Sleepytown trolly

“I’m going to help you sleep tonight.”

I’ve been struggling with sleep for the past few days. A bought of denial-induced insomnia.


“By letting you give me an orgasm.”

Unf. “I don’t think that’ll help me sleep.”

“What would?”

“You letting me come.”

Snort. “That’s not going to happen.”


“You don’t want to come anyway.”


“Say it. ‘Belle Fille, I don’t want you to let me come.'”

Whimper again. Squirm.


Quietly, “I don’t want to you to let me come, Belle Fille.” It was truth, but being forced to say it was like a high heel grinding my inner sub into a tight, hard corner. The kind of space where it’s most content.

“Of course you don’t. You want to get me off and then, because my orgasm is your orgasm, you’ll get sleepy after and fall asleep.”

I had my doubts. Especially when she started talking about her “boyfriend” and how he’d never say anything like that to her. That he and his big cock always came. All I could do was whimper into her nipple as she said these things and I fingered her clit and thought about this mythical alpha male who’d likely laugh at the locked penis and the way she kept me.

“I’m going to make you work for this one, Thumpie. I’m going to enjoy myself.”


It did take a while. She got wetter and I kept sucking and fingering but I never felt her start to get close. Eventually, she took over her own tits and was tweaking and twisting her nipples while I watched and kept my finger on her snatch, rubbing and flicking and penetrating in all the ways I know, through hours and hours of practice like a musician knows his instrument, she liked best. Even that wasn’t enough for her and she got her vibrator and gave it to me but quickly took it back leaving me nothing more than a spectator to her self-pleasuring.

She came, slowly and deeply, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel her pussy clench against my fingers or her back arch or any of the waves of ecstasy that go with her orgasm. I didn’t share it. I heard it and saw it, but I didn’t know it like I usually do. It didn’t go through me. I was just the fluffler that got her into position.

Of course, I don’t begrudge her anything. We have sex so she can come, always, and however she wants. We never have sex so I can come. Whatever we do, if it’s what she wanted, is what we should have done and I don’t have a right to take issue with any of it. She’s right that even though I may crave my own orgasm I never want her to give it to me. I don’t need any orgasms. I only get them when she wants to feel me come in her. Even that can feel more about her than me.

She was left drained by her effort and its successful culmination and I was left pretty much as I was before. Tired but not sleepy and now that much more wired and trying to push images of her and another man out of my mind. She fell asleep quickly and I tried but couldn’t connect with it. I kept thinking and tossing and feeling separation angst (I have some trips coming up) all the while trying to keep sexual images and thoughts as far away as possible.

At about 11:30, I got up and took the last Tylenol PM in the house. I don’t like taking it but I could feel the kind of panic in me that usually unspools into zero hours of sleep. Then I went in the living room and read more of the book I’m getting through. By 12:30, the pill was taking over and I was yawning. I sent back to the bedroom, stripped, crawled in next to her, and tried to get on the road to Sleepytown.

Eventually, I did.


Last time we were naked and rolling around together, an unusual thing happened. I couldn’t get it up. You know, these things happen. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t freak me out, though. And kinda like when I can’t fall asleep, the issue itself starts to become the issue and the flaccidness/wakefulness causes me to focus on the continued flaccidness/wakefulness and perpetuates additional flaccidness/wakefulness.

I woke up that morning laying on a raging hard-on since Belle had let me out the day before. I was super fucking turned-on and squirmed and rubbed the stiffy into the mattress waiting for her to wake up. Then, before getting her off, I was still all hard and leaky. I thought about just jumping her (because I know she likes it and I was in the right mood) but I did the usual and got her off with my fingers. Then she told me to go down on her and I eagerly complied. Then she came. It was all good.

But right then I figured out something was not quite right. It’s hard to explain but when you’re really grooving in the sack nothing feels weird or awkward or out of place, but at that moment, disentangling from the sheets and moving back up to be next to her I felt uncoordinated and not sexy. Then I started to worry about how my face smelled like her and how she’s not the biggest fan of that (though I’d use it as cologne) and the next thing I know I’m on top of her with a squishy tool. It just wasn’t right. I did really want to fuck her, but the connection wasn’t being made somewhere.

I laid next to her and she had the penis in her hand and she tried talking dirty to me. Not just any dirty talk, though. The kind a subbie little wannabe cuck with a penis humiliation kink wanted to hear. She told me about her boyfriend and how big he was and how much better he was at getting her off and, much to her surprise, the penis started to grow inside her grasp. This is really weird for her because she doesn’t have any understanding of where this comes from for me. It’s really alien to her.

Alas, it was for naught. The meat wasn’t cooperating. It drooped again.

