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Unnecessary hardness

The conversation with my friend lasted past midnight. By the time I got home, it was 12:30 and I was exhausted. I set up Belle’s coffee for the morning and plopped into bed. And laid there. And laid there some more. I cursed my hormonal state and tried to think about things that usually make me go to sleep, but no dice. Every time I moved, I could feel the penis shift or graze the sheets and the small flame in my brain would flare briefly and refuse to extinguish. Two o’clock ticked by. Three o’clock. I may have fallen asleep sometime between 4:00 and 5:00, but it was useless restless sleep and Belle was up around 5:15. That was that. Just another night in the life of the habitually denied.

Yesterday was awful. I had the trainer at 7:00 and it was the worst session since I started going. Even worse than the first few when I was certain death was descending upon me. I struggled through that and the rest of the day, slogging zombie-like though meetings and the young one’s choir concert until bedtime. As exhausted as I was, it was our last night together for two weeks. The penis was out. I was super horny. I had high hopes that she’d let me come. Unfortunately, I was grumpy.

Of course, it had been nearly 40 hours since I last slept, so the random bullshit of life was annoying me and Belle was spending a lot of time doing small things elsewhere while I was thinking about using toothpicks to keep my eyelids open. By the time she got to bed, my tone was decidedly un-bunny-like. Thankfully, she persisted until I snapped out of it. Going to bed mad that night would have created very bad juju indeed.

After some talking about my trip and a few other things (like my friend, whose new insight into our relationship she didn’t know about until then), she pulled up her top and told me I could give her an orgasm. I rubbed my face against her breasts in my sleep-deprived stupor, feeling her nipples graze against my nose and lips. Heaven.

“How do you want to come?” I asked dreamily.

“In the usual manner.”

“The penis is right here,” I pushed its hardness against her thigh to help demonstrate its proximity and preparedness.

“I know.”

“…” Gah!

“I’ve come to appreciate your other talents.”

So that’s that then. I was there, hard and unlocked, with my wife whose historical preferences strongly leaned toward penetrative pleasure, and she was choosing my fingers. My built-in equipment was redundant and not preferred.

“And you’re not going to come.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope. And I don’t want you coming while you’re gone.”

“Oh. I was sure you were going to let me come tonight.”

“I know.”

So then I got her off. The penis was throbbing but the best it got was rubbing up against her leg while my fingers danced across her clitoris and my tongue flicked across her nipple. It was painful. As her desire rose and her hips moved against my hand, palpable sensory phantoms of the penis sinking into her hot wetness flashed like bombs in my head. I wanted in her so bad. I wanted to fuck. The craving for an orgasm was ringing though me. The lizard of my sexuality roared in its cage but the rabbit was in control and, though sweating profusely, made sure I performed my part of our sexual dynamic so that Belle’s satisfaction was maximized.

After she came and while she was basking in the afterglow, I moaned pitifully with the stupid stiff penis quivering against her.

“That’s not going to move me, you know.”

“I really want to be inside you. I really want to come.”

“You’re not going to.”

After a few quiet moments, she got up to use the bathroom and left me to clutch the unnecessary hardness. I laid across the warmth of the spot where she just came trying to catch any lingering energy she may have left behind.

“Move over.”

I did and then moved back, clutching her from behind and holding her and smelling her and needing her.

“I don’t want to you staying up all night tomorrow looking at porn. You need to rest before your long drive.”

“But I like porn.”

“I know.”

I pressed into her more intently. Jesus god, the desire was incredible within me.

“You can stay there as long as you’re not annoying. If you don’t behave, I’m sending you to the other side of the bed.”

I stopped squirming as best I could. We laid there, breathing together. I was still raging inside, but the massive bulk of sleeplessness was crushing my desires, compressing them into diamonds.

“Thank you, Belle Fille. Thank you for giving me what I need instead of what I ask for.”

“I know you, Thumpie. Good night.”

“Good night.”

