Tag: FLR

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Back off, rabbit

If I look back on my sexual history over the last decade or so, I’d say the one area that could use some improvement that consistently shows up is that I’m far too…um, enthusiastic. Which, in and of itself, is one thing but when you combine that with a larger than normal visibility due to a platform such as this blog where I get to prattle on in front of thousands of eyeballs, it all gets out of control. I just get carried away. Part of that is because I’m constantly stewing in my own frustration and that causes me to perhaps make less defendable choices, but part of it is just how I am.

After yesterday’s post about the Facebook messages between Belle and TOG and whether I should read them following Belle’s offer to let me do so, I started to feel like I was doing it again. Yes, I still really want to read those messages, but no, I’m not going to. Partly because I decided it was too intrusive to Belle and her potential relationship with TOG and partly because the ethics of doing so are a little shaky but mostly because Belle decided it was too much. TOG is a thing that is happening to her, not me. She needs to be able to maintain a sphere of privacy and freedom and giving me such an unfettered view into her interactions with TOG totally punctures that. So yeah, that offer is now off the table.

I’m also going to try and get myself under control with regards to how much I talk about she and he. To be sure, things are not settled there and anything can happen. They may decide the emotional risk is too great for him if they became involved. He may freak out and ghost her. Things might just peter out as they sometimes do between people. If I make too big of a deal here and, because the prospect of it leaves me so fucking exited, then it starts to kind of hang a cloud over the whole thing. Because I write about it and because there will be comments or whatever, me and my take on what’s happening become too important. The gravitational influence starts to change the natural trajectory of the thing. It’s unfair to Belle and, I guess, TOG (though he knows nothing about any of this kinky sex blog stuff). 

So, starting today, I won’t be asking Belle any specific questions about TOG and their conversations or plans. She will share with me whatever she wants or needs to. I have reserved the right to be able to talk about how being the husband of a proto-hotwife makes me feel, both with her and here, but she gets to veto anything she thinks crosses a line and I’ll be doing my best to keep my blogging about it to a reasonable level. It might be different if she didn’t read the blog, but she does and always has and always will, so that’s that. Also, my only other ask (I call it an ask because it seems weird that I can make rules for her) is that each and every time they are together physically (if and when that happens), I want to know how often his cock is involved. But she does not need to offer specifics. Like, she could say they fucked and how many times but I wouldn’t be able to ask what he said to her while doing it or what piece of furniture she was bent over at the time. I can ask general-type stuff (“How did it make you feel?”) but even then she can cut me off if she thinks it’s too intrusive. Basically, other than the fact it happened, all other info will be metered out as she see fit. I think this is important because it maintains an airspace between them and us that respects her prerogative as the dominent partner.

It should be noted that Belle doesn’t think I can keep to this arrangement. She thinks I’ll crack and start asking things I’m saying now I won’t. I do totally acknowledge that I am craving information and am dying to ask more questions, but I am doing my best not to. The way it makes me feel is really very similar to what it feels like to be denied. It is a form of denial. It’s an demonstration of my submission. So from a dynamic standpoint, my lack of insight into what’s happening is a source of energy for me. The subby rabbit in me feeds off the fury of my internal sex lizard as he goes crazy thinking about what he doesn’t know.

She made me figure out for her today how she can Skype him. I don’t know when and for what purpose they will be using it and I’m not going to ask. I may not be told when it happens. So we’re already operating under the new rules. 

Funny thing about all this is I have now been living with an indescribably powerful desire to fuck the taste out of her mouth for about 72 hours. Continuous, palpable, and often difficult to contain every time I see her or hear her voice. Well, “difficult to contain” except for that one part. This morning, since I knew I wasn’t coming out of the Steelheart, all I wanted to do was set up camp between her legs and plant my face in her pussy. I hope that later tonight she’ll let me do it again. The introduction of TOG has made her the most desirable object in the world to me. Funny how that works. Also funny to think that one way couples could reinvigorate their relationships would be to crack them open every once in a while and let someone else have a turn. 

