Tag: FLR

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Nurturing my nature

Today, I’m feeling it. More than usual, lately. That sort of random and free-floating non-orgasmic anxiety that results from extended denial. I keep thinking about the penis. Keep having flashes of needy images. It out and hard in my hand. Stroking. Just jacking it. Sometimes while being fucked. A lot of non-specific erotic explosions at random moments.

The rule of Belle’s that I don’t play with it unless she tells me I can doesn’t much matter recently since I only get out of the device at those times she wants to fuck me. Typically, I get out the night before and am back in before noon the next day. I don’t have any opportunity to obey or cheat. I might be out four or five days in a month. So it’s a moot point. This morning, though, I expect I would have cheated. I have the need to feel a hard penis and milk it. To lick up my own ejaculate and feel it silky smooth over my tongue. I feel the need for some me-time. The time I don’t get anymore.

I am not complaining. Instead of getting to feel the pleasure of jacking off, she allows me to enjoy the feeling of being in her pussy. That’s the only penis-centric action she’ll let me have. In a weird and unexpected way, it’s frustrating because she’s taken away the way all men first realize what sexual pleasure can be. All men masturbate (those who can, anyway). The popular culture will tell you it’s a poor substitute for fucking someone, but in fact, a lot of the time masturbation is done only for the joy of masturbation. I can’t even remember the last time I masturbated like that. I think it was right after she let me fuck her and then allowed me to ruin an orgasm for the sake of my prostate. So, she was right there. Since then, though, only her pussy. Intentionally or not, she’s ratcheted up my already well-developed dependance on her for pleasure.

She’s nurturing my nature.

By nature, I’m all about sexual service. I want her to have pleasure above mine at all times. Even before we initiated the D/s overlay to our relationship, I always wanted her to come first. I’m obsessed with her pleasure. Big Blue is, to me, a natural extension (so to speak) of that desire. In any event, I’m wired to please before anything else. The denial and the chastity and the rest have all reinforced and extended that inclination. The other night, right after she got off on Blue so well, she told me I could fuck her. But, even though I had been hard as a fucking rock before Blue, I couldn’t get it up after. Not because I didn’t want her. I did. But we had been to a nice dinner before coming home for sex and I knew that, had I been on top fucking her, she would have been uncomfortable. I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I’d roll off and she’d play with the penis and I’d kiss her face and hold her head in my hand and the penis would start to stiffen but as soon as I got between her legs, it’d go flat again.

It even extends to why I like to fuck her. Of course, for all the obvious reasons, but also because I know she likes to be fucked. I know she likes to feel me on her and pumping into her. She like to feel my ass muscles flexing and my moderately hard and muscular arms wrapped around her, holding her close and tight. Basically, she get’s off on the feeling of a big man having his way with her. So, in my mind, half the reason I fuck her is because it feels good to me and the other half is because it feels good to her. That thought never leaves my mind. It can’t because if it does and I get too much into the part I feel I’m playing and I’ll lose control over my ability to stop the orgasm that invariably wants to manifest.

What I’m saying is, I don’t know that I’ve ever fucked anyone in my life for my own sake. Not once that I can recall. I’ve never used anyone as a hole for me to put the penis in. That’s just my inclination. I have been used as a hole more than once, but even then, I don’t have residual bad feelings about those times. To a certain extent, sex has always been about service to me. Now more than ever.

It’s even extended to a rewiring of my autonomic orgasmic responses. When I’m locked up and she comes, I start to feel the effects of the post-orgasmic refractory period. She comes, I feel sleepy and laconic. If I had an erection, it goes away. Rarely am I so turned on that this doesn’t happen. If I’m not locked up and she lets me fuck her, the quasi-refactory period starts after she tells me it’s time to stop. Often, I can feel that it’s time to stop before she tells me. Even when I’m still in her and having a good time, I can feel the penis start to lose pressure.

I even feel as if I know her orgasm as well as I ever knew mine. Sunday morning, after the night with Blue, I did as I usually do and tried to get her off before she was going to let me have a do-over from the night before. I could tell that it wasn’t going well. She asked for Pink and I, shortly after turning the little vibe on, knew it wasn’t going to work. I can just feel it. Like I’m tapped into her pleasure centers somehow. Enough to know that her orgasm wasn’t a lost cause so that I went back in with my fingers and got her off in matter of just a few seconds. I knew where and how to touch her. I knew that it would work.

