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The first rule of Fight Club

The other week when the kids were at camp and Belle and I were alone, she offered me a night of whatever I wanted. All I had to do was tell her what that was.

Of course, I couldn’t. I couldn’t say what I wanted because, kinda like Santa Claus, once I said the truth the magic was gone. This is, obviously, very unfair to Belle. And counter-intuative. But it’s how I work. If I said, “do this and that,” then I would have a hard time accepting those things from her.

What I wanted was something like that one night we spent in a hotel last year. Major hot mostly because I didn’t really know what was happening at any given moment. It was all spontaneous on Belle’s part and it was fantastic. But, assuming she can’t pull a rabbit out of its funk every time, how are we to proceed? When the rare free night presents itself, how can we be sure to take whatever advantage Belle’s willing to let us have? Part of me thinks she should grok where I’m coming from since my kinks are well known to her now and we’ve had some practice at this stuff. Part of me also thinks we shouldn’t have to wait for special events to be able to indulge in a little quality time. But part of me also understands that none of this comes naturally to Belle.

Her idea was for me to write here what I wanted her to do. I can speak here more freely and more completely. I was supposed to do this a while back since this week is the last kid-free one we’ll have for a while, but I didn’t get around to it for whatever reason. Usually, when I know I have something to write for the blog, I’m anxious to write it, but this time I sat on it. And it, in turn, caused me to stop writing here almost altogether. I think my reticence is all tied up in the sub’s paradox of not wanting to be proscriptive but also needing to communicate their needs. I have needs, but relating them is hard. But let’s give it a shot.

In general terms, what I want it to lose control. To be tied up with my hands over my head and my feet to the footboard. To have the device taken off and the penis stroked until I can’t stand it anymore. And to be brought back to that place over and over. Until my high-level brain loses its ability to rationalize my desire not to orgasm and I truly need to come. Until I beg for it. And then, of course, I want her to not let me. To ice the penis into submission and lock it back up without ever letting me touch it.

Then I want to be hurt. Not too much, at first, but eventually quite a bit. I want angry red marks standing up from my skin. I want her to beat me and whip me and flog me and clamp my nipples and punch me in the nuts. We have a cane we’ve never used. I can imagine her gently hitting my ass and upper thighs with it before building ever so slowly to savage whipping that sends me falling deep into endorphin-fueled subspace. Where I stop pulling away and fearing each new fall of the cane and start to lean into them and crave them and feel the pain’s warm wave wash over me. I want her to build up a sweat from the effort of beating me. And I want to feel the sting of it every time I sit down for the next three days.

That’s what I want. And that’s what I can’t say. Because talking about the bubble makes it pop. Because this particular part of our relationship is a bit of theater. I need to buy the fiction that she hurts me because she values my suffering. Because she wants me to. I need to feel as though I’m giving her my pain in a reciprocal exchange. But I know she’s not a sadist. She doesn’t really like to hurt me. But she is a spouse willing to try to give me what I need. Unfortunately, it’s all so complicated.

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Wanting it

Had to take the JB off due to a sore spot. Nothing wrong with the device. It’s just what happens from time to time.

That meant, when Belle told me to give her an orgasm later that night, there was available erectile tissue at hand if she wanted it. At first, it didn’t look like she did (as usual), but after a little bit, she pushed my hand aside and climbed onto me. She guided the penis into her pussy and slid down on it. She moaned, I gasped.

Obviously, my biggest concern was coming before she was able to. I more or less let her drive and tried to keep the penis (now pretending to be a cock) in one position while she moved over it.

BASEBALL, I thought. With all my might, I thought about baseball. Green fields. Division standings. Etc. If I even twitched I felt the orgasmic mechanisms start to move, so I avoided twitching and tried not to think about how I was in her for the first time in six weeks. Batting averages. On-base percentages. Earned run averages. Statistics. Not how fucking amazing her hot wet pussy felt moving over the several million deprived nerve endings in the erection.

The trickiest bit is when she’s about to come. Her movements become faster and more dramatic. I pretended like it wasn’t my concern and just kept sucking on her nipples.

focusfocusfocusfocusfocus

Then it was over. She came. And I hadn’t! But holy shit, was I close.

