Tag: body service

Four (mostly) unrelated things

Here’s a post that starts on the other end of the day.

Belle usually wakes up kinda early. Five-thirty, or thereabouts, and once up, she immediately gets on her computer and starts clickity-clacking. I’ve trained myself to fall back asleep after her alarm (and first snooze, and second snooze, and third snooze) goes off, usually by snuggling up against her while she replies to all the email she’s picked up overnight.

This morning was a little different. For whatever reason, I woke up and didn’t find her sitting up with her laptop. Even in my groggy state, I realized it was a rare opportunity for some mid-week morning snuggle time and wrapped myself around her (of course, in a way that respected her personage and all that).

She laid there, stroking my head, and said, “Thanks for putting me in charge, Thumpie.” Just like that. Thanks for putting me in charge. I hadn’t said boo to her up to that point. It was entirely unsolicited.

I was dealing with the typical morning chastity tube issues, but upon hearing these words, my issues were suddenly bigger (or trying to be). Besides the physical reaction, I felt a surge of warm excitement fill my chest. I embraced her harder, kissed her, then pressed my face into her. She made me very happy.

Minutes later, she was up and the clickity-clack had started. I had rolled off and was laying next to her on my back, tenting out the covers regardless of the plastic contraption. I was thinking of getting out of bed, but before I did, she placed her foot on my left hip and burrowed her toes into the space between my inner thigh and nuts. And she just left it there. On the one hand, it was just her foot – nothing special. On the other hand, I’m more than three weeks denied, so any contact with my nakedness is cause for attention. Also, I felt pinned. I’m quite sure I was projecting into her action, but to me and the nice buzzy headspace which her earlier comment had created, it felt like a very possessive, almost aggressive move. Of course I wasn’t physically pinned by her, but mentally – emotionally – I felt as though she was directing me to stay where I was. So I did.

—

The previous evening, she related an exchange she had with a couple of female coworkers. One of them had been complaining that she resorted to giving herself pedicures and was unhappy with the result.

“You should make your husband paint your nails,” Belle suggested.

She then told them that she did, in fact, have her husband paint her nails. The one with the ugly toenails said she would have her husband paint them, to which Belle responded, “You might find it turns you on.”

Zing!

I have to admit, the first thing to go through my mind when she related this to me was concern that they’d get the wrong idea and think I was [fill in your choice of submissive male negative stereotypes], but then decided I like that fact that I had given her something to brag about in front of her friends. Who cares what they think? They probably think she’s lucky. I hope she feels that way, too.

—

Dev’s recent post about her potentially doing things in bed more for the benefit of her partners rather than herself touches on something I find myself worrying about with Belle. Specifically, that she has done so much to help me make several of my sexual fantasies a reality and I have done basically nothing to help her achieve hers.

Which is not to say I haven’t tried. I asked her a little while back (about the time I wrote about how her having a boyfriend would turn me on) what her fantasies were. What’s the craziest thing she’s ever wanted to do because I want to help her do it.

Something vaguely about another woman. Nothing specific. Not like, I want to fuck a girl. No, it was just kinda sorta a fuzzy thing about another girl. Maybe kissing one. Not actually doing anything. Just…a girl. She had to pick the one thing I couldn’t do for her since, you know, I’m a boy.

It’s hard for me relate since my fantasies are so very specific (“No, this goes there, that goes over there, and then you do this with it, unless it’s Tuesday, in which case…”). I don’t vaguely do anything in my fantasies. Mine are epic Ben Hur-like productions with extras and period costume and herd animals and massive sets.

So anyway, I know that Belle’s getting lots of great orgasms and everything but I want to fulfill her not just physically, but also mentally. I want her to live her imaginary fuck. But, you know…it’s just this girl.

—

I’m getting my hair cut this afternoon when my guy (who, of course, is gay) and I overhear someone else and their client talking about a new tattoo the client got and we both look trying to get a peek but we can’t see anything (which is unfortunate). Then he asks me if I have any tattoos.

“Not yet,” I reply. Belle’s already told me she wants me to get the thing she drew on my ass tattooed there, but I haven’t done anything about it. Not that I’m opposed, I just haven’t gotten around to it. In any event, he’s kind of surprised by this. That I would get a tattoo.

So I tell him I’d be more than happy to modify my body more than I have, but my job kinda makes that difficult (since I’m often trying to talk relatively conservative people into give me large sums of money). Then he tells me that the other guy with the tatted-up client has a boyfriend who’s thinking of getting a piercing.

“You know,” he says, “down there,” motioning with his scissors toward his navel.

“What kind?” I ask innocently.

“The kind that goes through the you know…”

“A Prince Albert?”

“Yes!” he hisses.

Maybe I’m jaded since I come here and frankly discuss dicks and pussies and physical beatings and all kinds of raunchy kinky shit, but I suddenly found it incredibly funny that I was having a conversation with this grown up gay man in which he couldn’t bring himself to use real words to talk about cocks. Also, I had to make a choice. I, of course, know a whole lot about being pierced down there. Should I spill the beans? I mean, if you can’t talk to your gay hair stylist about your genital piercing, who can you talk to about it?

So, as he was wrinkling up his nose at the prospect of not having sex for a whole month after you get it done, I dropped it on him.

“What?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard me.

“I have one of those. A Prince Albert.”

“WHAT!?!” he exclaimed, blushing deeply. It was hilarious.

Then, of course, the questions came pouring out. How much did it hurt, does it make sex better, what’s it like peeing, did I do it before or after having children, etc., etc. He also wanted to know if you got hard during the piercing. I told him getting hard was the last thing that was gonna happen during the event.

