Tag: chastity

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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.

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Good Thumper

Just after Belle decided it was time to go to sleep last night and had rolled over, she commented that she had noticed what a good job I had been doing lately with regard to being of service to her. I had been feeling slightly sleepy up to that point, but upon hearing those words – I was doing a good job – I found myself on high alert, cock hard. I can sit outside myself now and think how fascinating that is. I’ve been conditioned to become sexually aroused (and not just a little) simply by her giving me a little pat on the head and saying, “Good boy.” My entire definition of sexual stimulus and gratification seems as though it’s being rewritten.

I told her in return that I only wanted for her to be happy, but realized as I said it it wasn’t quite right. Yes, of course, I want her to be happy, but more than that I want her to be pleased. Pleased with me and my performance. If she’s pleased with my service, she will be happy. I also told her I wanted her to hold me to high standards. Truth be told, I don’t really feel like she’s taking full advantage of me at the moment. More often than not, I’m the one who’s reminding her of ways she can utilize me. I’m still waiting for her to take me for granted, which, on the surface, sounds like a bad thing, but somehow in my hormone-addled brain isn’t. However, I do know I’m trying really hard and it’s very, very nice to hear her acknowledge that.

She also mentioned how impressive my attitude was considering I wasn’t in the CB6K. The device, as she correctly observed, focuses me on her and, yeah, not wearing it has made the recent past a very different experience for me. I touched on this in my last post, but the device has many salutatory affects on my behavior, not the least of which is its ability to remove the cock as any kind of distraction for me. When it’s locked up, it kind of ceases to exist from a sexual standpoint and becomes more of a maintenance item needing to be cleaned, etc., responsible only for the removal of waste products from my body. I can’t use it on her, I can’t play with it. In a very real sense, when I’m wearing it, the device becomes the cock it contains. If it wasn’t see-through, I’m sure the sensation that the cock had been replaced with the device would be even more acute.

So all this leads me to wonder when she’s going to lock it up again. I haven’t asked her this question because I don’t want to influence her. I am, in fact, of two minds. Being free is much more convenient than not. I’ve been out for so long now (over three weeks) that I kind of forget what it’s like being in and what it does to my most basic routines. On the other hand, the feeling of her constant control is very appealing to me. To be clear, I am not advocating either state as it’s clearly not under my control and not something I feel comfortable having a say in. I’m just wondering. How much longer will she allow me to be free?

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The new bunny

While at the the cabin a few days ago, I decided that Belle needed to step up from the basic, entry-level vibrator we got for her several months ago to something more full-featured. Don’t get wrong, Pink is a terrific little vibrator, but it’s just that. A little vibrator. As I said last time, Belle’s orgasms need to be as “frequent, spectacular, and celebrated” as possible. Therefore, I figured it was time to upgrade the hardware.

Never having needed a vibrator myself (simple slabs of latex shaped like various porn stars’ dicks were always enough for me), I used Belle’s best friend’s experience to help me pick one out. No, I didn’t call her up and ask (that’d be an interesting conversation, wouldn’t it?), but I did remember Belle relating to me that she had and was very happy with a rabbit-style vibrator. Shopping around, I found that the issue with many of these kinds of vibes is that they’re friggin’ ugly. Either they look like they were slapped together out of random parts or their design suggests they were left here by visiting space aliens (sometimes, both). I wanted Belle to have one that looked like it was made by Apple. Sleek, clean lines, well made, and pretty. Yeah, those are the expensive ones.

I settled on this model. It was pricey but well-reviewed and, of course, Belle’s worth it. Its smooth, dolphinesqe form appealed to our shared aesthetic, but the real clincher was that the clitoral stimulator looked exactly like a little pink rabbit bowing to the power of the clitoris. Sold. Unfortunately, since we weren’t home and I didn’t think a UPS guy showing up at the cabin with a plain, unmarked box that I quickly ran back to our bedroom with would look all that great in front of the in-laws (assuming UPS would even deliver that far back into the boonies), Belle was denied trying out her new toy until last night when we got back.

