Tag: BDSM

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Nope

We were at a nice restaurant last night. Unexpectedly, both the kids were away so we got a surprise date night.

“You thought I was going to let you out this weekend,” Belle said over the caesar and crab cakes, “You said so on the blog.”

“Yes,” I replied, “You dropped hints. You practically told me you were going to let me out.”

“What did I say?” she asked.

“I don’t remember specifically, but hints were dropped. Several of them.”

“Well, whatever I may have said, you misinterpreted it.”

“Really?” Fork full of romaine paused in mid-flight.

“Yes.”

“So I’m not getting out?”

“No.”

Pause. “I thought I was. This weekend.”

“Nope.”

Pause. “And you knew I thought this and you just let me go ahead thinking it?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

Damn.

Looking at the calendar, it’s entirely unlikely I’ll be out in either of the next two weekends. That means I will have been left in the device for over two months at least. At one point, she mentioned our anniversary in mid-October as a goal but she also mentioned my birthday which is in early September. At any rate, it seems as though I need to get any idea of release out of my mind since it’s not happening soon and nothing she says on the matter can be trusted.

—

Back at the ranch, with the candles lit and me naked as directed, I started to get into bed before she stopped me. I hadn’t asked permission. Bad boy. I asked and she let me in.

I knelt on the bed before her, the device that was not coming off glinting softly, and she pulled out the handcuffs. She ratcheted them down tightly, but not too tightly. Then she brought out my collar. Ooooooh, my collar! I love that thing. She hadn’t put it on me in so long. I dropped my head and she attached it snugly around my throat.

“Now you know how the dog feels,” she said.

Whimper.

Finally, she brought out the Japanese butterfly clips. She pulled my nipples out with her fingers so the clips would grab a fat chunk of meat. So there I was, caged, collared, cuffed and clipped. Bliss.

I nuzzled into her with my face, awkwardly trying to balance with my wrists chained together. I wanted to smell her, feel her. Kiss her. I kissed her neck, her jaw, her chin – her beautiful lips were right there – when she yanked down on the chain between the clips, pulling me with them. Yes, it hurt, but it was all the really good kind of hurt. I was so there. So ready to be abused.

She released the chain and I started back up her body, trying again for the kiss. She pulled me back again, this time I didn’t even make it to her neck. Several more times we did this – me going up, her pulling me back down – before she finally let me get to her mouth. The kissing was all the more fantastic for the waiting. For the work it took to get there. Between my legs, the heavy tube strained to rise, plump full of cock.

She directed me to the side of the bed. She got up and walked around to where I was. I felt the suede lashes gently run down the length of my back and over my ass. Then, the opposite journey, up over my ass then toward my shoulders. Gentle. Soft. A warning.

Lightly at first, so I could get used to the sensation, I felt the flogger fall across my upturned ass cheeks and upper thighs. I arched my back to bring my ass even further up, but in doing so unwittingly exposed my nutsack so that when she hit me with the first really strong stroke, the lashes also found my balls. I don’t know if she meant to do that, but the full force of the flogger striking my sack – already pulled tight by the erection filling the tube – made me see stars and scream into my pillow.

She alternated back and forth between the flogger and the crop. I was free to cry out as loudly as I wanted since the house was empty. It stung (especially the really hard blows), but the pain – all of it – was warm and almost soothing, in a way. More than once, my reaction to the blows caused the cock to flex and I felt slugs of precum travel down the compressed meat. I was so. Fucking. Loving it. As usual, I lost track of time. Also as usual, as soon as she was done, I wanted more. More and more and more. And harder. I still don’t know how deep I can go when I feel like that. When the pain is all good and I’m really humming. What’s my limit?

Mind you, I’m not complaining. I loved it. Every second. And I love her for doing it for me.

She backed me out by again running the flogger lightly over my back and ass. Then she uncuffed me. Then, sadly, the collar came off. Finally, the clips came off the nipples. Twin flares of pain shot up as the little jaws unclamped. I laid next to her as we went to bed. Loving her. Adoring her. Wanting to fuck her so goddamn badly. I told her so.

“I’ll let you know when you’ve earned it,” she replied sleepily.

