Tag: D/s

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Bits, bobs, etc.

I’m back in, if just for a few days. Belle let me out, as you may recall, a few days before I left on my hiking trip and even let me come (having said previously I’d get to orgasm in August). I was hoping I’d get another chance to get the penis wet before I left, but she came down with a cold and I was trying not to do the same either right before or during my trip, so excessive personal contact was kept to a minimum.

Luckily, she was in the mood (and I was way in the mood) and she let me give her an orgasm with my fingers on Saturday morning. For a second, it seemed like maybe that’s all that was going to happen and she wasn’t going let me have the pre-trip do-over, but in the end she did. I climbed on top and went to town, trying like hell to make it last, but failing as miserably as I usually do when the infrequent pussy time is granted. That orgasm was better than the one I had the week before and it’s left me wanting more, though she’s given no indication of how long it’ll be.

Last night, the steel curtain came back down and she’s secreted away the key. I’m actually pretty fucking horny right now. It was hard to clean the penis and its tube this morning because it wouldn’t get small enough to allow water to freely flow around inside there. I seem to be walking around with a semi-permanent semi. Whenever my thoughts even fleetingly head south or towards something sexual, I can feel it push against the walls of its prison.

Thursday, I head out of town for one night on business. If I’m still this horny then, I doubt I’ll be able to keep my hands off of it unless she very specifically says I’m not allowed or lets me take a device with me on the trip. Since I’ll probably be doing carry-on, it’d have to be the trusty old CB6K which I haven’t worn in well over a year.

In other news, the kids are out of our hair for the next nine days due to some construction in our house and this being the weeks between summer and school when they don’t have any daytime care options. So, up to the cabin they went with the grandparents. We won’t see them again until Labor Day weekend. I’m hoping the lack of company in the house will mean Belle hurts me or ties me up or both. I’d quite like to feel the sting of some hitty device on my ass or back or upper thighs. Maybe with some of the unspeakable nipple clamps in place…and my collar…

Oh look, there goes the penis again.

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Smaller boxes

My list of required activities is complete. She has written up those things I am expected to do day in and day out and also a list of one-off projects or activities. I’ve put the reoccurring things on my personal calendar so my phone should help me stay on task. Things like laundry twice a week, dinner twice a week, foot massages, etc., all have been specified in the software to remind me they need to be done. For example, this morning, my phone reminded me I’m supposed to do the laundry but there isn’t any. In exchange for that, she’s having me do the grocery shopping.

As I said, Sunday nights she’ll evaluate my performance and give me some kind of grade. A good job is expected so the only consequences of this review can be negative – rewards will not be given. It appeared to be a tricky question what these punishments should be since I get off on so many things most people would think of as bad. Threat of longer denial of orgasm is unlikely to strike fear in me since I’d be perfectly happy if she denied me forever. Really, there’s only one thing that I want more than anything else and using it as leverage against my service performance seems perfectly obvious once you think of it. I want her. I want to make her come and I want to feel her pussy twitch and spasm in orgasm. I want to taste her and feel her and smell her. Moments after she comes, I start a clock in my head for when I can reasonably approach her for another. So, if my performance is below expectations, she will not just deny my access to her, she will take care of herself without me. I will have to watch as her orgasm flowers into existence and dies away and I won’t be able to leach any pleasure out of it whatsoever. I treat each of her orgasms as a special event to be savored, but if I fail at keeping her happy outside the bedroom, it will be an opportunity totally lost to me. It will truly hurt.

Of course, there are some physical punishments I would fear. Three or four hard and swift strikes from a springy fiberglass cane would probably not be too enjoyable. I ordered one from Stockroom the other day, but for play not punishment. Also, Icy Hot on the nuts is something that is so intense for the time its happening that she’s stopped doing it to me. But, there were a few times when she used it in a corrective capacity and the experience has stuck with me. She even went so far as to make me get the tube out of the drawer in the bathroom and bring it to her for use. Yeah, I’m scared of that shit.

But denial of her orgasm is probably the easiest for her. She’ll decide how many I’ll lose and that will be that.