In retrospect, this was quite clearly the longest conversation I’ve ever had about penises (mostly the one on me) with a man I had never and would never have sex with.

Something new

Odd thing last night. We’re in bed1, the candles are glowing and smelling nice, the kids are down for the count, and she’s told me to get naked, and…and…that’s it. For the longest time, I was just laying there with her and not roiling in repressed sexual energy. I wasn’t particularly fighting with any urges to attack or otherwise manhandle her. It was weird. I knew I was horny and, as soon as she let me rub a knot in her back and was therefore touching her skin, I started to really feel it, but beforehand, it was like the dog: present in the room, but not engaged in any way. Like my sex was idling until she called for it. I don’t know how I feel about that. She complimented me on controlling my urges and all, so I guess that’s a good thing, but it was very strange finding myself in a situation like that and not feeling the way I’m used to feeling.

It’s been twenty-two days since I last came and just over a week now in the device. The twenty-two days is a record, I think, but the week is nothing special. I’ve done way longer. I also noticed, as I find every time I’m locked up, that situations that would normally cause me to get an erection don’t. Like it’s not worth the bother. So it makes me wonder if this is all just a side-effect of her being in control or if I’ve gone around the curve and am losing some of my sex drive (which, from what I understand, can happen to those denied for a long time). It’s not like I’m worried about it since, once she let me rub her back, I was horny again in a second. I know it’s still in there. But where was it hiding?

The other thing is, since I’m supposed to be under control and respect her personage, I find the little things turn me on a lot more. Well, “turn me on” isn’t quite right, because it feels different. Like when I was touching her back. I put my face down on her skin just to feel the contact. I felt a stirring in the tube, but I never got a raging hard-on. It was more like a man dying of thirst being able to splash water on his face. Then, when we were done, I rolled over and she placed her hand on my lower back/upper ass. Fuck! It made me whimper. Again, no hard-on, no urge to rip her clothes off. It was much less specific. Kind of a free-floating desperation.

I don’t know what it is, but I know I haven’t felt exactly like this before. It’s like I’m becoming more docile. Like sexual release is off the table and all the hormones know it. My body craves…something, but it doesn’t manifest as any specific activity.

She said, just before she let me rub her back, that in the past she might feel sorry for me at this point. That she might let me get a little something out of pity. But not now. She recognizes where I am and I suppose feels something, but not a compelling desire to allow me relief. I’m not unhappy and she’s perfectly satisfied with my behavior and the sex she’s getting.

So, whatever I’m feeling, I’m going to assume it’s OK.

—

1 I haven’t done the math, but I’m pretty sure something like 96% of all my posts start with us in bed. That’s OK, right? ↩

Piggish manbeast

There’s an element to what happened yesterday that sounds so stereotypically wannabe-FLR, that it makes me somewhat embarrassed to even write it down (I’m reminded of Dev’s comment about hard-ons and holding a purse in a shoe store, but I’m trying to keep it out of mind). It was all very subtle and most observers might not even notice anything, but it was there: Belle Fille stretched her dominant muscles ever so slightly – and in front of other people, no less.

It was another Sunday dinner at the in-law’s (Belle’s mom, dad, sister, her husband, their baby and dog, but only one of our kids as the other’s at camp). These used to happen almost every weekend, but in recent years they’ve become less frequent. Where each person sits at the table and what role they play in preparation, consumption, and clean-up of the meal is well-established. Short story, mother-in-law does most of the work, freaks out that everyone’s got enough to eat (Augustus Gloop’s mother would be proud), and then everyone without a Y chromosome cleans up while those who do have one tend to sit around and shoot the shit until it’s time to go. This is how it’s worked for years.

And it was pretty standard fare through much of dinner1 until my mother-in-law went to get dessert from the kitchen (key lime pie and vanilla ice cream or root beer floats – river of chocolate reserved for special occasions).

“Why don’t you get up and help her,” Belle Fille asked me with the tone of a statement, not a question. She looked me directly in the eye and, gently yet firmly, was obviously giving me an order.

Zing!

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. This never happens. I never get up during dinner since, as I said before, the roles and expectations are all set. And her “asking” me to help was also very out of character. I felt somewhat self-conscious as I left my place at the opposite end of the table from my father-in-law and went to get the pie.

Later, after the pie, we were all sitting there talking, except for the the mother-in-law who was clearing the table. “Why don’t you let [Thumper] finish clearing this,” she suggested.

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. Except this time, so did everyone else so my task was minimal.

Typically, as the dishes are being done, the menfolk go and discuss politics or sports or some other manly topic. No exception last night. We were on the deck enjoying the beautiful early evening when Belle came to the sliding screen door and told me to come inside and dry the dishes.

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. The other menfolk exchanged glances. There was a disturbance in the Force.

The drying duty was given to me because my sister-in-law had to prepare a bottle for the baby. Once that was done, she came back in the kitchen to relieve me.

“OK, you can go back to being a man now,” she said as she took my towel. Ouch.

Back on the deck, the brother-in-law said, “Have you been released from service?”

“Sorta,” I replied.

Finally, later on, I came out onto the deck to find Belle already out there talking to my brother-in-law. He offered me a chair next to him, but Belle said, “No, why don’t you sit across from me. That way, you can massage my feet.”

“OK,” I replied and hopped…down…into the chair. She put her feet up into my lap, pressing down with them onto the device, and I started to massage them while she continued her conversation with my brother-in-law.

I can hear some of you. You’re saying, “So she kept you from being a piggish manbeast? That’s it?!” and, yeah, I see your point. My point is Belle’s had a thing about finding opportunities for me to provide her service. Not only was she actively looking for these, she did it in front of her family. On a scale of 1 to 10 where 10 is something like this, what Belle did was about a 2, but it was a start. A really good start. I hope to see her become more comfortable with her position as time goes on.

