Tag: male chastity

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We talk

“Why do you do that? Why do you always go there? Saying we need to just chuck the whole thing whenever we hit a bump?”

She was referring to this comment from my previous post:

This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on.

I’d say I don’t always go there, but I have, on occasion, suggested we should end our experiment in D/s. For me, whenever I come to doubt that she’s getting anything out of what we do, a complex series of things spring up.

First, I fear that she’s sacrificing her own sexuality in order to serve mine. Nothing else would be more appalling to me. This is not to say I don’t think she should ever do something just because it pleases me. Hardly. That give and take is the foundation of any relationship, sexual or otherwise. However, the idea that she would wholly subsume her sexual identity under the weight of mine is something I’ve feared multiple times. If that were ever to be the case, that her control was merely a construct formed by her desire to see me happy, the entire thing would come crashing down. Her desire for control must be authentically hers.

Second, I immediately start to feel guilt over the ridiculously complicated nature of my sexuality. Why should it all be so fucking hard? Why can’t I be like the other boys? She doesn’t need any more complexity in her life and I feel that I’m only becoming more complicated as we go along, introducing new “rules” and concepts she needs to keep in mind. Sex should be fundamentally easy, shouldn’t it? Sex with me, at least from her perspective, is anything but.

Third, I feel shame. I am ashamed at the things I want from her. My desire to be controlled, to be bound, to be hurt. She’s a nice Catholic girl and I’m nothing more than a perverted deviant (and a heathen to boot) bringing implements of bondage, floggers, and other apparatus into the bedroom. I want her to do unspeakable things to me. Things that are fundamentally not within her nature. I’m a freak.

Fourth, there’s that fundamental difference between us sexually. She wants sex to be spontaneously conducted upon soft, down-filled bedding on bright, sunny Spring mornings with the sounds of birds outside and the scent of lavender on the cool breeze. I want it to be done in the dark, by candlelight, with black leather and stainless steel. I want pain and domination and inequity. Nothing about what I like is spontaneous. We are from polar-opposite regions. I fear she never gets what she really wants in a sexual encounter (think Jane Austen) because she’s always catering to my fetid desires (think Marilyn Manson).

We discussed all this. We will work on all this, especially trying to find ways in which her idealized sexual experience can be combined with mine. She doesn’t want me to feel shame, though I still do. We both feel guilt. We both worry about disappointing the other.

Specifically regarding last night’s encounter, I found myself saying something unexpected. I accused her of being selfish. She was stressed and our sex life was only adding to that angst, so she pulled the plug on it. Not only had she released me, she ended my denial. Capriciously, I thought, since her orgasm was already attended to and didn’t require me to be released. I said I thought that was selfish because I was in a really good place at the time. I was thrilled. The issues were hers and we should have talked them though instead of her, under the guise of being in control, unilaterally acting. It’s was hard for me to say that to her because I’m generally predisposed to accepting her control and serving her selfishness and generally being submissive, but I thought the way in which she acted last night was above and beyond all that. She was actively trying to kill the dynamic, at least for a little while. I had no desire for it to end. Certainly, there must have been another way that would have preserved what we each needed.

Beyond that, she struggles (continuously) with the need to satisfy. That my satisfaction comes, in part, from being unsatisfied is very difficult for her. She also draws a line to my sexual dissatisfaction and my infidelity. In fact, it was my dissatisfaction with her general apathy towards sex that sent me away, not with the sex we were having. In any event, she says she fears that we’ll end up there again. I can’t imagine that now. Sex before didn’t exist between us. Now, it’s front and center. How we were a year ago and how we are now are totally opposite.

In any event, we need to redefine for her what “satisfaction” means to me and to not confuse it with satiation. I am very satisfied now with being totally unsatiated. We can have that bright and lavender-scented Jane Austen-style sex some Spring morning, but I’ll be happier at the end if I’m left hard and frustrated and grinding into my chastity device as opposed to spewing my seed into her. We can both be happy as long as we accept new, flexible definitions of “happy”. She may I think I secretly want to come all over her. In fact, I want to want to come, but not actually do it.