I know I’m rambling.

I think about chastity and denial and how I sometimes wonder why everybody doesn’t live this way and why it’s good for some but not others and how sometimes, like with us, it goes really fucking deep and ends up with me never wanting to be allowed to come, forever wanting to come. Sexuality is such a crazy thing. So complicated. Infinitely complicated. Trying to interpret it is like trying to identify the individual pieces of glass while looking through a kaleidoscope. Seems to me that, when it comes to successfully using chastity and denial in a relationship as we have, it would be helped if at least one of the partners thought as I do. Pleasure is a service. Theirs should be a priority over your own.

You have to start somewhere.

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The end (and the beginning)

The other night, in the middle of the night, I was seriously fucking horny. Like, the kind of horny that wakes you up. I kept finding my hands on Belle and putting them under her bed clothes and generally getting all worked up by feeling the hot, smooth skin up and down her ass and up her back and all that. I’d fall asleep for a bit, wake up and do it again, the tube would get all full, then I’d fall back asleep.

Next day (yesterday, actually) I asked her if I was bugging her when I did that. I didn’t want to bug her but honestly couldn’t stop myself in that half asleep horned up state without her coming out and telling me to stop. No, I wasn’t bugging her, she said. She kind of liked it.

Not sure what we talked about then, but I mentioned something to the effect that if I ever did bug her too much, she could always just let me come and I’d be manageable for a little while. She scoffed at that saying I’d also get all moody and pissy and grumpy and she preferred the hot and horny version of me over that. She keeps saying that I was a pill after she made me come over July 4th, but I still think I was pretty OK with it. Whatever.

That led me to asking something about when my next orgasm was going to be because if there’s one thing a guy in denial likes to talk about it’s his denial. We’re all over that shit. A few other things were bandied back and forth before she just came out and told me something she’d already decided.

I wasn’t going to come again.

She won’t go so far as to say “never” because that’s a long time. Suffice it to say she has no plans whatsoever to let me come and is inclined to leave me in my current state indefinitely. As far as thinking about orgasms or wondering when they might happen or whatever, I might as well stop because they’re not on the table. They’re not next to the table or under the table. They’re not in the room with the table or in the house with the room with the table in it.

Of course (OF COURSE) as soon as that sunk in (while I was hugging her and kissing her neck and generally feeling very submissive and lucky, etc.) a little part of me suggested I remember what an orgasm felt like. I tend not to think about that, but now, for some reason, it seemed OK. So I did. I thought about the mental fireworks and the wave of release and the euphoric afterglow and…how I would not be feeling that again. At least not intentionally. At least not for a really long time.

I remember back when we first started at this and my denial periods could be easily counted in hours and reading about guys who were permanently denied orgasms and how I thought, OH JESUS FUCK WHO WANTS THAT!? It was both scary but, I should have known, terribly stimulative. But here we are. I have no problem admitting I’ve wanted this. I think it’s the next logical extension of the path we’ve been on.

Some might wonder what the point is of living a permanently denied life. Some might think that taking the orgasm out of the equation might somehow alter the outcome such that its no longer appealing. Basically, some guys, even denied and locked-up ones, might still like the idea of occasionally coming (or, at least, the promise of it). I get that. That’s not me.

I’ve changed a lot. I’ve stopped directing my desire for sex at Belle as if its something she owes me. I still want it, yeah, I and still feel OK making her know I do, but I don’t feel compelled to push her on it and don’t feel in any way slighted if she doesn’t produce. Not like I used to. I’ve written on this recently so I don’t need to dwell, but at some point, I feel like I passed the “me” phase of sex. Now it’s minimally “us” and, more often, “her.” And to me, that’s what’s natural and right. Orgasms change how I feel about that. They short circuit it. I don’t want to come because when I do it fucks with how I like my brain chemistry to be.

I guess what I’m saying is I’ve willingly traded in my ability to orgasm so that I’m left in this constant state of needing and wanting and totally subsuming my needs to her will. For some people, that might sound scary or even unhealthy. It is, for me, the most total and comforting and satisfying submission I can imagine. We have sex when she wants. Period, end of story. How she wants. Period, end of story. The only release and climax I get is whatever I can sap off of her when she comes. I don’t come because doing so upsets the balance we both prefer.

