Tag: D/s

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Something new

Odd thing last night. We’re in bed1, the candles are glowing and smelling nice, the kids are down for the count, and she’s told me to get naked, and…and…that’s it. For the longest time, I was just laying there with her and not roiling in repressed sexual energy. I wasn’t particularly fighting with any urges to attack or otherwise manhandle her. It was weird. I knew I was horny and, as soon as she let me rub a knot in her back and was therefore touching her skin, I started to really feel it, but beforehand, it was like the dog: present in the room, but not engaged in any way. Like my sex was idling until she called for it. I don’t know how I feel about that. She complimented me on controlling my urges and all, so I guess that’s a good thing, but it was very strange finding myself in a situation like that and not feeling the way I’m used to feeling.

It’s been twenty-two days since I last came and just over a week now in the device. The twenty-two days is a record, I think, but the week is nothing special. I’ve done way longer. I also noticed, as I find every time I’m locked up, that situations that would normally cause me to get an erection don’t. Like it’s not worth the bother. So it makes me wonder if this is all just a side-effect of her being in control or if I’ve gone around the curve and am losing some of my sex drive (which, from what I understand, can happen to those denied for a long time). It’s not like I’m worried about it since, once she let me rub her back, I was horny again in a second. I know it’s still in there. But where was it hiding?

The other thing is, since I’m supposed to be under control and respect her personage, I find the little things turn me on a lot more. Well, “turn me on” isn’t quite right, because it feels different. Like when I was touching her back. I put my face down on her skin just to feel the contact. I felt a stirring in the tube, but I never got a raging hard-on. It was more like a man dying of thirst being able to splash water on his face. Then, when we were done, I rolled over and she placed her hand on my lower back/upper ass. Fuck! It made me whimper. Again, no hard-on, no urge to rip her clothes off. It was much less specific. Kind of a free-floating desperation.

I don’t know what it is, but I know I haven’t felt exactly like this before. It’s like I’m becoming more docile. Like sexual release is off the table and all the hormones know it. My body craves…something, but it doesn’t manifest as any specific activity.

She said, just before she let me rub her back, that in the past she might feel sorry for me at this point. That she might let me get a little something out of pity. But not now. She recognizes where I am and I suppose feels something, but not a compelling desire to allow me relief. I’m not unhappy and she’s perfectly satisfied with my behavior and the sex she’s getting.

So, whatever I’m feeling, I’m going to assume it’s OK.

—

1 I haven’t done the math, but I’m pretty sure something like 96% of all my posts start with us in bed. That’s OK, right? ↩

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Top vs. Domme

Further pondering following my previous post on how to be happy as a guysub in an otherwise vanilla marriage.

Over on Dev’s blog, I made a comment that I didn’t understand the difference between a top and a domme. I might still not totally understand it, but in reading on the subject, I think I’ve come across some insight other submissive dudes might find helpful. It’s this: Belle does not dominate me, she tops me. OK, fine, all you crusty old timers roll your eyes or whatever it is you do, but I think a lot of guys who slant towards the sub side of the range confuse domination and topping. They’re subtly yet significantly different.

According to Sex-Lexis.com (a dictionary of sexual terms), domme is defined this way (and all the emphasis is mine):

A female-dom or dominatrix , a woman who enjoys dominating role in a dominance-and-submission scene, as opposed to sub (a submissive).

And top is defined this way:

In sex games and activities, the sexually dominant or active-partner (as opposed to bottom or passive), the one who controls the stimuli of a scene in both physical and psychological (fantasy) play.

And…

In BDSM, the person who controls, restrains, or administers the discipline , the player who inflicts sensation and/or bondage on another.

There are other definitions of both, but these are the ones I think are relevant. The key difference is the domme enjoys the dominant role while the top is the one who controls – no particular enjoyment is mentioned. Which is to say, a domme surely tops, but not all tops are dommes since domming suggests one should get off especially on the topping. Savvy?

OK, put it this way. Subby guys all want the domme. They want the woman who will get off on crushing them under foot in any and multiple (loving, of course) ways. In fact, they should be looking for those kinds of women to have relationships with. But, a lot of men, for whatever reason, don’t figure that out until after they’ve made a life with a woman unsuspecting of this desire. In those cases, it can be that the guy lucks out and finds his wife/partner is secretly his opposite number, but most often it’s the case that she’s not. So, the best he can hope for is that she’s OK topping him. You cannot make a person who does not get off on power exchange get off on it, but you might be able to talk one into doing it situationally for your benefit.

