Tag: FLR

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Subbing from on top

Pursuant to my previous post, Belle now says I will lose “privileges” if my performance is sub-par. Still feels a little squishy, but I’m guessing she’ll be judging how I well I’m completing certain tasks and, at some point, there’ll be an accounting. Kinda gets into that whole “how do you punish a masochist” quandary, but I’m sure we can come up with some ideas.

Yesterday evening, I asked if I could suggest something. According to the Covenant, I can’t ask for sex, so this was my way of asking her for permission to break the rules a little. She said it was OK so I suggested, since she’s such a big fan of the cock, that she let it out for a little while so she could ride it to orgasm. We’re now fairly certain my last orgasm was on 4/26, about two and a half weeks ago, so I’m not so far gone that I’m trying to find any way I can to come, but the idea of getting the dick wet is very appealing to me. My desire to pleasure her is rising and I can’t think of any more intense way to do that than penetrative intercourse. Anyway, she said she’d take it under advisement.

Later in the evening, as we lay in bed and she was instructing me where and how she wanted to be stroked and petted (affectionately, pleasantly, non-sexually), she said I would be allowed to pleasure her. In fact, she was going to give me free reign to make her come in any way I wanted…

*SCORE!*

…as long as I kept the device locked to the meat.

*FAIL!*

The cruelty of this flipped over in my chest again and again as my fevered brain tried to find the loophole that wasn’t there. I removed our clothes and mounted her as if I wasn’t locked and the feeling of her skin against mine, all up and down our bodies, instantly flooded me with the desire to fuck her. Yes, of course I wanted to do that anyway, but when you’re locked and denied and know you can’t fuck your sexual desire becomes free-floating and abstract (which is how it attaches to things like body service, housework, and her orgasms). Now, in this familiar position with a brick-hard yet trapped erection, I wanted to, very specifically, fuck her living brains out. I pressed the tube of the CB6K to her open snatch, feeling her wet heat through the little bubble of flesh that presses out of the slot in the end yet totally unable to feel anything else except intense pressure. I rubbed the tube against her clit, making it wet with her juices. I wanted to grind it into her, but feared the lock and protrusion of the posts would hurt her. Regardless, my hips moved on their own as if I was entering her. This was the first time I had ever been in that position, making those motions yet receiving no physical sensation. I nearly swooned from the intensity of my arousal. The desire to bite her was hard to contain.

I finally backed off and buried my face in her pussy. I licked, lapped, and sucked her soft, wet folds until the entire lower half of my face was covered in her juices and they were running down my chin. Then, I moved my mouth up to her tits and used my fingers down below. I fucked her with one, two, then three fingers while she spread her legs wider and wider, wanting to feel more and more of my hand inside her. She lay there, on the brink of ecstasy and milking every bit of pleasure she could from what I was doing, while my balls were made painfully tight by the plastic cage pulling up and away from my body by its swollen prisoner.

She came hard over several minutes, then just laid there, eyes closed, face turned away from me, basking. I remained on top of her, vibrating with desire for her and wishing, now more ever before, that she’d let me fuck her with a strap-on. I know she’d like it. I know she would. And being so close to the mindfuck that chastised intercourse would be reinforced to me how much I’d like it. All I can imagine is she’s denying us this in order to deny me the sensation. I know she’s got a thing against objects in our lovemaking, but she felt the same way before the vibrator showed up and now she loves it. She’d love the strap-on after she tried it, too. I know I’m not supposed to lobby about such things – that she’s in total control of our sex – but, goddammit, I’m lobbying hard for this. She’ll have to punish me to shut me up. It just seems so obvious to me.

When it was all done and I was spooning into her, feeling the lust within me devour itself yet again, she said she might let me come sometime around Memorial Day. That’d be pretty close to a solid month since the last time and the longest she’s made me wait to date. If she keeps me locked up until then, that would also be close to a record. The fucked up part is me thinking that Memorial Day is dangerously close to the end of the month. The competitive, obsessive part of me wants to see what it’d be like not to come for a whole month – to sail through May without any kind of orgasmic release and to be locked up for four solid weeks. The remaining 98% of me, though, thinks that’s insanity and wishes it could figure out how to kick the ass of that annoying, overachieving 2% dickwad.

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News flash

So, according to CNN, women think it’s sexy for men to do housework! What’s more, men who do more housework get more sex than men who don’t.

