Tag: body service

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Three times

Saturday afternoon, we successfully extracted Belle Fille from the regional airport. She’d spent the better part of a full day coming back from the other side of the world and felt like it. We whisked her home and shortly had her soaking in a hot, sudsy bath.

One of my favorite non-sexual ways to service her is to wash her hair. I don’t do it like they do at the salon. For me, getting her hair clean is secondary to the main event which is to massage her scalp, neck and shoulders and spend as much time as possible just touching her. I sit behind so I have full access, but I have to be careful since I have strong hands and she prefers a firm yet gentle touch. In any event, after I had washed and rinsed and had just finished applying the conditioner, I was cradling her head by holding her along the jawline just under her ears. I was experiencing the greatest urge to reach down and touch her naked body. My fingers remembered the feel of her pussy and I knew I could be there in seconds. There was a time when I would have done just that, but I resisted. I resisted even reaching down and touching her breasts which were bobbing there, half covered in bubbles and water. I just sat there, holding her, my head down, and let all these desires resonate within me. I wanted her badly, and she knew it.

“I used Pink three times while I was gone,” she said quietly.

That got my attention. My head snapped up. “What?”

“Three times,” she repeated. “I used Pink three times.”

I had several opportunities to talk to her over the course of her trip and she never said anything about this. She told me how busy and tired and stressed she was so I assumed she never got around to it. Assumed and not surprised. But no! She did. Three times. The realization of this flooded through me. She, of course, has no restrictions against sexual pleasure of any kind. I suffered while she was gone, unable to sleep or think about anything but her, while she was half a world away with a vibe sticking out of her pussy. The searing inequity of our predicaments burned and delighted me.

—

Saturday night, she was finally next to me in bed. Finally, I could turn over and see her there. My former self, feeling what I was feeling, would have been nothing but hard-charging hands, but this new me just laid there, smiling, and taking the occasional kiss.

Her lips. Oh, god, her lips. Knowing as I did that I was not going to archive orgasm that night – indeed, that I wouldn’t even come out of the CB-6000 – everything else about her was amplified in my mind. The touch of her lips on mine was exquisite. The smell of her breath, the taste of her mouth…all of these details that might normally be missed or minimized on the way towards the inevitability conclusion of the past became my entire reason for being there. Her. All of her. And whatever she wanted or needed.

It’s cliche, of course, but life with orgasm denial is about the journey, not the destination. It’s about driving the slower, scenic route instead of the highway or deciding to cross the country via rail instead of jet plane. Slower travel means greater anticipation for the arrival, but it also means taking the time to absorb the dozens of little details from along the way and letting them – the small pleasures – accumulate and outweigh the one that’s big, simple, and selfish. So I smelled her, felt her, tasted her, and loved every fiber of her – all through my lips.

Eventually, she told me to get naked. I did and embraced her fully, feeling her body against mine – finally! – and pressed into her the hard plastic that had become my manhood. We kissed even more passionately and I felt pressure build in the tube. She started to claw me. Driving her nails into the flesh around my groin, raking them across my back, ribs, and ass. Twisting, pulling, and stretching my nipples. Heavenly. Finally, she took firm hold of my trapped scrotum and began to squeeze it hard while chewing on my neck. The flood of sensory input quickly overloaded me and I actually screamed blissful agony into her pillow. She stopped and I collapsed, panting, glowing, warm with her abuse.

After I collected myself, I said, “Funny, I imagined something sweet and gentle on your first night back.”

“Starting now, it will be,” and she pulled up her top.

Cutting to the chase, I don’t think I’ve ever felt her wetter. Using my hands (and wishing they were my mouth), she started to make sounds like she was coming. They went on and on. Minutes ticked by. Eventually, it ended with a flushed, exhausted crescendo.

Hang it from an aircraft carrier, boys: Mission accomplished.

—

Sunday night and I’m making dinner while she sips her wine and reads Denying Thumper at the bar. She hasn’t spent much time looking at all the thousands of words I wrote for her while she was gone. Too busy, she says. Fine, I think. Not that it would have taken much time, but I guess I’d rather be here with her when she sees first sees them. Nervously, I watch her for reaction. Whenever she give little laugh, I ask, “What?” I walk behind her to see where she is. The waiting is killing me.

When she gets the end of the last entry, she’s crying. I’ve moved her. I come around and hold her and kiss her and thank her for being with me, even though I’m annoyingly complicated and high maintenance. She says I’m her favorite person in the word and she isn’t a big fan of simplicity, anyway.