Upon opening the box, I was initially impressed with the thing’s heft. It’s not really big, but it’s got some density to it. I’d say it has about a half inch more insertable length than me and is maybe a quarter inch wider than me. This worried me, not because my fragile male ego wouldn’t be able to deal with her preferring it over my original equipment, but because she’s always going on and on about how she thinks I’m the perfect size for her and doesn’t want anything bigger, yada yada yada. As far as I’m concerned, this thing should be better than me since, you know, it vibrates and the head rotates and shit. It’s got R&D and modern microelectronics on its side. All I have is a few million years of evolution. In any event, I want her to dig it. If she ends up liking it over her cock, so be it.

So anyway, once the boy finally went to sleep, we broke out the new bunny. From what I’ve read (I may not have mentioned previously, but I don’t actually have a vagina of my own), rabbit-style vibes are a little trickier than others in that they stimulate multiple regions at once. While it’s possible for me to use little Pink on Belle with great affect, it would be harder for me to use the new bunny without actually seeing its successful application by Belle on herself since each pussy is unique, like beautiful snowflakes, etc. I prepared the sleek dildo with a bit of Astroglide and handed it to her.

There were a few candles lit, but the majority of light in the room was from the near-full moon streaming in through the open windows. With the cool blue light of the vibe’s controls mixing with the clean, white light of the moon on her skin, she began. At first, she fiddled with the controls and played around with the different vibe settings and head rotation speeds. She found a combo she liked and settled on the correct angle of attack before doing something I had not expected. My personal experience with artificial dongs involves their rapid, piston-like movement through well-lubricated orifices, but once she found the sweet spot, she closed her legs on it and just left it there. I guess that makes sense in retrospect since her clit was being stimulated on the outside while the head of the thing was rotating from within, but I though there’d be more athletics.

Nevertheless, she seemed to really be into it. At one point, she pulled her top up which, I’ve learned, is her way of telling me to suck her tits. Of course, I was way happy to oblige. My punishment from last week’s unauthorized orgasm was over, so I was free to play with myself, but she had neglected to give me permission to take off my clothes so I was more or less covered in all the strategic places. Skin on skin contact with her was better than anything I could do to myself.

Shortly after I started sucking and playing with her nipples, she came. It sounded good, but not the most sky-shattering orgasm I’ve ever seen her have. As soon as it was over, she removed the vibe and said, matter-of-factly, “It’s definitely bigger than you.” And I think that’s good. She made all these sounds about how it wasn’t better, only bigger, etc., but ultimately, the size was not a problem for her.

After she came, I was seriously horny. I’ve been out of the device for three weeks now and unenforced denial is very, very different from the other kind. If I had been locked-up, I’d have been feeling some discomfort from the stifled erection, but wouldn’t have had any specific urge other than to boil in my own hormones and wait for them to be internally consumed. Not being encumbered left me with a throbbing erection enhanced by a solid chrome cock ring around its root. I wanted to jack-off so bad I could taste it.

“Please, Mistress, can I jack-off?”

She said yes because she’s so very good to me. While she put her pajamas back on and got up to pee, etc., I laid there, underwear pulled down around my thighs and Astroglide poured over her cock, and beat the fuck out of it. It felt so, so wonderful as the bulbous head of the cock slid under the tightly encircling fingers and the remainder of my foreskin stretched up and over the ring through my PA on the reciprocal stroke. I came very close to shooting several times – the last when she was laying next to me rolling my nipple between her thumb and finger – before a great feeling of selfconsciousness came over me. She was sleepy. Her eyes were already closed. Instead of focusing on her and whatever post-orgasmic needs she had, I was instead selfishly stroking myself for no reason whatsoever except to indulge my animal lust (since, of course, I wasn’t going to come). My desire to continue was shed from me like a dirty t-shirt and I got up to clean off her new toy and put it in its proper place.

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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.↩

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HNThumper II

OK, I admit it. There’s something slightly intoxicating about the prospect of hundreds of strangers getting a look at me that’s usually withheld for Belle or my doctor. I do like the idea that unknown eyes are on my body (and even some known eyes). It feeds my latent exhibitionism and I suppose is similar to the motivation that’s behind the obsessive blogging of my life’s most intimate details. In any event, I’m following up my last foray into HNT with this sequel.

