Tag: masturbation

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Talk to the hand

So, here we are two years in and here I am a blogger with not a lot to blog about because things are going pretty OK. I could talk about how I’m a month in on my three month orgasmless cycle and how Belle’s not letting on as to when I’ll get to come (Before Christmas? This year, even?) or I could write about the night alone in a downtown hotel we’ve scheduled and how it’s way hotter for me knowing that she’s not going to let me come there, but I don’t know…it’s all the kind of stuff we’ve been over before. At the moment, I can’t seem to find a reason to talk about it. Maybe later.

Over on Chastity Forums, however, a new member calling himself Bez introduced himself to us recently. Here’s a snippet of what he said:

About 18 months ago I read about male chastity which I interested me. I discussed the subject with my wife, to my surprise she took some interest agreeing that I did ‘play with myself’ more than I should and she would try being my keyholder.

And that reminded me of something I did want to blog about. And I’ll say right up front that I’m in no way picking on Bez who seems like a very nice, very sincere guy.

If you read Bez’ entire intro and the stories of many, many other men, not only on CF but also on other forums or blogs or miscellaneous online groups, you come to realize that an awful lot of us have similar stories. First, we’re at, around, or over 40. Second, the spark had gone out of our marriages. Third, we turned to chastity to help bring that spark back. Yup, check, check, check. But, overlaying that, and present is Bez’ intro, is the “I jacked off too much” theme. That is almost universal in these stories.

My issue with this is that it’s the man’s masturbatory habits that seem to be implicated as the cause of the marital issues the couples are having. If only he’d stop punching the monkey, it seems, their sex life would still be healthy and they never would have misplaced the spark. Frankly, I find that perspective to be anti-male and anti-sex. I contend that masturbation is not the malady but merely a symptom of a larger issue.

I do speak from experience here. My marriage to Belle had turned sexless after 10 years and I not only turned to porn and masturbation for relief, but eventually a living person. The porn, masturbation, and even the other woman were not the cause of our problems. We were the cause of our problems. Jobs, kids, stress (see jobs and kids), and the unsexy reality of sleeping with the same person for a decade all contributed to us losing focus on that which allowed our relationship to remain strong: our sex life. We stopped trying. Both of us. Yes, I cheated and that was wrong and I’m not trying to lessen what I did, but it was a symptom of a different issue. We stopped trying.

Men, by the way, are different then women. I’m not a woman so I can’t say how it is for them with any kind of certainty, but guys are constantly producing the byproduct of our reproductive systems and are constantly being prodded by millions of years of evolution to get rid of it. We cannot help but find ourselves with the urge to have sex at fairly regular intervals. If sex is nowhere to be found, we know what to do. Luckily, it’s not a chore. Most of us like jacking off. I view it as “sex for one” – clearly inferior to multiple person sex, but still pretty damned good (if you’re doing it right). I abhor any suggestion that masturbation is dirty or wrong or in any way negative because it’s not. It’s natural and it’s fun and, yeah, I miss it.

I also dismiss the idea men turn to masturbation because they’re lazy or can’t control their urges. Like I said, jacking off is pretty good, but sex with another person (especially if that person is someone you love) is almost always better. The prevailing sentiment seems to be that men abandon sex in favor or masturbation all by themselves, as if their partner in the relationship is blameless. This simply isn’t true. It’s a complicated set of events that leads us to that state, but lack of trying or lack of wanting on the guy’s part is not to blame.

So when I hear things like “we agreed I played with myseld more than I should” it makes my teeth grate. Men are not the reason marriages drift apart and their sexuality is not the problem. I am not saying that some men haven’t developed destructive masturbation habits. People can do all kinds of things to excess (from sex to drugs to video games to eating), but most men are not like that. Most men are horny and healthy and addiction has nothing to do with it. Let’s not play the victim card here. Men who masturbate instead of having sex with their wives are not sick or addicted or at fault. They’re just men.