Later, back at the ranch, it was more foot massage followed by back massage followed by face massage (something I didn’t even know was a thing). She went to sleep supremely relaxed while I was left hot and sweaty from the effort…and, you know, all the touching.

—

1 Did I mention I was drinking mojitos again? I can’t help myself. They’re so yummy. And no, I didn’t drive until way after dinner and the buzz had turned into lethargy.  ↩

Hung over

I have a headache. I woke up with it. I hate that. I’m pretty sure that what I actually have, besides the headache, is a bit of a hangover. This is because I drank two mojitos last night. Two. I’m such a fucking lightweight. If, in an alternate universe, you ever wanted to do unspeakable things to me, just pour, say, three mojitos down my throat and I’m all yours. How can two (admittedly strong, but still just two) sweet minty drinks leave me mildly hung over? It’s because I never went to college to learn how to drink properly, that’s how.

Also, I did not sleep very well again last night. One reason is I don’t sleep well after drinking (even when “drinking” is only two stupid drinks). The other reason is I haven’t had an orgasm in two weeks (yes, time flies – it’s already been two solid weeks). The other reason is I’m back in the plastic. Oh yeah, that’s what that feels like. And that. And that. Oh, it’s two in the morning! Fuck.

Belle started her period yesterday and, since it used to be the rule that I would be locked up when she was bleeding, my incarceration date moved up by 24 hours. She brought the CB6K into her bedroom in it’s spiffy zipper case and tossed it at me. Instead of running off to the bathroom to put the thing on, I did it right there on the bed in front of her. I should have made a bigger deal out of it (and probably turned off the TV) because I kinda found having her there to witness it hot. Almost too hot, if you know what I mean. All the little bits and pieces (and their skin-grabbing nooks and crannies) fit a little tighter than when it’s just me and the bathroom mirror sharing the moment.

She put the lock in place and held it closed, but before squeezing it shut, she looked into my eyes and told me to say my phrase. My mantra. The words that represent my commitment to our relative positions. I hesitated. There’s still a part of me, down deep, that resists the submission. And at that moment, when I’d placed that thing on my manhood at her direction, just before she closed it for god knows how long, and she told me to say to her the words that give her the right to make me do it – to take away my control over my own body and my own pleasure and to really and totally focus everything on her…that’s a powerful moment. The lizard within tries to rise up, but it’s pointless, really. It tries to stop me and succeeds only in delaying the inevitable moment when I willingly accede to her request and devote myself to her service. I give the lizard points for trying, but the outcome was never in doubt. I hope he always fights it because, you know, that internal struggle that happens every time is where the hot comes from. Feeling the lizard strain, yet inevitably buckle, as I give her the gift of my submission is my springboard into headspace.

After the lock went click, she told me to rub her feet again. We’re doing a lot of that recently. It’s become an almost daily event. She had wanted me to paint her toenails (and really, what screams stereotypically subby husband behavior more than toenail painting?), but thought my dexterity too much deteriorated by my excessive swilling (if two drinks can be called swilling), so she settled on foot rubbing. I gave her ten minutes on each foot which is about as long as I can go before my hands start to cramp. Being down at her feet, pleasuring her with my hands in a nonsexual way, feeling the fresh encasement around her cock left me feeling very nicely headspacy.

Afterward, I laid next to her in the dark and pressed my naked-except-for-one-important-thing body into hers. The plastic tube was doing its job and I was trying to settle in for sleep when she raised her top and exposed her breasts. I almost couldn’t believe my luck and latched on to her beautiful nipples.

Now, before I go any further, I’ll warn the squeamish to go read another blog. If you stay with me past this point, you are giving up your right to complain in the comments. Capiche?

I started to finger her clit, figuring since it was the first day of her period that anything more athletic was off the menu, but moments after I started, she whispered , “I want to feel your tongue on my clit.”

I did not hesitate. Not for a second. It didn’t even really occur to me that there was any other course of action I could take except to go down on her, period be damned. I positioned myself between her legs with my hands reaching up to continue playing with her nipples and started lapping at her clit. I knew I had to stay relatively north due to the fact that she was wearing a tampon. Not that coming into contact with it would have squicked me out or anything, but I’m not sure “tampon licking” is high on her list of sexual triggers. I did feel the string a couple of times, but can’t say there was any other indication of her state I could discern. Just being there, worshiping her pussy – the source of all her power – was intoxicating to me.

Her thighs started to clamp onto my head and she arched the small of her back off the bed so I slowed my tongue and increased the pressure with which I held it against her. Her orgasm came and we both moaned.

The difference between having a freely flopping cock after such and experience and a stifled one is dramatic. Had I been free, I would have had a lot more angst and bubbling desire for more action. But since I was encased, that was it. It was over. I could feel the drop-off in energy that’s almost like a post-orgasmic feeling. In way, I guess it is post-orgasmic, just not my orgasm. Of course I was still horny and the cock was still trying its best to be hard, but I felt sleepy anyway.

“Thank you, Mistress” I said to her as we spooned. “Thank you for letting me do that to you.”

“You’re welcome, Thumper. Thank you.”

And with that, we slept.

Until I didn’t.

Guilt and submission

Act two was not the stuff of sex blogs. Basically, she laid there sipping wine and reading her book for two hours while I massaged her feet. Yes, wonderfully decadent for her and not unenjoyable for me, but very low on the hotnsexy scale.