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The one without a title

I asked Belle last night if she only keeps me locked up because she thinks I want it. For instance, if I said I really didn’t care one way or the other about the chastity thing, would she still keep me in the device? Or what if I said I’d really rather not be in the device, but was leaving up to her if we’d still use it, would she leave me in?

Yes, she would leave me in. She likes me in it and has no intention, apparently, of it not being an integral part of our relationship. That made me feel good, not just because I also like it, but because the suggestion here recently that I’m inadvertently (or not) dominating her through my kinks has been bothering me.

To recap, I seem to have three main kinks:

  1. Masochism
  2. Bondage
  3. Sexual submissiveness

Belle, it should be noted, does not have the opposite of any of these. She’s not a sadist and she’s not interested in being anyone’s domme. I’m quite sure none of these things were ever on her radar prior to my bringing them up.

Note that “enforced male chastity” is not on my list of kinks. I left it off because I think it’s an expression, to one degree or another, of the other three. I don’t think of it as a kink in an of itself. When Belle places me in chastity, there’s a moderate amount of both physical and mental suffering which feeds my masochism. I’m denied access to parts of my body which feeds my desire for bondage. Finally, control over my orgasm (or even my ability to self-gratify) fits neatly into my submissive tendencies.

So, you can imagine how happy I am to hear that she’s also really into keeping me locked up because it’s where my kinks intersect with her interests. It’s our unexpected common ground and she’s there because she wants to be. In fact, I probably couldn’t talk her out of being there if I wanted to (short of opting out entirely from the arrangement, something she knows I don’t want to do).

Of course, I still really want to be tied up and bound on occasion, I’m still pretty much a pain slut, and I love to feel like she’s in total control of our sexual relationship. Any desires I have beyond the chastity to indulge these passions fall outside her normal operating zone. Going there for her is sometimes uncomfortable and threatening.

I admit there is within me a conflict when it comes to asking for special attention to my kinks when I’m supposed to be the sub. Subs aren’t supposed to ask for things. They’re only supposed to gratefully accept what their dominant partner gives them. But what about when their partner isn’t dominant? It’s because of this internal struggle that any charge that I’m topping from below causes me to immediately assume a defensive position. I do the very best I can never to do this. In fact, not wanting to be too prescriptive is what caused me to suggest to her to reach out to the readers here for advice.

Asking her to follow me into the darker recesses of my sexuality has caused me a great deal of guilt and embarrassment. If you don’t understand that, then you’re probably one of those people who embraced your kinks from a young age and have never had to reveal them to an otherwise vanilla partner. Good for you. However, that’s not me. I thought I was more or less over those feelings, but I have to admit that I’ve been feeling them again lately. “Topping from below” to me means “asking them to do something they don’t want to do” which, in turn, immediately throws my weirdness into sharp relief. Hence the guilt, shame, etc.

No, I do not think I’m weird. I know now that everyone is weird, to one degree or another. I’m not even sure the word “kink” means anything anymore. But our societal conditioning runs deep. And I know Belle. And I feel bad asking her to indulge me. And I feel worse when she tries and fails. And I feel even worse when it’s suggested I’m being unfair to her.

I have no idea where I’m going with this. I should probably just stop. The fact remains that our relationship is strong and we continue to learn and evolve together. I can’t ask for much more than that.

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Bottom topper

The other day, I asked for suggestions as to how Belle could approach her freaky-deaky husband as a woman who did not share or otherwise “get” where he was coming from with regard to his freaky and/or deaky proclivities. I did this for Belle and with her understanding because I prefer to think of this blog as a two-way street where I can dump info but also pick it back up from others.

As I said in that post, the deal was she had tried to do a little sumthin’ for me even though she was tired and probably should have just gone to sleep. I didn’t enjoy it and she figured that out and then we were left with the stale smoke of confusion and hurt feelings hanging over the bed all night.

The prevailing thought of those who left comments seems to be that I, as the submissive side of the couple, was topping from below by 1) saying that I wasn’t enjoying what she was doing, and 2) suggesting that she needed to enhance her repertoire of Thumper-centric activities. I honestly don’t understand that POV.

