Tag: FLR

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Weeknight surprise

As I said at the end of the last post, Belle takes off for a few days on Sunday morning. This is particularly crushing for me since we’re really into each other right now. My assumption is this is some kind of lunar or hormonal rhythm thing, but I’m neither questioning nor complaining.

I told my Belle Fille last night while making dinner that I really needed some quality time with her again before she left. Sunday mornings have recently been a highly reliable time of the week where the lack of job, kid, or trainer obligations coincide with an increased energy level on her part. If she’s not on the rag, I can usually depend on some kind of bunny lovin’ before we start our day. But, this week, she’ll be leaving and the hole her absence leaves both in my heart and schedule has been hard to accept. All I really needed was to feel her come to sate me until she gets back.

Happily, she wanted to come. And, it turned out, a bunch more. She unexpectedly stripped down leaving me to discover her nakedness. My usual state when going to bed is to be naked, so we basked for a while in the sensations of the full length of one another’s skin pressed against each other, with the small exception of the well-packed steel about midway down.

“What if I unlocked you?” Hell, yes. What if? Oh, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease unlock me. And she did. I shall remain unlocked until she leaves or feels I need to be in again. I am a spoiled rabbit.

My Belle has a long refractory period. Girls don’t usually have to recharge following orgasm like guys do, but my Belle is special. So, going for three orgasms even in six days would be a challenge. But, it was a challenge I was happy to accept.

After the penis was released, we laid beside one another some more, this time with a hard and poky member between. Her hands on the penis was heavenly and I realized how well she’s used the device to manipulate my desire for her recently. Note that I’m perfectly happy being manipulated in this way. I said as much to her.

“I love how this makes me feel,” I breathed out between kisses, “I love how this makes me act toward you.”

“I love how this makes me feel,” she replied through her wonderfully full and fragrant lips, “I love how this makes us.”

Yes, exactly. Sacrificing my orgasm and free access to the penis in exchange for a stronger and more intense emotional bond seems a bargain in my book. I never ever want to be anything other than totally sexually controlled by her.

She climbed on top of me and guided the rigid meat home. The heat and ease with which it slid in made me gasp as she settled down to business. But this wasn’t the usual fuck for her. Instead of quickly finding her rhythm and riding me to a relatively quick orgasm, she lingered. Slowly moving up and down of the shaft, luxuriating in the sensation of being penetrated by her cock. There was no rush. There was no reason. This was about the ride, not the destination.

“I’m acting like you,” she said about half way along, meaning this was fucking for fucking’s sake. She had no motivation other than to enjoy it.

I soldiered along. Sucking her tits, nibbling at her neck, running my hands down her back and over her ass, I tried to contrate on everything other than her gyrating hips and the pussy between them and the part of me the whole kit was enveloping. I wanted to go for however long she needed me to, but I don’t think I made it longer than eight or ten minutes. The thing that finally got me (what can almost always get me) was what she said. She repeatedly told me how good I felt inside her using language her mother would not find acceptable. Thing is, it’s really hard to cultivate a nascent small penis humiliation fetish when your partner tells you every chance she gets how awesome she thinks your erection is. So yeah, I had to stop.

But it was just for a moment. She rolled on her back and told me to fuck her instead. I did as commanded as best I could, withdrawing at least three times to clench back an impending rush of semen. Twice, I managed to keep it in, but once I didn’t and thick slug of the pungent goo landed on the sheets. Regardless, I went back in because she wanted to feel me in there.

As I fucked her, she was constantly moving beneath me, gyrating and reciprocally thrusting and generally really getting into our sex like a hormonal coed. I found myself feeling oddly non-subbie. Yes, she still owned my orgasm, but I felt like I owned her. She was my woman. I cradled her head while slowly fucking her, one hand in her hair, the other holding her jaw. I nibbled, kissed, and cooed at her. I felt like my larger male frame was shielding her. I could feel my ass muscles flex and contract as I repeatedly claimed her with every thrust. My fucking woman.

It was weird. I haven’t felt that in a while.

One more close call in which I leaked inside her caused her to push me off. She still hadn’t come even though we had been going at it for a half hour. This is highly unusual. Even more that she was at an impasse as to what to do next. She wanted to come but couldn’t figure out how.

Sensing that she needed me to take a little more control over the situation, I said, “Can I go down on you?”

