Tag: malesub

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Labor Day weekend

I didn’t get to see Belle until Saturday morning. This weekend saw the final fling of the summer up at the family north woods compound. She left Friday morning with her sister while I came up after the kids got of school. It wasn’t until 10:30 or so until I got up there and she was already fast asleep.

The next morning, she told me she had drifted off to sleep happy with the thought that I was locked under her key, unable to touch myself in any satisfactory way. She said she enjoys having that kind of control over me. I, not unexpectedly, revelled in her saying this. The familiar warm pulse of submission welled up within me. It’s still somewhat novel for me to think that I wear the device because she wants me to. It was my idea to introduce it, but now it’s all hers (as is the thing it contains). Pure awesome.

Saturday night, after a one of the finest late summer days I’ve seen at the cabin, she had me laying naked next to her in bed. Still locked up, she gently petted my balls until we both fell asleep. The next morning, now about two weeks since I last came, I was petting her back, hands roaming all across her body, except those places I’m not allowed to touch without permission.

“I’m being good,” I observed.

“You don’t have to be good,” she replied.

With that, I attempted to bring her to orgasm, but could feel in her a tension that left me wondering if we’d get there. When she’s in the mood, there’s a certain amount of time it should take me to get her off. As we passed that point, I maintained the ministrations of my mouth and fingers, but could sense it wasn’t going to happen. She eventually told me to stop, but said it wasn’t my fault she didn’t come. There was just too much activity in the cabin full of family for her to relax. I felt bad for her – for both of us, I guess, since her orgasm is our orgasm – but I didn’t dwell on it.

Sunday night, after a fine meal at the only nice restaurant within an hour’s drive of the cabin, we found ourselves alone with the kids asleep downstairs. As I walked into our room, she was sorting through her change purse looking for something. Funnily enough, she desired the use of her cock but had accidentally left the key to the lock at home. We both had a pretty good laugh at that. She didn’t want me to try bringing her orgasm again and instead repeated the previous evening’s gentle stroking of the stretched scrotum, intermingled with lingering tracing of my perineum and the occasional whack at my nuts. Lovely.

Throughout the weekend, and really into last week, I have to say that I’ve been plenty horny and desirous of sexual contact with her, but I’ve also felt myself resist taking any overt action based on those feelings. Previously, I’d have probably been all over her and pressuring her in several ways, but at least for now, I don’t feel the need. I’m very comfortable with my position as her sexual subordinate. When she wants it, she’ll ask for it. Until then, I’ll find some other way to make her happy. I guess you could say that it appears as though I’ve learned to be patient. The chastity device helps, of course.

Last night, I offered to give her a foot massage while we caught up on Mad Men. Just as before, I felt a great deal of satisfaction from the activity knowing that it was giving her pleasure and making her relaxed. After I finished (and the show was over), she produced her key. I was somewhat surprised as being unlocked wasn’t even on my mind, but I assumed she wanted to use her cock in the way she had not been able to the night before. After she let me out, I went off to ensure I was nice and clean.

Back in the bedroom, she had me strip and lay back on the bed. She rubbed and massaged the cock and my balls until I was sporting a very stiff erection. I flexed it several times, feeling it surge with blood and filling out to its most engorged state, just for the satisfaction of the sensation. It had only been a week or so in the device, but nothing beats the feeling of a nice hard cock.

She again smacked my nuts around, though with more force than before when the plastic was in the way. A couple of times, she actually balled up her fist and thudded into my right testicle, but not as forcefully as she could have. Lovely, exquisite pain radiated up and into my guts which, unless it’s your thing, you’d never really understand or appreciate.

Then she started to stroke me. Gently and slowly at first, but then with more speed. It felt simply glorious. I moaned and writhed and felt the tickling tell-tale signs of orgasm deep under the stiff root of the cock. I wasn’t sure if she meant to get me off, but I didn’t care. It felt too good.

And then she stopped. I moaned deeply. The absence of her touch reverberated in me and the bubbling optimism of my coming orgasm quickly receded. Then she started to stroke me again. This time, I swung my leg over hers to more fully open myself to her and pressed into her body. My entire being was being consumed by the sensation of her masturbating me. Shortly, I again felt the tingling of a nascent orgasm beginning to coalesce and again she let go, leaving the hard meat bobbing in her wake.

This time, the absence of her attention tore through me. I moaned even more loudly and my breathing was in ragged pants as I struggled to process my desire for her to keep going, but knowing I couldn’t ask for it. I kissed her chin and jaw and pressed my face into her breasts trying to find the outline of her nipples with my lips, but she pushed me away.

Her hand was back on the rigid, straining cock, moving up and down. I wanted it so badly, this sensation. More, I wanted to shoot my wad. I wanted the two weeks worth of spunk I had been carrying around with me to unload all over her hand and my chest. I wanted to come. I resolved to do what I could to hide any sign of an impending orgasm. I willed the internal process along hoping to take her by surprise.

Is that wrong? Was I betraying my oath of submission and the power I had investing in her over my release? I don’t know. I can’t say. All I do know is the urge to come had overtaken any other imperative. All there was in the world was her hand and the hard cock within it and the wonderful orgasm she was soon to bring into the world.

And it was right there. I could feel it starting to march up the ladder, yearning for daylight. I was about to come…until she stopped again. My moan was more a cry of anguish. It was over, this time for good, and the juices never flowed. The cock bobbed rhythmically as I flexed and pumped it as though doing so would cause the orgasm to spontaneously come into being, but I got nothing. Not even a meager dribble. Apparently, not as close as I thought.

