Even though it has only been about 9 months for us, I feel myself drifting ever closer to these same feelings. The other evening when she called me upstairs I found myself wanting to be out of the Steelheart but knew better to ask. I simply wanted to pleasure her…and that is what I got. I have stopped asking to get out.
And it made me have a thought about one of the primary differences between enforced chastity (in which a device is used) and the other kind (in which the man is restricted in how he enjoys his penis but is not in a device). This is just sort of a random thought that started out as a comment in reply to his but I decided to make a post out of.
I don’t claim that one way of doing chastity is better than the other. I’ve seen device-less types claim theirs is superior because being able to employ willpower over a physical restraint shows greater submission blah blah bullshit bullshit. They can think what they want. I simply prefer to say we all get to do things as we like to do them and there’s no one right way to approach anything of a sexual nature. As long as everyone’s on board and happy, you win.
But, it may be the case that those of us in enforced chastity are ending up (or may end up) in a very different place than our device-less comrades. For me over the time I’ve been locked up, I’ve learned to progressively demote the penis as a central actor in our sex. In doing so, I’ve been able to be more completely focused on her pleasure. If the penis is not a factor in our sex (and truly we can have amazing sex without the key ever showing up) then the focus of the sex and its outcome is purely about her getting off as spectacularly as possible. The further out of mind the penis is, the better to have sex that is as partner-centric as possible.
I know for myself, when the penis is out, everything changes. It’s an entirely different act for me, even if most of it is functionally the same. Emotionally and hormonally, my focus is divided. Belle let me out this morning and the entire time I had my fingers in her snatch and was kissing her mouth and nipples, I was thinking about what came after. I was imagining the penis in her. I was resisting the urge to climb up and take her before she was done. After she came, I basically did just that. She never told me I could, but I slowly moved in that direction until she guided the penis in with her hand. It was an amazing fuck for both of us, don’t get me wrong, and of course I didn’t come (URRRRGH) but since I was free and hard and she was naked and writhing the drive to be inside her was crowding away in my mind.
Again, I’m not making a judgement call. I’m making an observation. Having a locked up penis makes a man much more focused as a lover. Personally, that’s a satisfying state of being for me. If the goal of chastity is to create in the locked parter a state of focus, an effective way of doing that is to demote his penis to a secondary or even tertiary player. Take the piece off the board, so to speak. Nothing does that better than a tight tube keeping his hard-on in check.
Which pretty much sums up how it works most of the time. I can get to the point where I want to come so badly that I start at the second stage and only find my way to stage three about four hours later, but most days not. We can call them the three stages of denial.
But maybe there’s a fourth. See, Stage 1 there, “I hope she doesn’t let me come,” doesn’t even activate until she hands me the key to the Steelheart. It’s like the penis is a tiny Dr. Evil frozen away in its orbiting Bob’s Big Boy. Out of sight, out of mind. So really, the first question is whether the penis even gets out.
This morning, Belle didn’t let it out. It’s usually the case that the little Dr. Evil defrosts on Saturday mornings we’re not doing anything in particular. It gets let out, I get her off, then I stick it in, but she decided to leave it be today. On the one hand, I like getting out. A lot. More than I crave orgasm at any given moment, I crave sensation from the penis. Feeling her hand on it, feeling it hard and free, pressed against her, rubbing against her skin, sliding into her hot wetness. Just feeling. The Steelheart provides both no sensation in that when I touch it and grab it and claw at it all my hand feels is perfectly smooth, numb hardness that never changes but then, on the inside, it’s high pressure. Intense, consistent, unyielding resistance to my excitement. So yeah, having an erection that can be touched and feels good is something I look forward to.
But I also don’t think I deserve to be unlocked. Being locked is the default. Being unlocked is the exception. Not a treat or a reward or whatever. I hate it when I expect to be unlocked. I’d rather assume it’s not going to happen and be pleasantly surprised when it does than the opposite. Of course, when she wants it out, it should come out. It’s entirely up to her. I just don’t want her considering me and my cravings in that decision. I don’t want her to be nice to me just because.