As she was talking, she was also asking what a better tack was. Did I want to hear that her mythical boyfriend was better than me (bigger cock, better lover, etc.) or that the penis was insufficient to meet her needs? Since I know the boyfriend is mythical, he doesn’t much work for me. Hearing that she would like one with a bigger cock, though, does. Hearing that she thinks the penis is too small or thin or whatever does. She said that’s hard for her since that kind of talk essentially disregards all safeties nice girls have conditioned into them. I’ve written before about how she’s always been super expressive about how much she likes the penis, how good it feels inside her, etc., to the point that I have often suspected she was trying too hard to make me feel good about it. Also, her first husband was apparently much bigger (before we were married, she once compared it favorably to the Jeff Stryker dildo — should have been a clue to both of us that hearing the news was in no way damaging to my ego and I spent a lot of time imaging her fucking that big dick). But I’ve also written about how I got her to admit that she really does prefer the bigger dildos she’s let me use on her before. The penis would be better for her if it was bigger (specifically, thicker). In fact, that’s something she’s joked about a hundred times in the time I’ve known her: It’s not about the length, it’s all about the girth.

So yeah, the small penis thing works because it’s kinda true. It may not be as true as if I was only four inches long and as big around as a white board marker or something, but it’s still true. And yes, I do want to hear her say that to me. As often as she wants. While we’re having sex. Tell me that it’ll never be big enough to really get her off and that she probably should look for a man with a real cock if she wants to feel one, etc. That so, so works for me.

Over on the FetLife, I read this posted to the “Submissive men and women who love them” group (by a sub guy):

Name calling and humiliation

Why is this necasary?

I personally am not a fan of it. I understand that sometimes when punishments must be metted out they might come out as part of it but why is it necessary at any other point?

In my opinion a Domme/sub relationship is that of a sub devoting himself to a Lady. Serving Her and giving his will over to Her; while She in turn gives him a safe place to take the world off his shoulders and focus on nothing but his submission to Her.

To me name calling and huliation are not a safe place because you can never know what will truly hurt someone to their core.

Is my evaluation of a Domme/sub relationship wrong?

Ferns‘ reply was perfection, of course:

It’s not ‘necessary’, but some people find it fun and hot and awesome. And that’s great.

Similarly, it’s not ‘necessary’ to flog/cane/peg/smack/fuck/kiss/any-other-form-of-play someone either. But some people find that fun and hot and awesome also.

Erotic humiliation is a form of emotional masochism, just like impact play is a form of physical masochism.

Like others said: if you don’t like something, it’s easy enough to avoid getting involved with those who do.

“Emotional masochism” is exactly right. There may be a place where I will be “truly hurt to my core” but I’m nowhere near it right now. I can’t even imagine it. Partly because I don’t measure my worth by the length of the penis. I know how much I mean to Belle and how much we love one another and, for whatever reason, none of that is in any way threatened when she tells me the penis is too small for her. I will never resent her for saying it. I crave to hear her say it.

I have a friend I’ve known since junior high. After high school, he moved in with his soon-to-be stripper girlfriend who all our friends, male/gay/female alike, acknowledged was super hot. Not just in how she looked (which was way above average) but in how she comported herself. She was a strong female and I was especially drawn to her (and spent far too much time thinking about what I was saying when talking to her). She used to call my friend “Dickless.” It was her little nickname for him. She used it all the time and in front of everyone. It really pissed him off. Since he was one of the few guys I knew who I didn’t fuck/get fucked by around that time, I can’t say if it was true, but it didn’t matter. She was gleeful at his outrage. The madder he got, the cuter and more adorably she’d say it. It was fucking awesome. I’m not going to say I knew at the time I wanted her to be saying that to me, but I do remember how it affected me. There was a certain thrill at hearing her say it to him in front of everyone. I never for a second felt sorry for him. I was in awe of her.

So, flash forward to today. I know, intellectually, that the penis is not so small as to be of no value to Belle. I can and do get her off with it. It’s a perfectly serviceable size. But I also know it’s not exactly what she’d prefer. So, also intellectually, I can honestly say to myself it’s…insufficient. That little leverage is the fulcrum she could use to really take advantage of this particular fold in my sexuality. And I really wish she would.

The next morning, she tried it out a little. I was still free but she wanted me in and said I had to “lock that tiny dick up” or something very similar. That was pretty great. She says she’s not wired to be so mean to me and that it’s a challenge. I get that and I so appreciate that she would make the effort. But I also pointed out denying me orgasm was something she had a hard time with, too, and now it’s second nature for her. She’d never go back to letting me come when I want. Perhaps, in time, calling the penis what it is will end up the same way.

Just under the wire

OK, so maybe I will squeeze in one more post before I’m out of here…

Regarding the Jail Bird, it’s not going to happen. Aware that I’ve never been able to stay in that device for more than a few days without developing significant discomfort and suspecting that it’s likely a fit and spacing issue, I decided to try something I read about on Chastity Forums. Not sure who it was that did it, but they were able to create a little extra space between the bottom of the cage and the A-ring by slightly bending the post upward. I tried this yesterday afternoon and the post promptly snapped off. I don’t know much about metal work (whereby “not much” I mean “pretty much nothing”), but I thought welding would create a stronger bond between two pieces of metal. So now, if I ever want to wear the JB again, I’ll need a new A-ring. Which I probably needed anyway.