And seriously, I don’t want to come. If, in the course of her fucking me because that’s what she wants, I happen to come because I can’t control myself, then so be it. I only hope she takes the opportunity to tease me about it (hopefully with punishment). However, and for the foreseeable future, I’d rather be left wanting it rather than having it. If she wants to torture me with forced orgasm – to rip it from me against my will – then fine, I guess. That can be hot. But that’s not what last night was about. That was about the opposite.

I have more that I could say, but the conversation was very emotional. I cried very hard a couple of times, and she cried too. I’m feeling a little wiped by the whole thing and sort of puffy-faced. In the end, of course, we didn’t decide to end our experiment. We talked our way through and will keep trying to find the right path. We hugged and kissed and cared for one another. It was all very Austen-esque, except when we were done, she locked her cock back up in plastic. That never would have happened to Mr. Darcy.

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An indefinite period

She’s going to leave me locked up indefinitely. I’m not sure how long “indefinitely” is, but this fact came up last night after more talking (since work’s beat her down lately, that’s about all she had energy for). I was telling her how much more comfortable it makes me to think she likes me locked up. I told her, since she’s not really left me in the thing very much lately, that I figured she wasn’t all that into it and was only humoring me. She reiterated that she does like me in it. A lot.

So why have I not been in it that much? Apparently, she lets me out when there’s other stuff happening around us. For instance, we have relatives over this week. There’s no reason at all that should have any bearing on the status of her cock, but she let me out just before they showed up. Yes, it’s true she also wanted to fuck it, but still. I told her I would be happier if she didn’t worry about how I feel about the device at any given moment. If I’m not squealing (aka, safewording), then all I want her to consider is whether or not she wants me in it. Not whether or not I want to be in it. If she’s thinking about my comfort (or whatever) and I know it (which I do) then I can potentially use that to my advantage and manipulate my status. It’s much, much hotter to think she’s only considering what she wants with regard to the device. Besides, for the vast majority of the day, the device might as well not be there. It gets in the way of practically nothing other than peeing, jacking off, and sex.

Which is not to say she can’t let it out to play if that’s what she wants. This kinda gets to the fact that she doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s locked up. If she wants to fuck it, she should fuck it, then put it back in. If she just wants to tease it, then she should. Getting in and out isn’t that hard. Will I want to go back in? Certainly not if I’ve come, but again, who cares? It’s her cock, it’s her CB6K. If she likes the idea of me being in it, then I should be in it.

So anyway, at some point in this conversation, she said she was going to leave me in it indefinitely. I like the sound of that. I asked her to err on the side of leaving it in there more often since, of course, she likes it that way. If she likes it, then I fucking love it. Recently, my appreciation of enforced chastity has been on low ebb. Suddenly, I find myself more enthusiastic about it than I was when we first bought the CB6K.

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She likes it

It’s been 10 days now since she last let me come which is just about when the hormones really start kicking in. Based on previous experience, if she continues to deny me orgasm but still teases me and allows me to pleasure her, my level of frustration will continue to build until about three weeks when it’ll level out and maybe even start to drop off a bit. She’s only made me hold out that long a few times, but each time the pattern’s been roughly the same.

I also notice now that the tremulous vibrato of sexual energy that resonates in my chest (which I’ve described in the past as “carnivorous butterflies”) has become such a normal state of affairs for me that I only really notice it when it’s not there. I don’t know what causes this, but it’s enhanced when she has me in the device. It’s like all my sexual desire – basically, the desire to grab, stroke, and otherwise abuse her cock – feeds back on itself. It drives me to seek out sexually stimulating media (otherwise known as “porn”) which, in turn, only makes it worse since I can’t touch myself. It’s that kind of loop, pumping more and more hormones into my blood, that makes it impossible to sleep sometimes. Anyway, I’m feeling that now. A state of hyper-arousal. The carnivorous butterflies flapping around inside me.