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Evolution

Once upon a time, Belle would leave me locked in the Steelheart until Friday night. Then she’d let me out before she went to sleep so the penis would be right there for her the next morning. I’d stay out until Sunday night (or even Monday if I didn’t mention anything and she forgot). We’d have sex a few times over the weekend and I’d get to fuck her each time and she might even let me play with myself Friday night. Then she started leaving me in until Saturday morning, letting me out right before she wanted the penis. We’d still have sex and I’d get my pussy time, but no more jacking off. More recently, she’s been leaving me locked up until Sunday morning and wanting me back in that day. She doesn’t forget anymore. I get out Sunday morning (Saturday’s are just about her now), I’m back in by Sunday midday. I’d only get inside her once. 

Except today. Today, I didn’t get out at all. This is the start of my fourth week being locked up. 

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GGG

After we got back from Hawaii, Belle and I headed to the store to restock the fridge we emptied out before we left. Along the way, we listened to episode 478 of Dan Savage’s Savage Love Cast (Magnum edition, natch). In it, the term “GGG” was mentioned. Belle had forgotten what that meant.

GGG stands for good, giving, and game. As in, good in bed (or striving to be as good as you can), giving “equal time to equal pleasure” (i.e., give as good as you take, give your partner as much pleasure as they give you), and game for anything your partner wants to do (within reason). If you’re GGG, you’re doing it right. If you’re not, you’re not.

Belle said she didn’t think she was very GGG with me. No, seriously. She said that. And apparently not in jest.

I think Belle’s the exemplar of GGG. She knew when she married me that I wasn’t like the average bear, sex-wise. But she had no idea where we’d end up. She couldn’t have since I really didn’t, either. But she’s more than rolled with it. At the start, she seemed as though she was humoring my kinks more than actually participating, but she’s evolved right along side me in her own way and has interegrated the expression of her sexuality into how I need to express mine. Rarely has she ever made me feel anything but loved and accepted.

Beyond that, she’s allowed our relationship to open up in a way that lets me seek out the kind of sex I can’t get from her, both with a man and sex that includes the kind of optional add-ons I like and she’s not really into, even if that’s with another woman. I mean, come on. GGG to the max.

But in her mind, since she’s not into some stuff and doesn’t indulge my desires (like being tied up and beaten, for example), she’s not GGG. She even said something to that effect. “There’s things you want that I won’t give you.” But that’s not GGG.

Being GGG does not mean doing any and every thing your partner desires. It means being willing to do those things they’re into, even if you’re not especially, because they’re into them. That’s the third G. Game. But it may be the case that you can’t be enough into them to do them correctly or with the proper technique. In my estimation, Belle is all the Gs rolled up in one package even if she doesn’t tie me up and slap me around, etc.

I said that to her. I also said there were maybe a couple thousand guys on the internet who would love to have a wife as non-GGG as mine. Which is to say, I’m a lucky bitch and I know it and so should she.

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Pussy first

Belle and I are in Hawaii for Christmas. I’ve never been here before since previously I was a Caribbean snob (and might still be; jury’s out). We’re staying in a redonculous house sitting on a lava rock-encrusted beach. Crashing waves, lively tide pools, and sizzling sunsets galore. Oh, and the occasional gecko slinking by.

When we travel together, Belle’s less stringent with the device. I’ve been free since we left home Sunday morning and remain that way today. I brought the Steelheart in case she wants me in it, but so far no. I find it a challenge to stay focused on my position when I’m not locked up. To not act needily neglected because there’s nothing locked on me. The feeling of the penis moving around in my board shorts or the PA jewelry sliding through the piercing can be quite distracting and that leads to me letting my eye off the proverbial ball. In turn, that can lead to unexpected moodiness and me being too pushy in bed.

To help remind me I don’t control the penis (or feeling like she’s somehow forgotten that), I’m wearing the aluminum cock ring whenever I’m not locked. It’s light and comfy and, when the penis isn’t surging, it’s hardly there but, when the penis is, it’s just tight enough to be very there. In a way, it’s more maddening than the Steelheart because it makes the penis harder and fatter and more sensitive when it’s turgid but that enhanced state is also an effective reminder of possession and control. Even though it ratchets up the feelings of stimulation when the penis is hard, it also keeps me centered.

