Tag: FLR

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2 months, 3 weeks, 5 days

That’s as far as I got. Two months, three weeks, and five days.

The end began with me getting Belle off. She was on her period and I was locked, so it was your regular nipple sucking, clit fingering affair, except when it was over, my motor got stuck revving at about 5,000 RPM. Belle had been slapping my nuts around a bit and, if I remember correctly, had placed little chrome clips on my nipples. I was rubbing and pulling and stroking the hard metal tube, grinding my butt into the sheets, and generally tripping out on my own desperation.

“Oh, god, I want to come,” I moaned, almost against my will.

She reminded me my time wasn’t up yet. I said it again. She repeated herself. I did, too.

Finally, she said, “I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but I don’t want to read your whining on the blog about it later and feeling all sorry for yourself.”

I pondered. On the one hand, I liked begging only to be refused. That’s how I had started, not actually expecting to be allowed out. I enjoy it when she makes me suffer. But, as I laid there, I found I really and truly wanted to come. I needed to.  Two months, three weeks, and five days was a really long time. I wanted to go to 100 days, and I was almost there, but the reptilian maleness had taken notice of the chance it was being presented with and pushed me onward. The rational side of my brain, also desperately horny and wanting very badly to come, said that the 100 day thing was never Belle’s idea in the first place. I had come up with it. If she was OK with me coming now, and I declined, then who, exactly, was denying who? I almost had to come in order to preserve the order of things. Yeah, that’s it.

So anyway, I took her up on it. She got the key and I removed the metal and immediately started stroking while she looked on. Right from the start, it didn’t feel at all like the last time she let me beat the meat. This time, I knew, was going to be productive. There would be gobs of sticky white stuff all over me when I was done, not a rapid release so I could retreat from the edge of bliss. I felt the cock swell and the internal gears lock into place. In maybe just a minute, I could feel the point of no return rushing towards me, then fly past me. I started to come.

It was very intense. So intense, I can’t remember how many slugs I shot, but it was many. I felt a prickly wave run from my scalp down the back of neck and into my shoulders. I wanted the surging hot goo to never stop coming out of me. Never. I just. Wanted. To come. And come and come and feel that crescendo of orgasm last forever.

But, of course, it didn’t. In fact, just as suddenly as it started, I felt myself slip off the peak. I was still milking the meat, squeezing every last drop out, but the shores of Climax Island pulled away from me at sonic speeds. And, while not remorseful at all, I was disappointed. I felt almost immediately a sense of loss. Like I had been swindled into a transaction that I realized was a con the second my money left my hands.

This is beyond kink now. I do like the tease, the torture, the bondage of the device, and all that very much. But now that I live without them, I find the actual orgasm to be rather empty. The anticipation, the craving, the heightened sexual existence that comes from their nearly total absence is more rewarding, many times more, than the squirt it all revolves around. I feel so much when I’ve been denied – so much more alive – that the post orgasmic period feels nearly vacant of any feeling. The edge is all gone. The texture of my everyday horned up, locked up life is obliterated by the explosion of ejaculation. There’s no way the actual event of orgasm could ever live up to it.

In fact, I felt very little for several days afterward. Belle would ask how I was doing and I gave her noncommittal kind of grunts because, in fact, I felt very noncommittal. Neither good nor bad, hot nor cold, up nor down. I just was. Again, I wasn’t at all remorseful. Just kinda empty.

My feeling about it now is that infrequent ejaculation is necessary. Like an oil change or something. I need the occasional squirt to reset the levels and the vague emptiness it leaves me with is just a part of the cycle. I do know that, as I am once again starting to regain my sexual desire, I no longer like the feeling of what I once called sexual satisfaction. Living in a state of always wanting more is far better.

—

The other night, I was in bed with Belle, naked as she told me I could be and feeling the first inkling of sexual desire return. In the distant past, this feeling would have sent me into the bathroom to quickly and quietly rub one out over the sink, but that not being an option anymore, I was grabbing Belle. She had left me unlocked since the end of the two months, three weeks, and five days, so anything was possible. I made my move and was typically guy-like in my bluntness.

“I like you better when you’re locked up,” she said in exasperation. Just like that. I like you better when you’re locked up.

Almost immediately, she started to back away from the comment, hemming and hawing as if she had said too much. As if it would bother me to hear it. Finally, she corrected herself and said, “I like us better when you’re locked up.”

That might be true, but my actions would not have caused her to express that particular sentiment. She meant what she said originally: She likes it better when I’m sexually compliant. When the device she locks onto my body leaves me far less aggressive. When my frustration has no where to go and, in desperation, I seek only her climax as a surrogate for my own release.