I’m not concerned about the health implications. I ejaculate plenty. At least if “plenty” can be defined as “every week or two when she lets me inside her and the penis leaks semen right after I get close to coming.” It’s kind of like milking, really. Or ruined orgasms. I get myself up to the edge and then stop and it comes out. Lots of it. Prostate problem solved.

Now that we’re here, I’m going to try and change my behavior a bit.

  1. I will never ever ask Belle if I can come. Not once. This is the bed I wanted and I’ll have to lie in it.
  2. I will never ever tell her I want to come, even if I do. She already knows me well enough to know when I’m feeling that way. She can assume that if I’m fucking her, I will be feeling an intense desire to come in her.

I don’t know why I feel it’s important to do these things. Maybe it’s because she’s made this decision and I need to show that I respect it and will live by it. Maybe it’s because in the past I may have sent mixed messages and I don’t want her to feel even a microscopic iota of guilt or doubt. Maybe it’s to show that I’m ready to live like this, fully and completely. It almost feels like a new commitment between us. A new level of marriage or something. As marriage is an outcome of dating, this new commitment is an outcome of our several year experiment with denial. The next stage of the journey is starting.

So, you know, NO, I’m not going to say this is the route everyone should take. But I’m very happy she’s decided this is our route. I’ll follow her right along it until she decides to take us in another direction.

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Winces, ointments, and fantasies

“I love that sound.”

That’s what Belle said after she gave me the key to the Steelheart and, as I was removing it, I made wincing grunty noises as each of my swollen balls popped through the device’s A-ring. She loves the sound of my balls being released because it means she’s going to have some fun with the penis.

But I wasn’t. Following our previous experiments with lidocaine lotion, reader nagadikandang related their experience with a similar product called Tattoo Soothe. It comes in two varieties, but the one I got is 5% Lidocaine, 20% benzocaine and 5% tetrazine. It’s pretty damned expensive. Fifteen grams of the stuff costs about $30 on Amazon.

However, the additional ingredients seem to make it more potent than lidocaine all by itself. The consistency of Tattoo Sooth is thicker and stickier than the lotions I’ve used in the past. It doesn’t go on as easily and is a little more difficult to wipe off. I applied it, rolled a condom over everything to ensure it didn’t dry out, and waited exactly 15 minutes before removing it. I was totally and completely deadened. I felt nothing. While I used to think lidocaine left me totally numb, if it’s possible, Tattoo Sooth left me feeling even more than totally numb. Like there was a sensation vacuum left at the end of the penis.

That may have been too much of a good thing. I couldn’t get hard enough to penetrate Belle so she could get off. That’s the bad news. The good news is she was a chatty little thing that night.

“Have I ever told you that I sometimes fantasize that you’re a girl? A girl with a cock.”

N-o. Nope. Never told me that. Definitely would have remembered hearing that before.

“Ever had a three way?”

Once, but it didn’t work out.

“Two girls?”

No, one girl and another guy.

“What if we had a three way with another girl?”

Oh, yeah, I’m there.

“What do you imagine that would be like?”

You’d be riding the numbed penis while she sat on my face and the two of you kissed and played with each other’s tits.

“Purrr…”

Then we talked about the flirty policeman.

“I imagined that I took him into one of those below-street brownstone entrances, under the stairs, and fucked him right there…”

Ung. Yeah?

“His cock was so thick and fat I had a hard time getting it in…”

The one and only deficiency she’s admitted to feeling about the penis is its relative lack of girthiness. She doesn’t like them long, but she likes them hefty. I’m not hefty, but the imaginary policeman lover was.

At one point, she demonstrated on me how she sucked the cop’s cock, but of course, I couldn’t feel it in the parts that mattered. I could feel the warmth of her mouth and the softness of her lips, but only at the base of the shaft where it did me no good.

It’s interesting to me that in her fantasy encounter with the cop, she was clearly dominant. In my fantasy, he was, but she told it to me as if she was the aggressor and controller of the encounter.

As I said, I couldn’t get hard enough to let her fuck me (which could have just as easily been a little bit of stress I was feeling regarding how long the numbing agent would last), so she sat on top of me and ground her pussy against whatever condition the penis was in. I didn’t know because I could feel nothing. But she did come.

Afterward, she told me I could fuck her. And I did, after a good deal of coaxing, but I felt almost nothing. Just enough to get hard from the activity, but not nearly enough to ever come from it. Not even close.