There’s the old trope that men are simple and woman are complicated. Seems to me this mirrors our respective anatomy. Penises are all outward and obvious. When they’re hard, you know what’s going on. Pussies, though, are less obvious. To take their barometer (without sticking your finger in) one usually needs to gather a variety of inputs from a woman’s body and then divine what she’s thinking or wants. Our culture places an urgent priority on hard cocks. Once one appears, it needs to be attended to until it’s no longer that way.

But for me and our dynamic, that’s not the case at all. The penis, when it’s out, will often be hard when we’re close and intimate. Belle’s not nearly as likely to fall into the cultural bias trap that it needs attention when it’s like that, but it still occasionally happens. I’m totally invested in the idea that a hard penis between us means nothing more than when it’s a hard steel tube between us. Still, it’s all too easy for my reptile brain to overpower my rabbity sensibilities and make me pushy in those situations which, in turn, can lead her to letting me do things she may not really feel like doing.

To help alleviate that, our new rule is when we’re in bed and being close, rather than me intimating her desires through a filter of perception that’s biased towards pushing parts of me into her or waiting for her to say, “Thumper, get me off,” I’ll know she wants to take things further if she touches the penis. Until she gives it a touch (in a way that’s more than obviously incitental or accidental contact), I’ll assume she’s content with hugging and kissing and my hand caressing her ass or whatever. This morning, she never touched it so we never moved beyond simple affectionate snuggling and petting even though the penis was achingly hard and eventually leaking. She felt no pressure from me and I knew exactly where she was and what she wanted.

Because penises are obvious and pussies are secretive, penises tend to get top billing in sexual situations. Our entire dynamic is about reversing that paradigm in the extreme. The pussy is all powerful and penis is not. I’d say the pussy is first and penis second, but it may not even be second. Even if she wants me to get her off, that doesn’t mean anything involving it will follow. In a way, FLR femdom-type dynamics are all about reversing the concept of penis entitlement. The pussy is entitled to whatever it wants. The penis is entitled to nothing more than the pussy is willing to give it.

Anyway, this “no sex until I touch the penis” rule made this morning exactly what she wanted. Intimate and sweet and warm and tender with no pressure other than the hard grip of the metal ring around the straining erection. But that’s not her concern in any way. She snuggled in and was very happy. And so was I.

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New rule

Belle doesn’t have than many rules for me, if you think about it.

  1. I can only come when she tells me to and if she tells me to I have to.
  2. I must to wear a chastity device whenever she says.
  3. I must never play with the penis without permission.
  4. If I have sex with someone else, I have to be locked up.

That’s about it, really. Everything I do and how I act flows from those. But today I asked that there be a new rule.

  1. I’m not allowed to tell her how I feel about coming (whether I want it or not) while we’re having sex unless she asks me.

This is a follow on from my previous post on talking about it while fucking her. As I said then, there’s no reason for me to say anything about it (really ever, but especially when the penis is inside her) other than for the part of my reptile brain that’s never accepted her control over my orgasm to try and manipulate her. I’ve been telling myself this new rule was a rule I was imposing on myself all week but this morning, in the passion of feeling her pussy and hearing her moan, I realized that a rule I never say to anyone is a rule I can’t be held accountable for.

On the surface, and when compared to the others, this new rule may seem like a little thing but I think it’s really huge. If I say what I want with regard to coming (either for or against), especially in the heat of the moment, then how committed am I to rule number one? You’d think, what with me being the big shot chastity blogger and all, that I wouldn’t need this rule, but in reality I’m always playing an angle with her. I guess that’s human nature, but when I can play an angle that means I have some modicum of flexibility and leverage and, truly, when it comes to my orgasm I don’t want any. I say that in the face of never letting go of that tenuous little thread.

