Tag: femdom

Posted on

Twice on Sunday

Sunday morning I woke up very eager to please Belle and told her as much.

“I want to make love to you,” I said.

“How are you going to do that? I wasn’t going to let you out today.”

“We don’t need that to make love.”

“But what are we going to do?” she asked.

“Have sex. You know, the kind of sex we have now. The kind that doesn’t require the cock. There are so many options…” I trailed off as I planted sweet little kisses along her jaw and neck.

“Hmm. That’s confusing to me,” she said, “We need to call it something else. You can’t make love to me when you’re locked-up.”

“OK, how about saying I just want to make you come?”

“I’m good with that,” she said.

My thinking with regard to calling it “making love” versus just saying “making you come” was to help close the divide between what she likes and what I want from sex. For me, when she lets me pleasure her, it’s every bit as meaningful as when she lets me fuck her (whether or not I come), but I think in her mind, those acts are very different (one perfunctory and one-sided, the other romantic and inclusive). I’d like her to start equating all of our sexual encounters as acts of love making because that’s how they feel to me, even the ones where I’m left throbbing and frustrated. Guess I’ll keep working on that.

“Why do you want this?” she asked. I assume this question stemmed from of our recent bout of communication.

“Because I’m horny,” I admitted. “I’m horny and need to feel you come. You come for both of us now. And, of course, I want you to feel pleasure. And I need to feel you feeling it.”

I suppose a really good submissive would have led with the second part of that, but I just said the first thing that came to mind. I was on her because I was horny and wanted to feel the release of our (her) orgasm. Even if we were having “normal” sex, I’d still be initiating because I was horny and wanted to fuck her, right?

“OK,” she said, “Close the door.”

—

Sunday night, I rubbed her feet while watching the Mad Men premiere. When it was over and the TV was off, I started kissing her again. Not sure what I expected to happen since she had just come that morning, but I like the contact even when it doesn’t end in sex.

“You know,” I said tentatively, “When you leave me locked-up – when you deny me for a long time – I feel more cared for than when you don’t. It makes me feel loved.”

“Really? That’s an odd thing to say.”

“Well, I know it’s harder for you to deal with me with I’m like this, so when you do it you’re demonstrating the willingness to maintain me. I like how that feels. Like I said, it makes me feel loved. Special.”

We then had a brief exchange where she accused me of previously saying it wasn’t harder for her when I’m locked up, but, as I wrote here on Saturday, I totally acknowledge the extra effort it requires. Since we never got a chance to talk about it, I was never able to clarify my position on that. I think that helps explain my negative reaction to what happened later that night…but I’ve already covered that ground.

In any event, I was distracted by some part of her and just enjoying the access (even though it was through her pajamas) until she tapped me on the head with something hard. It was Pink, her favorite vibe.

“Do you want me to use that on you?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” she said, “You’re fine where you are.” She slide the vibe into her pajama bottoms and I heard its low thrum as she clicked it on.

“Do you want me to do…anything?”

“Nope. I’m good.” I could feel the vibrations radiate through her and into the mattress.

When she was done, she reassured me that the solo action wasn’t the result of anything I had done wrong. She wasn’t punishing me. It was just how she wanted it.

“You know if you could, you’d do the same thing yourself. Sometimes, that’s what I want, too,” she explained.

What I find remarkable about this is the old Belle Fille (the one married to the old Thumper – the ones who hardly ever had sex) would have never masturbated in front of me, let alone do so with no expectation that I’d have any role or reciprocal attention. It was what she wanted, pure and simple. I was not necessary and, due to her growing sexual confidence, felt no guilt with regard to my frustration whatsoever.

I think that’s beautiful.

Posted on

We talk

“Why do you do that? Why do you always go there? Saying we need to just chuck the whole thing whenever we hit a bump?”

She was referring to this comment from my previous post:

This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on.

I’d say I don’t always go there, but I have, on occasion, suggested we should end our experiment in D/s. For me, whenever I come to doubt that she’s getting anything out of what we do, a complex series of things spring up.

First, I fear that she’s sacrificing her own sexuality in order to serve mine. Nothing else would be more appalling to me. This is not to say I don’t think she should ever do something just because it pleases me. Hardly. That give and take is the foundation of any relationship, sexual or otherwise. However, the idea that she would wholly subsume her sexual identity under the weight of mine is something I’ve feared multiple times. If that were ever to be the case, that her control was merely a construct formed by her desire to see me happy, the entire thing would come crashing down. Her desire for control must be authentically hers.