Shortly afterward, the candles were snuffed and she was rolled over and going to sleep. I pressed the still hard meat into her as we spooned, careful not to grind it. I was horny beyond comprehension, but at the same time happy and satisfied, after a fashion.

My Belle played me very well all weekend long. I have not seen her more confident and comfortable in her role. Right now, things are going well. Very, very well.

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Rika arrives

I finally got around to ordering Uniquely Rika the other day and it showed up last night. I’ve seen it talked up on other sites and, after finding myself again on her old website (now defunct, but still available if you know how to use the Internet Archive), I decided to pop the $30 and get the book. I’ve purchased books like this in the past (specifically, about female dominance), but I can’t say they’ve been particularly helpful. On the one hand, it has been hard picturing either Belle or me living the lives they describe (though, to be fair, the life we are leading is evolving at a fairly rapid rate – there are things I embrace now that I eschewed six months ago). On the other hand, I was the one reading the books, not Belle (for the most part – we did read parts of one or two together). I really don’t consider me to be the target audience for these. Belle is.

So, after leafing though it last night and seeing that Rika isn’t batshit crazy or anything, and after recognizing that the majority of the book consists of Rika speaking to the F in the FLR, I decided to basically ignore it. It’s Belle’s to read. If there are sections within that she thinks I should look at, then I’ll be more than happy to do so, but otherwise, its secrets will be hers. And really, they should be. If I’m to truly submit to her, then she needs to craft a flavor of dominance she’s comfortable with all on her own. She needs to own it and let me live within it. It can’t really be community property. I’m not saying I need to sublimate all my needs and emotions or anything like that, but in whatever way we’re able to practice D/s, she needs to bring the D and I need to bring the s. It seems to me, the less I think about how she should or should not practice domination, the more confident she’ll be in how she approaches it and the more energy I can expend being a better submissive. That’s the idea, anyway. She agrees the book is for her, not me, and started to read it last night. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

While she was reading it, I was giving her a foot massage. It felt really, really good for me since it’s been somewhat busy around the house over the past week and my opportunities to service her have been few and far between. I have been able to cook the dinners and clean up and such, but that just kind of feels like my job now and not so much a chance to make her especially happy. So, while she filled out the questionnaire, I spent 30 minutes lovingly caressing her feet.

Afterward, she asked for me to continue on her shoulders and neck, which I gratefully did. That kind of massage is fundamentally more intimate since she’s typically topless and I usually get more contact with her body since I straddle her legs while doing it.

At one point, I was kneeling just below her ass and laying over her to get a better angle on her shoulder muscles.

“That feels nice,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“The way you’re thrusting into me like that.”

I hadn’t even realized I was, but once she mentioned it, I saw that my motions were causing the CB6K to rhythmically grind into her ass. Had I not been wearing it, and had we both been completely naked, it wasn’t very dissimilar from a position I’d use to penetrate her from behind. After all this clicked into place in my head, I felt the pressure build in the device and the nature of my position – the denied, chastised male dedicated to her pleasure – fall upon me in full weight. I was already sporting a healthy subbie buzz, but this sent it flying.

“Maybe we should try this position sometime,” she continued, suggesting I could fuck her from behind while massaging her shoulders. Whether or not that’s even possible, the idea of trying it, and her talking about sex while I was physically incapable of it, caused me to breath very heavily as my face hovered above her bare skin. It was wonderfully tormenting.

Finally, after the massage was over, she produced Pink, her little vibe. Even though she’s still on her period, she wanted me to get her off. I very happily complied, especially when she told me to get naked. She came quickly and intensely.

This morning, she was lazy in bed because she had the day off. While snuggling and spooning, she started to touch me. While chastised, I find myself especially sensitive to her touch all over my body. I’m not the first person to observe that locking away the primary male erogenous zone causes the remainder of the body to pick up the slack. She can touch me anywhere and set me off. In this case, it was my chest. Gently, she ran her fingers through my chest hair and down along my ribs. I felt myself melt. She traced down my side, over the top of my thigh, and found my balls. She may have also been touching the cock in its plastic case, but there’s no way I can feel that. As her fingers lightly caressed me, I felt my normal morning thickness try to grow against its encasement. The device, along with its contents, pulled up and away from my body. Laying on my back was intolerable. I turned over and got up on my hands and knees. Suspended from above, the straining package was more comfortable, but she continued to trace the contours of my stretched scrotum and I felt the tube of the CB6K throb as the meat it secured became more engorged.

“God, it’s so tight,” I gasped.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked while not stopping.

*whimper*

Finally, “No. Don’t ever stop.”

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Eight

Belle and I headed north Friday to retrieve our children from their end-of-summer extended stay with the grandparents. The drive is about four hours and gave us a nice long time to chat. I pointed out to her that it was nearing a year since we started our little experiment and thought it a good time to discuss what’s going well and what we wish was better.

On the plus side, she said she’s happy overall with what we’ve done with our relationship. She likes that I’m more interested in doing things for her, likes that we’re having more sex, and likes locking me into chastity. Her reasons for liking the first two things are fairly straightforward. As for enforcing my chastity, she says she likes the sense of control it gives her. Likes knowing that my actions are limited – what I am (and am not) up to – when wearing it. This, of course, turns me the fuck on. I explained that doing something she tells me to do because she knows it’s what I want makes me feel good, but doing it because it’s something she wants makes it 50 times more exciting for me. I also reiterated to her that being locked up makes me feel cared for by her. Maintained. It demonstrates a willingness on her part to control me.