After dinner, I ask to be released for hygiene purposes. We’re in the bathroom and I’ve got my encased unit exposed, waiting for the key, when she pulls my head down by the hair and just looks into my eyes. She’s waiting for something. Ouch. What is it? Oh! I tell her my phrase, the one that reaffirms my purpose and position. She releases my hair and unlocks the device.

“Tonight, you’re going to rub my back and massage my feet and then I’m going to sleep, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After the cleaning, I bring the lock back to her. She likes to be the one to make it click. We’re in our room and she’s got me by the hair again. Quicker on the on uptake this time, I say the magic phrase and she locks me up. Without warning, she has me by the balls. Really, she’s got my poor, stretched balls in her grip and she’s pulling HARD.

“How was the shower?”

I’m processing the question and the pain at the same time. I don’t really answer as much as I utter an incoherent sound.

“How. Was. The. Shower?” SQUEEZE.

“GOOD! It was good, thanks,” and she releases me.

“That’s nice,” as she leaves the room.

Finally, later that evening, after the massaging is over and she’s smelling of scented oil and is all rubbery and relaxed, I ask her about my release schedule. Was she serious about three times in 2009? No, not exactly. Three more times is what she meant.

I will get to come three more times this year.

I shudder at the thought. The chastity tube instantly starts to throb painfully. Three times. For real. I will only have three more orgasms all fucking year. I’m turned on and terrified. Can I do this? I’m babbling and fumbling and scared as hell while trying to process that yes, for real, she’s serious. She will come and come and I will…wait.

“I know you’re always trying to be an over-achiever,” she says, not incorrectly. “This’ll give you something to blog about, won’t it?”

Fucking christ. What have I done?

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Deny me, part deux

This post is related to the task my Belle Fille gave me prior to leaving on her trip. I am to write on my blog specific things, blah blah blah. You know the drill by now.

—

Belle,

Upon further reflection, I’ve come up with with the following addendum to my previous note to you regarding my denial.

  • I go back and forth on whether it’s better to know when I’ll come next or if you should keep me guessing. Since the guessing part leads me to obsess over it in a not-so-good way (Is today the day? After she comes, will she tell me to keep going?), I’m now leaning towards having some forewarning. One way you could do this would be to set a date range. For example, there’s no way I will come before X date, but I’ll definitely come by Y. That spread could be a week to a month, but to make it much longer would defeat its purpose, I think. Another way you could handle this is to make it a reward for achieving a goal of some kind. For example, I will get one orgasm within a week of bringing you to climax N times. Using our last conversation on this topic as a guide, that would mean you get to come 50 times before I get to come once.
  • I would like to be milked on a regular basis. This, too, could be as a reward for exemplary service (your discretion) or be a regularly scheduled thing that you could take away as punishment if I did or said something you were unhappy with. So, maybe every Saturday night I get milked, but not this Saturday because I did that thing you didn’t like. Or maybe it will happen this Saturday, except you won’t let me eat what comes out afterward (for a more minor offense).
  • I need some kind of real consequence for an unauthorized emission. There’s two ways I can think of that you could do this. The first, and most obvious, would be to extend my period of denial by a large number of days. For example, I was supposed to come in two weeks, but since I demonstrated insufficient control over the cock, I will have to wait another two months. The other punishment scheme, and the one that is actually much more severe from my point of view, would be to cut off access to your body. If I ever come without permission, you would make me sit next to you on the bed, in chastity, back straight, with my hands behind my head (maybe even cuffed?), and only be able to watch you pleasure yourself for your next ten orgasms (however long that takes). I think it’s further proof of how orgasm denial has transformed my attitude toward sexual satisfaction that not being able to give you pleasure is honestly a fate worse than the continued denial of mine.

Yours in every way,
Thumper

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Dominate me

This post is related to the task my Belle Fille gave me prior to leaving on her trip. I am to write on my blog specific things I want her to do to me. I’ve decided, since these posts are specifically to her and for her, that I’ll write them that way. Also, I’m breaking them up into related themes. I’ve covered orgasm denial, pain, and bondage so far. This time, domination.

—

Belle,

Of all the topics I’ve covered so far, this one is the hardest for me to express what I want. Hard because I’m still trying to get my head around exactly how dominated I want to be (or how far you’re willing to go). Hard also because some of the things I’m going to suggest below are embarrassing for me to say out loud, let along in public (even in this anonymous forum). Regardless, you told me I had to write these things down, so here they are.

