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.

Saturday morning fill-up

Wow, with a title like that, I bet you’re expecting something pretty good. “Saturday morning fill-up” evokes so many possibilities! Well, sorry, it’s pretty mundane.

The fill-up to which I refer is yet another reference to my reservoir of subbie goodness. At a couple of points on Friday, I was feeling little flares of angst not uncommon at the beginning of another round of chastisement, but it wasn’t until this morning, when I woke up and laid there next to her, morning wood straining against the polycarbonate, hands on her sleeping skin, body pressed against hers…well, that’s the fill-up. I started feeling it again, mingled with and fueled by my harnessed lust. She wasn’t buying, so I eventually got out of bed and went about my business.

Which, mostly, involved working for her. I made the beds, put in more laundry, folded the other laundry (good god, but we produce a lot of f’ing laundry), all while she sat at the kitchen counter and made me a more detailed list of tasks she I needed to accomplish over the course of the day. Every once in a while she’d let me grab her, grope her, kiss her, nibble on her neck a little. All very nice.

That being said, here I am again, staring down the teeth of another Saturday night, and trying not to think too much about what might or might not happen. She’s busy doing the seasonal closet change-over and the sister-in-law is bringing the baby over again tonight so she and her husband can go have dinner. All very nice for them, of course, but I can’t imagine it’ll bode well for my chances at a sexual escapade (infants being known black holes of romantic intentions).

So, 300ish words just to say my sub tank is about a third full. Feels good. Real good.

Things that are hard

You know what’s hard? Well, besides that. What’s hard is not being Mr. Gropesalot in the morning with Belle. Based on the most current version of our still-evolving Covenant, I’m not allowed to make sexual advances, including random grabs at her tasty bits. The past two mornings I’ve had to grapple with myself and not do what I’ve always been able to do in the past. I could almost see the little angle and devil on my shoulders. “Go ahead, squeeze her tit,” says the little red me with the horns and sexy tail. “No, no! You really shouldn’t!” says Jiminy Cricket on the other shoulder.

Most other married men (assuming they have decent relations with their spouses) can take for granted the open access to their wife’s body they enjoy. He can roll over in the morning, slide his hand under her shirt, play with her nipple. No, she may not let him get much farther (and she may not be thrilled with the advance), but he can do that. Not me. She’s drawn a line. I cannot make any assumptions as to her availability to me. I cannot initiate sex through my actions. There are places I cannot put my hands. I have to ask. And I only get to ask once.

From what I can tell, she loves this arrangement. Yesterday, because I listened to Jiminy, I left her alone and she was able to sleep in until 9:00. For a woman with two young kids, that’s close to an act of god. This morning, I told her I wanted her to know that just because I wasn’t coming after her didn’t mean I wasn’t interested. That’s my sly way of saying, if you want a little something, I am so ready to give it to you (pretty cleaver, huh?). She said she was totally aware of what I was interested in, but that I wasn’t going to get it. She just came last night and didn’t want another one yet. So, we cuddled. I wanted to nibble her nipple through her shirt and shove my hand down her pants, but instead we hugged. It was all very…sweet. Totally non-sexual, but sweet. The entire time, the plastic tub between my legs was filled to capacity.

So yeah, I guess that was hard, too.

Copping a feel

Belle likes not only Thumper's position in this arrangement but also his size relative to hers.

I don’t think I mentioned where we were going on our little family vacation. I’m still waiting for my anonymous sex blogger handbook to show up in the mail (even though the check’s been cashed for weeks), but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to avoid dropping any facts that could be used to trace back to my real identity. Facts like, Belle and I took our children to a well-known theme park in Southern California infested with overgrown rodents. And other facts like Belle left us midway through our stay at the well-known amusement park to start her separate business-related trip. I won’t be seeing her again for four days.

One might think carting a couple of kids across country on a plane and traipsing around a theme park, etc., would take one’s mind off the fact that one hasn’t ejaculated in two weeks. One would be right. That is, until one was waiting in line with the woman who decides when one gets to come and, upon slipping one’s hand down the back of her pants, finds she’s not wearing any underwear. That’ll snap one’s mind back to one’s orgasmless existence pretty fucking quick, let me tell you.

Speaking of which, she tells me she’s locking me back up as soon as we get home. Since I don’t get to come again in February, I assume that means I’ll be in at least another week. Other than that little tidbit (and the cheap feels I copped while waiting in the numerous lines), I’ve got nothing sex-related to say. Pretty sucky sex blogging, I know, but the place I’m at has a way of sucking the sex out of just about everything.

OK, back to the merry-making. The kids and I are heading back into the Happiest Place on Earth™ and hoping it can stop with the f’ing rain, already. Ciao.