With regard to the service aspect, I like that she likes that, too. She and I were both turned on the other night when I cleaned the kitchen for her while she visited with her friend (which probably explains why she fucked me afterward). However, I told her I didn’t think I was providing very good service lately. I encouraged her to hold me to higher expectations. Also, there should be ramifications for not living up to those standards.

As for the sex part, I too am very happy with the frequency. On average, I’d say we have sex three or four times a week. A year ago, it was once every six weeks, so big improvement! She’s much more comfortable now being the only one of use who comes during these encounters than she was at the beginning, though she still occasionally struggles with it. I reiterated to her that I am very, very happy having fewer orgasms, but I know it sometimes puts pressure on her. In the past, not having sex led to issues in out marriage, and I think somewhere in the back of her head she still equates my sexual satisfaction with how much I ejaculate, but that’s got nothing to do with it. As I said, we’re having many times more sex now than a year ago, though I’m coming way, way less. Regardless, I’ve never been more satisfied sexually in my life. I’ll make sure to tell her happy I am more often.

The thing I told her I need more of (rather than orgasms) was teasing. She didn’t get what I was trying to say with that, and it occurred to me it is a rather vague term. I meant teasing as in “tease and denial”. Basically, turn me on and then leave me on. Make me hard, do things that might eventually cause me to orgasm, but then stop. She said she’d do more of that.

Finally, we got to the subject of my orgasms. Specifically, the frequency with which they occur. There is a significant amount of angst that builds up around this for both of us (probably more so for me). After talking about a few alternatives, we decided to try an approach that will allow a specific number over the next twelve months but at random intervals. I asked how many she though would be a reasonable amount and, after thinking about it for a while, said eight or nine. While she was thinking, I was too, and also came up with eight. So eight it is.

We’re going to toss into a hat the date of the next 52 Saturdays and I’ll draw eight, but won’t be told what they are. Those will be the dates (within a couple days in either direction) upon which I’ll be allowed to have orgasms. On the plus side, it removes the angst of deciding when I’ll come for both of us. On the minus side, it also removes a significant piece of her control over the spontaneity of those occasions. We’re going to give it a try and see how it goes. If she doesn’t like it, she can always change the rules again.

My only issue now is deciding what to do when I come by accident. It’s going to happen sooner or later. So far, she’s seemed reluctant to punish me (other than that one week when she took away my right to participate in her pleasure). We have a few homebrew crops she could use on me, but so far, she hasn’t. I’m not sure what’s holding her back from using punishment, but it seems to me to be an integral part of power exchange – that she has the right to punish me while I’ve little choice but to accept it. That really works for me, but maybe not so much for her.

So anyway, she started her period today, so that means I’m back in the device. We’ve fallen back to the black Master locks as the sharp little brass lock corroded last time I wore it. The Masters don’t seem prone to that. Too bad they’re so bulky and kinda ugly (and say “Master” on them – they’d be so much better if they said “Mistress”, don’t you think?).

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Free ride

“What, exactly, are your intentions?” Belle asked as I laid next to her, naked, running my hand up and down her inner thighs, careful to avoid touching the area in between them as I had not been given permission to do so.

It was late (for Belle), around 10:45 or so. She had just finished up some work after entertaining a girlfriend at our house for 3 or 4 hours. She and her friend sat in the living room (after having been driven inside by desperate late-Summer mosquitoes) sipping their wine and talking about people they used to work with while I cleaned up the kitchen, set up her coffee for the morning, attended to the dog, etc. It felt nice being a service to her, letting her focus all her energy on her friend, removing any stress she might have with regard to the messy kitchen. I felt…in my place. Happy. In a routine.

“I have no intentions,” I replied, “I’m just doing this because it feels good for you and makes me happy. I expect nothing.”

“Well, aren’t you being the good sub tonight,” she purred, “I just wanted to know if you had an objective.”

“I always have an objective,” I admitted, “But I also know my place. If you want an orgasm, I’d be very happy to give you one. But it’s your call, not mine.”

“Hmmm,” she said in her lazy, getting ready to sleep voice, “Someone must have slipped you some truth serum or something, because you’re speaking the truth.”

*Ache.* I love it when she talks like that. I felt the cock start to respond in it’s expected manner. I felt warm inside and kept stroking her legs.

“OK,” she said with some finality.

“Time for bed?” I asked, “Want me off?”

“No, I want an orgasm.” Hooray! “But nothing dramatic. Just a nice little ten minute deal because I’m tired and need to go to sleep.”

“OK, I’ll send the circus monkeys home.”

She exposed her breasts to me and I clamped on while rubbing her mound under its thin fabric, feeling her heat already starting to build.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Being in this position – servicing her desire while mine is left to grow unattended – feels so right and good now. It is as things should be. This is how we make love. Her orgasm is our orgasm. I crave hers more than my own.

After about five minutes of action, she was wet and moaning in encouraging ways. We were headed in the right direction and I knew I’d be bringing her to orgasm well within her ten minute requirement.

“How’s my cock?” she asked.

“Hmrph?” I asked, mouth full of nipple.

“How’s my cock?” she asked more insistently.

“Um, kinda hard,” I replied. Truth is, I was thinking more about getting her home than the condition of the penis.

“Hard enough for me to ride?” I reached down and felt the erection. Not stone-hard, kinda squishy on the outside but with a nice solid core.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I’m going to ride it,” she declared.

