Tag: chastity

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Static charge

Dev posted this yesterday:

…I worry that when we don’t have sex, orgasm denial becomes more like orgasm neglect.  Since Jos only comes with me these days, I start to feel like a vanilla girlfriend who agrees to put her boyfriend in chastity and then forgets about it completely.  “You can’t have an orgasm” is sexy.  “I don’t care” is not.

This nicely ties back to what I last posted, so I thought I’d give it a shout-out here. The rest of her entry is great, so check it out.

So after I wrote my previous post, I mentioned to Belle that I needed to do some naked stuff with her and, thankfully, she was thinking the same thing. We stripped and rolled around and eventually she told me to use the cock on her. She was worried about how it’d feel since the issue with the piercing was so recent, but I can report that once in, I felt no pain whatsoever. This is interesting since I can get the occasional twinge from just walking around or sitting down, but actually thrusting it into an enclosed space was fine. Weird.

She’s settled into wanting me to fuck her from above. Earlier in our relationship, she couldn’t come this way, but for some reason she can now and favors it over riding me. That’s great for her, but it’s a whole lot harder controlling my orgasm when I’m doing the fucking. I had warmed her up a bit beforehand, so it didn’t take too long before she was getting close. I was feeling the oncoming storm as well, but felt she was a little ahead of me so wasn’t too worried. I just kept sucking her tits and thinking about baseball (no, seriously – baseball) while trying to read her signals.

It was all going great until she started talking. She was saying how great her cock felt and how good I was at using it on her. That kind of thing. Over and over. My brain, being the biggest and most sensitive erogenous zone on my body, soaked this talk up like a sponge and I quickly found all thoughts of green baseball diamonds leaving my head. Suddenly, I was about to come and had to stop. I froze and tried to bear down to keep myself from doing it . She was still talking, but I was entirely focused on keeping the Rube Goldberg-esque orgasm mechanism from kicking in. Just as I felt myself getting the upper hand, I realized what she was saying was, “FUCK ME” over and over. I had to keep going.

What came next was very strange. I started fucking her again and she quickly started to come. I felt myself squirt into her, but I’m not sure if it was what locked and loaded from skirting the previous orgasmic edge or if I was actually coming. There was some intensity to the leakage that seemed related to orgasm, but it wasn’t the same. A few moments after she came, I knew I hadn’t because of how I felt. I still wanted to fuck, badly. I wasn’t floating in that post-orgasmic lethargy. The urge to bite her was strong. No, I hadn’t had a real orgasm. But what was it? An abandoned orgasm? A ruined orgasm? No idea. But it wasn’t a real orgasm, and that’s all that counts since I did not have permission to have one.

Last night, Belle was out to dinner with a friend and I was left at home. I was in bed absentmindedly fingering the ring going through the cock and felt it start to respond. I wasn’t trying to play with myself, but that’s eventually what happened. I really like the sensation of the loose remainder of my foreskin sliding up and over the metal. It’s fucking great. Personally, that sensation is better for me than how it feels when fucking. In any event, I brought myself to the edge several times. Deliciously close. Not so close that I leaked, but pretty damned close. I tried to stay awake, but I couldn’t and fell asleep before Belle got home. Now, as I’m writing this, I’m feeling hornier than I have in many days. It’s good to have that current running through me again. If Belle’ll have me, I’ll zap her with it tonight.

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Piercing problem

And then, as if I wasn’t in a bad enough mood, this happens.

Yesterday, in the early afternoon, I was sitting down to pee (don’t get me started) and one of the little metal balls from my PA’s curved barbell dropped into the toilet. Luckily, the bowl was fresh so I reached in to the very cold water and fished it out. Unfortunately, since I was locked up, there was no way for me to get the ball back on, so I fiddled around a bit and was able to get the jewelry off. I figured I’d get let out by Belle that evening and I’d replace it.

BUT, by the time I got around to it (less than eight hours later) I found the hole and shrunk such that there was no way I could get the 8g bar into it. I tried and tried. I mean, I really tried and eventually gave up for fear of hurting myself. I’m about to head off to Saint Sabrina’s to see if they can help me out. I know the hole isn’t closed entirely because it still drips when I pee.