The reptile part of my brain thinks she’ll always assume I want to come. That it will be obvious by my actions and how turned on I am and that I’ll be able to communicate my desire physically. The higher part of my brain (the bunny) clutches it’s little furry paws in hope that she doesn’t really think about it. That it doesn’t really matter.

So I asked this be a new rule this morning after I got her off. I was still locked up because she said she’s thankful for my chastity and this is Thanksgiving, after all. And I’m thankful for it, too. And her. Especially her. Once I proposed it and she quickly acceded to it, I could actually feel the control she has over that aspect of me ratchet down. That tiny wiggle space closed tight. The tenuous thread was cut. And it left me feeling warm and loved.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Pieces on the board

Chaste Cyclist (of the great eponymous blog) said in response to my last post:

Even though it has only been about 9 months for us, I feel myself drifting ever closer to these same feelings. The other evening when she called me upstairs I found myself wanting to be out of the Steelheart but knew better to ask. I simply wanted to pleasure her…and that is what I got. I have stopped asking to get out.

And it made me have a thought about one of the primary differences between enforced chastity (in which a device is used) and the other kind (in which the man is restricted in how he enjoys his penis but is not in a device). This is just sort of a random thought that started out as a comment in reply to his but I decided to make a post out of.

I don’t claim that one way of doing chastity is better than the other. I’ve seen device-less types claim theirs is superior because being able to employ willpower over a physical restraint shows greater submission blah blah bullshit bullshit. They can think what they want. I simply prefer to say we all get to do things as we like to do them and there’s no one right way to approach anything of a sexual nature. As long as everyone’s on board and happy, you win.

But, it may be the case that those of us in enforced chastity are ending up (or may end up) in a very different place than our device-less comrades. For me over the time I’ve been locked up, I’ve learned to progressively demote the penis as a central actor in our sex. In doing so, I’ve been able to be more completely focused on her pleasure. If the penis is not a factor in our sex (and truly we can have amazing sex without the key ever showing up) then the focus of the sex and its outcome is purely about her getting off as spectacularly as possible. The further out of mind the penis is, the better to have sex that is as partner-centric as possible.

I know for myself, when the penis is out, everything changes. It’s an entirely different act for me, even if most of it is functionally the same. Emotionally and hormonally, my focus is divided. Belle let me out this morning and the entire time I had my fingers in her snatch and was kissing her mouth and nipples, I was thinking about what came after. I was imagining the penis in her. I was resisting the urge to climb up and take her before she was done. After she came, I basically did just that. She never told me I could, but I slowly moved in that direction until she guided the penis in with her hand. It was an amazing fuck for both of us, don’t get me wrong, and of course I didn’t come (URRRRGH) but since I was free and hard and she was naked and writhing the drive to be inside her was crowding away in my mind.

Again, I’m not making a judgement call. I’m making an observation. Having a locked up penis makes a man much more focused as a lover. Personally, that’s a satisfying state of being for me. If the goal of chastity is to create in the locked parter a state of focus, an effective way of doing that is to demote his penis to a secondary or even tertiary player. Take the piece off the board, so to speak. Nothing does that better than a tight tube keeping his hard-on in check.

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Counting the stages and keeping my mouth shut

About a week ago, I tweeted…

Which pretty much sums up how it works most of the time. I can get to the point where I want to come so badly that I start at the second stage and only find my way to stage three about four hours later, but most days not. We can call them the three stages of denial.

But maybe there’s a fourth. See, Stage 1 there, “I hope she doesn’t let me come,” doesn’t even activate until she hands me the key to the Steelheart. It’s like the penis is a tiny Dr. Evil frozen away in its orbiting Bob’s Big Boy. Out of sight, out of mind. So really, the first question is whether the penis even gets out.

This morning, Belle didn’t let it out. It’s usually the case that the little Dr. Evil defrosts on Saturday mornings we’re not doing anything in particular. It gets let out, I get her off, then I stick it in, but she decided to leave it be today. On the one hand, I like getting out. A lot. More than I crave orgasm at any given moment, I crave sensation from the penis. Feeling her hand on it, feeling it hard and free, pressed against her, rubbing against her skin, sliding into her hot wetness. Just feeling. The Steelheart provides both no sensation in that when I touch it and grab it and claw at it all my hand feels is perfectly smooth, numb hardness that never changes but then, on the inside, it’s high pressure. Intense, consistent, unyielding resistance to my excitement. So yeah, having an erection that can be touched and feels good is something I look forward to.