I rolled over on my back and she climbed on top of me, took the cock in her hand and guided it smoothly into her. I took advantage of my ready access to both nipples and continued to lick, suck, and tease them with my tongue and fingers. I flexed my hips to create a counter rhythm to hers until I felt our skin was sliding freely and she used her legs to adjust the position of mine, pushing them further apart. After she had established her rhythm, moving up and down at whatever speed and depth worked best for her, I stopped moving in an attempt to extend my resistance.

As usual, my mind went to baseball. No idea what I’m going to do when the season’s over, but thoughts of player slumps and team standings were enough to distract me from her increasing speed and rising passion.

After a respectable period of time, she came. Really, really came. Her biocock never twitched. She was able to ride me as long and as passionately as she wanted with no distracting orgasm of my own. She collapsed on top of me, panting and glowing, basking like crazy while I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight.

“Good job, Thumper,” she exhaled.

“Thank you, Belle Fille. Thank you for everything.”

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Hot and not

I’ve been thinking lately about why people read this. You know, all of this – the highs and lows of our nascent BDSM “lifestyle” and shit. I suppose some of you are here for the hot sex, and that’s cool, but then I’m also sure if that’s the case you’re likely annoyed when we inconveniently expose ourselves as real people with emotions and foibles and all that. I feel like I’ve been doing a lot of that recently.

I used to follow some blogs just because they were hot. Not hot in the way I wanted or expected my interaction with Belle to be, but hot nonetheless. Because I’m stupid, I would read these blogs, mostly written by submissive men, and think they were real – that people could really live like they did, where the otherwise vanilla wife could suddenly be turned into a she-wolf dominatrix and the husband into a sexual object and plaything. Right, hot, but not real. Which is not to say they’re total fabrications, but I do wonder why so many seem to lack anything like real human interaction. Belle and I have been able to pull off some admittedly hot stuff in the past 10 months or so and I could have only posted about those things. In doing so, I would have given those browsing the web with one hand plenty of pleasant moments, but it would have been a lie. A half-truth, at best. In any event, I’ve stopped reading blogs without relationship content because that’s what I’m in: a relationship. Not a fantasy world.

I do not think of this blog as an educational tool or anything, but I do want it to represent an authentic journal of our experiences. Some people are where we are, some are in an earlier stage, some much later, but nonetheless, I am trying to speak to real people about real people. Some bloggers share only their sex and do it solely to titillate people like themselves. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume what they write about kinda sorta happened as they say, but I know from being in a relationship that they’re leaving out the boring, non-erection inducing parts. Those are important, too. To me, blogs like that eventually come off sounding soulless. Hollow. Plastic.

So where am I going with this? The point is, if you read this blog mostly for the hot sex scenes, please do not compare my life with the idealized life found on some others. Anyone who thinks, for example, that I should be forever grateful to my domme wife for consenting to top me, regardless of what that means with regard to her actions and my feelings, is not here for the right reason. I am grateful to my wife, but I’m also a real person with my own needs and thoughts and emotions (as is she). It may sound hot to totally submit – to be run over by a dominant woman, to have no say, to become her plaything – but in reality, it’s not that simple. I have to believe that if you think it is, then you either 1) have not actually done this kind of thing, or 2) are into something very different than I am.

So, in summary, please always remember that the events portrayed in this blog actually happened to actual people. The porn is plainly labeled.

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Really bad, then really good

Saturday, Belle told me at some point that Sunday morning she was going to beat me. It’s been so long since she beat me. Yeah, she’s done little things here and there to hurt me (mostly nipple twisting and some ball slapping) which were all very nice and appreciated, but I’ve been feeling the need for a good whippin’ for quite a while now.

So, Sunday morning comes around and there’s no beating. We hang out in bed, she’s reading the paper and sipping the coffee I made her, and then…nothing. She gets up. I don’t say anything since Sunday’s a whole 24 hours long, but the little nagging feeling starts to creep into the back of my mind. She’s not into this. She doesn’t want to do it. She’s avoiding it. I stuff that back into the dark place it came from and go about my business.

At dinner, she tells me that tonight’s the night. She’s going to beat me before Mad Men (which she’s very excited about watching) so she can be asleep by 10:00 (her bedtime is very important to her). Swell, I think. That’s two whole hours away. She can leisurely whip me. The last time we tried this (which ended in disaster) she started out too hard too fast and I was not at all aroused. So, I figure, we have all the time in the world tonight. We can go slowly and do it right. It’s going to be awesome.

She gave me the task she wanted me to perform before the beating and I went off to do it. She had a little work to finish up and was apparently shopping for back-to-school clothes, but still, we were over 90 minutes from Mad Men. About 20 minutes later, I had finished my task (laundry folding) and was laying in bed, naked, watching the TV just waiting for her to finish whatever she needed to do. I finally heard her stir from her perch on the couch. Then I herd her cleaning the kitchen. Thoroughly. Then I heard her make her coffee for the morning. That’s my job. Why is she doing that? It’s OK, though, because we have more than hour still before Mad Men (though I’m starting to worry).

Next, I heard her take out the trash. All the way to curb. The garage door went up and she hauled the garbage can and recycling down the driveway. I could have done this had I known she wanted it done at that moment. Then I heard her take the dog outside. Again, something I could have done. Basically, everything she did (besides the work) I could have done if she had told me she wanted it done.