She purred at the suggestion at first but than said, “But you’re in there. You don’t like that…”

“I love it until I come,” I reminded her before heading south.

Her pussy was open and soft from the fucking and smelled and tasted like both of us. I eagerly tucked in and lapped up whatever juices I could, swallowing repeatedly the ample supply. I can’t tell you how much was her and how much was me, but it was all heaven. I reveled in the messy, sticky, humid and heat of her. As the minutes passed, I found myseld determined to make that pussy come if it was the last thing I’d ever do. Eventually, she did. Intensely. Electrically. But I lingered. As soon as her clit’s hypersensitivity had passed, I rubbed my whole face in her. I deeply inhaled her scent and could feel a powerful masculine response from a deeply encoded place. My fucking woman.

As I got up, I rubbed the excess moisture from my face all down my chest and stomach. Like I was using her essence as war paint. I wanted her everywhere on me. I didn’t even ask before reentering her and I continued to fuck her, slowly and gently, long after she came. It took a while, but the submissive resurfaced and I started to feel guilty for claiming such indulgence without her consent. She didn’t seem to mind, though. It wasn’t until she was pinching my nipples with all the force she could muster and biting my neck (leaving faint yet obvious monkey bites), that I crested one final time. Our long, wet, sticky, smelly and wonderfully glorious weeknight lovemaking session was over.

Well, for her. I was trapped in the hormonal spin cycle and could feel the entire night sleeplessly stretched before me. This time, though, before it got too late, I downed a couple of Tylenol PMs and was able to salvage four hours of very weird sleep. Weird in that my body chemistry pushed me in one direction while the pharmaceuticals pulled in the opposite direction.

Eventually, sleep. Then, too early, wake. Now, tired. But happy.

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The sex, o god, the sex

The best part of working out and getting fit and all that isn’t necessarily what it’s doing to my body. I mean, yeah, I like that, but the best part is what it’s doing to my relationship. Belle, as I’ve mentioned, has been going to see my trainer for the past six or so months, too, and the change in her has been remarkable.

It’s not just physical, though it is that. I often reach over to her in bed at night and everywhere I put my hands feels different (in much the same way I feel like a different person almost everywhere). And it’s driving me kinda nuts with desire. Luckily, these same changes seem to be simultaneously improving her outlook on our physical relationship. We had some of the best sex we’ve had in a long time last weekend (I’ll get to that in a minute since that’s why most of you pervs are here in the first place) and I can’t necessarily peg all of it on mutually inclusive positive body images (in that, she’s more comfortable with herself as I am and we’re both a lot more into each other’s new selves if for no other reason than the novelty of having hotter new spouses), but I think that’s a lot of it.

More than anything else, I’m very proud of all the work she’s putting into this, whatever the motivation and whatever it means in the bedroom. She’s healthier, happier, and helping to set a fantastic example for our kids.

So yeah, the sex. Oh, man.

Continue reading “The sex, o god, the sex”

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Wet, sweaty and smelling of pussy

Belle took me out of the Looker 02 last night. She didn’t have any immediate need for its contents, but would in the morning and she didn’t want to mess around with the key then. She wanted to be able to just roll over and fuck me, which she did. The penis, though, is stupid and didn’t understand the order in which things were going to happen. All it knew was the steel was off and out and all that normally compressed erectile tissue was free to go to town. I had a hard and persistent erection until I fell asleep.

Belle was funny when she let me out. She was obviously pretty excited to see the device emerge from under the covers.

“I like it when I lock you up and I like it when I let you out,” she said, “For different reasons, obviously.”

Her genuine excitement and the way she’s so well embraced her position over me makes me a very happy bunny.

As I was saying, I fell asleep wanting inside her and woke up in pretty much the exact same spot. As soon as we were both awake, we went right at is like a couple of teenagers. Her snatch was wet and her nipples were hard and she came riding the stiff penis in no time. Jesus god, she felt good.

Then she let me go at it. It was one of those times where I could fuck her and fuck her. I only got close to coming once and, as soon as that passed, I felt like there was no way I was getting close again. I fucked her long and hard and drenched her in my sweat. Faster, slower, deeper, shallower, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere.

I get really emotional in these moments. When I’m fucking her and loving the feeling of her sliding up and against the hard shaft after having felt northing really pleasurable there for nearly two weeks. With every stroke I feel a deeper gratitude to her for allowing me to be as I am. To having so well taken the responsibility of a denied husband to heart. I came out and said it while balls-deep and kissing her full, delicious lips.