That being said, there are obvious positive attributes from strictly managing a man’s orgasm. Doing so seems to trick the guy’s brain into a tight and (sometimes) intense courtship cycle. It can be a great benefit to some. But, as a wiser man than me has already pointed out, locking a couple hundred dollars worth of plastic on a guy’s dick does not a healthy marriage make. As far as I can tell, the hormonal brain acrobatics are only responsible for a portion of chastity’s benefits. Locking a guy up and then resuming things as they had been is a recipe for disaster.

The single most important reason it works (when it works) is that both of them are focusing on each other again. She “controls” him while his only outlet is her pleasure. In biology, beneficial symbiosis is called mutualism and it’s what happens in a successful chastity arrangement. It’s also the supreme irony: His denial of orgasm leads to a much more fulfilling sex life for both of them. But, even here, the orgasm or his lack of them isn’t the primary driver. It’s the attention he’s getting from her and vice versa. That’s why chastity makes marriages better. Interaction, intimacy, and attention.

At least, that’s my experience. YMMV.

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Hand versus brain

Got home late last night, as expected, following yet another post-season loss by the Twins to the Yankees (don’t even get me started) and pretty much went right to bed. I wasn’t at all horny and had little interest in trying to make myself that way. I fell asleep.

After a bit, I turned over and partially woke up. My hand absentmindedly found it’s way under my pajama bottom’s waistband to the flaccid and free cock.

“Oh yeah,” my hand said, “that’s still here.”

“Um…what are you doing?” my sleepy brain asked.

“Nothing,” said my hand, “Go back to sleep.”

“OK.” *yawn*

Squeeze.

“Whoa,” said my brain, “That’s not nothing.”

“Well, it’s not much.”

“Just leave it alone. It’s not yours to play with, and besides, it’s sleeping. You should be, too.”

“Right,” said my hand, “Just a sec.”

Squeeze.

“Stop squeezing that,” said my brain, unamused.

“Leave me alone. I’m not hurting anything. Look, it’s not even hard. I’m just…squeezing.”

“Why? Why are you squeezing?”

“Because, that’s what I do. I grip things. I squeeze them. Mind your own business.”

The cock started to plump up a bit.

“Jesus!” my brain hissed, “You woke it up! You really need to stop this.”

“Really? I really do? You realize, of course, that I can’t do anything by myself. This is only happening because you want it to.”

Squeeze, stroke. Plump.

“I…I…,” stammered my brain, “I do not. No, I don’t. I don’t want you to do that…not at all.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said my hand.

Squeeze, stroke, squeeze, stroke. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The cock was at 80% and filling fast.

“Look,” reasoned the hand, “We’ve hardly seen this thing move for, like, four days. We should keep going. Just to make sure. You know, just to make sure it still works and all.”

“That…sounds reasonable,” said the brain, “But as soon as we do that, it’s back to sleep and you leave it along.”

“Sure. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Ninety percent…stroke…stroke…98%…squeeze…stroke…100%.

“Um…*pant*…er…OK…that’s enough, don’t you think? It’s working and all…”

Strokestrokestrokestrokestrokestrokestrokestroke!

, said my brain.

“YEE-HAW!!” said my hand.

STROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKE…stroke, stroke…STROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKE.

“Moan,” said my brain, “groan.”

STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! STROOOOOOOOOOOOOKE!

“FUCK!” exclaimed the brain, “Too close! Too fucking close! Stop NOW.”

Dribble.

“Fucking hell, look what you almost made happen!”

“…” said my hand.

“HEY! I’m talking here!”

“What, sorry? Oh, hi. Yeah, I was just smearing all this nice slippery precum stuff all over the head of the cock. Doesn’t that feel nice?”

“Er…well, yes, now that you mention it, yes it does…feel…nice…”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s not the damned point! You nearly got us in a lot of trouble. And now I’m totally awake. More than, in fact. You need to knock this shit off right now or I’m going to have to get us out of bed and put that damned steel thing back on. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then will you stop?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Pause. “No.”