So I’m laying there with Belle last night and the entire thing started to play on my newly enhanced insecurities. If I hadn’t been wearing the stupid fucking chastity device in the first place, I could have gotten the ball back on. If I hadn’t pierced my stupid fucking dick, I wouldn’t even have this problem. Why, oh why, does it all have to be so complicated? Why can’t I just have a nice, unpierced dick like all the other boys? And why do I want her to lock my cock up in the ugly plastic thing?

Please, don’t inturrupt my pity party. It’s almost time for cake.

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Emotional vomit

It’s been too long since my last post. One reason for this is that we were up at the cabin for the long weekend and, as I’ve said before, there’s no internet up there. The other reason is that I’ve been kind of in a funk and didn’t really know what to write, even if I could.

It started over week ago. Belle and I were laying on the bed and she said something that caused me to ask her why I was locked up. Funny that I can’t remember how I came to be asking her that, but it’s been so long that the details are getting kind of fuzzy. In any event, she said it was because I wanted to be denied. Yes, that’s technically true, but in fact, I would have rather heard it was because she wanted me to be locked up. The moment passed, but it kind of gnawed at me for the rest of the evening until later that night when she said, innocently enough, that she didn’t want all this stuff about denial and chastity and yada yada to be all that we ever talked about. She wanted some balance.

A couple of things. One, I was trying to give her balance before she said that. I know that I think about it and want to talk about it more than she does. I think that’s natural. For one, I’m a male and think about sex, like, all the time. For another, being a sexually frustrated and an “orgasmically challenged” male makes me think about it all the fucking time. But really, what most struck me about her comment wasn’t that. It was that this whole new twist to our sex life isn’t really about us as much as it was about me. That is, I feel as though I’m “coming out” to both her and myself regarding this side of my sexuality that’s been bottled up for so long. Yes, it’s also about us and our relationship, but not entirely. So, when she said she wanted balance and not to have to talk to me about all this sex stuff so much, it sounded like she didn’t want to deal with me and everything I was discovering and exploring about myself. No, that’s not what she meant, but it’s what I heard. It played perfectly into my own self-doubts. I lost it.

For a couple of days, I was a total disaster. Every time we talked about it, I cried. Not just a little. I fucking sobbed. Inconsolable. I really don’t know where all that was coming from, but I can still feel it within me. It’s as if all my insecurities fused together to form some kind of emotional shark that never stops swimming just beneath the surface of my psyche. It’s unnerving enough to be unearthing all kinds of new urges and desires, but to do it along side your wife of eleven years who, it turns out, doesn’t have any of the same proclivities is really, really hard. At least it is for me. Nothing she said was meant to reject or marginalize me or my feelings, but it all felt that way. As someone who is typically quite confident and who approaches life accordingly, this has been a difficult set of feelings to come to terms with.

At the end of our conversations, we decided that maybe limiting me to three orgasms this year was way, way too aggressive. Not only would that make it very hard for me to give her the balance she was looking for, it would also place a lot of responsibility on her shoulders in dealing with me and my constantly needy and sexually charged state. To be able to successfully take that on would require that she actually enjoy it and I just don’t think she does. Not enough, anyway. I’ve asked that we target ten more orgasms and see how that goes. If, as we go along, we want to take that number down, I’m all for it, but to jump right to three seems crazy for both of us.

So then, since I was such an emotional wreck, she took me out of the CB-6000. Not only that, she allowed me to have sex with her and I came. The actual orgasm was intense – almost too intense to be pleasurable. I found afterward that I wasn’t very happy about having come. I almost felt a sense of mourning for the period of denial I had achieved and let slip by. As if the coming was just a punctuation on my failure and bizarre fetishes.

ARGH. I hate this post. I hate how it shows how much doubt and insecurity I carry around and how uncertain I am about who I am and how to make that work in my marriage. I have a wonderful, supportive wife and yet I’m still kind of a wreck about all this. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Not for the first or last time, I wish I could just be fucking normal. Whatever normal is.