And, of course, I was immediately very hard and way more turned on than I had been before her true feelings slipped out. I wish she’d own these feelings more and not be worried about my reaction to them. Hell, that’s exactly how I hope she feels. Hearing her say it – that she liked me better when I was under her control and unable to express myself sexually in any way other than in service to her – filled me with excitement, and not all of it sexual. I know that I occasionally push her up to her position of dominance (like so many other men in my situation) and that it hasn’t always come naturally to her or been something she’s comfortable with. But here she was, really feeling it. She hadn’t thought at all about what she was saying before she said it. It was awesomely honest and in no way contrived to elicit a certain response from me.

—

As I’ve been writing this, Belle asked me what I was doing. I told her and then I read to her the first 800 words or so. I’ve never read out loud to her what I write here and doing so was equal parts embarrassing, exhilarating, and revealing. I hope she asks me to do it again sometime.

In any event, I’m hoping to get the dick wet tonight. It’s been a really long time since she fucked me and I’m thinking a lot about how it’ll feel. She’s told me I’m going back into the device tomorrow, though she hasn’t said for how long. Nor has she said how long it’ll be before I come again. Perhaps she’ll let me tonight. I wouldn’t fight her on it. Even though I want to live without them, I feel the need for one. I want to feel it again. Just as much as I want to keep on feeling the need. She could start me on another period of extended denial and I’d like that, too.

Either way, I’m good.

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Needing it

Belle and I hadn’t had sex before last night since a week ago up at the cabin. She had been enjoying the warm waters of the hot tub while I was with the kids when she came in and told me she needed me to do something for her in the bedroom. I left the boy playing video games and the girl with her art while I walked to the back of the cabin to see what Belle wanted. As I entered the room, she closed and locked the door and dropped her towel.

“You’re going to make me come,” she said.

Holy crap! It’s daylight! The kids are awake in the other room! I’m…all dressed and stuff. Regardless, she laid back on the bed and told me to get my face between her legs.

Her pussy, fresh from the hot bubbly water, was so clean and wet that it almost didn’t feel like itself under my tongue. It was flavorless and smelled of chlorinated water and it took a few minutes before I started to taste her juices start to flow. She told me to get pink and shove it all the way inside her while I licked her clit. I could still hear the little vibe thrumming away, muffled by her soft flesh, while I sucked on her outer lips, reaching up and fingering her nipples, and trying not to grind my stiffly sore tube into the mattress too much.

Eventually, she came with my mouth on her tits and pink sliding all over and into her snatch. Then she told me to leave so she could take a nap. It was all so sudden, hot, and over. I went back out into the living room and pretended like nothing happened, tube thumping in my pants.

Then there was a week where nothing really did happen.

Then there was last night. There wasn’t anything especially interesting about the sex. Functionally, it was like most of what we have: She came while I fingered her and sucked her tits. It was a nice orgasm for her, but like I said, not unlike most of what we do. The difference was how hot I was for it beforehand. I told her, as she informed me she was going to share an orgasm with me, that I wanted to fuck her. I didn’t think for a second that I would, but I wanted to fuck her so bad.

There’s a little rhyme she’s been saying ever since I met her. “Hooray hooray, it’s the first of May! Outdoor fucking starts today!” But upon hearing me whine about how badly I wanted inside her, she changed it up to “Hooray hooray, it’s the first of May! Too bad about your cock today.” Needless to say, I wasn’t going to fuck her.

So then I started with the tit sucking and clit fingering and she came. It was a good one for her, but as soon as it was over I was absolutely out of my mind obsessed about feeling her pussy wrapped around what used to be my cock. I could feel it, warm and wet. Seriously, I’m running out of ways to say just exactly how profoundly fucking horny I was. It almost hurt, I was so horny. Come to think of it, it did hurt as the steel ring bit into the stifled erection’s root.

She got out of bed to pee and I was left there alone, like so many times before I stopped having reciprocal orgasmic rights. In those days, I’d feel the cock, semi-flaccid, laying heavily against my upper thigh, cold and sticky wet with the combined juices of her passion and my climax. The dank smell of semen would be hanging in the air as the ropes of wakefulness fell away and I drifted groggily into a restful sleep. I could feel it all as if it was just yesterday, but really, I can’t even remember when it was anymore. So long ago. Months and months, at least. Maybe longer.

It was another night of restlessness, tossing and turning and semi-wakefulness, always with a full tube. Sometimes, painfully so. I wanted to always be touching her body, either spooning fully into her or, if she was facing me, then at least touching her foor with mine. I craved her contact. I craved her attention. Even in sleep, I wanted all of her.

And I still do this morning. I woke up just as horny and just as desirous of her attention. I’ve been locked up (with the exception of that one day) for a month and have more than another month ahead of me before there’s any hope she’ll let me come, let alone get out of the device. That will be well over the hundred days I offered her back in March. Far, far longer than I’ve gone before between releases. She’s hinted that, when my time finally arrives, that she might let me come more than once. She’s even suggested “a lot.”