As I fucked her, I told her how I wished my orgasm was something physical I could actually give her. Take it out of my body and place it in her hand. I saw it as a small red gem glowing steadily. I told her how I dreamed of watching her close her fist around it and squeezing it until it shattered and its dark pieces fell out onto the floor. Extinguished. How that would leave me with an hollow place that would only be filled with an unquenchable desire for something that was physically unable for me to achieve.

I fell asleep before the penis came back to life. The next morning, she let me fuck her again, only this time I could feel it. I got close to coming several times and leaked a few surges of sticky ejaculate into her before she told me my time was up. She left me out of the device until this morning when, while kissing me goodbye for the day, she whispered into my ear that I needed to lock myself back up.

So I did. So I am.

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Das penis

Bondagebuddy asked:

I’ve been following your blog for well over a year now and obviously enjoy it. However, I’m curious about one thing. Why do you always refer to your penis as “the penis”? It is still very much a part of you. I think you are to be commended for your devotion to chastity, but it is noteworthy that proper reference is never mentioned.

Early on, Belle and I had kind of a contract that said I wasn’t allowed to refer to it as mine anymore since I had given control of it over to her. I was supposed to call it “her cock” or “the cock” or whatever. Some time later (I can’t find the post at the moment found it), I stopped thinking that the noun “cock” was the proper term to use since cocks have a very specific (to me) connotation about them. They have attitude and purpose and even a bit of pride and in general seem to me to be somewhat aggressive. The member I carry around isn’t like that, in practice or intention. It didn’t feel right to me to call it that so I started calling it by its more clinical term. It’s a penis, not a cock, even if it’s unlocked and fully erect.

When I first started at this blogging thing I’d read this kind of twisted phraseology and roll my eyes (the whole personal pronoun capitalization thing still bugs me, but I get it and why people do it). They’re confusing (as you’ve demonstrated) and cause sentences to sometimes be awkwardly structured. Honestly, I find it to be a bit of a pain to not be able to just write the very plain and straightforward “my cock” and, every time I have to do it, I consider just dropping the practice entirely.

The reason I don’t (even though Belle’s no longer invested in what possessive I use) is because awkwardness and inconvenience are part of the chastity experience. Referring to it as “the penis” is a literary reflection of wearing a chastity device all the time whenever she wants me to regardless of how I feel about it. To me, talking about it like it’s a thing separate of me is a perfectly honest way to write. It reinforces the reality that I don’t control it and can’t use it how I want. Even when I’m unlocked, she’s explicitly forbidden me from playing with it absent her permission.

At the moment and under the terms of our dynamic, I don’t really have a man’s cock. It’s a penis. And it’s not mine.

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Focus

Something I was thinking about late last night when, in one of those random moments of wakefulness, I reached over and spooned into Belle and let my hand run under her nightclothes and over her smooth ass and the contents of the Steelheart pulsed and craved. It directly relates to my previous post about finding a Zen-like place to keep all my pent-up desire.

I mean, I wanted her. I needed her. Her pleasure is mine and I am really, really wanting to feel that. Distractingly so because it’s been so long since I had it. In the early years, it was remarkably easy to find anger in that. To want to throw all the internal stress out at her. But I don’t anymore. I know she knows how I feel and I know she’ll take care of me eventually. In due time. Not yet.

The way I was able to get through this period last night was to, as they say, see the glass as half full rather than half empty. Yes, I’m desperately needy, but I’m also exactly as I wanted her to keep me. Exactly. I am locked up, unable to touch my own body or attain a normal erection or in any way pleasure myself. I’m totally under her control in that way as I wished to be. It’s all I wanted for her to control my sex and now she does, completely. The best part is, she wants me this way. It’s impossible to imagine that she would have left me unlocked while she was gone last weekend. That’s just not an option for me anymore. And while I was unlocked while I was gone the weekend before (unavoidably, perhaps), she put me back as soon as I got home. I rarely get to stay out for more than a night at time now unless something external intercedes or it’s a special occasion. So I have the best of all possible situations. I’m locked and controlled because that’s how she wants me. That’s how she prefers me to be. I asked for exactly this.

Back around Labor Day, we talked some about that. How she considers my willingness to be locked by her a romantic gesture. She sees my sacrifice of orgasm and self-pleasure as a token of my dedication to her and our marriage. She finds comfort knowing what I’m not doing when she’s not with me. I allow this to happen to me because I acknowledge it makes me a better and more attentive partner. It makes our relationship stronger.