  • Domestics. I’ve already discussed how domestic domination isn’t really my cup of tea. I’d make a terrible housemaid and, truth be told, being treated like one doesn’t do much for me. That being said, I think tying the prospect of sexual activity – especially activity that’s centered on my pleasure – to household tasks is fair game. Such as, accomplish everything on this list and maybe I’ll get tied up and flogged later. Or, you’ll ruin an orgasm for me later if I just let you sit there and enjoy your wine by the fire while I put the kids to bed. Or, if I fail to put my dirty clothes and shoes away properly just once you will deny me the right to give you an orgasm in any way for a week. That sort of thing.
  • Body service. Anything that lets me pleasure your body, even in non-sexual ways, is terrific. I love it when you let me wash your hair. I love the sensual aspect of massaging your scalp, neck and shoulders. I love how you’re right there, all naked and covered in sweet-smelling bubbles while I’m clothed and only able to grind against the side of the tub (assuming I’m not in chastity). You should make me rub your feet with lotion and give you whole-body massages more often. I know how much you like them. You can leave me clothed if you’re worried about me getting overly aroused (again, assuming I’m not in chastity). Also, we need to set up a regular schedule for maintaining your trim.
  • Subjugation. I often don’t act as though I’ve given you control over my sex. I get too pushy or come on too strong. I think it’s appropriate for me to let you know how horny I am or how badly I want to make you happy, but sometimes I cross the line. I’d like you to remind me more often what I need or want is secondary to what you want. The phrase you make me say is a good start. You could make it more effective by making me say it while you put my collar around my throat. Or, you could make me repeat it over and over while you pleasure or torture me. If I stop, you stop. Maybe I should say it each time you hit my ass with the brush. I also think you should make me bow my head or in some other way show my sexual subservience to you. Make me kneel at the bedside and/or suck your toes for an arbitrary length of time. Make me hold a submissive position for longer than is comfortable, perhaps while you pleasure yourself.
  • Humiliation. I know how much you love me and how much you enjoy what I do to you in bed, but a little humiliation wouldn’t be so bad now and then. Tell me when you feel I’m not giving you an optimal sexual experience. Harshly criticize my performance. Tell me perhaps I’m not up to it or that I don’t take my service to you seriously enough. If I don’t shape up, maybe I’ll lose access to your body for a week or stay locked and without orgasm for another month. Tell me how much bigger than me the dildo is and how much more intense the pleasure you get from Pink is. Feel free to exaggerate anything and use it against me. Or, figure out something I really don’t want to do, then make me do it. I like how it accentuates the imbalance of power and plays on my unfairness trigger.
  • Discomfort. When you want me to fuck you to orgasm, make me do so while also sucking on your nipples. If I can do it too easily, make me do it while my hands are tied behind my back or the chain between my cock ring and collar is a little too short. When I’m laying next to you paying attention to your nipples, stop putting a pillow under my head. Have no fear of telling me to hold positions that will make me uncomfortable. Straddle my mouth and tell me to lick your pussy. Grind into my face if it feels good to you. If I can’t breath, I’ll eventually let you know.
  • Collar me. Whenever we’re going to engage in a dom/sub session, collar me. However, don’t let me wear it otherwise. I should only associate it with being submissive to you.
  • Rat me out. Related to humiliation, I fantasize that you’ll one day tell someone we both know that you dominate me sexually. That you orgasm many, many times more often than me and that I’m not allowed to come without your permission (which is seldom given). That you make me wear a chastity device for weeks at a time and how eventually my frustration becomes so great that semen just leaks out of me due its excessive accumulation in my prostate. That you can make me do anything if I’ve been denied long enough. And that I love it and wouldn’t have it any other way.

As I’ve said to you before, I have hesitated to say these things so frankly to you for fear of being prescriptive. Yes, I fantasize of being dominated by you, but if you do it only because I want you to, then the fantasy falls apart. I’ve seen how the control you’ve demonstrated over my orgasms has turned you on. I know you enjoy seeing me frustrated and horny. I know that you enjoy the elevated level of attention I give you. I only hope you can see the same kind of potential for your pleasure that exists in what I’ve written above and will use it in a way you enjoy. Because if you don’t enjoy it, neither will I.

Yours in very way,
Thumper

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Three nights

Saturday
Following the pathetic squirt, I got my mulligan. Belle strapped me to the bed and used her nails and teeth on me. Only the second time being tied down, I can report still thinking it’s pretty great. At one point, the cock became turgid and she remarked, “God, you really do like this!”