Let me just roll that around in my head for a minute. Guys who do housework get to have more orgasms than those who don’t…but I’m doing more housework than ever yet coming less and less. Hmm. [stroking chin] What’s that all about? Oh, yeah! I’m a freak. Gotcha.

Of course, it’s not just about the sex and, obviously to me now, “sex” can be defined in ways than a lot of men can’t imagine, but the thrust of the article remains that there is a connection in a woman’s mind between seeing her man do domestic work and her desire to fuck him. If most women are prewired that way, then does that mean most women are at least somewhat predisposed to accept an FLR-type relationship? My observation of Belle supports the article’s premise, though Belle’s not in it for the whole “FL” thing. She’s not a natural dominant (at least when it comes to me). Even though my list of required duties is well-defined, she’ll still do some of them for me. I totally get the positive connection between housework and sex, but to take that up to the next level (a level – unsurprisingly – never even hinted at in the CNN article), she’d have to expect me to do those things.

I’m not complaining or anything. I’m just observing. And wondering how to integrate the concept of “shared responsibility” into a Dom/sub dynamic. I’m supposed to keep the dishes clean, but I heard her this morning doing them while I was still in bed. It made me feel good that I didn’t have to do them, but then I also felt bad and conflicted because I was supposed to do them – and knew there’d be no negative repercussion of her feeling the need to do them instead.

If the consequences of me not performing my duties is Belle eventually doing them for me, then what’s changed? And how do I, the supposed submissive partner, stay motivated in the face of that? I think there needs to be a hard line around the things I’m really, truly supposed to do and some kind of negative consequence for not performing those duties to her satisfaction. I feel like I need that kind of structure and definition.

In the mean time, I’m just happy she’s happy and, as confirmed by CNN, really does get turned on watching me clean the counters.

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Focus-pocus

Here’s one for you. I can’t remember when my last orgasm was. It was either April 28 or May 2. Maybe Belle will remember. In either event, it’s been a while and I can feel it. [UPDATE: Turns out, she can’t remember, either. Glad it’s so important that neither of us can remember the last time it happened. (Insert little eye-rolling emoticon here)]

Saturday night, I really wanted some action. My daughter had a friend over for a sleep-over so Belle was disinclined to do anything athletic (and didn’t even let me sleep naked). In the past, I might have pressed my luck and gotten annoying. The desire was sitting there, just beneath the surface in the middle of my chest, but I felt very much controlled and calm. She wasn’t being particularly dommy or anything, but nonetheless, I kept my hands to myself. It was a nice feeling, knowing that I really badly wanted to make a move but respecting the line we’ve constructed. I didn’t cross it and was pretty happy with my myself.

But just as we were drifting toward that zone where the lights go out and we go to sleep, she asked for a quick, stealthy orgasm. Of course, I was immediately engaged and, with the help of Pink the vibe, got her off as efficiently as possible. What I liked about that was, since I wasn’t pushing, she had asked for the orgasm purely out of her own indulgent desire. This wasn’t about making me happy or anything. It was all about her wanting a lil’ sumthin’ before going to bed. All I got out of the deal was her thanks and little kiss (which, of course, was A LOT).

Last night, similar situation, except this time I slipped. My hand absentmindedly found her nipple through her shirt and was swirling around it making it stand up. She said she wasn’t in the mood for anything like that and I immediately felt bad – much worse than I really should have. Apparently, I’m only capable of maintaining my subby exterior when actively concentrating on it. I felt a little ashamed and more than little disappointed in myself for slipping in such a small yet egregious way.

After the mishap, I asked her if she was happy. If she liked the arrangement we were living under. If I was doing a good job or if I could, in any way, do a better job. You know, typical submissive angst. She, of course, said everything was great. That I was great. That I was doing a great job, etc. But I know I could do better. I know there are more things I could do for her and that I’m not always as timely in doing the things she’s already put on me. But, she’s very sweet and probably thought I was fishing for compliments or something.

A week or so ago, she told me I wasn’t going to come before Memorial Day. Last night, I asked her how far she thought I could go. While talking about it, she admited to letting me have orgasms in the past when I become difficult to maintain. She recognizes the line where, once crossed, it’s just easier for her to let me squirt than it is to deal with my elevated hormones. Being in that sweet spot at the moment where I can still deal with my hormones but also am approaching the peak of my desire to serve her, I hear that as a failure on my part. At some point (that she’s recognized but I haven’t) my focus slips. Just like my fingers accidentially finding her nipple and touching it in a way they shouldn’t have, I lose a necessary level of control over myself.