After she was done reading, I threw caution to the wind and asked if there was anything else she needed from me (which she correctly interpreted as a veiled request for sexual contact). Turns out, she wasn’t interested. That wasn’t very surprising considering her body language, etc., but I was surprised by her subsequent accusation that I was throwing a ‘tude over her disinterest.

Yes, there is precedent for my behaving poorly in the face of her lack of interest. But I swear, this wasn’t the case last night. I wasn’t in the slightest annoyed that I wasn’t going to get any action. I was dealing with it, though, and I’m sure that’s what showed on my face. Dealing with the pent up frustration, the erections that come raging up at the slightest thought or simplest touch, the carnivorous butterflies that flutter in my chest looking for human flesh to consume – dealing with all that. It’s an effort. It’s hard. But, it wasn’t in any way directed at her.

I told her as much. I said I am fully comfortable and accepting of her role and my position. She decides when and in what way I enjoy sexual activity, not me. Not at all me. And, of course, saying these things to her, in my defense, as she looked at me crossly with furrowed brows, sent the cock higher and higher until it was straining to grow more. I felt very, very small and, yes, unfairly accused, but having to confess and reiterate my lowly rank in the face of hers was terrifically stimulating. For me. Not her. I got nothing more than the chance to spoon into her, hard cock pressed into her left ass cheek.

In that position, we discussed guilt. Her guilt. She feels guilty for not giving me what I want. She still thinks that just because I desire sexual attention that I want her to give it to me. In fact, those are very different things. The way we socialize girls in our society – and her upbringing, in particular – has left her with these residual ideas of what’s expected of her. Where these were in the years in which our marriage basically had no sex to speak of I don’t know, but they’re there now. I told her that all I really want, more than anything, is for her to do exactly what she wants to do with little or no regard for my base sexual urges. I need to feel that. Whatever drives my submissiveness wants to feel pent up urges with me, needs to feel as though my desires are inferior to hers, craves her control over my sexuality. She should feel no guilt for what the arrangement I asked for does to me. None.

All that being said, the night that followed was difficult, as they all are when I’m at about this stage. The cock seems to always either be growing, shrinking, or rigid. Lots of action down there. Sometime, it’ll stir and then become something like a perpetual motion machine. Just feeling itself move will stimulate it to keep going until I have a totally useless hard-on. I know all about nocturnal tumescence and, thanks to the CB6K, I also know exactly what times I experience it, so I also know the 8 or 12 times I was awakened last night with awkward stiffies had nothing at all to do with normal physiological processes and had everything to do with all the hormones circulating within me.

Today, my desire to work for her is high. We were both going to clean the windows, but instead I’ve told her to sit next to the pool, read her book, swim with her daughter, be a sloth. I’ll do the windows. I’ll do anything. Wash the sheets, fold the laundry, kill a wildebeast with nothing more than a stick. Anything at all she asks. And I’ve made it perfectly clear, I have no expectations whatsoever that anything I do for her will result in any reciprocal attention on her part. There is no quid pro quo. I give whatever she asks freely and ask only that she enjoy it the best she can in return.

Time out

The Thumper clan is enjoying the extended 4th weekend at the family lake-side rabbit warren (first referenced in the three part saga, Crossing the Rubicon). It’s a smaller than usual family gathering. Only me, Belle, offspring, and Belle’s parents. In the in-law lottery, I have to say I did pretty well. They’re great people.

In any event, Belle was luxuriating on the couch on the screen porch while I sat at the other end with her feet on my lap. It was just the two of us, so I started to massage her feet. After a little while, her mother came in the porch and sat down in another chair. Then her dad showed up. All four of us sitting there, and me sort of absentmindedly rubbing Belle’s feet.

“Does your husband often massage your feet?” my mother-in-law asked Belle.

“Oh, yes. Several times a week. Whenever I want.”

Now, there’s nothing especially odd about a husband rubbing his wife’s feet, but the act, for me, is connected to my submissive side. To hear my Belle discuss is so calmly, that I not only rub her feet but do so several times a week. Whenever she asks. I admit, I was feeling very self-conscious.

“In fact,” Belle continued, “he even got some special foot cream to rub my feet with. He’ll massage my feet, my neck, my back. He’s a wonderful husband.”

I changed the subject.

—

Later that night, I massaged her feet properly: With lotion and no prying eyes from the in-laws. As usual, she was fully dressed in her bedclothes while I was naked except for whatever she chose to have attached to her cock. In this case, the chrome cock ring. I was down at her feet, kneeling, with her feet in the V-shaped space created by my legs.

“I think my mom’s jealous about the whole foot massage thing,” Belle said lazily.

“Hrmmm,” I replied. I’m very fond of my mother-in-law, but any connection between her and my sex life is a non-starter.

I gave her the best massage I could. My hands, already strong, seem to be getting stronger with all the rubbing she’d been having me do. In the past, I’d be aching from the effort after 15-20 minutes, but not any more.

When I was done, I was laying next to her and feeling a great swell of sexual desire build within me. I’m still being punished so didn’t except any Thumper-centric action, though I held out hope I’d be able to watch her pleasure herself.

“Is there any thing else I can do for you?” I asked. I ask that and, I’m sure, she hears “can we have some kind of sex now?” but I really and truly do want to know if there’s anything other than sex I can do for. And, of course, I want to know if we can have some kind of sex.

“No, I’m good, Thumper. Thank you for the foot massage.”

“Thank you for letting me give it to you,” I sincerely replied. I crave contact with her. I crave the opportunity to give her any kind of pleasure, even if it’s not sexual. When I’m as deep in my headspace as I have been the past few days, brimming with roiling sexual desire and a full charge of static submissiveness, being able to touch her skin in a pleasurable (for her) way calms me.