Second, I immediately start to feel guilt over the ridiculously complicated nature of my sexuality. Why should it all be so fucking hard? Why can’t I be like the other boys? She doesn’t need any more complexity in her life and I feel that I’m only becoming more complicated as we go along, introducing new “rules” and concepts she needs to keep in mind. Sex should be fundamentally easy, shouldn’t it? Sex with me, at least from her perspective, is anything but.

Third, I feel shame. I am ashamed at the things I want from her. My desire to be controlled, to be bound, to be hurt. She’s a nice Catholic girl and I’m nothing more than a perverted deviant (and a heathen to boot) bringing implements of bondage, floggers, and other apparatus into the bedroom. I want her to do unspeakable things to me. Things that are fundamentally not within her nature. I’m a freak.

Fourth, there’s that fundamental difference between us sexually. She wants sex to be spontaneously conducted upon soft, down-filled bedding on bright, sunny Spring mornings with the sounds of birds outside and the scent of lavender on the cool breeze. I want it to be done in the dark, by candlelight, with black leather and stainless steel. I want pain and domination and inequity. Nothing about what I like is spontaneous. We are from polar-opposite regions. I fear she never gets what she really wants in a sexual encounter (think Jane Austen) because she’s always catering to my fetid desires (think Marilyn Manson).

We discussed all this. We will work on all this, especially trying to find ways in which her idealized sexual experience can be combined with mine. She doesn’t want me to feel shame, though I still do. We both feel guilt. We both worry about disappointing the other.

Specifically regarding last night’s encounter, I found myself saying something unexpected. I accused her of being selfish. She was stressed and our sex life was only adding to that angst, so she pulled the plug on it. Not only had she released me, she ended my denial. Capriciously, I thought, since her orgasm was already attended to and didn’t require me to be released. I said I thought that was selfish because I was in a really good place at the time. I was thrilled. The issues were hers and we should have talked them though instead of her, under the guise of being in control, unilaterally acting. It’s was hard for me to say that to her because I’m generally predisposed to accepting her control and serving her selfishness and generally being submissive, but I thought the way in which she acted last night was above and beyond all that. She was actively trying to kill the dynamic, at least for a little while. I had no desire for it to end. Certainly, there must have been another way that would have preserved what we each needed.

Beyond that, she struggles (continuously) with the need to satisfy. That my satisfaction comes, in part, from being unsatisfied is very difficult for her. She also draws a line to my sexual dissatisfaction and my infidelity. In fact, it was my dissatisfaction with her general apathy towards sex that sent me away, not with the sex we were having. In any event, she says she fears that we’ll end up there again. I can’t imagine that now. Sex before didn’t exist between us. Now, it’s front and center. How we were a year ago and how we are now are totally opposite.

In any event, we need to redefine for her what “satisfaction” means to me and to not confuse it with satiation. I am very satisfied now with being totally unsatiated. We can have that bright and lavender-scented Jane Austen-style sex some Spring morning, but I’ll be happier at the end if I’m left hard and frustrated and grinding into my chastity device as opposed to spewing my seed into her. We can both be happy as long as we accept new, flexible definitions of “happy”. She may I think I secretly want to come all over her. In fact, I want to want to come, but not actually do it.

And seriously, I don’t want to come. If, in the course of her fucking me because that’s what she wants, I happen to come because I can’t control myself, then so be it. I only hope she takes the opportunity to tease me about it (hopefully with punishment). However, and for the foreseeable future, I’d rather be left wanting it rather than having it. If she wants to torture me with forced orgasm – to rip it from me against my will – then fine, I guess. That can be hot. But that’s not what last night was about. That was about the opposite.

I have more that I could say, but the conversation was very emotional. I cried very hard a couple of times, and she cried too. I’m feeling a little wiped by the whole thing and sort of puffy-faced. In the end, of course, we didn’t decide to end our experiment. We talked our way through and will keep trying to find the right path. We hugged and kissed and cared for one another. It was all very Austen-esque, except when we were done, she locked her cock back up in plastic. That never would have happened to Mr. Darcy.

Posted on

An indefinite period

She’s going to leave me locked up indefinitely. I’m not sure how long “indefinitely” is, but this fact came up last night after more talking (since work’s beat her down lately, that’s about all she had energy for). I was telling her how much more comfortable it makes me to think she likes me locked up. I told her, since she’s not really left me in the thing very much lately, that I figured she wasn’t all that into it and was only humoring me. She reiterated that she does like me in it. A lot.