In any event, Memorial Day is still two weeks away. Part of me wants her to keep pushing me well into June so I can demonstrate better self-control. I’m in that weird, headspacey placy where I want to be denied, denied, and denied some more. Oh, and locked up. Like, for a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she’s a better judge of these things. I think I’ll just do what I have said I’d do: let go and let her decide.

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Nuts!

Even now, after Belle and I have done so many things with (and to) one another over the past six months or so, I still find it difficult to tell her about some new perversion lurking deep down in my nether-psyche. There’s still a layer of embarrassment mixed with vulnerability mixed with guilt that gets dredged up alongside the revelation. No, there aren’t too many things out there that are actually new (as opposed to variations on already established themes), but even taking something we already do at one level up to the next is hard for me to talk to her about.

While I was on my trip, during the evening I couldn’t sleep, while looking at too much porn and struggling with the fact that I couldn’t relive my surging desire while simultaneously unable to stop building on that desire by looking at the fucking porn, I found myself more and more desperate for some kind of sensation.1 Had I the appropriate tools, I’d have probably gone after my ass since it can provide me with a lot of sensation. But I didn’t have the appropriate tools and nothing at hand I could press into service. All I had was my brain, my hands…and my balls.

In the past, I’ve found pleasure in the sensation of having my balls squeezed and pulled or even stung by Belle’s little flogger. Enough that I could see, through the crack of the door, that there was a larger room back there. A deeper desire for testicular torment. I suppose one could make the argument that enforced chastity is, in itself, a form of extended cock and ball torture, so it’s not much of a stretch to think someone who gets off on that would get off on other forms of CBT.

*smack* *whack* *THWACK* (Yes, it was just like an episode of Batman.)

I started smacking them around. Gently at first, but later with more force. Testicular pain is, as any guy can attest, unique. I’m not aware of any other part of the body being able to generate the same kind of sensation. Plus, it’s form changes as it becomes more intense. Low levels of force create small, localized ripples that can make you jump but are over as soon as they come into being. Ratchet up the force, and you’ll find yourself experiencing pain that reverberates through your whole body. It will radiate out of the testes, flood from head to toe, and quickly coalesce into an aching, cramping pool in the pit of your gut where it lingers. This is not the surface pain of being flogged or spanked. This is interior pain. This is reaching deep inside, to the center of one’s being, and making it hurt.

All the plastic in the area complicated the vector of attack, but also did a good job of keeping the targets together and vulnerably positioned. I found that, even in the middle of a series of steadily building smacks on either side and the resulting waves of pain crashing over me in quick succession, that I wanted it harder, more painful. Each time, after a dozen or so strikes, I’d end with a hit as hard as I could possibly bring myself to use. Then, I’d writhe on the bed, doubled over, holding gently the objects of my torment, and absolutely luxuriating in the sensation. Once the pain had fully retreated, I’d crave it all over again. Really, I craved it. I could not get enough.

I also found a certain amount of psychological interest in doing this. The idea that I would actively inflict pain on the one part of my body I’ve always been conditioned to protect – to exploit the most potent of all a man’s physical vulnerabilities – was incredibly stimulating. I was pushing myself to find my limit, to hit my most delicate body parts harder and harder each time. I’m not sure I found that limit. Each time I ended with a harder smack than the last time (and suffered through the resulting torment), but never found one that went too far, that hurt too much. In way, it was kind of scary.2

Eventually, I had to stop. The abuse had left my balls swollen, flushed with color, and aching. They ached all the next day, but not in a way that made me sorry I had done it. On the contrary, the lingering pain left me desirous of the time I’d be able to do it all over again.

And that led me to last night when I finally found the intestinal fortitude to tell Belle that I wanted her to hit my balls. I felt very vulnerable and even embarrassed. She took it in stride, though, and did her best to make me feel at ease for telling her. But then I went further and told her I was also fixated on crushing them using a physical device (like maybe this, or that – but don’t even get me started on this admittedly non-crushing yet still deliciously evil thing *swoon*).