This requires that one has a GGG partner. “GGG” is a term coined by Dan Savage that stands for “good, giving, and game: good in bed, giving equal time and equal pleasure, and game for anything—within reason.” If one’s partner is not GGG, it is unlikely they will be willing to top. For the most part, that’s where I am with Belle. She’s not a domme. She’s just not wired that way. But she’s figuring out what trips my trigger and is eternally GGG. She has her limits, but is willing to explore whatever I want within those.

If Belle and I have succeeded at this, it’s because I never asked her to be my domme. I told her what I wanted and asked that she do it to me, but not to fundamentally become someone she’s not. Because she’s wonderful, she does most of what I’ve requested. She’s getting better at it all the time.

I can ask for nothing more. And really, neither can you.

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Authenticity

I admit right up front, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about here. See, over the past ten months or so, as it’s become more and more clear that I have a side of me that is this odd creature called a “submissive male”, I have thrashed about trying to find a construct under which to operate. Some kind of framework assembled by those who have come before me to help me find The One True Way I will find happiness with my otherwise vanilla wife.

The web is terrific for this kind of thing. Well, I should say, it’s terrific at disseminating and echoing the prevailing thought. As has been pointed out recently by Ranat1, according to the web, there appears to be two One True Ways to be submissive and male at the same time:

  • The he-slime, boot-licking, worm fodder kind of malesub
  • The Arthurian knight-in-shining-armor kind of malesub

 
Neither of these things work for me so much. For one, I have simply too high a regard for myself to follow the he-slime model (for more than 45 minutes or so, that is) and the whole “good knight and m’lady” thing just seems kinda like it stems from those frustrated that their days in high school drama class are too far behind them. And, of course, at the end of the day it’s still just me and Belle, the two who have been married almost 12 years (11 of which occurred before my descent into depravity).

What’s become clear to me (and what Ranat’s post and the subsequent conversation about it have helped along for me) is that there is this other way. In fact, there are lots and lots of other ways. In fact, the best and most successful way is the other way. That is, everyone’s unique and they’re partnered with equally unique people. In some cases, there’s a huge overlap between what they’re capable of doing within their relationship and the prevailing paradigms, but in others, there’s less. Some poor bastards never figure that out. They look around, see guys in chastity belts and French maid outfits, and assume that that’s the way they need to express their need to submit to a strong woman. Unfortunately, the poor mate in this scenario a) may not be strong or much interested in pretending to be, and/or b) may not really want to live with a chastity-wearing male French maid since, you know, she’s probably attracted to virile men since that’s what she paired off with. These guys are doomed to failure. Years and years of failure.

Why? Because they define the way success looks based on their perspective (which, in turn, is formed by this fucked up, limited, web-propagated crap). There might be a way forward, but it sure as fuck doesn’t look like anything on the web. The measure of success Belle and I have enjoyed stems from being authentically who we are and not who others are or think we should be. In fact, we are the Borg. We (mostly I) troll the web looking at all the options, reading the perspectives, picking and choosing those that look like they might fit, trying them on, keeping some, discarding others (most). What we have created (and continue to create) is something wholly unique to us because we are unique people. It works for both of us, not just me and not just her. A lot of guys (and even me, sometimes) forget that there’s this whole other person in the relationship with their own turn-ons and fantasies and potential kinks who needs to be just as authentic as they do. IF they’re successful after the kink is introduced, it will only be because they are both being themselves, not because she finally clicks into one of the limited precast roles he’s trying to define for her.

As I said above, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about. Some bloggers are really good talking about the Big Picture. I have been relegated to quite happily making the kinds of posts Steve called the “progress” type, as though my relationship were a train stopping at well-known femdom stations before we “got there”. Truth is, I’m still way too early in this to really know where that station is or what track will get us there (or even to know when we’ve arrived). I’m the reporter who says what happened to who at what time and in what way. I leave the why’s and what it all means to others. At least for now.

—

1 I’ve linked to that post now, like, 56 times which, from all the pingbacks it’s created, makes me look like I’m desperate for attention which, of course, I am but I don’t particularly enjoy looking that way and, in this case, is overstated. In any event, go read it and all the comments, because it’s some of the best intercourse on the subject I’ve seen in all the time I’ve been looking for such things (and yes, I said “intercourse”). ↩

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Solo

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I…help?”

