Libéré en étant enfermé
I can’t stop looking at this (ridiculously NSFW) picture. It fires on so many of my kinks. That cock, apparently twice the heft of the penis — the beautiful pussy, ready and available but also absolutely not — the perspective, as if sitting at the end of the bed watching — the fucking look on her face, “I told you…this is what I want.” Even his stubbly chin is hot.
GAH.
Plus, I’m unlocked. Bad combination. Much suffering. I’m going to have to lock myself back up…
I was hanging out in the shower yesterday quirting water through the Steelheart as I do. This is the usual moment when I can tell how I’m coming along from a lock-up male perspective. How am I feeling about it?
This particular morning, I was doing pretty good. “Pretty good” in this case being defined as being so horny and frustrated that just the feeling of the water surging around the locked meat (specifically, how it swirled over the corona) felt so amazing as to cause the contents of the steel tube to swell and block additional water from getting around in there. MOAR WATER!
As an aside, I know I’m not supposed to play with it, but does this count? It’s incidental to the act of cleaning it which is necessary. I dunno. The way it swells up in there kind of obviates the issue, anyway. Once it starts, it self-seals and stops.
And, you know, a normal guy in my situation would be wanting out of the fucking metal as quickly as possible but I, as any careful reader of this blog knows, am not normal. I had the feeling of being totally right with the world. I was exactly where I needed and should be. Inescapably locked, terrifically horned up, truly desperate for some kind of pleasurable sensation from the penis, yet hoping she’d keep me like that forever. Hoping that when we have sex this weekend, it’s with me in the device and one of her dildos in her.
This morning, after a very loud thunderstorm moved through and knocked our power out, I got her off sans dildo but still locked. She came twice in fairly rapid succession which is unusual for her. After, I climbed on top of her and pressed my stifled, steel-clad erection into her and she said, “You’re not getting out.”
I squirmed and hummed inside. I wanted two totally opposite things but got the one I deserved. I told her how lucky I was to have her along with some other things.
“I love it when you talk subby to me.”
Bliss.
Yesterday I was Tumblin’ and came across an animated GIF of a woman reaching around a man to jack him off. He was standing and she was right behind him, leaning against something. They were both totally naked. The image was looping over the few frames where the guy was shooting his load. I found myself unable to scroll past. His ejaculate leapt from the end of his cock in a graceful arch and his face showed both the knitted furrow of pre-orgasmic concentration on his forehead and the gasp of release on his lips as they parted and his load surged out. It was…intoxicating.
I don’t know what it was about this specific image, but it really affected me. The more I watched it (and I must have seen that guy shoot a couple of hundred times, at least), the more I became him. I felt her grip around his hard shaft and the hot slug of goo push it’s way down the heart of his cock and release into the air. His balls tighten and prickle, the hitch in his breath as the orgasmic release hit his brain. The weakness in his knees as he slumped back into her warm breasts. Over and over and over.
UUUUNGH.
And I was like, Fuck, I want to come. I really do. I want to feel that. And the weight of the finality of never feeling that again really hit me. I can’t say to myself that, sure it’s been a long, long time, but it’ll happen someday. Just wait. It’ll happen. Because, no. I have no reason to think it will.
I told Belle about it last night as I was laying on top of her and rubbing the free and very hard penis into pelvis. I told her how badly that image made me want what he was getting. How great I felt the loss of orgasm at that moment.
And she said something along the lines of, “Yeah, that’s nice. Too bad for you it’s never going to happen again. I know what’s best for you.”
My balls were already churning but that kicked everything up to eleven. I may have whimpered. I felt like I was at the bottom of a very deep well all the water crushing down was her and her control over the penis. And while it was difficult to accept, it also seemed so right. That’s where I should be.
I told her it was worth it. That she should take all the orgasms I’d ever have for herself. To use that energy to maintain me how she wanted me to be.
And then we fucked. But only she came.