It’s all I can think about. Yes, I want to be denied, and yes, I asked for and even offered her this, but I want to come. I want to fuck and come and feel my hand and her pussy wrapped around a fully realized erection. Even if she only gives me one, I need it. Bad.

Just five and a half more weeks.

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Changes

So a funny thing’s happened. Well, two things really and I’m not sure they’re all that funny (as in, haha kind of funny) but happened they have.

Faithful readers will know I’ve continued to have a serious thing for porn even though I’m now nearly continuously locked in a device and, even when I’m not, having an orgasm is not an option. Basically, I look at it (and read it and watch it and would roll around naked in it if I could) simply to feel the sensation of ever-escalating levels of arousal. However, as I said in my last post, even though Belle was out of town and that would normally leave me plenty of time to indulge my habit, it never really sparked for me. I did try by visiting the usual haunts, but even when I was sorting images for the Portfolio, I never really found myself getting overly hot and bothered. Whenever I started to move in that direction, I’d find myself not thinking, “Gee, I wish I could stroke myself right now,” and instead thought, “Gee, I wish I could be stroking Belle right now.” My urge to orgasm and masturbate and in any way experience pleasure while consuming the porn was all about her orgasm and masturbation and pleasure. Since I effectively no longer have a cock (at least as a pathway for sexual pleasure), those autonomic impulses have been rewired to focus on her sex organs and orgasm.

I did find myself pausing, slack-jawed, over images of big fat cocks with ejaculate running down their sides or other images of semen puddling on a woman’s stomach or of a woman’s hand wrapped around a cock as its payload was shooting out or of some guy’s face dripping with spunk, but I looked at them the same way I watch a show on the lifestyles of the rich and famous or when some dude in a really sweet classic Corvette drives by. I longed to be in their places, but in a detached “that could never happen to me” kind of way. I will never have that fabulous all-glass house overlooking the ocean and I will never drive the 1976 ‘Vette, but isn’t it fun to think about. Similarly, I will not be shooting my own copious load any time soon, but wow, look at what that guy did!

I told Belle about this shift in attitude the night she got home and, even though I wasn’t really trying for anything that very moment, she let me get her off. In short order, I found myself sucking on her clit, hard meat in the device painfully pressing into the bed, and an almost physical connection to her climax. I felt completely plugged-in to her pleasure. As she arched her back, I tensed and moaned right along with her. She came and I felt the release inside me. We enjoyed a simultaneous orgasm but without the distraction of my own getting in the way. I was still so, so fucking horny afterward and couldn’t take my hands off her or press myself close enough to her, but I was satisfied. In the only way I can be now. And it was fucking great.

The second thing that’s happened is I’ve almost totally lost my whole “service sub” vibe. Ever since we were in London and I was profoundly knocked out of my headspace, I have felt barely a quiver of interest in really serving Belle. I’ve been a bit lazier and more self-centered. The other night, I got home and she was pissed at me for not keeping the house in order while she was gone. It was, I thought, in pretty good shape, but it wasn’t up to her standards. Then last night, I totally spaced on making her coffee. Turns out, she’s not very pleased with me (told me I “wasn’t on her list of favorite people”). I don’t like her to be unhappy, but I’m very glad to see there is an element of our dynamic she really doesn’t want to live without. She’s grown to expect the service from me. You could read this as a failure on my part (and it surely is), but it’s also reassuring in that we have developed a symbiotic feedback loop and integrated it into our lives. This is really kinda cool.

Now if I could only get my vibe back, we’d both be happy. And she might even let me share another orgasm.

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Alchemy

Belle’s out of town again.

“But Thumper,” you say, “It sure does seem like she’s out of town a lot. Leaving you alone. All alone.”

Why yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it? That’s very perceptive of you to notice. In reality, she’s been traveling a lot less over the past year or so, but it’s true that she does get away more often than others might. Well, more often than me. This time, she’s off visiting her best friend in San Francisco again. It’s her birthday present.

Back in the old days, every night of her absence would be a semen-drenched orgy of frenzied masturbation for me. I’d do all manner of unspeakable things to myself and wipe away copious amounts of sticky white goo. More recently, her trips have been defined by mass consumption of pornography resulting in little more than a painfully tight chastity tube, a swollen prostate (with occasional dribbling leaks), and sleeplessness. This trip, though, has been different. For the last two nights, I’ve just watched TV and then gone to sleep. I am horny and I do have all kinds of hormone-induced thoughts tripping through my head, but it’s manifesting differently this time. I’m not saying tonight won’t be the night I binge on porn, but the few times I’ve started I’ve lost interest fairly quickly. I’m still posting to the Portfolio and enjoying many of the images I’m sorting through, but that’s a different kind of activity with a different objective. Can’t say what’s behind the new behavior. Just observing.