As she laid on top of me, glowing, I tentatively moved the penis in and out three times.

“Who said you could do that?”

Freeze.

She moved off of me and the penis slapped back wetly. I pressed into her, whimpering just a bit.

“What do you want, Thumper?”

“I want to be inside you.”

“You just were.”

“Yeah, but I had to concentrate so hard I couldn’t really enjoy it.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

It took me hours to fall asleep and, even then, I had a hard time staying that way.

This morning, I was again up against her.

“What are you thinking, Thumper?”

“I want to be inside you.”

“You already were.”

“I know. I want to go inside you again.”

This time, she let me. She pulled her pajama pants off but left her top. This wasn’t about anything other then letting me get the penis wet.

And it did get wet. She was so fucking hot inside it almost burned and, since there was zero foreplay beforehand, she felt very tight. It felt glorious. I have no idea how long it went on because whatever place I was in mentally didn’t have a clock. All I know is I fucked and fucked and fucked. I broke out into a cold sweat from repeatedly racing up to the edge before backing off. Slower, faster, slower, stop. Repeat. When I started, I didn’t want to come. But I realized at some point that now I did. And badly. And the only thing in the world keeping me from thrusting the one and half more times it’d take to spurt was that Belle didn’t tell me I could.

When I finally put words to how I was feeling, she made me stop. The ride was over. No orgasm. But holy shit, did I want one. My head was swimming in the need for it. I felt like biting her and squeezing her and having my way with her. But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I thanked her and she told me to make her breakfast. So I did.

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The last thing I’ll ever post about “Fifty Shades of Grey,” I swear to god

A reader calling themselves Elle left this comment and I think it’s exactly what I was trying to say with my original post:

Of course Fifty Shades isn’t high brow literature. It’s not the best written, and there are surely faults. I found some. But then, I rarely read a book and get to the end and say “Everything about this was perfect!” My biggest disappointment from Fifty was that the kinkster had to have a traumatic background. Not the best message to send to the masses, but overall – the book has accomplished good things. In my opinion.

In my life personally? I recommended it to my best friends. And you know what? They loved it. Told me they liked their sex a little rougher than they’d ever hinted to me before. They even said, quite salaciously, *they liked to be spanked*. Wide-eyed but delighted by this information, I got brave and took the plunge. I told them I was kinky. That’s right! I told my best friends I was kinky, and it was all facilitated by this book. So maybe the way Fifty was written did some harm to the BDSM community’s image. But it surely also did a bit of good, even if we’d rather it were better.

Walking through Target this morning on a quest for children’s cough and cold elixir, I saw the entire series of books massed out at the end of a checkout aisle between packages of Oreos and The Avengers Blu-Ray preorder cards. I’m telling you, when books about kinky sex (even objectively bad ones) penetrate the popular culture to the level of blockbuster comic book movies and fucking Oreo cookies, it is a good thing.

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Shades other than the 50

According to the dear readers of this blog, Fifty Shades of Grey sucks. Here’s my question then: If you could choose the work of erotic literature with which to introduce the unsuspecting masses to the world of BDSM, what would it be? As I said in my other post, I’ve never read Fifty Shades but I’ve also not read much else other than a large number of pornographic ditties.

So let’s have it. What deserves the attention Fifty Shades is getting? What’s a better choice?

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Fifty shades of get over it

Over on The Facebook, I follow a technology website called The Verge. Great site. Probably one of the best tech sites on the web. This morning, they posted a link to an article about how Fifty Shades of Grey has become the top-selling series of books in the United Kingdom, surpassing the seven Harry Potter books. Along with the link, they added…

The correlation between popularity and quality grows ever weaker

Before I go any further, what correlation between quality and popularity?! It seems more often the case that things that are popular and of high quality are a happy accident than the norm. But I digress.

The article itself just covers the facts of the situation, but the comments are enlightening.

How sad…

I have no words to describe the sadness that I am feeling because of this.

Human kind has deteriorated.

I just died a little inside.

Etcetera, etcetera. It reminds me of the comments from the recent article on Karezza Tom pointed out. Discouraging.