Yes, of course, that’s all true. But it’s not like I don’t get anything out of it.

And what I get out of it is what I concentrated on last night. The feeling of the hard steel pressing up between me and the mattress, squeezing my wannabe erection. The knowledge that I wasn’t getting what I wanted in that moment but I was getting all I wanted in the bigger picture. How, in only the way possible in this kind of dynamic, even not getting what I want is exactly what I want.

I’m desperately horny for her. That’s the reason we do this. We have sex when she decides. Period. I’m supposed to crave what I have no control over. Her pussy. The penis. Our sex. Everything. I’m not ignored, even though circumstances have conspired to make me feel a little neglected. I’m actually quite loved and cared for.

That’s what I focused on.

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Cop tease

As I said the other day, Belle’s out of town. She’s visiting her BFF in NYC and, from what I can tell, having a wonderful time.

Yesterday, she FaceTimed me from the BFF’s apartment. She was on a couch in the living room and the BFF and her husband were on a another. I can hear them, they can hear me, etc. It’s like being on a conference call.

So we’re chatting about whatever, where they’re going to dinner that night, etc., and then she tells me about this cop. Apparently, while they were hanging out in Little Italy and walking around some cop winked at Belle. Not just a “Hey there,” kind of wink. More like a “How you doin’?” kind of wink.

Belle then continued to explain to me, with some enthusiasm (I mean, I can see the fire in her eyes as she tells me this and that its about the same color as her beautiful red hair), how exciting this was for her, how big the cop was (pretty big, I guess), and, of course, how cute he was (natch). All in front of the BFF and husband. Who does this? Who tells their husband how hot this cop was who winked at her and how she’s thinking of going back to try to find him, etc., in front of other people?

MINE.

Of course, this made me very hot. I didn’t know exactly how to respond knowing these other people who aren’t (as far as I know) clued in to our dynamic were right there, so I tried to be non-committal. I made a joke about how he wanted to protect and serve her and said something about how’d he’d use his nightstick on her if she was lucky (to which she said, “Yeah, I hope so.”). Otherwise, my insides were all fluttery and my balls tingled and my free hand went in my pants and squeezed them. This was all in good fun, but it was right up my humiliation and cuckold fantasy alley.

What I wanted to say was how fucking crazy it made me to think of her with this big cop. Of her down on her knees and unzipping his tight blue uniform pants and sucking his thick cock as it sprang out at her. I wanted to know just how big he was (over six feet? six-four? six-five?), ask her about his ethnicity, how much hair he had, and all that. I thought of his beefy hairy ass flexing with each thrust into her soaking and hungry pussy, her moaning with each deep penetration, and how she’d come at the very moment his seed would be spilling out of her in surging spurts.

Gah! Yeah. All that.

But, the BFF and her husband. So I made my jokes and tried to keep my voice calmly measured. But that’s what I thought about all the rest of the night as I clutched the hard steel and, obviously, into this morning. It makes me shiver, even as I write this.

Belle gets home late tonight. Too late for anything to happen, I know, but I can only hope she’ll let me eat her up. I want my face in her pussy where I can imagine I can still smell the cop’s sex clinging to her.

Ungh. I got it bad.

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Hyperactive mojo ball

Belle went out of town for the weekend yesterday. She won’t be back until Sunday night. Last weekend, I was out of town. The four days in between she was on her period. I don’t think we’ve had sex in two weeks. Le sigh.

If you’re a man (like me) who is sexually frustrated (uh, yep) and is married to a woman who locks his penis up because he can’t be trusted not to play with it all the time when she’s not around (guilty) and, even if it wasn’t, you’re not allowed to come anyway (you’re looking at him), you can deal with this kind of situation in one of three ways. I know because I’ve done them all.

  1. Be a whiney bitch. Feel sorry for yourself and act like nobody in the world appreciates what you’re going through.
  2. Get mad at your keyholder. See number 1. You’re miserable, she doesn’t appreciate you or your sacrifice, and why doesn’t she realize this is time you’re never getting back? Life is unfair and she’s worse.
  3. Fucking chill out and get all zen on this shit.