But I also don’t think I deserve to be unlocked. Being locked is the default. Being unlocked is the exception. Not a treat or a reward or whatever. I hate it when I expect to be unlocked. I’d rather assume it’s not going to happen and be pleasantly surprised when it does than the opposite. Of course, when she wants it out, it should come out. It’s entirely up to her. I just don’t want her considering me and my cravings in that decision. I don’t want her to be nice to me just because.

So when I wrote that tweet last week, it was after we fucked and I didn’t get to come. Which, being solidly in Stage 3, was a relief. But when I was in her and sliding the penis in and out and losing myself to the amazing feeling of that the intensity of Stage 2 made me say to her how badly I wanted to come. I immediately felt bad for saying it. After, I apologized.

The thing is, there’s no reason for me to tell her. None. Because it doesn’t fucking matter. If I say anything about coming, one way or the other, I’m trying to influence her and that’s bullshit. Especially when the fucking penis is inside her at the time. If she wants me to, she’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Maybe I want to, maybe I don’t. Who cares. That’s the deal. I don’t come until I do and I don’t whine.

Maybe a part of me just wants her to know, “OMG, I’m so being denied right now!” but, of course, she knows that. But another part of me, the part that sits way down my brain stem and acts more than it thinks, is trying to put its finger on the scale of her decision. Maybe she’s considering it and by saying something it’ll cause her to lean towards letting it happen. I hate that part of me. That I can’t always keep it stifled. I’ve spent a long time learning how to keep it as far away as possible from the button that makes me come. Now I just need to learn to keep it from my mouth.

Orgasm denial and enforced chastity all boils down to managing conflicting urges and desires. I want to fuck you but don’t let me out, GAH coming would be awesome, I better not tell her. WHY DID YOU TELL HER!? Lock me back up, no keep me out, be nice to me, BE MEAN TO ME. Seriously, it’s stuff like this that makes me think being a top would be exhausting work. Subs are annoyingly complicated. We’re lucky anyone puts up with us.

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Gymboree

I’m probably done going to the personal trainer I’ve been seeing for…man, almost four years. The reasons are several but can be boiled down thusly:

  • His motivation strategy basically involves a bunch of macho bullshit I can’t stand.
  • The routines have become repetitive and dull (mostly because it’s a decidedly average gym space).
  • I don’t feel like I’m being “trained.” More like I’m paying him to be my gym buddy (set up my weights, spot me, etc.).

Note that Belle sees him too and will continue to do so since while I’m over him she certainly isn’t and in fact would like him to be over her, literally (which is why he’s called her gym boyfriend at our house).

I’ve found another local gym with trainers and have an appointment with a younger hot one this afternoon to see how it works out. He’s a lot more expensive than the old guy, but there are more options at that gym like classes and what they call “supervised workouts” where someone just helps out with spotting and such so I might be able to craft a solution that is equal to or maybe even a little less than what I’m paying now.

The gym is only a year old and is really nice with all kinds of cool shit and no typical  bullshit gym machines. It also has a proper locker room with a few showers. Since I’ll likely have a much less regular gym schedule than I have now, it’s probable that I’ll be getting there from work or whatever and won’t always be able to come in my gym clothes like I do now. Which means changing in the locker room and perhaps even needing to shower, depending on the time, and, of course, I have this extra interesting shiny tube where a guy’s dick usually is. I brought that all up to Belle last night and she was like, “Yeah? So?”

I mean, of course. Just like when I started going to see a trainer in the first place. She doesn’t want me to be out of the device. Ever. Not unless it’s on her terms. Going to the gym is not on her terms so I will apparently have no clemency in that regard. On the one hand, little fluttery butterflies of nervousness, but on the other, a tube-filling sense of security in that this is not a game this is us and I need to deal with it.