As before, I never got really hard from what she was doing, but I enjoyed most of it. The nails on my ass and digging into my scrotum were awesome, but raking them across my chest not so much. As we’re figuring this out, it’s interesting to me to find that some sensations are good only in certain places.  I regret that she didn’t bring the flogger out, and afterward, so did she. Anyway, she was absolutely vicious with my nipples. So wickedly cruel, in fact, that I had to ask her to stop, which is a first. Damn near twisted the things right off. They stung for 24 hours. Delicious.

She let me jerk off when she was done, but unlike the night before, I could never get there. I really wanted to, but the damned piercing was bugging me again. Not hurting as much as just feeling weird and not right. I can only assume this is part of the healing process and that it won’t feel weird forever. In any event, I did not come. As I went to soak the piercing later I found I had leaked precum, but through the little pierced hole, not the one on the end of the cock. I went to bed frustrated.

Sunday
We spent the afternoon and evening at a family holiday party at Belle’s uncle’s house. She had more than her fair share of wine and, in the car on the drive home with the kids in the back seat, started drawing letters on the top of my hand resting on the shifter.

P, I, N, K

Pink? Oh! Pink, the vibrator. Cool, she wanted me to use Pink on her when we got home. We’ll see if she falls asleep first, I thought.

P, I, N, K, O, R, C…

Pink orc? Huh. Does she want to watch Lord of the Rings while I get her off? I shook my head indicating I wasn’t reading her.

P, I, N, K – yeah, got that – O, R, C…

“Orc?” I said. She shook her head. Our exit was about a mile off at this point, so I told her to just wait.

Turns out, she was trying to tell me she wanted Pink or the cock, she just never got past the C before I gave her a weird look. In bed, she decided on Pink, not the cock (sigh) since, she informed me, tonight it was all about her. Working her nipples with my mouth and left hand, I ran Pink over her clit with my right. Her moaning and gyrating hips encouraged me to fuck her with it and she shortly came to a quiet yet intense climax. With the cock hard and pressed against her, she pulled down her top, pulled up her bottoms, rolled over and went to sleep. I’m not even sure she said thanks.

Monday
Laying in bed. After some talking, she tells me to get under the sheets and get naked (since I’m always supposed to be naked in bed). She starts to rub the underside of the cock, pressing it into my stomach. It’s getting harder and I’m making little moaning sounds. “Quiet,” she says. “No sounds.”

Oh, god. I’m normally pretty vocal in these kinds of situations and suddenly finding myself having to bottle it all up was infuriating. The simple sensation of her rubbing the cock on just one side with only two fingers seemed to multiply in its intensity. After a few minutes of this I realized it might actually make me come and the tiniest little Whoville squeak leaked out of me. She immediately withdrew her hand leaving me hard and throbbing. My fun was over. Now I know the rules to that game.

Feeling pretty turned on, I rubbed my hand across her shirt and felt the hardening little nub of her nipple.

“Did you ask permission to do that?”

“Can I please touch you?”

“What do you say?”

I said our agreed-upon phrase that reinforces her dominant position in our sexual relationship and she pulled her pajama top up and assumed the now-familiar “serve me” position.

Again, it was all about her. I used my hands this time, not Pink. Her pussy was incredibly wet and the cock between my legs pulsed with the memory of sliding into it. After she came, I laid with my head on her chest and told her how badly I wanted to fuck her. She pulled down her top and pulled up her bottoms and told me I could touch myself, but not come.

As soon as I wrapped my hand around the hard cock, I knew – I knew – that this time, I could get there. But it was not to be. Not tonight, anyway. So I laid there and stroked while she rolled over and went to sleep.

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Well, that sucked

Nineteen days of orgasmless existence came to an end this morning with a pathetic squirt. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

It all started in the dark at about 4:30 when my Belle Fille woke me up asking if I was interested in sex. “Ermph?” I replied. I had made my advances the night before since it had been an even numbered day since my last orgasm and she had previously expressed an preference for non-odd numbered days. However, “nineteen” is also the title of a song Belle liked in high school, so we were going to wait until the 19th day. Yeah, super. OK. Let’s wait! I’m sorry, what was I saying about wanting her to be capricious?

<clenched teeth>Good night, sweetie.</clenched teeth>

Flash forward six and a half hours to her proposition. Seriously, now!? It’s the middle of the night. Well, let’s not look this gift-wife in the mouth.