And, as I’ve been harping on, this now means I’ll be unsecured for the duration of the trip. Belle does not want me in the Steelheart and I guess I understand. Regardless of understanding, it’s her decision. It doesn’t help that I’m in that golden sweet spot where the device and I feel fused and there’s little to no discomfort and I’m even sleeping through the early morning tightness and find it creates a comforting sense of security rather than being something I need to endure. I don’t know if when this happens that anything physical has changed or if it’s all in my head, but I’ve even found myself, when waking with a fantastically full and tight tube, flexing the penis in order to feel more tightness and constriction. As with so many other things, my level of tolerance increases over time.

It’s not like I’ll have ample opportunity to take advantage of my temporary freedom, but I really don’t trust my hand and the penis together unattended even for short periods. There will be little moments (and the chance for several hot, soapy showers in hotels on the way there and back) and, of course, every morning it’ll be all perky and proud and asking for attention. Thing is, when you’re a man in my condition, you end up thinking about what’s in your crotch an awful lot regardless of its state. However, it’s an entirely different flavor of obsession when a healthy ribbon of opportunity is swirled though it. I will try to be strong. Upon return, I will no doubt be anxious for Belle to put me back in.

Belle and I chatted a bit last night about some of the recent blog posts. She’s mad at me (or trying to be) for taking the device off without her knowledge (though I strongly disagree I did it out of spite, as she suggests). While I took it off, I also put it back on, so I feel like I should get some points for that. Also, we talked about my reaction to being belittled, humiliated, made fun of, etc. She says she can’t really see herself humiliating me, but is OK with belittling me. I don’t see much of a difference, but if she can find it in her heart to make fun of me every once in a while, I’ll be happy.

In a related development, I’ve decided to update Thumper’s Rules of Usage and Style regarding how I refer to the sex organ attached my body. It’s clearly established that I never refer to it possessively (it’s not “mine”). I either refer to it as a separate object (i.e., the sex organ) or as hers (though I tend to favor the former style because the latter can be confusing to new readers – “Wait a sec. She had a cock?”). I have typically called it a cock but have just decided to no longer use that word. To me, “cock” implies something unrelated to me or it. A “cock” is an aggressive, action-oriented thing meant for fucking. An in-your-face kind of tool that’s been designed for erect penetration. My little piece of meat doesn’t do any of that. It’s very seldom any longer than the 2.75″ allowed by the Steelheart. From the outside, it never seems to change at all, regardless of how I’m feeling or how much pleasure Belle’s letting me give her. It certainly has practically nothing to do with Belle’s pleasure like a cock would. The only time it gets to be inside her is when she’s giving me one of my infrequent orgasms. Last two times it happened, I’m not even sure she had her top off. It may give her emotional pleasure to let me orgasm, but the act itself doesn’t provide much sexual pleasure for her. The thing’s roll has been demoted to little more than an instrument of prostate maintenance. There’s no aggression down there and certainly little action. It’s not a cock at all. It’s just a penis. And that’s what I’ll be calling it from now on.

I can almost hear eyeballs rolling in some sockets from here, but it’s my blog and I can call it whatever I want. So there. At the end of the day, for me, words have significant value and power. Thinking of it as just a penis strongly resonates with my submissive core. Thinking of it as a little penis just about makes me swoon.

So, finally, this is the last post I’ll make until I’m out of the woods sometime after the 17th or so. As I said yesterday, there’s an HNThumper loaded up for next Thursday, but that’ll be all. I might be able to reply to comments depending on access to cell reception. We’ll see.

Just a theory

Following up on yesterday’s post, I’ve been wondering something.

I said:

Being diminished in that way really worked for me.


I like the feeling of being optional and a beneficiary of her charity.


I felt she knew exactly what she wanted for her and was in total control of how it happened.

And it was good.

And then in a comment:

If I can stay in the right frame of mind and recall the feeling I have right now, then completely severing any right of mine to her pleasure – to really and truly accept my role – could be revelatory and powerful.

What I wonder is if this isn’t where the cuckold fantasy comes from. It could be just a natural progression from…

  1. Learning to pleasure a woman without your cock, and
  2. Starting to think of her pleasure as your pleasure, and
  3. Reveling in her becoming more confident in finding a way to her pleasure that’s all her own, and
  4. No longer thinking of your cock as something that’s part of the sex she’ll have with you, and finally
  5. Learning to take pleasure in her pleasure regardless of whether or not you’re involved.

No, I’m not a cuck and Belle has never shown any interested in being with another man and I’m quite sure there’s a whole lot more going on in relationships where this has happened, but for me, I can see the path to the fantasy pretty clearly. I want her to be totally and completely sexually fulfilled. It has, truly, become the primary way I find my own fulfillment. I also have developed a taste for being treated quite unfairly. Even to the point of liking it when she belittles and humiliates me. I really like it. I can’t think of any more potent way to do that than taking another lover. A more satisfying one.