I should not even post this. I should delete it. But I feel like I need to emotionally vomit before I can start blogging again and I guess that’s what this post is: my projectile vomiting of all my inner demons upon you, my unknown reader. God, I fucking hate feeling like I’m not even sure I am what I think I am. I’ve been here before. Back when I was struggling with my bisexuality and not thinking you could be such a thing. But that was primarily a private struggle. Now I’m married with kids and a house and a dog and an expensive car and everything. Back in the day, I could withdraw. But not now. Now, I have to deal with it.

Someone please slap me across my face and tell me to snap the fuck out of it.

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The most effective chastity device

Over on Tom’s site, Miss Tease (the author of yesterday’s super-hot link) said this in a thread about the CB-6000:

…[T]he CBx000 series provide almost zero protection against masturbation. The vast majority of males seems to be able to pull out their penis of the device even when additional accessories such as points of intrigue are applied. Getting back into the device also does not seem to be a problem using a certain technique incorporating a nylon stocking or pantyhose. A potential solution could be a piercing, but this always bears the risk of migration or being ripped out of the wearer’s skin during physical activity.

Altogther, I would not call a device that can cause significant health problems while not fulfilling its intended purpose adequate. I agree that as a sex toy for beginners, the CBx000 devices make for a hot fantasy, I am just a little disappointed that they are so inadequate as real chastity devices.

While I greatly enjoy Miss Tease’s prose, I have a fundamental issue with her POV regarding chastity devices. What she seems to be looking for is the mythical undefeatable belt (you know, the one those guys are locked into against their will for years and years in all the hawt chastity p0rn). One that will never allow her man access to his wee-wee without her knowledge and frustrate his every attempt get it. I suppose an actual metal belt-type model would do this, but I’ve never seen one that didn’t cost north of $500 (and usually, well north).

For me, there seems to be two ways to cheat at “enforced” chastity. One is slipping out for a quick wank and then slipping back in with hopes no one noticed. The CB-X000’s, unmodified, certainly allow this, as, I suspect, do most of the other “trapped ball” devices out there. The other way to cheat is to physically defeat the device (cutting the lock, etc.). Regardless of the caliber of your device, there is a tool that will break it (and a lot of guys probably already own it). As far as I’m concerned, there’s not a huge difference in either scenario because the commitment to chastity isn’t made at the moment the device is placed on you. You have to bring that with you beforehand.

My best advice for Miss Tease (or anyone else, be they the keyholder or the locked) is to depend on the chastised male’s brain as the ultimate chastity device. The physical representation of the keyholder’s control hangs off your dick. The actual control exists between your ears. All any CB can be is a deterrent. It’s there to help you through moments of weakness or extreme arousal (or maybe even create moments of arousal), but none ever devised can absolutely guarantee denied access.

So, that said, where do I come down on the whole “the best chastised male is the one who doesn’t need a device” argument? Well, as usual, Tom’s got it covered pretty well. As he says, “Some of us just happen to kink on the physical restraint. It’s okay. Really.” That’s why I’m in it. Not because I can’t control myself, but because I like carrying her control around with me. It turns me on.

Which brings me back to Miss Tease (or, more specifically, her boyfriend). He shouldn’t wear it if it’s because he needs it. If he needs it, she’s already lost her control. If he wants it or likes it, bingo. If that’s the case, then she’s already got a lock on his mind and, as everyone knows, that’s the most dangerous sex organ of them all.