“I’m so grateful to you,” I said, breathy and low.

“You should be,” she replied, calm and clearly.

And I am, of course.

I’d still be fucking her right now it if she hadn’t told me the ride had to end. And I’ll be damned if, as soon as she said it, the penis didn’t start to go soft. Fucker’s pretty well trained. I rolled off of her wet, sweaty and smelling of pussy. Ah, bliss.

The only real downside to all this is, about an hour later, my nuts really started to ache. Especially the right side. My balls felt tender, swollen, and heavy. Surprisingly, I don’t get blue balls all that much anymore, but they were full of their unnecessary product and complaining loudly. I told Belle it was nothing a hot bath couldn’t fix, but I won’t be having that before I go back in. No hot n’ soapy access to penis meat for me.

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The exchange

For those keeping score at home, after this year’s orgasms were over, Belle put me in the Steelheart. I was in there about a week maybe before getting some kind of sore on the head of the penis that was really pretty painful and caused me to have to come out for a few days. It was either some kind of nasty pinch between the meat and the PA fixing or some kind of irritation caused by urine or both. A rare occurrence. I had just about gotten used to the Steelheart’s relatively small A-ring, too.

In any event, she let me out for a few days which gave us the chance to have the sex I talk about about back on the 14th. Since then, I’ve been back in the Looker 02. For the active boys in the audience, I can report than I’ve run about 17 miles since then with little to no discomfort or issues. I’ve found that if I wear my normal compression underwear while running and apply a dab of silicone lube to the L02’s plug prior to starting, everything’s cool. Nice and supported, but not too much.

The other morning, I was still in the L02 when Belle reached over and started to touch me in a way that indicated we’d be having some action.

After she got the meat nice and compressed, I said, “I bet you wish I wasn’t locked up.”

“You mean you wish you weren’t locked up. I’m just fine with you in there.”

Yeah, she was right. I was trying reverse psychology on her. Didn’t work.

Still, she gave me and the constrained meant lots of attention. I was on all fours, half over her on her back, kissing her mouth and her neck while she gently caressed my tight balls and perineum, letting her fingers trail down my inner thighs. The penis was quite tight in its confinement, both within the cage and clamping down on the invading plug. She had me get the sack o’ nipple clamps from my nightstand and attached a moderately grippy pair of rubber coated aligator clips. Pulling on the chain, she’d force me into position so that slapping my nuts was easier for her. Nipples searing, cock raging, balls stinging and aching, on all fours like the moaning horny pain slut I am.

Then I reached down to finger her pussy and…

There’s that moment when you realize your historically vanilla wife is obviously getting off pretty hard on locking your meat into a steel vice, clamping and twisting your nipples, and knocking your nuts around like a little punching bag. That she’s obviously doing all that for your benefit, but also for hers. And that, since it’s not all for you, that means you have less control over how and for how long it happens. She’s actually getting off on your discomfort. There is more than just a little bit of a sadistic streak in there somewhere. 

All of a sudden, it went from a series of perfunctory actions to an exchange. She was hurting me because I liked to be hurt, but also because she was enjoying hurting me. And that, in turn, made me want to show her how much hurt I could take. It made me want to give her my discomfort and suffering. As much as she wanted.

Eventually, the clamps came off (with the sudden rush of blood and searing pain that always goes along with that) and slapping stopped and she let me sorta bask for a little while. The cage, however, did not come off.

By the time I started in on her, her snatch was hot and dripping wet. My fingers slid and slipped freely over her clit as my mouth hungrily devoured her nipples. My fingers, though, were not enough. She had me get Pink and the little vibe thrummed to life (with its new batteries) as I rubbed it over and into her wetness. She came weirdly and intensely. It wasn’t like normal, but still apparently good. I still wanted out of the Looker. I still wanted to feel that hot pussy from the inside. But that wasn’t up to me and it was not to be.

As I sat up to leave the bed, the sticky and sweet clear nectar of my desire shot from the hollow titanium shaft in the penis.

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Chitter chatter

Quite a lot of comments on the last post in a short period of time.

Did you cry? I would have.

No, of course I didn’t. Haven’t you been reading this blog? I only would have been disappointed if the number had been less than 24.

Mykey said,

I suspect belle will miss a good hard fuck before then.