Two random things…
I’ve started a new Tumblr. One more brick in the global Thumpermedia empire. Of course, there’s the original Portfolio. When I first started curating it, I said it was a place to “collect pictures I like, but also the occasional story or even video. It’s not going to be just any porn that turns my crank, but specifically the porn that, for whatever reason, speaks to me as a submissive bisexual male.” I tend to pick pictures of men being used for sex by other men, beautiful women being beautiful, hot guys being hot, guys going down on women because pussies are awesome, and men being subjected to a variety of torturous hotness from both genders. It may appear to be a bit of a hodgepodge at first glance, but if I can place myself somehow in the scenario depicted, I will usually reblog it. For me, that’s critical. I really like to associate with the image personally in some way (and it’s not always obvious what that way is from the outside, I’m sure). Also, I’ve made the editorial decision to never show men ejaculating on the Portfolio because duh.
The second Tumblr I made was the Pit Stop. Pure dude pit porn. Very little deep thought put into it except I really have a thing for dude’s armpits. Cumshots allowed, though not the main point of the site so infrequently found.
The new one is called At least she lets you watch. This is another case of where the value of the porn for me is accentuated by trying to place myself in it. Due to my submissive tendencies, I tend not to really get off much on the images of women being fucked or otherwise appearing to be “bottoming” for a guy. But, I found that once I viewed these images through the lens of my nascent cuckolding kink, they suddenly become about a hundred times hotter for me. But they don’t fit on the Portfolio because images of MF sex there tend towards those where the woman appears to be in charge or I find the sex to be more reverential or respectful. On ALSLYW, I can freely post images of woman being complete sluts and loving it because the implication is she’s doing it with someone who’s not her husband. Convoluted, perhaps, but that’s how it works for me. Also, of course, the more cumshots the better. Especially if it’s all over her face or tits. Oh, yeah.
In a way, I think consuming porn is like going through a bucket of differently shaped pegs and seeing if they fit into any of one’s differently shaped holes. Some slip right in, some can be forced, and other just won’t work. It’s interesting to me how a simple internal change of perspective can make a peg that otherwise won’t fit suddenly work even though the peg itself hasn’t changed a bit.
Second random thing is Belle’s departure this morning for her two-week Asia trip. Much sadness. However, when I got home from the gym, she came out of the bathroom and told me she had a job for me. She gave me Pink and told me to give her new batteries so she wouldn’t have to worry about the little vibrator not working while she’s gone.
Funny story about that. We took Pink on vacation with us (and used her, too) and, upon leaving for home, I packed her in my suitcase. The suitcase went into a Jeep and then onto a ferry and then stacked in the back of a cab before being handed back to me at the airport. When I picked it up, I felt what I though was some kind of machinery vibration coming up from the ground. Thought it was weird, but didn’t stop to consider it more than that. Then, once we were checking in and about to hand over the luggage to security, I felt the vibration again. And it hit me. Pink was happily buzzing inside my suitcase. Right in the middle of the check-in area, in front of the kiosks and airline agents and fellow travelers, I laid the suitcase on its side, popped it open, and rustled around inside until I found the vibrator. It was hot. Probably a good thing I turned it off. No idea how long it had been going (had to have been a while based on its temp) or if anyone around me noticed what I was doing (doubtful), but that’s why Belle wanted me to swap out her batteries. So I dutifully shuffled off and tended to my wife’s vibrator so she could get herself off without worry while I was left at home with a locked up penis.
Belle leaves the country on Thursday for two weeks. I hate these trips, though to be fair, she hasn’t had to take one like this in a while.
As I said, and regardless of how good I’ve been recently, she’s not about to leave me alone with the penis. There’s a complication, though, in that I have tickets to the baseball game both tonight and on the day she leaves and they’ve recently installed metal detectors there. Not sure if they’re the walk-through kind or the wands (I’ve been wanded in the Steelheart before without detection). Therefore, I’m in the Trainer, but I really don’t want to be in it for the entire time she’s gone. I’d rather spend some time in the Jail Bird, actually (it’s been a while), or whatever device she says she wants me in. We’ll have to figure out something regarding keys and swapping devices and such.
In any event, she’ll be gone and I’m feeling pretty horny lately so last night I was lobbying hard for some pussy time even though she just came twice over the weekend and was generally tired and ready for bed. I didn’t push too hard. I wanted to leave her plenty of room to opt-out. Mental anguish over my subordinate lot in life would have been good, too. I was mentally prepared for that, but it didn’t happen. I presume she felt a little sorry for me and she eventually pulled back and said, “Make me happy.”