Some people find this entire course of action silly. Of course, I’m the husband in a modern marriage, so I should do many of the things she’s got on her list anyway. They’re table stakes. How can taking out the trash be made sexy? I’d say several things to that. One, STFU. We can do what we want. Two, you need to know Belle. She’s genetically predisposed to take on too many things. Her mother is worse and I can even see the beginning of these traits in our daughter. She will never ask me to do much of anything and instead stews over the fact that I didn’t take out the trash even if I didn’t because she did it before I got around to it. So, in a real way, this is a strategy to ensure I know what she wants me to do and for her to know I will do it (and, if I don’t, she doesn’t need to stew – she can get even). Finally, as I’ve said before, I’m somewhat selfish. It’s not like I want to take advantage of Belle, but I can get a little lost in my own thoughts and lose track of the things I need to do. She won’t remind me, she’ll just get mad. Again, I now will have real motivation to keep what she wants me to do front and center.

It’s possible, over time, that she’ll make the list a little harder. Right now, it codifies a pretty typical division of labor around the house. Also, in retrospect, she might want to add more subjective items to the list. For example, she picked up on my moodiness and disappointment of the past few days from not being able to have sex with her. I think I’ve done the best possible job I could in keeping that inside, but she could also make it a requirement of my service. No complaints, no bitchiness, no moodiness or any kind of blowback on her for me not getting what I want. She might also decide to ding me for being too pushy or obviously worked up. As a sub, I crave that kind of pushing so I can demonstrate how far I’m willing to go to make her happy. I want to be put in smaller and smaller boxes by her and achieve not only objective tasks that get little check marks next to them when complete, but also to develop mentally and emotionally into a “purer” form of submission. Into a better sub.

I write those last few sentences and I know they could cause someone to object, but it’s what I’m feeling. Maybe there’s a better way to express it. What I’m not trying to do is to have all my resistance to submitting ground out of me. There’s a frisson that’s generated when my submissive side bends to her will despite my more selfish nature’s inclination to do what it wants. That energy is what powers my sexuality now and I convert it to a different kind of pleasure. I want to learn to find that spark of internal conflict in as many places as possible. I’m not sure what I’d be like if I got to a place where my selfish nature wasn’t always bitching about how unfair life is. What I need to do is figure out how to put that in a cage and use its sturm and drang for good and not let it poison me.

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Nurturing the nature

No, this isn’t going to be one of those posts where I relate how difficult it is being the woebegone orgasm starved male. But, it could be and that’s the rub.

Somehow, I’m in a fantastic place at the moment. I’m horny as hell and so totally into Belle and feeling all subbie and service oriented and all the things that leave me with a filled tube and a warm fuzzy. I am painfully desirous of her, to the point where her hands on my balls last night and her stroking of my ass this morning seemed like it should have been enough to cause me to spontaneously combust. I can’t seem to get close enough to her and want every part of my body to be touching every part of hers simultaneously. I have the distinct desire to anoint all my skin with her juices and rub my entire face in her pussy. I have it bad.

But there were times in the past where I was operating under similar conditions and was miserable. It’s possible that a few random balls fell left instead of right in the pachinko game of my emotional state or it’s possible I’m just better at accepting my position and drawing strength from the things that in the past would drive me nuts. Why won’t she let me make her come? I ask that rhetorically because it doesn’t really matter. It’s still driving me mad, but I’m not resentful nor do I feel somehow entitled. Instead, the maddening denial of access to her has kindled an even greater aching craving that does nothing but emit the good kind of frustration and none of the bad. Instead of feeling like I’m missing out by her stubborn refusal I feel like she’s giving me the very thing I want so bad. To feel the need. To want. To see her being arbitrary with me. Perhaps even to deny me only to see me squirm. I am not trying to talk myself out of being happy. I only mean to set upon a pedestal the satisfaction I’m getting from my extreme dissatisfaction.

I asked Belle last night a question that I need to hear the answer to just because I need to hear it.

“Do you like me being locked up?” Sounds kind of pathetic, and I suppose that’s fair, but I like asking it.

“Oh yes, more than anything,” she answered with enthusiasm. That, of course, was exactly the right answer and, even though the tube was properly stuffed already, hearing her say that made it painfully so. Then I asked another question that popped out of my mouth rather unexpectedly.

“Do you think it makes me a better person?”

She paused a long time. From her perspective, answering this could be a problem.

“It’s OK if you do,” I said.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I think it does make you a better person.”

“I want to be better,” I replied, almost whispering, as the psychic dagger of all the emotions and urges and cravings that are my fevered condition twisted in my soul, “A better husband. For you.”

