasons, obviously.”

Her genuine excitement and the way she’s so well embraced her position over me makes me a very happy bunny.

As I was saying, I fell asleep wanting inside her and woke up in pretty much the exact same spot. As soon as we were both awake, we went right at is like a couple of teenagers. Her snatch was wet and her nipples were hard and she came riding the stiff penis in no time. Jesus god, she felt good.

Then she let me go at it. It was one of those times where I could fuck her and fuck her. I only got close to coming once and, as soon as that passed, I felt like there was no way I was getting close again. I fucked her long and hard and drenched her in my sweat. Faster, slower, deeper, shallower, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere.

I get really emotional in these moments. When I’m fucking her and loving the feeling of her sliding up and against the hard shaft after having felt northing really pleasurable there for nearly two weeks. With every stroke I feel a deeper gratitude to her for allowing me to be as I am. To having so well taken the responsibility of a denied husband to heart. I came out and said it while balls-deep and kissing her full, delicious lips.

“I’m so grateful to you,” I said, breathy and low.

“You should be,” she replied, calm and clearly.

And I am, of course.

I’d still be fucking her right now it if she hadn’t told me the ride had to end. And I’ll be damned if, as soon as she said it, the penis didn’t start to go soft. Fucker’s pretty well trained. I rolled off of her wet, sweaty and smelling of pussy. Ah, bliss.

The only real downside to all this is, about an hour later, my nuts really started to ache. Especially the right side. My balls felt tender, swollen, and heavy. Surprisingly, I don’t get blue balls all that much anymore, but they were full of their unnecessary product and complaining loudly. I told Belle it was nothing a hot bath couldn’t fix, but I won’t be having that before I go back in. No hot n’ soapy access to penis meat for me.

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Good overview of male chastity devices

A guy named Dalton has put together a terrific overview of the state of the art of enforced male chastity today called Bondage is Chastity on Serious Male Bondage Journal (you can tell it’s serious based on the header graphic). He makes many points, but two in particular worth repeating:

  • “Locking something solid to our bodies to imprison a part that has no bone structure is an engineering mystery.” Hell yes. Stupid things are like octopi in their ability to squish and squeeze into and out of the darnedest predicaments. If only we had penile bones. He recommends a PA for the ultimate chastity experience.
  • “I don’t recommend buying an expensive device early on,” warns Dalton, “Wear a few of the more affordable devices to find what works and what doesn’t work. You will end up with a more satisfying experience, or should I say less satisfying.” Amen, brother! Testify!

He also has a Madame Dura Lancelot which, as I’ve mentioned in the past, I find distractingly intriguing. Lucky him. In any event, he includes images with links of nearly all the major players in the cock locking biz, notably excepting my German friend.

Via Metalbond (who called me a “muscular bisexual guy” and made me feel all funny inside).

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The exchange

For those keeping score at home, after this year’s orgasms were over, Belle put me in the Steelheart. I was in there about a week maybe before getting some kind of sore on the head of the penis that was really pretty painful and caused me to have to come out for a few days. It was either some kind of nasty pinch between the meat and the PA fixing or some kind of irritation caused by urine or both. A rare occurrence. I had just about gotten used to the Steelheart’s relatively small A-ring, too.

In any event, she let me out for a few days which gave us the chance to have the sex I talk about about back on the 14th. Since then, I’ve been back in the Looker 02. For the active boys in the audience, I can report than I’ve run about 17 miles since then with little to no discomfort or issues. I’ve found that if I wear my normal compression underwear while running and apply a dab of silicone lube to the L02’s plug prior to starting, everything’s cool. Nice and supported, but not too much.

The other morning, I was still in the L02 when Belle reached over and started to touch me in a way that indicated we’d be having some action.

After she got the meat nice and compressed, I said, “I bet you wish I wasn’t locked up.”

“You mean you wish you weren’t locked up. I’m just fine with you in there.”

Yeah, she was right. I was trying reverse psychology on her. Didn’t work.

Still, she gave me and the constrained meant lots of attention. I was on all fours, half over her on her back, kissing her mouth and her neck while she gently caressed my tight balls and perineum, letting her fingers trail down my inner thighs. The penis was quite tight in its confinement, both within the cage and clamping down on the invading plug. She had me get the sack o’ nipple clamps from my nightstand and attached a moderately grippy pair of rubber coated aligator clips. Pulling on the chain, she’d force me into position so that slapping my nuts was easier for her. Nipples searing, cock raging, balls stinging and aching, on all fours like the moaning horny pain slut I am.