I went to work on her in the ways that usually induce happiness on her part. I was in the Jail Bird and felt the erection push hard against the bars while her pussy grew wetter and wetter. I didn’t want to rush as I was enjoying myself but I also wanted to be respectful of her desire to go to sleep soon. After a little of this where is seemed as though she wasn’t progressing as fast as she wanted, she asked, “Would you go down on me?”
And I’m like, FUCK. YES.
For the record, she never needs to ask if I’ll do this. Any day, any time, any place. Point to the pussy and push down on my head and I am so there. Eagerly.
It was hard work getting her home (her refractory period is more than just a few days after two orgasms in two days), but we got there. I lingered, kissing the inside of her thighs and resting my forehead on her mons and breathed deeply, letting her pheromones penetrate while she basked. It’ll be a while before I’m there again and I wanted my fill for as long as she’d let me.
I was a leaky mess after. And I did that thing where I spooned desperately into her and got thisclose to falling asleep before jolting awake. I guess that’s hormones. Happens more often than not after I get her off and I’m left locked. Eventually, I did sleep, but not until after some melatonin. Probably got about four hours.
On balance, four hours of sleep in exchange for pussy juice all over my face seems like a pretty fair deal.
Schnoff and I are going to continue our game of blogging badminton…
He wrote recently about the conflict of not living up to the expectations of that person with whom one has placed control over one’s orgasm (and I like writing using words like “one” because it does makes one feel as though they’re speaking dialog from an episode of Downton Abby). In my first post in response to his first, I said…
I still touch it and fiddle with it absentmindedly and give it a squeeze if it’s hard and I’m liking that, but I will not “play with it.” Which means I’ll not be able to find myself in that spot Schnoff did.
And even as I wrote it I thought it sounded a bit too confident. I should have said if I remain true to Belle’s wishes that I not play with the penis when it’s unlocked and I don’t have permission in that way I know from years of experience will bring me into spitting distance of orgasm, I’ll not be able to find myself in that spot Schnoff did. Lately, I have been really good about that. There’s some kind of mental block that’s been trained into me so that the idea of stroking myself, while appealing on one hand since I know how good it will feel, is really unappealing to me since I also know it would be very wrong. That’s not to say if I found myself locked in the bathroom with my ass in the air and the Pure Wand sticking out and punching my prostate that I wouldn’t also find my hand all over the penis if it were free, but that very specifically is one of those things I just mentioned. So I won’t do that unless she says very specifically that I can.
To illustrate. Belle left me unlocked this weekend from Friday night to this morning. She let me out on Friday not because she wanted anything to do with the penis but because she knew she might want it Saturday morning and she didn’t want to have to fiddle with the key or wait for me to attend to my cleanliness or anything like that when it was time. So, in effect, I was loaned the penis until she had a use for it. I was only holding onto it (figuratively) for her. So I didn’t do anything pleasurable with it until Saturday when she stroked it and let me put it in her. Similarly, the next morning we had sex again but this time there was no foreplay on her part. I was attending to her tits and fingering her pussy and the penis was rock hard between us but she totally ignored it. Neither of us touched it at all until she let me slide in because I’m not supposed to and she didn’t want to. There was a time when I might have maneuvered myself into position where her hand was adjacent in hopes that she’d play with it or even so that I could pleasure myself while pleasuring her, but the rule is now that the only pleasure I’m allowed from the penis is when it’s being used to fuck her. And I have been conditioned to obey that. I’m actually pretty proud of how good I’ve been, though I understand that she still doesn’t trust me.
I think there are some specific reasons for this recent success. One is Belle has given me very clear rules. No stroking. No getting yourself off without permission. Absolutely no orgasm. It’s hard to wiggle in that space. If I’m doing something that feels good with the penis, it’s probably against the rules. Two, I have come to realize that to really succeed I need to respect her, her rules, and our dynamic. All those things. Her authority over my body is not an island that is separate from me and my actions. I do not exist outside that construct.
I, of course, have willingly entered into this dynamic with Belle (just as I entered into our marriage which is a similar arrangement, I think). If I am to disrespect her wishes within the dynamic, I am disrespecting the dynamic. The thing I wanted and crave. The thing that provides me so much emotional pleasure. I can’t help wanting to stroke myself and even to come (in fact, I need to want to stroke myself and come) but to do so would mean I am not really invested in making the dynamic work. She has her role (which she is fulfilling quite well) and I have mine. If I can’t live up to her expectations, then why should I hope she’d do the same for me?