So I’ll deal with it. I’ll look for times that mean I don’t need to shower or can arrive changed and if that’s not possible I’ll figure out a way to change that minimizes the chances another guy will see it. I don’t want to flaunt the Steelheart. I don’t believe in that. But I am conceptually OK with someone seeing it (or evidence of it) inadvertently through just living my live. I don’t advertise but I’m also not going to be ashamed.

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Starts with an I

As I was laying in bed the other night looking for some quiet corner in my mind where I could curl up and fall asleep, I instead found an idea that led to me considering how I’d write about it and, no, that’s not conducive to quiet corner finding. This is not unusual. I start copy editing in my head when I should be activating my subconscious. Weird.

Anyway, the idea that presented itself at that inopportune time was that, perhaps ironically, a decent piece of my self-confidence and satisfaction with regards to relationship and sexual matters is tied up in feeling inferior. I know, that’s on the surface an odd thing to say. Self-confidence, satisfaction and inferiority don’t typically go along. It’s the kind of notion someone who doesn’t live in a power exchange dynamic or who isn’t submissive themselves wouldn’t understand. Like how S/M is abuse when it’s really an expression of love. The more I thought about it, the more “inferior” started to sound really sexy to me in a way I never considered before.

And when I say “inferior” I don’t necessarily mean in the sense of lower quality. I am, I think (and have been told), an excellent lover. I can make my partners pretty happy when I’m in the right mood to do so. I think mostly I’m thinking of the definition of the word that deals with rank and position. I don’t feel at all comfortable being in a position of power in a relationship. I have never really liked being pursued or fawned over. I want to be the one fawning and pursuing. This has been how I’ve felt my whole life, even before understanding my sexuality as I do today.

The one glaring issue with that statement is Belle. In the beginning, she pursued me pretty hard. Eventually, I came around. Had she been like the girls who wanted a piece of me prior to that, it may never have worked out, but she wasn’t. She was much more self-confident and accomplished and had a sense of individual purpose that was greater than whoever she was with. She didn’t need me and wasn’t interested in playing the traditional subservient female role. I came to realize that it was me that needed her, not the other way around.

The best dynamic for me is one where my partner is aware of my needs and desires and is willing to indulge them but only insofar as they fit into their needs and desires. It’s my job to make them happy and, in doing so, I’m happy, too. Of course I will always want more. That’s my role. To want. Plus, to see that they never want. If they go out of their way to satisfy my needs, it’s because they want to give that to me, not because they’re obligated to do it. You know, inferior.

During my recent issues with depression and anxiety, my submissive drive (if that’s a thing) kind of went out the window. I’ve become so used to it that I felt untethered. Without purpose, even. Now it’s back and revved up pretty good and, as I said in my last post, being back in that mode makes me feel comforted. Of course, it wasn’t always that way. I have struggled with being submissive as, I think, most men do (perhaps more men in F/M relationships than gay men). There are no role models for us. No cultural archetype to see our reflections in. This can still rear its head from time to time. I felt a few pangs of guilt over the weekend because Belle never signed up for a submissive husband. Never raised her hand to say she wanted to take on the role of dominant wife. But those are past now.

Thing is, I’m feeling really fucking submissive. There’s so much energy there right now. I crave opportunities to show that to her, but she just left this morning for a 10-day trip, so I guess the best I can do is hope I still feel this strongly when she gets back.

So I said my attraction to being inferior was more about position, but there’s one way it’s definitely not about rank and is about something concrete. I was shopping in the fantastic Smitten Kitten with Drew during his recent visit and picked up a Vixskin “Ride On” penis extender. The old Big Blue we used to use kinda melted when it came in contact with something it didn’t agree with so we’re currently between big dicks that can be used absent a harness. “Ride On” is not a sexy name so instead we’re calling it Gym Boyfriend in honor of our personal trainer who Belle’s had the hots for for some time now.