So why have I not been in it that much? Apparently, she lets me out when there’s other stuff happening around us. For instance, we have relatives over this week. There’s no reason at all that should have any bearing on the status of her cock, but she let me out just before they showed up. Yes, it’s true she also wanted to fuck it, but still. I told her I would be happier if she didn’t worry about how I feel about the device at any given moment. If I’m not squealing (aka, safewording), then all I want her to consider is whether or not she wants me in it. Not whether or not I want to be in it. If she’s thinking about my comfort (or whatever) and I know it (which I do) then I can potentially use that to my advantage and manipulate my status. It’s much, much hotter to think she’s only considering what she wants with regard to the device. Besides, for the vast majority of the day, the device might as well not be there. It gets in the way of practically nothing other than peeing, jacking off, and sex.

Which is not to say she can’t let it out to play if that’s what she wants. This kinda gets to the fact that she doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s locked up. If she wants to fuck it, she should fuck it, then put it back in. If she just wants to tease it, then she should. Getting in and out isn’t that hard. Will I want to go back in? Certainly not if I’ve come, but again, who cares? It’s her cock, it’s her CB6K. If she likes the idea of me being in it, then I should be in it.

So anyway, at some point in this conversation, she said she was going to leave me in it indefinitely. I like the sound of that. I asked her to err on the side of leaving it in there more often since, of course, she likes it that way. If she likes it, then I fucking love it. Recently, my appreciation of enforced chastity has been on low ebb. Suddenly, I find myself more enthusiastic about it than I was when we first bought the CB6K.

Posted on

She likes it

It’s been 10 days now since she last let me come which is just about when the hormones really start kicking in. Based on previous experience, if she continues to deny me orgasm but still teases me and allows me to pleasure her, my level of frustration will continue to build until about three weeks when it’ll level out and maybe even start to drop off a bit. She’s only made me hold out that long a few times, but each time the pattern’s been roughly the same.

I also notice now that the tremulous vibrato of sexual energy that resonates in my chest (which I’ve described in the past as “carnivorous butterflies”) has become such a normal state of affairs for me that I only really notice it when it’s not there. I don’t know what causes this, but it’s enhanced when she has me in the device. It’s like all my sexual desire – basically, the desire to grab, stroke, and otherwise abuse her cock – feeds back on itself. It drives me to seek out sexually stimulating media (otherwise known as “porn”) which, in turn, only makes it worse since I can’t touch myself. It’s that kind of loop, pumping more and more hormones into my blood, that makes it impossible to sleep sometimes. Anyway, I’m feeling that now. A state of hyper-arousal. The carnivorous butterflies flapping around inside me.

Last night, I really wanted plant my face in Belle’s snatch and eat her up. Something, anything, to get her pheromones on me. To feel her pleasure and eventual orgasm which comes for both of us now. But she brought a bunch of work home with her and, by the time she was done with it, wasn’t in the mood for her bunny’s services. I may have let my disappointment show just a bit, but I’ve gotten pretty good lately at not feeling I’m in any way involved in deciding if I get to experience sexual pleasure and got over it pretty quickly.

She told me to get naked, which I did, and as I was laying above the covers next to her, clothed only in the transparent plastic of the CB6K, something Tom said recently in a comment came to mind. Belle and I hardly ever talk about the device. It’s her method of control, but it’s also the thing that mostly goes unsaid between us. So, with it being very visible and me still adjusting to my unexpected stint in lock-up, I asked her if she had any questions about it.

She thought about this a second and asked, “What’s the hardest part about wearing it?”

“God,” I said, “There are so many hard parts…” I seriously had to ponder that.

“Finding a place for it in my pants is hard sometimes,” I began, “And peeing. It makes peeing rather complicated. That sucks. And, of course, the nocturnal erections can be difficult to deal with. Those two can combine when the cock gets so hard in the tube that it makes peeing impossible. That totally blows…” I trailed off.

“The hardest part, though, is that I feel like you don’t always know what to do with me when I’m locked up.” Not sure where that came from. It just sort of popped into my head so I said it.

“But I like when you wear it,” she replied.

“Really?” I continue to assume that she only puts me in it to humor me and that she’d rather have me out. In fact, I assume she does everything in an attempt to humor me. My submissive’s insecurity, I guess.