In a way, this mentality is the root of my assertion that the most secure chastity device lives between one’s own ears. Right now, I’m in the Jail Bird. It’s totally unsecure in that my PA has nothing through it. I could, theoretically, pull out and jack off or even go into my toolbox and use pliers to remove the security screw holding the cage on. She would have no way of knowing. But why in the world would I do that? To what end? And it’s the same willpower at a higher amperage that keeps me from breaking her rules involving free meat. The device is a deterrent but not the authority. That’s embodied in her.
So, the differences between successful device chastity and obedience chastity are non-existent…except for the device.
Like I said the other day, I think penis constriction is a kink all by itself. Some people get off on the feeling and, like in me, it’s buried deep down and has always been there. Another kink is about control (being controlled or doing the controlling). One could do either or both and still be covered under the “chastity” rubric. There is no right way. Layer over that ancillary kinks like bondage, sadomasochism, and even aesthetic preferences and you get some combination of this game we play.
The only advantages I have over anyone else sharing these kinds of experiences is the length of time we’ve been doing it and the fact that I often make an effort to tease out my feelings and thoughts in writing. But I do think that unless one gets to the point that they realize “being good” is really about respecting the holy trinity of their partner, themselves, and their relationship, they will struggle. I know for a fact that Bear and Schnoff are on the right path because it’s the same path Belle and I are one. I can recognize it in his writing. All the familiar mileposts are there.
“You should probably just stop counting,” Belle said to me this morning after I mentioned that today made eleven weeks since she last let me come — approximately one-third of the total time I was denied before. Then, later, “I mean, you’ll just be counting forever.”
You see, Belle has decided I won’t have any more orgasms.
After talking about it, she’s unhappy with how I am after I come (even though it happens, on average, about once every 9 months) and is much happier with how I act and feel when I don’t and doesn’t like waiting around for my hormones to rebalance afterward (which, with the extension of duration between events, seems to take a lot longer than in the past). So that’s that. Calling a spade a spade. She’s happier and we’re better when I don’t come.
This concept has been bandied about before, but she’s pretty invested in it now. Belle said she thought something this momentous required a ceremony of some kind. It’s not unlike marriage vows, if you think about. Submitting to your parter’s control over your sexual release and willingly giving that up forever in exchange for her happiness and the salubrious benefits it has on our foundational relationship. Just saying, “No more for you,” without some kind of mutual acknowledgment of the significance of it would make backtracking too easy. Someday, maybe a long time from today, I’ll beg in a certain way and she’ll be in a certain mood and she’ll let me (like last time). Or I’ll be alone with the penis and allow it to think for me and I’ll fuck up. How can we take it a step further and solemnify the decision in a way that will make it more persistent?
Over dinner last night, she decided what she wants to do. She wants me get a tattoo. And she wants to be there to see me get it. That will be our ceremony. The tattoo she’s chosen is the Japanese Kanji for “deny.” She wants it about an inch from the base of the penis, just above and to the right. It’ll always be there as a reminder to both of us that my denial is forever. If I ask or beg or plead to come, all she’ll have to do is touch me on the Kanji. Every time I’m naked, her decision will be there to see. Right next to the steel ring (usually) locked on me. I will never be in a position when I’ll be able to allow myself to forget my commitment to her control. Every time anyone sees the penis, they’ll see her decision right next to it. She wants me marked. So I will be.
And I’m telling you, she’s really excited about this. She was near giddy as the plan was falling into place during our dinner date last night. She was laughing and grinning and I was feeling nervous butterflies tumble around inside me as I sipped my wine silently. I’m both excited and a little scared. Probably how most guys feel when they get engaged. This is a Big Deal. Not the kind of thing that just happens.
Every time I think about it, I get hard. Not just hard at the idea, but from how invested in it she is. Whenever I see her do or say anything that shows me she’s really into this dynamic, it makes me happy. This, in particular, makes me very happy. This isn’t about humoring me. This is what she wants, too. No doubt about it.
It occurred to me this morning, while laying next to her in bed after she let me get her off and with the sticky penis she let me fuck her with between us, that I shouldn’t be thinking about this permanent denial thing as something that’s in the future. The tattoo and commitment “ceremony” are in the future, but the denial is already happening. As she said, I will be counting forever. The last time she let me come really was the last time.