Gym Boyfriend is perhaps a tad longer than Belle would like (she’s really more interested in girth, not length), but it’s not crazy big at 6.25″ in length. It may not be too long but it definitely hits places she’s not accustomed to feeling. The cavity into which the penis goes is really snug. Only 4″ deep and not more than 2/3 the thickness of the penis. It has ridges inside that suggest an enhanced experience for the fucker, but I didn’t feel much as the erection pushed it out and forward. That made the base of the shaft nice and thick, but the forward extension was pretty well kept to a minimum (though it was possibly a bit longer than 6.25″ as a result). It was not unlike the feeling of being in a chastity device while trying to get hard. Just a lot of pressure and no real sensation (at least, not the kind that would get a guy off). You’d have to have a pretty tiny penis to get a pleasurable experience from this, I think.

As if.
As if.

Like other items of this kind, the testicles go through a loop and that keeps the whole thing on. The material isn’t nearly as stretchy as Big Blue’s was and popping my nuts through was a more intense experience than I was expecting. My balls have gotten bigger over the years of not being involved in very many ejaculations and that was likely a contributing factor to my difficulties.

Typically, Belle would want to fuck me from up top while wearing an extender since then she gets to control depth and speed and all that, but recently she’s been wanting to be fucked as hard as I can (which isn’t very hard, both because the penis isn’t super big and my stamina is nearly non-existant when she’s making a lot of noise and getting off) so I was on top and in the driver’s seat. I was hesitant to really go to town, but I sensed she wanted to be fucked, so I just stuck it in and went at it (after the application of some high-quality water-based lube). I fucked her like someone who isn’t on a hair trigger would. Someone who was trying to really take a woman. I let her get used to the length, but after several thrusts I could feel my balls hitting her ass. That’s an extra inch of length compared to me and easily twice as thick and she loved it. Vocally.

It’s a difficult thing to describe, how that makes me feel. On the one hand, I wish that could be me. I wish the penis was that big and more in line with the dimensions she seems to enjoy so much. But it’s not and never will be. There is a bit of pain there. A bit of feeling inadequate. Inferior using the other definition. And somehow, the pain of such permanent inadequacy transmutes to a feeling of intense…I don’t know. Not happiness. Not pleasure. It does hurt, but I like how it hurts. I like hearing how much better she enjoys being plowed by a more impressive cock. It’s a kind of masochism that’s all in the head and heart.

And of course, there is nothing quite as hot as slipping the unsheathed penis into her afterward. Feeling how open she is. Feeling how parts of her pussy have been pushed out of reach for me. No matter how hard I fuck her or how deeply I try to penetrate, there’s no denying I can’t compete. And I can actually feel that all around me. And then I hear her say she can barely feel me back. Powerful stuff.

This idea of being physically inferior in this one specific way while being so good at all the other things you want from a lover feels almost like my perfect state of being. Perhaps in that it’s a kind of inferiority that can’t be taken away from me. Dynamics can change. Penis size can’t. I try to explain this to Belle. That seeing and feeling and hearing how much she likes the big cock is exactly what I want because it’s what she wants. As much as it all goes counter to the prevailing cultural paradigm, it totally works. I don’t want her to hold back for fear of hurting my feelings. Yes, they will be hurt. But in the same way I like having my nipples hurt, I like this hurt, too.

I was able to fuck her for a long time with just the penis. I only got close to coming once or twice and never so much that I had to actually stop. But after a while, she told me I had to because the Gym Boyfriend’s big dick had really worked her over. That was hot, too, in its own way.

I’ve asked Belle that I be made to wait for my next orgasm. Of course, she’s in complete control of that and I will come if she tells me to at any time, so it was really nothing more than a request. I think it will be good for me to let that wait. To get to the point where it’s something I want. And hopefully, if it’s good for me, it’s good for her. Because what’s good for her is the most important thing. Always.

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The settled unsettled

I recently read a news item about a guy with no penis giving great sex advice on Reddit. It may or may not be true because, you know, the internet but what he’s saying sounds real to me, a person who still has a penis but rarely if ever uses it to pleasure his partners.