Let’s assume that I, not really being in the mood for nipple clipping and ball smacking, hadn’t made my discomfort known. Then, let’s assume she escalated the activity to include even more intense play, all the while I was suffering and really not enjoying myself. Then let’s say I was forced to use my safeword. Is that topping from below? Can calling an end to a scene that’s not going well for me seriously be considered the most egregious thing a sub can do?

This kind of thing has happened before.

I understand the position I’m in as the submissive. I get that I’ve ceded control over what happens to her. I like that. But surely I haven’t abdicated all responsibility for giving my partner feedback as to what things I like and what things I don’t. I do intuitively understand the difference between those things that are uncomfortable, painful, and push my boundaries but are still on the right side of a healthy dynamic versus those that aren’t. Is anyone suggesting I should just take it all, no matter how it feels to me?

The other night was just a bad idea. She wasn’t all that much invested in the scene. To me, it felt like she was just going though the motions because she was obliged to do so. That turned me off and made it impossible for me to enjoy it. I know it’s complicated and I know that to Belle this could be perceived as mixed signals. I don’t know what to do about that. I can only say how I feel and trust that we’ll figure it out (as we have in the past).

I’m not writing this post to drop the smack-down on my readers who left their opinions. I want those opinions, even if I don’t agree with them or understand where they’re coming from, because it’s only through this kind of dialog that I can form my own.

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Eminent domain

In the beginning, I gave Belle the cock. Not only the cock, but everything associated with it including my balls, all the fluids they produced, and any opportunity to use those things to achieve sexual pleasure. So, it made some sense that she’d then – just last week – claim control over my ass. It is, after all, how I gain access to my prostate which is yet another part of the system I had already given to her. No, I hadn’t specifically given her that very special gland, but it is an integral part of the rest and so closely related to the production of the system’s output and my sexual pleasure, that I’m sure any court would have agreed and said she was well within her rights to regulate my access to it.

But how can I square all that with her latest land grab? Last night, she told me I wasn’t allowed to play with my nipples without her permission (where, of course, “play with” means “torture”, “abuse”, and “reduce to quivering puddles of painful pleasure”). So yeah, what’s up with that? They’re, like, two feet (or something) from the cock and not physically connected in any way. Well, except for how what happens to them directly affects the status of the cock and how much of the tube’s interior volume it’s trying to occupy. And how the pain stimulus feeds some kind of direct endorphine-like current deep into my brain in such a way as to make my mouth go slack and my eyes defocus. And how, even as the most intensely torturous, twisty, biting and burning abuse I think the plump pink meat can stand before ripping right off my body is inflicted upon them, not only is the sensation immediately converted to raw pleasure but I’m driven to stretch their tender and bruised little beings right back into the waiting jaws of the vicious little clamps I got from fucking Old Navy, of all places, and…and…*GASP!*

Yeah. OK. I can see her point. She’s not just in control of the cock or the ass or the nipples or, in fact, any one physical aspect of my body. She’s claiming control over every expression of my sexuality. And yes, as she points out, this is the logical extension of what I wanted when I first gave her the cock. What else should I expect? If she’s going to do it, she may as well do it right.

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Meat this!

Tom’s got another meaty one. (Perverts. Post. He’s got a meaty post.)

I’m going to start by highlighting the bit I especially loved.

[B]eing locked up does not make me feel less manly, less assertive, less randy, or less anything. It makes me feel … more.

Way. In my experience, denial is like turning the saturation way up on a TV. When it’s really humming, it makes all my senses crackle. It’s a beautiful thing. Regular readers will know that I don’t always feel this way and sometimes being denied does result in me feeling less, but I think that’s more a result of Belle and I still getting a hang of all the buttons and switches (overlaid with the normal ebbs and flows of the human psyche) than it is the fault of the denial.

And who in fuck’s name would want to feel less? Can that even be a thing? Getting off on feeling less? Anyway…

Tom goes on to say:

Personally, I’ve been reading so much about what people consider to be “submission” and “submissiveness” that I have decided to disassociate myself from the term altogether; virtually nothing of what I’ve been reading seems to apply to me, so instead of trying to defend my own submissiveness, or more correctly, those certain feelings that I get that I used to associate with submissiveness, I’m just going to move on to some other scale and call it something else. Or maybe I won’t call it anything; I’ll just feel them and describe what I can.

