Tag: chastity devices

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Minnesota nice

An edited text exchange between Belle Fille and me from Wednesday night:

BF: Hi. How about some hot vibe action with I get home?

T: Um, you betcha.

BF: Be naked and ready.

T: Give me 5 minutes warning.

BF: I will. Can I be on top?

T: You can be wherever you want, but what’s that got to do with vibrators?

BF: There might be guests.

T: WTF?!

There were no guests. She was just fucking with me. She was at another work dinner function thing and apparently felt like playing with her rabbit’s head.

As I heard the garage door opening, I hurried around the room, turning off lights and lighting candles and stripping down to just my skin and attached plastic. I laid her two vibrators out on her side of the bed and then reclined on my side, as ordered: naked and ready.

After settling into bed a little while later, she opened her nightstand drawer and removed the key on its chain.1

“I want my cock tonight, is that OK?” she said as she unlocked the device.

“Of course it is,” I replied.

“Of course it is,” she repeated, more slowly.

Luckily, I had earlier given it a really good cleaning, so it didn’t have the rest stop men’s room bouquet it sometimes has at the end of the day.

“Here’s what I want. Tonight, I will demonstrate my control over you by not having control. You will make me come any way you want. And, when I’m done, you can come. Call it my passive-aggressive dominatrix style. It’s Minnesota nice. In fact, when you write about this on the blog, I want you to call it Minnesota Nice.”

“OK,” I replied, worried that people not in Minnesota wouldn’t know what Minnesota nice was. “When you say I ‘can’ come, does that mean I have a choice?”

“No. You must come.”

“Oh. OK.”

I hadn’t been expecting this. I assumed (for whatever reason) that she’d let me come on the weekend. I hadn’t been mentally prepared for needing to bring myself to a place where I could come at all. I started some general pleasuring stuff while trying to rally the troops, but found that I couldn’t get it up. I don’t know if it was the 20-some days of orgasmless existence or the almost two weeks of chastity or what, but I could not get it up. The poor, neglected, abused little dick just flopped around, insistently flaccid.

I didn’t let it freak me, though. I moved over her body and let my torso and legs lay against hers. This kind of large-area skin to skin contact hardly ever happens anymore and feeling her smooth warmth all up and down my body fired off a few critical synapses. I still wasn’t hard, but I could feel it coming. To help it along, I started to rub the head of the cock against the lips of her pussy. She made little sounds at this which also helped the momentum. Soon, her biocock was at full mast.

Once her wet heat enveloped the cock, I sensed that there was a chance I could get her off without coming. Maybe it was the total surprise of the event, but I felt my own orgasm was far enough away that, with sufficient mental discipline, I’d be able to control myself. I started a slow and steady stroking while flicking my tongue over her nipples. The slightly contorted position works in my favor as it helps to take my mind off the action below. I focused as much of my mental energy on her nipples as I possibly could, doing my best to not feel myself fucking her at the same time.

After a little bit of that, it became apparent that I’d have to come up with another strategy. I needed a distraction. As usual, I turned to baseball. Very specifically, I started to thing about my favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. The Dodgers have been playing some really good ball lately. Now that Manny’s back. In fact, they just swept the Reds at home which is something like 11 or 12 straight home wins…

fuckfuckfuck, don’t come!

GREEN GRASS! They play on the green grass of Dodger Stadium, built by Walter O’Malley in Chavez Ravine the year after he moved the team west from Brooklyn. Such a beautiful stadium nestled up in the hills, beautiful green hills. I remember as a kid watching the nearby firefighter’s school do practice water drops on those green hills during the games…

fuckfuckfuck, DON’T COME.

MANNY! I’m really not a fan of Manny Ramirez anymore. Not since the whole drug thing. I mean, I gave those hated Giants such shit when they played Barry Bonds even after all his drug stuff went down. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t feel the same way about Manny. Besides, the Dodgers totally rocked while he was serving his suspension. Who needs him and his $24 million dollar salary…

Ooooooh GOD, don’t come!

I kept up a steady rhythm, not very fast but not too slow, and didn’t have to stop once (though a few times I missed a beat while finding something else Dodger-related to think about). Finally, at about the time I started to worry about how the Dodgers would get past the Phillies to advance to their first World Series since 1988, she started to make sounds like she was going to come. She shifted her hips and I could feel the head of the cock touching her cervix and it was getting harder and harder and harder to hold back the now completely inevitable orgasm.

“OH! Good job, Thumper!” she exclaimed in my ear. That’s it. She had come.

BING!

One and a half strokes later, I was coming, too. Big, fat spurts of three week’s worth of ejaculate. It felt so, so good. She told me how proud she was that I was able to hold it back. Very impressive, she thought. And I admit, I was pretty happy, too.

After I collected myself, I went to the bathroom and was struck by the overpowering smell of semen. It’s such an infrequent part of the action and I go so long without smelling it. Maybe it’s because it was aged and concentrated or something, but the smell of male sex was everywhere.

Back in the bedroom, Belle asked me to hand her Pink.