And…

I’m surprised she doesn’t miss that more given it used to be one of her favourite things. What’s changed in her mind?

Belle had a pretty good fuck on Sunday and I didn’t come. Pretty good fucks don’t have to have a guy coming at the end. With regard to Belle changing her mind, I don’t think she has. My demonstrating that she can fuck me and get her orgasm while not leading to my own is, I think, the one thing that makes this long-term stuff possible. Even now, she’s said it’ll be July 27, 2014, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be way more shattered about screwing up before then than she will. I think she thinks not coming is my problem, not hers. As long as she gets what she wants, it works for us.

He also said,

If you continue with an orgasm once a year and a half, I will have more (delicious) orgasms in the next month than you will ever. Just thought that idea might tickle you!

And yeah, in a fucked up way, knowing others are having all kinds of orgasms while I get none does make me itch a little inside. Irony. Or just a demonstration of the “divide by zero” nature of orgasm denial. At some level, logic fails.

Atone and I had an exchange about whether it’s better to know the length of time involved or not. Is staring down the throat of 566 days worse than just knowing it’s not today or tomorrow or next week?

I think this is going to be different for everyone. Personally, I don’t think of the period of denial as something I have to get through before I get to come again. It’s something I get to go through before I have to come again. And it’s so far away I can just live my life as though orgasms are not something I’m ever allowed to do ever. The one on Saturday was a good example of whatever conscious or subconscious combination of discipline in my head allows me to get fucked by her and not come “rounding up” and letting it happen since The Day was so close. If The Day is fixed in time off over the horizon somewhere and not a nebulous “not right now, maybe soon, maybe not,” for whatever reason, I find it’s usually easier to keep the natural response to the fucking at bay. That’s what works for me and us.

In a way, I think we’ve finally come to the logical extension of where we’ve been heading for the past four years. I like myself better when I’m not having orgasms. Both my attitude and affection and behavior are more Belle-focused and I feel more alive and invigorated with my arousal on a hair trigger. I think Belle likes me better this way, too. I have wanted and hoped Belle would take my orgasms away completely for a long time. And now, essentially, she has. Combining the period we’re in now with the one we just finished (and assuming there’s no accidents along the way), I will have had only two orgasms in over two years. If that turns into one every 18 months or so or none ever, I’m really OK with that. I can’t explain it and I’m not going to say it’s the logical extension of how everyone should play this game, but I couldn’t be happier with where we are right now.

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One week down, 50-100 to go

“Can I come?” I asked, feeling the desire to do so build with each thrust of my hips.

“No, of course not,” she said with a laugh.

That was yesterday, just a week into the period of indeterminate length (at least a year but possibly two) in which I won’t have any orgasms. It’s as close as one can get, I guess, to living without them at all and that’s fine by me. I did want to come and would have if she had said I could, but she’s not going to let me. Not one more time this year. Not on purpose.

The last time I came prior to the weekend of January 5th was way back around July 4th. The date she had picked out for me to come again was January 6, but it actually happened accidentally the day before. She let me out that Friday from the Looker 02 I had been in nearly continuously for about six weeks. She may have been more turned on by the idea of fucking me than the other way around and on that Saturday, she climbed up on me, all naked, hot, and wet. It had been so long and we were so close to D-day that six of the seven seals I try and keep up in those situations were hanging loosely on their hinges. It was, for both of us, a very fine fuck. I was in OK shape until I felt her start to come and I found myself completely unable to hold back. Belle just felt so fucking good bouncing up and down on the penis. Turns out, I was a dead man from the moment she got up there.

The orgasm I had was unlike any I can recall having before. The typical male orgasm, if you graph it, has a period of build-up followed by a relatively short “oh my Jesus, here I come” segment followed by the back-of-the-head-eye-rolling spurting bit and finishing with the crash and sleepy-time moment of zen. This one, though, had all the grace and elegance of a tactical nuclear device. One second, I wasn’t coming, the next I was. And it was so intense and overwhelming that it pegged every sensor in my body. I tesned up solid and couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t as much distinct spurts of ejaculate as what felt like a jet of goo painting the walls of her snatch. Then, as soon as that was over, I could feel – distinctly – each and every one of the nerve endings on the penis head firing little individual needles into my cerebral cortex over and over again. I had to ask Belle to stop moving as it was all too much for me to bear.