“I don’t need any help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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Dev and Thumper talk

Transcript of an instant message conversation in which Dev helps Thumper figure some shit out. After-the-fact commentary in italics.

—

Dev: I read your post.  It was more positive than how you described it yesterday, which must be a good sign.

Thumper: i have two other bile-filled ones I never finished

Dev: I have an only semi-related question for you, or two questions really: (1) Are you able to cry? and (2) How does Belle respond if you do?

Thumper: (1) I can and have, but not in a while. (2) Hmm. Usually by trying to comfort me. Fix what I’m crying about.

Thumper: Last time i cried it was about feeling weird and guilty and like a freak for bringing kink to my marriage

Dev: right, maybe you blogged about that, it sounds vaguely familiar

Thumper: i think i did

Thumper: that was it

Thumper: there was lots of crying around the time i told her about the affair

Thumper: natch

Dev: yeah

Dev: She should have apologized about falling asleep.  Definitely.

Thumper: she eventually did, but in that pissy “i’m only doing this to shut you up” kind of way

Dev: But (IMO) she is right that you should stop pushing the dildo thing.  Like, a while back already.  (Sorry.  Please don’t hate me.)

Thumper: totally

Thumper: actually, when she finally put it that way, it really turned me on

Thumper: if only she had let it lie

Thumper: “pushing the dildo”

Thumper: snerk

Dev: lol

Dev: btw, when Jos and I fuck, and I get to the point where I want to come (which I can’t from just fucking) or I am tired of him stopping (so as not to come) then I stop him and I use my vibrator while he fucks me with his fingers.  Fingers work much better than a dildo for me personally

Thumper: “pushing the dildo” would be a good name for a blog

Thumper: belle’s unusual in that she can come solely from fucking. i don’t need to stimulate her clit to make her come.

Thumper: i only know that’s unusual since i listen to dan savage’s podcast

Thumper: the difference between you and she is also that she *does not care* that I need to stop. she won’t let me.

Thumper: i think it’s one of the reasons she moved to the top recently

Thumper: so i can’t stop

Thumper: that *sounds* hot (Yes, it does!)

Thumper: but it isn’t

Thumper: not really (Yes, it is.)

Thumper: i obsess. (Jesus, lighten up!)

Thumper: during the fight night, she said she was “letting” me come in those situations

Thumper: when, in fact, i did not want to.

Thumper: she was actually “making” me come

Dev: yes

Thumper: seriously against my will

Thumper: which, again, could be hot (No shit!)

Thumper: if played the right way (Ding ding ding!!)

Dev: Sounds more like she is making you lie there and get fucked regardless of whether you come or not.  Which is also hot.

Thumper: that’s it

Thumper: if i don’t come, good for me. if I do, so be it. suffer the consequences.

Thumper: maybe i’m looking at this the wrong way… (Ya think?)

Thumper: cause right now, it sounds pretty good (Oh, yeah it does.)

Dev: I think there are ways she could put this to you that are very hot, but she’s not likely to find them and you don’t want to do too much coaching.  If you can find it in yourself to translate for her to yourself, it would work

Thumper: god, that’s smart

Thumper: that’s it exactly

Dev: I only really “got” the right words to say to Jos after he said them to me when we were switched, and it was so fucking hot that now I understand it deeply and can carry out my side of it better than ever before

Thumper: in fact, there’s so much i need to “translate” within myself

Thumper: hmmm

Dev: but I don’t think you’re going to switch with her so I don’t think she’s going to get it that way, if she even could, which is doubtful

Thumper: nope, she’ll never switch

Dev: but it’s clear that she just wants to fuck you and get her pleasure from fucking you without having to have a bunch of angst over whether she’s allowed to do stuff that (incidentally) makes you come

Thumper: that’s right. she could have said that

Dev: and that is a totally cool thing to want (IMO as a non-participant in your relationship)

Thumper: the denial is fine until it gets in her way

Dev: She CAN’T say that because for you it would imply that she doesn’t care whether you come or not and you can’t handle that

Thumper: she once said she didn’t care and that was bad. but, if it was just another form or torment…

Thumper: of testing me

Thumper: and punishing me if i failed (I think he’s starting to get it…)

Thumper: god, that would be cool

Dev: …which is how she handled it last time

Dev: now, it would be better if she would just beat you for your failure rather than doing the sort of “no sex, no touching” thing, but she’d have to be comfortable with that

Thumper: icy hot

Thumper: she already knows that’s close to my limit

Thumper: at least the way she applied it last time

Thumper: fuck, that hurt

Dev: And if it was right after you came it wouldn’t be sexy either, until later

Thumper: god no

Thumper: *or* she could make me clean it out of her. that’d totally do it for me

Thumper: without the pain, too…

Dev: But she might not feel like it, after coming herself.  I don’t know what she’s like.

