Tag: malesub

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Piggish manbeast

There’s an element to what happened yesterday that sounds so stereotypically wannabe-FLR, that it makes me somewhat embarrassed to even write it down (I’m reminded of Dev’s comment about hard-ons and holding a purse in a shoe store, but I’m trying to keep it out of mind). It was all very subtle and most observers might not even notice anything, but it was there: Belle Fille stretched her dominant muscles ever so slightly – and in front of other people, no less.

It was another Sunday dinner at the in-law’s (Belle’s mom, dad, sister, her husband, their baby and dog, but only one of our kids as the other’s at camp). These used to happen almost every weekend, but in recent years they’ve become less frequent. Where each person sits at the table and what role they play in preparation, consumption, and clean-up of the meal is well-established. Short story, mother-in-law does most of the work, freaks out that everyone’s got enough to eat (Augustus Gloop’s mother would be proud), and then everyone without a Y chromosome cleans up while those who do have one tend to sit around and shoot the shit until it’s time to go. This is how it’s worked for years.

And it was pretty standard fare through much of dinner1 until my mother-in-law went to get dessert from the kitchen (key lime pie and vanilla ice cream or root beer floats – river of chocolate reserved for special occasions).

“Why don’t you get up and help her,” Belle Fille asked me with the tone of a statement, not a question. She looked me directly in the eye and, gently yet firmly, was obviously giving me an order.

Zing!

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. This never happens. I never get up during dinner since, as I said before, the roles and expectations are all set. And her “asking” me to help was also very out of character. I felt somewhat self-conscious as I left my place at the opposite end of the table from my father-in-law and went to get the pie.

Later, after the pie, we were all sitting there talking, except for the the mother-in-law who was clearing the table. “Why don’t you let [Thumper] finish clearing this,” she suggested.

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. Except this time, so did everyone else so my task was minimal.

Typically, as the dishes are being done, the menfolk go and discuss politics or sports or some other manly topic. No exception last night. We were on the deck enjoying the beautiful early evening when Belle came to the sliding screen door and told me to come inside and dry the dishes.

“OK,” I replied and hopped up. The other menfolk exchanged glances. There was a disturbance in the Force.

The drying duty was given to me because my sister-in-law had to prepare a bottle for the baby. Once that was done, she came back in the kitchen to relieve me.

“OK, you can go back to being a man now,” she said as she took my towel. Ouch.

Back on the deck, the brother-in-law said, “Have you been released from service?”

“Sorta,” I replied.

Finally, later on, I came out onto the deck to find Belle already out there talking to my brother-in-law. He offered me a chair next to him, but Belle said, “No, why don’t you sit across from me. That way, you can massage my feet.”

“OK,” I replied and hopped…down…into the chair. She put her feet up into my lap, pressing down with them onto the device, and I started to massage them while she continued her conversation with my brother-in-law.

I can hear some of you. You’re saying, “So she kept you from being a piggish manbeast? That’s it?!” and, yeah, I see your point. My point is Belle’s had a thing about finding opportunities for me to provide her service. Not only was she actively looking for these, she did it in front of her family. On a scale of 1 to 10 where 10 is something like this, what Belle did was about a 2, but it was a start. A really good start. I hope to see her become more comfortable with her position as time goes on.

Later, back at the ranch, it was more foot massage followed by back massage followed by face massage (something I didn’t even know was a thing). She went to sleep supremely relaxed while I was left hot and sweaty from the effort…and, you know, all the touching.

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1 Did I mention I was drinking mojitos again? I can’t help myself. They’re so yummy. And no, I didn’t drive until way after dinner and the buzz had turned into lethargy.  ↩

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Hung over

I have a headache. I woke up with it. I hate that. I’m pretty sure that what I actually have, besides the headache, is a bit of a hangover. This is because I drank two mojitos last night. Two. I’m such a fucking lightweight. If, in an alternate universe, you ever wanted to do unspeakable things to me, just pour, say, three mojitos down my throat and I’m all yours. How can two (admittedly strong, but still just two) sweet minty drinks leave me mildly hung over? It’s because I never went to college to learn how to drink properly, that’s how.

Also, I did not sleep very well again last night. One reason is I don’t sleep well after drinking (even when “drinking” is only two stupid drinks). The other reason is I haven’t had an orgasm in two weeks (yes, time flies – it’s already been two solid weeks). The other reason is I’m back in the plastic. Oh yeah, that’s what that feels like. And that. And that. Oh, it’s two in the morning! Fuck.