Belle used to prefer achieving orgasm from being fucked. She needed to be on top controlling angle of penetration, depth, speed, etc., while I concentrated on her nipples. Most women, from what I understand, actually can’t come this way. They need clitoral stimulation instead of or in addition to penetration, but it was how Belle got off. That was then. Now, thanks to the fact that I often have a difficult time keeping my own orgasm at bay long enough for her to get there and, more often than not, I’m locked up, we’ve resorted to fingers and lips and tongues to get the job done. The other day, we tried the old way and she just couldn’t get off. My denial and chastity has retrained her pussy to like it better when the penis isn’t inside her.

This weekend was a good example of how things work now. Saturday she asked if I’d go down on her which I always find funny because, YES, I am always down to go down if that’s what she wants. I’d do it fucking daily if she’d let me. I like nothing more than when she sits on my face and grinds away on my mouth to her heart’s (or whatever’s) delight. It’s been a while since I was able to really tuck in so, once she was sated, I nuzzled into her pussy and savored everything about it. She let me fuck her after and she was incredibly wet and open, almost as though she had already fucked someone else.

The next morning, she was taking a while to get off from my fingers and then the vibrator. She tends to get self-conscious when this happens though I told her I didn’t care how long it took. Getting her off is my sex. I crave it. Her moaning and squirming and the feel of her wet pussy and her hard nipples in my mouth. I’m wired to enjoy her enjoyment. So as long she’s liking what I’m doing, I’m happy to do it forever. After a bit, she did come and it was one of those orgasms that starts low and slow and builds to explosion.

So yeah, you can have amazing sex without a penis. I’ve had the best sex of my life keeping the one I was born with locked in a steel tube. Penises may be designed for one thing, but that thing can be had in so many other ways if you’re willing to try and find them.

So you might think this is all well and good and boy haven’t Thumper and Belle found the Promised Land. At times, I think that’s right, but the issues I’ve been having with my stupid brain lately have left me feeling not so confident. As I’ve written about recently, the darned dent has, at times, become a very large issue for me. Depression and anxiety are not logical things so there’s no need to unravel the illogic of how this has left me feeling at times, but something what is at worst a cosmetic issue has sort of driven a spike down into the heart of what I consider a key element of my sexuality. It makes me question the last seven years of my life and the kind of sex I like and who I think I am. That’s scary stuff.

To be clear, there is nothing functionally wrong with me. The penis works exactly as it always has, it just feels and looks a little different. Why, if denial and chastity have given me such real contentment, should this be a problem? When I’m feeling good I convince myself it’s not a problem. But I’m not always feeling good.

I thought this was settled for me.

Chastity and denial are just as much a commitment to Belle as my marriage vows were so it’s fitting that the two pieces of metal I wear as a result of both should leave me similarly marked. I feel just as weird when either of them are absent. I can’t imagine what life would be like without them and have no intention of finding out.

The dent on my finger doesn’t matter since the ring that made it is nearly always covering it up. The dent on the penis is only apparent when Belle wants it to be. And in those times, it’s a reminder to us both of how my commitment to her has left me altered, inside and out.

I am surprised to find myself bothered by the dent at all. I used to think I had moved on from being so centered on the penis. To really accepting that I am not the kind of man who measures his worth by the length of thing between his legs. In fact, I’m not really the kind of man who thinks his penis is all that important. It is not central to my sexuality. If anything, its absence is. It’s not critical to my sexual pleasure. Or Belle’s. I’ve become so used to it being a deadened, weighty, shiny steel tube that only feels pressure when I get turned on or the occasional pinch from inside. The Steelheart is a really significant part of who I am. Of who I imagine myself to be. I am it and it is me. I suppose it’s no surprise that to have all that challenged would freak me out. It’s why I didn’t want to be locked up when Belle was gone a few weeks ago. It’s why I was not enthusiastic in putting it back on yesterday morning.

I’ve been writing this blog for seven years yesterday. Seven years discovering and learning about who I am. About how I’m different. I hate that these feelings have put that on a shaky table. I will never be normal again, but I wasn’t ever normal before. Not for a single day of my life. I am how I should be, dent and all.