The time out of the device on our trip and how that made me feel (resentful, annoyed), combined with being back in now (happy, contendly frustrated), has allowed to me appreciate exactly how much I feel it’s been integrated into my life and our relationship. It’s not just a sex toy anymore. Emotionally and physically, I feel as though this hunk of steel between my legs completes me. It’s a potent symbol of my connection to Belle and of her acceptance of (and even enthusiasm for) my sexuality. It represents our intimacy and the new dynamic that has permeated our life. It may not be trendy to invest it with such power, but it’s how I feel.

I feel so strongly about this that lately I’ve been wondering what it would be like to wear it forever (except, of course, for those infrequent moments of inspection and hygiene and for those times Belle wanted to use its contents). I don’t really think of it as a separate thing anymore. I don’t consider the inconveniences it causes. This is just how I am. Feeling resentful of the device and its impact on my everyday life would be like feeling resentful for having to eat. Or breath. I honestly want it on me 99.95% of the time (which would leave me 4 and a third hours a year for maintenance and attention to Belle’s desire – plenty of time). I actually think that’s possible, assuming the Steelworxx is occasionally substituted for the CB6K when required by Federal law.

I’m also thinking about what an essentially orgasmless existence would be like. I’m over two months from my last orgasm and am doing fine, so in practice I’m already there. I’m conditioned now to be able to go a really long time. What if I only came two or three times a year? I could manage that. I almost have to if I want to feel truly denied. A couple weeks just doesn’t cut it anymore.

So now, I’m very horny (sometimes, suddenly and distractingly so). But I like that. I want both that and for it to continue indefinitely. It’s the chastity paradox. On the one hand, craving the device. The control. The craving itself. On the other, astonishingly clear fantasies of shooting hot, thick ropes of ejaculate up and onto my chest and stomach (and, if I’m very lucky, even my face). Feeling the draw of her pussy, like a glowing orb, as I’m laying next to her in the reflected afterglow of her orgasm. Feeling the phantom sensation of its warm wet folds grasping a free erection, beating and throbbing with my heart. But that’s not for me. While I want it badly, I don’t get it. Don’t really want it. The way I think of it, I want to come and to fuck and to jack-off but I need to be denied. To always feel her will over mine. To know I’m always in check.

I don’t pretend that the device itself is the source of these feelings. It’s a tool like any other. I have ascribed upon it a lot of emotional energy, but it’s nothing more than Belle’s implement. I can’t promise the same kinds of feelings will come over someone else. This entire situation is the result of how the device has interacted with Belle and I. It has worked its alchemy upon us, but in a way that’s unique to us because we’re unique.

I know I’m being insufferably romantic about this. There are clearer heads out there who see though all the wawa mysticism. But the wawa stuff is mine and I’m not letting go.

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Catching up

My balls are aching this morning. But I’ll get to that…

It’s been a weird couple of weeks. In London, I was only able to get Belle off once, though it was a very hot little experience. Then, it was lots of walking and lots of tiredness and very little sexy feelings all around. Plus, even though Belle had said she was going to keep me locked when we were over there, she actually didn’t (and didn’t communicate why very well). Two days before we came home, the hard drive on my laptop crashed and I’m still trying to recover that that. Then, after fighting off jet lag for a few days, I got sick. Like, sicker than I’ve been in years. So sick, I didn’t have an erection (not even a nocturnal one) in three days. That’s sick.

So, back to the beginning. Even though Belle said she was going to keep me locked in London, she didn’t. And as the days ticked by and I was still very unlocked, she either made noncommittal sounds about it or even just ignored it all together. Finally, by the fifth day or so, I asked what was up. She said she had decided to leave me out to make being there easier.

Technically, being locked up is easier than not because, with the PA piercing and the ring I wear for chastity security, peeing is a lot less complicated with the tube than without. But in any event, I don’t want things to be easy. I want to do hard things for her. I want to be inconvenienced and constantly reminded of my position. But whatever. The biggest issue I had with this is she didn’t say anything to me at all until I forced the issue. That kind of silence feeds into the fear I have that she’s only pretending to care about all this chastity and denial stuff as much as she does to humor me. It makes me feel insecure and ultimately angry since it’s not that hard to just say, “I changed my mind.”

In any event, on the second night there I decided to try to get a little action and take advantage of the free meat. Since we had a bedroom separate from the rest of the flat (and the kids), I suggested she let me get her off with the cock, but she said I couldn’t handle it. She would let me give her an orgasm, though. I got busy with my hands and mouth and, about half way through, she started talking. Maybe she would let me fuck her. Maybe she did want to feel her hard cock buried deep inside her. I kept working, moaning and throbbing hard, just waiting for the final go ahead so I could slide into the friendly confines of her hot, wet snatch.