“What do you like about it?” I asked.

“I like that when you’re wearing it I know exactly what you can and cannot do with yourself. You’re a guy and all your wiring and buttons are different than mine, so I like knowing you really can’t do anything when you’re wearing it. I like knowing you can’t touch yourself.” She may have said some other things related to this, but frankly the buzzing sound in my head made it difficult to follow what she was saying. The tube was fully pressurized and my eyes kinda of half-closed as the blanket of subspace fell over me.

“I need to hear that. That you like it,” I said. “If you like having me wear it, then there are no hard parts.”

And that was about it. She was tired and was asleep shortly thereafter. I was awake and decided to read a book rather than surf the web since I really did want to sleep at some point. In retrospect, I’m really pleased she told me she likes when I’m locked up. That’s huge. I can put up with almost anything if I know she wants me to. On the other hand, my point about her not knowing what to do with me when I’m locked up is still out there. We need to talk more about that.

Posted on

A couple of quickies

One.

I picked Belle Fille up at her place of employment this evening and told her that I had locked myself into the device because I was having impure thoughts about myself. She congratulated me on my self-control (which, I pointed out, if I had any, would have obviated the need for the device). Then, tonight when I asked if she would take the thing off, she declined. She’s apparently very happy to have me locked up at the moment.

Two.

Also in the car on the way home, Belle said it was a good thing I put it on because otherwise I may have done something requiring punishment. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out something derogatory with respect to her inclination to punish me. You know, since I picked the lock of my chastity device and all and have still not been punished. Understand that I’m not exactly sure I want to be punished because it’s going to hurt like fuck, but I do actually like the idea of her having the right to punish me. It’s complicated. In any event, my derision was not well received. She says she’s been waiting for the right moment. I pointed out that all the books say it’s important to discipline your dog at the time of the incident, not hours later. Otherwise, there’s a disconnection. You know, between the digression and the resulting punishment. OK, well, in any event, she may or may not be punishing me sometime in the future. When it happens, you’ll be the first to know. I mean second. Well, OK, technically third.

Posted on

Self imprisonment

Belle let me out of the device on Sunday. It’d been nearly a week since she had some bunny lovin’ (due to her trip and a monster-long menstrual cycle) and she wanted her cock. She said it just like that. “Tonight, I want my cock.” Fucking awesome.

So she let me out and I cleaned it up, shaved, etc. I had that nagging insecurity regarding coming without permission, but it turns out she came so fast from my fingers that the issue never presented itself. After an appropriate amount of basking on her part, she told me I could go inside her. No coming, of course. Just like last time, I was overcome by gratitude. There’s the feeling of thankfulness, of course, but then there’s also this meta feeling that flows from that. The feeling of inequity and unfairness and how I, the husband, the traditional “head of household”, have so little control over my own sexual functions that I am forced into this position of servile gratitude simply over the chance to get the dick wet. Of course, that’s exactly where I want to be. Not emasculated, but harnessed. Restrained. Maintained.

In any event, I got very, very close to coming more than once. I love that feeling when the primal lizard urge to just keep going and come fires up and I have to struggle to reassert her control over me. And when she tells me it’s time to stop and I have to pull the throbbing meat out of her, cold and wet. It just says hard. Twenty, thirty minutes. Not bone hard, but there’s a plumpness to it that doesn’t seem to want to go away. My blind sexual instincts never seem to learn. I know there’s not chance of getting off (especially once she falls asleep), but the motor keeps purring just in case.

In the few days since, we haven’t had a chance to connect. Today, I’m at home alone and find myself extra super horny. So horny, that the urge to stimulate myself was becoming difficult to avoid. As I’ve written recently, I had this problem where I’d jack myself off, but never let me come. Doing so kept the hormonal levels high, but totally broke the link between my sexual gratification and Belle. She’s since expressly forbidden that behavior (again), so these thoughts were problematic. I decided to lock myself up as a preemptive measure. I couldn’t find her new lock or the keys (they’re not in the corner of her dresser drawer!) but I was able to scrounge around and find an open Master lock. Not a big fan of them since they’re kind of big, but at least it locks and I have no clue where the key is (on her keyring, I think). I was much more thoughtful this time around with regard to the device. The KSD-3G is in place, I used appropriately sized ring and my new O-ring and PA cable set-up. Very, very secure. No chance of rubbing one out (or even making the motions). When Belle comes home, she can decide if she wants me in it not, but at least I’ll be able to avoid making any mistakes in the mean time.

