Tag: masochism

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A dream, a thing, and a scene

I had another dream a few nights ago. In it, I reached down to feel the device (something I find myself doing quite a bit, actually) and discovered that, somehow, the cock was outside it, long and hard. I couldn’t process this as it was unharmed and yet the device was still in place underneath. I was very confused. Then, instead of acting on the unexpectedly free meat, I started to try to stuff it back in the tube before Belle found out. I felt guilty and even somewhat ashamed and very much annoyed that the perfectly secure device had somehow failed. Then I woke up, hard and stuffed into the tube, ring biting. Still perfectly secure.

I feel like writing a post that probably covers some old ground, but I’m sure you’ll humor me. What choice do you have, right? I want to talk about how things have changed with regard to chastity and Belle and I. How her attitude and the new Steelheart have combined into a new thing. A better thing, from my point of view. Then I’ll tell you about a hot little scene to make up for it.

Like most guys, I guess, chastity devices are part of our relationship due to my interest, not hers. For the better part of the first year we used them, I always suspected she was humoring me when she had me wear one. She didn’t seem willing to push my tolerance and acted as though being out was preferable to me than being in. At some point, though, in the past three months that changed. She wants me in a device more than not now.

A week ago, when the new and improved Steelheart went on, she and I were standing in the kitchen together. I had been chastised for all of about 30 minutes at that point, and for the first time in weeks. I was standing very close to her and put my face against her neck.

Belle laughed a little. “I can tell you’re wearing it,” she said.

“I feel different when I have it on,” I replied.

“Good!”

“You haven’t like me out of it?”

“I always love you. You know that. But I’ve come to prefer you the way you are when you’re locked up. You’re more focused and attentive. I like that.”

I think I may have whimpered a little. Shoving your meat into a chastity device because you want to is plenty fun but doing it because it’s expected of you – because she really wants it that way – is another game altogether.

One of the things those of us who wear these devices often hear from those who don’t is that we really shouldn’t have to wear one. We should be strong enough to maintain our chastity through no other force other than our desire to do what our dominant wants. I don’t really argue with that point of view since it’s just another way to play the game, but I think it misses out on something that, for me, is pretty huge. Something I’m only just experiencing now.

The first ingredient is what I just talked about and has been present for a little while now. That is, she wants me in the device more than I want to be in it. The second ingredient is the Steelheart’s newly inescapable features. If one kinks on submitting to their dominant partner, then great. I get that since I do, too. But I also kink quite hard on not having any control. In the past, when the device I was wearing was one I could escape from, I always maintained a certain amount of control since it was only my self-control that kept me in it. I wasn’t really interested in escaping, but knowing I could meant I still had control. Now, I can’t get out. And I don’t decide when I go in. Or how long I’ll be in there. All my control is gone because she’s taken it. That’s hot.

I told Belle this night before last. I told her it made me happy. I’m in a very good zone right now with regard to the D/s and my new found total lack of self-determination has a lot to do with it. That night was also one in which I could, according to Belle’s Rule, initiate sex. She wasn’t really in the mood, but she told me to get undressed and to bring her the butterfly clips anyway. I gave them to her and she kind of played around with them a little by clipping them on the fleshy webbing at the base of her thumb.

“Ouch!” she said, “That hurts.”

“Yeah,” I said, sounding not unlike a stoned surfer. I’m a pretty big fan of those clips.

She experimented with pulling on them and saw for herself how they clamped harder that way. I was getting kind of dreamy watching her fiddle with them. I could feel the tube’s contents plump up.

She finally attached the clamps to my nipples, first the right, then the left. They’re so intense. Wonderfully intense. Belle picked up the chain and started to pull. Gently, then with more force. The tube fully pressurized, biting into the shaft and pulling my scrotum tight. I got up on all fours to help ease the strain of the heavy device pulling on the erection.

That gave Belle a vector into my balls. At first, she stroked them and the hard steel making them tight.