Regular men without the locked dicks or prohibitions on ejaculation can nip all this in the bud by nipping the fuck out of their buds (or whatever the kids are calling it nowadays). When you can’t do that, though, the brain chemicals and emotions and unrelieved reproductive fluids all gel together and form a hyperactive mojo ball that floats somewhere down behind your belt buckle, occasionally jetting out solar eruptions into your balls and cock or up into your brain making it foggy and unfocused.

Think of it like the core of a nuclear reactor. You can’t just let those things sit around anywhere. They need to be covered and maintained. In the wrong hands, they’re explosively deadly. When handled appropriately, all that power can be harnessed for good.

When I was first dealing with this stuff, I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know how to deal with the surges and the compulsions. Belle didn’t either, of course, or even really understand what I was feeling. But at some point, you figure out how to envelope all the crazy fluttering and need to do something and jitteriness. It’s still there. I can feel it right now. Physically. In my balls and in my chest and in my guts. Tingling and tickling me. But it’s not sending me into a bad place. Sure, it makes me want to look at a fuck-load of porn, but emotionally, I’m stable.

Unfortunately, I can’t tell you how to do this (so maybe you don’t want that book I was talking about after all). How to refocus and learn to draw on the energy at the moments she decides are right is key to being able to live with denial. I don’t know if those who are only denied for short periods can ever have enough time to figure it out (or even need to). That’s not my life experience, of course.

I recall early on someone left a comment here that’s not too much unlike what I’m saying. The horny guy in me railed against what he was saying. Pushed back on it hard. Hated to hear it. But the guy I am now gets it. All the way down. It’s not always easy. We’re playing with a kind of fire, to be sure. But whatever and however it works, it makes things better for us. That’s all that counts.

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Temporary insanity

Denial does some crazy shit to your head. At least, I find myself thinking and feeling things I doubt I’d have ever felt or thought back when I was having orgasms on a regular basis.

First example. The other morning, Belle and I were having sex. Which is to say, the penis was pushing with all its might against the Jail Bird’s bars while I fingered her and sucked her tits, etc. There was a hope she’d let me out and fuck me, but it wasn’t looking too good in that regard and she had already come so I figured my window had closed. But, the key-like thing was unexpectedly produced and the Jail Bird was off (grudgingly, as the penis was nearly totally hard at the time) and I was on top of her and ready to go.

And at the very moment of penetration, the most remarkable sensation of gratitude came over me. Literally in a cool wave I felt from head to toe the second the tip of the penis felt the hot, wet confines of Belle’s snatch. There was a time in the less than great days of our relationship where I felt resentment at Belle for not having sex with me. I felt entitled and it made me angry at her for not letting it happen. Of course, there were a lot of other things going on back then, but I felt a real sense of injustice at the fact that she had all the power in that regard.

Now, it’s all been turned on its head. Of course, she still has all the power over sex. When, how, what. And now I fucking love it. The difference is, obviously, it’s a consensual thing. I’ve willingly given up any claim or entitlement as her husband and have embraced what I think is her natural right to manage our sex life as she sees fit (even with my suggestions or input, she makes all the final decisions).

And that feeling when I entered her. That feeling of pure blue gratitude that she’d let me do it. That she was willing to indulge my desire for it solely for its own sake. It made me so happy. It made me feel so cared for and loved. It wasn’t a new sensation, to be sure. I’ve felt that way before, but not often so sharply and acutely. It was remarkable.

The other example was from yesterday. I was sitting with an employee in a coffee shop and I was giving him performance feedback, etc. It wasn’t the easiest conversation, actually. Not confrontational, but not warmly positive, either. We were sitting across from each other and the sun was coming in behind him and all of a sudden I thought several things all on top of one another.

I wonder what his cock is like…? I bet it’s a fat one.

I wonder if he’s ever gotten a blowjob from a guy?

God, I want to suck his cock.

NO, seriously, what in the actual fuck is that all about!?

Thing is, I don’t find the guy especially attractive. He’s not bad looking (could be considered cute by some), but he’s not my type in any way. And I’m literally old enough to be his father. I’ve never had any kind of sexual thought about him in the seven months I’ve known him. And, in the middle of this pseudoreview, I was thinking seriously impure things about him for about 3.7 seconds. It was one of those middle of the sentence, train of thought losing, stopping and saying, “…um,” kind of moments.