I have a bunch of fantasies that would never work outside my head. This might be one of them. But, the progression makes sense to me. Not that I’ll ever find out, of course, since Belle’s demonstrated zero interest in heading off in that direction.

That being said, if she was interested in plucking these particular heartstrings of mine, she was heading in the right direction the other night. Were she to remind me that, while I may be adept at utilizing the tools that lead to her pleasure, I’m not the actual implement of that pleasure. She used Pink during her night in the hotel spa just fine without me, after all. In fact, I’m not even capable of being the implement of her pleasure. I can barely last a full minute inside her now. There’s little chance I could satisfy her in the condition I most often find myself. She could remind me of that. How this cock I’ve given her isn’t much use for anything anymore.

It seems counterintuitive to treat your lover with such disrespect. It goes against everything you see in popular culture and learn through normal socialization. But, yeah. I get it. I really do.

Penis weaponization

The incomparable Ferns, in reference to the pictures I posted of the Steelheart Short in comparison to our original Steelheart, said:

I find it interesting that there is no ego in this. If it were me (and I actually *had* a cock and was going to wear a device and and… etc), I can imagine looking in the mirror and going ‘Well, *this* one makes my cock look like an awesome shiny weapon!! Huzzah!… whereas *this* one makes it look kind of short and stubby…”

Of course, now that I have given it a little thought, I do *exactly* this with strapons… “Awesome shiny weapon!! Huzzah!” Heh.

To which Tom replied:

Oh, believe me, we cock-having device-wearers do this all the friggin’ time. We just don’t feel the need to write about it because, well, that would be weird.

Which means I just have to write about it. Weird is my raison d’être, after all.

There are at least two sides of this for me. The first is quite practical. A shorter, smaller device is more comfortable to lug around for days on end. Less of an issue under clothes, less of a strain on the meat upon which it’s attached, etc. In addition, though it’s highly non-intuitive for this to be true, a smaller device can be more comfortable during erections than a larger one. It seems as though the sooner one stops the spongy tissues from becoming engorged, the less discomfort one will feel when it inevitably happens. After a few days, I can say the SH-S is at least as comfortable as the SH-1 while fully erect (at night) and very much more comfortable the rest of the time.

The second side to the issue is more woo-woo than pure practicality, though.

Before I start, I feel compelled to say I do not believe that large cocks or cocks in general have anything whatsoever to do with one’s ability to be dominant or assume a dominant role or that large cocked guys can’t be submissive or that mauve isn’t a completely acceptable color for your grandmother’s tablecloth or anything like that. I will remind you, what I write here comes from my head so a big chunk of it can’t be expected to apply out there where you all live, in The Real World.

Ferns touches on it herself when she says, “Of course, now that I have given it a little thought, I do *exactly* this with strapons.” I assume she’s using strap-ons on her submissive male sex partners and I also assume she uses them, among other things, as some sort of symbol of her dominance (if not, I will be happy to hear otherwise). Of course, my real cock is never used in that way. I gave it to Belle and she tops me so I am ill-prepared mentally to think of the cock as anything other than her tool with which she manipulates me. It’s size, therefore, is immaterial except that it needs to be the right length and girth to make her happy when she chooses to use it to pleasure herself.

Additionally, the cock she keeps in the device hardly ever plays a role in our sex except as a captive witness to it all. Recent activities excepted, I can go weeks or months during which Belle will have as many orgasms as she’ll let me share with her while the cock will only see what light gets though the little hole at the end of the tube. Again, its size does not matter since the basis of our sex life now, and the satisfaction she enjoys, in no way revolves around it.

Finally (and this is where I might piss a few people off), there’s a part of me that doesn not want a large cock or even to do anything that makes it look bigger or more impressive. I’ve written about this before. There is definitely a part of me now, which I trace directly to my growing acceptance and connection with my submissive sexuality, that gets off on the idea of having a small dick. Of course, I do not have a small dick. It’s totally average and satisfies Belle very well. But, it works for me to think otherwise. In fact, when I’m out and able to play with it, one of the quickest ways for me to get to the edge of orgasm is to fantasize that I have a little cock that’s not good enough for Belle. This is hardly unique to me (based on my purely scientific survey of the chastity porn out there). I’m sure there are a lot of guys reading this who can associate with my words and who are in the same boat or are actually small-dicked and are able to achieve the same kind of submissive and almost derogatory pleasure from it.

It’s taken me a while to become comfortable with these feelings. I recall the first times I read a story in which a man was too small to satisfy his wife and she either made him use a large strap-on or took a well-hung lover and how hard it made my heart thump. I resisted it at first. Men in our culture are conditioned to think cock size is to be desired above all other things. This is the same thing that perpetuates the myth that women want ever-larger members inside them and that the size of a man’s penis bears a direct relation to how well he can satisfy women. Of course, it’s all bunk and I already knew that, but still. It’s hard to let go. It’s hard to actually get off on the idea of being “inadequate”.