Conceptually, it’s the same deal as before except this time I’m not in the CB6K. You can make out the profile of the circumcised cock I gave to Belle beneath the tight white fabric (even the bump caused by the ball on the curved barbell PA jewelry near its head). What you can’t see is the heavy chrome cock ring I’m wearing as a reminder of her control. At least, not until you click past the jump…

Sans plastic

Continue reading “HNThumper II”

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Hot WiFi action

With regard to my recent observation of how hot the idea of Belle having a paramour makes me, I thought I’d share some thoughts about a couple of sites I found by sifting through the incoming links to this blog. One of those led me circuitously to another blog called Hotwifing Exposed (which, at first glance, reads like it might be a technical site dealing with the intricacies of WiFi networking). They don’t link to me directly, but the blog Subservient to Her does, as well as to Hotwifing.

There are two relatively recent posts on Hotwifing that deal with his and her perspective on the same encounter. I have to admit, reading them got my blood pumping in a way no porn has in quite a while. Seriously, I could feel my carotid artery throb. Heat rose in my face and the old plastic pal in my pants was doing its job, double time (I was packing at the time, but not right now). No doubt about it. This shit gets me hot.

Asking Wikipedia about hotwives redirects to an article about swinging, which is considered an umbrella over it all , I suppose. The distinctions are subtle, but the primary difference between cuckolding and hotwifing is, from what I can tell, that the cuck is much less a player in the wife’s escapades than is the husband with a hotwife. The cuck is deeply subservient to the wife and her other sex partner while the husband with a hotwife isn’t necessarily (though Ben, the husband from Hotwifing, does refer to his wife’s lover as the “alpha”). I don’t pretend to grok it all, but that’s my impression.

These differences are easily seen in how the two talk about having sex with their wives. Here’s how M, of Subservient to Her, describes the end of a recent (and rare) sexual encounter with his wife:

As i rolled off of Her and kissed Her breasts and shoulders in thanks, the reality of the situation began setting in. It had felt wonderful to have that experience with my Mistress and i felt gratitude, but i also felt some regret for having soiled Her glorious Cunt with with my lowly, filthy seed. For Her to receive it seemed beneath Her somehow, and the meaning of the moment was clear to me…She loves me and recognizes that i am working hard to be Her good little slut-slave. She wanted to reward me, even if it meant letting me fuck Her with my poor little excuse for a cock…and even if it meant allowing me to sully my True Mistress with my cuckspew.

Wow. I mean…just wow. I’m sure M’s a great guy (he’s commented here before, so he must be), but it’s so hard for me to understand his POV that he might as well be writing in a foreign language. I DO NOT JUDGE, but I also cannot relate. For me, a big part of my turn-on is derived from the idea that I am totally worthy and by all rights should be able to fuck Belle to my satisfaction, but that she doesn’t let me. It’s not so much a concept of relative personal worth as it is power exchange – hers absolutely over mine.

In comparison, here’s Ben from Hotwifing:

I have to admit that when I got back upstairs (record time after locking the door behind Jerry) the first thing I had to do was lick Anna’s pussy. Not a first, but boy was it wet. I couldn’t hold on long though and was soon climbing up between her legs to feel the indescribably beautiful silky smoothness of a pussy full of Jerry’s cum. Anna was super aroused by the time my cockhead arrived at her cervix and she was pulsing away around my shaft. I could clearly feel the extreme wetness of the puddle he’d left deep inside her. We had the most delicious, slow, intense, grinding fuck, making good use of what you see in the picture above to ease the motions, and it all ended in our speciality simultaneous orgasm as she hoisted her knees high up to let me in as deep as I can go and I offloaded her second injection of cum in the evening.

This guy, I get. No fucking around with personal pronoun capitalization, no self-deprecating comments, and no doubt that he absolutely gets to fuck his wife (at least as soon as the other guy’s done, anyway). The sex Anna gets from the other man actually increases both their desires for one another.

Each of these relationships seem to be rooted in a desire to give the female as much sexual satisfaction as possible and, in both cases, the women end up with a lot of power over the men (though in the case of Ben it’s negotiated away while in the case of M it’s just given).

Steve over on Glow Inside touched on hotwifing recently and came to an entirely different conclusion than I have:

I have absolutely nothing at all against it if other couples decide that the woman can go out and get screwed senseless while the man says at home locked up and waiting for her to come home. I can happily fantasize about there being women in the world who are like that. For some reason, that’s hot.