That being said, I thought I’d try my luck at a little somethin’.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“What is it, Thumper?”1

“Can you hit me? In the nuts?”

She took her finger and ran it over my scrotum, the cock ring making it and its contents more prominent than usual, and then down the length of the turgid cock. She took my breath away.

“Oh, no, Thumper. He’s in a time out, isn’t he? He’s been bad…”

“But,” I stammered, grappling with the sensation of her finger on my neglected flesh, “you made me come. It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know, but you didn’t have permission. So no, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Whimper.

“I don’t want to hear your pathetic whining, either.”

“I’m sorry, Belle Fille.”

—

1 We really do call each other Thumper and Belle Fille, even in real life. I don’t have any other kind of honorific to use with her like “goddess” or “mistress”, so I always call her Belle Fille when I’m feeling the submissive mojo.↩

Stupid penis tricks

I think this is neat, though I assume you’ll find it gross. I figured out yesterday that, if I remove my PA jewelry and pinch the head of the dick closed, I can pee just fine through my piercing. What do you think, future HNT material?

I only mentioned that because it made me think of this post’s title and I wanted to use it in the worst way.

More talking last night. We are doing so much talking lately. Mind you, I don’t have a problem with talking. Shit, I can write a 2,000 word blog post like nobody’s business, so talking certainly isn’t a problem. I over analyze and bellybutton gaze with the best of them.

Turns out Belle is still processing anger and hurt from six months ago when I was her lousy cheating husband and not her fuzzy little bunny. I respect that and want to do what I can to help her, but I simply cannot comprehend where she’s coming from. Where we are now is so much better than where we were prior to The Troubles. Personally, I have never felt more love for Belle or been happier in my marriage. In addition, I’m more sexually fulfilled now than at any time in my life. Not exactly satisfied since, you know, that kinda of goes against the paradigm and all, but my sexual relationship with Belle is more honest and open (even with myself) than any I’ve ever had (and, in my younger years, I had plenty). I am so very happy.

But Belle still has sadness. Moments of great sadness. And I can’t understand it. I can’t relate to the time travel required to revisit the hurtful, painful times in the past. Right now is wonderful for both of us (she says), so why dig up when things sucked? We know why the affair happened and what we needed to do to fix it. It’s been fixed. We’re not the same couple we were nine months ago.

I used an oyster analogy. Oysters get sand in them and it pisses them off so they do what they do and eventually what they get is a pearl. It’s a lovely, wonderful thing (at least to us humans) that all started with an annoying, painful thing. And it’s still in there, beneath all the layers. It never goes away. I get that. But it’s built upon and eventually becomes the foundation of something so much better. That’s our relationship right now. At least, that’s how I see it.

I’m not dismissive of Belle’s feelings. I try to talk her through them and do what I can to be supportive. Any time she needs to cry or talk, I’ll of course be there doing my best to understand.

Somehow, we ended the conversation with her still wanting the back rub she asked for before we went to bed. I was tired, and figured she was, too, but I had the oil and the towels and the hands, so rub away I did. I was really horny at that point. The slick oil on her naked back, the erection held securely by its chrome cock ring pressing against her ass and back…it was heaven. Again I found my hands moving against her skin and the feeling that I was masturbating in my mind. Somehow, the similarity of the motion combines with my heightened arousal and I feel like I’m jacking off. She really has become the focus of my sex. When I touch her, when I pleasure her, when I get her off, I’m touching, pleasuring and getting myself off.

When the massage was over, she again surprised me by asking for Pink, the little vibe. It was still in my drawer from the last time she used it, so I was able to get it pretty quickly. I never actually turned it on, though, because after a few moments of feeling my fingers, she announced she wanted to get off on her cock.

“I want to feel my cock in me. I want to watch you suck my tits while I ride my cock. Can you handle it, Thumper?”

“I think so,” I stammered.

“There is no think. Do or do not,” she replied, channeling Yoda.

“I can do it, Belle Fille,” I said with more confidence than I felt. To hedge my bet, I let my fingers become more insistent hoping she’s come that way and I’d avoid the risk of an unauthorized orgasm.

No dice. She really enjoyed the finger action, but nonetheless rolled me on my back for her main event. As she slid down on top of me, I tried to think about anything – anything – other than what was happening. After a little bit, I felt the familiar tingle and placed my hands on her ass to slow her down. She stopped for a moment and the urge passed, but then she started back up again.

And almost immediately, the tingle started back up again. I tried everything I had read about postponing orgasm. I bore down and applied internal pressure to the general area and that helped a little. Doing so caused my abdominal muscles to tighten, which she felt.

“What are you doing, Thumper?”

“Trying not to come.”

“How’s it going?”

“Oh…OK…I guess.”

“Good, because I’m going to fuck my cock for a good long time…”

Mother.

I knew I was doomed. The tickle grew and started to coalesce. Orgasm was imminent. I placed my hands back on her ass and pressed down, trying to make her stop. She did, for a second, but then started gyrating over the fully engulfed member.

“Oh god! Oh no! I’m going to come!” I was pleading for her to stop, but she wouldn’t. I felt the wave crash over me and a half dozen thick spurts of ejaculate surged out of me. I tried to fight it, to a point, but she was still gyrating. I was helpless. It was as if she pulled the orgasm from me, totally against my will.

A few moments later, she rolled off. “Give me Pink,” she said. I ripped through the bedsheets and under pillows trying to find the damn thing. My head was spinning with the sudden release and the guilt and the feeling of disappointment. Finally, I found the vibe and made a move with it toward her pussy.