Belle started her period yesterday and, since it used to be the rule that I would be locked up when she was bleeding, my incarceration date moved up by 24 hours. She brought the CB6K into her bedroom in it’s spiffy zipper case and tossed it at me. Instead of running off to the bathroom to put the thing on, I did it right there on the bed in front of her. I should have made a bigger deal out of it (and probably turned off the TV) because I kinda found having her there to witness it hot. Almost too hot, if you know what I mean. All the little bits and pieces (and their skin-grabbing nooks and crannies) fit a little tighter than when it’s just me and the bathroom mirror sharing the moment.

She put the lock in place and held it closed, but before squeezing it shut, she looked into my eyes and told me to say my phrase. My mantra. The words that represent my commitment to our relative positions. I hesitated. There’s still a part of me, down deep, that resists the submission. And at that moment, when I’d placed that thing on my manhood at her direction, just before she closed it for god knows how long, and she told me to say to her the words that give her the right to make me do it – to take away my control over my own body and my own pleasure and to really and totally focus everything on her…that’s a powerful moment. The lizard within tries to rise up, but it’s pointless, really. It tries to stop me and succeeds only in delaying the inevitable moment when I willingly accede to her request and devote myself to her service. I give the lizard points for trying, but the outcome was never in doubt. I hope he always fights it because, you know, that internal struggle that happens every time is where the hot comes from. Feeling the lizard strain, yet inevitably buckle, as I give her the gift of my submission is my springboard into headspace.

After the lock went click, she told me to rub her feet again. We’re doing a lot of that recently. It’s become an almost daily event. She had wanted me to paint her toenails (and really, what screams stereotypically subby husband behavior more than toenail painting?), but thought my dexterity too much deteriorated by my excessive swilling (if two drinks can be called swilling), so she settled on foot rubbing. I gave her ten minutes on each foot which is about as long as I can go before my hands start to cramp. Being down at her feet, pleasuring her with my hands in a nonsexual way, feeling the fresh encasement around her cock left me feeling very nicely headspacy.

Afterward, I laid next to her in the dark and pressed my naked-except-for-one-important-thing body into hers. The plastic tube was doing its job and I was trying to settle in for sleep when she raised her top and exposed her breasts. I almost couldn’t believe my luck and latched on to her beautiful nipples.

Now, before I go any further, I’ll warn the squeamish to go read another blog. If you stay with me past this point, you are giving up your right to complain in the comments. Capiche?

I started to finger her clit, figuring since it was the first day of her period that anything more athletic was off the menu, but moments after I started, she whispered , “I want to feel your tongue on my clit.”

I did not hesitate. Not for a second. It didn’t even really occur to me that there was any other course of action I could take except to go down on her, period be damned. I positioned myself between her legs with my hands reaching up to continue playing with her nipples and started lapping at her clit. I knew I had to stay relatively north due to the fact that she was wearing a tampon. Not that coming into contact with it would have squicked me out or anything, but I’m not sure “tampon licking” is high on her list of sexual triggers. I did feel the string a couple of times, but can’t say there was any other indication of her state I could discern. Just being there, worshiping her pussy – the source of all her power – was intoxicating to me.

Her thighs started to clamp onto my head and she arched the small of her back off the bed so I slowed my tongue and increased the pressure with which I held it against her. Her orgasm came and we both moaned.

The difference between having a freely flopping cock after such and experience and a stifled one is dramatic. Had I been free, I would have had a lot more angst and bubbling desire for more action. But since I was encased, that was it. It was over. I could feel the drop-off in energy that’s almost like a post-orgasmic feeling. In way, I guess it is post-orgasmic, just not my orgasm. Of course I was still horny and the cock was still trying its best to be hard, but I felt sleepy anyway.

“Thank you, Mistress” I said to her as we spooned. “Thank you for letting me do that to you.”

“You’re welcome, Thumper. Thank you.”

And with that, we slept.

Until I didn’t.

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Guilt and submission

Act two was not the stuff of sex blogs. Basically, she laid there sipping wine and reading her book for two hours while I massaged her feet. Yes, wonderfully decadent for her and not unenjoyable for me, but very low on the hotnsexy scale.

After she was done reading, I threw caution to the wind and asked if there was anything else she needed from me (which she correctly interpreted as a veiled request for sexual contact). Turns out, she wasn’t interested. That wasn’t very surprising considering her body language, etc., but I was surprised by her subsequent accusation that I was throwing a ‘tude over her disinterest.