But I cannot fantasize about being the guy in that situation without everything going pretty soft and and unresponsive down there in Dickland. And if it won’t work in a fantasy, it certainly isn’t going to work in real life. There…that’s my totally phallocentric view of the whole thing.

In a previous post, I posited that my ability to get off on the idea of Belle having a paramour might be rooted in my focus on ensuring her satisfaction (and not only in the bedroom) over mine. However, Steve’s got that in spades (more than me, certainly) and he’s unable to find a way to get exited by it in real life, but I am. So, what is it about a person’s mental state that allows them to be stimulated by the prospect of their partner getting it from someone else? What combination of kinks is required to get hard (or wet) from the idea? Certainly, confidence is required. Confidence in one’s self but also in one’s relationship. Obviously, Ben and Anna have a great deal of confidence in their relationship (and it appears the swinging has only made it stronger). But, does M have confidence? On the surface, one might doubt that he does due to his obvious inferiority POV, but I suspect that in practice he and his wife have a very strong, if admittedly non-standard, relationship.

Well, that’s all I have for the moment on this topic. I’ll stop processing it in public now…

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The rabbit returns

I’m back. Miss me?

So last night, the first full night of my return, was full of talking (and a little sex – I’ll get to that in a minute). Belle was somewhat put off by my lack of subbie Belle-oriented behavior. Funny, she thought, since our “arrangement” was my idea and now she’s so accustomed to it that when I’m not in the proper state of mind, she’s annoyed with me. Unfortunately, she really didn’t say anything about it until we were in bed at the end of the day. She was right, of course. I hadn’t been focused on her in that way, though I certainly was horned up and wanting her in more mundane ways. My excuse (such as it is) is that I was so far out of my headspace after a week in the woods and 18 hours on the road getting home, that I couldn’t just snap back into the groove. As I’ve said, I’m not by nature a submissive person. It’s a state of mind I need to work on in order to achieve. Had she said something about it – made it clear that I was underperforming and that she was disappointed – I think I would have fallen back into the groove (or started to, at least). She feels she shouldn’t have to say anything, though that’s difficult for me. Hearing her assert her dominance over me gives me quite the charge. She suggested that I had been out of the device for too long and I felt a combination of foreboding and excitement that always exists within me after being free for a while. I value my freedom but also crave her control. She neglected to say when she’d put me back in.

After that, we talked about my trip. The one rather important thing I neglected to mention here on my blog was that the The Other Woman was also on the hiking trip I took (along with eight other people, including her fiancee). As I’ve said previously, I met her through a group of wildlife enthusiasts – the same group I was hiking with. My participation in this trip was always kind of up in the air. Belle and I are in a very different place than we were nine months ago when I was unfaithful, but still, it was difficult. It was difficult for Belle and it was difficult for me. In any event, Belle wanted to know how it was. How I felt, etc.

What I decided once and for all on the trip – something I’ve pondered quite a bit over the past three-quarters of a year – is that the dominant paradigm of monogamous life-long relationships is not the only entree at the buffet. In fact, I do still have feelings for TOW, but they’re entirely different that those I have for Belle. As I told her last night, Belle is my mate. My other half. She completes me. I have never wanted anything other than to be with her for the rest of my life. She really is the love of my life. My feelings toward TOW are clearly inferior to those I have for Belle. They lack depth, richness, and complexity but they exist. I don’t know that I’d call it love. If love is what I feel for Belle, then it’s not exactly that. I feel like I need a new word. More than like, less than love. In any event, these feelings don’t in any way detract from my feelings for Belle. If anything, they enhance them. During those moments over the past week where I felt a resurgence of my feelings for TOW, I felt even more in love with Belle. I can’t say I fully understand how that works, but there it is. I know in my heart of hearts that TOW is no threat to what Belle and I share, even though I continue to carry these feelings around for her.

I also wanted Belle to know that I didn’t regard these feelings for TOW as representative of anything lacking in my relationship with Belle. They are separate and parallel and in no way competitive. I do not want to leave Belle and/or replace her with TOW, but the affection I feel for her is real. Is this polyamory? I don’t know. Perhaps. I can’t say I fully understand the concept enough to be able to say that’s what I’m experiencing.