I asked her this morning (not long after she petted my naked ass for a while, so yeah, I was feeling pretty dreamy) why she paused. The reason, she said, was that she didn’t want to imply that I wasn’t a good person already. She’s so sweet. Of course, I know I’m not a bad person. Why would she have married me if I was? But I also know that I’m at heart a selfish one. I am the (perhaps) rare selfish sub. And it bugs me. I honestly do want to be a better, more service-oriented, less needy submissive male. Not only because it makes me feel better, but because it makes her happier, too. I don’t need her to tell me I’m not already good. I do need her to tell me chastity and denial makes me better and to keep me honest when, for whatever reason, I drift off.

I used to think that kink and my sexual perversions were all separate and tidy little chunks sitting next to each other. But that’s not how it works. They’re more like light refracting and reflecting and combining and shifting inside me, sometimes with unexpected results. I feel very keenly now how much I want to be found wanting. I don’t know if I would describe it as a degradation-type kink, but I want to hear that I’m not as good by myself as I am modified in the way being locked up and denied makes me. I want to know that the woman to whom I have given my submission is using it to make me a better creature. I want to feel that by being better in my position that she’s happier and more satisfied both being with me and in her life in general. I have felt this way before and lost it. I don’t want to lose it again.

To that end, I’ve asked Belle if we could institute a new routine for me. I’ve given her a little notebook to write on the first page all the things she expects of me by default. What I need to do all of the time, without being asked or reminded. Then, on subsequent pages, she’d write those things she wants me to do that come up along the way as we live our life. Situational expectations and desires of hers. I’ve also asked that on every Sunday she look at the book and make a note of how I’ve performed over the past week. Whether there are punishments or rewards is entirely up to her. I want to get to a place where my reward will be hearing her tell me I did a good job. I’d love to be punished, for sure, but setting up a system of carrots and sticks is tricky with someone like me. I might end up doing a bad job specifically so I’d get the stick.

The danger in all of this is taking a “set it and forget it” kind of approach. I think the majority of people tend to let their relationships go down that path and find themselves dissatisfied sooner or later. I, being all complicated n’ stuff, need a little more attention with regard to maintaining a proper frame of mind and emotional state. I am so thankful that I’m partnered with a woman who is willing to deal with that. The well-being of our dynamic is constantly moving so our approach to keeping it within a satisfying range of operation is something we both need to be mindful about, not just her.

Anyway, I’m rambling now. Bottom line, I’m happy, she seems happy, I want us to stay that way. After almost three years, we might just be figuring out the care and feeding of the submissive male. At least my particular subspecies, anyway.

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More like Guam

Me: What are we going to do tonight?

Her: Watch Colbert, go to bed.

Me: And give you an orgasm?

Her: … Maybe.

Me: Do I get a vote?

Her: No.

Me: Not even like a Washington D.C. kind of vote?

Her: Not even. You’re more like Guam.

Me: Oh.

(Alas, there was no orgasm.)

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Sweet homecoming

The boy and I got back around 1:00 and I unloaded the vehicle and made sure the tents and sleeping backs were nice and dry before packing them away. It’s bloody hot here today and the effort worked up quite the sweat. My shirt was soaked and I could feel the perspiration running down my back and into my ass crack. The penis and balls were similarly lubed up and sliding around each other easily and in a most madding way. After, when I was cleaning up, I went to put the device on to reduce my extreme distraction (and temptation) but it was all locked together and its key was not present. Belle had it. So I had to wait.

As I said yesterday, I feel as though a switch had been thrown inside me the closer I got to home. I had a very hard time getting to sleep last night (double entendre intended) and had all sorts of thoughts running though my mind as I drove the last 300 miles home today. I had uncontrollable erections that lasted 30, 40, even 50 miles. With no way to control the urges of the penis (except for breaking out the old CB6K which I did strongly consider), I did my best to distract myself from it.

Belle got home around the usual time and, with the kids downstairs playing a video game together (which is weird all by itself), I was able to lay her down on the bed and kiss her face all over. I wrapped my legs around hers and pressed her into me and totally revelled in the smell and taste and feel of her. With my face buried in her neck, I said, “You complete me,” or something similar. In retrospect, it’s a bit of a cheesy thing to say, but that’s how it felt. Like for nearly two weeks there was a big empty hole in me and laying there next to her I felt something big and warm and comforting snap into it. That’s her. She makes me so happy.