Long way to say, I have no problem at all with the SH-S making the package “short and stubby” looking. In fact, besides the practical considerations, it’s one the main drivers behind my satisfaction with the new device. As weird as that is.

Questions from a reader IV

Parts una, duo, and tres.

We’ve hit the half-way point! It’s all downhill from here.

In respect of your comments as to whether you are submissive or “submissively inclined”, from what I have read, you don’t strike me as what I think of as submissive.  You enjoy sexual submission, but that seems to be as far as it goes.  While you do perform domestic services, you do it as part of sexual conduct and to satisfy sexual needs.  But you retain a significant amount of control and power both outside your relationship and within it, or at least that is how your blog reads to me.

Well, your guess is as good as mine. I’m just starting to figure out this whole submissive thang, to be honest.

It’s true I have a great deal of power and control at my work. That’s because I own the place and pretty much run it. However, this isn’t contradictory to being submissive in my relationship. From what I understand, it’s actually common.

With regard to having power in my relationship, it’s not that simple. I have influence. Just because I’m her sub doesn’t mean I don’t want things. We’ve established a nice system whereby I’m able to communicate my wants without making her feel obligated to give them too me (this’ll come up again in a later question). If I have real power in our dynamic, it’s based on the fact that I know she love me and wants me to be happy. It’s a power I could use, but choose not to since I like her being in control. I’m not saying I don’t struggle with the whole “topping from the bottom” thing from time to time, but I think it’s a lot clearer now than it used to be. I’m much more patient, for one thing. I’m able to let go of my need to steer and let her establish the path we’ll take more or less based on her speed. Yes, I’ll occasionally nudge or suggest, but it’s always with the understanding that it’s all up to her, not me.

You might read all that and think I sound like I have it all figured out, but I don’t. I admit to having some insecurities around my submissiveness (And I really a sub? Like, all the time?). Also, like any other human relationship dynamic, I know that our D/s will have its up, down and sideways moments. I guess the bottom line is I’ve decided to just roll with it and see what happens.

As an adjunct to that, how would you respond if Belle Fille said she wanted you to submit financially to her?  To give her full and complete control over every cent you earn and the family finances?

I’ve already asked her to do this. After reading Steve’s deal, I forwarded it to Belle and suggested we do the same. I’m all for it, but so far she hasn’t established the parameters.

Also, would the ultimate exercise of Belle Fille’s control over you be for her to deny you what you want – to deny you your denial?  What would happen if she insisted that you have full orgasms every day for a week?  Not “ruined” ones, but full on, ear popping, feet scrabbling, locomotives of sperm.  If you were really submissive, you would submit and do as she ordered.  But is that the submissive paradox – being made to do what you don’t want to do is really what you want to do ….?

Mykey had a situation once (described in posts I can’t find at the moment) where his wife Sandy made him come and then consume his own spunk every day for a week. That was fucking hot. Totally. Fucking. Hot. So yeah, if it was in the context of Belle exercising her control over me and my sexual release, I’d be game for whatever.

One aspect of your relationship that I would find very difficult to emulate if it were required of me is that one person does all the heavy lifting in terms of sexual decision making.  I love being in charge of my own sexuality, but I don’t know if I have the energy to also make all the decisions for someone else.  It’s a bit like having to decide what to cook for dinner every night – you might be a fussy eater and a good cook, but every now and then you want someone else to come up with an idea!   Does Belle Fille find it a burden? Do you think it is an unfairness that works in your favour, that you are no longer required make the hard calls?  (God, this message has so many double entendres that I can’t be bothered trying to avoid them anymore!)

This gets back to my having influence over the course of events, but not outright control over them. Belle’s Rule says I can come on to her all I want in any way I want 72 hours after her orgasm, so it’s not as one-sided as your question sounds. For a while, I wasn’t allowed to make any move on her without permission, but that didn’t really work for either of us. For her, it was pretty much as you describe. Lots of pressure on her. Too much control, not enough spontaneity. Sometimes a girl likes to know how much her boy wants to fuck her senseless, even if she’s going to shut him down. Also, we found that waiting for her to want it so bad that she’d allow me to start working on her led to a lot more infrequent sex. That usually ended up making me feel depressed (and her more stressed as a result). Letting me get physical with her, even if nothing comes of it, gives me an outlet to demonstrate my frustration (which makes me feel better).

Your question also misses out that sometimes she’ll tell me we will have sex, but that I have to drive and get to do whatever I want (absent orgasm, of course, or actual fucking if I’m in the device). Her control over our sex includes having the prerogative to delegate that control to me, if only temporarily.