So when I wrote that tweet last week, it was after we fucked and I didn’t get to come. Which, being solidly in Stage 3, was a relief. But when I was in her and sliding the penis in and out and losing myself to the amazing feeling of that the intensity of Stage 2 made me say to her how badly I wanted to come. I immediately felt bad for saying it. After, I apologized.
The thing is, there’s no reason for me to tell her. None. Because it doesn’t fucking matter. If I say anything about coming, one way or the other, I’m trying to influence her and that’s bullshit. Especially when the fucking penis is inside her at the time. If she wants me to, she’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Maybe I want to, maybe I don’t. Who cares. That’s the deal. I don’t come until I do and I don’t whine.
Maybe a part of me just wants her to know, “OMG, I’m so being denied right now!” but, of course, she knows that. But another part of me, the part that sits way down my brain stem and acts more than it thinks, is trying to put its finger on the scale of her decision. Maybe she’s considering it and by saying something it’ll cause her to lean towards letting it happen. I hate that part of me. That I can’t always keep it stifled. I’ve spent a long time learning how to keep it as far away as possible from the button that makes me come. Now I just need to learn to keep it from my mouth.
Orgasm denial and enforced chastity all boils down to managing conflicting urges and desires. I want to fuck you but don’t let me out, GAH coming would be awesome, I better not tell her. WHY DID YOU TELL HER!? Lock me back up, no keep me out, be nice to me, BE MEAN TO ME. Seriously, it’s stuff like this that makes me think being a top would be exhausting work. Subs are annoyingly complicated. We’re lucky anyone puts up with us.
I’m probably done going to the personal trainer I’ve been seeing for…man, almost four years. The reasons are several but can be boiled down thusly:
His motivation strategy basically involves a bunch of macho bullshit I can’t stand.
The routines have become repetitive and dull (mostly because it’s a decidedly average gym space).
I don’t feel like I’m being “trained.” More like I’m paying him to be my gym buddy (set up my weights, spot me, etc.).
Note that Belle sees him too and will continue to do so since while I’m over him she certainly isn’t and in fact would like him to be over her, literally (which is why he’s called her gym boyfriend at our house).
I’ve found another local gym with trainers and have an appointment with a younger hot one this afternoon to see how it works out. He’s a lot more expensive than the old guy, but there are more options at that gym like classes and what they call “supervised workouts” where someone just helps out with spotting and such so I might be able to craft a solution that is equal to or maybe even a little less than what I’m paying now.
The gym is only a year old and is really nice with all kinds of cool shit and no typical bullshit gym machines. It also has a proper locker room with a few showers. Since I’ll likely have a much less regular gym schedule than I have now, it’s probable that I’ll be getting there from work or whatever and won’t always be able to come in my gym clothes like I do now. Which means changing in the locker room and perhaps even needing to shower, depending on the time, and, of course, I have this extra interesting shiny tube where a guy’s dick usually is. I brought that all up to Belle last night and she was like, “Yeah? So?”
I mean, of course. Just like when I started going to see a trainer in the first place. She doesn’t want me to be out of the device. Ever. Not unless it’s on her terms. Going to the gym is not on her terms so I will apparently have no clemency in that regard. On the one hand, little fluttery butterflies of nervousness, but on the other, a tube-filling sense of security in that this is not a game this is us and I need to deal with it.
So I’ll deal with it. I’ll look for times that mean I don’t need to shower or can arrive changed and if that’s not possible I’ll figure out a way to change that minimizes the chances another guy will see it. I don’t want to flaunt the Steelheart. I don’t believe in that. But I am conceptually OK with someone seeing it (or evidence of it) inadvertently through just living my live. I don’t advertise but I’m also not going to be ashamed.
As I was laying in bed the other night looking for some quiet corner in my mind where I could curl up and fall asleep, I instead found an idea that led to me considering how I’d write about it and, no, that’s not conducive to quiet corner finding. This is not unusual. I start copy editing in my head when I should be activating my subconscious. Weird.