After further consideration (because that’s what I do, consider furtherly), I realized that I really am completed by her. In giving her the penis and my orgasm and by changing how I get to feel a sense of sexual satisfaction (that is, though her satisfaction), I really can never be whole without her. A part of me and a part of what makes me feel good and right and healthy is only available when she’s near. Is that why the penis and I didn’t have much to say to one another while I was five states away? I dunno. But the sense of coming home not only to her but also my sense of well-being and certainly my libido is palpable.

Tonight, after the kids were dealt with, we just laid in bed and talked. Talked and talked. About all kinds of things. I love that. I love being married to my best friend. I love that we can talk about anything and that I have little to nothing to hide from her anymore.

As satisfying as the talking was, I was still very aware of the free penis in my pants. I asked what we were going to do about that.

“We’ll lock it up,” she said. Then, after a pregnant pause, “…tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” God, I wanted it now. I wanted her to lock me up now.

“Tomorrow.” I think I whimpered a little. “You’re not complaining, are you?”

“No, of course not.” But I was. Maybe. A little.

“That’s so cute,” she said. “You’re just like a little dog who wants back in his crate. You’re so well trained, aren’t you Thumper?”

Whimper.

“But no, it’ll happen tomorrow. I think you want it too badly right now. I like making you wait for the things you want.”

Surge! The penis got very stiff.

“Turn off the light, take off your cloths, and come under the covers.”

Done. I was in her arms again, stiff little member between us.

“It’s so hard,” I said.

“Yes.”

Kiss, kiss, lick, suck.

“Do you ever miss it? Having it inside you?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, “But you’ve become so good at all the other ways.”

Again, the penis twitched and flexed. Simultaneously aching to be useful and hardening to its fullness at the thought of not being so.

“It’s not even August yet,” she said. “What’s it been now…?”

“Four weeks. But that’s not what I want. That wouldn’t be right. This is what I want. How I feel right now.”

Kiss, slurp. Suck.

“God, I want to touch it,” I volunteered.

“Yes.”

Kiss, suck, nuzzle.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, “but you can give me an orgasm. Then it’s time for bed.”

She pulled up her shirt and I latched onto her nipples like a suckling pig. Jesus fuck, I missed that. Mouth and tongue on one, fingers flitting over the other, I switched back and forth and felt her hips gyrating against the air. When I finally placed a hand over her mound, not even under her pajama bottoms yet, she made the most wonderful little sound. I grazed the tips of my fingers over the outlined of her lips and felt how very close she was. Heat and humidity radiated though the thin fabric. The penis was fully hard and inches away, but it went without saying that it had no role to play.

I put my hand in her pants and she said the softest little Oh! I could have eaten her up right there. I had barely slid my fingers into her hot wetness when she turned her whole body toward me and thrust her hips at me. She grabbed my hand and pushed it home while the orgasm rolled though her. As it subsided, I could feel her pussy twitching.

“Well,” she said after several moments of breathing hard, “I guess I missed you, too.”

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Just under the wire

OK, so maybe I will squeeze in one more post before I’m out of here…

Regarding the Jail Bird, it’s not going to happen. Aware that I’ve never been able to stay in that device for more than a few days without developing significant discomfort and suspecting that it’s likely a fit and spacing issue, I decided to try something I read about on Chastity Forums. Not sure who it was that did it, but they were able to create a little extra space between the bottom of the cage and the A-ring by slightly bending the post upward. I tried this yesterday afternoon and the post promptly snapped off. I don’t know much about metal work (whereby “not much” I mean “pretty much nothing”), but I thought welding would create a stronger bond between two pieces of metal. So now, if I ever want to wear the JB again, I’ll need a new A-ring. Which I probably needed anyway.

And, as I’ve been harping on, this now means I’ll be unsecured for the duration of the trip. Belle does not want me in the Steelheart and I guess I understand. Regardless of understanding, it’s her decision. It doesn’t help that I’m in that golden sweet spot where the device and I feel fused and there’s little to no discomfort and I’m even sleeping through the early morning tightness and find it creates a comforting sense of security rather than being something I need to endure. I don’t know if when this happens that anything physical has changed or if it’s all in my head, but I’ve even found myself, when waking with a fantastically full and tight tube, flexing the penis in order to feel more tightness and constriction. As with so many other things, my level of tolerance increases over time.