And then she came. “Psych!” she whispered in my ear after a few seconds of recovery time. She fell asleep while I was left dry, hard and horny.

Then, as I said, there was essentially ten days of sexlessness brought on by exhaustion and illness, though Belle did lock me back up as soon as we got home.

Yesterday morning, as I started to write this post, I felt a cold trickle on my upper thigh. Reaching into my sweats, I felt slick, gooey semen oozing from the end of the steel tube. According to my little tracker, it’s been two months since my last pleasurable orgasm (and at least six weeks since any kind of emission). Belle won’t let me orgasm again until June 7th – still nearly two months away. I can’t even remember the last time I came.

Last night, the first night I was feeling more human than not, I really wanted to feel Belle come. She told me to get naked and I started to rub my face and hands all over her body. I kissed her face and neck and put my mouth on her nipples, taking my time and enjoying the moment. Her hands found the straining steel tube between my legs and the tight nutsack it was anchored to. While I sucked and licked her nipples, she started slapping my nuts. At one point, my reflexive response to a particularly well-placed smack caused a thick slug of precum to travel from my prostate all the way down the length of the trapped cock until it trickled out end of the tube.

“You can either stay where you are or put your fingers in my cunt, but either way, I’m going to come.”

My hand immediately moved into position over her hot wetness. As I massaged her pussy with two well-lubricated fingers, her legs opened like a flower. The steel ring around the root of the cock bit into my flesh a little harder with each beat of my heart and I moved my mouth down to her crotch and started sucking on her clit. She repositioned me so I could eat her out while still playing with her nipples and I buried my face in her snatch.

All too quickly, she started to come. I could feel her pleasure pulsing at the tip of my tongue and, even though the intensity of it was causing her pull away from me, I kept a consistent contact with her clit while wave after wave of the orgasm crashed over her.

She was instantly spent. It didn’t take long before she started to drift off to sleep while I was hotter and hornier than I’ve been in a long time. Slowly, my desire ebbed enough to allow me a fitful sleep, though each of the several times I woke up during the night, the tube was solid and dense.

So, like I said, this morning my balls are aching.

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Imminent departure

I am feeling quite seriously horny.

I only mention this because it’s been on my mind a lot today. And yesterday. Oh, and the day before that. Wait…yeah, OK, so all this week. Belle was away from Sunday morning until basically Thursday (she got home in the middle of the night Wednesday). Absence makes the heart grow whatever the saying is and, trust me, when she’s gone my heart’s not the only thing trying to grow around here. With her moderating influence gone, I tend to only get hornier and hornier until I find myself tossing and turning all night long.

Tomorrow night, the entire family leaves on an international vacation. After an eight and a half hour overnight flight, we arrive in London at about noon local time for a week’s Brady Bunch-style romp (though I’ve already warned the kids about the tiki necklace issue). Last night, I asked Belle what her plans were with regard to her cock while we were away. Obviously, she can’t take it through airport security protected by the Steelheart. She declined the idea that I dust off the CB6K since, as I’ve mentioned before, she’s way too smitten with the steel now. I expected her to leave me out for the length of the trip (since I’ve already been in for a little over three weeks), but she says she plans on letting me out tomorrow only so she can pack the Steelheart. Then, once we’re over there and settled in to our hotel, she’s locking it back up again. With the exception of when we’re actually in transit to and from, she will be maintaining control over the cock, regardless of our vacation.

As soon as she told me this, I felt an unexpected surge of affection toward her that nearly brought tears to my eyes. I pulled her in for a deep kiss. Later that night, I thanked her for it. I’m not sure exactly what I was thanking her for except that I appreciated her desire to continue my enforced chastity, even while on a family vacation. I told her that it made me feel good inside. It maintains our intimate link. Makes me feel special. Like she really cares for me. Loved.

I’m hoping for some bunny-on-Belle action tonight since it’s been nearly a week and we’ll have few opportunities for anything beyond a quiet, undercover orgasm for her once we’re all sharing a hotel room. My expectations are probably too high, but it’d be nice to send us off with a really remarkable climax.

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Meat this!

Tom’s got another meaty one. (Perverts. Post. He’s got a meaty post.)

I’m going to start by highlighting the bit I especially loved.

[B]eing locked up does not make me feel less manly, less assertive, less randy, or less anything. It makes me feel … more.

Way. In my experience, denial is like turning the saturation way up on a TV. When it’s really humming, it makes all my senses crackle. It’s a beautiful thing. Regular readers will know that I don’t always feel this way and sometimes being denied does result in me feeling less, but I think that’s more a result of Belle and I still getting a hang of all the buttons and switches (overlaid with the normal ebbs and flows of the human psyche) than it is the fault of the denial.