Anyway, the idea that presented itself at that inopportune time was that, perhaps ironically, a decent piece of my self-confidence and satisfaction with regards to relationship and sexual matters is tied up in feeling inferior. I know, that’s on the surface an odd thing to say. Self-confidence, satisfaction and inferiority don’t typically go along. It’s the kind of notion someone who doesn’t live in a power exchange dynamic or who isn’t submissive themselves wouldn’t understand. Like how S/M is abuse when it’s really an expression of love. The more I thought about it, the more “inferior” started to sound really sexy to me in a way I never considered before.
And when I say “inferior” I don’t necessarily mean in the sense of lower quality. I am, I think (and have been told), an excellent lover. I can make my partners pretty happy when I’m in the right mood to do so. I think mostly I’m thinking of the definition of the word that deals with rank and position. I don’t feel at all comfortable being in a position of power in a relationship. I have never really liked being pursued or fawned over. I want to be the one fawning and pursuing. This has been how I’ve felt my whole life, even before understanding my sexuality as I do today.
The one glaring issue with that statement is Belle. In the beginning, she pursued me pretty hard. Eventually, I came around. Had she been like the girls who wanted a piece of me prior to that, it may never have worked out, but she wasn’t. She was much more self-confident and accomplished and had a sense of individual purpose that was greater than whoever she was with. She didn’t need me and wasn’t interested in playing the traditional subservient female role. I came to realize that it was me that needed her, not the other way around.
The best dynamic for me is one where my partner is aware of my needs and desires and is willing to indulge them but only insofar as they fit into their needs and desires. It’s my job to make them happy and, in doing so, I’m happy, too. Of course I will always want more. That’s my role. To want. Plus, to see that they never want. If they go out of their way to satisfy my needs, it’s because they want to give that to me, not because they’re obligated to do it. You know, inferior.
During my recent issues with depression and anxiety, my submissive drive (if that’s a thing) kind of went out the window. I’ve become so used to it that I felt untethered. Without purpose, even. Now it’s back and revved up pretty good and, as I said in my last post, being back in that mode makes me feel comforted. Of course, it wasn’t always that way. I have struggled with being submissive as, I think, most men do (perhaps more men in F/M relationships than gay men). There are no role models for us. No cultural archetype to see our reflections in. This can still rear its head from time to time. I felt a few pangs of guilt over the weekend because Belle never signed up for a submissive husband. Never raised her hand to say she wanted to take on the role of dominant wife. But those are past now.
Thing is, I’m feeling really fucking submissive. There’s so much energy there right now. I crave opportunities to show that to her, but she just left this morning for a 10-day trip, so I guess the best I can do is hope I still feel this strongly when she gets back.
So I said my attraction to being inferior was more about position, but there’s one way it’s definitely not about rank and is about something concrete. I was shopping in the fantastic Smitten Kitten with Drew during his recent visit and picked up a Vixskin “Ride On” penis extender. The old Big Blue we used to use kinda melted when it came in contact with something it didn’t agree with so we’re currently between big dicks that can be used absent a harness. “Ride On” is not a sexy name so instead we’re calling it Gym Boyfriend in honor of our personal trainer who Belle’s had the hots for for some time now.
Gym Boyfriend is perhaps a tad longer than Belle would like (she’s really more interested in girth, not length), but it’s not crazy big at 6.25″ in length. It may not be too long but it definitely hits places she’s not accustomed to feeling. The cavity into which the penis goes is really snug. Only 4″ deep and not more than 2/3 the thickness of the penis. It has ridges inside that suggest an enhanced experience for the fucker, but I didn’t feel much as the erection pushed it out and forward. That made the base of the shaft nice and thick, but the forward extension was pretty well kept to a minimum (though it was possibly a bit longer than 6.25″ as a result). It was not unlike the feeling of being in a chastity device while trying to get hard. Just a lot of pressure and no real sensation (at least, not the kind that would get a guy off). You’d have to have a pretty tiny penis to get a pleasurable experience from this, I think.
As if.
Like other items of this kind, the testicles go through a loop and that keeps the whole thing on. The material isn’t nearly as stretchy as Big Blue’s was and popping my nuts through was a more intense experience than I was expecting. My balls have gotten bigger over the years of not being involved in very many ejaculations and that was likely a contributing factor to my difficulties.