Last night, I really wanted plant my face in Belle’s snatch and eat her up. Something, anything, to get her pheromones on me. To feel her pleasure and eventual orgasm which comes for both of us now. But she brought a bunch of work home with her and, by the time she was done with it, wasn’t in the mood for her bunny’s services. I may have let my disappointment show just a bit, but I’ve gotten pretty good lately at not feeling I’m in any way involved in deciding if I get to experience sexual pleasure and got over it pretty quickly.

She told me to get naked, which I did, and as I was laying above the covers next to her, clothed only in the transparent plastic of the CB6K, something Tom said recently in a comment came to mind. Belle and I hardly ever talk about the device. It’s her method of control, but it’s also the thing that mostly goes unsaid between us. So, with it being very visible and me still adjusting to my unexpected stint in lock-up, I asked her if she had any questions about it.

She thought about this a second and asked, “What’s the hardest part about wearing it?”

“God,” I said, “There are so many hard parts…” I seriously had to ponder that.

“Finding a place for it in my pants is hard sometimes,” I began, “And peeing. It makes peeing rather complicated. That sucks. And, of course, the nocturnal erections can be difficult to deal with. Those two can combine when the cock gets so hard in the tube that it makes peeing impossible. That totally blows…” I trailed off.

“The hardest part, though, is that I feel like you don’t always know what to do with me when I’m locked up.” Not sure where that came from. It just sort of popped into my head so I said it.

“But I like when you wear it,” she replied.

“Really?” I continue to assume that she only puts me in it to humor me and that she’d rather have me out. In fact, I assume she does everything in an attempt to humor me. My submissive’s insecurity, I guess.

“What do you like about it?” I asked.

“I like that when you’re wearing it I know exactly what you can and cannot do with yourself. You’re a guy and all your wiring and buttons are different than mine, so I like knowing you really can’t do anything when you’re wearing it. I like knowing you can’t touch yourself.” She may have said some other things related to this, but frankly the buzzing sound in my head made it difficult to follow what she was saying. The tube was fully pressurized and my eyes kinda of half-closed as the blanket of subspace fell over me.

“I need to hear that. That you like it,” I said. “If you like having me wear it, then there are no hard parts.”

And that was about it. She was tired and was asleep shortly thereafter. I was awake and decided to read a book rather than surf the web since I really did want to sleep at some point. In retrospect, I’m really pleased she told me she likes when I’m locked up. That’s huge. I can put up with almost anything if I know she wants me to. On the other hand, my point about her not knowing what to do with me when I’m locked up is still out there. We need to talk more about that.

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A couple of quickies

One.

I picked Belle Fille up at her place of employment this evening and told her that I had locked myself into the device because I was having impure thoughts about myself. She congratulated me on my self-control (which, I pointed out, if I had any, would have obviated the need for the device). Then, tonight when I asked if she would take the thing off, she declined. She’s apparently very happy to have me locked up at the moment.

Two.

Also in the car on the way home, Belle said it was a good thing I put it on because otherwise I may have done something requiring punishment. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out something derogatory with respect to her inclination to punish me. You know, since I picked the lock of my chastity device and all and have still not been punished. Understand that I’m not exactly sure I want to be punished because it’s going to hurt like fuck, but I do actually like the idea of her having the right to punish me. It’s complicated. In any event, my derision was not well received. She says she’s been waiting for the right moment. I pointed out that all the books say it’s important to discipline your dog at the time of the incident, not hours later. Otherwise, there’s a disconnection. You know, between the digression and the resulting punishment. OK, well, in any event, she may or may not be punishing me sometime in the future. When it happens, you’ll be the first to know. I mean second. Well, OK, technically third.

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Self imprisonment

Belle let me out of the device on Sunday. It’d been nearly a week since she had some bunny lovin’ (due to her trip and a monster-long menstrual cycle) and she wanted her cock. She said it just like that. “Tonight, I want my cock.” Fucking awesome.