So yeah, I came. Explosively. If I only get a handful more in my entire life like that, I’ll count myself a lucky man. But, it wasn’t the day, so she made me do it all over again the next morning. This time would be different. I’d be on top and, according to a previously negotiated agreement, if she hadn’t come before me, I would have to make her come by eating her out. Honestly, she wasn’t even trying to come before me. I was up there doing my best and all she was doing was letting me. As I got closer, a little voice in my head reminded me that no matter how hot I thought it was at that moment, I really wasn’t going to like the clean-up and that was sufficient to hold me back a bit, but the inevitable inevitably happened and I shot a healthy load deep inside her.

She gave me a few moments to bask in which I started to feel the revulsion of what was about to happen. I rolled to her side and started to finger her, hoping to get her into that and avoid my end of the bargain, but no dice. Actually, that made things a bit worse since I could feel how slimy and loose I had made her. Accepting my fate, I got to work, though I couldn’t allow myself to open my eyes and concentrated all my attention on her clit. Sensing this, she brought her hips up making me slip down and allowing my tongue to slurp in a gob of my revolting seed. God, the smell of it. Finally, she came and I was out of there in a flash. My own ejaculate was all over my nose, cheeks, and lips and ran down my chin.

And that was that. Last one of the year. I’m still not sure how she’s going to pick the date in 2014 on which I’ll be made to come again, but obviously, there’s no rush. We have all of 2013 to get through yet.

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Visions of suger-pegs danced in my head…

And so begins 2013. Four days from my first orgasm in six months and what will likely be the only one I’ll have all year long. The thought of it is enough, on occasion, to make my balls tingle. I admit, there’s a part of me that wants it and gets excited thinking about it happening. But there’s a larger part of me excited by the prospect that it will be a singular event, at least until the big ball drops again.

I had another bought of denial insomnia the other night. Wound have been handier on New Year’s Eve, but it came the night before, meaning I couldn’t stay up until midnight and welcome in the new year. I wasn’t up all night this time. Can’t be sure when I finally fell asleep since I was purposefully avoiding seeing what time it was, but I expect it was at least three or four in the morning. The issue this time had nothing to do with Belle. I wasn’t sleepy when she went to bed so I bounced around on my phone for a bit and eventually found myself reading porn and that was it. Try as I did to keep the thoughts from my hormone-addled brain, they’d come. The device was especially present in my mind. I’d lay on my side and I’d feel it’s heft pull on my nutsack. I’d lay on my stomach and feel the plug push even more deeply into me. Then it’d try to get hard and there’d be squeezing. Then I’d try to think about something else. Repeat. Ugh.

I finally drifted off fantasizing about being pegged by Belle. This isn’t something she’s offered or even shown the slightest interest in, but I focused on how one would design a dildo so that it could be worn by a woman and still give her some clitoral feedback from her effort. I know such things exist, but working on ideas like this in my head helps me get to sleep sometimes. There are few more intimate acts than being fucked. Pegging, while a very hot concept for me, would seem like prostate-centric kabuki if there wasn’t anything in it for the pegger. So I pondered that and how it’d work and how wonderful it’d be to know she was pleasuring herself while penetrating me and actually coming from fucking me and…and…what do you know. I fell asleep.

In any event, in my head, I imagined something very much like this.

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01-06-13

Oh gosh, look at the time. Quarter to two and I’m up and doing this instead of sleeping. This is, I think, the evil denial insomnia rearing its head again. They say one tactic in helping to defeat sleeplessness is to get out of bed, so here I am. Maybe when I’m done writing to you, I’ll get at least a few hours before it’s time to hit the gym in the morning.

So Belle told me on Christmas Day, after a small amount of prodding on my part, that she’s going to have me orgasm on January 6. That will be almost exactly six months from the last time it happened. As I’ve said in the past, I was hoping she’d make me hold out for longer (perhaps indefinitely) but no. Sunday, January 6, 2013. That’s my day.

I spent the next day thinking on that. A bit of apprehension settled over me. Not so much because of the orgasm itself. I know from experience that just one isn’t quite enough to knock me totally out of the zone. I’ll likely experience a day or so of absence from want before I’ll really want a second. That’s what the apprehension was about. If I come twice in short succession, I’ll well and truly be all the way back to zero on the craving scale. I really, really don’t want to feel that way. Since July, I’ve had nothing to worry about except an accidental orgasm. I knew Belle wasn’t going to let it happen, period, so my entire mental approach to the possibility was different. Unless one slipped though under the wire (as it almost did the other day), I didn’t have to dwell on the possibility.