Typically, Belle would want to fuck me from up top while wearing an extender since then she gets to control depth and speed and all that, but recently she’s been wanting to be fucked as hard as I can (which isn’t very hard, both because the penis isn’t super big and my stamina is nearly non-existant when she’s making a lot of noise and getting off) so I was on top and in the driver’s seat. I was hesitant to really go to town, but I sensed she wanted to be fucked, so I just stuck it in and went at it (after the application of some high-quality water-based lube). I fucked her like someone who isn’t on a hair trigger would. Someone who was trying to really take a woman. I let her get used to the length, but after several thrusts I could feel my balls hitting her ass. That’s an extra inch of length compared to me and easily twice as thick and she loved it. Vocally.
It’s a difficult thing to describe, how that makes me feel. On the one hand, I wish that could be me. I wish the penis was that big and more in line with the dimensions she seems to enjoy so much. But it’s not and never will be. There is a bit of pain there. A bit of feeling inadequate. Inferior using the other definition. And somehow, the pain of such permanent inadequacy transmutes to a feeling of intense…I don’t know. Not happiness. Not pleasure. It does hurt, but I like how it hurts. I like hearing how much better she enjoys being plowed by a more impressive cock. It’s a kind of masochism that’s all in the head and heart.
And of course, there is nothing quite as hot as slipping the unsheathed penis into her afterward. Feeling how open she is. Feeling how parts of her pussy have been pushed out of reach for me. No matter how hard I fuck her or how deeply I try to penetrate, there’s no denying I can’t compete. And I can actually feel that all around me. And then I hear her say she can barely feel me back. Powerful stuff.
This idea of being physically inferior in this one specific way while being so good at all the other things you want from a lover feels almost like my perfect state of being. Perhaps in that it’s a kind of inferiority that can’t be taken away from me. Dynamics can change. Penis size can’t. I try to explain this to Belle. That seeing and feeling and hearing how much she likes the big cock is exactly what I want because it’s what she wants. As much as it all goes counter to the prevailing cultural paradigm, it totally works. I don’t want her to hold back for fear of hurting my feelings. Yes, they will be hurt. But in the same way I like having my nipples hurt, I like this hurt, too.
I was able to fuck her for a long time with just the penis. I only got close to coming once or twice and never so much that I had to actually stop. But after a while, she told me I had to because the Gym Boyfriend’s big dick had really worked her over. That was hot, too, in its own way.
I’ve asked Belle that I be made to wait for my next orgasm. Of course, she’s in complete control of that and I will come if she tells me to at any time, so it was really nothing more than a request. I think it will be good for me to let that wait. To get to the point where it’s something I want. And hopefully, if it’s good for me, it’s good for her. Because what’s good for her is the most important thing. Always.
I recently read a news item about a guy with no penis giving great sex advice on Reddit. It may or may not be true because, you know, the internet but what he’s saying sounds real to me, a person who still has a penis but rarely if ever uses it to pleasure his partners.
Belle used to prefer achieving orgasm from being fucked. She needed to be on top controlling angle of penetration, depth, speed, etc., while I concentrated on her nipples. Most women, from what I understand, actually can’t come this way. They need clitoral stimulation instead of or in addition to penetration, but it was how Belle got off. That was then. Now, thanks to the fact that I often have a difficult time keeping my own orgasm at bay long enough for her to get there and, more often than not, I’m locked up, we’ve resorted to fingers and lips and tongues to get the job done. The other day, we tried the old way and she just couldn’t get off. My denial and chastity has retrained her pussy to like it better when the penis isn’t inside her.
This weekend was a good example of how things work now. Saturday she asked if I’d go down on her which I always find funny because, YES, I am always down to go down if that’s what she wants. I’d do it fucking daily if she’d let me. I like nothing more than when she sits on my face and grinds away on my mouth to her heart’s (or whatever’s) delight. It’s been a while since I was able to really tuck in so, once she was sated, I nuzzled into her pussy and savored everything about it. She let me fuck her after and she was incredibly wet and open, almost as though she had already fucked someone else.