So she let me out and I cleaned it up, shaved, etc. I had that nagging insecurity regarding coming without permission, but it turns out she came so fast from my fingers that the issue never presented itself. After an appropriate amount of basking on her part, she told me I could go inside her. No coming, of course. Just like last time, I was overcome by gratitude. There’s the feeling of thankfulness, of course, but then there’s also this meta feeling that flows from that. The feeling of inequity and unfairness and how I, the husband, the traditional “head of household”, have so little control over my own sexual functions that I am forced into this position of servile gratitude simply over the chance to get the dick wet. Of course, that’s exactly where I want to be. Not emasculated, but harnessed. Restrained. Maintained.

In any event, I got very, very close to coming more than once. I love that feeling when the primal lizard urge to just keep going and come fires up and I have to struggle to reassert her control over me. And when she tells me it’s time to stop and I have to pull the throbbing meat out of her, cold and wet. It just says hard. Twenty, thirty minutes. Not bone hard, but there’s a plumpness to it that doesn’t seem to want to go away. My blind sexual instincts never seem to learn. I know there’s not chance of getting off (especially once she falls asleep), but the motor keeps purring just in case.

In the few days since, we haven’t had a chance to connect. Today, I’m at home alone and find myself extra super horny. So horny, that the urge to stimulate myself was becoming difficult to avoid. As I’ve written recently, I had this problem where I’d jack myself off, but never let me come. Doing so kept the hormonal levels high, but totally broke the link between my sexual gratification and Belle. She’s since expressly forbidden that behavior (again), so these thoughts were problematic. I decided to lock myself up as a preemptive measure. I couldn’t find her new lock or the keys (they’re not in the corner of her dresser drawer!) but I was able to scrounge around and find an open Master lock. Not a big fan of them since they’re kind of big, but at least it locks and I have no clue where the key is (on her keyring, I think). I was much more thoughtful this time around with regard to the device. The KSD-3G is in place, I used appropriately sized ring and my new O-ring and PA cable set-up. Very, very secure. No chance of rubbing one out (or even making the motions). When Belle comes home, she can decide if she wants me in it not, but at least I’ll be able to avoid making any mistakes in the mean time.

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Jailbreak!

Picked!Last time she ordered me into the device, I have to admit I was a little off my game. Mostly, this was due to my having just come and not really putting my heart into it. In any event, I screwed a few things up. I used a ring that was too big and neglected to put the KSD-G3 in place. I like to use the KSD-G3 because it helps keep the meat pushed down inside the tube. This make things like peeing a little easier and, I’ve found, helps my PA ring find its way through the slot in the end of the plastic tube during erections (when the ring doesn’t descend, it turns kinda sideways, pulling on the piercing – not painful, really, but uncomfortable).

So, long way to say, I felt my kit was on all wrong. And she was out of town. With the key. Now, if you knew me in real life, you’d know I kinda sorta obsess over things like this. It was driving me nuts. I really wanted the KSD in there and I wanted the smaller ring. My fevered monkey brain kicked into gear.

My lock, seen above and in place on this blog’s about page, was chosen because I thought it was pretty. Truth is, Belle’s never liked it because it’s fussy to open (never sure which way to turn the key), but I’ve always appreciated it’s shiny aesthetics. I like shiny. Plus, it’s key is not so ugly. There was a time when I thought Belle could wear the key on a pretty chain I got her and it looks almost like jewelry, but since she never wears the chain, that doesn’t really matter. The downside of my pretty chrome lock is that its mechanism is exceedingly simple. You can see right into the keyhole and I’m pretty sure all the key does is move a little thingy in there allowing the clasp to spring open. So, with that in mind and the imperfection of my situation gnawing at me every moment of the day, I bent open a thick paper clip, used my needle nose pliers to bend over the end, and started fishing around in the keyhole. After about five seconds, bingo! Lock was open.

Then I realized what I had done. I had picked the lock to the device Belle had placed upon me. I had actually physically defeated the device. This was not good. I thought to close the lock and forget it ever happened, but the monkey brain is nothing if not pragmatic. It told me, as long as I had the lock open, I should at least put the KSD in there.