Then I reached down to finger her pussy and…

There’s that moment when you realize your historically vanilla wife is obviously getting off pretty hard on locking your meat into a steel vice, clamping and twisting your nipples, and knocking your nuts around like a little punching bag. That she’s obviously doing all that for your benefit, but also for hers. And that, since it’s not all for you, that means you have less control over how and for how long it happens. She’s actually getting off on your discomfort. There is more than just a little bit of a sadistic streak in there somewhere. 

All of a sudden, it went from a series of perfunctory actions to an exchange. She was hurting me because I liked to be hurt, but also because she was enjoying hurting me. And that, in turn, made me want to show her how much hurt I could take. It made me want to give her my discomfort and suffering. As much as she wanted.

Eventually, the clamps came off (with the sudden rush of blood and searing pain that always goes along with that) and slapping stopped and she let me sorta bask for a little while. The cage, however, did not come off.

By the time I started in on her, her snatch was hot and dripping wet. My fingers slid and slipped freely over her clit as my mouth hungrily devoured her nipples. My fingers, though, were not enough. She had me get Pink and the little vibe thrummed to life (with its new batteries) as I rubbed it over and into her wetness. She came weirdly and intensely. It wasn’t like normal, but still apparently good. I still wanted out of the Looker. I still wanted to feel that hot pussy from the inside. But that wasn’t up to me and it was not to be.

As I sat up to leave the bed, the sticky and sweet clear nectar of my desire shot from the hollow titanium shaft in the penis.

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Just do it

This past weekend was the one year anniversary of my most recent foray into physical fitness. I feel like saying something to mark this occasion because it really does mean a lot to me and has had a huge impact on my entire sense of wellbeing, but I don’t want to be one of those annoying screechy preachy types who, after finding their One True Way, keep telling you how you’re living your life all wrong. There are some who’d say I do enough of that with the whole chastity denial thing as it is.

I admit, I’m fortunate because I’m able to hire a professional to kick my ass several times a week. Even on those days when I don’t want to drag myself out of bed, I do because there’s a dude I already gave money to waiting for me at the gym. I’m not, therefore, a typical example. But. What I can say is, trainer aside, I know I’ll be active for the rest of the time my body will let me. Every day, I crave the activity. I crave the treadmill or the weights or just sweating. I want to run more than my legs will take me. I want to lift more than my joints will allow. If only I had started doing this ten years ago. Or twenty.

And that, I guess, is the thing. I’m 45 and might be in the best shape of my life right now. Maybe. I’ve been in OK shape before, but it’s likely that, big picture, I’ve never been fitter. I have actual muscles in places that have never shown them in the past and my resting heart rate is in the mid to high fifties (not bad – could be better). I’m losing weight, though not as quickly as I’d like. Still, it’s heading in the right direction. Problem with the weight thing is, all the charts say my maximum healthy weight is 188 pounds or so. I’ve been that low in my adult life, but I was a skinny punk. I can’t see how muscly me will ever be that low.

But whatever. What I’m saying is, if you’re unhappy with your appearance or are tired of feeling tired and old, now is the time. Not tomorrow. Not next month. Now. It doesn’t matter what shape you’re in or your age or anything. Start small. There are pretty cheap of gyms out there (like Snap or Anytime) and you can go in and do lower-impact stuff like the elliptical or bike for half an hour three times a week. Eventually, you could work with a trainer (they usually have them on staff) even if it’s just once a week (my trainer has several once-a-week clients). If you do that and stick to it, I guarantee your body will start to ask for more. Your cloths will start fitting different and you’ll see a new person in the mirror and people who see you every day will say something. It works. You’ll go from being tired for no reason to being tired from making yourself move. That’s the best tired there is. And even so, you’ll crave more.

And, since this blog is purportedly about sex, I’ll tell you it improves that, too, no matter how you take it. Belle seems especially affected by my arms now. So much so that I am now certain when a chick sees a muscly guy and tells you, “Well, I don’t like men with too many muscles,” they are probably lying. Also, when you and your partner are feeling more energetic and overall better about your self images, chances are you’re likely to want to be naked together and do naked stuff.