At this, she balked. Belle’s got this thing about bringing objects into the mix of our sex (which is hard to avoid when playing with BDSM). She continues to deal with it to this day. I don’t think she’s entirely comfortable with the cuffs and straps, etc., involved in bondage and flogging. She’s resisted the introduction of a strap-on for me to use on her saying she prefers the real thing (which is sweet) even though she’s never had a high quality dildo inside her and certainly not while it was strapped to my bucking hips. She hardly ever even puts me in my collar.3

Also, there was a tone in her voice that she meant to be playful, but I heard as bordering on teasing or mocking. Not only didn’t she want to add any more accoutrement to our portfolio, but she seemed a little squicked-out by the whole crushing thing. That sent me into an immediate subby tailspin. I closed my eyes, unable to look at her.

Luckily, we worked it out. As usual, “working it out” means I gave in. Hitting, slapping, punching the testes is OK, crushing them will not happen. I have to admit that I’m not sure how I’ll approach the next revelation regarding my ever-evolving perversions. I know I need to communicate and tell her what I’m thinking and what I want, but I still fear being judged by her. It’s still very hard to unearth and expose these things that have always festered secretly inside me. I can’t say this experience helped me get past that issue, but I’m sure it was the right thing to do and a step in the right direction.

I don’t know. As long as she occasionally punches me in the balls, I’m sure it’ll all work out for the best.

—

1 Desperately seeking an alternative to orgasmic release is, for me, one of the signature components of denial. It’s what leads me to find sexual satisfaction in her orgasms and powers my desire to serve her. It also leads me to try or imagine things I wouldn’t have otherwise. ↩

2 I know, I know. This is potentially dangerous stuff. Don’t worry, I have a pretty good resource and am aware of the potential issues. ↩

3 All that said, she sure does like her vibrator, doesn’t she? 😉 ↩

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Going down

Earlier, in the kitchen, I was kissing Belle in that endearing, pathetically horny way I have when I whispered that I needed to do something for her tonight. Mind you, I wasn’t asking for sex because I’m not allowed to do that. Rather, I simply had the urge to service her in a direct way (as opposed to the indirect ways around the house, etc.)

Once in bed, she told me she was going to let me rub her feet with lotion, but that I had to take my clothes off first since it was much hotter for her that way (and, you know, I hate being naked around her). I got the lotion, dropped trou, and straddled her legs to get better leverage. I try to go about about 10 minutes per foot and found that half way through the first one that I was getting a light sheen of sweat all over my body from the effort. She commented on it. I’m sure I was glistening well in the candlelight.

Once the feet were soft and rubbed, I wiped the sweat from my forehead and rejoined her at the head of the bed (though, I’m careful to be lower in the bed than she is so I’m always looking up and she’s always looking down). I then received the very happy news that she was going to let me give her an orgasm. Normally, I’d ask how she wanted it, but I really wanted to go down on her so I neglected to request direction. That’s possibly a violation of the spirit of our Covenant (going for what I wanted sexually) and she can punish me for it once she reads this if she wants, but it turned out pretty well for both of us.

I warmed her up a bit in the usual manner with my hands in her snatch and my mouth on her nipples before diving in. Half the pleasure of going down there is to bask in her scent. The denial amplifies the phermonal effects (or something). Even as I write this, I can still smell it on my face and hands and it’s wonderful. There’s something very primal about rutting around in your mate’s scent. I feel marked.

Anyway, I was lapping her up and sucking on her clit while fingering her and really having a good time. However, I sensed somehow that it wasn’t really heading in the direction she wanted. Not sure what that’s about, but I’m so attuned to her sexual pleasure now, I think I just picked up on a vibe or something. I assumed a more typical approach (mouth on nipples, fingers in snatch) which seemed to be having a more salutary effect when I heard those magic words every locked ‘n denied boy both craves and fears:

“Get the key.”

No questions, no delay, I hopped right up and got her key. She unlocked me, then pushed me gently onto my back. The tube was difficult to get off since the cock was semihard, but not hard enough to penetrate her. She stroked her property for a few seconds (in and of itself, sheer heaven) before mounting me. I tried like hell to focus all my attention on her tits while she rode up and down on the cock. I really really really didn’t want to come accidentally. I could tell by her manner that this wasn’t going to be one of those mutually satisfying occasions.