“Didn’t you come,” I asked, momentarily horrified by the thought that I had misread her and come before she did.

“Yes,” she said, “but I want to try this. Call it an experiment.”

“I’m all in favor of experiments,” I said as I handed her the discrete little vibe. The thing is, Belle never comes more than once. Like, ever. Her’s are more like men’s orgasms in that once she’s had one, it takes her a long time to build back the ability to do it again. Also, she’s usually unable to enjoy sexual stimulation right after due to over sensitivity. This was a very unusual event.

As she was using it on herself, I laid there and reflected on how that moment, right after I came, was so different than the other times I had been forced to watch her pleasure herself. It was interesting more than it was hot. None of the previous feelings of neglect and pain and injustice. But then, I noticed how nice her tits looked from my perspective and I started to wonder if the vibe slid in easier and felt different since she was lubed up with my recently expelled come. I felt a stirring in my groin.

As she continued to use the vibe, her face contorted several times into expressions I’d more easily associate with pain than pleasure. The sounds she made were more like those of someone being hurt. My Belle’s no masochist, so this made it even more unusual. Eventually, she came, but not as boisterously as she had the first time. I’m not sure if this is going to be a regular occurrence now or if it was just a one-time thing.

So now I’m back out of the device and the boulder of orgasm denial has rolled all the way back down to the bottom of the hill. Being allowed the one fantastic orgasm has left me feeling the need for another more than the three weeks of not being allowed to come. Weird how that works.

—

1 Yeah, I thought she was supposed to be hiding it better, too. ↩

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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.

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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? ↩

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Solo

I could dive into this thing (that’s also happening here and there), but I’ll save that for another time. Instead, I’ll make yet another “progress” post about trains and stations…or something.1

I was in bed with Belle Fille earlier in the evening (yes, this evening – can’t sleep), kissing her chin and jaw and face and trying my best to maintain a semblance of control. Since one of the things that’s put Belle off recently is my voracious approach to her body when I’m awash with wanton lust, we’ve established an expectation that I will treat her personage with the respect that it deserves and not as though it were my blow-up girlfriend or something. Steve’s Michelle calls it “queenly dignity”. We don’t have a phrase, but it basically means I can’t grab her tits, shove my hands down the front or back of her pants, grind any part of me into any part of her, get all Doctor Octopus on her, or kiss her in an extra slobbery or tongue-intensive way. Without permission, that is. Sometimes, that’s what she wants. Most of the rest of the time, it’s too much. Therefore, I respect her personage.

So anyway, I was respecting the fuck out of her personage in bed a little while ago, as I said, planting the sweetest, most non-slobbery kisses I knew how on her sweet little face, hand placed sweetly and especially non-grabby on her side and pouring all my desire to do more into my right foot which was thumping on the bed like…well, like Thumper, when she turned away from me and opened her nightstand drawer. A moment later, I saw she had Pink. At first, I thought she was going to hand it to me, but no. She wasn’t. Instead, she moved her hand under the covers, heading south.

“But what about me?” I asked stupidly, sounding hurt.

“You’re…right there,” she replied, “I see you. Sometimes, a girl just knows what she wants…”

“Can I…help?”

“I don’t need any help.”

And she began. I was very close to her. I placed my hand over her torso, not moving towards her breasts (respecting the personage and all) and hugged her close. So close, I thought I could almost feel the vibrations through her body. Her eyes were closed, neck arched. She was entirely within herself, miles away from me. I felt her move her legs further apart and the memory of the feeling of her pussy enveloping what used to be my cock flashed palpably in my mind. I ached, literally and figuratively, to fuck her. The tube was all I could feel now, and it was throbbing. Pounding. Balls aching from the pressure of the ring being smashed behind them.

I was so close to her, I didn’t need to hear the sound of the vibe’s motor becoming rhythmically muffled to know she was fucking herself with it. Twenty days of denial screamed at the injustice of missing a chance to participate in her pleasure. Her orgasm started to build and the pace of her movements under the cover quickened. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I moaned. She came. I whimpered.

After a few moments, I placed my hand on her face and stroked her cheek as she basked in her self-inflicted afterglow. I felt small, wounded, unnecessary – submissive.

“That wasn’t a punishment,” she finally said, “It’s what I wanted, so I did it.”

The pressure in the tube doubled as her words stuffed me deeper into my subspace.

“I love you, Belle Fille,” was all I could say in return.

—

1 I’m not sure what it means either, but it might help if you go read the clusterfuck for yourself. ↩

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How long?

I know I’m not supposed think about this stuff, but I’m a) a guy, and b) a geek. The guy part contributes a certain competitive urge above and beyond what’s necessary and the geek part is all about quantifying and what’s and how’s and such. After nearly a month, I’m back in the device and I’m thinking about how long it’ll be before my little friend gets to stretch his legs again…so to speak.