I did my dead-level best. I’m not sure I was even awake for most of it, but I did manage to get her off by going down on her. And here, guys, I have to make a confession. Even after nineteen days, I more than half hoped she’d let me roll off and go back to sleep. Yeah, I was hard and she was ready, but this was going to be not just the first time in almost three weeks, but the very first time with steel installed through my unit. But no, she wanted me to go. The reptile in me seized the moment and told the fluffy bunny to fuck off as I groped around for the condom package in the nightstand.

According to my piercer, I need to use a condom for about 6-8 weeks. At my current rate of consumption, I’ll burn through exactly two rubbers in that time. Now, it’s been a while since I used one of these things. Shopping for them is a little different than in the old days. Instead of picking them up in a greasy gas station convenience store, I made my selection while standing in the wide and well-lit aisle of our local Target superstore while moms with toddlers pushed carts full of Christmas toys and toilet paper nearby.  Before me was a six by twenty foot cornucopia of brightly colored prophylactic boxes. Ribbed, studded, spermicidal, thin, ultra thin, and magnum – all available in quantities from three to ninety-six from three different manufacturers. I was overwhelmed. Who the hell needs dozens of condoms, anyway? These things do expire, right? Halloween’s over, so passing them out to trick-or-treaters couldn’t be it. Perhaps they were intended for fall-out shelters or the nightstands of terribly lucky and/or delusional men.

Anyway, up on the top shelf in a little black box with a sheep’s head on it was a pack of three condoms apparently made from the intestine of the aforementioned animal. The writing on the box said these all-natural contrivances were the very thinnest and allowed for the most sensation for the discriminating gentleman (who might also have a latex allergy). They were roughly three times more expensive than their non-animal-based counterparts, and I’m just shallow enough to equate price with quality, so I bought them.

As it slid wetly out of its torn little envelope there in the inky blackness of our bedroom this morning, it occurred to me that it felt entirely unlike a mass-produced marvel of modern petrochemical manufacturing. Instead, it felt like rolled up skin. Rather than stop and consider what I was about to put on myself and risk the blood in my swollen member rushing off to some quiet, out of the way capillary where it could go back to doing what the rest of my body wanted to do, I sallied forth and unrolled the cold, wet, skin-like animal byproduct onto my sex.

The sheep on the package could just have well stood for a wool sock since that’s what it felt like I had on my dick as I entered Belle. I felt warmth and pressure, but couldn’t really tell how much of me was in her at any given point. Maybe the sheep my condom had come from had unnaturally thick intestinal walls. In any event, it didn’t really matter since the curved barbell in the head of my cock slid back and forth and pulled uncomfortably on its still-healing hole. I had to withdraw, but was pleased to release my manhood from it’s sheepy sensory deprevation chamber. One might think I felt sad that the sheep’s life was thusly wasted on my unchristened condom, but one would not only be wrong but one might also be freakishly obsessed with the rights of thick-intestined farm animals.

Once the intestine was off, Belle let me masturbate. Honestly, I should have stopped and just gone to sleep, but I felt I had gone that far and, with the ghost of Wooly the Sheep hanging over the bed, I wanked my meat. Normally, I like to alternate from the base of my shaft to the head, but the area I like to rapidly stimulate is currently healing, so I could only stroke the bottom two-thirds of the cock. Eventually, I coaxed it to give up the semen. It didn’t feel good at all – it felt like a hell of a lot of work. Its volume was unremarkable which, in itself, is somewhat remarkable considering how long it had been. But no, it wasn’t fireworks and earthquake stuff. My cranium did not explode. I did not see lights. Instead, the orgasm weakly flung itself onto my stomach, barely making it over my belly button.

I felt like the guy who sat through a joke he’s already heard, but told with an overly long set up and a bungled punch-line. I’m hoping Belle isn’t too tired tonight because I’d like to call a mulligan and get my do-over.

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Pushy bunny

I got Belle a copy of The Mistress Manual by Mistress Lorelei. It was well-reviewed on Amazon and it’s just my thing to buy a lot of books whenever I’m trying to to grok a new subject, but it’s been sitting on Belle’s nightstand uncracked since it arrived so yesterday I picked it up and started reading it.