Yes, there is precedent for my behaving poorly in the face of her lack of interest. But I swear, this wasn’t the case last night. I wasn’t in the slightest annoyed that I wasn’t going to get any action. I was dealing with it, though, and I’m sure that’s what showed on my face. Dealing with the pent up frustration, the erections that come raging up at the slightest thought or simplest touch, the carnivorous butterflies that flutter in my chest looking for human flesh to consume – dealing with all that. It’s an effort. It’s hard. But, it wasn’t in any way directed at her.

I told her as much. I said I am fully comfortable and accepting of her role and my position. She decides when and in what way I enjoy sexual activity, not me. Not at all me. And, of course, saying these things to her, in my defense, as she looked at me crossly with furrowed brows, sent the cock higher and higher until it was straining to grow more. I felt very, very small and, yes, unfairly accused, but having to confess and reiterate my lowly rank in the face of hers was terrifically stimulating. For me. Not her. I got nothing more than the chance to spoon into her, hard cock pressed into her left ass cheek.

In that position, we discussed guilt. Her guilt. She feels guilty for not giving me what I want. She still thinks that just because I desire sexual attention that I want her to give it to me. In fact, those are very different things. The way we socialize girls in our society – and her upbringing, in particular – has left her with these residual ideas of what’s expected of her. Where these were in the years in which our marriage basically had no sex to speak of I don’t know, but they’re there now. I told her that all I really want, more than anything, is for her to do exactly what she wants to do with little or no regard for my base sexual urges. I need to feel that. Whatever drives my submissiveness wants to feel pent up urges with me, needs to feel as though my desires are inferior to hers, craves her control over my sexuality. She should feel no guilt for what the arrangement I asked for does to me. None.

All that being said, the night that followed was difficult, as they all are when I’m at about this stage. The cock seems to always either be growing, shrinking, or rigid. Lots of action down there. Sometime, it’ll stir and then become something like a perpetual motion machine. Just feeling itself move will stimulate it to keep going until I have a totally useless hard-on. I know all about nocturnal tumescence and, thanks to the CB6K, I also know exactly what times I experience it, so I also know the 8 or 12 times I was awakened last night with awkward stiffies had nothing at all to do with normal physiological processes and had everything to do with all the hormones circulating within me.

Today, my desire to work for her is high. We were both going to clean the windows, but instead I’ve told her to sit next to the pool, read her book, swim with her daughter, be a sloth. I’ll do the windows. I’ll do anything. Wash the sheets, fold the laundry, kill a wildebeast with nothing more than a stick. Anything at all she asks. And I’ve made it perfectly clear, I have no expectations whatsoever that anything I do for her will result in any reciprocal attention on her part. There is no quid pro quo. I give whatever she asks freely and ask only that she enjoy it the best she can in return.

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Afterburn

Through dumb luck we found ourselves kidless at home this evening. A rare occurrence. I, of course, was hoping we’d squeeze a little action in and I was not disappointed. In fact, it’s entirely possible I’m writing this in the gap in the action. The first act, in which Thumper got his ass thoroughly whipped, is over. Act two, if it happens, would be all about Mistress Belle Fille.

It started out with us watching an episode of Mad Men downstairs while she worked out on the ellipse (yes, that’s the big evening without kids – catching up on our stories like a couple of old ladies). The intention was to continue watching more episodes upstairs after her shower, but somehow it never happened and before you know it I was all naked and subby on the bed next to her.

“Get the flogger.”

Gasp! She’s gonna beat me! Sweet!

I got the little rubber flogger and handed it to her and naturally assumed a very submissive posture. Ass in the air, head down on the sheets, she said, “Stay just like that. I’ll be back…”

I stayed as directed. My knees were apart, so my ass was spread with the sack hanging freely from between. I enjoyed being in the classic position of one dominated, enjoyed that I was like that at her command, enjoyed the feeling of the breeze blowing through the window moving around her cock and balls. I felt very calm and at peace.

She reentered the room and sat down on the bed behind me. I had no idea what she left the room for as I assumed I was about to be hit with the flogger and couldn’t imagine what she needed from elsewhere. Then, I felt a cold cream being applied to my scrotum. And then I smelled it. Icy Hot. Lots of it.

Jesus. H. Christ.

I whimpered in anticipation of the pain about to come. It always goes on cool and soothing. Then the fire starts. And this time, she followed the package directions and “applied liberally”, so the fire started hot and just got hotter. While I was writhing on the bed, nuclear fusion taking place between my legs, she started to flog my upraised ass.

Truth is, the Icy Hot hurt so bad, the flogging was almost incidental. Waves of burning heat crashed into my scrotum, receded slightly, only to crest higher the next time. Sweat broke out all over my body. I bit hard into the blanket. Realizing we were alone, I got vocal. I screamed. My eyes watered. It hurt so bad. And all the while, she was flogging my ass.