What I am capable of saying, however, is that the idea of Belle having a little piece on the side seriously turns me on. Like, seriously. I told her as much. As soon as I brought it up, I felt myself stiffen considerably. Unlike Belle, who loses energy to the perceived competition TOW represents, I feel that I’d gain energy from her having a paramour. It’d make me want her even more. The competitive energy would convert to a greater desire on my part. Again, I can’t explain this. It runs entirely against what we’re all taught by society as to the model of the perfect relationship. I’m sure a part of this has a lot to do with where my head is now with regard to her sexual satisfaction. We’re not equal. My sole purpose is to ensure she’s totally sated at all times. In fact, according to Our Covenant, “Belle Fille claims the right to achieve sexual satisfaction in any way she sees fit.” When she decides she wants a vibrator over her cock, that’s a major turn-on for me since she’s sacrificing an element of my pleasure to ensure hers. It reinforces her position. If she took that several steps further and replaced the vibrator with the cock of another man…well, I get somewhat light-headed just thinking about it.

All this talk of cuckoldry had me well and truly worked up. She instructed me to close the bedroom door and remove my clothes. As she laid on her back, I was again looming over her body on all-fours. She gently rubbed and stroked the stiff flesh between my legs, my balls, and – eventually – even my exposed crack. Sweet Jesus, that felt glorious. I flexed my hips in order to fully expose myself and told her, even though I knew it more than a little squicked her out, I totally wished she could fuck me. Feeling her fingers glide smoothly over my puckering little hole sent me into a drooling stupor. I was snapped out of that when she slapped my nutsack. She didn’t hit me hard enough and in the right place to cause the level of pain I really crave, but she got a few good one’s in there.

After being reduced to a simmering pot of sexual energy, I pleaded for a chance to do something to her. Anything. Please.

She pulled up her top and I latched on to her nipple as though my life depended on it.

“Gentle,” she reminded me.

“Yes ma’am. How would you like to come?”

“I can’t decide,” she replied.

“Your cock is available,” I reminded her.

“I don’t want to hear your lobbying.”

“I’m not lobbying. Just making a statement of fact. I know how much you like it.”

“Yes, but your fingers are so sweet.” She removed her bottoms, now totally nude. “Put them in me.”

I obeyed. She was incredibly wet as I ran my fingertips up and along her slick contours. She moaned.

After a few moments, “Stop! I’m going to come too soon.”

My fingers retreated from her snatch, but continued to stroke the inside of her legs while my mouth stayed on her breasts.

“Oh god, you’re going to make me come without even touching me. STOP!”

I pulled away entirely. She was significantly turned-on. It had been more than week since her last orgasm (she neglected to use her vibrator while I was away) and her body, now that it had become accustomed to regular relief, had a lot of pent-up energy. It didn’t take much to put her on edge.

She climbed on top of me, but didn’t put the cock in. She just rubbed her outer lips against it like an animal in heat and almost immediately came (hard). My desire reverberated within me. I felt a pang of regret for not getting inside her, but also a thrill at how turned-on I could make her.

After she had a few moments to bask and glow, I asked, “Can I put it in? I want to fuck you so bad.”

“Sure.”

I grabbed what used to be my cock and positioned its head between her lips and pushed it home with my hips. Holy fuck, that felt good. Her moist heat sent the reptile brain within me into autopilot and I began to slide it in and out like a piston.

“I promise not to come.”

“Liar. You’ll come.”

“No, I won’t. I promise,” as I continued to fuck her.

“Liar.”

“I swear I won’t come without permission!”

“Good, because you don’t have permission.”

And I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her. Crude, half-formed fantasies about her non-existent paramour flashed though my brain. I can’t imagine my desire could have gone any higher. I so badly wanted to come, but knew it wasn’t allowed. I had to stop once as I got close to the edge, but had plenty of time to pull back before starting the steady rhythm again. I could have gone on like that all night. At one point, I opened my eyes to see her head being propped up by one hand, a bemused and somewhat bored expression on her face.

“You’re being so kind to me,” I told her. “Thank you for humoring me…uhhhng…oh, that feels soooo good.”

I had to stop again as another orgasm approached and she decided to pull the plug.