Now, I haven’t read Fifty Shades because M/f dom/sub stuff just doesn’t do much for me. I’m more a little M kinda guy, after all. But I can’t think of anything better for those of us espousing non-traditional sexuality than this book. I mean, I’ve got boring, middle-aged hausfrau friends living in Connecticut reading this in their book clubs. Like, out in the open. And talking about it. With their friends. As a culture, we’re so hung up in our own fucking undies over sex that any popular work that helps thaw our icy Kegels has to be a good thing, high literature or not.

Four millions copies of these books have been sold in the UK alone since March. Imagine how many thousands of people may have been inspired by the story to open up to themselves and their partners about their own kinks. Something made somewhat more easy, I assume, since the work has been embraced by the popular culture. And if it leads to further interest in non-traditional erotic literature (like the works of Anne Rampling/Rice, for example), even better.

Fifty Shades makes being weird slightly less weird, so I don’t give a shit what it means to the Boy Who Lived. He defeated Voldemort, after all. He’ll get over it.

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Kidless morning

We’re kidless for the next six days. The boy went to camp last weekend for two weeks and the girl went today for a week. Of course, we will miss them. But still. No kids. A week. Imagine.

Personally, I expect to be naked a lot more than usual. This isn’t a sexual thing. It’s just how I prefer being. I’ve been naked most of the day (and am now) and the recent spat of nice weather has left the windows open and the gentle breeze rustling through my exposed body hair. There are few things better than that feeling (and it’s only improved upon by the combination of sunlight heating the skin at the same time).

Belle got back from dropping the girl off and we sat in bed, her reading the Times and me on my computer (having already pawed through the paper earlier). Her, fully clothed, me buck naked (except for the steel). We took a nap. Well, Belle took a nap. I tried to take a nap but couldn’t fall fully asleep. I let her sleep while I poked around on my phone.

Once awake, we laid there and snuggled and kissed and discussed the Jail Bird I’ve had on since yesterday. It’ll be going back to MM next week for the locking screw modification and I’m wearing it for a few days to make sure the fit and finish is all good. I have to say, even with the bulky lock in place, this device is loads better than the last one I wore. I’ll have lots more to say on this, of course, but the addition of the double A-ring has made it a much more comfortable device. The ring looks to be pretty much exactly the same size as the Steelheart’s, though it’s slightly ovoid and, with the double rings, much wider. Since the rings are 1/4″ wide, I had MM make the new cage a 1/4″ shorter than the last. Also, though I didn’t ask for this, MM put the locking post up on the ring so the top of the cage lines up with the top of the ring. (Lots more on the alignment of the cage and ring of a stock Jail Bird here.) Short story, I’m really digging the new JB and could imagine doing serious time in it. The old one, I could barely wear overnight.

Belle, though, doesn’t like the looks of it as much as she does the Steelheart. They are of two different aesthetics, that’s for sure. Belle said it was the difference between Apple and Dell, though I don’t think that’s entirely fair. The JB still has the Masterlock on it which, to my eye, ruins the lines of the thing. The bulky black square of the lock sticking off to once side does make it appear much more utilitarian and less sleek than the Steelheart. That’ll all be fixed soon enough, though.

Anyway, laying there, appraising my steel, kissing, etc. In another time, I’d be annoying and all over her trying to get into her pants. Even now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to, but I have been consciously trying to find satisfaction in how my frustration and desire resonates in me. Yes, I did want her. Badly. Her mouth tasted heavenly and the feeling of her soft, full lips on mine was intoxicating. Literally made me light-headed. But I wasn’t trying to be pushy. I wasn’t trying to make anything more than what was happening happen. I was enjoying my nakedness and her warmth and the time we were having.

“OK, fine,” she said, “You can give me an orgasm but then I have things to do.”

I was a little hurt. Her words and movement suggested I was being annoying. As if she was finally relenting so she could leave and be productive. I tried to tell her that wasn’t my intention, but she didn’t seem to believe me. I would have debated the point further, but by this time her pants were off and other things were jockeying for my attention. I remember thinking I may as well indulge if she was going to lay out the goodies.