It’s not like I’ll have ample opportunity to take advantage of my temporary freedom, but I really don’t trust my hand and the penis together unattended even for short periods. There will be little moments (and the chance for several hot, soapy showers in hotels on the way there and back) and, of course, every morning it’ll be all perky and proud and asking for attention. Thing is, when you’re a man in my condition, you end up thinking about what’s in your crotch an awful lot regardless of its state. However, it’s an entirely different flavor of obsession when a healthy ribbon of opportunity is swirled though it. I will try to be strong. Upon return, I will no doubt be anxious for Belle to put me back in.

Belle and I chatted a bit last night about some of the recent blog posts. She’s mad at me (or trying to be) for taking the device off without her knowledge (though I strongly disagree I did it out of spite, as she suggests). While I took it off, I also put it back on, so I feel like I should get some points for that. Also, we talked about my reaction to being belittled, humiliated, made fun of, etc. She says she can’t really see herself humiliating me, but is OK with belittling me. I don’t see much of a difference, but if she can find it in her heart to make fun of me every once in a while, I’ll be happy.

In a related development, I’ve decided to update Thumper’s Rules of Usage and Style regarding how I refer to the sex organ attached my body. It’s clearly established that I never refer to it possessively (it’s not “mine”). I either refer to it as a separate object (i.e., the sex organ) or as hers (though I tend to favor the former style because the latter can be confusing to new readers – “Wait a sec. She had a cock?”). I have typically called it a cock but have just decided to no longer use that word. To me, “cock” implies something unrelated to me or it. A “cock” is an aggressive, action-oriented thing meant for fucking. An in-your-face kind of tool that’s been designed for erect penetration. My little piece of meat doesn’t do any of that. It’s very seldom any longer than the 2.75″ allowed by the Steelheart. From the outside, it never seems to change at all, regardless of how I’m feeling or how much pleasure Belle’s letting me give her. It certainly has practically nothing to do with Belle’s pleasure like a cock would. The only time it gets to be inside her is when she’s giving me one of my infrequent orgasms. Last two times it happened, I’m not even sure she had her top off. It may give her emotional pleasure to let me orgasm, but the act itself doesn’t provide much sexual pleasure for her. The thing’s roll has been demoted to little more than an instrument of prostate maintenance. There’s no aggression down there and certainly little action. It’s not a cock at all. It’s just a penis. And that’s what I’ll be calling it from now on.

I can almost hear eyeballs rolling in some sockets from here, but it’s my blog and I can call it whatever I want. So there. At the end of the day, for me, words have significant value and power. Thinking of it as just a penis strongly resonates with my submissive core. Thinking of it as a little penis just about makes me swoon.

So, finally, this is the last post I’ll make until I’m out of the woods sometime after the 17th or so. As I said yesterday, there’s an HNThumper loaded up for next Thursday, but that’ll be all. I might be able to reply to comments depending on access to cell reception. We’ll see.

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Bit part

Let’s see, where was I…

As you might have guessed, Belle let me come about a week ago. That’s not entirely why I wasn’t blogging, but it was a big part of it. I was also distracted by some other stuff (nothing related to Belle or anything I write about here), but mainly it was the orgasm.

I can’t even recall exactly when it was now. A week ago? Maybe ten days? We were up at the cabin and she unlocked me unexpectedly, but didn’t really do anything with the cock. Then, back home, she was stroking me in bed and generally working me up when she told me I could go inside her. I fucked her enough to get close once or twice (doesn’t take that long anymore) when she told me I could come but if I did, it’d be the last time before August sometime. I hesitated for maybe 2/10 of a second and plowed forward, coming like a fire hose moments later. Lots of come. Oodles and gobs.

Then she left me unlocked for a while. That didn’t help me get more focused. Truth is, now, I can’t really feel normal without the device on. Even after I come and it feels all clunky and alien, I feel more “put together” when it’s in place. Last Friday, she had a night at a nice hotel and a morning spa treatment (her Christmas present), and before she left she had wanted me locked up but forgot to make me do it. I popped my spare key and locked myself up. It was what she wanted and I was more than a little craving the feeling of captivity. That was just four days ago, but it’s like it was never off. Peeing in it, sleeping in it, sitting with it squashed between my legs are all the normal feelings. And now I’m well and truly horned up again so all those other feelings are punctuated by the occasional throbbing pressure of a stifled erection. That little tremulous quivering of unrealized desire is never far away.