Finally, with just less than a half hour before Mad Men, she comes into the room. The feeling from the morning had come back and, far from being little now, had plopped it’s big ass down in a Lazy-E-Boy in my head. To me, she was obviously avoiding this task. I was deeply disappointed as we no longer had time to take it slowly. We’ve got less than 30 minutes. Now, there was stress. Now, the clock was going to be the third in our scene.

The window was closed.

So, as calmly and with as little accusatory tone as possible, I told her we didn’t have to do it. We could put it off (to god knows when). We don’t have time, I said.

“KNOCK IT OFF, THUMPER!” she yells at me, “DON’T START THIS CRAP! I KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO DO THIS!” I’m frankly taken aback by the sudden ferocity of her position. She’s yelling at me while I’m feeling vulnerable and disappointed and hurt. This is turning into a disaster.

“Look,” I say, trying to stay calm, “It’s not a problem. It doesn’t have to happen right now…”

And it just gets worse. She yells at me, and then I’m yelling back, defending my right to feel how I feel and denying the charge that I’m somehow the problem and that, really, we don’t have to do it right then.

She basically orders me into my collar, but she makes me put it on. Wrong. It feels wrong. I’m starting to crumble inside. She puts me in handcuffs, one side of which is affixed to the D-ring on my collar. The cuffs are biting into my wrists. They feel wrong. I try to say something, but she orders me onto the bed.

“Bend over, face in the pillow,” she barks.

WHACK! Jesusmotherfucking, that hurts. I close my eyes and try to hang onto the wispy feelings of sub energy that I’m feeling, but they’re not enough. Not nearly.

WHACK!! I sit up.

“Can I kiss you?” I need to get this anger out of me, this feeling that she’s angry. She kisses me, but not lovingly. My ass goes back up in the air.

WHACK!!! Fuck this.

I sit up again and say, “This isn’t right. It’s not working.” And then I break. Fury wells up from within me. My face contorts and I silently cry out and feel such pain and disappointment and the feeling that everything is wrong as my face heats up and the tears flow freely down my face. This is not working. She doesn’t want to do it and I’m a fucking freak for asking her to. And this was it, the only night this was going to work with the kids out of the house. It would be weeks before we could try again. And now, I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. Ever. Nothing that made me feel that bad could be worth doing. It was never going to work. I was angry, but not really at her. I was angry at the world for making me like this and putting me in this situation. All my fear and vulnerabilities reared up like dragons in my mind. I felt embarrassment at being naked, embarrassment at being collared, embarrassment for asking her to hit me.

The conversation that followed was predictable because we’ve had it before. Basically, I accused her of not wanting to hit me and not admitting it to me (or maybe herself). She said she wanted it to be perfect and I said that’s crazy because nothing ever is perfect. We both admitted to having no idea how to do what we’re trying to do. I said I need her to stop treating these sessions like another chore, the thing she does after the dog’s been out and the trash is on the curb. It’s not a fucking chore. It’s an emotional and physical need that I, her husband, has and, if we’re going to do it, it has to feel like an act of making love because, as hard as it is for her to understand, that’s what it is to me. Yet again, I suggested we stop trying to do it. All of it. It’s just too hard. She said nothing in return.

It was horrible. Just horrible. I suppose we said many things we needed to say, but I was left emotionally wrecked. She rolled over and asked me to hold her, but I couldn’t do it. I just felt too raw. Too many things we’re still unresolved. She fell asleep and I got up to read a book.

Out on the couch in the living room, I couldn’t follow the words I was reading. Being a male, soon my hand was in my underwear and I was absentmindedly playing with myself. The cock being a cock, it responded and I found myself holding a stiff hard-on. I started to stroke it. I didn’t want to come, but I wanted the sensation. I wanted to feel something good that night. I kept going and the words we said earlier rang in my head and I became emotional again. I kept stroking. Why even bother anymore? Why keep making her do what she finds so hard? I kept stroking. I don’t know what the solution is, but it’s not worth the pain. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s supposed to be fun. I kept stroking. Then, I felt the point of no return rushing up. And I kept going. I let go and I came. Huge globs of it. God, it had been so long since I saw or felt or smelt that all by myself. I felt the waves of post-orgasmic pleasure wash up and down me, by myself, shirt pulled up, underwear down. Alone.

I didn’t feel guilty, but I felt very sad. I cleaned myself up, turned off the light, and went to bed.

—

The next day, I wanted to be with her. It was Monday, so that was a problem, but all day I thought about her and the night before and the yelling and the crying and I just wanted to be with her. On the way home, I picked up her favorite flowers (alstroemeria) and had them nicely displayed on the dining room table.

She got home and I was drawn to her. I held her and kissed her and found myself getting really turned on. Our status was ambiguous since the idea of not doing the D/s thing was never really resolved and the thought of just bedding her like in the old days, maybe even right there in the kitchen, really appealed to me. Just fucking. With two orgasms. Like other people do it. I could like that. Hell, I did like that for years and years.

Back in our bedroom, I laid her down with the intention of having some pretty swell make-up sex. She told me she really wasn’t much in the mood (or something to that effect) but that she did want to try slapping me around again.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure. Twice we had tried this and twice it had turned out badly. It felt too soon after the previous evening’s event to try again. But I was in the mood for it. And we were in a good place. I agreed to give it a try, as long as we started slowly.

I stripping my clothes off and, with her under me, she slapped my nuts around a little. Nothing too extreme, but the pain seemed to warm me up inside – clear out the receptors. Then she got up and left me on the bed, ass up and head down, while she got the flogger.