But surely, I argued back, I can’t take the thing off!?

No, no, my good man, said the monkey in an oddly affected British accent (I think all monkeys speak with British accents), you can leave the tube on, can’t you? There’s a good fellow. Carry on.

And then he threw some poop at me.

In any event, I did manage to get the KSD in place without removing the tube. It was tricky, but I was able to wrap my actions afterward in a shred of decency. While I had picked the fucking lock, I had not removed – even for a second – the part of the device that most represented her control over me.

UnpickableYesterday, I spilled the beans to Belle. I told her we needed a new lock since I knew how to open it. She seemed surprised at my cheekiness. Yes, we certainly did need a new lock. Then I went into the bathroom and, apparently to put a very fine point on my recent admission, picked the lock again and put on the smaller ring (again, without removing the tube). Instead of putting the thoroughly disrespected (yet still very pretty) chrome lock back, I took the ugly, sharp-cornered little lock that originally came with with the CB-6000 on. Its only redeeming quality (other than being totally secure against the monkey brain) is that it’s small. Otherwise, its very utilitarian.

I stepped out of the bathroom and handed Belle the keys to the new lock and the open chrome lock. Security has been reestablished.

Last night, she said opening the lock without permission deserved punishment. Of course, she’s right. It’s a huge transgression. If she carries through with the threat, it’ll be the first time she’s punished me since we established our understanding regarding her right to inflict corporal punishment. We’ll see what happens next…

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I come and she goes

Why am I not writing? Because I don’t feel like it. Why not? Well, nothing’s happening. True, a blog about being denied orgasm is often about the absence of a thing, but in this case, nothing is all I have since Belle’s away for the week and I’m left locked up and not terribly horny.

For the two days before she left, she had me naked in bed and so, so slowly stroked the cock with her hand. Her touch was very light. I don’t know if she’d ever have been able to get me off that way, but I found it to be something near torture constantly wanting her to grab on harder, to move faster. The first night, she actually fell asleep that way – with her hand wrapped around the cock. It was still hard and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get any sensation from her limp hand. Eventually, her hand wasn’t the only limp thing.

The second night started out very much the same. Me, naked. Her, slowly massaging her possession. It was wonderfully maddening. However, this time, after a little while of the slow and gentle stuff, she started going a little faster and using more force. Before long, she was well and truly jacking me off and it was fucking awesome. All I could do was thank her again and again for the wonderful sensation. I didn’t think it was going anywhere in particular, but I started to feel the light tingling sensation that signaled an orgasm being to coalesce inside me.

I was about to say something about it when she said, “You can come, Thumper.”

Such beautiful words.

“I want to come,” I replied and pulled back all my internal barriers to orgasm.

She stroked and stroked and I laid there and reveled in the building release. In the moment just before I came, I tried to hold it back. Not because I didn’t want it or was trying to keep it from happening, but because I wanted to really feel it. I wanted that mind-blowing orgasmic energy to permeate my every cell. I felt like I was just hanging there, suspended in the pure light of release. I’m sure it was just an extra second or two, but the moment seemed to go on and on. Then I came, the clock started moving again, and I was spurting out all over her hand and my stomach. That familiar yet uncommon scent immediately washed over us in all it’s earthy, pungent glory. All I could do was lay there and whimper.

Then she wanted me locked up. My relationship with the device has become more complicated recently. She’s been leaving me out for longer periods and I come to enjoy my freedom. However, she was leaving the next morning and I’ve not exactly demonstrated a great deal of self-control lately. Putting it in place while the flaccid dick was still leaking its slippery fluid was harder than I thought it’d be. Now, two days later, I’m so, so over being locked up. This is actually pretty funny if you think about it. I can go weeks at a time and be somewhat disappointed to be let out but on the heels of an orgasm, two days seems like forever. I’ve obviously become somewhat spoiled of late.

She’s back on Friday and I’m not sure if she’ll let me out then or leave me in for a while. We have relatives coming to stay with us next week and while there’s no reason that should bear on her decision, I’d be surprised if she left me in while they were here.