Thumper: oh, yeah

Dev: and that sounds more like a treat than a punishment

Thumper: true

Dev: to me

Thumper: it helps that you’re a female

Thumper: here’s a crazy idea. would you mind if i copied this exchange, removed the real names, and posted it?

Dev: Not at all

Thumper: sweet

Thumper: thanks

Dev: 🙂

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Fight night

This is my 18th day since I last came, but, more importantly, it’s the fifth day since I was last able to give Belle an orgasm. It’s starting to get to me. Her release is my release and when I’m not able to achieve that I start to get squirrelly. Just as our yellow sun provides Superman his powers, contact with Belle’s flesh and exposure to her pleasure keeps my submission on the side of truth, justice, and the American Way. Absent that, and it’s Bizzaro Superman: dark, imperfect, wrong.

Complicating my feelings today is a rather large fight we had on Tuesday night. We hardly ever fight anymore. I think this is at least partly because my ego is less of an issue when I’m in the subby mindset. However, I can still get pissed, as I did Tuesday.

It started with a conversation about the dildo/harness thing again and she, yet again, expressed no interest in it. I tried to lobby for it the best I could, but she finally pulled the Dominant card. Is she not in control of when, where, and how we have sex? Yes, of course. OK, then. I promise never to bring it up again. I’m sorry.

But she wouldn’t drop it. She accused me of wanting to introduce it to our stable of toys primarily for my pleasure. In fact, that’s entirely untrue. Yes, there’s a part of me that really gets off on the idea of fucking her while not fucking her – of replacing my meat with something else – but the primary reason I want it is because I know how much she enjoys the act of being fucked by me. And yeah, I like fucking her. But, when I’m being denied, the act leaves me an emotional wreck. Nine times out of ten, I come (especially if it’s been a while). I do nothing but obsess and worry while it’s happening and, afterward, I really and truly feel like shit. So, yes, I would get something out of it (submissive charge from being “replaced”, freedom from orgasm angst while pleasuring her), but she would also get something out of it (enjoying a good fuck more often, enjoying a phallus engineered to give her pleasure). But she insisted I was not telling her the truth. That I was trying to spin this as a plus for her when, in fact, I was thinking more about myself. That pissed me off.

Then, of course, there was the other thing. Even though I’ve written about how I really never want to experience true sexual satisfaction again – that is, I never want to come so much that I lose my constant desire to come some more – I’m not sure she really believes it. So I was pouring my soul out about this significant change in me and my approach to my sexuality, really trying to make her understand how profound I find this realization – when, at the end of my little oratory, I found she had fallen asleep. Yes, it was 10ish, yes, the candles were glowing, yes, we were laying in bed and, of course, she had consumed her fair share of the wine, but come on! She fell asleep on me. While I was emoting.

Poof. Any and all subspace totally evaporated. That left me a pissed off, horny, locked-up dude (if not for the device, I’m sure I would have rubbed one out right then). I blew out the candles and put on some clothes (sorry, did I not mention I was naked through this whole exchange?). She woke up, tried to pretend she hadn’t fallen asleep, and then the fight part started. She was pissed at me for being pissed at her for falling asleep. I thought that was total bullshit and told her as much. Evidence of the bunny was nowhere to be found. So, we yelled at each other for a few minutes before finally settling in to talk some more.

Bottom line for her was two things. One, she felt sex had taken over our relationship. I told her, IMO, sex was our relationship. I’m a guy. Guys need sex. We equate sex with love and connection, etc. This had been covered at length in our counseling. If she thought I was placing too much emphasis on it, that’s fine, but, as far as I am concerned, we have just enough sex in our relationship right now. If she ever thought I was making too big a deal over it, she was entirely within her rights to tell me to back off. In fact, she could even do so within the construct of our dynamic and still give me a form of what I was looking for.