But she grabbed it out of my hand. She pressed the button and I heard the thrumming little motor sink into her semen-lubed pussy. I left my hands off her until the very end and then it was only to rub the nipple closest to me. She didn’t push my hand away and finally came in a cascade of “oh, fuck”s.

She said afterward that she didn’t care if I came. It wasn’t her concern. She was getting her pleasure and that’s all that mattered. She didn’t feel like stopping so she didn’t. Very simple. I, of course, think there needs to be ramifications. I have no idea what, but I really need to feel the consequences of coming when I’m not allowed or, ultimately, it won’t mean anything. Then again, she knew what she was doing. Knew I was helpless to stop it. I don’t know. I’m confused.

In the mean time, I’m still pretty horny. And feeling guilty. I wish I had last night to do over…

The bad bite

It’s been much cooler than normal here in the great northern wastes for the past few days and that’s left Belle with cold toes at bedtime. Therefore, she slides them up my leg and buries them in my nutsack, then has me close my other leg over them to warm them up. Sometimes she wiggles her toes. Happy to be of service.

That’s how last night started. Toes in my nuts. Happily, it was all up from there. We kissed quite a bit and I said many things, mostly related to how exceptionally happy she makes me, how beautiful and sexy I find her, how lucky I count myself to have a wife who will manage my orgasms, etc., etc. I was feeling pretty emotional. She really is the most wonderful mate any subbie bunny could have.

The kissing got more intense and that eventually led to her squeezing my toe warmers nuts pretty hard. I told her, breathlessly, how badly I wanted her to hurt me there.

“I am trying to hurt you,” she said. “That doesn’t hurt?”

“Well, yeah, sure, it’s uncomfortable. It feels really great, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like I want to be hurt.”

Which led to a quick tutorial on how to inflict pain to Thumper’s testicles. First, I gave her a little tour of each area and its relative sensitivity. The back of my nuts are the least sensitive. The bottom only slightly more. Sure, you can hurt me there, but you’d really need to give them a good thwack. The front of the sack (the part shielded by the tube hanging in front) is good territory. Much more tender than the previous two sections. It is hard to get to with all the plastic in the way, but totally worth the effort. Finally, I showed her the ultimately tender areas on each side. Also difficult to get to due to plastic and the fact that I have legs. A well aimed, forceful shot on either side will leave me squirming.

With that out of the way, she started flicking each testicle with her finger. Starting lightly and then with more intensity. It was good. Jolts of pain shot through me, but only a little of it lingered. And that’s what I’m looking for. Lingering, aching, internal pain. She’d be hard pressed to give me that just by flicking her finger, so I showed her how encircling the sack with fingers pulls it tight and exposes and entraps the two testicles like a couple of shaved bunnies in a cosmetics testing facility. Then she started hitting them. Again, more gentle than necessary at first, but with more force as she went on. She did create some lingering pain before it was over, but god, I want so much more. I want to know just how much pain I can take there. How badly can she hurt me? I hope she ties me up and tries to find out. Soon.

All the nut slapping had me lathered up (“Is it hot in here?”), so when she eventually gave me the green light to pleasure her I had a pretty good head of steam behind me. I was in my feral sex beast mode and wanted nothing more than to consumer her essence. All that energy that previously would go into getting the dick wet has nowhere to go and occasionally goes to my head. It’s not too surprising then that not too long into it, while I was sucking her nipples like a newly born calf, she cried out.

“OUCH! That hurt!”

“What? What I’d do? I’m sorry!”

“You bit me! That hurt!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry! Please, I’m sorry! Are you OK?”

“I’m not the one who’s supposed to be hurt.”

“No, of course not. I’m so sorry!”

“This is supposed to be about me, not you.”

SMACK. She didn’t hit me, but it felt like she had. Of course, she was right. I had lost control. I let my animal lust get the better of me. I don’t recall biting her, to be honest, but I had been struggling with the urge ever since she started smacking me around. I felt horrible. Really horrible. Not only had I hurt her, I had let her orgasm become more about me than her. Too much an outlet for my desire. As I said, I lost control. Totally.

After that, it was as though she had thrown a big wet blanket over me. Before, I was lost in a buzzing headspace of pure sex, but after I was totally cognizant of my every action. Total control. It was all very measured and gauged toward what would give her the most pleasure. I still feel very guilty for hurting her.

The orgasm was intense. I don’t really understand how it works inside her, of course, but she said it could have been so intense as to actually be painful, so she backed off of it a bit. She had already had too much pain. Ironically, the pain she caused me came back to her through my heightened desire.

Early this morning, I laid in bed, tube throbbingly full and waves of repressed sexual energy reverberating through me. It’s been a quite some time since I’ve been so horny. So abjectly, pathetically, profoundly turned on. The cock was flexing rhythmically almost all by itself. I could will it to stop, but it would start again if I wasn’t concentrating on it. It was as if some autonomic process was trying to push out ejaculate, because eventually I felt a surge of fluid leak out. Nothing like the amount in an orgasm, and nothing at all like an orgasm, but a good little slug.

I feel like I’m in uncharted territory, and it’s still another month before she’s said I’ll be able to come again. She makes me so, so happy.

Belle’s return

Belle’s return on Friday was fantastic. Not that anything really mind-blowing happened, just that she was here. With me. When we’re apart, I’m not unlike a compass that can’t find North. When together, I understand my purpose for being.