Mistress Lorelei suggested I stop. At least, to stop before I got to the juicy stuff. OK, I figured, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. But I was able to get through enough to know Belle’s not going to like some of what she has to say. First of all, Lorelei talks a lot about “sissy maids”. As I’ve said, I am not a sissy, do not want to become or be turned into one, and, in general, am not interested in doing all the housework (nor is she interested in me being a sissy). In addition to lauding the benefits of the live-in sissy maid, Lorelei also discusses the joys of dressing your guysub (her word – hadn’t seen that form of the term before) in women’s clothing (specifically, underwear). Again, not burning with a desire to wear lacy panties and Belle’s never suggested I should. We don’t have a problem with guys who do, but it’s not an idea that trips either of our triggers. However…

Mistress Lorelei did help my thoughts coalesce around something I had not been able to put words around previously. While I’m not interested in doing all the chores, wearing panties, or otherwise being emasculated, I am turned on by Belle making me perform tasks or putting me in situations I’d never embrace on my own. I like the idea of her pushing me beyond where I’m comfortable. For example, when she forced me to eat my own come. Yes, eating come (my own included) turns me on, but it’s only a turn-on for me while I’m turned on. Approximately .25 seconds after it comes out of my body, the idea of eating it is about as arousing as is the idea of eating snot. She didn’t just ask me to eat it, though, she made me by smearing it over my lips. It was a marvelous moment where she spontaneously asserted her dominant prerogative. It was awesome and it’s one my favorite memories from our recent past.

This concept intersected with our life last night. Belle had already told me I was not going to service her, but she was being very generous with her attention towards me. She was clawing my ass, pinching my nipples, and jacking the cock (while avoiding the still-tender piercing). It was heavenly. I had asked (begged, really) to be allowed to go down on her, and she refused. Then, as she was biting and sucking on my neck (and leaving a nice little trail of marks down to my shoulder), the intensity of the feelings got to me and I begged to be able to do anything at all to her. I guess I didn’t really think she would let me, but I really, really wanted to and also wanted to hear her refuse me again. However, it didn’t turn out that way. She got pissed. Felt I was trying to control the action. I apologized and did my best grovelling bit, but she was fairly nonplussed. After she chewed me out for a while, accompanied by my continued pleas for mercy, she decided I had ruined the moment and would have to massage her feet with lotion before she went to sleep (which, you know, wasn’t all that bad either).

She may have been right. I may have been trying to steer the ship. It’s not uncommon for me to achieve a nice subbie headspace after we get started, but it’s not usually the case that I’m feeling submissive before we get going. Had I been grooving the guysub space, I don’t think I would have continued to beg her for access to her body. I might have tried once, but she was being pretty firm with her refusal. I doubt I would have pushed it. Maybe that little voice in my head that hoped she would capitulate and let me go down on her was playing a bigger role than I thought. Had she directed me to leave my comfort zone beforehand – to jump-start my submissive tendencies – I probably wouldn’t have pushed her so hard.

So, to tie all this together, I had never really appreciated why dommes made their subs do things like kneel or kiss their feet before a scene. Since I didn’t feel a terrific desire to bow before Belle or worship her feet (not, at least, until getting warmed up a bit), I figured that her forcing me to do them wouldn’t find a place in our relationship. In fact, I continue to think too much about my interests and desires. No, I don’t instinctively want to bow to her, so she should make me do it. Since sucking on her toes is usually something I need to warm up for, she should make me do it before anything else. We both need strategies that will allow her to assert her dominance, not for my pleasure, but to ensure I don’t usurp her authority.

Because of last night, there’s a phrase that reiterates our power-sharing arrangment that she’s requiring me to say before I’m allowed to do anything with her. At first, I felt silly and somewhat embarrassed saying it, but by about the third time it came out of my mouth, it sank in as to why I needed to say it. And, in turn, why I needed to write this.

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This morning

I awoke this morning with the carnivorous butterflies at full battle alert. My whole body seemed to vibrate with a tremulous, insistent lust for Belle. There was a moderate amount of pain coming from the end of my erection, but the immediacy of her physical presence filled my senses and caused me to momentarily subjugate the hurt. At first, she was sleeping, and I tentatively moved my hands over her body, cautious not to wake her but finding it difficult to control my urge to touch her. As she stirred from sleep, I became more bold, moving my hand beneath her bedclothes and down between her legs. Thankfully, she was receptive and pulled her top up to to reveal her breasts, in doing so wordlessly directing me to provide her the service I so badly craved. She made little effort to please me. There was a vague touching on her part, but it seemed more about her appreciating my form than an attempt to give me pleasure.

I consumed her nipples as if they were water and I a man lost in the dessert. I fought the urge, so familiar when my lust is running high, to sink my teeth into her soft flesh. My mouth found its way to her pussy and I eagerly lapped at her wet folds. Her first-thing-in-the-morning aroma was strong and powerfully affected me. My newly pierced meat strained against the still-unfamiliar steel passing though it, but the intensity of her womanhood blanketed any pain. I was solely focused on consuming all of her that I could before she inevitably fell over the cliff of orgasm.