Happily, she came well while I was able to keep my own climax at bay. While she laid on top of me, basking, I flexed the cock, half in and half out, and generally enjoyed what I could in the few moments of wet pussy time I had left. As she rolled off, the cock plopped out and sprang up, fully and (now uselessly) erect. She redressed herself and got up to use the bathroom leaving the hard cock and I alone in the same room together.

I assumed she wanted me back in the device (since it’s normally my job to put the sex toys away when she’s done with them) but she told me to leave it out for the night and to clean it up in the morning before putting it away. Then she rolled over and went to sleep, but not before I thanked her for the opportunity to service her and the free night.

Unfortunately, the cock flopping around has left me distracted and unable to go to sleep. Hence this post. She’s been asleep for hours but I’m wide awake being kept company by my restless, unfettered little friend.

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Active denial

Can’t sleep. Gee, wonder why. Maybe it’s because I sat in my room for hours looking at and reading porn without the ability to do anything about it. *sigh*

How’s it going in there, little dude? Cramped? No answer.

Anyway, since I’m not going to be sleeping any time soon, I thought I’d take a moment to define a term I’ve used several times here and with Belle. A term I’ve defined for her in person, but never in writing (at least, I don’t think I have).

To me, “active denial” is when she’s not letting me come but is doing all she reasonably can to ensure I’m as horny as possible as often as possible. This can be accomplished in several ways. If I’m really around the bend, simply letting me rub her feet can do it. Obviously, any time she lets me sexually pleasure her does the trick. Giving me a list of tasks to perform while she watches with her glass of wine on the couch can be good, too. These are the sort of “passive” ways she can actively deny me. The other ways would be to touch, tease, torture, or otherwise abuse my body. These can be doubled up like when she rides her cock to orgasm but doesn’t let me follow. That’s a twofer since I know how much she likes her cock and I get to feel her climax with my whole body, but I’m left hard and wanting when it’s over. In fact, any time I get to curl into her at bedtime with a hard, fat erection while she drifts off to sleep is good stuff. The other thing she can do to “actively” deny me is to simply talk to me. To tell me things like how horny I must be and how unfortunate it is that nothing’s going to be done about that. Or how hot it makes her seeing me perform household tasks driven by my deprived state’s desire to make her happy.

It does seem to be something of an oxymoron (how can you actively not do something?), but to me, it’s the opposite of just denying me access to any kind of sexual engagement. Locking me up and then not keeping me on edge and horny would be cruel. Locking me up while keeping the arousal stoked and glowing is the nicest thing she could ever do for me and makes being locked up not just bearable, but also enjoyable.

Well, that didn’t eat up as much time as I thought it would. Damn.

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Both sides

A cool post over on Outside Vanilla that is rare in that it contains both sides of the conversation. The original post, by MyKey (the denied dude), and a comment by who I can only assume is his female dominant, Sandy.

From MyKey:

If I didnt *really* enjoy it on some level she would not be doing it this way. But she knows full well that its a love hate thing, I do want to cum, I do hate the riding crop, and yet she will push these things further than I would go, for her own enjoyment. And that makes it so much hotter for me, her kink feeds my kink, her dominance feeds my submission…

And from Sandy:

It’s just so much fun, but it really is that much fun because of the feedback and connection it gives us. I’m not sure if this part of me is here to stay, but I already know it would be very difficult to go back to a more equal relationship.

Go read the whole post. Not only is it cool to see both sides of the coin, it’s also more than a little hot.

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000667

I’m on my business trip. The one that will keep me from home for three days. Belle had previously said she wanted me locked up while I was away, but she neglected to specifically order me into the device this morning before she left. I seriously considered not putting it on for a while. It would be so much easier, I thought, to sit in a plane for a few hours and get up and speak in front of hundreds of people if I didn’t have a fucking plastic tube locked on me. Since she hadn’t said to put it on, maybe she had a change of heart.

travel2_export
Inmate 000667 in solitary confinement

I knew what she wanted, though. I also knew, considering my porn/masturbation habits while in bland corporate hotel rooms, that I’d minimally be edging myself pretty much nonstop. I also knew that eventually my hormone-addled brain would find a way to sabotage my best intentions and I’d find myself covered in hot, pungent spunk. So I put myself in the device and snapped plastic lock 000667 into place. You can see it there in my mug shot on the right if you want proof (kinda blurry since I took it with my phone).