And who in fuck’s name would want to feel less? Can that even be a thing? Getting off on feeling less? Anyway…

Tom goes on to say:

Personally, I’ve been reading so much about what people consider to be “submission” and “submissiveness” that I have decided to disassociate myself from the term altogether; virtually nothing of what I’ve been reading seems to apply to me, so instead of trying to defend my own submissiveness, or more correctly, those certain feelings that I get that I used to associate with submissiveness, I’m just going to move on to some other scale and call it something else. Or maybe I won’t call it anything; I’ll just feel them and describe what I can.

This really speaks to me, too. I mean, that’s kind of what this was all about, right?

The way my brain figures out new things is by looking at similar things to understand how they’re supposed to work. I suppose everyone does this to some extent, but I do it a lot. Pretty much to a fault. Sometimes, this is a really good strategy (like when learning language or how a logical system operates), but in the case of human sexuality, this is a really lame way to go about it. Coming to all this submissiveness stuff late in life, I did my usual thing and looked for analogs of what I thought I was. Tom was one of those as were a number of other bloggers (along, even, with some porn which, of course, is a Really Bad Idea™). Bottom line is I kept comparing myself to a bunch of “ideals” and coming up short. There are a few I feel I’m more like than others, but none of them fit. Obviously, this is because human sexuality is infinitely variable. It’s not an operating system or a machine (even though I used that metaphor above). It’s a messy tangle of crossed wires and gooey dark corners that’s always bubbling and morphing and slithering along in unexpected directions.

Long way around to say the obvious: labeling a human’s sexual quirks can be damaging. If Tom wants to shed his submissive cloak, more power to him. I think there are more ways for otherwise “submissive” men to be different than there are for them to be the same. Case in point is our views on service, but I’ll get to that later. First…

It’s amusing to see that the selling points for male chastity devices tend to focus on either making your man more “romantic”, or on making him do more household chores. … But is this actually true, or is it a stereotype that plays on the idea that sex is something that men want, and  women parcel out according to whim?

I have tried to run away from this stereotype and in doing so have beat myself up (only figuratively, alas) for not Doing It Right, but the thing is, yeah, being locked up and denied does tend to make me a better mate to Belle. I’m much more attentive to her, much more in tune with what she needs, and much more willing to sacrifice what I want in order to give her what she wants.

But for us, the device is only a catalyst. What it represents is a level of commitment on Belle’s part to our relationship that, frankly, I didn’t feel for years (and she didn’t feel it back from me, either). Now, because she locks up the cock, because she denies me orgasm, because she takes advantage of my desire to serve her, I am fully engaged with her and our relationship like I haven’t been for about a decade. Likewise, she sees a commitment from me though my dealing with the device, giving her the cock to control, and trying my hardest to be of service to her. Did the device do that? Or did I? I think it was both of us.

Too many people think chastity devices are like magical talismans that are good for whatever ails you. Like any tool, it’s how you use it that counts. Just because there’s a thing involved, people incorrectly assign the improvements in their relationship to the device when in fact they should be taking the credit themselves. Successfully integrating chastity is hard work that, when done correctly, bears a lot of fruit. But it’s the fact that they’re doing the work that makes it work, not whatever thing they’ve chosen to play with.

Never not once has any woodworker said, “Gee, that hammer really made a great bookcase!”

The last bit of Tom’s post I want to flog is the part about service. Or, more specifically, how the concept of being a service sub just isn’t lighting any fires over at the Allen Ranch. I tried to find that one salient blurb that fully captured his sentiment, but really, it’s the entire last four paragraphs of his post. If you haven’t already, go read it.

I’ll wait…

OK.

He does a pretty good job of knocking the whole service concept about the head and face, and I think that we probably have a fair bit of common ground around this, but I also think he’s missing some of the point.

I know (or, at least, I read) that some people actually get a sexual charge from performing service. I do not. He talks about how he doesn’t “drip with sexual excitement” when he brings Mrs. Edge a cup of coffee, and while I get Belle coffee all the time, it’s never caused me to drip anything (other than the occasional bit I’ve spilled). It isn’t the act of doing what she says that gets me off. In fact, it’s often a bit of a downer. I’d rather be updating my portfolio or playing on the PS3 or whatever. But, in a way I admit to not being fully able to put into coherent words yet, I love being her tool. I think of myself as her live-in manservant. Whatever she tells me to do, I will do, whether I want to or not, because that’s my position. I live to serve her. Even when I don’t want to, I want her to make me.

People have left comments here before about this and how it’s not really service and that all I’m doing is being a responsible partner in the marriage, yadda yadda. First of all, I think they’re underestimating the amount of work I do for her. I do 98% of all the laundry in our house of four people. I cook most of the meals. I make the beds, etc., etc. As Belle has said, she doesn’t really need to do much of anything around the house anymore. She will do things, but only because she wants to, not because she has to. Also, they miss what can’t be seen on the outside. It’s my intention to serve her. When I do it, I may not be enjoying the actual work, but I get a warmnfuzzy feeling inside. When she tells me I’m doing a good job, I similarly feel a warm flush. This isn’t necessarily sexual (though the context of when she says it makes a difference).