Posted on

Jailbreak!

Picked!Last time she ordered me into the device, I have to admit I was a little off my game. Mostly, this was due to my having just come and not really putting my heart into it. In any event, I screwed a few things up. I used a ring that was too big and neglected to put the KSD-G3 in place. I like to use the KSD-G3 because it helps keep the meat pushed down inside the tube. This make things like peeing a little easier and, I’ve found, helps my PA ring find its way through the slot in the end of the plastic tube during erections (when the ring doesn’t descend, it turns kinda sideways, pulling on the piercing – not painful, really, but uncomfortable).

So, long way to say, I felt my kit was on all wrong. And she was out of town. With the key. Now, if you knew me in real life, you’d know I kinda sorta obsess over things like this. It was driving me nuts. I really wanted the KSD in there and I wanted the smaller ring. My fevered monkey brain kicked into gear.

My lock, seen above and in place on this blog’s about page, was chosen because I thought it was pretty. Truth is, Belle’s never liked it because it’s fussy to open (never sure which way to turn the key), but I’ve always appreciated it’s shiny aesthetics. I like shiny. Plus, it’s key is not so ugly. There was a time when I thought Belle could wear the key on a pretty chain I got her and it looks almost like jewelry, but since she never wears the chain, that doesn’t really matter. The downside of my pretty chrome lock is that its mechanism is exceedingly simple. You can see right into the keyhole and I’m pretty sure all the key does is move a little thingy in there allowing the clasp to spring open. So, with that in mind and the imperfection of my situation gnawing at me every moment of the day, I bent open a thick paper clip, used my needle nose pliers to bend over the end, and started fishing around in the keyhole. After about five seconds, bingo! Lock was open.

Then I realized what I had done. I had picked the lock to the device Belle had placed upon me. I had actually physically defeated the device. This was not good. I thought to close the lock and forget it ever happened, but the monkey brain is nothing if not pragmatic. It told me, as long as I had the lock open, I should at least put the KSD in there.

But surely, I argued back, I can’t take the thing off!?

No, no, my good man, said the monkey in an oddly affected British accent (I think all monkeys speak with British accents), you can leave the tube on, can’t you? There’s a good fellow. Carry on.

And then he threw some poop at me.

In any event, I did manage to get the KSD in place without removing the tube. It was tricky, but I was able to wrap my actions afterward in a shred of decency. While I had picked the fucking lock, I had not removed – even for a second – the part of the device that most represented her control over me.

UnpickableYesterday, I spilled the beans to Belle. I told her we needed a new lock since I knew how to open it. She seemed surprised at my cheekiness. Yes, we certainly did need a new lock. Then I went into the bathroom and, apparently to put a very fine point on my recent admission, picked the lock again and put on the smaller ring (again, without removing the tube). Instead of putting the thoroughly disrespected (yet still very pretty) chrome lock back, I took the ugly, sharp-cornered little lock that originally came with with the CB-6000 on. Its only redeeming quality (other than being totally secure against the monkey brain) is that it’s small. Otherwise, its very utilitarian.

I stepped out of the bathroom and handed Belle the keys to the new lock and the open chrome lock. Security has been reestablished.

Last night, she said opening the lock without permission deserved punishment. Of course, she’s right. It’s a huge transgression. If she carries through with the threat, it’ll be the first time she’s punished me since we established our understanding regarding her right to inflict corporal punishment. We’ll see what happens next…

Posted on

I come and she goes

Why am I not writing? Because I don’t feel like it. Why not? Well, nothing’s happening. True, a blog about being denied orgasm is often about the absence of a thing, but in this case, nothing is all I have since Belle’s away for the week and I’m left locked up and not terribly horny.

For the two days before she left, she had me naked in bed and so, so slowly stroked the cock with her hand. Her touch was very light. I don’t know if she’d ever have been able to get me off that way, but I found it to be something near torture constantly wanting her to grab on harder, to move faster. The first night, she actually fell asleep that way – with her hand wrapped around the cock. It was still hard and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get any sensation from her limp hand. Eventually, her hand wasn’t the only limp thing.