And before July, I would dwell. There was never any knowing when she’d tell me to go so it felt like I was always living under the constant threat of it happening. Yes, that’s me. The guy who doesn’t want to come. The six month schedule was a comfort to me. But now that is coming to an end. I’ll shoot one on the morning of January 6 and then…what? Back to every few weeks or months? I know, I know, I know. It’s not my call. But still, I personally much prefer the long and certain wait. I also think the absence of my orgasm has helped level out some of the hills and valleys we experienced in our D/s overlay before.

Tonight, just before she went to sleep, Belle stroked my balls and fingered the A-ring on the L02. She got me pretty worked up (hence, perhaps, this early morning missive). Just this simple touching was fantastic. When she was done, I even dribbled a little precum on her hand as I snuggled up next to her. She thought it was funny, I thought it was a little embarrassing.

Anyway, before she was done, we talked a bit more about January 6. She told me that after that one, that perhaps my orgasms would become more of an annual affair. In fact, the idea she toyed with (and seemed to like) was placing some “random 2014 dates” in a hat picking one to be the date of my next release. Which, means, of course, after the six month experiment she’ll be denying me for at least a year. Possibly much longer.

Of course, hearing that made the struggling penis struggle all that much harder. I love this idea. And I love my Belle Fille. She makes me very happy. I only hope I make her just as happy in return.

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Knife’s edge

Last weekend, Belle let me out of the Looker 02 for 24 hours. This wasn’t because she thought I needed a break or, I presume, particularly cared if I did. It was because she wanted a fuck. I would come out Sunday morning and go back in Monday morning.

The lock slid out of the L02 and the fat end of its plug slithered down the inside of the penis where it had been lodged for two weeks. That led immediately to an erection so insistant that it was almost painfully hard. Sometimes, even if I’m out, if it looks like she wants me to finger her to an orgasm and not want the available erectile tissue, the penis will actually go soft. It’s been trained over the past several years that it and sex aren’t necessarily connected anymore. But this time, it and I knew where it was going and we were both pretty happy about it.

Perhaps too happy. During the warm up period where I was sucking Belle’s tits and rubbing her snatch and generally letting her juices get flowing, she reached down and gave the stiff penis a few strokes (as if it needed the encouragement). I felt immediately how just that contact got the internal ejaculation gears moving, but put it out of my mind. I was confident. I had already been fucked by her at least a half dozen times in a row and didn’t come once. I could do it again.

She mounted me and slid her hot wetness down over the needy hard meat. The feeling made me groan with equal parts relief and unsated desire. I wanted to fucker her senseless, but she was on top and needed to get her orgasm before I could even consider my own needs. Again, I felt the familiar tickling of oncoming coming but clamped down and soldiered on.

Part of the trick is to just present the hard penis to her by clamping my ass cheeks together and thrusting them off the bed slightly so she has maximum ability to use its entire average length. No reciprocal thrusting. If I fuck back, the game is over. She doesn’t seem to want that, anyway. Just be the tool, Thumper. Another part of the trick is for me to put my mind as far away from the actual sex taking place on my body as possible. In the summer, I use baseball for that. This past fall, I used the elections (and thought of bad outcomes specifically). Now, though, I got nothing. It has to be a series of thoughts. A logical progression of considerations that keeps my attention focused elsewhere while she impales her hot went snatch over and over again, letting its juices run down over my balls and down my ass crack, and her breathing becomes sharper and shorter and the fucking gets harder and quicker and…STATISTICS. I need some fucking statistics. Electoral College math or fucking on-base percentages or league standings or something. Desperate, I thought of a video game I had been playing through lately. Lego Lord of the Rings, to be precise. A very pale substitute.

Finally, she came in a shuddering orgasmic crash. Holding herself still over me, I withdrew the penis and let its tip rest just inside her. I could feel it pumping semen. Surging its weeks-long buildup of payload past her quivering lips, filling her up. But it wasn’t really an orgasm. I didn’t feel like I was coming. I could feel the fluid leaving me but none of the mental fireworks associated with the event. Somehow, my orgasm had been ruined.