And there go the butterflies again. This is what I’ve wanted. This is what I’ve asked for. But now it’s real. The tattoo will physically mark the day the phase of my life where I could hope for orgasm ended, but that’s a formality. In reality, that day is already in the past. That part of my life is over.
I had one of those epiphanous moments last night while struggling with my inability to sleep and my insatiable hunger for all things pornographic and sexual and my grumpiness at Belle’s apparent disinterest in having sex with me even after all the very helpful hints I’ve been dropping lately. But let me back up a bit because I have a laborious metaphor I want to walk you through.
Remember that Star Trek: The Next Generation episode called “Timescape?” The one where Picard, Geordi, Troi, and Data find the Enterprise frozen in space locked in some kind of energy transfer thing with a Romulan bird of prey? Long story short (and, you know, SPOILERS for the eleven-year-old TV show), it turns out there were some little space critters living in the singularity at the core of the Romulan ship and that, somehow, had fractured time around themselves and the Enterprise resulting in a frozen-in-time warp core breach (which, even if you’re not into ST:TNG, you can probably tell is a Bad Thing) that a slightly loopy Picard drew a happy face on and —ANYWAY — everything turns out OK in the end except for the Romulans who lose their ship in spectacular (for 1993 4:3 non-HiDef TV special effects) fashion.
But really, the bit I want to draw your attention to is the fractured time part. In their shuttle, Picard and Co. encounter little pockets where time is either sped up or slowed down. The phenomenon gets worse the closer they get to the Enterprise. Big chunks of normal space interspersed with big chunks of non-normal space, all created by this one event in the heart of the bird of prey.
Wow, long way to go for this, but, I feel like I’ve been moving through the same kind fractured space kind of deal since Belle let me come six weeks ago. Sometimes, I’m not feeling any of the denial hum that I love so much and other times I’ll find myself in a little pocket of it only to feel it slip away again. In all cases, I’ve been shorter than usual with Belle and less inclined to want to service her. I’ve even had a hard time keeping up with The Portfolio. You know it’s bad when even the porn isn’t appealing. But in the past few days, things felt like they were ratcheting up somehow. And that brings me back to last night.
I wanted and needed to have sex with Belle. I craved that connection. Nothing rambunctious or requiring of trapeze equipment. Just a nice fingering or, best case scenario, she’d let me eat her out. But like every other night this week, she shut me down and went to sleep rather quickly. And I was left feeling very horny, very locked-up, and grumpy. Toward her and my sexual situation in general. I spent time on Tumblr, cruised around the web seeking out erotica, finished reading a fucking fantastic article on bisexuality in the New York Times, and lurked on cuckolding forum. All the while, I was frothing myself up and letting my self-pity build on the crest of the frustration bubble.
But, sometime around 1:30 or so, I found a little flicker of that true denied sub zen magic. It was simple and in the form of three thoughts that all bled together: She controls your sex, that’s the place you asked to be in, this is what you want. And like that, the grumpiness evaporated. I reached out to her sleeping body and touched her warmth and felt a zing of comforting energy travel across my fingers and down my arm and into my soul. Eventually, I was fully embracing her, hanging my arm over her back and wrapping my legs into hers and pressing the hard, tight knot in my crotch into her ass. I was still fucking horny and I was still frothing with the energy pent up in the aftermath of that six-week-old orgasm, but instead of being irritated by it all, I was soothed. In a way. I felt like I was in my place. Eventually, I fell asleep like that.
Today, I still have it. When I kissed her goodbye this morning I lingered on her lips, smelling her and tasting her, and felt all kinds of light-headed wooziness at being so close to her and wishing I could drag her back to the bedroom and suck on her clit. And it left me feeling better for the experience, not worse. I actually felt something, which hasn’t always been the case for the past month and a half.
Somehow, last night, the fractures of my denial zen started to pull themselves back together. Finally.
The other day, I went to my trainer session just as Belle was finishing hers. Our schedule is such that I’m always after her now. I helped scrape her off the floor and was being affectionate and stuff (I sometimes really like how the sweaty, post-workout Belle smells and tastes) and our trainer made some comment about “the secret” to our marriage. I have to tell you, I was seconds away from offhandedly telling him it probably had something to do with me only having one orgasm a year. But I didn’t.