Here’s an example. As I said in my previous post (which, by the way, I’m really not that happy with – they can’t all be winners), Belle offered to let me out of the device so I could enjoy the cock being played with, but only if I got all the laundry done on Saturday. That was a lot of laundry. It took hours. But, when we were in bed and she had unlocked me and she was petting the cock and telling me what a good job I had done and how I had earned the time out…Jesus! I was over-the-moon kind of happy. Maybe one of the most satisfying few moments of our entire D/s adventure thus far. I felt totally beholden to her. I felt so happy that she appreciated my work. I felt totally and completely under her control. It was awesome.

Unlike Tom writing in general about service and not getting in the slightest turned on by it, my writing the previous paragraph has left me with a seriously full tube. So he doesn’t work that way. Whatever. Does that mean he’s not a “real” submissive? Fuck if I know. Honestly, who cares? I feel kind of the same way about the sissified guys out there who want to be put in panties and frilly little dresses as he does about service. Does that mean I’m not submissive? Or they’re not? Or they are, but too much?

As long as, at the end of the day, we’re all healthy and happy, then we’re Doing It Right. Call it whatever you want.

P.S. I apologize for the lame post title, but after all that, I couldn’t come up with anything pithy. It happens to all guys sooner or later…or so I’m told.

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Zoning

I am, right now, this second, totally in the zone. I’m feeling controlled, horny, and submissive. Belle asked me why and I told her I had no idea. After some thinking it over, I actually have a few thoughts…

  • I haven’t had a real orgasm in five weeks. I know, I had a kind of a thing a couple of weeks ago, but I’m not counting that. There was an emission, but no orgasm. An actual toe curling pleasure squirt has not come out of me since January (though the last time she allowed me to come was on Valentine’s Day). It may not be en vougue to admit it, but being denied and encased can contribute to my subbie vibe.
  • Belle’s exerting her control pretty well right now. Bossing me around, expecting me to serve and obey, etc. She just got her period which means she’s really not feeling like being pawed all over, but last night I was pretty much begging her to be let out so I could play with the cock and she told me no. She did say, though, that if I managed to finish all the laundry today she’d let me out for a little edging tonight. It feels good to be managed. Powerless.
  • Belle’s totally on board with the 100 days thing. She won’t give me permission to come until a hundred days from the 1st of March. I was already a few weeks into being denied when she picked that date as the start of the 100 days, so technically it’ll be more than that when, on June 8th, I’ll have permission. We’ll see if I can make it that long. In any event, the challenge is invigorating.
  • All that, plus she obviously enjoys leaving me in the device continuously. She strokes its surface and comments how smooth it is, tells me how sexy and sleek it looks – better than what it contains. And she’s not just saying that for my benefit. She means it. I am now essentially a permanently chastised man, only let out when she wants to use me, and that’s fucking awesome.

*happy*

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Random updates

My blogging performance has been substandard of late, so here’s a few random nuggets of information to get my wheels turning again…

—

I got the replacement lock to the Steelheart yesterday. This time, I noticed that Dietmar rounded the sharp brass edges before he sent it. Not sure if this is a change he made based on my review (or comments like it) or if the first one I got was an anomaly, but I was pleased to see the change. I’m also pleased now to be wearing a lock with two keys! Belle changed it out last night.

—

During the week she let me out of the device, there was a morning where my sexual appetite combined with the free erection caused me to snuggle aggressively into Belle. She, wanting to sleep a bit more, kinda rolled over and placed her hand directly onto the hard cock. And then fell back to sleep. Her breathing was deep and regular while mine was more shallow and quick while, for a relatively long time (like, twenty minutes), her hand just sat there and the cock underneath would soften slightly then harden again, over and over. I’d flex it just a little to get more stimulation, but I was afraid if I did it too much her hand would have rolled off of she would have turned over or something. It was torture. But, you know, I’m not complaining.

—

Belle had told me she was going to lock me back up on a Sunday, but the Sunday rolled around and nothing happened. Then, she said it would be Monday, but similarly, Monday night saw no locking. It’s not that I was anxious to be locked back up (after about a week, I like the freedom), but her laissez-faire attitude left me feeling a little anxious. When she doesn’t act decisive in her control – when she appears to not take it seriously – it tends to make me feel more insecure and unhappy. I know this is more my issue than hers, but I can’t control how I feel. I shared with her this observation and she had me in the device the next morning.