The next morning, she was taking a while to get off from my fingers and then the vibrator. She tends to get self-conscious when this happens though I told her I didn’t care how long it took. Getting her off is my sex. I crave it. Her moaning and squirming and the feel of her wet pussy and her hard nipples in my mouth. I’m wired to enjoy her enjoyment. So as long she’s liking what I’m doing, I’m happy to do it forever. After a bit, she did come and it was one of those orgasms that starts low and slow and builds to explosion.
So yeah, you can have amazing sex without a penis. I’ve had the best sex of my life keeping the one I was born with locked in a steel tube. Penises may be designed for one thing, but that thing can be had in so many other ways if you’re willing to try and find them.
So you might think this is all well and good and boy haven’t Thumper and Belle found the Promised Land. At times, I think that’s right, but the issues I’ve been having with my stupid brain lately have left me feeling not so confident. As I’ve written about recently, the darned dent has, at times, become a very large issue for me. Depression and anxiety are not logical things so there’s no need to unravel the illogic of how this has left me feeling at times, but something what is at worst a cosmetic issue has sort of driven a spike down into the heart of what I consider a key element of my sexuality. It makes me question the last seven years of my life and the kind of sex I like and who I think I am. That’s scary stuff.
To be clear, there is nothing functionally wrong with me. The penis works exactly as it always has, it just feels and looks a little different. Why, if denial and chastity have given me such real contentment, should this be a problem? When I’m feeling good I convince myself it’s not a problem. But I’m not always feeling good.
Chastity and denial are just as much a commitment to Belle as my marriage vows were so it’s fitting that the two pieces of metal I wear as a result of both should leave me similarly marked. I feel just as weird when either of them are absent. I can’t imagine what life would be like without them and have no intention of finding out.
The dent on my finger doesn’t matter since the ring that made it is nearly always covering it up. The dent on the penis is only apparent when Belle wants it to be. And in those times, it’s a reminder to us both of how my commitment to her has left me altered, inside and out.
I am surprised to find myself bothered by the dent at all. I used to think I had moved on from being so centered on the penis. To really accepting that I am not the kind of man who measures his worth by the length of thing between his legs. In fact, I’m not really the kind of man who thinks his penis is all that important. It is not central to my sexuality. If anything, its absence is. It’s not critical to my sexual pleasure. Or Belle’s. I’ve become so used to it being a deadened, weighty, shiny steel tube that only feels pressure when I get turned on or the occasional pinch from inside. The Steelheart is a really significant part of who I am. Of who I imagine myself to be. I am it and it is me. I suppose it’s no surprise that to have all that challenged would freak me out. It’s why I didn’t want to be locked up when Belle was gone a few weeks ago. It’s why I was not enthusiastic in putting it back on yesterday morning.
I’ve been writing this blog for seven years yesterday. Seven years discovering and learning about who I am. About how I’m different. I hate that these feelings have put that on a shaky table. I will never be normal again, but I wasn’t ever normal before. Not for a single day of my life. I am how I should be, dent and all.
Over on the Twitter, a friend asked me the following (slightly edited) via direct message:
In many posts you often describe Belle as sniggering or finding your struggle amusing (or trivial?) What I feel like I know of the relationship you have an incredibly loving bond. My question: is her resolve so clear that your whimpers just don’t faze her (kind of impressive?) or is there a sympathy or empathy there that we don’t hear much of? My hardwired vanilla sensitivities battle my “you know what the game is” sensibilities.
Belle has her own “hardwired vanilla sensibilities” and as much as I’ve grown in our dynamic and learned what it means to truly submit and let go of my control over our sexual relationship, she’s learned how to tailor her actions and attitude. Is she sympathetic? Empathetic? Probably. Does she find my struggles amusing? Definitely. I know there was a time when her conditioned “vanilla” response would kick in and she’d feel guilty about what I was going through. We’re way past that now. She doesn’t have a guilty fibre in her being over what she puts me through. If so, she does a good job hiding it.