Second thing for her was her continued insecurity with regard to her role in our dynamic and the potential that she was not living up to all the things I wanted from a dominant partner. She was afraid of disappointing me. I told her I fully expected her to disappoint me. I totally accept that nobody could be the perfect dominant I have in my head. In fact, I’m not even sure what that ideal would look like. Disappointment in any relationship is par for the course and unavoidable. All I want from her is to be as comfortable as possible with herself and let the rest happen as it will. In fact, I am, as I have said here multiple times, over-the-moon happy with her and our relationship. I am happier now than I have ever been with anyone, even her for the first 10 years of our marriage. I have shared things with her and done things with her I never though I would do with anyone. I could not be more satisfied with her or where we are as a couple. Except for this gnawing insecurity on her part. I worry that she’s only going through the motions to make me happy. That she really doesn’t want to live this way or do these things. She says that’s not true. She says she likes where we are and likes to keep me locked-up and all that. I believe her, but struggle to make her understand that, more than the ideal dominant partner, I need a confident partner and that she has every right to feel confident in her role right now. She rocks. She’s amazing. She is so, so good for me. I say it all the time (or, at least, I feel as though I do), but her doubt and insecurity lingers.

I told her last night that really, truly, this is what I want. I want the denial. I want the control. I want to live with the constant sexual frustration. I want the basic unfairness of the arrangement. Really. I will never, ever hold it against her. It’s how I want to be. All she has to do now is believe it.

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How long?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Piggish manbeast

There’s an element to what happened yesterday that sounds so stereotypically wannabe-FLR, that it makes me somewhat embarrassed to even write it down (I’m reminded of Dev’s comment about hard-ons and holding a purse in a shoe store, but I’m trying to keep it out of mind). It was all very subtle and most observers might not even notice anything, but it was there: Belle Fille stretched her dominant muscles ever so slightly – and in front of other people, no less.

It was another Sunday dinner at the in-law’s (Belle’s mom, dad, sister, her husband, their baby and dog, but only one of our kids as the other’s at camp). These used to happen almost every weekend, but in recent years they’ve become less frequent. Where each person sits at the table and what role they play in preparation, consumption, and clean-up of the meal is well-established. Short story, mother-in-law does most of the work, freaks out that everyone’s got enough to eat (Augustus Gloop’s mother would be proud), and then everyone without a Y chromosome cleans up while those who do have one tend to sit around and shoot the shit until it’s time to go. This is how it’s worked for years.

And it was pretty standard fare through much of dinner1 until my mother-in-law went to get dessert from the kitchen (key lime pie and vanilla ice cream or root beer floats – river of chocolate reserved for special occasions).

“Why don’t you get up and help her,” Belle Fille asked me with the tone of a statement, not a question. She looked me directly in the eye and, gently yet firmly, was obviously giving me an order.

Zing!

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. This never happens. I never get up during dinner since, as I said before, the roles and expectations are all set. And her “asking” me to help was also very out of character. I felt somewhat self-conscious as I left my place at the opposite end of the table from my father-in-law and went to get the pie.

Later, after the pie, we were all sitting there talking, except for the the mother-in-law who was clearing the table. “Why don’t you let [Thumper] finish clearing this,” she suggested.

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. Except this time, so did everyone else so my task was minimal.

Typically, as the dishes are being done, the menfolk go and discuss politics or sports or some other manly topic. No exception last night. We were on the deck enjoying the beautiful early evening when Belle came to the sliding screen door and told me to come inside and dry the dishes.

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. The other menfolk exchanged glances. There was a disturbance in the Force.

The drying duty was given to me because my sister-in-law had to prepare a bottle for the baby. Once that was done, she came back in the kitchen to relieve me.

“OK, you can go back to being a man now,” she said as she took my towel. Ouch.

Back on the deck, the brother-in-law said, “Have you been released from service?”

“Sorta,” I replied.

Finally, later on, I came out onto the deck to find Belle already out there talking to my brother-in-law. He offered me a chair next to him, but Belle said, “No, why don’t you sit across from me. That way, you can massage my feet.”

“OK,” I replied and hopped…down…into the chair. She put her feet up into my lap, pressing down with them onto the device, and I started to massage them while she continued her conversation with my brother-in-law.