—

She fucked me just once during my time out and it resulted in an unauthorized emission. I’m not calling it an orgasm because I fought it really hard and clamped down when it started and basically ruined the whole thing (based on the fact that it didn’t feel like an orgasm afterward). I made it right up to the end when she was coming and I thought I was home free. Letting my attention wander for just a split second let it happen.

In any event, I was yet again disappointed in myself for not being able to better control my autonomic functions. The night before, she had said she was going to make me wait a hundred days for my next orgasm and there I was 24 hours later having a barely-controlled squirt that was about as close to an orgasm as a guy can get without actually going over the falls. This led us, more than a week later, to talk about our differing feelings about these events. On the one hand, she just wants to fuck her cock. It’s what she wants and she doesn’t really care what happens as a result of her getting it. I understand that and respect it. On the other hand, I’m not supposed to come and when I do (or get as dangerously close as I did that night), she doesn’t seem to care. There’s next to no consequences and most of the time she doesn’t even say that much about it. Just like not seeming to care when I’m locked up, not seeming to care one way or the other if I come makes me feel like I take this more seriously than she does. This is a difficult place for my inner submissive rabbit to occupy.

I’m not sure we have a solution, but at least we’re talking about it. I feel just as bad suggesting she shouldn’t get her cock when she wants it. I don’t want to deny her anything, let alone the thing I gave her to do with what she wants. Maybe it’s a question of defining consequences so when I fail to control myself, I still feel dominated as opposed to sneaking in a freebee.

I guess the bottom like is I need to feel like she wants to dominate me at least as much as I want to me dominated. This hardly makes me unique. I’m not questioning that she enjoys our dynamic. In fact, she told me the other night she never wants to go back to the way things used to be. Either I need to be in a place where I more consistently accept the way she approaches her end of the deal or she needs to make a few tweaks around the edges (or maybe a little of both).

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Double punishment

It’s late. I should be asleep.

Last night, I forgot to make Belle’s coffee so this morning she had to wait for it. I got up as soon as she told me, but still, she didn’t get her first cup until after her shower. Tonight, she told me I would be punished.

After the kids were down and out, she told me to take my clothes off like she does every night. I got up, stripped, and started to get back in when she stopped me. I hadn’t asked permission. Then, she showed me the tube of Icy Hot. I immediately started to whimper and whine. I told her how sorry I was for forgetting the coffee, that tomorrow’s was already set up, that I wouldn’t forget again. Didn’t matter. She already had a dollop of white paste on her fingertips.

I knelt on the bed and she reached under me. I felt her smear the greasy, cold liniment across my scrotum, stretched firm by the stainless steel chastity device. She laid back and opened her arms, inviting me in. I placed my head against her chest, still waiting for the first blast of heat. Once it hit, setting my balls on fire, I started to pull away but she held me close to her, face smothered in her breasts. I moaned, panted, and writhed the best I could, but she held me tight. One wave of fire would subside to be replaced by another, each time she held me firm and unable to move. Eventually, the waves of pain started to recede more quickly and crest a little lower each time, though the effects of the Icy Hot continued to linger.

She let me go, and I got back on my knees, legs spread, face to the mattress, letting my tender balls hang in the cool air. I cradled them and probed them with my fingers. Poor little things. It wasn’t their fault I forgot to make the coffee.

“Where’s Pink?” she asked.

“In my drawer,” I said, “but I’m afraid to use it on you. I have Icy Hot on my hands…”

“Get her out.”

I reached into my drawer and handled the little pink vibe as lightly as possible. “Give it to me,” she said, holding out her right hand. She had used her left to apply the Icy Hot.

The vibe disappeared with her hand under the covers and I heard the low thrum of the vibe’s motor kick in. I moaned some more. It had been days since Belle allowed me to pleasure her and I felt the need badly, especially after my punishment. I put my mouth on her shirt over her nipple.

“Did you ask?” she said sharply.

I retreated, still on my knees, sore sack suspended, and pressed my ear against her so I could hear the vibe better. The sound of its thrumming rose and fell as it slid it in an out of her. I could see it in my mind, wet with her juices, parting her full, pink labia, pressing against her clit. I wanted to feel it myself so badly, to press my mouth against her, to lick her soft folds.

“Please, can I do something?” I asked. She said nothing. Her head was back, jaw sharply defined in the candlelight, lips parted. She ignored me.

The rise and fall of the vibe’s motor increased its rhythm and Belle’s hips started to gyrate next to me. I closed my eyes and imagined how it would all feel under my hand, vibrations running up my wet fingers, her nipples hard in my mouth. The stainless tube was now filled and the tightness of the meat caused the Icy Hot to flare back to life. My crotch was on fire as she came quietly.

After a few moments of basking, she wordlessly handed me the warm vibrator. I replaced it in my drawer and she turned over, already half asleep.

And that’s why I’m here now, writing it all down for you.