The thing is, I’m pretty sure I’d have blown it already had I not been locked away. Belle allowed me to bring her to orgasm with the vibrator last night and then let me spend about 10 minutes beating off…I really, really wish I could be doing it again right now.

Before that, Belle and I talked about the “week off” we just went through. It was a full week off since, besides the three orgasms she let me have at the B&B, she also let me come inside her Saturday morning (which I didn’t really expect). Thing is, it wasn’t all that great of a week, from my perspective. Yeah, I liked the spurting, but I actually missed the feelings that come from being denied by Belle. I like the kind of mate I am when I don’t come (either by my own hand or while having sex with her). I’m not as attentive to her needs and my timely contributions to the housework suffers. I’m not an asshole or anything, but I can totally see how I’m different and I don’t really like it.

It’s interesting to me how simple it is to fuck with millions of years of evolutionary programming. My inclination, when having “normal” levels of sexual release, is to be more self-interested and less aware of her and her needs. In the past, my interest in courting her was directly related to how badly I wanted in her pants. But it was always fleeting. Once I got what I wanted, things would go back to normal which all too often meant she carried too much of the household load and my interest in TV was greater than my interest in her. I am not unique. I suspect that the vast majority of men are like I was. To reverse all that behavior, all it takes is to move control over my sexual release to her. That simple little thing, and I’m all about her all of the time, constantly looking for ways to make her happy, which in turn, makes me happy. Happier than I am when I can come whenever I want.

The change in me is so profound, I’m sure it leads her to question a few things (at least it raises questions for me). Like why should she have to do this to make me a better mate? After considering it for a while, I think all we’re doing is exploiting how the male brain works. We’re basically tricking my brain into engaging a prolonged and heightened “courtship mode” – not unlike how it was operating at the very beginning of our relationship – by withholding its ability to do the one thing reptilian male brains were programmed to do: spread the seed. So it’s still me, still my feelings about her at work, but amplified. At the end of the day, I don’t ever want Belle to feel guilty for denying me. I don’t want her to feel as though she’s being unfair or mean to me. As I said, I like how it feels. Perversely, the more she lets me pleasure her while I’m denied, the closer I get to her. If she let me fuck her to orgasm five times a week, I’d find it easier to drift away from her. That’s irony.

Personally, I think we’ve stumbled upon the secret to a happy relationship. I think everyone should be doing it.

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I want

We leave today for our three-day, two-night, adults-only trip to the charming B&B next to a river in the boonies somewhere. Apparently, there are things to do around the B&B, but I don’t care. If it were up to me, we’d never leave the room and stay naked the entire time. It would be hour after hour of debauchery and dirty, nasty sex punctuated with occasional beatings (and maybe some sleep).

Belle has been keeping me on a pretty short leash. It’s been days since I’ve been allowed to have sexual contact and last night she told me that was on purpose. She says I need to become stronger. More motivated to see to her pleasure. That’s why she only let me massage her feet, even though she had made enough comments during the day as to my obviously desperate state to lead me to hope I’d get some action (which, of course, is code for “she gets some action”). I rubbed with abandon. At one point, I was practically masturbating her feet.

I feel as though the cock’s hard all the time now. I’m so desperate for any kind of sexual or even sensual contact and she knows it and does nothing about it. I can’t give her just a peck. When she’s near me, I want to give her deep, reaching soul kisses and I find my hands on her tits and migrating south to rub her mound through her clothes. I can feel the static sexual charge crackling up and down my spine.

This afternoon, when we’re in the room, I’d want her to tie me up and hit me. Besides the sex, I’m craving pain. I want to be tied up, hit with various objects, have my nipples clamped cruelly, the cock slapped, my balls squeezed and crushed. Oh, Jesus, I almost want to be hurt more than I want the sex. It’s been so long. I want to be tortured and used and abused. I want her to tie me up and then sit on my face until she comes. I want her to ride her cock to orgasm, but every time I get close to coming, I want her to slap my face or reach back and crush my balls. I want her to cuff me and leave me that way all night. I want to be collared. Oh god, do I want to be collared.

Then, of course, there’s my ass. Whenever I’m like this and locked-up for a while, my ass (which, for me, is a valid and available sexual organ) beckons – “Always open!” it says helpfully. She’d never do it, but I’d also like her to violate my ass while I’m tied to the bed. If we had a gag, I’d want her to put it on me so I couldn’t complain or tell her to stop (note to self: get gag). I want my ass pounded, fast – really fast – and hard until my prostate sings and my entire body burns with the feeling of it.