“So smooth,” she said, “I love how smooth it is.”

I looked down and watched her stroke the steel. “I wish I could feel that.”

She pulled me closer and my face down to the mattress with the chain. Then she gripped my balls hard and squeezed them. I instinctively pulled away which caused her to yank on the chain again. In this way, I found myself to be something of a human yo-yo. She’d pull the clamps to make me come closer, allowing her to punch me in the nuts. I’d pull back and she’d yank on the chain and start the whole thing over again.

Pain flashed up and down my body. My balls were aching, both from the device and the abuse. And my nipples were on fire from the yanking and pulling. She was being wonderfully cruel. So thoughtfully, lovingly cruel. As usual, when she’s hurting me, I lose my sense of time. I have no idea how long this went on, but when it was over and the clamps came off, it was as though my nipples exploded. Incredible surge of pain. And as I laid next to her, spooning the solidly filled tube into her backside, my balls throbbed.

I felt completely abused. Thank you, Belle Fille.

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Clamps

He kneeled before her, hands behind his back and looked down at his chest as she affixed the black Japanese butterfly clamps to his nipples. They bit into his soft flesh with an insistent ferocity causing him to suck air between his teeth. She lifted the chain connecting them and held it before his face.

“Put this in your mouth and keep it there,” she directed him. He opened his lips and she placed the chain between them. He bit down gently on the thin, hard metal. The chain was too short for him to raise his head without pulling on his nipples and causing the clamps to bite even harder, so he kept his head bowed.

She grabbed as much of his short-cropped hair as she could and pulled his head back. The pain in his nipples flared as the chain in his mouth was pulled tight and his pink flesh stretched against the clamps. He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut against the flood of sensation.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” she said firmly. Whimpering, his eyes opened and looked into hers. Her gaze penetrated him, seeking.

She smiled.

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Bad sub

So I had a hard day yesterday. Not “Belle and I had a hard day”, I had a hard day.

I came home from work after picking up the boy moments after Belle and the girl had gotten there. Belle had said to me earlier, “I’m going to have you take <our daughter> to swimming class tonight.” Not would you take her, I’m going to have you take her. I got a nice little subbie vibe from that. So anyway, while thinking about that, I also wanted to get the dinner started and under control before Belle got home. She’s had to deal with that for the days I was gone and, as I said yesterday, I’m eager to get back into the swing of things. However, I didn’t beat her home so she was already thinking about what to make when I got there.

No no no, I said, I’ve got it. I went to the freezer and picked out something for all of us, but couldn’t find anything I thought Belle would like and what I wanted to make the kids had expired (like, 18 months ago). By the time I got back upstairs, it became clear that my plan was going to hell so I ended up making what Belle had planned. Thing is, I had never really made that before (for everyone) and couldn’t get all the elements done simultaneously so everyone started eating at a different time. Plus, I made a huge mess and didn’t have time to clean it all up before I took the girl swimming and Belle had to finish for me. In retrospect, not that big a deal, but I was left discombobulated. I had a plan and the plan failed. Bad sub.

I got home and found Belle in bed with the apparent idea that I was putting the kids to bed. I totally would have eaten that up, but my mom called and needed tech support. That, all by itself, is enough to put me in a bad mood for 72 hours. So Belle had to put the kids down. Bad sub (though not my fault, I still felt bad about it).

In bed, I innocently was talking to Belle and said something to which she took offense (hey, twice in one day with the inadvertently pissing off people with careless comments!). I felt bed because she took it in a way I had not intended it to be heard. Also, I had wanted to watch Mad Men from Sunday and massage Belle’s feet at the same time, but all she wanted was the feet massaged and an early bed time. Again, with the plans being foiled. That one, though, I should have let roll off my back since I don’t plan what happens in the bed, sexual or otherwise. It’s her bed and her room. Bad sub.