She ran it’s thin rubber tendrils over and around me – starting with my ass, going over my back, ending up on my balls. It felt heavenly. I love this feeling. The sweet stuff before she gets rough. Then she started to hit me. Not too hard. It felt good. I felt myself raising my ass up to meet the flogger sooner. This was good. It felt right.

Even though I was making copious happy noises in the back of my throat, she stopped to make sure I was OK. That made me all warm inside. This time, I felt the love with every blow. As she made them harder and the sting grew more intense, I could feel her love and her desire to make me happy and I loved her back and felt incredibly grateful to her. At some point, I felt myself slip past the point where the pain loses its sharp edge. It still hurts, but becomes something else. Something better. Something I crave.

Then, in a particularly cruel blow to my reddened ass, the flogger broke. The head of it flew acorss the room. It was just a cheap little thing she picked up somewhere, so no surprise, but yeah, that’s how hard she was hitting me with it. With the thin rubber tongues gone, it ends in a plastic cup into which they were glued. She tried whacking me with that and the pain was entirely different. It was more a like a crop now. I liked that. Mentally, I was already shopping for new implements of torture.

She picked up a flexible plastic ruler and started to use that on me. Intense pain. I found myself rolling over on my back and she started to (gently) strike my balls with it. My eyes rolled back in my head and I opened my legs to her blows. Heaven. The ruler was more stingy that I like on my balls, so I asked her to use her hands. Rapid slapping blows to my nuts sent me high up into the clouds. I love love love love love how that can feel.

By the end, I felt wonderful bliss. My ass hurt like hell, but it was all the right kind of hurt. I nuzzled into her, so grateful, so happy. Sitting here writing about it I can still feel some stinging, though I’m not sure it it’s really there or if I’m just remembering it. In any event, I love it and want more of it. We need to do something about our batting average (one successful attempt out of three will never do), but I know that it’s possible. I know she can do it and still make me feel loved and cared for. I’m just so incredibly happy that I have her and that she’s willing to try to do the things I need, even when she doesn’t really understand why.

Obviously, we have more to talk about. We’re not there yet. But we both need to remember, as we keep trying, that we can do this. We can make it work, and when it does, it’s amazing.

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Out for the weekend

Saturday morning, Belle says to me, “We’re going to have sex in a few minutes after I have a little more coffee.”

“And what do you mean when you say ‘sex’?” At that point, I was wearing a chastity device still brimming with morning enthusiasm.

“The normal kind. I’m going to unlock you because I want to have my cock.”

“OK,” I replied. Sounds good to me, I thought.

“How do you feel about that?” she asked. I guess we’re still in communication mode following last weekend’s issues.

“I’m fine with it. Do you want me to come?”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you come.”

Silence.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means, given a choice, I’d rather you have a point of view on the matter. Even if you don’t, I’d like you to say you do. It doesn’t really work for me if you don’t care one way or the other.”

We’ve had this conversation before, but apparently she forgot. She decided I would not get to come. I offered to go clean up from my week or so’s imprisonment and she got the key while I pulled down the covers and exposed the device. She fiddled with it.

“It won’t go in,” she said.

“What do you mean it won’t go in?”

“The key. It won’t go in.”

“Are they the right keys?”

“They’re the only little keys I have.”

“Here, let me try,” I offered.

I took the little key and lined it up with the keyhole. It wouldn’t go in. I turned the key around. No dice. They were the right keys, but for some reason, they weren’t fitting into the lock. A mild wave of panic came over me.

I tried forcing the key, but it’s just a little wisp of a thing and I was afraid of breaking it in the keyhole. After some consistent pressure, it slowly slid into place and, begrudgingly, turned. The lock popped open. The little brass lock with the sharp edges – the lock that originally came with the CB6K – had corroded.

With the lock open, I went and removed all the polycarbonate from her cock, cleaned it up, and shaved off the stray little hairs I couldn’t get to with the device in place. I walked back into her bedroom.

“Wow,” she laughed, “it looks so different like that!”

She wanted “normal” sex meaning I got on top and fucked her. I spent some time working her with my fingers hoping to get the ball rolling a little before I was expected to give her an orgasm with the cock that wasn’t allowed to come. She was good and wet by the time I put the cock in her, but I kept my mind on other things and my tongue on her nipples, trying not to hear the sounds of ecstasy she was making as I stroked in and out of her. As I pondered the Dodger’s playoff chances and whether or not it would be better for them to be playing as the division leaders or from the wild card spot, I noticed her breathing and sounds of pleasure begin to indicate she was getting closer to our objective.

“Deep, Thumper!” she yelled, “Deeper!”

Obediently, I fucked her more deeply, driving the cock all the way in as far as I could. Her approaching orgasm was the freight train while mine was the little roadster racing for the railroad crossing. Either she was going to cross first, sending me smashing into oblivion, or I’d get there first and sneak one in right in front of her. I was rooting for her.

She started to come and, as soon as I knew she was well over the falls, stopped all motion hoping and holding my breath against the orgasm I knew was astonishingly close. Regardless, I felt the cock start to pump its payload into her, but without the motion, missed the full sensation of a normal orgasm. Laying next to her afterward, I felt myself somewhere in between a real orgasm and a ruined one. I sort of half came.

A little while later, I was at my workbench putting several drops of 3-In-One into the keyhole. When it leaked back out, it was brown with rust. I put more oil in it and worked the lock until it felt smooth and easy. That oil came back out clear.