As her climax approached, she started moaning loudly and with abandon. I found myself, for the first time, making sympathetic orgasmic moans. Soft, almost whimpering sounds came from me as I palpably felt the crest of her pleasure approach and then wash over me along with the knowledge that, sadly, my enjoyment of her body was coming to an end.

Afterward, I laid my head down on her pubic hair and inhaled her redolent essence for as long as she’d let me. I placed my hand over her pubis, cupping it over her mound. I felt the source of her power over me radiating from it. An animal-like lust welled within me and, again, I was nearly overcome with the urge to bite her. But I didn’t. I kissed her. As sweetly and as tenderly as I knew how. And I thanked her for allowing me the pleasure of giving the same to her.

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The one where Thumper gets put in his place

Friday night. Belle jacked me off with the intention of edging me. After a while I took over for her and brought myself to within a heartbeat of coming. We (or, mostly I) kept at it for a while longer, but it’s not really the point of this post, so I’ll leave it at that. By the time we were done, I was pretty hot and really wanted to go down on her, but she wasn’t interested. She said she was happy not to come and that she’d let me bring her to orgasm on Saturday.

Saturday morning. As has become customary after about a week without release, I slept fitfully the night before. Belle was up before I was and let me sleep in. That was very sweet – and I really needed it – but I missed not having her next to me when I woke up. I missed not being able to paw at her and deliver the promised pleasure from the night before. But she wasn’t there, so I got up. She said I’d have to wait until that night to do her.

Saturday night. Regardless of my recent posts about service and not getting any charge from it, I did find myself wanting to make the dinner and clean up all the dishes. And, because I want to get full credit, I’ll mention it was a pork roast with mashed potatoes and green beans (though Belle made the green beans). Lots of dirty dishes. Anyway, I just did it because I wanted to do it for her. I wanted to clear the deck as much as possible for that night’s activities. I wanted her to have a special time.

So, by the time the kids were down for the night, I got into the bedroom to find her in something like a fetal position with the covers pulled up to her chin. Not a positive start. I had already lit all the candles, so it looked and smelled right in there, but her physical attitude suggested I was there to perform a rectal examination or something. I laid next to her staring up at the ceiling, on top of the covers and fully dressed, and we had a stilted conversation that eventually revealed she did not want to have any sexual activity. All she wanted was to curl up with me and go to sleep.

I didn’t react well. I had been focused on this moment for 24 hours, not expecting or even wanting my own release, but very interested in living vicariously though hers. She felt defensive and I was pissed. She again expressed concern that she wasn’t living up to my expectations and that my need for sexual contact was too much for her. I told her my expectations were that she’d be exactly whatever she wanted to be, but that all I wanted at that moment was to make her feel good. That I had orchestrated the entire latter half of the day to make that easier. I couldn’t understand how she wasn’t in the mood to do something that would give her pleasure and would entail no responsibility on her part whatsoever. I didn’t want reciprocity. All I wanted to do was make her come so I could go to bed frustrated. I suggested that perhaps she did not want to control my orgasms. She assured me that she did.

Finally, as I was thinking about getting out of bed so I could write a post full of bile and spit, she told me she wanted me to take off my clothes and stroke her head. Something unusual happened. Part of me wanted nothing to do with her. I wanted to get away from her. But another part of me – the part that cooked the food and washed the dishes – wanted to do what she said. I really struggled inside my own head. I eventually took off my clothes, reluctantly. I started stroking her head, reluctantly. She started to pet the cock and stroke my balls. I felt the spurned husband, full of pique and annoyance over being denied sex, wresting with the submissive, service-oriented male. Being naked when she wasn’t and performing the task she asked of me, even though it absolutely was not what I wanted to do, stoked the sub. He won. I felt myself slip into a pool of submissiveness.

I had a hard time telling this to Belle. It seemed like the spurned male actively got in the way of the words as they were trying to come out of my mouth, but the more I said the easier it got and the longer and harder my cock grew under her hand. I told her that somehow, this is what I wanted. I wanted her to control the sex completely. I told her she needed to be firmer with me in the future. That I should not be allowed to get away with the kind of petulance I displayed earlier. If I ever acted like that again, she should simply make me tell her who’s in charge of the sex and who owns the cock. The spurned male in me screamed at the sound of the words, but he was receding quickly and was difficult to hear. She said that hearing me say those things, knowing that she had that control, actually turned her on. Then she rolled over. The time for talking was over. I held her in my arms and stroked her forehead as she fell asleep.