The second night started out very much the same. Me, naked. Her, slowly massaging her possession. It was wonderfully maddening. However, this time, after a little while of the slow and gentle stuff, she started going a little faster and using more force. Before long, she was well and truly jacking me off and it was fucking awesome. All I could do was thank her again and again for the wonderful sensation. I didn’t think it was going anywhere in particular, but I started to feel the light tingling sensation that signaled an orgasm being to coalesce inside me.

I was about to say something about it when she said, “You can come, Thumper.”

Such beautiful words.

“I want to come,” I replied and pulled back all my internal barriers to orgasm.

She stroked and stroked and I laid there and reveled in the building release. In the moment just before I came, I tried to hold it back. Not because I didn’t want it or was trying to keep it from happening, but because I wanted to really feel it. I wanted that mind-blowing orgasmic energy to permeate my every cell. I felt like I was just hanging there, suspended in the pure light of release. I’m sure it was just an extra second or two, but the moment seemed to go on and on. Then I came, the clock started moving again, and I was spurting out all over her hand and my stomach. That familiar yet uncommon scent immediately washed over us in all it’s earthy, pungent glory. All I could do was lay there and whimper.

Then she wanted me locked up. My relationship with the device has become more complicated recently. She’s been leaving me out for longer periods and I come to enjoy my freedom. However, she was leaving the next morning and I’ve not exactly demonstrated a great deal of self-control lately. Putting it in place while the flaccid dick was still leaking its slippery fluid was harder than I thought it’d be. Now, two days later, I’m so, so over being locked up. This is actually pretty funny if you think about it. I can go weeks at a time and be somewhat disappointed to be let out but on the heels of an orgasm, two days seems like forever. I’ve obviously become somewhat spoiled of late.

She’s back on Friday and I’m not sure if she’ll let me out then or leave me in for a while. We have relatives coming to stay with us next week and while there’s no reason that should bear on her decision, I’d be surprised if she left me in while they were here.

So, there you go. While I collect myself and regenerate my desire to write, go read this recent post by Tom. Pure awesome. Also, I like this little post my Mykey because I can so relate.

Posted on

BLOG WARZ: Bring on the hurt!

Over on Devastating Yet Inconsequential, Dev replied to yesterday’s post with one of her own. In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say I knew beforehand that she was doing it. In fact, I encouraged her to write it. It wasn’t like she took it upon herself to lay into me and Belle and our hamhanded attempt at a scene or anything. I thought the points she raised were worth further exploration. In talking about it, though, I thought it would be fun to create some kind of blog war in which we post ever-escalating vitriol at one another if only to drive traffic up on our blogs. That’s me. Always marketing.

Needless to say, since I totally just spilled the beans, I chickened out.

In any event, I have to say I find myself in basic agreement with Dev’s four points of what we did wrong. I’ll just use this space to help provide some texture to our POV.

  1. I should have told Belle beforehand that I wasn’t up to being beaten – Yes. Of course. However, I’m a simple creature who really wanted to have a nice time being abused and common sense did not intervene. I hoped against hope that I’d be able to pull myself together and enjoy it once we got going, but that was obviously a bad idea.
  2. Springing the punishment angle on me was bad form – In retrospect, that’s obvious now. I do give Belle props for thinking outside the box and trying something that, on the surface, sounded like something I’d like. In her defense, I probably would have done it, too. We’re both still pretty new at this stuff. On the plus side, we did figure out the parameters around which she could punish me which I think is a positive development.
  3. I should have safe-worded – Again, yes. Totally. I didn’t because I was too proud. I have a hard time admitting she took me to a place that was more than I could handle. Next time, I’ll know better.
  4. She should have provided after care – I’ll chalk this one up to inexperience, too. Plus, I’m not sure she appreciated how really fucked up I was (see point number 1). Also, I think she was trying to maintain her end of the dynamic in an attempt to salvage the evening. I admit, it was all a disaster.

As I told Dev already, the important thing is we learned from this experience. Also, that we’ve become confident enough that we were able to get over it relatively quickly and didn’t instead dwell on our shared suckage for a week or two. Had this happened early on, it would have been devastating. Everyone, I assume, goes through this kind of shit as they learn to navigate the minefield of BDSM (at least, everyone who isn’t doing so with a grizzled veteran).

Let our screw-ups be your guide!

Posted on

Punishment and the reluctant rabbit

Lately, I’ve felt a little off. Off in the sense that, outside the bedroom, I haven’t felt overly submissive or the need to provide service to Belle Fille that I’ve enjoyed in the past. I have my theories (which we’ll get into), but it all came home to roost yesterday.