“That’s what I thought,” said my brain. Then, for good measure, it added, “Asshole.”

Five minutes later I was locked up tight. Very tight. And my hand was grasping the steel tube, pulling on it, squeezing my balls.

“Fuck,” said my hand.

“Go to sleep,” said my brain. And I did.

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Token

“I kinda like watching you squirm. When you’re like this.”

Belle said that to me last night as we were laying in bed and I was looking up at her, imploring her to allow me to share in her orgasm. It was a no-go, but she let me dangle just long enough for me to get really squirrelly.

“Whimper,” I replied.

A little while later, after I had internalized the hormones from earlier, I thought about how I’d like to work myself over with the Njoy pur (and whatever else struck my fancy). But, as I’ve mentioned before, Belle doesn’t let me do anything sexual with my body without her permission. No ass play, no self-administered nipple torture, no solo activities of any kind (other than the consumption of porn). I have to ask first.

“So, how’s this work?” I asked. “If I want to play around by myself. Do you give me permission in advance…?” I trailed off.

“Sure. You don’t have to run off and do it as soon as I say yes. You can do it whenever you want.”

Which is a relief. The only thing more embarrassing that having to ask your wife if you can masturbate (even with a locked cock) is having to then scamper off and lock yourself in the bathroom…where she knows what you’re doing.

“So will I have blanket permission for a certain period…or what?” It seemed to me that it made sense to let me have permission to take advantage of whatever private moment I could find, but how would she know when I was done? Seemed like I could find a way to abuse that arrangement.

“We need a token,” I said. “Something physical that I have to get from you that allows me to play with myself that I can give back when I’m done or that you can take back when you want to.”

“Like the little reward tokens at daycare?” she joked.

“Pretty much exactly like that, yes.” I said. “Can I have the token now?”

“What token? We don’t have one.”

“I don’t know. Can’t we have a virtual token or something for the time being?”

“OK, sure. You can have it. We need to pick something.”

“Agreed. Thank you, Belle Fille.”

Then she more or less fell asleep. I almost drifted off, but, as usual, my buzzing sexual background radiation woke me back up. I was laying there, spooning into her, wide awake. And still in my pajamas. She had forgotten to give me permission to take them off. Damn.

I rolled over and read porn. Lots and lots. Kristen again, but also Nifty. Nifty is mostly gay stuff and I’m finding recently that my pendulum is swinging back in that direction. As I peruse the Tumblr porn tsunami, I tend to linger on the gratuitous cock shots. I don’t have any particular urge to do anything with them when I see them, but not having a hard cock of my own to appreciate, I’m draw to these others instead. Fat ones, fatter ones, soft(ish) ones, hard ones, smooth ones, hairy ones, flying ones, big ones, really big ones – all kinds. I’m a little obsessed. I stare at them, slack-jawed. Sometimes, when I get like this and I’m all locked up and can’t see a real live hard cock for myself, I feel kinda like a third sex. I don’t have what they have. Instead, I have this hard shiny thing that gets really uncomfortably tight from time to time.

Anyway, I’d read some porn, then roll over to try to sleep. But my brain would keep working and I’d be drawn back to the iPad to read just one more story. Well, that one wasn’t all that good. Maybe just one more. Fuck the device is tight. This is killing my nuts. OK, time to sleep. *sigh* I’m not tired. Damn, iPad’s back on again. And so on. I eventually did drift off about 2:30 or so only to be woken by a late-summer thunderstorm. Belle woke up, too, so I spooned back into her again, just as I had done hours earlier.

“You can take off your clothes, Thumper,” she said  sleepily as she rolled over.

“Thank you, Belle Fille.”

And then I slept.