Having said that, I know that the reason it would not work for me it that I like partners who are sexually confident and sexually persuasive – which I distinguish from being sexually aggressive, which can be damned annoying!  I like a partner who does more than just respond – who can seduce me, who can get me going from a standing start.  I know that you now have limited permission to initiate sexual conduct, but does Belle Fille, and do you, not miss your more significant input (another one…) into getting the fire lit?  Do you not miss those opportunities to seduce your partner, or do you see your submission as seduction?

I think I answered this one with the last one. As far as I know, Belle’s Rule allows me to do whatever I want until either a) she tells me to stop, or b) she comes. I am sexually confident and can be very persuasive. “Submissive” does not equal “passive” (unless that’s what the dominant wants). I am not a passive person.

What you seem to crave from Belle Fille is a lack of compassion – you want her to see your suffering and be unmoved by it.  That seems to get you very hot.  Do you find that you are starting to see compassion as something undesirable, or as a weakness?  Or are you able to keep that dynamic solely within your relationship?

You’re correct that I want her to see my suffering, but not that I want her to be unmoved. Rather the opposite, I want her to be deeply moved. On the denial side, it’s a continuous demonstration of my willingness to be controlled by her. I gave her my cock. That’s a big deal and I “suffer” because of it every day. On the masochism side, it’s a little different. If you’re not a masochist, I’m not sure how to explain it and I don’t know you’ll ever understand, but I want her to hurt me a lot. To the point at which I can no longer take it, and just a little bit more. I want her to push me and I want to show her how willing I am to be pushed. I want to suffer and squirm and writhe and do it all because it is from her hand. But far from being unmoved, I want her to know that I do it for her because she’s my love and to understand that I know she does it to me because I am hers.

Of course, the two things feed on each other. The more I’m denied, the more I crave the pain and the more pain I can take. There are times when I want the hurt more than anything else. Axe just went though a week of beatings (here, here, and here). Just the idea of being beaten every day for a whole week makes me light headed. Imagine Homer Simpson and how his jaw drops and gets all drooly when he’s around donuts. That’s me thinking about what happened to Axe.

All that aside, you’re right that I’d rather not see compassion from her. I don’t want her to ever seem like she’s sorry for me, or if she is, to do it in a way that makes me feel smaller and more inferior. Case in point. She loves her vibrator Pink. Loves. It. I know she does. But she very often makes a point of telling me she likes her cock (that is, the one on me) more than any toy. This might be true, but honestly, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need to hear it. I’m not threatened. Quite the contrary, I can think of nothing hotter than her finding something other than me to be the most sexually satisfying. Besides, the last thing I want to hear is that she’s not being fully satisfied since her favorite “toy” is locked in the device (and can’t be trusted anyway since I find it so hard to control my orgasm when I’m using it).

And (on a lighter note) do you ever worry about having a car accident and being taken to hospital and having to explain why you have that attached to your cock??  Like the “always wear clean underwear because you might be hit by a bus” argument??

In short, no, I don’t worry about it. Ever. Maybe at the beginning when, ironically, I was wearing a device I could have conceivably removed bare-handed, but not anymore. Maybe that’s just sexually charged bravado or plain old stupidity, but it’s just not a factor.

And there you go. Thirteen questions, 13 answers. It helped that these came in right when Belle started her period since there wasn’t much else to do anyway. 😉


Apparently, I was being snarky. That’s what Belle said, anyway. I certainly was poking fun at her, but, you know, in the most respectful and loving way possible.

Whatever. She didn’t appreciate it.

“You think that’s funny, do you?” She asked.

“Kinda, yeah.”

“OK. Get the Icy Hot.”


And it went on like that with me begging and squirming and trying to talk her out of it. Eventually, she made me get up and retrieve the tube of devil paste from the bathroom. I got back into bed, placing it on my nightstand, and tried to distract her. I was hoping to be able to wait her out. Soon, she’d be sleepy and maybe I’d get off the hook.

After a few minutes, “Get naked and under the covers.”

I did so, still hoping there’d be a reprieve. In theory, I want her to punish me when she sees the need. In practice, Icy Hot hurts like fuck. Plus, I wasn’t really prepared mentally since I wasn’t even aware I was committing a punishable offense.

“Give me the Icy Hot,” she said. I gave it to her while still doing my best to talk her out of it. She seemed to very much enjoy my pathetic protestations.

“Close your eyes.” Whimper. I closed my eyes and opened my legs, exposing the poor, unsuspecting scrotum.

I heard the cap open…I heard the paste squeezed out…I heard the cap snap shut…a few moments of silence…then I felt her fingers smearing the cold lineament across my skin. As usual, for the first several moments it just felt cold. Then even colder as whatever hellish combustion process it utilizes started to take effect. Then hot. Then really hot. Motherfuckinghot.

I tried not to make too much noise, but each wave of burning was greater than the last. I rolled over on my knees and spread my legs so my nutsack would hang freely. She placed her hand on my back in a gentle, loving way as I clenched my eyes shut against the burning. The fumes of the Icy Hot were traveling up my crack and started to provide my ass with a contact burn. That was new.