And I slept.

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Bean spilling

I have a couple friends with whom, regardless of time apart, I can fall into conversation with as if we did it every day. One is the boy I kinda sorta dated during high school and after who ended up being the best man in my wedding and the other is a friend I met though work twenty-some years ago (and to even be able to write a sentence with that kind of time span in it freaks me out). Last night, she was in town on business. It happens somewhat infrequently, but we ended up having a lot of one-on-one time. I suppose I should come up with a name for her, but I can’t think of anything at the moment so she’s just “her.”

So anyway, we spent a lot of time taking about our personal lives and how they’ve evolved over the years. Both of us happened to fall in love with married people at about the same time, though the outcomes were very different, so there was much catching up and comparing of experiences. Also, after I first moved to this city, I wrote a lot. I did this because I was an angst-filled youth in a new town with no friends and not even a TV. There was time, so I wrote. Not unlike how I write now, but that was all fiction while none of this is. I used to send it to her to read back then. This was, of course, before the internet. We’re talking wood pulp marked with petroleum-based ink being manhandled by government workers.

In any event, she asked me a couple times if I still wrote and I gave sort of mumbling noncommittal answers. She even suggested I was writing in secret which was either very perceptive or a lucky guess, but she eventually pressed me by saying, “You don’t even have a blog or anything?”

“Oh, I have a blog.” What? How are you going to explain this, bunny boy?

I guess I thought I’d just say it was secret and leave it at that, but over the years we had shared very personal details about ourselves and she was having none of it. She wanted to know what it was about and why was it a secret. I told her it was started immediately after Belle and I had issues in our marriage and it detailed our relationship. She pressed some more. I said it also described my evolving sexuality. She said she knew I was queer and I said there’s a lot more to sexuality than gender preferences. Finally, I told her reading the blog was not unlike cracking open my head and peering into the most intimate and private part of my brain. And that there were explicit pictures. Of me.

She was perturbed. She felt I was keeping it a secret, even then, because I didn’t have faith in her and didn’t think she could handle what she saw there. I tried to explain that it was not that at all. That not everyone wants to know the kinds of things I say here about the people they associate with. I have many friends whose sex life I’m not even remotely interested in and frankly don’t want to hear about. My reticence in divulging the blog and its contents were out of respect for her right not to know everything about me. But she wasn’t buying it. Then I got nervous.

It’s not that this blog is embarrassing to me. It’s not. Really. This is who I am and I have no issues with it, but there are only two people I know of who know me personally who also know about this blog (and I’m married to one of them). Widening that circle is sort of a big deal. Also, it’s not just about me. Belle’s in here, too. At this point, I maintain my secret identity mostly out of respect for her.

In the end, I spilled my guts. Everything. We discussed my perversions, we discussed the relationship dynamic, we talked hardware, she knows I haven’t come in a month. The sky did not fall. There were many questions and I was forthcoming with answers to them all. We have very different life perspectives, but we respect one another and (I assume) her opinion of me is safe (but there are almost 700 posts here for her to read, so we’ll see how that goes).

So now there are three people who know (you know, not counting the teeming horde of you guys who come and read my drivel).

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Triple play

Belle gave me the key this morning which was a bit of a shock. I didn’t think she’d let me have it until tonight for some reason. The unexpected freedom meant I could stroke the penis while tending to the porn farm (where, by the way, I found out I couldn’t queue more than 301 images at a time). There was some dribbling but nothing approaching orgasm.

Being out and totally unencumbered is an odd feeling after sporting steel for so long. I’ve said in the past how it seems to fuse to my body and become part of it as opposed to a separate object. At least, that’s how it feels when I’m in the right place and enjoying it. Being out this morning left me feeling…well, naked. As I was putting the Steelheart away, I found an old three piece triple cock ring (kind of like this one) and decided to put it on. It’s not a long term item since the ring that goes around the penis shaft is just a little too small when the penis gets stiff, but it felt better having some metal around me (even if popping my nuts through the rings caused nuclear powered winces).