“OK, that’s it. You’re done,” she said as she lifted off me. I felt her hot wet pussy start to slip away and I lifted my hips in order to keep it inside her as long as possible. She pulled completely clear of me and I felt her soft wetness slide its last over the head of her cock as it fell back and bobbed, so hard and so desperate for more of her, suddenly cold. It flexed on its own volition. So, so desperate.

A short while later, after she had put her pajamas back on and the majority of my desire had eaten itself, I said to her, “I bet you’d let your boyfriend come.”

“Who says it’d be a boyfriend?”

Oh, fuck!

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Cut me, Mick.

Belle gave me a signal on Friday that she was going to let me out on Sunday. To be honest, when I know my release is imminent, I start to lose patience with wearing the device. As long as the release date is nebulous and uncertain, I’m able to maintain an attitude that allows her to keep me locked-up indefinitely. I knew (or, at least, was fairly certain) she was going to let me out by Thursday before I left on my trip, but once I knew the actual date, I really started counting minutes.

In any event, the package was nice and tight Sunday morning when I got up to help relieve some pressure. Belle stopped me before I left the room and removed her lock from where it had hung for all but 15 minutes over the previous two weeks. In the bathroom, I slid my still-swollen member from the tube. The feeling of slithering out of the thing after a long period (and especially when more than a little erect) is hard to describe, but the sudden onrush of sensation on sensorially-deprived flesh with so many tightly-packed nerve endings is dramatic. The cock looked more than a little like Rocky Balboa in that scene when he asks Mickey to cut him. Red, shiny, puffy in odd spots (where the shaft is exposed between the ring and the tube, where it protrudes through the vents, and where the head balloons through the slot in the end), and generally somewhat disfigured from the angle of the tube and the presence of the KSD-G3. He looked a mess, but little trooper that he is, was ready for action (not unlike the Italian Stallion). After I wiped a week of tubal grime off of it, I went back into her bedroom.

“It looks so weird to me like that now,” she said after instructing me to remove my pajama bottoms. “I’m used to it being all locked up in plastic.”

“Yeah, me too,” was all I could muster in response.

Moments later, I was lapping at her nipples and fingering her and wondering when she was going to make use of her recently available toy. She rolled me over and mounted the battered yet unbeaten (literally) meat. The warmth of her took my breath away. I focused on her breasts and thought about anything other than how wonderful it felt to have her moving over her cock. Apparently, it felt good to her, too.

“This is what I wanted,” she whispered in my ear, “to feel my cock…”

It’s the talking that always does it to me. I can stay in my little zone, but once she starts talking, I lose my concentration.

She started to chant, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…” as she approached orgasm.

That did it. I was so close, too.

“Oh no. Oh no, I’m going to come!” I warned, “If you don’t stop, I’m going to…”

“Come with me,” she said, finishing my sentence, “Come (thrust)…with (thrust)…me…”

And I did. And it was glorious. My first really enjoyable orgasm in two months. I didn’t even try to stop it. I just let the feeling wash over and out of me and into her. I emptied myself in a half dozen fat, juicy squirts.

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Funny bunny

I looked into Belle’s eyes knowing I radiated abject horniness. I didn’t ask with words since that’s not allowed, but looking up at her, my eyes were pleading for…something. Anything. Contact. Attention, for her or me. Any outlet for my weeks of accumulated desire.

Her beautiful green eyes could not have been more different. Cool. Clear. Calm. She fingered the hair over my forehead and I could see her debating my fate. I was dangling at the end of her string and it was apparent she wasn’t sure in which way she wanted me to jump. What was so important to me appeared to be nothing more than a trifling whimsy to her.

God, I loved that. Everything we’ve worked for crystallized into that perfect moment. Me craving, aching, desperate. Her, unmoved by my desperation. No hint of my fate. No hurry to release me from my anticipation. Deciding what she wanted, in absolute and total control.

The 45mm ring of the device bit into the root of my surging erection while it’s cage and the extra plastic it contained to ensure my entrapment clamped like a vice. The meat fought back the best it could and pushed the prison up and away with all its might. My scrotum was pulled painfully tight, its contents crushed from behind by the thick plastic ring. I groaned. She laughed.

“You’re funny when you’re pathetic,” she said, laughing some more.

I groaned again.