This really speaks to me, too. I mean, that’s kind of what this was all about, right?

The way my brain figures out new things is by looking at similar things to understand how they’re supposed to work. I suppose everyone does this to some extent, but I do it a lot. Pretty much to a fault. Sometimes, this is a really good strategy (like when learning language or how a logical system operates), but in the case of human sexuality, this is a really lame way to go about it. Coming to all this submissiveness stuff late in life, I did my usual thing and looked for analogs of what I thought I was. Tom was one of those as were a number of other bloggers (along, even, with some porn which, of course, is a Really Bad Idea™). Bottom line is I kept comparing myself to a bunch of “ideals” and coming up short. There are a few I feel I’m more like than others, but none of them fit. Obviously, this is because human sexuality is infinitely variable. It’s not an operating system or a machine (even though I used that metaphor above). It’s a messy tangle of crossed wires and gooey dark corners that’s always bubbling and morphing and slithering along in unexpected directions.

Long way around to say the obvious: labeling a human’s sexual quirks can be damaging. If Tom wants to shed his submissive cloak, more power to him. I think there are more ways for otherwise “submissive” men to be different than there are for them to be the same. Case in point is our views on service, but I’ll get to that later. First…

It’s amusing to see that the selling points for male chastity devices tend to focus on either making your man more “romantic”, or on making him do more household chores. … But is this actually true, or is it a stereotype that plays on the idea that sex is something that men want, and  women parcel out according to whim?

I have tried to run away from this stereotype and in doing so have beat myself up (only figuratively, alas) for not Doing It Right, but the thing is, yeah, being locked up and denied does tend to make me a better mate to Belle. I’m much more attentive to her, much more in tune with what she needs, and much more willing to sacrifice what I want in order to give her what she wants.

But for us, the device is only a catalyst. What it represents is a level of commitment on Belle’s part to our relationship that, frankly, I didn’t feel for years (and she didn’t feel it back from me, either). Now, because she locks up the cock, because she denies me orgasm, because she takes advantage of my desire to serve her, I am fully engaged with her and our relationship like I haven’t been for about a decade. Likewise, she sees a commitment from me though my dealing with the device, giving her the cock to control, and trying my hardest to be of service to her. Did the device do that? Or did I? I think it was both of us.

Too many people think chastity devices are like magical talismans that are good for whatever ails you. Like any tool, it’s how you use it that counts. Just because there’s a thing involved, people incorrectly assign the improvements in their relationship to the device when in fact they should be taking the credit themselves. Successfully integrating chastity is hard work that, when done correctly, bears a lot of fruit. But it’s the fact that they’re doing the work that makes it work, not whatever thing they’ve chosen to play with.

Never not once has any woodworker said, “Gee, that hammer really made a great bookcase!”

The last bit of Tom’s post I want to flog is the part about service. Or, more specifically, how the concept of being a service sub just isn’t lighting any fires over at the Allen Ranch. I tried to find that one salient blurb that fully captured his sentiment, but really, it’s the entire last four paragraphs of his post. If you haven’t already, go read it.

I’ll wait…

OK.

He does a pretty good job of knocking the whole service concept about the head and face, and I think that we probably have a fair bit of common ground around this, but I also think he’s missing some of the point.

I know (or, at least, I read) that some people actually get a sexual charge from performing service. I do not. He talks about how he doesn’t “drip with sexual excitement” when he brings Mrs. Edge a cup of coffee, and while I get Belle coffee all the time, it’s never caused me to drip anything (other than the occasional bit I’ve spilled). It isn’t the act of doing what she says that gets me off. In fact, it’s often a bit of a downer. I’d rather be updating my portfolio or playing on the PS3 or whatever. But, in a way I admit to not being fully able to put into coherent words yet, I love being her tool. I think of myself as her live-in manservant. Whatever she tells me to do, I will do, whether I want to or not, because that’s my position. I live to serve her. Even when I don’t want to, I want her to make me.