The rest of the day found us shopping, going to a movie and then to dinner, enjoying our time without kids (they’re with the in-laws all week up north). Our plan was to watch another movie at home, but soon after we got in the house, she informed me we were going to have sex again.

In bed and naked, I started to rub my face against her body through her pajamas. I worked my way down until my face was between her legs, kissing and biting with my lips the soft warmth of her pussy behind the thin fabric. I buried my nose in her, deeply inhaling her essence and felt the cock harder than it had been in a long time. I pulled her bottoms down and started to devour her, licking and sucking at her clit, rubbing my nose and face in her juices. I may have “half come” earlier in the day, but it had done little to lessen my arousal.

I changed my position so that I could reach up with both hands and play with her nipples, leaving my face deeply planted in her snatch and the hard cock grinding into the mattress. I was hungry for her pussy and it, apparently, was hungry for my tongue as her hips were bucking and her juices were flowing freely, running down my chin. Her eventual orgasm seemed much more powerful than the one from the morning and she clamped onto my head with her thigh muscles, forcing my nose and mouth into her and cutting off my oxygen. She was coming hard, so I kept my tongue in motion as her legs painfully pressed against the sides of my head.

I couldn’t breath, my tongue was cramping in effort, and sharp pains were shooting through my jaws as she squeezed me, but the orgasm was remarkable. I could feel it. Its energy radiated out of her pussy and into me, filling every corner of my body with its power. Her orgasm was our orgasm, and it felt deeply satisfying.

She finally released me and I laid with my head on her inner thigh, face still close to her pussy, panting and feeling her orgasm ringing within me. This feeling of attachment to her pleasure is one of the most satisfying side-effects of orgasm denial. Somehow, her sexual satisfaction can transfer to me leaving me feeling a kind of post-orgasmic high, though doing nothing to diminish my arousal.

I moved back up towards her face wanting to be closer while we basked in the afterglow. I was careful to move the cock so it pointed down and lay against her labia instead of accidentally entering her. After a few moments, she told me I could go inside her, though not come, of course. I hadn’t expected this and wasn’t prepared. The cock was already losing its stiffness in the aftermath of the orgasm she had just had, but I ran its head up and down her outer lips and it was ready for action after just a few seconds.

And then I fucked her. I fucked her and fucked her. Like an animal. All there was in the entire world was her pussy and the cock that was plowing it and I wanted to keep doing it forever. I started to grunt with every downstroke and felt myself nearly get lost in the action. A thin tendril of control was all I had to pull myself back from the edge, just a few strokes short of orgasm. I slowed, but tried not to stop. I felt the orgasm retreat, but not my desire to fuck her into a quivering puddle. The driving male need to fuck fought with me. I withdrew from her, placing me face against her stomach, and I felt the power of my desire buckle under the weight of her absolute control. The animal within howled in protest and I moved back up, trying to get back inside her.

“That’s all you get, Thumper,” she said. From deep inside, I started a low, long moan of anguish. Not in protest of her decision, but from the agony of my internal conflict. I would not feel her heat wrap around me again.

Later, I laid with my face against her chest and fell asleep with remarkable ease. Happy, horny, and satisfied.

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Lippy rabbit

Sometimes, I forget why I’m doing this.

Tonight, Belle got home later than usual following another happy hour. They seem to have at least one a week where she works. No big deal for me since the kids are off with the in-laws for a whole week. I worked out, showered, and then started watching TV waiting for her to get home. She pulled into the garage at about 9:30.

In general, I’m pretty excited about this week alone since we should get plenty of personal time together. I’ve been locked up for eight of the last nine days and haven’t come since Saturday. Not a huge period of denial by any stretch of the imagination, but tonight I’m particularly pretty horny what with the “adults only” vibe and the slowly building hormone levels. Typically, she comes home from these happy hours in a pretty good mood and she’ll let me pleasure her. When she finally got home tonight, I was horny and expecting some action.

She wasn’t thinking the same way. She snuggled up against me and we watched some TV together but I was jumpy with desire. I felt down around the opening of the CB6K’s tube and found it slick with precum. I was dripping with anticipation and all she was doing was stroking my ribs while she watch Everybody Loves Raymond. Once Ray was over, I started in with my nuzzly, kissy stuff hoping to coax her into something, but she as already getting sleepy. At least she recognized my state.

“I like it when you’re like this,” she said, “Right here on the edge. I’m going to leave you there tonight.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked hopefully.

“You can rub my feet.”

“Is that all you want rubbed?”

And then we exchanged words regarding my poor attitude. She was right. In retrospect, I acknowledge I was being lippy. She actually raised her voice with me and then accused me of being defensive. I probably was being that way. I shouldn’t have been. But god, I’m so horny.

I rubbed her feet with the lotion and, as I expected, she fell asleep half way through. I felt disappointment. I felt a little resentment (we haven’t had sex since Sunday). I was kinda mad at her. Oh, and I felt very horny.

Then I remembered what she said. I like it when you’re like this. I was so interested in getting her to let me get her off that the words rolled right off me. I was thinking too much about my own needs again. I laid there and pondered my predicament as I fingered the little brass lock with the sharp edges. She was asleep, feet massaged, perfectly content while I laid next to her, horny as hell, cock locked in plastic, wide awake and buzzing. And she likes it when I’m like this. Warm pulses of energy filled my chest as I lowered into my submission. If only I had been focusing less on my own desire and more on hers, I could have felt that earlier with her. She was holding up her part of the deal while I was being selfish and petulant.