She must not have put nearly as much on as last time. The burning waves seemed to start to subside after the forth or fifth. Soon, all I felt was a lingering, low-level heat. As I moved about, the burning would intensify for a few moments and then retreat again. I felt well and truly punished.

The next morning, all the burning just a memory, I still felt the difference. I was much more contrite and feeling the subbie vibe. Icy Hot is almost too intense for us to use in a scene now, but as a punishment it was quite effective. I enjoyed the psychological afterglow of being punished even though the actual act was hard to take. From her perspective, its impact far exceeded the effort she needed to put into it. All she’d have to do in the future to make it a more severe punishment would be to increase the amount applied. Since I really don’t like it all that much, I will truly want to avoid it.

I’ll have to do something about the snark.

Belle’s return

Belle’s return on Friday was fantastic. Not that anything really mind-blowing happened, just that she was here. With me. When we’re apart, I’m not unlike a compass that can’t find North. When together, I understand my purpose for being.

While she was still en route, I cut out of work early so I could come home and tidy up. Something like a nesting instinct came over me, except instead of being a 8.5 month pregnant woman, I was a naked 40-something guy with an expensive tube of plastic locked to his unit. Yes, even though we have vast expanses of windows in our house (all with working blinds, I should point out), I felt the need to be as nude as I currently can be while performing the household tasks. More than that, I even went so far as to insert my trusty old Doc Johnson butt plug which, owing to the paucity of backdoor action I’ve experienced in the past several months, left me feeling satisfyingly full in spite of its modest size. You’d think the nakedness, the aloneness, and the hunk of rubber shoved up my ass would conspire to distract me from the tasks at hand, but in fact, I imagined the whole time that Belle was observing me in that condition and that succeeded in keeping me focused (and buzzing). Since we live with two kids, the opportunities to perform these kinds of tasks for her in the buff have numbered exactly zero. Now that I’ve imagined what it would feel like, I’m going to keep thinking about it until it happens for real. I’ve said lots of times that being naked before her with the device clearly visible still leaves me selfconscious. The thought of being forced into that position, while servicing her through household tasks, all in the bright light of day was, clearly, arousing. Basically, being naked before her for no reason other than she wants me that way is enough to set me spinning.

In any event, I folded all the laundry, made all the beds, cleaned the kitchen and bath and generally picked up so that the house looked maybe the best it’s ever looked upon her return from a trip (with the movements of the plug causing the occasional burp of precum to ooze out of me being my modest reward). I know that some people feel eroticizing housework is misogynistic, which it may be, but it’s also a potent turn-on for me when I’m in the right state. Belle’s said it turns her on, too, so my position is, misogynistic or not, we’re gonna keep doing it.

She looked amazing standing on the curb at the airport when I picked her up. She shone among the herd of tired, stressed, and impatient travellers. Once I had her in the car, in our own world, whisked away from the craziness of everyone else, I was in heaven.

Later that night, she allowed me to bring her to orgasm, but not before abusing me un peu: pinching (and pulling, and twisting, and general evilness) to the nipples, some scratching, and fingernails driven into my ass. Bliss. When it was her turn, I found her to be incredibly wet with open, inviting lips. God, I missed her body. It’s sudden naked, aroused, and ready presence made me ache inside. The intensity with which my inner sex lizard demanded I replace my fingers with the cock desperately trying to achieve full erection between my legs was strong enough to leave me feeling slightly dizzy. It took a disappointingly short time to get her off. The lizard was not happy.

All day yesterday I was coming on to her with a zeal that would cause a strict interpreter of our Covenant to cry foul. Every kiss, every touch, every long look filled my plastic tube with frustrated desire. Device or not, it was my clear intention to fuck her that night with whatever piece of me I could get into her. I was beyond simple desire. I had crossed over into biological imperative territory. An entire generation of internal passive rabbits was at stake.

However, Belle had a different agenda. After dinner, she had me clean up while she read a book in front of the fire the unseasonably cool day had caused us to light. Lights low, Madeleine Peyroux on the iPod, fire cracking, and several glasses of pinot grigio conspired to leave Belle supremely relaxed. After our daughter was asleep (the boy being at a sleep-over was out of the picture), I sat on the floor near her head while she luxuriated on the couch, our dog laying on her torso. I looked at that dog and felt petty jealousy rise within me. He was getting the attention and body contact I wanted. Damned dog. I was on the floor while he was getting scratched behind his ears, head resting on her breast. Fucking dog. He looked at me with an expression that seemed to ask tauntingly, “Who’s alpha now, sucka?”

She didn’t ignore me, though. I was getting some gentle stroking that clearly wasn’t heading anywhere fruitful which eventually turned into scratching. To be honest, I don’t always enjoy the scratching she inflicts upon me in these unfocused ways, but the fact that she has the right to hurt me in any random way she wants makes up for that. In any event, I was getting impatient. The clock was ticking and with every passing second she was moving further and further away from a state that would result in me getting some action. Finally, she handed me the dog to take outside for his final piddle of the day. He and I exchanged words outside that clearly reasserted his position at the bottom of the social order, and as soon as I got back upstairs to Belle, she handed me the foot lotion and towel.