People have left comments here before about this and how it’s not really service and that all I’m doing is being a responsible partner in the marriage, yadda yadda. First of all, I think they’re underestimating the amount of work I do for her. I do 98% of all the laundry in our house of four people. I cook most of the meals. I make the beds, etc., etc. As Belle has said, she doesn’t really need to do much of anything around the house anymore. She will do things, but only because she wants to, not because she has to. Also, they miss what can’t be seen on the outside. It’s my intention to serve her. When I do it, I may not be enjoying the actual work, but I get a warmnfuzzy feeling inside. When she tells me I’m doing a good job, I similarly feel a warm flush. This isn’t necessarily sexual (though the context of when she says it makes a difference).

Here’s an example. As I said in my previous post (which, by the way, I’m really not that happy with – they can’t all be winners), Belle offered to let me out of the device so I could enjoy the cock being played with, but only if I got all the laundry done on Saturday. That was a lot of laundry. It took hours. But, when we were in bed and she had unlocked me and she was petting the cock and telling me what a good job I had done and how I had earned the time out…Jesus! I was over-the-moon kind of happy. Maybe one of the most satisfying few moments of our entire D/s adventure thus far. I felt totally beholden to her. I felt so happy that she appreciated my work. I felt totally and completely under her control. It was awesome.

Unlike Tom writing in general about service and not getting in the slightest turned on by it, my writing the previous paragraph has left me with a seriously full tube. So he doesn’t work that way. Whatever. Does that mean he’s not a “real” submissive? Fuck if I know. Honestly, who cares? I feel kind of the same way about the sissified guys out there who want to be put in panties and frilly little dresses as he does about service. Does that mean I’m not submissive? Or they’re not? Or they are, but too much?

As long as, at the end of the day, we’re all healthy and happy, then we’re Doing It Right. Call it whatever you want.

P.S. I apologize for the lame post title, but after all that, I couldn’t come up with anything pithy. It happens to all guys sooner or later…or so I’m told.

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Change of plans

So yeah, last night was my supposed to be my next chance at an orgasm, but no, it didn’t happen. Belle came down with menstruation early in the afternoon and, since she prefers I come inside her, she decided to postpone the event. Instead of coming, she said I’d get a little personal abuse time. To be honest, I felt it was more than a fair trade. Like last time, it consisted of using the butterfly clamps on my nipples combined with testicle pain. The thing that made it especially notable is that Belle’s getting really good at this stuff.

She started out by attaching the clamps flat against my chest as opposed to perpendicular as before. This meant any pulling of the chain not only pulled on my nipples, but also twisted them. In addition, she clamped just the very tips. How they stayed on without gripping any of the fleshy bits is beyond me, but the sensation was a laser-intense pain on either side. Instead of just pulling randomly, she would wind the chain around her finger, slowly and purposefully, raising my expectation of the coming hurt several notches. Then she’d pull. The shorter chain meant more intensity and sensation with her every movement. She also used the chains to more purposefully direct my movement, like a bridle on a horse. God, they still hurt right now, almost 24 hours later.

She also mixed up how she slapped my nuts around. Instead of single hard impacts, she’d perform a series of light slaps that escalated in force until she was rapidly slapping me rather hard. Again and again, she’d build a cascade of slaps up to nearly a hard punch at the end, intermingled with light and really rather pleasant stroking of what had become a very tight scrotum thanks to the steel ring and swelling cock. Before long, the lingering pain from each assault coalesced into one long, aching torment. That unique pain radiated into my guts and down into my inner thighs as she moved back in for each round, pushing my legs out of the way if necessary. It was…fucking awesome. I passed over the threshold of involuntary self-preservation and started to open my legs wider, leaning into her strikes. Craving them. Silently urging her to hit me harder.

When she was done with me, she gently stroked my inner arm, a place of heightened sensation for me. She uses that place to calm me down and it works. Even with throbbing, burning nipples and aching balls, shortly after she started I felt the bite of the Steelheart’s ring ease as the meat inside released its erection.I felt very spacey, very warm, and very happily hurt.

“I’m going to do this for 30 more seconds, and then you’re going to get Pink,” she whispered in my ear.

She didn’t seem interested in having an orgasm earlier in the evening. Had the infliction of pain on me aroused her? I don’t know. I still haven’t asked. But as soon as she stopped, I reached into my drawer and took out her favorite sex toy. As she came, she grabbed the device out of my hand and pressed it hard against her clit.