This sort of thing has happened before. I recall once being in a professional situation with four young women (two employees and two clients) and suddenly feeling intoxicatingly turned on by all their hair and nice smells and pretty clothes. It’s all so sudden and intense and real. I assume it’s hormones. Has to be.

Of course, it happens most with Belle.

The thing I’m really curious about is how those sudden flashes of sexual desire work with otherwise straight guys. Do they ever feel that way about another dude? Or no. My presumption is that the constant (usually) low level of sexual frustration would act as a corrosive element against the expected sexual norms imposed upon us by society (assuming, as I do, that most of us have a small touch of the gay hiding within). I know that I think about cock A LOT more now (hence the several and gratuitous cock shots on The Portfolio – such as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,  etc.), but I think about everything sexual more now. Do those straight guys ever feel an unexpected stirring around another dude? Or does their compulsive Tumblr surfing ever turn up an image of a big hard dick that makes them pause and stare? Does it freak them out?

Honestly, I’d be surprised it if it didn’t happen.

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Houdini style

Some of you may be paying sufficient attention (or have sufficient interest) to recognize that my Belle has a bit of a pattern: I usually get extended free time over holidays. One might think this is because she’s feeling generously moved by the holiday spirit or something but I think it’s mostly because she’s more relaxed at those times and wants easier access to the device’s contents. In either event, the recent long holiday weekend here in the US was one of those opportunities for freedom. Except this time, we drove several hours to the familiar retreat in the woods only to find the means to my escape was left at home. And, really, it was all my fault.

Let’s back that up. A week or so before the holiday, Belle had let me out so she could fuck me. Weekend releases used to be multi-day affairs, but now she’s more inclined to let me out the morning of and put my back in that same day. On this particular day, she told me she wanted to “change my outfit” (meaning a different device sprinkled in). I had been in the Steelheart for months (with only these day or two releases) and she wanted a different look. In the past, even if I knew her intentions to lock me up by a certain day, I’d wait for a direct order to do so or for her to bring me the device she wanted me in. But this time, I took the initiative to follow the spirit of what she told me. I went to the pouch in which she keeps her three steel devices and selected the Jail Bird. She hadn’t told me which one she wanted but I picked it anyway.

The Jail Bird, you’ll remember, is secured with a screw, not a lock. Instead of a key, it has a special bit that fits the security screw’s odd head. You can’t screw it in or unscrew it with any off-the-shelf screwdriver. I found the JB in her device pouch along with both the little bits and put it on and placed the bits back in the pouch so nothing would get lost. Then, later in the day, when Belle grabbed my crotch and started to tell me it was time to go in, she was happily surprised that I had already taken care of it. She was even going to pick the Jail Bird, so all was copesetic.

But.

I didn’t follow the typical ritual. That is, she brings me the device and key (or key-like thing) and I go and put it on and bring her back the key-like thing when it’s over. This time, I left the key-like thing in the pouch. Mistake. My fault.

While we were getting ready for the long weekend, it occurred to me a few times to ask her if she wanted me out while we were gone and, if so, to remember to get the key-like thing, but this time, I didn’t want to appear presumptuous. I try not to expect release and don’t ask for it and am totally satisfied being out of the decision-making loop. And I figured she knew what I was in and what it would take to get me out. So, when the moment came when Belle wanted to use the contents, she plopped the Steelheart key next to me on the bed. And the situation we were in became instantly clear. She had forgotten how the Jail Bird was different in the only way that mattered at that moment.

Of course, we had sex anyway, but the penis didn’t get wet (except at the tip and all down my balls where it leaked like a motherfucker). She really wanted it and I felt bad that my screw-up was denying her, the person who’s not supposed to be denied anything. At some point, I realized I could probably break out of it. Of course, it’s not a lock. Had it been, I’d have been screwed (well, you know, figuratively). But it was just a little screw with a weird head. I had a plan.

To be clear, I asked Belle for permission to try and break out. And that fact that I could even consider this is one of the things some folks don’t like about the Mature Metal security screw option. It’s not actually that secure (which is why some guys order their JBs with an extra hole in the post next to the screw where they can affix one of those little numbered plastic lock thingies to ensure accountability). All I had to do was go and find a pair of needle-nose pliers. I was able to grip the head of the screw sufficiently to turn it with the pliers and, just a few minutes later, handed Belle the screw. I was out and stayed that way for the rest of the weekend. It’s possible, had the screw been more tightly turned, that I wouldn’t have been able to escape. But it wasn’t, so there I was.