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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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Bad day in chastity

Yesterday was just weird all the way around. I think my issue with the device was that I reassembled it after cleaning using the smallest spacer. Even though it’s only a little smaller than the one up from it (which is what I normally wear), space is so tight down there that the tolerances are small. The ring pain I experienced during the day was, I suspect, mostly the result of not lubricating it properly, but the shorter spacer might have contributed. I know it was a factor in what I faced this morning. I can’t recall ever finding myself so tightly packed into the device as I was then. Just that small difference in tube extension made my normal morning erection (which, as every guy knows, is typically the strongest of the day) push every tiny bit of open space out of the tube. My flesh was extruding out of the side vents and slit like modeling clay and my balls, which are already swollen and sore from frustration, were pulled just that much further from my body and were tight and throbbing. I tried to pee and felt the urine travel down my urethra and then just stop about halfway down the shaft. The end of the penis was pressed shut. This has happened before and usually means I have to flex my kegels to spray it out in tight bursts, but even that proved difficult and it caused the urine to burn upon exiting so I eventually gave up. Probably the most uncomfortable I’ve been in the CB-6000. Odd thing is, it didn’t occur to me to just take it off.

But take it off I did while I was getting ready for work with the thought of moving up to the second largest ring. That’s when I discovered the spacer issue. I was standing there naked (I had just come out of the shower) fiddling with the pieces when I felt something cold on my leg. Looking down, I saw a long, clear, unbroken string of what I assume was precum hanging off the end of the cock and extending to my calf. That kind of oozing has been happening off and on for about the past 24 hours or so. I’ll just be sitting there, shift a little, and feel a small squirt escape into the tube. I wouldn’t have expected this for another week, based on previous experience, but I’m sure my hyper-arousal this week has advanced the schedule a bit.

Finally, I was having a meeting this morning with some of the people who work for me and was doing a lot of getting up and down from my seat to write on the whiteboard. One time, as I sat back down, I left myself turned away from the table with my legs spread and noticed the guy next to me totally checking out the device’s bulge. He played it pretty cool and wasn’t ogling or anything, but I could see where he was looking. As nonchalantly as I could, I turned my legs under the table and dropped my hand to my lap to see how exposed I was. I’m pretty sure he was able to see the ridge of the glans molded into the end of the tube pressing through my pants. I have no idea what he thought of the show, but I can say I’m not too thrilled he got it. I’m not sure what to do about this issue. These are the baggiest pants I have. I guess I’m just going to have to start being more aware of myself or accept the fact that people are going to see it and think…well, I don’t know what they’re going to think. Maybe that I have a very short, fat erection all the time. Eventually, I suppose someone who knows what it is will see it. That’ll be an interesting day.

Belle Fille’s plane departs in about five hours. She’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. I am beyond excited to have her back. My little issue with sleep on Wednesday put me behind in finishing her task since my brain was hardly functioning yesterday evening. I have two more posts to write before I pick her up at the airport. Then, I’ll get to find out her reaction to all my gut-spilling.

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What’s that safeword again?

This morning, I took off the CB-6000 to give it a good cleaning and somehow managed to put it back on using the second smallest ring size. OH MY GOD, it hurts. I kinda thought it was feeling a little tight getting on, but figured I was just swollen or something. Then, in my last meeting, what feels like a vice at the base of my root slowly and menacingly started to clamp harder and harder. Sweet mother of god. If I had an erection during the middle of that, I’d have been a goner – passed out on the floor for sure. Good thing I don’t make swimsuit calendars for a living.

The funny thing is, while rummaging around in the CB-6000 case I happened upon one of Belle’s locks unlocked. I was thisclose to using it, but thought better of it at the last minute (it was purely a cosmetic decision – Belle’s are the little black Master locks which I think are bulky and ugly while mine is a sleek little chrome number). I’d have been really pissed if I had had to break into my key safe because I was too damned tired to know what I was doing this morning.

Speaking of tired…when’s nap time?

UPDATE: I’ve decided to tough it out. The pain’s starting to lessen and I’m getting kind of a thrill from being in the smaller size. What is up with that? All of a sudden I can fit (barely) in these rings that were too small a month ago. Maybe there’s really something to that whole “your penis shrinks in chastity” thing. 😉

UPDATE 2: Whoa, hold the presses. I was wrong. It was still the middle ring. I had neglected to adequately lubricate it this morning. I blame profound sleep-deprivation.

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My other cage

It’s 4:30 AM and I haven’t slept all night.