I sucked and fingered her breasts and felt her hips gyrate as my caged manhood pressed into her. As I put my fingers into her hot wetness, I started to kiss her. I made a special point to make this more romantic. More like love making rather than just sex. I wanted her to know how much I loved her and appreciated the access she was giving me.

Eventually, as her snatch became more and more lubricated and her hips more and more animated, she pulled her mouth away and put her head back, visibly retreating into the pleasure I was giving her. This is my signal to stop and just get her the fuck off. I moved my face back to her breasts and concentrated on her movements and reactions to what I was doing. Finally, she pressed my hand down hard onto her pussy with hers and brought her other arm around my neck and squeezed. The Jail Bird was bursting with caged meat as I felt the pale echo of her orgasm washed over her.

After, as she was slowly uncoiling in afterglow, the knot of passion was still high in me. I forced it into neutral so as not to ruin her moment. Then, as she basked, I palpably felt the knot release in me. I hadn’t come. Of course I hadn’t. But somehow, my body responded to her afterglow. The frantic desire I held within fell back. Then again. Then I, too, was glowing. A kind of post-orgasmic warmth without the orgasm.

I thanked her for her orgasm. She said I was welcome. Then I held her, sleepily, until she decided that was enough. Then I wrote this.

I’ve included a sneak-peek of the new Jail Bird after the jump for those interested in such things.

Continue reading “Kidless morning”

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Leakage

One of the nice things about where I sit at my job is that I’m in an office with my screen facing away from the door. That’s convenient since I will sometimes tend the porn farm while on the clock. I don’t feel especially guilty about that since the clock is mine.

So yesterday, I was filling a few minutes before I needed to leave for a client meeting with a little Tumblr trolling and, I admit, got pretty worked up. It’s been about three weeks since Belle let me come, so no surprise there. I finished queuing up the smut, gathered my things, and walked out of the office (confident that the confines of the Steelheart made the still-stiff penis no more visible than usual). On my way out, I stopped off at the men’s room for a leak.

There’s a specific way this works when one’s penis is in a steel tube. On the way in, I grabbed a bit of paper towel to absorb excess liquid I’d shake out when finished. As the end of the stream approached, a different sensation took its place. Something akin to the feeling of needing to pee, but without the pressure of a bladder full of urine behind it. Very similar to what I feel when milking myself. It was the feeling of an engorged prostrate needing some relief.

Once the peeing was done, I bore down and flexed the internal muscles used for ejaculating. They’re a bit out of shape, but about three moderate slugs of milky goodness oozed down the penis and slowly, like ketchup leaving a bottle, dripped out of the tube. I held the towel to the opening and shook it, catching more of the silky substance.

Upon exiting my vehicle at my client’s office, I felt the distinct and tell-take cold trickle of more ejaculate on my left thigh. As I walked up to her office, I felt more of the stuff. I tried to make a few furtive glances down to see if the goo was soaking through my pants but didn’t see anything. We had our meeting. It was uneventful except that I kept thinking about the stuff on my leg.

Once it was over, I stopped in again at the men’s room on the way out. My pants showed nothing, but once I released the device from my underwear, I was hit by the pungent smell of male ejaculate. My balls were slimy with the stuff. Still have no idea how it dripped down my leg. I cleaned up the best I could, pulling on the tube and craving the ability to well and truly empty its contents, and then left.

The funny thing about this is that, yes, it was annoying and potentially embarrassing, but it’s also somehow exhilarating and fun. No, I would really rather not have my female client see a stream of semen soaking though the leg of my jeans, but being put into the position where it might happen was, I admit, kind of exciting. It’s not entirely unlike those times when the tube of the device is visible between my legs. I’m actually totally over that as a source of angst and take little action to disguise it. Am I unfairly pulling people into my kink whether they like it or not? Or am I just being who I am and letting them process what they glimpse in whatever way they like?

Hard to say.

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Mailbag

Matt Cook hasn’t had an orgasm in seven months, and he hopes never to intentionally have one again.