While she was still en route, I cut out of work early so I could come home and tidy up. Something like a nesting instinct came over me, except instead of being a 8.5 month pregnant woman, I was a naked 40-something guy with an expensive tube of plastic locked to his unit. Yes, even though we have vast expanses of windows in our house (all with working blinds, I should point out), I felt the need to be as nude as I currently can be while performing the household tasks. More than that, I even went so far as to insert my trusty old Doc Johnson butt plug which, owing to the paucity of backdoor action I’ve experienced in the past several months, left me feeling satisfyingly full in spite of its modest size. You’d think the nakedness, the aloneness, and the hunk of rubber shoved up my ass would conspire to distract me from the tasks at hand, but in fact, I imagined the whole time that Belle was observing me in that condition and that succeeded in keeping me focused (and buzzing). Since we live with two kids, the opportunities to perform these kinds of tasks for her in the buff have numbered exactly zero. Now that I’ve imagined what it would feel like, I’m going to keep thinking about it until it happens for real. I’ve said lots of times that being naked before her with the device clearly visible still leaves me selfconscious. The thought of being forced into that position, while servicing her through household tasks, all in the bright light of day was, clearly, arousing. Basically, being naked before her for no reason other than she wants me that way is enough to set me spinning.

In any event, I folded all the laundry, made all the beds, cleaned the kitchen and bath and generally picked up so that the house looked maybe the best it’s ever looked upon her return from a trip (with the movements of the plug causing the occasional burp of precum to ooze out of me being my modest reward). I know that some people feel eroticizing housework is misogynistic, which it may be, but it’s also a potent turn-on for me when I’m in the right state. Belle’s said it turns her on, too, so my position is, misogynistic or not, we’re gonna keep doing it.

She looked amazing standing on the curb at the airport when I picked her up. She shone among the herd of tired, stressed, and impatient travellers. Once I had her in the car, in our own world, whisked away from the craziness of everyone else, I was in heaven.

Later that night, she allowed me to bring her to orgasm, but not before abusing me un peu: pinching (and pulling, and twisting, and general evilness) to the nipples, some scratching, and fingernails driven into my ass. Bliss. When it was her turn, I found her to be incredibly wet with open, inviting lips. God, I missed her body. It’s sudden naked, aroused, and ready presence made me ache inside. The intensity with which my inner sex lizard demanded I replace my fingers with the cock desperately trying to achieve full erection between my legs was strong enough to leave me feeling slightly dizzy. It took a disappointingly short time to get her off. The lizard was not happy.

All day yesterday I was coming on to her with a zeal that would cause a strict interpreter of our Covenant to cry foul. Every kiss, every touch, every long look filled my plastic tube with frustrated desire. Device or not, it was my clear intention to fuck her that night with whatever piece of me I could get into her. I was beyond simple desire. I had crossed over into biological imperative territory. An entire generation of internal passive rabbits was at stake.

However, Belle had a different agenda. After dinner, she had me clean up while she read a book in front of the fire the unseasonably cool day had caused us to light. Lights low, Madeleine Peyroux on the iPod, fire cracking, and several glasses of pinot grigio conspired to leave Belle supremely relaxed. After our daughter was asleep (the boy being at a sleep-over was out of the picture), I sat on the floor near her head while she luxuriated on the couch, our dog laying on her torso. I looked at that dog and felt petty jealousy rise within me. He was getting the attention and body contact I wanted. Damned dog. I was on the floor while he was getting scratched behind his ears, head resting on her breast. Fucking dog. He looked at me with an expression that seemed to ask tauntingly, “Who’s alpha now, sucka?”

She didn’t ignore me, though. I was getting some gentle stroking that clearly wasn’t heading anywhere fruitful which eventually turned into scratching. To be honest, I don’t always enjoy the scratching she inflicts upon me in these unfocused ways, but the fact that she has the right to hurt me in any random way she wants makes up for that. In any event, I was getting impatient. The clock was ticking and with every passing second she was moving further and further away from a state that would result in me getting some action. Finally, she handed me the dog to take outside for his final piddle of the day. He and I exchanged words outside that clearly reasserted his position at the bottom of the social order, and as soon as I got back upstairs to Belle, she handed me the foot lotion and towel.

I’ll stop right here and say my feelings were not acceptable. Natural, understandable, but not acceptable. Or, at least, any hint that I was feeling them was unacceptable. It’s like I can’t figure out what I want. On the one hand, I crave her control. I want her to rule the cock. I crave submission. On the other, I want to fuck. And those two conflicting objectives often clash within me.

I had already lit every candle in the room, so it was fragrant and warmly glowing when she told me to undress. As I did so and the usual quick flush of embarrassment that accompanies the exposure of my condition washed over me, I had the palpable feeling of the device no longer being a separate thing. It was not quite a part of me, but it was, in fact, my normal state. It’s contents securely locked away, impotent, unneeded, and inconsequential, I was as I should be. Especially at that moment when we were clearly not headed toward any kind of sexual contact. The fact that I even had a penis attached to my body and was suffering from the side effects of it was purely my problem and not germane to the situation. Potent, heady stuff. All felt in the flash of a second before I knelt before her feet and started my work. Had it been possible, I would have been sporting a raging boner.

After her feet were well rubbed, I was back laying next to her and her hands wandered over me. I suggested it was time to sleep as a way to signal she didn’t need to continue if it was only on my account. I knew the score (which is to say, I knew there would be no score that night). She agreed, but didn’t quite stop. She didn’t really open her eyes, but her hand found its way to my crotch. Unexpectedly, she smacked at my balls. It was too light a tap and in the wrong spot to hurt, but my reaction suggested otherwise (gasp, jump). I laughed at that and told her it didn’t hurt (which caused her to do it again, this time causing just a twinge).

“Can I show you the right way to do that?” I asked.

“Sure. Later. Time for sleep.”

I got up and blew out all the candles. While on her side of the bed, she said, “You’ve got a cute ass, Thumper.”