Eventually, the Icy Hot started to wane. She got up again and came back in with a wet washcloth. I think (it’s hard to remember, even though it just happened) I grabbed the cold, wet cloth from her and pressed it against my nuts. It was like pouring gasoline on a fire.

“What the fuck is on here?!” I yelled as the renewed burning intensified.

“Just water,” she replied, laughing.

Remember, kids, a wet washcloth actually makes Icy Hot hurt more, even when you think it’s almost run its course. Do not try this at home.

Eventually, it did run its course and settled into the cold afterburn stage. All the while this was going on, she was still flogging my ass. Running the rubber tendrils down my back, across my ass cheeks, between my ass cheeks (where, it’s worth noting, she also got some Icy Hot), then fwap! Again and again. Raining down a half dozen or more blows at a time, alternating between cheeks and my upper thighs.

After a little bit, the pain stopped being so harsh and shocking. It turned the corner into something else. It’s hard to describe since it hurt just as bad, but I stopped crying out with each blow and started sighing and moaning and sometimes not making any sound at all. It started to feel warm and almost comforting. Instead of flinching and leaning away from her blows, I started to edge closer, moving my ass higher to meet them sooner. Everything I wanted, everything I was, all I’d ever be, at that moment, was the sweet pain. I wanted it to go on and on. I never wanted it to stop. It was just. So. Wonderful.

Then it was over. She had a light sheen of sweat over her (it’s rather warm today) and had had enough. I could have kept going indefinitely. Regardless, I laid across her legs, still on my knees, and hugged close to her thighs and just basked. Angry red and purple streaks were raised on my rosy cheeks while the most contented afterglow radiated within me. This is something else I can’t describe. It’s like a post-orgasmic glow, but different. All I wanted to do was stay like that, hugging her legs, moaning little moans with my eyes closed, thanking her, telling her I loved her. Rapture. Pure rapture.

I can still feel the stinging as I sit here and type. I want it back, that feeling. I want her to hit me some more. Hard and fast, like before.

Only this time, no Icy Hot, please.

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Sunday…I guess

I asked the question I shouldn’t have asked. Whilst massaging her feet yesterday evening, I asked if she had given any thought to when I would be locked-up again. No, she hadn’t. She was getting around to thinking about it, but hadn’t really expended any brain cells on it.

“Sunday,” she finally said.

So why Sunday? It’s so arbitrary. There’s no good reason I’m not locked-up now and there’s no good reason for it to be Sunday. Why not right this second? Why not last Wednesday? Why not next Tuesday? The insecurity came back. I felt like it didn’t really matter to her one way or the other. If I hadn’t said anything, how long would she leave me out? If she didn’t want me back in, I didn’t need to be. If she really didn’t care…well, we could just stop messing with the damned thing.

Yeah, total overreaction. My problem is I think about this stuff all the time. I want there to be a rhyme and a reason behind it all. I want her to have a purpose for leaving me out or locking me up, or, absent one, at least to pretend like there’s a purpose. The whole, “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it…I guess Sunday,” thing just reiterates that she doesn’t think about it as much as me and really doesn’t seem to care if I’m locked-up at any given moment. And of course, lock-up is synonymous with control. If she doesn’t care about lock-up…well, see where my fevered little pervert brain takes things?

Like I said, total overreaction. I can hear many of you thinking, “Gah! Stop with the whining, you ass! Don’t you know how lucky you are!?” or something similar. I know, I know. But I want there to be reasons for the things we do. Consequences. Structure. Thought. It’s not just about being denied orgasm, it’s about being denied for a reason. Maybe I ask too much of Belle since this really is my kink, not hers. Maybe I should just go with the flow and be grateful that she’s willing to go through the motions and deal with the high-maintenance basket case to which she’s found herself married.

I’ll just crawl back into my little hole of insecurity now.

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Your sandwich, Mistress

Last night was one of those choreographed movements of people only those with multiple children can really appreciate. The boy and I had a ballgame to attend, Belle had an after work bar thing, and the girl was hanging with the in-laws. The original plan was for Belle to go get the girl at about 8:30 since she figured the boy and I would be at the game until later, but, as is usually the case, after a few hours of baseball, the boy was ready to go. I texted Belle to tell her to stay and have fun and I’d deal with the kids.

She didn’t get the text until she was walking to her car, but when she did, she turned around and headed back to bar. She called me and, and since we were in my car, the Bluetooth picked it up and she was on speaker.

“Thanks for getting the kids, Thumper.”

“No problem. Stay as long as you want. Have fun.”