I can hear some of you. You’re saying, “So she kept you from being a piggish manbeast? That’s it?!” and, yeah, I see your point. My point is Belle’s had a thing about finding opportunities for me to provide her service. Not only was she actively looking for these, she did it in front of her family. On a scale of 1 to 10 where 10 is something like this, what Belle did was about a 2, but it was a start. A really good start. I hope to see her become more comfortable with her position as time goes on.

Later, back at the ranch, it was more foot massage followed by back massage followed by face massage (something I didn’t even know was a thing). She went to sleep supremely relaxed while I was left hot and sweaty from the effort…and, you know, all the touching.

—

1 Did I mention I was drinking mojitos again? I can’t help myself. They’re so yummy. And no, I didn’t drive until way after dinner and the buzz had turned into lethargy.  ↩

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Hung over

I have a headache. I woke up with it. I hate that. I’m pretty sure that what I actually have, besides the headache, is a bit of a hangover. This is because I drank two mojitos last night. Two. I’m such a fucking lightweight. If, in an alternate universe, you ever wanted to do unspeakable things to me, just pour, say, three mojitos down my throat and I’m all yours. How can two (admittedly strong, but still just two) sweet minty drinks leave me mildly hung over? It’s because I never went to college to learn how to drink properly, that’s how.

Also, I did not sleep very well again last night. One reason is I don’t sleep well after drinking (even when “drinking” is only two stupid drinks). The other reason is I haven’t had an orgasm in two weeks (yes, time flies – it’s already been two solid weeks). The other reason is I’m back in the plastic. Oh yeah, that’s what that feels like. And that. And that. Oh, it’s two in the morning! Fuck.

Belle started her period yesterday and, since it used to be the rule that I would be locked up when she was bleeding, my incarceration date moved up by 24 hours. She brought the CB6K into her bedroom in it’s spiffy zipper case and tossed it at me. Instead of running off to the bathroom to put the thing on, I did it right there on the bed in front of her. I should have made a bigger deal out of it (and probably turned off the TV) because I kinda found having her there to witness it hot. Almost too hot, if you know what I mean. All the little bits and pieces (and their skin-grabbing nooks and crannies) fit a little tighter than when it’s just me and the bathroom mirror sharing the moment.

She put the lock in place and held it closed, but before squeezing it shut, she looked into my eyes and told me to say my phrase. My mantra. The words that represent my commitment to our relative positions. I hesitated. There’s still a part of me, down deep, that resists the submission. And at that moment, when I’d placed that thing on my manhood at her direction, just before she closed it for god knows how long, and she told me to say to her the words that give her the right to make me do it – to take away my control over my own body and my own pleasure and to really and totally focus everything on her…that’s a powerful moment. The lizard within tries to rise up, but it’s pointless, really. It tries to stop me and succeeds only in delaying the inevitable moment when I willingly accede to her request and devote myself to her service. I give the lizard points for trying, but the outcome was never in doubt. I hope he always fights it because, you know, that internal struggle that happens every time is where the hot comes from. Feeling the lizard strain, yet inevitably buckle, as I give her the gift of my submission is my springboard into headspace.

After the lock went click, she told me to rub her feet again. We’re doing a lot of that recently. It’s become an almost daily event. She had wanted me to paint her toenails (and really, what screams stereotypically subby husband behavior more than toenail painting?), but thought my dexterity too much deteriorated by my excessive swilling (if two drinks can be called swilling), so she settled on foot rubbing. I gave her ten minutes on each foot which is about as long as I can go before my hands start to cramp. Being down at her feet, pleasuring her with my hands in a nonsexual way, feeling the fresh encasement around her cock left me feeling very nicely headspacy.

Afterward, I laid next to her in the dark and pressed my naked-except-for-one-important-thing body into hers. The plastic tube was doing its job and I was trying to settle in for sleep when she raised her top and exposed her breasts. I almost couldn’t believe my luck and latched on to her beautiful nipples.

Now, before I go any further, I’ll warn the squeamish to go read another blog. If you stay with me past this point, you are giving up your right to complain in the comments. Capiche?

I started to finger her clit, figuring since it was the first day of her period that anything more athletic was off the menu, but moments after I started, she whispered , “I want to feel your tongue on my clit.”