Belle wanted an orgasm the other night (Saturday, I think) and threatened me with not only not having my own, but not sharing hers. Oh, I could be present, she said, but maybe that’s all. What use am I all locked up, anyway? At the time, I was horrified. The idea of not being allowed the touch, taste, and scent of her sounds too terrible to imagine, but in retrospect, I find the threat kinda hot. Being diminished in that way really worked for me. Also, I believed she might actually go through with it.

As it turned out, she wanted me to go down on her and doing it after the threat and subtle degradation left me feeling very confined in my small steel space. She backed off and said nicer things to me, afraid, perhaps, that she had hurt my feelings, but I have to admit, it wasn’t necessary. There’s something difficult to capture in all this. I like the feeling of being optional and a beneficiary of her charity. Even as I was eating her out, she reached into her drawer and took out Pink. She turned the little vibe up to high and inserted it under my lapping tongue making me hold it there with my chin, fully engaged with her G-spot. I was not the star of her ringing orgasm. I was a co-star. Perhaps only a featured player. It made her powerful and me less so. I felt she knew exactly what she wanted for her and was in total control of how it happened.

And it was good.

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Needy meat

I am wired.

Can’t sleep. Vibrating with frustration. Earlier, I used the Pure to pummel my prostate senseless. Now, I’m tired. So tired. But humming. And clutching. At the steel and it’s living contents. Feeling the gland inside my body swollen and tender and the device heavy and so perfectly locked.

Belle sent me a text from New York. I didn’t see it until 24 mintes later. In my writhing and tossing and clutching, I missed the thrum of the phone.

Just in an elevator with Jay-Z

Once I saw it, I texted back, “Are you still awake?” I wanted to talk to her so bad. To admit my condition. To admit I abused myself without her permission. To ask – no, to beg that she let me get myself off. To put me out of my misery. I’ll accept any condition. Any punishment. I have a key, secured by a plastic tag. Say the word, Belle. Please. Let me out. Let me come. Fucking hell, I want to come.

But she didn’t answer.

I put the cruel little clamps on my nipples and pulled and twisted and felt the white hot pain and heard my little moans in the quiet dark bedroom and realized I could not hurt myself enough. The pain was not pain. No pain at all. It was all going right to the cock. As the clips chewed and bit the tube filled and was made tight by the meat. The needy meat. I pulled the clips harder. Harder. The nipples stretched and screamed and I twisted and pulled and pulled. Finally, even their mean little teeth couldn’t hold on and first the left, then the right slipped off with a pair of brassy, tight-springed snaps. Now the nipples sting. But I need more. I need so much more.

I need my Belle.

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Still alive

Usually, when I’m quite here, then there’s something going on in my head. That hasn’t been the case recently, I just haven’t had anything to talk about. Part of it could also be that she let me come again last weekend. We had been up at the family vacation compound for the holiday and she unlocked me for no apparent reason. Then, on Monday night, she let me fuck her and come in one of those purely functional ways – she waiting patiently with her top still on, me fucking like a naked mad rabbit. It had only been, what? A week? So indulgent of her.

In any event, unlike last time when the two squirts took the wind out of my sails for almost a week, this time I felt the stirrings again after about 48-72 hours. I measure this mostly by my relationship with the device which, typically, was strained immediately after I came but was back to normal by Wednesday-ish. Now I’m in that period of enhanced hornitude that comes about a week after an event and lasts for about a week. Belle’s out of town again starting Monday night, so there may be some sleepless times ahead for me. If she allows me to abuse myself, who knows?

My enhanced state of being was put into sharp relief today as I took care of a few random chores for Belle Fille. I was driving around the city lakes near where we live and, this being the first really nice weekend of the year for us (winter having ended about two weeks ago and not scheduled to return for another six), there were many fine examples of the human form on display for me to ogle lecherously and cause me to squirm uncomfortably in my bucket seat. As a person who admires both genders equally, I had plenty of things to distract me as I drove languorously around the broad circumference of the lake. I am so. FUCKING. Horny.

Aaaand, that’s about it, really. I have little new to report. Just thought I’d drop by and let you know that nobody died or was otherwise preoccupied with excessive navel-gazing. Just us, living our lives like normal people.

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Of lizards and pistons and pinchy bits

The answer to the question, “Why hasn’t Thumper posted recently?” isn’t “Because he had an orgasm,” it’s “Because he had two orgasms.”