This is a guy who’s juggling a couple of hotties at the same time and milking Tinder for all it’s worth (pun intended). He’s young(ish) and single and fucking all the time so I’m pretty sure the concept of withholding orgasm would make his head combust. And, I guess, rightly so. We backed into orgasm denial and chastity years after we got married, but it seems to me that its a strategy best applied to those in relationships. How would you even do it with random hook-ups? “Oh, that’s OK. I’m good…” Uh, probably not.
I’m not even sure anymore that limiting and controlling male orgasm outside of chastity should even be considered a kink. I mean, for some people it is (when it’s part of a D/s dynamic or whatever) and clearly this kind of conversation is massively complicated by the tangled up yarn ball that is human sexuality, but even those people in vanilla monogamous (or -ish) male-female relationships would, I think, see benefits from keeping him from orgasming as often as he’d like. I’ve finally stopped reading that Cupid’s Poison Arrow book because I couldn’t take it anymore, but there is a kernel of truth buried in their pile of repetitive anecdote. Hacking brain chemistry by limiting (or even eliminating) orgasm in at least one partner can greatly benefit a marriage (or married-like arrangement). Especially for those people sneaking up on middle-age where refractory periods get longer and longer.
Over on the Twitter, Kitten asked…
https://twitter.com/kitten_68/status/439163450485645313
I said I thought my orgasm was a fair trade for how it benefits our marriage. Even if it meant I’d never have it again. If I could take a pill or pay a genie or something to take away my ability to come (but not my desire to) in exchange for feeling like I do when I’m riding high on the denial magic carpet, I’d do it. In a minute (assuming Belle was OK with it). Kitten suggested that would leave me feeling “bereft” but I think quite the opposite. I’m thrilled we’ve found this and can use it to enhance our relationship.
And I know, a lot of people would read that and think I’m crazy. Orgasm is wired deeply into our brains. We get lots of happy brain treats when we do it. But, as the authors of that dumb Cupid book point out, there’s also a downside to those same treats. On that point, I think they’re entirely right. Post-orgasmic brain chemistry does, over time, seem to work against long-term monogamous relationships. I can’t prove that to any of you. I don’t have a peer-reviewed study to point to (though I’d happily participate in one). All you can do it take my word for it, I guess.
In response to my last post, Mykey suggested my funk wasn’t a result of my last orgasm…
Seems unlikely it’s the orgasm from that long ago to me. I wonder if it’s just a cycle, hormones or emotions. Maybe you are coming down with a cold.
I agree, it does seem unlikely, but I’ve discovered that the actual impact from one orgasm does last for multiple weeks. Most men wouldn’t know because, like I used to, they’re probably having two to half a dozen or so orgasms a week (more if you’re a young man — I can recall jacking off twice a day in my mid- to late-teens). If you’re never outside an orgasm’s overhang, you can’t know the extent of it. If I were in a situation where my orgasms weren’t being controlled, I’d probably have pulled one out specifically to feel the hit of happy brain treats way before getting to the point where I was even a week out from last coming.
On that front, I’m starting to feel that old tyme denial religion. Belle wouldn’t let me out for sex this weekend even though we fooled around twice. Saturday morning was a nice and simple fingering while Sunday was a lovely and lively full-on pussy eating. After coming up for air, I was drenched. I rubbed it all down my chest and just let her pheromones linger on me even as I went to the gym for a run. It was quite the run, though I can’t say for certain the two things were related.
In any event, I desperately wanted to fuck her after I ate her out. To slip into that hot wetness. But it wasn’t happening. Later in the day, I asked if I could be let out due to a small spot of testicular irritation that had been lingering for several days. Sometimes it happens in places where the skin on the scrotum is constantly pulled somewhat tight (especially during erection attempts) and they can never heal. She was very suspicious of my motivations, but I swear I’d never lie to be let out. Twelve hours later, I was right as rain again. That’s all it took.
She let me out Sunday afternoon and I went back in this morning. I could have gone back in last night but she gave me one more day of recovery. I went to the gym unlocked and she was gone when I got back so the the notion of not going back in until tonight was crowding around in my imagination (especially while working on the Portfolio this morning), but I was good and obeyed her wishes and locked myself into the Looker 02. And, even when Tumbling, I didn’t play with anything. Not even in the shower. I was that good.