Now that’s an opening line. Certainly one that will grab my attention. It comes (ahem) from an article found by the inimitable Tom Allen in which the practice of Karezza is described. Kareeza, also know as “coitus reservatus”, is described by Wikipedia as “a form of sexual intercourse in which the penetrative partner does not attempt to ejaculate within the receptive partner, but instead attempts to remain at the plateau phase of intercourse for as long as possible avoiding the seminal emission.”

The article on Matt Cook wasn’t the first time I’d heard of Karezza, though. I received the following from reader Athena an embarrassingly long time ago:

I would be very appreciative to read a mans view, in particular your view regarding “Coitus Reservatus” or aka Karezza. I’m requesting this because you’re very gifted at expressing yourself in a manner that is easily understandable for your Female readers.

I want to approach the topic with my boyfriend, as I’ve been researching the practice lately. But finding contemporary and relative articles has been a challenge.

Would you agree that Karezza can be, for some the next step in the progression of chastity within a relationship?

I’m not sure I’d compare Karezza to enforced male chastity for a couple of reasons. First, chastity is, as we practice it, more than incidentally about power exchange. It’s a form of BDSM. Karezza, as I understand it, has no element of power exchange whatsoever. The man willingly controls his orgasm to promote the “deepest human affection.” Secondly, it sounds is if there is regular penetration by the man (and some kind of preternatural ability to avoid orgasm on his part). In my experience, the penis rarely gets wet, especially for recreational fucking without possibility of orgasm (alas). Of course, the end product of both is similar. The girl comes and the guy doesn’t. The resulting feelings and attitude of the man are likely very similar, but the getting there is all different.

But that doesn’t mean I disagree with you that it (or some form of it) could be a “next step in the progression of chastity within a relationship” for some. Honestly, I’ve felt for a while now that I was doing this chastity thing all wrong. I want to be denied. I do not want to come. Oh, I do, from time to time, get the urge and feel the need and she does let me, but immediately afterward I invariably wish I hadn’t. Even as I’m building toward the orgasm, in the back of my head I’m hoping she won’t let me. In all the hawt chastity porn, the man is desperate for orgasm all the time and his evil wife is constantly dangling the possibility out there but rarely letting him have it. That’s not me. I want to be denied and denied and denied. I’ve felt this way for a long time and, I recall, when I first said on this blog that I didn’t like having an orgasm as much as not having one, some readers suggested I was Doing It Wrong. Perhaps my denial has led me to a place not unlike where practitioners of coitus reservatus find themselves. Like Matt, I’d be happy if Belle told me I would never intentionally come again.

So yeah, the idea of coitus reservatus does appeal to me, but the lack of any kind of domination or submission doesn’t. I am where Matt Cook is, mostly. But I still want the D/s, bondage, and masochism. I’m a kinky bastard, after all.

Anonymous said:

After few months with playing with CB-6000 and some doubts, my wife came to conclusion, that she like benefits of using chastity device (short term, not permanent), but not the device itself. Reason – tube-like shape and imagination of everything inside swollen, sweaty, and without much ventilation, works for her rather as a turn off. We looked for some cage-like devices, but I still don’t get it – how to take it off with full erection, while most of them (all?) has closed, one-piece rings? I know the ordinary method (one potato, two potato, weenie to get in, and backwards to take it off), but HOW, when my precious member, when full erected, is pointing straight at my face, when I look at him? is it even possible to take off the ring with an erection?

If the ring is fitted correctly, you can’t get it off when you’re hard. Impossible. But, (again) if it’s fitted correctly, you probably don’t really need to. At least that’s my experience. The A-ring of the Steelheart, when left on, is like an almost but not quite too tight cockring. It has the benefit of making the penis’ erection a tad larger and it gives me a bit more staying power (plus, it’s kinda uncomfortable which pushes my masochism buttons). I’m not sure that a device without the integrated lock would work as well, though. My Jail Bird has a post sticking out for the lock to engage the cage and, while we’ve never tried it, it’s likely that the post would poke Belle.

My advice: Figure out a way to get the ring off before you’re too hard and/or make a fun little game of defeating the erection so the ring can come off (bag of ice water on the cock, for instance).