I did not hesitate. Not for a second. It didn’t even really occur to me that there was any other course of action I could take except to go down on her, period be damned. I positioned myself between her legs with my hands reaching up to continue playing with her nipples and started lapping at her clit. I knew I had to stay relatively north due to the fact that she was wearing a tampon. Not that coming into contact with it would have squicked me out or anything, but I’m not sure “tampon licking” is high on her list of sexual triggers. I did feel the string a couple of times, but can’t say there was any other indication of her state I could discern. Just being there, worshiping her pussy – the source of all her power – was intoxicating to me.

Her thighs started to clamp onto my head and she arched the small of her back off the bed so I slowed my tongue and increased the pressure with which I held it against her. Her orgasm came and we both moaned.

The difference between having a freely flopping cock after such and experience and a stifled one is dramatic. Had I been free, I would have had a lot more angst and bubbling desire for more action. But since I was encased, that was it. It was over. I could feel the drop-off in energy that’s almost like a post-orgasmic feeling. In way, I guess it is post-orgasmic, just not my orgasm. Of course I was still horny and the cock was still trying its best to be hard, but I felt sleepy anyway.

“Thank you, Mistress” I said to her as we spooned. “Thank you for letting me do that to you.”

“You’re welcome, Thumper. Thank you.”

And with that, we slept.

Until I didn’t.

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Guilt and submission

Act two was not the stuff of sex blogs. Basically, she laid there sipping wine and reading her book for two hours while I massaged her feet. Yes, wonderfully decadent for her and not unenjoyable for me, but very low on the hotnsexy scale.

After she was done reading, I threw caution to the wind and asked if there was anything else she needed from me (which she correctly interpreted as a veiled request for sexual contact). Turns out, she wasn’t interested. That wasn’t very surprising considering her body language, etc., but I was surprised by her subsequent accusation that I was throwing a ‘tude over her disinterest.

Yes, there is precedent for my behaving poorly in the face of her lack of interest. But I swear, this wasn’t the case last night. I wasn’t in the slightest annoyed that I wasn’t going to get any action. I was dealing with it, though, and I’m sure that’s what showed on my face. Dealing with the pent up frustration, the erections that come raging up at the slightest thought or simplest touch, the carnivorous butterflies that flutter in my chest looking for human flesh to consume – dealing with all that. It’s an effort. It’s hard. But, it wasn’t in any way directed at her.

I told her as much. I said I am fully comfortable and accepting of her role and my position. She decides when and in what way I enjoy sexual activity, not me. Not at all me. And, of course, saying these things to her, in my defense, as she looked at me crossly with furrowed brows, sent the cock higher and higher until it was straining to grow more. I felt very, very small and, yes, unfairly accused, but having to confess and reiterate my lowly rank in the face of hers was terrifically stimulating. For me. Not her. I got nothing more than the chance to spoon into her, hard cock pressed into her left ass cheek.

In that position, we discussed guilt. Her guilt. She feels guilty for not giving me what I want. She still thinks that just because I desire sexual attention that I want her to give it to me. In fact, those are very different things. The way we socialize girls in our society – and her upbringing, in particular – has left her with these residual ideas of what’s expected of her. Where these were in the years in which our marriage basically had no sex to speak of I don’t know, but they’re there now. I told her that all I really want, more than anything, is for her to do exactly what she wants to do with little or no regard for my base sexual urges. I need to feel that. Whatever drives my submissiveness wants to feel pent up urges with me, needs to feel as though my desires are inferior to hers, craves her control over my sexuality. She should feel no guilt for what the arrangement I asked for does to me. None.

All that being said, the night that followed was difficult, as they all are when I’m at about this stage. The cock seems to always either be growing, shrinking, or rigid. Lots of action down there. Sometime, it’ll stir and then become something like a perpetual motion machine. Just feeling itself move will stimulate it to keep going until I have a totally useless hard-on. I know all about nocturnal tumescence and, thanks to the CB6K, I also know exactly what times I experience it, so I also know the 8 or 12 times I was awakened last night with awkward stiffies had nothing at all to do with normal physiological processes and had everything to do with all the hormones circulating within me.

Today, my desire to work for her is high. We were both going to clean the windows, but instead I’ve told her to sit next to the pool, read her book, swim with her daughter, be a sloth. I’ll do the windows. I’ll do anything. Wash the sheets, fold the laundry, kill a wildebeast with nothing more than a stick. Anything at all she asks. And I’ve made it perfectly clear, I have no expectations whatsoever that anything I do for her will result in any reciprocal attention on her part. There is no quid pro quo. I give whatever she asks freely and ask only that she enjoy it the best she can in return.