Which, I think, means things are getting back to normal. I’ll be leaving Friday morning for SXSW. We haven’t discussed whether or not she’ll want me locked up while gone. Last year, she let me use my own judgement and I eventually went back in on my own because the distraction of having a free penis I couldn’t play with was just too great. I assume this year I won’t have the choice, but we’ll see.
Any of you going to be in Austin this weekend? Let me know. Maybe we could meet up.
I woke up this morning like I wake up nearly every morning; penis locked and straining against its chastity device. By the time I left the bed, I was still locked up, but in between Belle let me out for some fun.
By the time we got to the part of the event where we were both naked and it was time for her to decide which of many ways available she’d like to be brought to orgasm, I was over her and grinding the newly freed and achingly hard penis into her pelvic region. Last time, she let me fuck her from above until she came and damn if I didn’t want to do it again. But, with me inches from slipping inside her and hopefully repeating my previous performance, she chose Blue.
And…wow, but I was truly hurt. She had me right there but didn’t want me. She wanted…it. Him. The big blue cock. There was a real pang of regret. Of wishing Blue wasn’t an option. I wasn’t mad or resentful about it. I don’t blame her for choosing it at all. I’d rather get fucked by it than me, too. But I didn’t enthusiastically leap for the toy drawer.
Before I could get to it, enthusiastically or not, she rolled me over onto my back and took the penis into her mouth. I don’t get this treat very often. I practically melted into the sheets, it felt so good. So warm and tender. After she finished, I kissed her and tasted penis on her lips. If my erection had flagged slightly upon hearing it was being passed over in favor of the big blueness, this little episode brought it right back.
“I’m going to pretend you’re my boyfriend while fucking you,” she mentioned.
A conflicting swirl of emotions on hearing that. My little cuckold wannabe thrilled to hear it but the part of me that a brief period before wanted to be instrument of her pleasure was left further annoyed.
Once Belle mounted Blue, she really went to town with it. We just got a new bed and, unlike the old creaky one it replaced, it’s totally solid, silent, and immobile even while hosting passionate motion. Eighty-eight was apparently very nice for her.
Usually, I’d wait for her to tell me I could fuck her after she comes like that, but after she rolled off of me I wasted no time ridding myself of Blue and rolling over onto her. I didn’t go so far as to enter without permission, but I positioned myself between her legs and rubbed the penis against her warm wetness. She reached down and put it in.
Normally when I fuck Belle, I can feel the outer lips of her wonderful pussy catch and slide past the head of the penis as it slips past. After she fucks Blue or Maverick, it’s more of a slickly frictionless motion. It feels like I barely touch her going in. Her comments from the other day — I can barely feel you…it’s like the penis isn’t even there — rang in my head and the heady, heavy thud of whatever the fuck it is that gets me off feeling her all stretched out by a bigger dick landed right in my gut. My silent little fit of pique collapsed under the weight of it.
You are second, I thought. Always and in all ways.
And like that, whatever regret or disappointment or embarrassment that lingered over her choice changed polarity; instead of feeling negative and put-out over it, I felt the insistent hyperactive bounce of subby denial. I still felt the regret and embarrassment but was powered by them rather than diminished.
There was one point when I was fucking her freely and had my arms all wrapped around hers, enveloping her head and shoulders, while I was kissing her face and tasting her mouth and smelling her hair and, of course, resisting the pressing need to plant my seed inside her when I was so fully and completely in love with her. It wasn’t a feeling or an opinion. It was an existential reality.
I so badly needed that. We had no sex of any kind last week and the batteries that keep me going, already depleted by the orgasm she let me have two weeks ago, were feeling empty. I was feeling separate from her in a way I don’t like. Disconnected from her. I’m not saying things are back to normal even now, but that moment of clarity I found while plowing away at her loosely wet and stretched-out pussy was exactly the shot I needed.
Once she told me I was done fucking her, I disengaged slowly and with great effort. I wanted to stay in there. Forever. As I lingered, she pushed hard against my chest and made me roll off of her. The thought that I could get back in there if I really wanted to flitted through my head, but quickly passed. After a moment of grabbing at my balls and squeezing them out of frustration, I reached over and started to reassemble the Steelheart. She didn’t tell me to get back in but I knew she’d want me in before the day was out and it seemed to me that being locked up immediately would be best for me. I gave Belle the lock and she turned the key.
“Good job, Thumper.”