“You’re the best husband ever,” she said with a particular tone in her voice, “I want you to light the candles, because when I get home…”

My fingers flew to the phone to take her off the speaker. Did she forget the kids were listening?!

“Um, yeah? What did you say?”

“I said, when I get home, I’m going to reward you.”

Wow. Nice! Get in the house, kids! Time for bed!

I guess a little back story is necessary. In the past, the frequency, duration, and activities surrounding these after work drinkfests used to annoy me. Sufficiently that we’d argue afterward (or get close) or I’d stew. I’m not going to get into all the reasons why, but it was mostly thanks to the fountain of resentment that existed in our sexless marriage. Now, with her pleasure being my first priority, I wanted her to stay and live it up with her girlfriends/co-workers.

Three hours later, she came home. Previous resentfully stewy me would have been pissed, but current submissively Belle-focused me was happy she was happy. I did not expect any “reward” since it was after midnight and I had already drifted off to sleep. I heard her out in the kitchen making noise for longer than seemed necessary, so I went out to her to see what was up. I found her stooped over a take-out box containing BBQ ribs from the weekend, gnawing on the slabs of bony meat they contained.

“Didn’t they feed you at this thing?”

“No. I’m starving. I’ll be back there in a minute…” *GNASH* *CHOMP*

I went back to her bed and kind of floated between states of consciousness until her carnivorous moment was over. She crawled under the covers, still smacking her teeth and smelling of alcohol and food.

“Get your clothes off, Thumper.”

Mkay. Done.

Punch in the nuts.

“Miss me?”

“Ungh.”

She then proceeded to inflict several types of abuse on her cock. Presumably, my reward. I could tell the evening’s libations had left her in a different mood than usual. She was being much more forceful. Cruel, even.

At one point, she grabbed the loose skin near the end of the shaft with two fingers and pinched and twisted it in the most hurtful, wonderful way. That was new. The attacks to the balls were not the usual tentative slaps, they were balled-fist punches. She was really trying to hurt me. I found myself closing my legs and involuntarily grabbing at her arm. It was crazy since I did not will myself to do this, it just happened.

“Open yourself to me, Thumper,” she said in a cool, even tone. It sent a warm flush through my body. I slowly opened my legs, exposing myself to her blows.

Then she started abusing the shaft of her cock. Punching, slapping, squeezing and cruelly bending and twisting it, even in it’s hard state. Any previous inhibitions she may have had with regard to inflicting raw pain on me had dropped. There were no intermittent loving strokes or touches mixed in with his action. It was all about the hurt. I was feeling wonderfully spacey from it all.

She grabbed my nuts and started to squeeze. Hard. Harder. My face twisted in agony. It felt like my scrotum was going to burst.

“You like this, Thumper? Is it doing anything for you?” Harder still, a cruel, almost mocking tone to her voice. Where was this strength coming from?

She released me and I could breath again.

“God, I love you so much,” I panted.

“I know.”

After a moment to collect myself, I asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “Go make me a turkey sandwich.”

Not exactly what I expected, but her wish is my command, right?

“And use the swiss. It’s in the bottom drawer on the left…”

So I got up and made her a sandwich. Never has a turkey sandwich played a role in one of my sexual encounters, but it’s at least nice to see she can still surprise me after nearly 12 years of marriage.

“Here’s your sandwich, Mistress,” I said three minutes later as I reentered her bedroom.

She was asleep.

“Belle?”

Nothing.

I smiled at the absurdity of the scene. Candlelight everywhere, the cock between my legs engorged, me holding a turkey sandwich, her asleep.

I put the sandwich in a baggie in the fridge, blew out the candles, and curled up next to her in bed. Happy.

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People like me

I’m fortunate enough to work in an office where I get to bring my dog with me just about every day. He’s a little terrier-type creature who’s become quite attached to me – much more so than any of my previous dogs. Besides him, there’s a rotating cast of other dogs who come to the office including a Pomeranian mix female who apparently has a bit of a dominant slant to her. She not only wants all the other dogs to think she’s in charge (even though some of them are five times her size), she likes to mount my dog. As if she had a dick. She humps his little white ass with great abandon. And, of course, he likes it. She’s got this crazy, hell-bent-for-leather look on her face as her tongue lolls out of her head and she pumps away with her air cock while my guy actually seems to try to make it easier for her and shows no sign whatsoever of being the slightest put-off by the humping. You can’t make shit like this up.1

But that’s not the point of this post. The point of this post is to mention a great meeting of kinky sex bloggers than took place a few weeks back while I was driving across country. Along the way, I was able to meet Dev and Jos for breakfast. It was exciting on multiple levels.