Getting dressed, I decided to go commando. It’s a treat I don’t often get with the device because it needs some support. I find freeballing for too long causes irritation around the ring, but I wasn’t wearing heavy steel today so I went for it. The unexpected consequence was a riot of sensation where there’s usually very little. The cock ring makes the penis sit up and out more than it would normally and that in turn causes it come into more frequent contact with the inside of my jeans. Along with the penis’ newly hatched sensitivity after three weeks in the tube, walking around has become an invigorating activity, to say the least, and has made me thankful for my untucked shirttails.

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Left to drip

I get out tomorrow. Belle’s on another trip and she told me before she left that I’d be out on Wednesday. That’ll end three weeks of being locked up. No idea if being out means I’ll get to come, though I really hope she’ll let me get her off one more time before we’re apart again. I’m leaving for a ten day trip on Saturday and will get back just before Memorial day. It’s one of my long summer camping trips and, while I have been able to do it locked before, Belle’s letting me out in this instance. If I get to come, then it’ll be about four or five weeks since the last time (I can’t remember exactly when it was). If not, it’ll be like eight weeks before the next opportunity presents itself. I assume I won’t be allowed to do so while gone.

In any event, before she left, Belle gave me access to her snatch and the activity left me feeling pretty charged up to put it mildly. After she came, I was laying against her, my leg over hers, grinding the device into her thigh and softly moaning/whining.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she said lazily.

Desperation. My nuts ached and I told her but she only said that’s how they were supposed to feel. I’m not sure the penis ever got soft before I eventually fell asleep. Then she left on her quick trip leaving me to drip. Sunday night, I tended the porn farm late into the night and had a very difficult time sleeping. Last night, not quite so bad but the penis is waking me frequently. I’m in Tumblr overload trying to load up the queue before I leave. Not sure I can get two weeks worth in there to post automatically while I’m gone, but I’m trying.

Here at the blog, things are likely to be pretty quiet for a bit. I have an HNT set up, but unless I need to post again before I leave, it’ll be almost June before I can get back to it.

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All natural

Saw this on the interwebs today.

And I’m thinking…really? Cambridge scientists? If you follow the ad, it’s trying to sell you some kind of testosterone boosting supplement. Whatever.

I got all the supplement I need right here…

Yes, I am grabbing my crotch when I say that.

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Further adventures at the gym

At the gym this morning, the trainer had me do tricep curls. That’s where you hold a bar connected to a cable connected to weight with both hands, keeping your forearms straight out from your waist and your elbows steady at your side and pull down to your thighs. I did it and heard…

KLANK

The bar hit the device. Lined up perfectly. Fuck. Rep number two. Be careful.

KLANK

Goddamn it! Number three.

clink

That’s better. After that, I figured out how to change my stance so my leg took the hit and not the tube. No idea if the trainer heard the noise or thought anything of it.

Later in the session, he had me doing a Superman. That’s where you lay on your stomach and pull your legs, arms and chest off the ground, holding them up and out. Like Superman flying. Anyway, new mats today. These are like thin memory foam. After the exercise, I stood up and saw a perfect impression of the Steelheart’s lock and tube pressed into the mat. Like a fucking picture. I stood on it for a few seconds, feigning a rest, until I figured my footprint had crushed the bas relief out of the foam.

It’s almost a given that, sooner or later, this dude’s going to bust me.

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Reentry

Getting back into the swing of things now. It takes a bit of adjustment having Belle back. I’m not able to stay up all night abusing myself and looking at porn. I’m once again locked up beyond my control, not because I want to be that way but because she wants it. She did allow me to get her off on Saturday, but I’m wanting more. Last night was spent nuzzling into her, hard penis straining against the steel. I wanted her. In no particular way. Just wanted. Her breasts, her snatch, her everything. I wanted to feel the strain of my desire against the device and at the same time wanted to thrust it into her. I wanted to eat her and lick her and fuck her, but she said wanting rather than getting was good for me. She said she had no idea how long I was going to be locked up and she wouldn’t tell me even if she did.