Our dynamic is like that of a sadist and a masochist. To an outsider, the things the sadist does to their partner the masochist can seem truly awful. Abusive. But the masochist’s wiring is such that the pathways that carry pain and pleasure are mixed and crossover so what would be abuse in one setting is actually an expression of love. Of giving one partner what they need to feel fulfilled. If they’re a true sadist, they get the same kind of pleasure from inflicting the pain. So it’s a symbiotic kind of thing.
Belle’s no sadist. At least, not a physical one. She has developed a mean sadistic streak regarding my denial and chastity. Part of that is based in the knowledge that it feeds my masochistic needs. Part is that she knows there’s a tangible benefit to her by keeping me denied. A little part of her actually likes making me suffer.
So as much as this weekend hurt and caused me mental pain, inflicting it on me (and continuing to do so) is, in my estimation, a demonstration of her love for me. And enduring the pain is part of my demonstration of love for her. Yes, I desperately wanted to come. More than I have in a really long time. But after the moment was over, what I wanted and continue to want more is for her not to factor my desires into the algebra of her dominance over me. When I come again, I want it to be completely on her terms and only as a result of her needs and desires.
The longer I wait, the more it pains me and the desire gnaws at me, the more I’m demonstrating my love to her and, I know, by making me go through it, she’s demonstrating her’s back.
Belle doesn’t like it when I think about how long it’s been since I last came. She doesn’t care for record keeping or counting days or recognizing feats of endurance or anything like that. I come when she wants me to, period. When did I last come? When she wanted me to.
But I have it bad today. Real bad. She let me fuck her this morning after she came and it felt incredible and I really enjoyed it and once again totally psyched myself into thinking she was going to let me go all the way. I got close and slowed down and thought, sure, she’s just dragging it out. Enjoying it. So I let the orgasm retreat and I shifted position and kept my breathing steady before picking up the pace again. Oh my GOD it was wonderful and I was very grateful she was making me wait because it was so much better and I felt myself closing in on it again but she wasn’t saying anything so I again did what I had to do to let it fall back. When I resumed, it was at a pace that would culminate with orgasm. This time she’d let me and it would be amazing and my head would explode and I’d shoot a ton so she’d overflow with it and FUCK it was going to be the best thing ever and wow it wasn’t taking long before I felt like I was getting close again.
I looked at her as I fucked her. She looked back.
“What?” she asked.
Oh, FUCKING HELL.
“OK, time to stop, Thumpie.”
A palpable sense of loss flooded up. I wasn’t going to come and it pained me to know it. I was seriously on the verge of tears. I wanted it so badly. It was right there. So close, but still behind her iron gate. Not going to happen. If she had said I could, it would only take two and half thrusts to get there. But she wasn’t going to say it and all I could do was collapse into her neck and feel the lizard coil up hard inside me, bitter with disappointment that flowered after being planted in a fertile expectation to which it had no right.
I made a small, defeated noise. She thought it was funny. She sniggered. I whimpered.
And now I’m sitting here typing and still wishing I could come. I still feel the need and it’s distracting and consuming and driving me crazy. I read back on the blog and found the last real orgasm I had even though she doesn’t like me to think about it. July 7th. So we’re just over two months. Record is nine. She wouldn’t think two is that much. That I could do more. Also, stop counting. Stop thinking about it. You come when I want you to. That last time you came was when I wanted you to and the next time will be when I want you to. When will that be? Stop thinking about it.
If I was locked up right now, I don’t think I’d be worrying about it as much. The physical presence of the steel restrains me physically as well as psychically. If I were locked up, it’d free me to think about other things. Oh, I’d still think about wanting to come, but it’d allow room for other things to sneak in. But being free means I’m consumed by my desire. It pushes everything else out.
I need to be locked up. Right now. But Belle’s not here and I’m not feeling like I have the willpower to do it myself. God, I want to come so bad. I crave it like nothing else. But I don’t need to come. It’s probably best if I don’t. And I clearly don’t deserve it.
She didn’t even consider that I wasn’t secured until I mentioned it.
We were at a tequila bar near Faneuil Hall when we talked about it. We had several hours before we needed to be at the airport so we had some drinks there and then wandered over to the North End to seek out some Italian food. Found a really nice little hole in the wall place on a narrow little street where everything, from the bottle of wine to the Ceasar dressing to the amazing entrees, was far above average. Then…
In other news, Belle has stated she wouldn’t take issue with me playing with a Domme as long as there was no PIV.