First, Dev’s blog is among my favorites in the world of kinky blogs written by females. Her writing is lucid, eminently readable, more than a little hot, and describes two real, honest to god people. Personally, I like a little self-doubt and introspective exploration mixed with my hotnsexy.

Second, you know, I was going to see two virtual strangers I met on the internet (which, according to NBC’s Dateline, is a Really Bad thing to do) through, of all places, their perverted kinky sex blogs. How many times a week does the average guy get to do that?2 They could have been weird. She could have led him into the Village Inn on a leash or something and made him eat from a dish on the ground. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on your perspective), they were nothing like that. They were perfectly normal, very pleasant people. I greatly enjoyed my time with them (short and surrounded by regular people as it was).

Third, and the real point of this post, is that it was great just having actual, in the flesh people to talk to (however briefly) about this Really Huge Thing that’s emerged from inside me over the course of the past nine months or so. Acknowledging, embracing, and even cultivating my kinky underbelly is, I think, as significant a personal development as if I realized I was homosexual.3 Having the blog to vent my spleen into and a terrific partner like Belle is, of course, very helpful and comforting, but I don’t have anyone to actually talk to about what I feel who will understand where I’m coming from. I have no peers. When I was developing my sexuality as a young person, I had friends who were in the same boat. As a “normal” adult male, I still do. These types of relationships help us tease out who we are and make connections about ourselves (though, of course, two 12-year-old boys would never admit that was the case). But I’m not young anymore and I’m not normal. I’m a kinky son of a bitch. I didn’t figure all this out when I was 20 so I don’t have that kind of a legacy peer group. All I really have are the other bloggers I read regularly, and that’s not really the same, is it?

I have, on several occasions, felt the need to just blurt it out to a friend or two. I’m the kind of guy who has few good friends rather than many superficial ones, so the pool of prospective confidees is pretty slim. And, of course, as far as I know, none of them are in any way kinky. So I’ve never done it. On the one hand, who the hell wants to hear about the deepest corners of their friend’s sexual desires? Well, besides you and me. Most people don’t. On the other, what would I talk to them about? If they’re not coming from a shared experience, all they could do was hear me talk about myself. Not entirely without value, but also not like an actual exchange of information.

So anyway, I crave this. I know I could seek out local groups, and I suppose that’ll be what I eventually do if I really, really feel the need, but that’s fraught with peril for someone like me who’s basically introverted (blog detailing every aspect of my sex life aside). I really don’t know how to end this except to just call it what it is. A craving for physical contact with others like me.

—

1 So, if you’ve been reading this blog trying to figure out if I, in real life, am the guy you think I am – busted. You got me. ↩

2 I mean the average guy who doesn’t also happen to be a Republican congressman from a conservative Southern state. Those guys do that kind of stuff all the time. ↩

3 Which I’m not. I only use it to illustrate my point. Not there’s anything wrong with that… ↩

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Good Thumper

Just after Belle decided it was time to go to sleep last night and had rolled over, she commented that she had noticed what a good job I had been doing lately with regard to being of service to her. I had been feeling slightly sleepy up to that point, but upon hearing those words – I was doing a good job – I found myself on high alert, cock hard. I can sit outside myself now and think how fascinating that is. I’ve been conditioned to become sexually aroused (and not just a little) simply by her giving me a little pat on the head and saying, “Good boy.” My entire definition of sexual stimulus and gratification seems as though it’s being rewritten.

I told her in return that I only wanted for her to be happy, but realized as I said it it wasn’t quite right. Yes, of course, I want her to be happy, but more than that I want her to be pleased. Pleased with me and my performance. If she’s pleased with my service, she will be happy. I also told her I wanted her to hold me to high standards. Truth be told, I don’t really feel like she’s taking full advantage of me at the moment. More often than not, I’m the one who’s reminding her of ways she can utilize me. I’m still waiting for her to take me for granted, which, on the surface, sounds like a bad thing, but somehow in my hormone-addled brain isn’t. However, I do know I’m trying really hard and it’s very, very nice to hear her acknowledge that.

She also mentioned how impressive my attitude was considering I wasn’t in the CB6K. The device, as she correctly observed, focuses me on her and, yeah, not wearing it has made the recent past a very different experience for me. I touched on this in my last post, but the device has many salutatory affects on my behavior, not the least of which is its ability to remove the cock as any kind of distraction for me. When it’s locked up, it kind of ceases to exist from a sexual standpoint and becomes more of a maintenance item needing to be cleaned, etc., responsible only for the removal of waste products from my body. I can’t use it on her, I can’t play with it. In a very real sense, when I’m wearing it, the device becomes the cock it contains. If it wasn’t see-through, I’m sure the sensation that the cock had been replaced with the device would be even more acute.