Belle was in one of her cyclonic home organization phases. I’m not sure she stopped for more than 15 minutes yesterday from doing something – cleaning and organizing the garage, laundry room, downstairs bathroom, her closet, etc. Typically, I’ve learned to just stay out of her way when she’s like this as there’s no way to get her to relax until she collapses at the end of the day. The end of the day when we had previously said (or rather, she had previously said) we need some “special time”.

“Special time” because we’ve settled into this rhythm with regard to sex. It’s pretty much exclusively about her while I’m left to stew after she falls asleep. I have nothing particularly against this type of encounter, but it’s all we’ve been doing lately. It’s what I call “passive” denial in that I get turned-on and such, but she’s not doing anything to enhance my arousal. When she deliberately does things to bring me into a high state of frothiness (jacking me off, letting me jack myself off, making me fuck her – all without orgasm), that’s “active” denial. I need that. Plus, I’ve been feeling the urge to get back to that wonderfully spacey place she took me last time she beat me. In fact, we sat together after lunch and calmly discussed which way she’d abuse me later in the day. Wooden spoon? Last time, she didn’t like that because it made too much noise. Spatula? Ditto. Flogger? So anyway, you can see the general outline of what I thought “special time” would be. Her slapping me around, making me all hard and drippy, then letting me get her off. Preferably, over the course of an hour or more. Nice, leisurely lovemaking (as we’ve been able to redefine it).

So problem number one with this great plan was that I went on a 13 mile bike ride yesterday. That’s not outrageously long, but it’s been a while since I went that far and I’m not in peak physical condition at the moment. By the end of the day, I was feeling tired and had developed a headache (probably from my allergies which suck donkey right now). By the time we were in bed and the kids were sleeping, etc., I wasn’t in the mood for a whippin’. I still wanted the other part of our “special time” very much, but just as easily I could have gone to sleep.

First lesson: I should have said something. I didn’t tell her how I felt. She instructed me to strip and brought out the flogger. Her, clothed, standing next to the bed and holding the flogger. Me, naked and laying on the bed, looking up at her. I knew I wasn’t really up for the hitting part, but the subspace brought on by our relative physical positions fought my urge to say something. As she started to whack at me, I found myself unable to stay still. I bounced around the bed, up on my knees, on all fours, laying down. She had to circle the bed to maintain a good vector on my ass. As she was hitting me, she berated me for my unacceptable service lately. She called me out on laundry I had fallen behind in and generally criticized my lack of focus on her. In between whacks, she said she had grown accustomed to my service and felt it should resume. So, as opposed to the way I had been beaten in the past, this time we were cloaking the event in the cover of a punishment. My discomfort grew. I thought this should have been hot to me, but in combination with my headache and overall tiredness and previous desire for a more loving encounter, it just made me feel worse.

Eventually, she ordered me to stay in one position. She sat down and fucking wailed on me a few times (at least, that’s how it felt – I’m not sure if she was hitting me hard or if my ability to take it was low). I kept getting up and she kept telling me to get down. I wanted to kiss her, but she wouldn’t let me. I told her I couldn’t take it anymore. She assumed it was part of the game and told me I could always safeword my way out. I did not want to do that. It wasn’t that she was hitting me harder than I could stand. It wasn’t physical pain I was struggling with. So she kept hitting me. Finally, I sat up and said I did not want to be hit anymore.

She realized something was amiss and asked me what was up. I told her I really couldn’t say, but I didn’t want to be hit. I worried that she’d assume it was something she did wrong and that she’d have a crisis of confidence, but she valiantly tried to maintain her end of the dynamic. She left the room momentarily and I curled up on the bed, desperate for some tenderness (aka, aftercare). She came back in, laid down, and I held onto her, but felt no sexual urges.

I can’t remember her exact words, but she accused me of only wanting to be hit when the manner in which it took place was one I was comfortable with. That’s a fairly sophisticated charge for her to throw at me. On the one hand, no, I don’t want to always be comfortable with the way she smacks me around. It’s entirely acceptable to make me uncomfortable. And no, I was not suggesting she should not be able to punish me. But, on the other hand, it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I thought she’d hit me in a loving way, not a punitive way. I wasn’t trying to top her from below. I hadn’t pulled the plug in a state of pique over not appreciating her set-up of the scene. Not at all. I just hadn’t been capable of doing it.