All through the foot massage, I was talking about something I wanted to talk about when she had some heavy career stuff she wanted to work through. I didn’t know that until later and she didn’t say anything at the time, but I felt like a selfish bore afterward. Bad sub.

Finally, I had forgotten to make her coffee. The one thing I do every day. Bad sub.

So, after she told me to be naked and all the lights were off, etc., I said I felt bad and apologized for my sub-par sub performance. I told her I really wanted to do better, to be of greater service to her. When combined with the unauthorized emission last time we were in bed together, I told her I felt I had a great deal of room for improvement. Basically, I’ve been sucking wind lately. I turned to the topic of punishment.

Now, before I go any further, I want to say I’m interested in actual punishment, not faux scene-type “punishment”. This is not a way for the masochist in me to get a little more action. I want her to make me feel the consequences of failure, even if she doesn’t think it’s that I’ve failed all that much. Which, come to think of it, is part of the issue. She doesn’t think my “failure” is that big a deal. I’m being much harder on me than she is. She agrees, in principle, that I should feel consequences but doesn’t have a lot of passion for it.

We discussed her options regarding the form in which the punishment could take. Obviously, there’s the homemade cane I picked up a while back from the local Home Despot. But she was thinking about psychological punishment.

“What if I made you go sleep in the basement on the laundry room floor?” I looked up at her with cautious eyes. “I can see that would be an effective punishment,” she said.

In a quite voice, I replied, “Please don’t make me sleep in the basement on the laundry room floor. I want to sleep in your bed next to you.” That floor is hard and cold and miles away from her. I was terrified by the vision of me curled up, naked, on the hard linoleum mostly because I could tell she was considering it and that it was a very real possibility. I also felt a quivering form of excitement from the fact that we were at this point. Whodathunk even three months ago that she’d be considering something like this? We’ve come very far.

Anyway, that’s about how it ended. I told her this morning that I felt she had the right to punish me in any way she felt necessary. I can’t say exactly why I want this except that it seems a logical progression of things. Call it a further evolution of my inner sub or something, but I like the idea that I’m being judged and, when deemed to have fallen short, will receive corrective action. I find the idea hot, though I don’t really want to find the actual act of punishment hot when it’s happening. Like I said above, this isn’t a sideways path to masochistic fun. If she chooses physical rather than mental, I want it to hurt in the bad way. If she decides to cane me or whatever, I’d like it to happen totally removed from sex and I’d like it to be unpleasant.

If she chooses mental, I guess I’ll be sleeping on a cold, hard floor.

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Birthday loot review

The birthday presents arrived as scheduled.

hi yo silver, away!

Belle let me put the new CB6K on right away. I think my total time unencumbered was about 30 seconds (just enough time to clear away those hairs that can’t be shaved when packing). Physically, besides the color change, the two devices are very similar. On the new device, the two pieces that form the top of the A-ring snap together with an audible click, while on the old device, they simply slid into place. Also, the spacer I was wearing (second smallest) was slightly longer in the new device. I dropped down the smallest spacer to compensate. The silver finish is beautiful and highly reflective. Both Belle and I find it much more attractive than the old clear option. The parts other than the tube are all made from black plastic, though to me it doesn’t feel like the same material used in the clear device. The tube does not appear to be black. The best I can tell, it’s clear underneath the silver.

Functionally, the devices are identical. Psychologically, they’re different. In the old clear device, my connection with the cock was never really broken. While I couldn’t touch it, I could always see it in there. Kinda like visiting day at the prison, I’d knock on the plastic and wave while he pressed his face against the window of his cell. In the new device, though, I can’t see it anymore. Instead of looking like a cock in a plastic tube, this new device looks like a silver phallus. Before, it felt like the cock was locked away, but now it almost feels as though the cock’s been replaced by Robocock. Losing that visual connection with the flesh has, in a way, lessened my thinking about it. Out of sight, out of mind, as it where.

In short, I’m very happy with the new device. I’ll be curious to see how it wears over the next year. I’ll be sure to keep you posted.