So all this leads me to wonder when she’s going to lock it up again. I haven’t asked her this question because I don’t want to influence her. I am, in fact, of two minds. Being free is much more convenient than not. I’ve been out for so long now (over three weeks) that I kind of forget what it’s like being in and what it does to my most basic routines. On the other hand, the feeling of her constant control is very appealing to me. To be clear, I am not advocating either state as it’s clearly not under my control and not something I feel comfortable having a say in. I’m just wondering. How much longer will she allow me to be free?

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The new bunny

While at the the cabin a few days ago, I decided that Belle needed to step up from the basic, entry-level vibrator we got for her several months ago to something more full-featured. Don’t get wrong, Pink is a terrific little vibrator, but it’s just that. A little vibrator. As I said last time, Belle’s orgasms need to be as “frequent, spectacular, and celebrated” as possible. Therefore, I figured it was time to upgrade the hardware.

Never having needed a vibrator myself (simple slabs of latex shaped like various porn stars’ dicks were always enough for me), I used Belle’s best friend’s experience to help me pick one out. No, I didn’t call her up and ask (that’d be an interesting conversation, wouldn’t it?), but I did remember Belle relating to me that she had and was very happy with a rabbit-style vibrator. Shopping around, I found that the issue with many of these kinds of vibes is that they’re friggin’ ugly. Either they look like they were slapped together out of random parts or their design suggests they were left here by visiting space aliens (sometimes, both). I wanted Belle to have one that looked like it was made by Apple. Sleek, clean lines, well made, and pretty. Yeah, those are the expensive ones.

I settled on this model. It was pricey but well-reviewed and, of course, Belle’s worth it. Its smooth, dolphinesqe form appealed to our shared aesthetic, but the real clincher was that the clitoral stimulator looked exactly like a little pink rabbit bowing to the power of the clitoris. Sold. Unfortunately, since we weren’t home and I didn’t think a UPS guy showing up at the cabin with a plain, unmarked box that I quickly ran back to our bedroom with would look all that great in front of the in-laws (assuming UPS would even deliver that far back into the boonies), Belle was denied trying out her new toy until last night when we got back.

Upon opening the box, I was initially impressed with the thing’s heft. It’s not really big, but it’s got some density to it. I’d say it has about a half inch more insertable length than me and is maybe a quarter inch wider than me. This worried me, not because my fragile male ego wouldn’t be able to deal with her preferring it over my original equipment, but because she’s always going on and on about how she thinks I’m the perfect size for her and doesn’t want anything bigger, yada yada yada. As far as I’m concerned, this thing should be better than me since, you know, it vibrates and the head rotates and shit. It’s got R&D and modern microelectronics on its side. All I have is a few million years of evolution. In any event, I want her to dig it. If she ends up liking it over her cock, so be it.

So anyway, once the boy finally went to sleep, we broke out the new bunny. From what I’ve read (I may not have mentioned previously, but I don’t actually have a vagina of my own), rabbit-style vibes are a little trickier than others in that they stimulate multiple regions at once. While it’s possible for me to use little Pink on Belle with great affect, it would be harder for me to use the new bunny without actually seeing its successful application by Belle on herself since each pussy is unique, like beautiful snowflakes, etc. I prepared the sleek dildo with a bit of Astroglide and handed it to her.

There were a few candles lit, but the majority of light in the room was from the near-full moon streaming in through the open windows. With the cool blue light of the vibe’s controls mixing with the clean, white light of the moon on her skin, she began. At first, she fiddled with the controls and played around with the different vibe settings and head rotation speeds. She found a combo she liked and settled on the correct angle of attack before doing something I had not expected. My personal experience with artificial dongs involves their rapid, piston-like movement through well-lubricated orifices, but once she found the sweet spot, she closed her legs on it and just left it there. I guess that makes sense in retrospect since her clit was being stimulated on the outside while the head of the thing was rotating from within, but I though there’d be more athletics.

Nevertheless, she seemed to really be into it. At one point, she pulled her top up which, I’ve learned, is her way of telling me to suck her tits. Of course, I was way happy to oblige. My punishment from last week’s unauthorized orgasm was over, so I was free to play with myself, but she had neglected to give me permission to take off my clothes so I was more or less covered in all the strategic places. Skin on skin contact with her was better than anything I could do to myself.