Another intense orgasm for her. An awesomely satisfying scene for me.

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Punished

Apparently, I was being snarky. That’s what Belle said, anyway. I certainly was poking fun at her, but, you know, in the most respectful and loving way possible.

Whatever. She didn’t appreciate it.

“You think that’s funny, do you?” She asked.

“Kinda, yeah.”

“OK. Get the Icy Hot.”

“What!?”

And it went on like that with me begging and squirming and trying to talk her out of it. Eventually, she made me get up and retrieve the tube of devil paste from the bathroom. I got back into bed, placing it on my nightstand, and tried to distract her. I was hoping to be able to wait her out. Soon, she’d be sleepy and maybe I’d get off the hook.

After a few minutes, “Get naked and under the covers.”

I did so, still hoping there’d be a reprieve. In theory, I want her to punish me when she sees the need. In practice, Icy Hot hurts like fuck. Plus, I wasn’t really prepared mentally since I wasn’t even aware I was committing a punishable offense.

“Give me the Icy Hot,” she said. I gave it to her while still doing my best to talk her out of it. She seemed to very much enjoy my pathetic protestations.

“Close your eyes.” Whimper. I closed my eyes and opened my legs, exposing the poor, unsuspecting scrotum.

I heard the cap open…I heard the paste squeezed out…I heard the cap snap shut…a few moments of silence…then I felt her fingers smearing the cold lineament across my skin. As usual, for the first several moments it just felt cold. Then even colder as whatever hellish combustion process it utilizes started to take effect. Then hot. Then really hot. Motherfuckinghot.

I tried not to make too much noise, but each wave of burning was greater than the last. I rolled over on my knees and spread my legs so my nutsack would hang freely. She placed her hand on my back in a gentle, loving way as I clenched my eyes shut against the burning. The fumes of the Icy Hot were traveling up my crack and started to provide my ass with a contact burn. That was new.

She must not have put nearly as much on as last time. The burning waves seemed to start to subside after the forth or fifth. Soon, all I felt was a lingering, low-level heat. As I moved about, the burning would intensify for a few moments and then retreat again. I felt well and truly punished.

The next morning, all the burning just a memory, I still felt the difference. I was much more contrite and feeling the subbie vibe. Icy Hot is almost too intense for us to use in a scene now, but as a punishment it was quite effective. I enjoyed the psychological afterglow of being punished even though the actual act was hard to take. From her perspective, its impact far exceeded the effort she needed to put into it. All she’d have to do in the future to make it a more severe punishment would be to increase the amount applied. Since I really don’t like it all that much, I will truly want to avoid it.

I’ll have to do something about the snark.

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Table talk

Belle and I had a lovely time out last night. The kids were at a community group event designed to give parents some off-leash time together. Belle thought a nice dinner would be a good use of our three hours while I voted for rolling around naked back at the house. She gets three more votes than me, though, so off to dinner we went.

We talked about a lot of things, even real life things like work, before turning to our relationship. At first, it was one of those general conversations where we reassured one another that we’re happy and satisfied. Even after a year (yes, it’s nearly been a year!) of larking about like we have, it’s necessary to keep checking in with one another to make sure we’re still on the right track. Once we had that out of the way, we talked about several things I think are worth relating here.

Belle told me I had been slipping lately in the service department, especially with regard to my morning duties (which are really quite simple). I told her I would endeavor to improve and found myself bringing up the idea of punishment again. As I’ve said here before, punishment is not the same as masochism for me. It’s really more about power exchange. That she would have the right to physically punish me based on her subjective opinion as to how I’ve served her, and that I would be required to accept her punishment regardless of my personal feelings as to its justification, makes my ears flush red. It’s not just playing at power exchange, it actually is power exchange. I crave that kind of submission. It speaks to the very base of my submissive nature and works on a lot of levers I’ve carried around since childhood. It was hard for me to even look at her across the candlelit table as I talked about it. It’s a very powerful subject for me.