Thing is, Belle just doesn’t get off on being actively dominant. Tying me up and inflicting pain, etc., doesn’t do much for her, but she knows it does a lot for me. Way back at the start of all this openness, her original suggestion was I find a Domme to give me those things, so this isn’t really a new position for her. More of a completion of a circle.
For a while, I wasn’t sure I could be with another woman like that but I think now that the experience I’ve had with Drew has allowed me to better understand how one would approach it. The way expectations and limits need to be clearly established beforehand and how best to compartmentalize the different relationships. A year ago, I might have been too tentative to approach something like that with a woman. Today, I would.
However, I find it difficult enough as it is juggling work, home, hobbies, and just the one extracurricular player. Now there’s the potential of a second (hopefully, more than potential) and the prospect of opening up to a whole other gender. How in the world will I find the time for all this hot sex? Maybe if Belle got a promotion and I could be a stay at home housesub who whiles away the day going to the gym, getting tied up, whipped and fucked, then coming home to fold laundry and make dinner. But that’s not the life I have. Not unlike when we first opened our relationship, I suspect this new expansion will be more a potential than a reality for the foreseeable future.
Towards the end of our meal as the waiter was pushing their cannoli and tiramisu (we declined), another party came in and sat opposite us. One of them was a guy who may have been a football player at one point in his life. He had to be six and a half feet tall and had big arms. Belle noted this to me and posited that he may have other attributes, as well. She mouthed to me her suspicions over her glass of wine.
Aaand now she’s pointing out men in the restaurant who she thinks probably have bigger cocks than her husband. #happysigh
Belle and I got to go out to breakfast by ourselves this morning. The kids were both still sleeping like the dead/teenage years so off we went with the New York Times to a little French place in Uptown.
Prior to that, we had been laying in bed wrapped around one another and being groggy and wonderfully Saturdayish. I was pretty hard up and she just started her period so my prospects weren’t very good, but did I mention how hard up I was? Normally, the Steelheart would have been biting hard, but I’ve been wearing it with its original 45mm ring which is too big to bite (though, on the downside, when also worn with my 4ga PA ring, it’s not unlike a cowbell hung around my balls). My pathetic whimpering caused her to asked what I wanted.
Ooo, what I wanted. I wanted to jack off. I really did. I wanted to get the Steelheart off and jack off in front of her until I almost came, then stop letting the ejaculate splurt weakly out of the hard penis in a ruined orgasm. That’s what I wanted. But I felt bad saying it.
“I want to jack off.”
Ugh. OK, I guess I can live with feeling bad.
“There’s no chance that’s going to happen.”
“OK. Sorry.”
More snuggling, more attempted hard-on, more smelling her hair.
“I could jack you off,” I said helpfully. Sure, she was on her period, but I knew my way around that snatch and could get plenty done regardless.
“You’ll have go close the door.” So, you know what happened next. God, I love feeling her come. I love her hard nipples in my mouth and my finger on her clit and my face in her neck when it’s all over and she’s basking. And, as usual, as soon as it was over, I felt the penis start to lose its pressurization. Stupid fucking penis. Then she left me to stew.
So yeah, anyway, off to breakfast. When the food came, she asked me about my impending trip with Drew to visit Steelwerks in Montreal. She was asking about the hotel and looked it up on her phone to see where it was. We talked about what would happen there and then segued into chitchat about another dominant male who reached out to me via Facebook and what I thought of that. You know, what every other married couple talks about over breakfast. If I started to clam up, she prodded me to say more making sure I was aware she was perfectly comfortable talking about such things (yes, that’s for you, reader who assumes I’m still dragging Belle by her hair into my depravity).
The travel security has been figured out. I’ll go to the airport unlocked and take the Steelheart through the TSA checkpoint and put it on as soon as I’m on the other side. It’ll stay on until we’re either on our way to the airport again or we’re there and heading toward security. While visiting Steelwerks, I’m going to get measured for a device though we have no immediate plans to get one. Figure I might as well not waste the opportunity. The trip there is really for Drew and Axel and their needs, not me and Belle.