I’ll stop right here and say my feelings were not acceptable. Natural, understandable, but not acceptable. Or, at least, any hint that I was feeling them was unacceptable. It’s like I can’t figure out what I want. On the one hand, I crave her control. I want her to rule the cock. I crave submission. On the other, I want to fuck. And those two conflicting objectives often clash within me.

I had already lit every candle in the room, so it was fragrant and warmly glowing when she told me to undress. As I did so and the usual quick flush of embarrassment that accompanies the exposure of my condition washed over me, I had the palpable feeling of the device no longer being a separate thing. It was not quite a part of me, but it was, in fact, my normal state. It’s contents securely locked away, impotent, unneeded, and inconsequential, I was as I should be. Especially at that moment when we were clearly not headed toward any kind of sexual contact. The fact that I even had a penis attached to my body and was suffering from the side effects of it was purely my problem and not germane to the situation. Potent, heady stuff. All felt in the flash of a second before I knelt before her feet and started my work. Had it been possible, I would have been sporting a raging boner.

After her feet were well rubbed, I was back laying next to her and her hands wandered over me. I suggested it was time to sleep as a way to signal she didn’t need to continue if it was only on my account. I knew the score (which is to say, I knew there would be no score that night). She agreed, but didn’t quite stop. She didn’t really open her eyes, but her hand found its way to my crotch. Unexpectedly, she smacked at my balls. It was too light a tap and in the wrong spot to hurt, but my reaction suggested otherwise (gasp, jump). I laughed at that and told her it didn’t hurt (which caused her to do it again, this time causing just a twinge).

“Can I show you the right way to do that?” I asked.

“Sure. Later. Time for sleep.”

I got up and blew out all the candles. While on her side of the bed, she said, “You’ve got a cute ass, Thumper.”

Fat lot of good it does me, I thought as the last of the little flames went out.

Montreal, Part II

Here’s what I think about porn (at least, the porn I like): It’s fantasy. An escape. Total unreality. Just enough basis in real life so that it’s not outrageous and unbelievable (it needs to be just believable), but honestly not so far removed from a cartoon. Porn is not about the mundane mechanics of how sex should or does work, it’s about turning people on. Porn is not a guide to sex any more than The Lion King is a guide to wildlife. It should be reasonably well-written with all the words spelled correctly and with acceptable grammar. Basically, it shouldn’t look like it was pecked out with one hand (if you know what I mean). That is the standard I have tried to follow as I’ve continued this story.

Please note that the events I’ve depicted here have no basis in any personal experiences, except that Belle and I did once spend a very nice (very vanilla) weekend in Montreal in a room not unlike the one I describe in the story. I am not representing real life here and I am also very clearly not trying to describe some kind of ideal life through fiction. I would not want what happens to the guy in this story to happen to me (not all of it, anyway). Life is life, porn is porn. They are not the same.

Anyway, with that outrageously long preamble out of the way, let’s continue. Last we saw our protagonist, he was bound to a chair, a red dildo up his ass, on display in front of the windows of the hotel room he shared with his wife. Night was beginning to fall. Soon, it would be hard for anyone to miss him…

Continue reading “Montreal, Part II”


Over on FetLife, a member called tiger posted this in a thread about milking:

How do you feel different before and after you’ve been milked? How much is enough? What are the objectives exactly? I’m not even clear on that. Is it just to reduce the volume of stored fluid for the sake of prostatic health? It’s also a very dominant, very beautiful act of removing a man’s control over such a quintessentially male thing. I imagine it would make me feel more submissive. What more is it supposed to do?

I think his questions get to the heart of why this is something I want Belle to do to me. I have milked myself a few times now and understand the physiological impact, but it’s allure is more than that.

Physically, I do feel a lessening of pressure when the semen is released. It’s not a pressure I can even say I was cognizant of before it was gone. Maybe it’s more a feeling of the absence of something. In no way does milking make me less aroused. Quite the contrary. The last time I did it, I couldn’t get enough and was much hornier afterward. And that, even though Belle has never said I couldn’t milk myself, is why I feel I need to ask that it be something we share. I felt like I was receiving too much pleasure from it. No, I wasn’t having an orgasm, but the pleasure I received felt like a violation of the spirit of our arrangement.

Tiger absolutely hits on the psychological trigger for me. It’s the “act of removing a man’s control over such a quintessentially male thing”. To be denied even the fleeting satisfaction of a ruined orgasm. To reduce the passage of semen from my body to an almost clinical act that I have no control over after she’s denied me and teased me and stoked within me such a bonfire of desire. So unfair. So unsatisfying. Especially when you layer on how doing it increases my frustration. On the list of things she can do to me that embody the domination I wish for her to embrace, there are few more powerful.