I also feel that the threat of punishment will help focus me on doing the things for her I know I need to do but don’t always get to fast enough for her. I really want to be better at serving her in whatever way she requires and, like most people, I suppose, I often find myself slipping and doing things I want to do rather than those things I need to do. It’s not as though I have no intention of getting to those things, I just do the stuff I want to do first. Currently, there’s little downside for me reprioritizing things on my own. If she took the step to make me uncomfortable and embarrassed, I think it’d help me be more focused on my responsibilities.

So, with that all in mind, she asked me if I wanted her to kick it up a notch. Did I really want her to pile on some tasks? I told her I did, that I wanted to do whatever I could that would make her life better. That said, she gave me a number of tasks I had to perform this morning (all mundane) that she had planned on doing herself. That relieved her from running around like a headless chicken right after she got up and also gave her time to get her nails done (where she is right now).

We also talked about the idea, recently left by a reader in a comment here, that I should strive to be the “little woman of the house” (at least when Belle’s not around). I admit freely that the concept of the sissified submissive male is an alien one. Submission, for me, does not equal weakness or connote a feminine quality. I think part of the problem submissive men deal with (even in the BDSM world) is the perception that they’re all pink, frilly, or weak. I’m not weak, frilly, pink, or feminine, nor do I wish to be any of those things. I certainly don’t have any issue with those who do, but I ain’t one of them.

That being said, there is an aspect of male submission in the context of the whole “female-led relationship” thing that does suggest the transfer of certain activities or attitudes that our society identifies with specific genders. Traditionally, the female attends to meals and cleaning up, certain child duties, the laundry, etc., while the male initiates sex and, more often than not, is the primary beneficiary of sexual satisfaction and is generally allowed to wallow about the house while she attends to him (which is not to say she necessarily likes that arrangement). These are all stereotypes, of course, but stereotypes aren’t invented. They usually have some basis in fact. In some aspects of our relationship, I am very much “the woman” while Belle assumes what most would think is the man’s role. Mostly in bed, but even in other areas. However, I’m still very much a man and she’s very much a woman. She hasn’t become butch and aggressive while I haven’t become effeminate. But I do acknowledge that some kind of transference has taken place (and continues to evolve). I don’t have a problem with this or deny it, nor can I even describe it very well, but it’s intriguing to me. It’s too bad there are so few (if any) cultural archetypes to look at as our dynamic is developing. Images of men wearing hot pink chastity devices (to keep their hands of their “sissy clitties”, natch) under their fish net stockings and French main uniforms are certainly no help to us.

Another comment from the blog that we discussed was Sera’s thoughtful reply to my post about how Belle and I are slowly but surely having less sex as the weeks and months go on. She said:

It might be informative here to bear in mine that for women as well as men, it seems to be that sexual desire is a kind of “use it or lose it” thing. So that if Belle is not getting enough stimulation of the kind that gets her off . . . well, she’s not going to be in a position to give you the kind that gets you off.

And so I asked Belle, was she getting what she wanted? Was I providing her what she needed to get off? Turns out, maybe not so much. Belle said she needed to “connect” with me more than she’s been able to recently. I can’t say I entirely understand what that means yet, but it sounds to me like maybe we’re talking too much about ourselves and our relationship lately and not enough about our shared life. Over dinner, we talked quite a bit about our shared life before we moved on to discussions of relationship and sex and she said she needed more of that. I suppose posting almost every day to a blog that deals exclusively with issues related to our sex life and relationship doesn’t really help her feel as though I talk about anything else but those things. It’s another area where I, someone who literally carries a totem of his sexual relationship around 24/7, feels like I’m hardly ever talking about it since every word out of my mouth isn’t about our dynamic or sex or whatever. But she, who probably isn’t thinking about my chastity device or how many days it’s been since I came or how fucking horny I am or whatever for four out of every five minutes in the day, thinks it’s all we ever talk about. I understand and will try to do better.

So, as if to drive the point home through my thick, hormone-addled skull, once we got home and I put the kids down for the night, Belle let me bring her to orgasm. Stimulus…reward. Stimulus…reward. It’s the same way you train dogs. Anyway, it was your typical Belle ‘n Thumper orgasm and I was left very hot and horny and with a fully pressurized chastity tube while she was left relaxed, sleepy, and orgasmically sated.

In other words, exactly as things should be.