So, there you go. While I collect myself and regenerate my desire to write, go read this recent post by Tom. Pure awesome. Also, I like this little post my Mykey because I can so relate.

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Good night

Tuesday just kinda sucked from all kinds of angles, none of them related to Belle. I found myself at the end of the day in a frame of mind not unlike the one I would have found myself in a year ago – distracted by external factors and not emotionally present with Belle or the kids. It pissed me off. While that was normal ten months ago, it feels oily and distasteful to me now. We went to bed and I was still distracted. It’d only been about five days since I last came, so I’d only just begun to feel the return of of the effects of denial, but the distraction of the day totally overwhelmed that. My sex drive – a nearly constant companion for so many months – was absent. I wanted it back.

Belle gave me permission to take off my clothes and I immediately latched on to her. I didn’t really feel it at that point – in the old days, it would have been easier to just let her fall asleep – but with each kiss I planted on her face and as my hand passed over her body and across her skin, the desire to feel her have an orgasm started to incrementally build. I sensed she wasn’t entirely there and had she told me to get off so she could go to sleep it probably would have sent me into an emotional funk, but she didn’t

I finally asked, “What can I do for you, Belle Fille?”

“You can give me an orgasm.”

“How would you like to come?” I asked as I involuntarily pressed the stiff erection into her thigh. I wanted to fuck her now. A lot.

“With your fingers,” she said. “I like your fingers.”

I was not disappointed. The subby bunny was coming out of his burrow and the need to feel her pleasure was more pressing than worrying how it came about.

As I started to work on her, little waves of warm energy pulsed through my brain. This was right. This was good. She would come. I would not. She would feel satisfaction and fall asleep easily. I would not. She clearly wasn’t worried about my frustration or the hard cock pressing into her or what it meant or would do to me afterward. She felt no guilt. She wanted me horny and unsatisfied. This was about her pleasure.

For me, the best part of giving her that orgasm was at the end when she took a handful of my hair and used it to roughly pull my head from her nipple. No words. Just an abrupt motion that said, “That’s it, tool. I’m done.”

I didn’t start the evening in my “zone of denial”, but I was there by the end. I was desperately horny. She allowed me to enter her after her basking and glowing period and it felt fantastic. Of course, I was never going to come. I never got close. But the fucking. Sweet Jesus. I just adore her pussy. Every bit of it. Every tiny, little, wet, hot bit of it.

While she was indulging me with access to her body, I told her things she already knew. I said I never, ever wanted to come again outside her presence. I told her how thankful I was for her accepting control over my sexual release. How happy it made me.

Eventually, it had to stop. She told me the ride was coming to an end, but the struggle within me over the idea of pulling out was difficult. Millions of years of reproductive evolution was screaming within every fiber of body to keep going, but my mind – the part that embraces her control – eventually got the upper hand. I withdrew from the warm confines of her body and felt the cold air of control wash over the hard, wet meat.

Yep. It was a good night.

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It’s all good

It’s totally predictable now. Orgasms = diminished urge to blog about not having orgasms. Interestingly, my interest in non-orgasmly focused topics goes up. If this blog covered other aspects of my life, then I’d still have something to talk about, but since it’s so focused on our sex life, it suffers when she lets me come.

My last post was very hard to write simply because I lost the desire to write about it. Looking back, I’m not that happy with it, but there it is. Belle let me come again on Saturday morning, but it wasn’t her idea. I was feeling pretty frisky, what with the unencumbered man meat I was sporting, and I made that friskiness known by climbing up on her and gyrating said man meat into her. Subtle, I know. Not exactly respecting her personage, but I totally would have cut it out if she had told me to. And that’s the thing about respecting her personage. I know I get more sex (or, what passes for sex for me) when I can come on to her. The trade-off is, she’s under less pressure to give in and is therefore happier. I’m left recognizing situations in which I probably could get her to let me do stuff, but I’m forced to let them pass due to our agreement. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying. That’s what accepting her control means, right? Saturday morning, though, I pushed the limits knowing she was in a good mood and we had nothing much to do and the kids weren’t all in our face or anything. She indulged me.