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Unchaperoned

Belle and I were apart for the first few days of last week. She was at home and I was in the north woods compound hanging with the family and enjoying the few remaining summer-like days we in the higher latitudes have left before hellish winter descends out of Canada.

Not long after leaving home, I started to feel a twinge in the tube. I knew immediately what it was since I’ve felt it before. The corona of the glans will, from time to time, become irritated and inflamed. I have no idea what causes this, but it usually means I need to come out of the device while things sort themselves out.

This time, though, I was on my own. Belle was 250 miles away. It was just me and my emergency key. I tried extra flushes of warm soapy water thinking it was maybe a hygiene issue and was able to tough it out the first night, but by midday the next, I couldn’t take it anymore. I popped the lock on the emergency key and used it as intended. I admit there was a moment when I worried she had perhaps mixed up the keys between the two locks, but the little brass mechanism turned and slid free of the two steel parts. Shortly afterward, so did I.

And, just as I thought, the corona was not happy. Angry red splotches covered the left edge where the PA fixing made contact with the skin. Slightly less angry-looking marks ran across the top. Very unsexy and very sensitive. All that day I could feel the affected skin move across the fabric of my underwear. Not painful. More like extreme over stimulation.

So yeah, I was out. When Belle called, I told her the situation. She didn’t say much other than she hoped I felt better (or something like that). I had been in for over six weeks with only about 15 minutes of out time and, as usual, everything felt weird. When I went to bed, I put lotion on the complaining area and was annoyed I had to wear underwear since the free and flopping meat coming in contact with the sheets was unacceptably distracting.

Of course, I was very much aware that I was alone and unchaperoned with a very needy cock (damaged though it was). I said to myself I wouldn’t play with it when I took the device off, but there it was like a snake describing all the positive attributes of the fruit I wasn’t allowed to eat. I’m weak, it goes without saying. I admit I failed. I had to reposition my grip to avoid the damaged part, but was able to wank the serpent. I didn’t come, but was surprised at the how quickly and in what volume I was leaking.

My sleep could be described as fitful at best. It seemed like it was hard all night. I woke up several times rubbing it through my underwear or with the underwear pushed down below my balls, fisting the stiff meat. I was awake, but also not. I kept telling myself I shouldn’t. That I was breaking rules. But honestly, I couldn’t stop myself. I have a great deal of respect for the guys who can go indefinitely sans device. That ain’t me.

By about 24 hours later, the redness was a bit better, but the pain was totally gone. In the light of the day, my subbie bunny reasserted itself and, pain or no pain, decided the cock needed to go back in the tube. I left the PA fixing out, though. Honestly, I don’t need the fixing. Playing with the merchandise unlocked is one thing, but I could never defeat the device and cheat with it on my body. That’s a line I won’t cross, even though the Steelheart is easily escaped. In any event, not being sure I had had enough recovery time, I thought it best to remove possible irritation points inside. Worse case, I figured, if the discomfort came back, I’d take it off again.

But the discomforted didn’t come back. Not at all. The 24 hours out was all I needed, apparently. Belle, expecting me out, was happy to see me back in when she showed up. I told her I had been bad and she verbally chastised me for being weak, but gave me points for proactively reasserting her control.

Saturday rolled around and I was heading home, but Belle wasn’t. I’d have another night and most of a day by myself. I removed the tube in order to make a visual inspection and saw that everything was back to normal. The cock was its pale, hairless mole rat self without any marks. I put the PA fixing back in and left the key where Belle would find it.

Everything is back the way it belongs.

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Abuse for one

Since coming home, I’ve been hopelessly, desperately horny. It’s not the slow burn kind of horny, either, but the insistent resonating kind that sits up in my chest and makes my arms feel light. I’m pretty much all over Belle whenever I have a chance and I find myself following her around from room to room. I fall asleep clutching her and whenever I stir at night it’s to find her body next to mine and curl into it again. All this latent sexual static hanging around is like shoveling coal into my subbie furnace. I am so feeling it.