Also in the box with the chrome CB6K was the Tantus G-force. As I said before, my experience with other prostate simulators (mostly the Aneros) has been disappointing. I find it difficult to experience any significant sensation and find them hard to manipulate. As recently as this past weekend, at Belle’s instruction, I tried to relieve myself of accumulated fluids to no avail. However, the G-force is a tool to be reckoned with. The longer shaft, bulbous head, and easy-to-grip handle allowed me to quickly find and assault the magic gland. Eventually, I produced a respectable amount of thick, milky fluid. The G-force gets a thumbs up in my book.

I also bought a heavy steel ball stretcher, but for obvious reasons, have not had a chance to try it out yet (though I am very much looking forward to doing so). The Japanese nipple clamps had been back-ordered, but arrived before the end of the week. These things are wicked. They grab on very firmly thanks to little rubber pads on the clamps and, due to their design, grab on more tightly as the chain that connects them is pulled. Unlike other objects I’ve had clamped onto my nips, the Japanese clamps hurt from the moment they make contact. I look forward to seeing these used on me by Belle.

I haven’t had this much fun with my birthday presents since I was a little kid.

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Floggers and crops

My birthday is right around the corner. I’m going to be forty-somethingmumbleorother. With that in mind, and in the shadow of our one and only flogger meeting its demise against my ass the other day, I showed Belle the items I’d like to see fill my birthday stocking:

  • The first is a 12″ suede flogger. I’ve had my eye on its larger 24″ brother for a while now (and the dude modeling it – oh, mama), but after thinking about it, wonder if there’s enough space in Belle’s bedroom to swing it. I picked suede over smooth leather purely for aesthetic reasons (I can almost feel the suede running over my back and ass already). It looks like a quality piece of kit that won’t fly apart like the cheap little thing it replaces.
  • The second item is a short riding crop (oh look, there’s that guy again!1). As it expired, the old flogger kind of turned into a ghetto-style crop and I liked the difference in sensation. This one’s also on the shorter side (as the name implies), but has a wider head than some.


Belle, after seeing these, says, “Maybe they can be from your mom.”

*Snort*, I said. “Sure, maybe I can send her the link.”2

“No, silly, she left me some money for your birthday.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“How much are those?”

“About a hundred bucks,” I said, “How much did she give you?”

“A hundred bucks.”

Sweet! I get new hitty things! I’ll be doing my best to forget who they’re from, though. I’m not that weird.

—

1 OK, fine, for you straight guys and/or lesbian or bi girls, here’s the other flavors the flogger and crop come in. ↩

2 Not that she’d be at all surprised. Mom’s know, you know. Also, she walked in on/found out about enough stuff when I was in high school to suspect I don’t swing the bat like the other boys. ↩

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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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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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Punishment and the reluctant rabbit

Lately, I’ve felt a little off. Off in the sense that, outside the bedroom, I haven’t felt overly submissive or the need to provide service to Belle Fille that I’ve enjoyed in the past. I have my theories (which we’ll get into), but it all came home to roost yesterday.

Belle was in one of her cyclonic home organization phases. I’m not sure she stopped for more than 15 minutes yesterday from doing something – cleaning and organizing the garage, laundry room, downstairs bathroom, her closet, etc. Typically, I’ve learned to just stay out of her way when she’s like this as there’s no way to get her to relax until she collapses at the end of the day. The end of the day when we had previously said (or rather, she had previously said) we need some “special time”.