After that, the penis got good and wet. I was even able to hold my shit together sufficiently to allow to get off on it. Everyone was happy.

When it was time to go back into the Jail Bird back, I made sure to screw it on nice and tight.

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Nonfiction

Even though he had lowered the shades in the room they shared before going to bed, enough light leaked in to cause his eyes to flutter open. Daylight. Morning. Saturday.

He stirred and stretched a bit and his hand found its way (as all men’s hands do, seemingly by themselves) to his crotch. Scratch. Squeeze. Hard, but not as hard what he usually found there. His other hand reached just as instinctively for his phone. 5:58. The alarm was set for 6:00 anyway, so he turned it off and snuck out of bed trying not to wake her up.

Six o’clock is too damned early to wake up on a Saturday but he had to go to the gym and meet his trainer. This early spot was really hers but she decided a while back she didn’t like waking up that early on a Saturday, either, and told him he had to take it. She’d have his 9:00 spot. Kiss on the cheek. Thanks.

He padded around the house, still naked, morning wood bobbing around in front of him like an eager dog at the end of a leash. He tried to ignore it. Speaking of which, the dog would want to go out soon. Grab a Diet Coke. Get the sandwich in the microwave.

He didn’t like getting up that early but liked this early morning stillness. Like it being quiet. Liked being able to be naked around the house. Liked the kids being away so he didn’t have to cover himself. She let him close the blinds on the huge fishbowl-like windows in front of their home. The ones that let all the people see in and observe their every move, if they wanted to. He opened the door and grabbed the paper. Just a flash of nakedness, but no one to see it. Minor thrill.

Eat. Drink. Read. The dog came out. Back in their room (occasionally referred to as her room), he looked at her still sleeping and quietly grabbed his workout clothes. Sleeveless Nike shirt, light and airy. Under Armour compression underwear. Baggy Nike shorts. Branding mismatch. Ankle socks. Swiss shoes. Into the bathroom to pull everything on. Out the door with the dog. Walk.

Back in the house, he checked his watch. 7:16 now. Fourteen minutes. Need to go. He put his water bottle in his bag, found his keys.

He heard a stretchy groan from the back of the house. A mumbled call. She’s up. Go see her.

“Good morning,” she said, warm and sleepy. Covers up in the morning coolness, bit of nipple showing on the right side.

He climbed into bed and hugged her. Kissed her.

“Hi,” he said.

More kissing. More hugging. Holding her close though the covers.

She didn’t usually sleep naked. Not like him. But she was this morning. Naked and warm and smelling and tasting like her. His hips started to grind into her leg, though his clothes, through the bedding. He could feel himself start to harden. Push against the compression of his Under Armor. He pulled the comforter down a bit and put her nipple in his mouth.

“Mmmm. You don’t have time,” she said softly.

“There’s time,” he replied.

Mouth on nipple, mouth on mouth, one hand on nipple, one hand moving over her body, drifting south. Finding her neatly kept hairy patch. Slipping his finger over her folds. Mouth back on nipple, finger gyrating.

She moaned appreciatively. Her eyes closed and her lips parted and she felt his touch. His hardness was feeling distorted. Squished by the stretchy fabric. Compressed. But nothing he wasn’t familiar with. He’d had it worse. Much worse.

“You need to go,” she complained half-heartedly.

“I need to do this.”

Her back arched a little more, her legs parted a little more, he reached into a wetter, hotter part of her. Slick. Sexy. Her.

Her hips started to move. That’s a good sign, he thought. Fucking hell, he wanted her. But he wanted to feel her come more. He wanted to start her day with this. The rubbery soles of his sneakers caught on the fabric of the bed covering as he wrapped his legs around hers, pressed his needy sex into her. She pulled the covers down. Exposed herself to him. Allowed him full view of his alter.

He felt her rhythm quicken. Her breathing. Her heartbeat. Her pussy silky under his long fingers. More moaning.

She came. Now it was his turn to moan. More like a groan. Her passion in harmony with his desire.

He kissed her again. God, her taste. Her lips. So soft. So perfectly kissable.

“Thank you,” they both said.

“7:28,” she said.

He hopped out of bed, sprinted to his gear, into his truck, down to the gym. Barely late.

On the exercise bike warming up, he could still feel the hard-on in his shorts.