A typical day with the FuelBandThe final thing I’ll say on this topic (for now) is to recommend the Nike FuelBand. In a nutshell, this is a little gizmo that measures your activity during the day (like the FitBit  or Jawbone Up or a few others) but it also does some kind of proprietary mumbo jumbo that turns that into something called NikeFuel. Basically, a point system. It’s not the conversion of activity into points all by itself that’s genius. The genius part is the accompanying iPhone app and/or website. You can set a daily goal for yourself and make tracking your activity level into a game. I have, in the past, made a point to go to the gym because my Fuel was too low and I wanted to keep my string of achieved daily goals in tact. In fact, even though my calves were aching last night and I really should be taking the day off today to recoup, I’m thinking of doing it again today because I’m only at 816 at 1:00 and I need 3,500 before the end of the day and have managed to make my goal six days in a row. Anyway, there are a bunch of devices on the market now like this and I’ve tried several of them. The FuelBand is the only one I really like (even though it doesn’t track sleeping like the FitBit or Up). It syncs wirelessly with my phone and looks good on my wrist. I like it so much, I got one for Belle and my son, too.

One of the greatest, most perfect slogans in the history of marketing and advertising is Nike’s “Just Do It.” You can’t even understand how good it is until you take its advice and get up off your butt and do something. Listen to it and you’ll be thankful you did.

Preachy bit over.

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Chitter chatter

Quite a lot of comments on the last post in a short period of time.

Did you cry? I would have.

No, of course I didn’t. Haven’t you been reading this blog? I only would have been disappointed if the number had been less than 24.

Mykey said,

I suspect belle will miss a good hard fuck before then.

And…

I’m surprised she doesn’t miss that more given it used to be one of her favourite things. What’s changed in her mind?

Belle had a pretty good fuck on Sunday and I didn’t come. Pretty good fucks don’t have to have a guy coming at the end. With regard to Belle changing her mind, I don’t think she has. My demonstrating that she can fuck me and get her orgasm while not leading to my own is, I think, the one thing that makes this long-term stuff possible. Even now, she’s said it’ll be July 27, 2014, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be way more shattered about screwing up before then than she will. I think she thinks not coming is my problem, not hers. As long as she gets what she wants, it works for us.

He also said,

If you continue with an orgasm once a year and a half, I will have more (delicious) orgasms in the next month than you will ever. Just thought that idea might tickle you!

And yeah, in a fucked up way, knowing others are having all kinds of orgasms while I get none does make me itch a little inside. Irony. Or just a demonstration of the “divide by zero” nature of orgasm denial. At some level, logic fails.

Atone and I had an exchange about whether it’s better to know the length of time involved or not. Is staring down the throat of 566 days worse than just knowing it’s not today or tomorrow or next week?

I think this is going to be different for everyone. Personally, I don’t think of the period of denial as something I have to get through before I get to come again. It’s something I get to go through before I have to come again. And it’s so far away I can just live my life as though orgasms are not something I’m ever allowed to do ever. The one on Saturday was a good example of whatever conscious or subconscious combination of discipline in my head allows me to get fucked by her and not come “rounding up” and letting it happen since The Day was so close. If The Day is fixed in time off over the horizon somewhere and not a nebulous “not right now, maybe soon, maybe not,” for whatever reason, I find it’s usually easier to keep the natural response to the fucking at bay. That’s what works for me and us.

In a way, I think we’ve finally come to the logical extension of where we’ve been heading for the past four years. I like myself better when I’m not having orgasms. Both my attitude and affection and behavior are more Belle-focused and I feel more alive and invigorated with my arousal on a hair trigger. I think Belle likes me better this way, too. I have wanted and hoped Belle would take my orgasms away completely for a long time. And now, essentially, she has. Combining the period we’re in now with the one we just finished (and assuming there’s no accidents along the way), I will have had only two orgasms in over two years. If that turns into one every 18 months or so or none ever, I’m really OK with that. I can’t explain it and I’m not going to say it’s the logical extension of how everyone should play this game, but I couldn’t be happier with where we are right now.

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30

As you probably know, Belle previous said I would’t come until a “random date” in 2014. Tonight, we used a random number generator I found on teh Google and told it to pick a number between one and 52. Since Belle always does these things on a weekend (and nearly always on a Sunday), what we asked the site to do was pick which weekend of the year it would take place. Belle wanted to put a bunch of pieces of paper in a hat and make me pick, but you know, that’s a lot of work. Cutting, writing 52 numbers, etc. This was just one click. Presto.

The number was 30. That ends up being Sunday, July 27, 2014. Five-hundred fifty-nine days from today. Unless I screw up somewhere along the way.