Even though it’ll be fascinating seeing the Steelwerks production facility and getting a behind the scenes view of where easily the most beautifully handcrafted chastity devices are made, I’m still struggling with my issues of separation anxiety. I know the trip will be fun and interesting, but I get anxious thinking about it and feel the need to cleave to her all the harder. I was feeling it last time I left her for a week, but she let me come the morning I was leaving and, like magic, 84% of the anxiety fell away. It’s clearly hormonal. I can rationalize it all I want but I can’t stop feeling it. Can’t stop the fluttery insecurity that builds in my chest when I think of being away from her. I think a big part of my sleeping issues lately have been because of this (not just the trip with Drew, but another week-long venture later in the month).
I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to come. Not really at all. Yes, of course, I have a huge urge to orgasm, but that’s not the same thing. Belle thinks I should see someone. Not sure what I’d say. “Yeah, my wife controls my orgasm and hardly ever lets me have them so I’m unnaturally attached to her…that’s OK, right?”
I’ve been struggling with sleep for the past few days. A bought of denial-induced insomnia.
“How?”
“By letting you give me an orgasm.”
Unf. “I don’t think that’ll help me sleep.”
“What would?”
“You letting me come.”
Snort. “That’s not going to happen.”
Whimper.
“You don’t want to come anyway.”
Whine.
“Say it. ‘Belle Fille, I don’t want you to let me come.'”
Whimper again. Squirm.
“SAY IT.”
Quietly, “I don’t want to you to let me come, Belle Fille.” It was truth, but being forced to say it was like a high heel grinding my inner sub into a tight, hard corner. The kind of space where it’s most content.
“Of course you don’t. You want to get me off and then, because my orgasm is your orgasm, you’ll get sleepy after and fall asleep.”
I had my doubts. Especially when she started talking about her “boyfriend” and how he’d never say anything like that to her. That he and his big cock always came. All I could do was whimper into her nipple as she said these things and I fingered her clit and thought about this mythical alpha male who’d likely laugh at the locked penis and the way she kept me.
“I’m going to make you work for this one, Thumpie. I’m going to enjoy myself.”
URRRRRGH.
It did take a while. She got wetter and I kept sucking and fingering but I never felt her start to get close. Eventually, she took over her own tits and was tweaking and twisting her nipples while I watched and kept my finger on her snatch, rubbing and flicking and penetrating in all the ways I know, through hours and hours of practice like a musician knows his instrument, she liked best. Even that wasn’t enough for her and she got her vibrator and gave it to me but quickly took it back leaving me nothing more than a spectator to her self-pleasuring.
She came, slowly and deeply, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel her pussy clench against my fingers or her back arch or any of the waves of ecstasy that go with her orgasm. I didn’t share it. I heard it and saw it, but I didn’t know it like I usually do. It didn’t go through me. I was just the fluffler that got her into position.
Of course, I don’t begrudge her anything. We have sex so she can come, always, and however she wants. We never have sex so I can come. Whatever we do, if it’s what she wanted, is what we should have done and I don’t have a right to take issue with any of it. She’s right that even though I may crave my own orgasm I never want her to give it to me. I don’t need any orgasms. I only get them when she wants to feel me come in her. Even that can feel more about her than me.
She was left drained by her effort and its successful culmination and I was left pretty much as I was before. Tired but not sleepy and now that much more wired and trying to push images of her and another man out of my mind. She fell asleep quickly and I tried but couldn’t connect with it. I kept thinking and tossing and feeling separation angst (I have some trips coming up) all the while trying to keep sexual images and thoughts as far away as possible.
At about 11:30, I got up and took the last Tylenol PM in the house. I don’t like taking it but I could feel the kind of panic in me that usually unspools into zero hours of sleep. Then I went in the living room and read more of the book I’m getting through. By 12:30, the pill was taking over and I was yawning. I sent back to the bedroom, stripped, crawled in next to her, and tried to get on the road to Sleepytown.