Even I slept, if only for a little while.

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D looking for T: An addendum

Interestingly, since I wrote D looking for T last night, there are new posts on two blogs I follow which, to be honest, make me look a little shallow.

Over on Devastating Yet Inconsequential, there’s this short missive on keeping a clean kitchen. I suppose if Belle made such service sexual, I’d find it that way. Hell, she could condition me to get aroused at the sound of Larry King’s voice if she stroked me during his show (*shudder*). It’s not that I don’t want to service her in this way, it’s just that I need some sexual attention now and again to keep my mood up.

Meanwhile, Axe posts about massage as service. This is something I can totally associate with. I love giving her body service and don’t need her to “pay” me with sexual attention afterwards. I love touching her and giving her pleasure, whether it’s to bring her to orgasm or just to make her happy. It can be as small as brushing her hair or just stroking her forehead before she goes to sleep. Problem is I offer massage of her back or feet or her entire body a lot more often than she lets me give it to her. I think she thinks it’s going to lead to me rubbing my boner on her, and, again being honest with myself, it often does.

Maybe I’m not such a good submissive, after all. Maybe it is too much about me and my gratification. Maybe she should be firmer with me. Dominating me is not second nature for her – we both know that. Perhaps being submissive isn’t second nature for me, either. Do I just want to be submissive to her or am I really submissive?

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D looking for T

Belle let me fuck her tonight and, even though I was not given permission to come, it was quite the relief. It’s only been four days since my last orgasm, but it was four days locked in the CB6K during a particularly nasty menstrual cycle which left Belle not only disinterested in letting me give her any kind of physical pleasure but her very much disinclined to give me much, either. I do like denial, but I find it has to be balanced with a certain measure of teasing. Denial without teasing is just sad. Kind of like a pony without a saddle.

When I first started learning all I could about all the various ways men get denied by their women, I read a lot of femdom blogs and sites. There are many guys out there who seem to be very happy doing little else than housework for their women (while locked in chastity, of course). I mean, they get off on it. I do understand where that comes from because I’m there with them, to a point. However, for me, the service bit cannot be the only form of submission. I need her loving touch and attention, too. It builds a feedback loop where she arouses me but denies release which makes me more interested in helping with the little things which, in turn (I hope), gives her reason to arouse me again which, conversely, causes me to want to do more and more for her. Eventually, it all spirals into a cosmic orgasm and starts to build all over again.

I admit to not really understanding how all this works in my head. I want to make her happy all the time, even on those days I get to come. But, as the days tick by and I get farther and farther away from coming, the need to please her builds. I want to constantly kiss her and tell her she’s beautiful and pick up both the kids for her and start the laundry and cook the food and whatever the fuck else I think she needs because…because…well, just because. I don’t know. Are men really that simple minded? Are we such simple beasts, so easily conditioned into submission? Um, yeah, maybe. I seem to be, at least.

But only to a point. If I’m not getting attention from her in bed, I start to lose my focus and feel sad and neglected. It happened early on when she and I were apart and the affects of the orgasm denial was particularly acute. I need the semi-regular feedback from her to keep all the hormones surging in the same direction. Without it, they start to meander about and bump into one another like drivers in a Beijing traffic circle. Maybe my neediness is a phase. Maybe, with time, I’ll be like other guys who share my perversion and will be satisfied with folding the laundry and mopping the floors at her command. We’ll see.

But tonight I got to fuck. And it was awesome. Four days with little sexual contact and no opportunity to pleasure her climaxed as it has before with me on top trying like hell not to come while simultaneously giving her as much pleasurable stimulation as possible. Playing the part of the big meat fucking machine, solely focused on her pleasure, is quickly becoming my favorite way to be naked with her. When she really gets into it and seems to stop trying to give me any kind of feedback or pleasure – when it’s all about her and her approaching orgasm – that’s when I’m happiest. I really, really like being her tool. I relish the internal struggle within myself right at the moment of her climax when I feel the reptilian urge to continue fucking her only for my pleasure but knowing I cannot. That I will be left ultimately dissatisfied. Tonight, my internal lizard was left ravenously hungry as I was still sporting a pretty good hard-on long after Belle was asleep. Even now, I’m left typing this – exhausted yet unable to calm the buzzing in my head so I can sleep. The lizard will not rest.