I can do better than that.

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Chastity fetishist?

Reader Jane Docent asked this in a comment to my post We Talk:

More to the point – are you kinky? Or have you fetishized this one element of arousal – enforced chastity?

While I’m pretty sure I know the answer to her question, I did stop and think about it for a second. And then a few more.

The Random House Dictionary describes kinky this way:

Marked by unconventional sexual preferences or behavior, as fetishism, sadomasochism, or the like.

While the American Heritage Dictionary says this:

Showing or appealing to bizarre or deviant tastes, especially of a sexual or erotic nature

So, according to Random House, even if I was just a fetishist, I would still be kinky. Either way, I feel very comfortable identifying as kinky. My sexual tastes are “unconventional” and, IMO, “bizarre or deviant”. Way. But, more importantly, have I developed a fetish over enforced chastity devices?

To be sure, enforced chastity turns me the fuck on and my interest in its implements is extensive. I’m pretty sure I’ve looked at the websites of all the commercially available devices (some dozens of times) and would love to have any number of them locked onto me by Belle (with a special proclivity towards the stainless steel variety). But, the operative part of that statement is “locked onto me by Belle”. More than the device, I kink on the power exchange. The device neatly dovetails into other kinks and interests (CBT, bondage, masochism, gadgets), but I also obsess over things like this and that and the other which have nothing at all to do with enforced chastity but do have a lot to do with my other kinks.

The reason enforced chastity and the device gets so much play here, I think, is because, of all my sexual perversions, power exchange is the one we engage in the most. For whatever reason, I don’t find myself tied up and beaten very often, but she can deny me orgasm several times a week and leave me locked up for weeks and weeks. All of that energy and desire gets channeled into orgasm denial, enforced chastity, and – ultimately – the device itself.

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Twice on Sunday

Sunday morning I woke up very eager to please Belle and told her as much.

“I want to make love to you,” I said.

“How are you going to do that? I wasn’t going to let you out today.”

“We don’t need that to make love.”

“But what are we going to do?” she asked.

“Have sex. You know, the kind of sex we have now. The kind that doesn’t require the cock. There are so many options…” I trailed off as I planted sweet little kisses along her jaw and neck.

“Hmm. That’s confusing to me,” she said, “We need to call it something else. You can’t make love to me when you’re locked-up.”

“OK, how about saying I just want to make you come?”

“I’m good with that,” she said.

My thinking with regard to calling it “making love” versus just saying “making you come” was to help close the divide between what she likes and what I want from sex. For me, when she lets me pleasure her, it’s every bit as meaningful as when she lets me fuck her (whether or not I come), but I think in her mind, those acts are very different (one perfunctory and one-sided, the other romantic and inclusive). I’d like her to start equating all of our sexual encounters as acts of love making because that’s how they feel to me, even the ones where I’m left throbbing and frustrated. Guess I’ll keep working on that.

“Why do you want this?” she asked. I assume this question stemmed from of our recent bout of communication.

“Because I’m horny,” I admitted. “I’m horny and need to feel you come. You come for both of us now. And, of course, I want you to feel pleasure. And I need to feel you feeling it.”

I suppose a really good submissive would have led with the second part of that, but I just said the first thing that came to mind. I was on her because I was horny and wanted to feel the release of our (her) orgasm. Even if we were having “normal” sex, I’d still be initiating because I was horny and wanted to fuck her, right?

“OK,” she said, “Close the door.”

—

Sunday night, I rubbed her feet while watching the Mad Men premiere. When it was over and the TV was off, I started kissing her again. Not sure what I expected to happen since she had just come that morning, but I like the contact even when it doesn’t end in sex.

“You know,” I said tentatively, “When you leave me locked-up – when you deny me for a long time – I feel more cared for than when you don’t. It makes me feel loved.”

“Really? That’s an odd thing to say.”

“Well, I know it’s harder for you to deal with me with I’m like this, so when you do it you’re demonstrating the willingness to maintain me. I like how that feels. Like I said, it makes me feel loved. Special.”

We then had a brief exchange where she accused me of previously saying it wasn’t harder for her when I’m locked up, but, as I wrote here on Saturday, I totally acknowledge the extra effort it requires. Since we never got a chance to talk about it, I was never able to clarify my position on that. I think that helps explain my negative reaction to what happened later that night…but I’ve already covered that ground.

In any event, I was distracted by some part of her and just enjoying the access (even though it was through her pajamas) until she tapped me on the head with something hard. It was Pink, her favorite vibe.

“Do you want me to use that on you?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” she said, “You’re fine where you are.” She slide the vibe into her pajama bottoms and I heard its low thrum as she clicked it on.

“Do you want me to do…anything?”

“Nope. I’m good.” I could feel the vibrations radiate through her and into the mattress.

When she was done, she reassured me that the solo action wasn’t the result of anything I had done wrong. She wasn’t punishing me. It was just how she wanted it.

“You know if you could, you’d do the same thing yourself. Sometimes, that’s what I want, too,” she explained.

What I find remarkable about this is the old Belle Fille (the one married to the old Thumper – the ones who hardly ever had sex) would have never masturbated in front of me, let alone do so with no expectation that I’d have any role or reciprocal attention. It was what she wanted, pure and simple. I was not necessary and, due to her growing sexual confidence, felt no guilt with regard to my frustration whatsoever.

I think that’s beautiful.