“Special time” because we’ve settled into this rhythm with regard to sex. It’s pretty much exclusively about her while I’m left to stew after she falls asleep. I have nothing particularly against this type of encounter, but it’s all we’ve been doing lately. It’s what I call “passive” denial in that I get turned-on and such, but she’s not doing anything to enhance my arousal. When she deliberately does things to bring me into a high state of frothiness (jacking me off, letting me jack myself off, making me fuck her – all without orgasm), that’s “active” denial. I need that. Plus, I’ve been feeling the urge to get back to that wonderfully spacey place she took me last time she beat me. In fact, we sat together after lunch and calmly discussed which way she’d abuse me later in the day. Wooden spoon? Last time, she didn’t like that because it made too much noise. Spatula? Ditto. Flogger? So anyway, you can see the general outline of what I thought “special time” would be. Her slapping me around, making me all hard and drippy, then letting me get her off. Preferably, over the course of an hour or more. Nice, leisurely lovemaking (as we’ve been able to redefine it).

So problem number one with this great plan was that I went on a 13 mile bike ride yesterday. That’s not outrageously long, but it’s been a while since I went that far and I’m not in peak physical condition at the moment. By the end of the day, I was feeling tired and had developed a headache (probably from my allergies which suck donkey right now). By the time we were in bed and the kids were sleeping, etc., I wasn’t in the mood for a whippin’. I still wanted the other part of our “special time” very much, but just as easily I could have gone to sleep.

First lesson: I should have said something. I didn’t tell her how I felt. She instructed me to strip and brought out the flogger. Her, clothed, standing next to the bed and holding the flogger. Me, naked and laying on the bed, looking up at her. I knew I wasn’t really up for the hitting part, but the subspace brought on by our relative physical positions fought my urge to say something. As she started to whack at me, I found myself unable to stay still. I bounced around the bed, up on my knees, on all fours, laying down. She had to circle the bed to maintain a good vector on my ass. As she was hitting me, she berated me for my unacceptable service lately. She called me out on laundry I had fallen behind in and generally criticized my lack of focus on her. In between whacks, she said she had grown accustomed to my service and felt it should resume. So, as opposed to the way I had been beaten in the past, this time we were cloaking the event in the cover of a punishment. My discomfort grew. I thought this should have been hot to me, but in combination with my headache and overall tiredness and previous desire for a more loving encounter, it just made me feel worse.

Eventually, she ordered me to stay in one position. She sat down and fucking wailed on me a few times (at least, that’s how it felt – I’m not sure if she was hitting me hard or if my ability to take it was low). I kept getting up and she kept telling me to get down. I wanted to kiss her, but she wouldn’t let me. I told her I couldn’t take it anymore. She assumed it was part of the game and told me I could always safeword my way out. I did not want to do that. It wasn’t that she was hitting me harder than I could stand. It wasn’t physical pain I was struggling with. So she kept hitting me. Finally, I sat up and said I did not want to be hit anymore.

She realized something was amiss and asked me what was up. I told her I really couldn’t say, but I didn’t want to be hit. I worried that she’d assume it was something she did wrong and that she’d have a crisis of confidence, but she valiantly tried to maintain her end of the dynamic. She left the room momentarily and I curled up on the bed, desperate for some tenderness (aka, aftercare). She came back in, laid down, and I held onto her, but felt no sexual urges.

I can’t remember her exact words, but she accused me of only wanting to be hit when the manner in which it took place was one I was comfortable with. That’s a fairly sophisticated charge for her to throw at me. On the one hand, no, I don’t want to always be comfortable with the way she smacks me around. It’s entirely acceptable to make me uncomfortable. And no, I was not suggesting she should not be able to punish me. But, on the other hand, it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I thought she’d hit me in a loving way, not a punitive way. I wasn’t trying to top her from below. I hadn’t pulled the plug in a state of pique over not appreciating her set-up of the scene. Not at all. I just hadn’t been capable of doing it.

I’m not sure she bought it. After our short conversation, she told me to get the lotion. She wanted a foot massage. Fuck, I thought. I really wasn’t in the mood for this, either. All I wanted to do now was go to sleep.

Laboriously, I dragged myself from the bed, retrieved the lotion and a towel from the bathroom, and began massaging her feet. The minutes dragged on. She had fallen into a light sleep during the massage, and while I still felt very shitty, I was at least relieved that when I finally finished the evening seemed to be coming to an end. I went around the room and extinguished all the candles. Getting back into bed woke her up and she told me to come to her. I inched over. She said, “Come here,” and I inched a little closer and put my arm over her in the most noncommittal manner possible.