Shortly after I started sucking and playing with her nipples, she came. It sounded good, but not the most sky-shattering orgasm I’ve ever seen her have. As soon as it was over, she removed the vibe and said, matter-of-factly, “It’s definitely bigger than you.” And I think that’s good. She made all these sounds about how it wasn’t better, only bigger, etc., but ultimately, the size was not a problem for her.

After she came, I was seriously horny. I’ve been out of the device for three weeks now and unenforced denial is very, very different from the other kind. If I had been locked-up, I’d have been feeling some discomfort from the stifled erection, but wouldn’t have had any specific urge other than to boil in my own hormones and wait for them to be internally consumed. Not being encumbered left me with a throbbing erection enhanced by a solid chrome cock ring around its root. I wanted to jack-off so bad I could taste it.

“Please, Mistress, can I jack-off?”

She said yes because she’s so very good to me. While she put her pajamas back on and got up to pee, etc., I laid there, underwear pulled down around my thighs and Astroglide poured over her cock, and beat the fuck out of it. It felt so, so wonderful as the bulbous head of the cock slid under the tightly encircling fingers and the remainder of my foreskin stretched up and over the ring through my PA on the reciprocal stroke. I came very close to shooting several times – the last when she was laying next to me rolling my nipple between her thumb and finger – before a great feeling of selfconsciousness came over me. She was sleepy. Her eyes were already closed. Instead of focusing on her and whatever post-orgasmic needs she had, I was instead selfishly stroking myself for no reason whatsoever except to indulge my animal lust (since, of course, I wasn’t going to come). My desire to continue was shed from me like a dirty t-shirt and I got up to clean off her new toy and put it in its proper place.

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Right this second

Sometimes, I start to write a post meaning to say one thing and end up saying something else entirely without even realizing it. That happened yesterday. I related the fact that we were in the hot tub but got all carried away with her furtive little kicks to my groin and forgot the Really Big Thing™ we talked about.

In my opinion, there’s always been in the back of Belle’s mind the idea that what I really want – the thing that’ll make me most happy – is to actually come like a fountain at the end of all the teasing and denial. Maybe, once upon a time, that was true. But not anymore. We both agree that when I’m in the phase I’m in right now that we’re both happiest with the D/s. The power of my sexual frustration has stripped away my self-centered mantle just enough so that I’m especially attuned to her needs. I’m not going to try to get too psychological about it or fall into any of the typical Femdom stereotypes, but there is something to the idea that a woman can harness her man’s need for sexual release and focus it on more productive (for her and the relationship) pursuits. That’s where I am now. I know I’m not the same person when I’m like this. Well, the same, but a different version perhaps. I act very differently. She’s used my desire to change my behavior, and I like it.

I spend a lot of time thinking about whether or not I’m a “true” submissive or if the denial just makes me one. I still think it’s the case that I’m not a real submissive, but the truth is, I like being turned into one by her. Just the idea that my natural urges are being used to modify how I behave is a huge turn-on. Plus, I recognize that she’s happier with me and the relationship when I’m in this state. I’ve touched before on how maintaining the sweet spot between the more selfish apathetic condition of my normal self and the leg-humping horndog of me carrying way too much pent-up sexual frustration should be our goal.

So, back to what I really want. In fact, what I know now is I never want to be sexually sated ever again. I never want to be in a position where I’ve achieved so many orgasms that I’m totally uninterested in maintaining a submissive position with her. In the past, she’d give me lots of release around special occasions or, once she let me come, she’d let me come a lot. Recently, she’s moved away from that strategy and I’ve found that, yes, there is a hit to the sub energy after I’ve come, but the bounce back happens much more quickly if they’re singular events.We are both so much more happy with how things are right this second that we should make right this second the model or our relationship and not some ideal espoused by the dominant phallic-centric popular paradigm of sexual perfection.

Also, with regard to “special occasions” (such as romantic get-aways or birthdays or anniversaries or what have you), I think what they offer is a special opportunity to make the denial even more effective. Yes, the romantic anniversary trip we’re taking to Mexico in the Fall is a classic scenario where a normal, sexually equal husband should expect lots of terrific orgasmic sex. And that’s exactly why I shouldn’t get any. My orgasms, as I’ve said in the past, should be the opposite of special occasions. They should be perfunctory and banal. Everything special should be focused on her. My orgasms are to be regarded as unavoidable maintenance events to be put off as long as possible while hers should be frequent, spectacular, and celebrated.

In retrospect, this may not seem like a Really Big Thing™ to anyone who’s been reading the blog for more than a week or so. The concept isn’t what’s really big. Disabusing her of the idea that my craving for sexual release means I’d be happier once I achieved it – that’s the big thing. For both of us.