I’m not sure she bought it. After our short conversation, she told me to get the lotion. She wanted a foot massage. Fuck, I thought. I really wasn’t in the mood for this, either. All I wanted to do now was go to sleep.

Laboriously, I dragged myself from the bed, retrieved the lotion and a towel from the bathroom, and began massaging her feet. The minutes dragged on. She had fallen into a light sleep during the massage, and while I still felt very shitty, I was at least relieved that when I finally finished the evening seemed to be coming to an end. I went around the room and extinguished all the candles. Getting back into bed woke her up and she told me to come to her. I inched over. She said, “Come here,” and I inched a little closer and put my arm over her in the most noncommittal manner possible.

“I want you to be inside me,” she said. The thoughtfulness of that nearly brought me to tears.

“I don’t think I can,” I said. I felt 500 miles away from an erection, let alone mustering the energy to fuck her.

“OK,” she said.

Then we fell asleep. But not before I moved away from her and turned over to face the other direction.

—

This morning, we were able to have a conversation about it (or, that is, three conversations since the kids kept acting like they were deserving of our attention all morning).

With regard to the mysterious inability to feel the need to do things for her, I think we’ve pinned that on the whole “active vs. passive” denial thing. Since I’m out of the device, I’ve been fulfilling my desire for desire myself. I’ve been stroking myself and letting myself get right up against an orgasm before backing down. No, I haven’t technically had permission to do this, but I somehow talked myself into it being OK. In my head, I had this imagined conversation with her where I ask permission and she, since she doesn’t want to have to deal with my neediness, gives it to me. In my hormonal state, I managed to turn that imagined permission into implicit permission. In effect, I’ve been masturbating, though not to the point of orgasm. Regardless, since I’ve transmuted sexual release with sexual arousal, what I’ve been doing is exactly the same as a man who jacks off to orgasm in the bathroom when he gets horny. I’ve replaced her as my sole source of sexual satisfaction. I am, of course, explicitly forbidden to do this now and she will become more active in ensuring my sexual frustration in the future.

As far as the punishment thing goes, I told her I constantly crave ramifications. Lacking any consequences for my actions/inactions, their motivations sometimes start to lose their meaning. Even if I had kept on edging myself, there should have been something focusing me on my duties. So, while it felt wrong to me last night, I really want her to punish me when necessary. This isn’t necessarily a masochistic desire of mine. The part of me who wants to feel pain is not the same part of me who wants to transfer control to her. They’re kissing cousins, to be sure, but they come from different places in my fetid psyche. Acknowledging that she has the right to administer corporal punishment to me is all about power exchange. Hot, sexy power exchange.

She says she’s pretty sure I didn’t like being spanked by her last night and she exactly right. I didn’t like it. I felt like a little boy suffering the consequences of doing something he knew was wrong. It was embarrassing and emotional. Yeah, the pain stung and I was in entirely the wrong mindset to deal with it, but that’s the point. One is not punished when one decides it’s time. It happens when the punisher decides to do it. And it’s not always the case that the one being punished knows it coming. Yes, I want her to whip my ass when I’m not being a good boy.

And since I’m me, I could see it all in my head moments after talking about it with her. On some random weeknight when I least suspect it, she tells me to pull down my pants and bed over the side of the bed. She tells me she going to punish me for [fill in the transgression] by caning my ass [n] times. I will be still during the caning and will count out each strike right after it lands. If I move excessively or fail to count out the number quickly enough, she will add an additional number of strikes (her discretion, of course). After she’s done with me, I pull my pants back up, say to her those words that codify our power exchange, and go about our lives, my face is as red as my ass.

To that end, I went to Home Depot this morning and picked up a couple of those plastic rods that you use to open and close mini blinds (one for regular use and one in case she breaks the first over my ass). Whenever she feels I need to be reminded of the arrangement I asked for or need to be refocused on what she thinks in important, I hope she’ll use it on me. Maybe eventually we’ll buy a proper cane.

All this talking seemed to do the trick with me. While I had gone to bed and woke up absent any sexual desire whatsoever, by the time we got to talking about her right to administer corporal punishment, I had a health erection (shocking). As I write this, she’s in her bed taking a nap and I’d like nothing better than to go back there and go down on her until I feel the pulse of her rapture beneath my tongue. I was nowhere near that kind of feeling last night or this morning. I’ll assume that’s a good thing.