I know that now. Then, I wasn’t sure what was happening. I could smell my ejaculate and I didn’t like it. I could feel the slippery sliminess all over her pussy and GAH! It wasn’t supposed to be there. I was too distracted. I could still feel the horniness inside me, but the negative connotation I now associate with my own ejaculate was too much to take. The penis went limp and stayed there. I was supremely frustrated while Belle was bemused. She kept telling me how my window of opportunity was closing while I tried to stroke and pet the reluctant member back to life. Eventually, she told me that was it. I couldn’t get hard so I didn’t get to fuck her.

“At least it’ll give you something to blog about,” she said as she left me cold and sticky on the bed.

My period of freedom was extended by another day. Even though I had two showers and several hours alone with the penis, I couldn’t bring myself to take advantage of the situation. I wanted…something. But jacking off alone didn’t feel like it. Monday night, I got what I wanted.

This time, she wanted Pink to get her off. My fingers weren’t enough and either she wanted Pink more or didn’t want a replay of the previous morning’s misadventure. Either way, when she was done, I was allowed to fuck her. And, again, almost immediately I felt the orgasmic mechanism engage. From the very second I slipped into her. I can’t even say how many times I had to stop fucking her to keep the orgasm back. I never really felt like I got into a rhythm. Not like the last several times where the orgasm felt miles off. This time, it was always hovering just behind me. Eventually, I found myself skating down the knife’s edge, right on the cusp of it. Every fiber of my physical body cried out, desperately trying to draw it forward, while every bit of my higher brain pulled just as hard in the opposite direction. No, you CAN’T come. You CAN NOT.*

Emotions run high at these times. I felt almost as though I wanted to dry. Instead of the more typical animalistic feelings toward her where I’d want to fuck her into a pulp and then fuck whatever was left, I held her tenderly as if she was fragile and might break from my thrusting. I caressed her and breathed her scent deeply and she was all that was perfect and beautiful and my love for her nearly overwhelmed me. I thanked her. For everything. For letting me fuck her, for giving me the second chance at it, for not letting me come, for just being. Powerful shit, that.

Finally, she told me it was over. And I reluctantly pulled out. And I fell asleep clutching her tightly.

* Feel free to imagine a small Lego Gandalf confronting the Balrog on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, if you like.

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Metaphorical brussel sprouts

I wouldn’t call the conversations Belle and I are having regarding when I’ll next have an orgasm “negotiations.” If they are, they’re not unlike how a child negotiates their bedtime or how many brussel sprouts they need to eat before they’re allowed to leave the table. Belle is, after all, totally in control of when I come. That hasn’t stopped me from sharing what I think. Like that kid who wants to stay up fifteen more minutes or only eat two, not three, of the vile little green globs, I am at best lobbying.

I point out to her that we have been in a long and sustained Good Place® lately with regard to our D/s overlay. Perhaps the longest we’ve been doing so well since we started. Yeah, we have had a lot of practice by now, but the one thing that’s been different is my orgasm has been totally off the table. I know it’s not going to happen and she knows it’s not going to happen. So, besides avoiding the hormonal roller coaster that comes even with infrequent (say, every month or so) orgasm, I’ve been free to really wallow in my occasional desire to come and she’s free to totally shut me down since there’s a hard date out there (not before January). The further away I get from my last orgasm (which was around July 3rd), the more I’m able (in these moments of calm reflection) to realize I do not need them physically or want them in any other way than in a primal and situational sense. And, as we get closer to that magical “sometime after January starts” period, I’m starting to feel that happily denied male anxiety. Some guys, I know, never get there. They’re denied three days and they’re crawling out of themselves to come and never get to the point that they’d rather not. But that’s not me.

Belle’s not committing to anything other than reminding me who’s decision it is. Based on the few cryptic things she’s said (and acknowledging that she’s still ruminating over it), it kinda sounds like she’s leaning towards nothing so dramatic as some kind of “THOU SHALL NEVER COME AGAIN” decree and will instead go with a more reasonable approach where I don’t come indefinitely. At least for as long as it makes sense. That could be an additional week or…however long it is. Then, of course, I will have some skin in the game. I’ll do whatever I can to keep it from happening, though I know that when she lets me fuck her there’s a 50-50 chance I’m going to really and truly want that orgasm. For me, it’s a bit more unsettling. I’d rather know. But she, it seems, isn’t prepared to go that far with me. Yet.

So, we’ll see. I get at least another month. I’ll keep squirming in my seat and pushing my metaphorical vegetables around as she decides my fate. However it ends up, it’s her call and I know it.