Fat lot of good it does me, I thought as the last of the little flames went out.

Pink punishment

I have been punished. Well, at least I feel like I’ve been punished.

Last night, Belle said I was going to rub her feet, which is all well and good and very expected since she just had a pretty terrific orgasm the night before, but before I got started, she asked for Pink, the little vibe that could.

“Get that smile off your face. You’re not going to be involved in anything,” she said.1

Really? … OK.

So I got Pink out of the toy chest and handed it to Belle in much the same way a dog might hand its master a rolled up newspaper if, in fact, dogs could do such things. Then I rubbed her feet for 20 minutes as we watched AC360.2

When the rubbing was done, she was pretty relaxed and, had I not handed her a vibrator 20 minutes earlier, I would have expected she’d be drifting off to sleep. In fact, she looked like she was drifting off.

“What are you going to do with Pink?” I asked, as if I was inquiring about the day’s weather forecast, trying to sound disinterested.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she replied sleepily.

Gah! What!? Why!? Jesus, let me! I didn’t say those things, but they all leapt to mind simultaneously. I didn’t even know where Pink was. She was still in her nightclothes, covers pulled up over her breasts, all cocooned and sleepy looking. No outward indication that she wanted to get off at all.

So, back to AC360. He was saying something about something3, but I wasn’t paying much attention. Too distracted by the mysterious and unusual thing happening next to me. Then, about three minutes later, I noticed a little motion under the covers in the general vicinity of her crotch.

“You’re doing it right now!” In front of Anderson!

“Mmm-hmm.”

I turned off the TV. With it out of the way, I could hear the muffled thrumming of Pink on its lowest setting. Louder, then quieter, louder, then quieter as it was moved up and down, in and out. I started to feel the oh-so-familiar pressure between my legs while I divided my attention between the rising and falling motion of the covers and her face, brow furrowed, eyes closed, mouth half open.

It took much longer than I thought it would. If it had been me doing it, I’d have had her off in half the time, but she wasn’t working her nipples and, while I knew that would help her, I didn’t move in as I wasn’t allowed to be involved. I just laid next to her, eyes darting up to her face, then back to the covers, gripping my pillow and feeling the throbbing inside my tube.

Her breathing turned to shallow pants and the thrumming of the vibe became more insistent as she kick in it’s highest setting. Her hips started to gyrate and the rising and falling of the tent became more noticeable. She was really starting to fuck herself with the little vibe and her whole pelvis was getting into it. She turned her face away from me and started to arch her back and neck. Her heavy breathing became mixed with quiet, rhythmic moans as she got closer to the edge.

I whined, scrabbled at my confinement, and felt totally powerless.

The little rhythmic moans became little rhythmic “oh, fuck”s as she spread her legs open more and, I assume, shoved the little vibe all the way home for the finale.

She came, while inside, my boiling desire howled in protest.

Afterward, I felt…weird. In the past, when she’s masturbated in front of me, we were both naked and I had some involvement. This time, I wasn’t even a spectator. I was less than that. I was immaterial. She was fully clothed, totally covered. She wasn’t putting on a show for me, she was getting herself off in much the same way she would had I not been there. It was 100% about her.

My head was buzzing. I was so turned on, but knew there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t use her pleasure to bleed of my excess pressure since she had blocked my access to it. It was done. And all I could do was lay there and churn. She was spent and satisfied and I was ten times hornier than I would have been had I been the one to make her that way. It was torture.

Her hand came out from under the covers and she handed me Pink, wordlessly. Where I had once been the jockey who rode the races, I was now the lowly stable boy left to tend to the tack after the race was won by someone else. The vibe was deeply warm. I resisted the urge to lick it, to suck off her essence. I simply held it and contemplated how well this event demonstrated her position over my sexuality.

I got out of bed to wash her toy and replace it in it’s case in the toy box before climbing back in. She never moved.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” she purred.

“Why did you do it yourself? Why didn’t you want me to help?”

“Look, don’t give me that whiny crap–”

“I’m not whining! I just want to know, that’s all.” I felt extraordinarily submissive to her at that moment. I felt tiny and expendable.

“It’s my decision and that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want you involved.”

“OK,” I said, meekly.

Yesterday, I suggested it would be tricky figuring out how to punish a masochist. Today, I know how. This is how. Deny my totally. Nothing for me, everything for her. That’s punishment. Cruel and effective. The mere suggestion of being put through this again will keep me in line.

As sleep approached, I felt disconnected from her. Normally, I spoon into her as I fall asleep, but I couldn’t. She was laying on her back, arms and legs out, in a position that made spooning impossible and, since I still wasn’t sure to what extent I was allowed to engage with her, I didn’t try to put my arms or legs over her. Snuggling felt inappropriate, as if I’d be intruding. Her entire attitude, even in how she laid there, sprawled across the bed, more than a little asleep, was self-centered. I even had to shift my position to make room for her legs on “my” side of the bed. Her embrace of the dominant high ground was striking.

This morning, I’m fucking wired. The sub energy is humming inside – to such an extent that I still feel like I can’t touch her and have a hard time looking her in the eye. She, however, looks at me in an admiring, appreciative way suggestive of a jockey/horse, gearhead/hotrod, master/slave relationship. She owns me. She owns my cock, my sex, my heart, and she owns my soul. And, she knows it.

—

1 As usual, all dialog is approximate yet accurate with regard to intent.↩

2 So what about that Anderson Cooper? Gay, right? He’s like a cute little gay elf you just want to put in your pocket.↩

3 Saying something bad with his mouth, but something good – oh, so good – with those steely blue eyes.↩