Our Covenant says I’ll be locked up 183 days in 2009 – six months total. That was written back before Belle said she didn’t want to keep track of things like how long it’d been since I came and how many times she let me do it, etc., so I’m not exactly sure she still feels bound to that goal (plus, of course, the first rule of Our Covenant is that there are no rules – Belle Fille can do whatever she wants). In any event, as of this writing, I’ve been locked up 89 days this year. That means, with over half the year gone, I need to be forcibly chastised another 94 days out of the 170 left until 2010. The longest stint I’ve experienced so far is 18 days back in May.

Why does this matter to me? Well, as I said, some of it’s plain old guy stuff. Hang out on any chastity forum or community and you’ll find guys who’ve been locked up for way longer than 18 days. And, of course, Tom’s been locked up for something like four and a half years. Straight. Or something. And the other thing about me, the thing that you’d learn if you knew me in Real Life, is I always assume if something’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing. I wonder what’d it be like to keep the thing on a month. Two. What would it be like not to come until Labor Day?

I’m screwed either way, of course. Knowing the date takes the spontaneity out of it. If I know I’m not coming until Labor Day, the days in between become an long slog to the finish line. But not knowing drives me crazy, too. Tomorrow? Saturday? Next Friday? When, damn it!? Then again, I suppose that crazy part is what makes this good, right?

Since Belle’s the one who decides these things and since Belle likes her cock too much to leave it locked-up for too long, I know I’ll never pull one of those multi-month deals any time soon (unless, of course, we invest in modern technology – did I mention it’s on sale?).

In the mean time, I think I’ll revel in the angst.

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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.  ↩

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More PA cable madness

My obsession with increased chastity security via my PA piercing is well-documented. Last time, I had decided, once and for all, that a cable through my PA’s ring was not an option since the penis likes to move around in its tube over the course of the day and that movement causes a light yet persistent pulling against the piercing which, eventually, becomes intolerable.

But I keep thinking about it. Like, all the time. I hate the fact that, even with the KSD-3G, I could, if I really and truly wanted to, slip the cock out of the device (though I’m not entirety sure I’d get it back in). So the other day, I was thinking about something Tom did with o-rings and rubber bands (yes, he’s just that crafty). I didn’t use his method, not because I thought it would prove ineffective, but because I have hardware in the vicinity to work with that he doesn’t. His solution provided exactly the inspiration I needed to find what I think makes the CB6K perfectly secure.

Cable through o-ring through PA ring through flesh
Cable > o-ring > PA ring > flesh

I took an o-ring (not sure of the size, but I’ll add that when I get home) and put it into my PA ring before snapping it shut. The ring is big enough that it requires a tool to open, but brute force can close it. Then, with the little black ring dangling from my larger stainless one, I put the tube on and ran the PA cable though the o-ring. Once locked, the penis is perfectly secured. Yeah, I could always cut the o-ring, but I was never looking for a solution that couldn’t be defeated with tools. The entire device could be removed with the right tools, right? All I wanted was something that could not be defeated with nothing more than my hands and imagination. Now I have that.

I’m not in love with the MacGyver-esque look of it (at least it’s black), but I’m very please that, more than 24 hours after putting it into place, it feels no different than usual. So far, the penis hasn’t tried to move up into the tube far enough to cause any pulling whatsoever. I’m a very happy – and secure – rabbit.

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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.

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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.

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Sunday…I guess

I asked the question I shouldn’t have asked. Whilst massaging her feet yesterday evening, I asked if she had given any thought to when I would be locked-up again. No, she hadn’t. She was getting around to thinking about it, but hadn’t really expended any brain cells on it.

“Sunday,” she finally said.

So why Sunday? It’s so arbitrary. There’s no good reason I’m not locked-up now and there’s no good reason for it to be Sunday. Why not right this second? Why not last Wednesday? Why not next Tuesday? The insecurity came back. I felt like it didn’t really matter to her one way or the other. If I hadn’t said anything, how long would she leave me out? If she didn’t want me back in, I didn’t need to be. If she really didn’t care…well, we could just stop messing with the damned thing.

Yeah, total overreaction. My problem is I think about this stuff all the time. I want there to be a rhyme and a reason behind it all. I want her to have a purpose for leaving me out or locking me up, or, absent one, at least to pretend like there’s a purpose. The whole, “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it…I guess Sunday,” thing just reiterates that she doesn’t think about it as much as me and really doesn’t seem to care if I’m locked-up at any given moment. And of course, lock-up is synonymous with control. If she doesn’t care about lock-up…well, see where my fevered little pervert brain takes things?

Like I said, total overreaction. I can hear many of you thinking, “Gah! Stop with the whining, you ass! Don’t you know how lucky you are!?” or something similar. I know, I know. But I want there to be reasons for the things we do. Consequences. Structure. Thought. It’s not just about being denied orgasm, it’s about being denied for a reason. Maybe I ask too much of Belle since this really is my kink, not hers. Maybe I should just go with the flow and be grateful that she’s willing to go through the motions and deal with the high-maintenance basket case to which she’s found herself married.

I’ll just crawl back into my little hole of insecurity now.