It all started about ten days ago. Belle told me she was going to let me out for the weekend and I’ve found that once the meat knows its freedom is set at a fixed point in the future, it starts to get irritable. On that Thursday, I was dealing with an odd pinch in the tube and no shifting or pulling would make it go away. Finally, I asked for Belle’s key so I could remove the internal pinchy bits but she decided to just let me out altogether a day earlier than scheduled. And, of course, upon inspection, I found nothing wrong with it. It was just bitching.

That Saturday morning, we had sex. I got her off using Pink, the hard cock being essentially ignored by her. Not a bad plan on her part because it had been two months since the last time it had been of any use and its effectiveness as a pleasure object would likely have been limited. After she came, she let me mount her. I tried my hardest to make the experience count since I was not sure she’d let me have more than one shot this time around. I was doing OK at keeping a good pace and varying the tempo so I could just feel her soft, hot wetness slide along the hungry shaft, but at a point much too soon for me, something snapped. I would describe it as a mutiny in the control room of my brain, but it wasn’t like that. More like a rerouting of control around my brain. The lizard brainstem and lower half of my body essentially told my brain to fuck off and that they were going to handle the action from that point forward. I literally could not stop. My only function and my only focus was being a meat piston. I fucked the shit out of her…for about 28 seconds.

Then I came in a way unlike the more recent events. No tingling, no feeling of being pulled inside out, just grunts and flexing and surging and the need to fill her up. Fill her with the cock and fill her with the seed and make damned sure nothing else happened until that was over. I cannot say it was the most fun orgasm I’ve had, but “fun” is a concept unknown to the lizard brain. It was function. It was like when two dogs start going at it and you have to turn a hose on them to make them stop. The basic need for all living things to pass on their code drove my hips into her and pinned her to the bed with the cock until the transfer was complete and, finally, felt its own sense of animal satisfaction at the effort.

Sunday night, she gave me a handjob. I thought she’d let me come, but all the way up until the final moment I half expected her to pull her hand away so there was a bit of a race going on internally between her stroking and my getting all the ejaculatory mechanisms lined up in time. I grasped the headboard, hands up over my head, as she pulled the orgasm from my body. It was actually quite wonderful and left me feeling dopey and fuzzy sleepy warm. But, she wanted me back in right then, so she rubbed the sticky goo on her hand all over my chest allowing its stench to fill my senses. Then, she handed me the key and sent me off to the harsh white light of the bathroom to reaffix the steel and clean the goobery mess from my chest hair. I did it, reluctantly. My fuzzy sleepy warmth was all washed away by the experience. I came, and I liked it, but I was not allowed to bask.

For the better part of the week after, it was this thing. This annoying, clinging, intrusive alien sitting in my pants. Almost immediately, the internal security bits were biting me again, so she let me take those out, but that didn’t make my mental opposition to being encased any less severe. Just the opposite. None of my usual routines work the same way when the PA fixing and ring aren’t in there. With them, enough space is held open to allow water to be easily flushed though, but without them the stupid meat is easily squished and squashed and blocks the free flow water in and urine out. The end result of all this wasn’t as bad as I probably felt it was, but for days it was like canned meat swinging between my legs. Nothing good about it.

Things started to shift by Thursday. I was to drive a few hours away that day and be apart from Belle for two nights. Suddenly, the idea that I had to have the fixing and ring in place was paramount. Their absence made me feel incomplete rather than inconvenienced. My device was not whole and neither was I. That morning, Belle left me with her key and I dutifully tended to the total securement of the cock with no ill feelings or surreptitious squeezes. She had given me an opportunity to make it right so the idea of taking advantage was furthest from my mind. I put in the ring, threaded the fixing though it and then slid the still-flaccid cock into the tube and felt along with it the sensation of warmth and comfort and security. It was like putting on my favorite sweatshirt, not an implement of bondage and sexual frustration. I was where I was supposed to be and it felt right.

I was back home by Saturday and she let me give her an orgasm. I had the palpable feeling of being a human sex toy as it was all about her and not at all about me. She didn’t care that I would be left horny and caged and unable to sleep. That was my place. I should get used to it. I was cleaving to her as the orgasm pulsed from between her legs and I grunted along with her moans. I was coming, too, but though her pleasure. As expected, I slept fitfully.

Now, a week in to a lock-up of undetermined length, the meat and its cage have settled back into their symbiotic relationship. It’s a part of me again. I look in the mirror and I see it and it looks like me. Its contents don’t. That thing looks like the other. The intruder. But it’s OK because the lock is on and it can’t get out.

Funny how that works.