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Clamps

He kneeled before her, hands behind his back and looked down at his chest as she affixed the black Japanese butterfly clamps to his nipples. They bit into his soft flesh with an insistent ferocity causing him to suck air between his teeth. She lifted the chain connecting them and held it before his face.

“Put this in your mouth and keep it there,” she directed him. He opened his lips and she placed the chain between them. He bit down gently on the thin, hard metal. The chain was too short for him to raise his head without pulling on his nipples and causing the clamps to bite even harder, so he kept his head bowed.

She grabbed as much of his short-cropped hair as she could and pulled his head back. The pain in his nipples flared as the chain in his mouth was pulled tight and his pink flesh stretched against the clamps. He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut against the flood of sensation.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” she said firmly. Whimpering, his eyes opened and looked into hers. Her gaze penetrated him, seeking.

She smiled.

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Birthday presents

Belle’s back and the world is right again. We were both pretty tired last night (she from getting up early for her flight, me from getting about seven hours of sleep since she left), so nothing of consequence happened other than I got to lay with her, spoon into her, be naked around her, etc. When you’re in my position, you glean what you can from what you get.

Even though I was totally exhausted and I felt the kind of contentment her presence always brings to me, I still had a hard time falling fully asleep. The weather is more humid and warm than it has been, and that contributed, but I just couldn’t get to the point where the buzzing in my head finally succumbed to the fuzzy blanket of sleep. I’m sure her hand resting on the top of my naked, uncovered ass had something to do with that. I was sort of half dozing for I don’t even know how long, well after she was totally out. The cock kept swelling up inside the device at random intervals and I once again experienced its autonomic rhythmic pulsing as though it was trying to pump out the contents of my swollen prostate.

For those of you keeping score at home, tomorrow will be three weeks since I last came.1 Three weeks where nary a drop has escaped me. Driving around today, I swear I can feel it in there. The pressure from sitting on the firm seat in my truck and the vibration from the engine and road worked together to pinpoint the area under my perineum that feels plump and overly sensitive. This morning, as I went about my business getting her coffee, bringing her the paper, etc., I found gobs of clear, sticky fluid leaking from the end of the tube.

The right tool for the jobWith that condition in mind, and also thinking about her statement that I would relive that pressure though milking rather than ruined orgasms (not that I could ruin an orgasm with this thing on me), I started to release some of the money I collected on my birthday and bought a specialty tool from Stockroom.com. It’s called the G-force and it’s a hard silicone dildo with a handle on one end and a bulbous knot on the other. It’s specifically designed for reaching those hard-to-get-to spots. I have a few different items (one, two) designed to stimulate the prostate, but I find they’re hard to manipulate in tight quarters. I like the look of the G-force’s Kung-Fu grip. Usually, I play with the toys I already have all alone, but I’m hoping that the G-force will prove easy and effective enough that Belle will use it on me. More and more lately, anything I do of a sexual nature by myself feels inappropriate with respect to our arrangement.

I picked up a few other things, too. One was a heavy steel ball stretcher that I’ve kinda sorta been obsessed with for a long time now. It comes in two halves which screw together with an allen wrench and pulls down on the testes with over a pound of weight. I’ve played around with suspending weight from by balls in the past, so I know I can take it for at least a little while. For me, this has been one of those objects I’ve just been unable to stop looking at. So, you know, perfect thing to blow some birthday money on. I also got a pair of black Japanese clover clamps, but they’re on back-order.

The other thing I got, even against the assuredly correct advice of Tom, is a replacement for the cracking and soon to fail CB6K we’ve had for almost a year now. I considered a stainless steel model, but eventually decided to go with another CB6K since doing so would leave me extra cash to blow on other objects of perversion. While I could have just replaced the tube, I instead went for the chrome-looking device. I like the shiny appearance, like the idea of it hiding the cock away from view, and I like that the other parts are black, not white. I’ve never been a huge fan of the clear and white parts. It’s makes the device look almost clinical or something.

With the exception of the nipple clamps, it should all arrive by Tuesday. Now I need to figure out what I’m going to tell people when they ask what I spent my birthday loot on.

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1 When I mentioned to her that I up against three weeks (and my record, BTW), Belle would only say I had “a while to go yet” before I could come again. I have a feeling I’m not even half way there. ↩