I am trapped in two cages. One is made of polycarbonate, the other is my entire body. The meat between my legs could be released from its cage, if necessary, but my mind is inseparably fixed within a body crawling with sexual energy. I am exhausted yet I cannot stop images, ideas, and scenarios from passing though my brain and causing the meat to swell and throb within its confinement. A tremulous desire for a woman half a world away vibrates in my chest and sends shivers down my spine. Flashes of electric excitement dance across the length and width of my body as I remember the things she’s made me write over the past week. Her place in the bed is cold and empty. Sleep is impossible. I am drowning in hormones.

On an episode of Kink On Tap, Eileen once said something about orgasm denial’s insidious beauty being how it essentially turns the submissive’s body against itself. I can relate. The funny thing is, I have it within my power to fix this problem. Since Belle has her key with her and all her locks are closed, I had to secure the CB-6000 with one of my own (its key on a chain around my neck – I am essentially my own keyholder). I could remove the blasted thing and quickly stroke myself to a shuddering orgasm. Approximately 23 seconds later, I’d be fast asleep. Did I say that was a funny thing? It’s not funny at all. Truth is, I could never do what I just described. I’m not even sure my body would respond if I tried. I made a vow to that woman that I would never achieve orgasm again without her permission. And I won’t. So…I suffer, pining for my Belle Fille.

*YAWN*

I am happy. It’s good to be alive.

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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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Unintended consequences

Back on the 1st, I wondered about the future direction of the blog and worried somewhat over how I’d continue to write about something that doesn’t happen. Well, in the short term anyway, I’d say my worry was a bit premature. This task Belle’s left me has apparently stoked my muse. In six days, I posted seven times and wrote 7,000 words. And I’m not done yet. I think there are maybe two more posts I have to make before I’ve satisfied her instructions.

The other side effect of the task was not intended, I’m sure. Turns out, making me write specific things I want during sex has left me thinking about those things all the time (duh, right?). I’m almost manically obsessed with kinky sex with no way to burn off any of my desire. If I’m not writing about it, I’m thinking about it or reading about it. Yesterday was one of the least productive of my professional life. All I could do was think about what I wanted to post and whether I’d covered well enough what I already wrote about. Remember the old Palmolive commercials? Testosterone – You’re soaking in it!

All that’s a long way of saying I’M SO FUCKING HORNY. I feel like thoughts of sex haven’t left my mind for the past three days and I’ve still got three left before Belle gets home. And when she is home, she’ll be tired and all jetlagged, so it’s not like she’ll want much to do with me. Then, on Sunday, we’ll have something like 62 10-year-old boys hanging around for my son’s birthday party. I’m not sure what it is I think will happen anyway since Belle’s already said I might only come three times this year (and I just shot one of those less than a week ago). The only way having her here will make me less frustrated is if she grants me access to the temple (and even then, all it can do is take the jagged edge off). I’m getting to that point where all I want to do is rub my face in her pussy, deeply imbibing her female scent and marking myself with it like a feral beast who wants all the other beasts to know she’s my mate. Somehow, Belle’s figured out a way to tease and deny me into a frothy lather from 15 times zones away.

It’s not like I’m counting or anything, but my erections per hour rate is way, way above normal (way). The CB6K helps me be more aware of them, of course. The smaller ring I’m wearing was biting pretty hard this morning, but I’m continuing to feel like I’m adapting to it. I’ve been applying lotion to my scrotum liberally and noticed it didn’t hurt as much as before, except where it was trapped under the ring. Last night after my shower, I decided to try Maymay’s lubrication advice and use baby oil on the ring and lotion in the tube. Normally, I used silicone lube all over. The baby oil is definitely more soothing going on, but I think the silicone is longer lasting. Also, the baby oil smells like…well, babies. Not super arousing. The reason I’m trying the different lubrication is that I notice the cage started to smell rather quickly after I put it on this time. The lube could be contributory or the piercing might be changing the chemistry down there. In any event, I’ll be baby-fresh for a few days to see what the difference is.