“I want you to be inside me,” she said. The thoughtfulness of that nearly brought me to tears.

“I don’t think I can,” I said. I felt 500 miles away from an erection, let alone mustering the energy to fuck her.

“OK,” she said.

Then we fell asleep. But not before I moved away from her and turned over to face the other direction.

—

This morning, we were able to have a conversation about it (or, that is, three conversations since the kids kept acting like they were deserving of our attention all morning).

With regard to the mysterious inability to feel the need to do things for her, I think we’ve pinned that on the whole “active vs. passive” denial thing. Since I’m out of the device, I’ve been fulfilling my desire for desire myself. I’ve been stroking myself and letting myself get right up against an orgasm before backing down. No, I haven’t technically had permission to do this, but I somehow talked myself into it being OK. In my head, I had this imagined conversation with her where I ask permission and she, since she doesn’t want to have to deal with my neediness, gives it to me. In my hormonal state, I managed to turn that imagined permission into implicit permission. In effect, I’ve been masturbating, though not to the point of orgasm. Regardless, since I’ve transmuted sexual release with sexual arousal, what I’ve been doing is exactly the same as a man who jacks off to orgasm in the bathroom when he gets horny. I’ve replaced her as my sole source of sexual satisfaction. I am, of course, explicitly forbidden to do this now and she will become more active in ensuring my sexual frustration in the future.

As far as the punishment thing goes, I told her I constantly crave ramifications. Lacking any consequences for my actions/inactions, their motivations sometimes start to lose their meaning. Even if I had kept on edging myself, there should have been something focusing me on my duties. So, while it felt wrong to me last night, I really want her to punish me when necessary. This isn’t necessarily a masochistic desire of mine. The part of me who wants to feel pain is not the same part of me who wants to transfer control to her. They’re kissing cousins, to be sure, but they come from different places in my fetid psyche. Acknowledging that she has the right to administer corporal punishment to me is all about power exchange. Hot, sexy power exchange.

She says she’s pretty sure I didn’t like being spanked by her last night and she exactly right. I didn’t like it. I felt like a little boy suffering the consequences of doing something he knew was wrong. It was embarrassing and emotional. Yeah, the pain stung and I was in entirely the wrong mindset to deal with it, but that’s the point. One is not punished when one decides it’s time. It happens when the punisher decides to do it. And it’s not always the case that the one being punished knows it coming. Yes, I want her to whip my ass when I’m not being a good boy.

And since I’m me, I could see it all in my head moments after talking about it with her. On some random weeknight when I least suspect it, she tells me to pull down my pants and bed over the side of the bed. She tells me she going to punish me for [fill in the transgression] by caning my ass [n] times. I will be still during the caning and will count out each strike right after it lands. If I move excessively or fail to count out the number quickly enough, she will add an additional number of strikes (her discretion, of course). After she’s done with me, I pull my pants back up, say to her those words that codify our power exchange, and go about our lives, my face is as red as my ass.

To that end, I went to Home Depot this morning and picked up a couple of those plastic rods that you use to open and close mini blinds (one for regular use and one in case she breaks the first over my ass). Whenever she feels I need to be reminded of the arrangement I asked for or need to be refocused on what she thinks in important, I hope she’ll use it on me. Maybe eventually we’ll buy a proper cane.

All this talking seemed to do the trick with me. While I had gone to bed and woke up absent any sexual desire whatsoever, by the time we got to talking about her right to administer corporal punishment, I had a health erection (shocking). As I write this, she’s in her bed taking a nap and I’d like nothing better than to go back there and go down on her until I feel the pulse of her rapture beneath my tongue. I was nowhere near that kind of feeling last night or this morning. I’ll assume that’s a good thing.

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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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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.