I did not intend to come as I did not have permission, but I let my concentration slip as she approached her orgasm and came anyway. I kept right on pumping through it which caused the head of the cock to burn in oversensation, but she needed to come still. Afterward, she told me I could go but, you know, I already had. How do they not notice? I’m literally spraying fluids into her and she can’t feel them? Oh, well. Coming accidentally didn’t make me feel all that bad because I now know I really can control my orgasm, even after more than three weeks. It’s just a matter of practice. Lots and lots of practice.

In the days since, I’ve felt wispy feelings of denial start to creep back (which might explain why I’m here). She’s been playfully touching her cock and saying little things at random times and that helps a lot. Last night, after she told me to get naked, she gave it the most gentle little strokes as she fell asleep  – like petting a small animal – with random thwacks at my nuts mixed in. It was nice. Very nice.

In general, I’m feeling really, really good about where we are now. It’s like we’ve settled into a nice little groove. I feel her control with me all the time. The idea of coming absent her go-ahead is alien to me now. Plus, I’m not all freaked about how my feelings have changed since I know it’s temporary (and the 10-14 days after the orgasm give me the highest high anyway). She seems very comfortable in her role and, as I said, is being playful about it. In short, things are awesome.

Nowhere to go but down, right? 😉

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Minnesota nice

An edited text exchange between Belle Fille and me from Wednesday night:

BF: Hi. How about some hot vibe action with I get home?

T: Um, you betcha.

BF: Be naked and ready.

T: Give me 5 minutes warning.

BF: I will. Can I be on top?

T: You can be wherever you want, but what’s that got to do with vibrators?

BF: There might be guests.

T: WTF?!

There were no guests. She was just fucking with me. She was at another work dinner function thing and apparently felt like playing with her rabbit’s head.

As I heard the garage door opening, I hurried around the room, turning off lights and lighting candles and stripping down to just my skin and attached plastic. I laid her two vibrators out on her side of the bed and then reclined on my side, as ordered: naked and ready.

After settling into bed a little while later, she opened her nightstand drawer and removed the key on its chain.1

“I want my cock tonight, is that OK?” she said as she unlocked the device.

“Of course it is,” I replied.

“Of course it is,” she repeated, more slowly.

Luckily, I had earlier given it a really good cleaning, so it didn’t have the rest stop men’s room bouquet it sometimes has at the end of the day.

“Here’s what I want. Tonight, I will demonstrate my control over you by not having control. You will make me come any way you want. And, when I’m done, you can come. Call it my passive-aggressive dominatrix style. It’s Minnesota nice. In fact, when you write about this on the blog, I want you to call it Minnesota Nice.”

“OK,” I replied, worried that people not in Minnesota wouldn’t know what Minnesota nice was. “When you say I ‘can’ come, does that mean I have a choice?”

“No. You must come.”

“Oh. OK.”

I hadn’t been expecting this. I assumed (for whatever reason) that she’d let me come on the weekend. I hadn’t been mentally prepared for needing to bring myself to a place where I could come at all. I started some general pleasuring stuff while trying to rally the troops, but found that I couldn’t get it up. I don’t know if it was the 20-some days of orgasmless existence or the almost two weeks of chastity or what, but I could not get it up. The poor, neglected, abused little dick just flopped around, insistently flaccid.

I didn’t let it freak me, though. I moved over her body and let my torso and legs lay against hers. This kind of large-area skin to skin contact hardly ever happens anymore and feeling her smooth warmth all up and down my body fired off a few critical synapses. I still wasn’t hard, but I could feel it coming. To help it along, I started to rub the head of the cock against the lips of her pussy. She made little sounds at this which also helped the momentum. Soon, her biocock was at full mast.