She fell asleep stroking the hair in my armpit. I fell asleep somewhat later, still thrumming and happy to have her there with me.

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Harry gets it

I was cruising the chastity blogs and found myself on Harry Haversackers’. A couple of weeks ago, he had this to say:

[I]s teasing really on the same level as put-it-in-her-pussy-and-blow-your-load sex??  I guess everyone has to answer that question for themself.  For me, at this stage in my life, it’s better.  Way better.  The daily fondling of my balls as my cock throbs in its cage, or experiencing frequent blow jobs that end just a nanosecond before it’s too late, is miles ahead of a “not tonight, dear” and a quick kiss before rolling over to go to sleep.  And the bonus is that I wake up as horny as a goat every morning!  No post-orgasm refractory period.  Best of all, there has been a steep rise in intimacy between Mrs. H.  We get along better, kiss more passionately, cuddle more, and she offers me her magnificent tits to fondle way more often…

Yes! That’s it exactly. I don’t suppose it’s possible for someone who hasn’t lived like that to understand, but being brought to the point of orgasm over and over and then staying there for a long time is way more enjoyable (for some of us) than going all the way to squirtsville. But why? And if it’s so obvious, why doesn’t the whole world practice orgasm denial?

I think some of the answer is earlier in Harry’s post where he mentions his age. It’s not universally true, but it does seem like most couples doing this are in their forties or later. Most have been married a while. Not all. Most (if, at least, the blogs and forum comments are to be believed). The problems in our marriage were evident, but I didn’t realize how much my libedo had changed prior to being denied. According to the internets, this process can start for men as early as their twenties, but usually begins in their thirties. I recall being in my late teens and fucking like an absolute rabbit (hence the nickname). One day, my girlfriend and I had sex like six times. I remember how bad it hurt just to come (and how it was all muscle flexing and no ejaculation by that point). It was, in a word, awesome. Who doesn’t want to feel like that?

I don’t know how it is for women, but a man’s constant companion from puberty on is his sex drive. It becomes part of a guy’s identity. It helps produce (or is the product of) high levels of hormone. Testosterone is like a wonder drug. Having it means feeling alive. Not having it means feeling old. So, in a way, denial of orgasm is a way to at least feel like you did in your teens and twenties. It makes you young again.

Layer on top of that how it can rejuvenate a relationship. The denier can become the center of the denied’s universe. If, as Harry points out, the one being denied is only being denied orgasm, not the affections of the denier and not other sexual stimulation that in that past might have ended with mutual orgasm. I can’t recall where I read it, but I recently saw someone again use the word “celibacy” to describe a denied man’s condition. No! A thousand times, no. Locking up a dude and then making him celibate is like a fucking prison sentence. Locking up a dude and then teasing him unmercilessly is heaven.

Which gets back to the point Harry made that I agreed with so much. The one that can be controversial even in the community of orgasm denied men. The one that, in a way, punctures the premise of so many wank stories. Being teased and left wanting orgasm is actually better than fucking and being allowed to come. Being denied is the point of the exercise. It makes you feel like a kid again. It makes you desire your partner more. It can make any number of things better. Orgasm is fantastic for about 6.2 seconds, but when it’s done, you’re human again. You can lose interest in sex. It can remind you that you’re getting old. It’s kinda like kryptonite.

I’m sure I’ve said things here that will annoy some. I’m sure to some I sound crazy or too strident or…I don’t know. Too something. I’m not saying (and have never really believed) that living with orgasm denial is the One True Way. But is it a way with some fantastic benefits. I think the world would be a better place if more couples tried it.

Knowing what I (and, apparently, Harry) know now, I’d never want to go back to living permanently with free orgasms again. They’re just not worth it.