Beth said:

I’ve never commented but I’ve enjoyed reading your blog immensely for the last year or two. I was hoping I could get a piece of advice. I’m a lady in a 5+ year relationship with a handsome gentleman- I’d say he’s a switch/sub and I’m a sub/switch. We’ve been doing light BDSM play for 2-3 years now but in a couple of weeks we’ve decided to try a 24 hour power exchange since it’ll be the first time we’ll see each other in 3 months (!). I’ll be domming but as we’ve never done anything like this for more than an hour or 2 I figured I’d ask if you had any particular “care and keeping” advice.

From our earlier play I know some of the standard considerations (plenty of conversations ahead of time, sit down in an uncharged situation before to revisit soft/hard limits, yellow/red safeword system, have quick access necessary safety equipment (trauma shears for rope play, etc), plenty of downtime afterward to process and recharge and snuggle) but a scenario of this length is new territory for both of us and I imagine there are things I haven’t thought of. Should I try to break scene every few hours to check in or is that too disruptive to the “subspace”? We’re both very much looking forward to this and I just want to make sure it goes as smoothly as is reasonable to expect.

Beth, to me it sounds like you’re doing everything right. All that communication up front is so critical and it sounds like you’ve done it in spades. With regard to breaking the scene, if I were in his position and had the requisite safewords, etc., I wouldn’t want you too. The more time spent deeply in the subspace, the better.

Your handsome gentleman is lucky to have such a thoughtful and considerate top.

John said:

Recently got in to chastity with my partner. Actually, he complained about my spanking the monkey too much and sort of took matters into his own hands. I am currently locked in a Bon4. Hoping for a jailbird or steel heart soon. I had reservations at first, but have since found it fucking awesome to hold back. The longest time so far is 5 days. He teases me mercilessly while i am locked up. We had to do some experimentation with different ring sizes, lubes, underware, etc., but thanks to the advise on your blog, things have improved significantly. Just wanted to say thanks for the awesome blog, and keep up the good work.

Have I mentioned how hot I find the idea of gay male chastity? Sweet Jesus. I’m glad things are going well for you guys, John. Send pictures. Really.

I apologize to those who sent in feedback. It took me far too long to get to it all this time around.

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How I should be

Got home Saturday after three days on the road. I love these trips, but the getting there and back is grueling. Before the sun went down, Belle was already saying I needed to go back in to the steel. Not until Sunday, though.

Sunday morning, she was up early getting the boy ready to leave for camp. I wanted some fun, but it wasn’t to be. By midmorning, I had the Steelheart back in place. But, you may be thinking, didn’t I have a new Jail Bird waiting for me? Yes, I did, but it wasn’t right. I ordered it with a security screw and it came with a hole for a regular little padlock. I tried it with the one and only little padlock we still have from the old CB6K days but it was one of those black Masterlocks with the plastic shell and it made the unit too bulky. It was quite visible poking through my sweats. Also, I’m not a big fan of the way the lock sits sideways on the JB.

I don’t really consider the screw omission to be Mature Metal’s fault entirely. The order started as an email exchange about getting a new base ring, the more observant of you might remember, and it evolved into a whole new device after several messages sent back and forth. We ended up using a non-standard channel for the order and they missed a detail. Had it gone through their site, I’m sure it would have been right. In any event, it’s going back to get screwed.

By Sunday night, Belle and I had found some personal time. Naked, I laid close to her with my head down on her chest while she fingered my sack and basically drove me crazy. She asked me how I was doing being back in and I, in that state with that sensation, would have told her anything. I said I was glad to be back in. I was happier that way. I told her how I never got used to having a normal penis during the trip. Each time I took a leak it felt weird handling a soft flap of meat rather than a steel tube. And in the morning, the unencumbered erection was a distraction. I felt like I was cheating somehow. It was wrong. She told me I was suited to being locked up. That it was how I should be. Then she let me get her off.

When it was over, I was amazingly turned on. The tube throbbed with beat of my heart, bit into my nascent erection and pulled on my nuts. I wanted…something. Not to be out, but to be out. Not to fuck her, but to fuck her. Not to come, but to come. All the conflicting and otherwise contradictory urges that come with the denial of orgasm.

I’m on my third day back in the steel and it feels like I was never out. Belle’s right. This is how I should be.