Once her wet heat enveloped the cock, I sensed that there was a chance I could get her off without coming. Maybe it was the total surprise of the event, but I felt my own orgasm was far enough away that, with sufficient mental discipline, I’d be able to control myself. I started a slow and steady stroking while flicking my tongue over her nipples. The slightly contorted position works in my favor as it helps to take my mind off the action below. I focused as much of my mental energy on her nipples as I possibly could, doing my best to not feel myself fucking her at the same time.

After a little bit of that, it became apparent that I’d have to come up with another strategy. I needed a distraction. As usual, I turned to baseball. Very specifically, I started to thing about my favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. The Dodgers have been playing some really good ball lately. Now that Manny’s back. In fact, they just swept the Reds at home which is something like 11 or 12 straight home wins…

fuckfuckfuck, don’t come!

GREEN GRASS! They play on the green grass of Dodger Stadium, built by Walter O’Malley in Chavez Ravine the year after he moved the team west from Brooklyn. Such a beautiful stadium nestled up in the hills, beautiful green hills. I remember as a kid watching the nearby firefighter’s school do practice water drops on those green hills during the games…

fuckfuckfuck, DON’T COME.

MANNY! I’m really not a fan of Manny Ramirez anymore. Not since the whole drug thing. I mean, I gave those hated Giants such shit when they played Barry Bonds even after all his drug stuff went down. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t feel the same way about Manny. Besides, the Dodgers totally rocked while he was serving his suspension. Who needs him and his $24 million dollar salary…

Ooooooh GOD, don’t come!

I kept up a steady rhythm, not very fast but not too slow, and didn’t have to stop once (though a few times I missed a beat while finding something else Dodger-related to think about). Finally, at about the time I started to worry about how the Dodgers would get past the Phillies to advance to their first World Series since 1988, she started to make sounds like she was going to come. She shifted her hips and I could feel the head of the cock touching her cervix and it was getting harder and harder and harder to hold back the now completely inevitable orgasm.

“OH! Good job, Thumper!” she exclaimed in my ear. That’s it. She had come.

BING!

One and a half strokes later, I was coming, too. Big, fat spurts of three week’s worth of ejaculate. It felt so, so good. She told me how proud she was that I was able to hold it back. Very impressive, she thought. And I admit, I was pretty happy, too.

After I collected myself, I went to the bathroom and was struck by the overpowering smell of semen. It’s such an infrequent part of the action and I go so long without smelling it. Maybe it’s because it was aged and concentrated or something, but the smell of male sex was everywhere.

Back in the bedroom, Belle asked me to hand her Pink.

“Didn’t you come,” I asked, momentarily horrified by the thought that I had misread her and come before she did.

“Yes,” she said, “but I want to try this. Call it an experiment.”

“I’m all in favor of experiments,” I said as I handed her the discrete little vibe. The thing is, Belle never comes more than once. Like, ever. Her’s are more like men’s orgasms in that once she’s had one, it takes her a long time to build back the ability to do it again. Also, she’s usually unable to enjoy sexual stimulation right after due to over sensitivity. This was a very unusual event.

As she was using it on herself, I laid there and reflected on how that moment, right after I came, was so different than the other times I had been forced to watch her pleasure herself. It was interesting more than it was hot. None of the previous feelings of neglect and pain and injustice. But then, I noticed how nice her tits looked from my perspective and I started to wonder if the vibe slid in easier and felt different since she was lubed up with my recently expelled come. I felt a stirring in my groin.

As she continued to use the vibe, her face contorted several times into expressions I’d more easily associate with pain than pleasure. The sounds she made were more like those of someone being hurt. My Belle’s no masochist, so this made it even more unusual. Eventually, she came, but not as boisterously as she had the first time. I’m not sure if this is going to be a regular occurrence now or if it was just a one-time thing.

So now I’m back out of the device and the boulder of orgasm denial has rolled all the way back down to the bottom of the hill. Being allowed the one fantastic orgasm has left me feeling the need for another more than the three weeks of not being allowed to come. Weird how that works.

—

1 Yeah, I thought she was supposed to be hiding it better, too. ↩