Can you tell? Can you tell how surreally horny I am?

But, when it’s over, when all the reservoirs of frustration are drained and I come off my hormonal high and back to earth, I just want to fuck her. I want to fuck and fuck and fuck her in the sweetest way. I want to be in her body like when we first started to date. And then I want to take a week off from all this. I want to be able to come on to her like any other man can with his wife. I want to have normal, vanilla sex a half dozen times just so the sturm und drang of denial leaves the memory of my body and my Belle gets to be just my wife for a little while.

And once that’s done, I want her to tie me, beat me, and lock me because where I am right now – seathing in my own sex – really isn’t such a bad place to be after all.

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In the temple

I’m wiping down the counter top last night and Belle tells me the combination of the smell of the stuff I’m using and the visual of me actually doing it in front of her of gets her motor running. That wasn’t her term – “gets her motor running” – but it’s my interpretation. And, of course, hearing that gave me the familiar tubal pressure. Not that I needed the extra stimulation. I’m really fucking horny now and bobbing around nicely in my pool of sub energy (if you want to imagine me in water wings and goggles, feel free). I’m no longer pushing myself to serve her and now find that need pushing me. This was evidenced by my attitude later that night in bed.

At some point, and for a reason I can’t recall, she suggested, as we lay there, that I was disappointed about something related to what we were doing (or were about to do). Quite the contrary, I said, I was not disappointed. Not at all. Yes, I badly wanted to feel her pleasure at the end of my fingers or tongue – my sexual arousal having achieved its cruising altitude sometime that day – but I reiterated that sex is for her, not me. Whatever she wants, she gets. What I want should be immaterial. Honesty, there’s no other way for me to operate when I’m this horny. That’s the one huge lesson I’ve learned in the past few months. If you’re going to be denied, you’re fucking well denied and cannot attempt to make it otherwise. To do so is to work counter to the entire paradigm of her control. In any event, I assured her I wasn’t at all disappointed. I actually felt very calm inside and was prepared for whatever she decided she wanted to do.

Happily, she wanted to come. We groped and kissed for a little bit (that is, I groped – she had her arms around me, but that’s about it) before she made the motion I’ve grown to love. She simply lays back, spreading her arms and legs, in a position that says quite clearly, “Pleasure me.” Fucking hell, unleash the hounds! After a few minutes of nipple sucking and clit fingering, she started talking. That’s somewhat unusual in itself, but even more so in that she was describing a fantasy scene in which she was a goddess laying in her pillared temple and I was a warrior chosen from many as the only one worthy and able to bring her to climax. In a remarkable parallel to how it actually feels to me when she allows me that kind of access, she said the orgasm I was bringing into being was how she wanted to be worshiped. I found the whole scenario to be pretty fucking hot so, when she asked, “Are you hard?” I could barely squeak out a muffled, “Uh-hurmph!” through my mouthful of nipple. Hell yeah, I was hard. The CB6K was biting with unforgiving ferocity.

It became clear, though, that my fingers weren’t going to be sufficient to the job at hand. I realized she wasn’t really climbing the mountain, regardless of how I fingered her. She brought out Pink to finish the job, but didn’t hand it to me (as I thought she would), instead going to work on herself with it. Now I was disappointed, but I didn’t say anything and instead redoubled my work on her tits. I could hear the little vibe go in and out of her wet pussy and the fact that it wasn’t me using it caused my desire to ache in its confinement. She brought herself to climax and roughly pushed me off her breast immediately afterward. She was done and didn’t need my mouth on her anymore. All I could do was gather her in my arms and hold her as she basked in the afterglow, my own arousal feeding-back and eating itself. That’s the moment of the unorgasm, the cresting and washing back of unfulfilled and unneeded desire that, regardless, leaves the tide of arousal just a little bit higher after it passes than before.

The night that followed was restless for me. I wanted to have contact with her and repeatedly put my arms around her, but then found myself aroused to such an extent that the straining meat between my legs hurt and I couldn’t fall asleep. Turning over in the other direction, all I could do was think about how badly I wanted her. These weren’t random sexual thoughts. They were about her. I wanted her pussy again, either under my fingers, in my mouth, or surrounding the cock. Unsurprisingly, it never happened.