In short, fucking awesome.

I was home alone for most of yesterday. Originally, I wasn’t sure which day I’d get back from my trip so I scheduled it off just in case. In any event, hours of alone time would usually mean at least one jack-off session back when such things were among my options. Had I been unlocked, I’m quite sure I would have been edging myself non-stop. However, I am locked and therefore any such behavior is impossible. But still. Damn. I’m horny.

I decided to make due with what I had available.

A couple of years ago, I bought some pants or something from Old Navy that had two clippy things connected by a shoelace. I have no idea what they were supposed to do, but I have three of them (for a total of six clips). I should post a picture of the things. They don’t fit together like a clothespin (where one side presses against the other). Instead, their ends interlock and form a circle when closed. Plus, their springs are more than a little tight. The end result is an absolutely wicked bite that’s far more intense than any device I’ve bought designed for nipple torture.

So yeah, I put them on. My nipple meat twisted between the pinchers and the pain was like twin lasers of pleasure shooting into my brain. A benefit of their clampiness and the way their ends fit together is that they grip incredibly well. I was able to pull them hard – much harder than even the Japanese butterfly clamps – before they’d finally come free. Of course, it’s no secret that the more stimulated one is, the more pain they’re able to tolerate. In the case of yesterday, I simply could not find my limit. These things are friggin’ medieval and pulling on the twisted pink meat caused a lot of pain, but all I could do was hurt myself more. There are few times I’ve felt like that.

It wasn’t enough, though. I needed something more.

Belle has long ago given me permission to milk myself as needed, so solo anal play is a permanent option for me. Thing is, even though I like taking it up the ass as well as the next boy, it’s not a pleasure in which I often partake. Not only is it a bit of a hassle (props, lube, clean-up, etc.), but I find that I have to be in a very particular frame of mind to kick it off. Yesterday, I was in that frame of mind. Fuck, I would have done anything.

I busted out a moderately-sized latex suction cup dildo I bought a few years back. It’s bigger than most men, but not ridiculously so. I find it fairly easy to accommodate while still providing a satisfying sensation. I wasn’t interested in demonstrating any amazing feats; I just wanted to get fucked.

I really don’t understand guys who won’t at least try taking it up the ass. Men are designed to experience intense pleasure that way though the conveniently-placed prostate. Of course, it’s all mental. Worries about cleanliness, whether or not it makes you gay, etc. Bullshit. It can be pure awesome when done right. I did it right.

I’m not sure if the denial makes the prostate more sensitive to stimulation, but there are times when it felt like a fucking supernova was up inside my colon. Being locked allows me to experience levels of stimulation I’ve never been able to before. I would have shot my load way before feeling what I get to feel now. It gets to the point where the penetration and the friction over the radiating prostate consumes everything and I simultaneously want it to go on forever but stop immediately before my head explodes.

Of course, the milking was successful. Like never before, actually. Early on, as the muscles in the region contracted involuntarily, I squeezed out several shots of clear precum. Then, milky white juices started to leak from the tube. Not in a big shot or a steady stream, but slowly and in little dribbles. Even hours later, I was finding a slick mess at the end of the tube. I have no idea how much came out, but it was substantial.

But even then, I wanted more. When Belle came home, I asked her to abuse my nipples when we went to bed. They were still sore from the earlier torture when she placed the chrome clothespins on them and then left them there. Again, it was nothing but liquid pleasure. She left them on for maybe ten minutes, during which time little moans and groans escaped from my throat and my ass squirmed into the bed. She wouldn’t let me mess with her, though, so I went to bed cruising though a mass of abject desire.

This morning, my nipples feel plump and tender, the large muscles in my thighs ache, and I can still feel the assault on my sphincter. Even so, I know for a fact I’d be doing it all over again today if I had the chance.

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Belle free

Sometime, things just don’t work the way you think they should (or want them to).

A couple of examples. First, that nifty little keysafe thing I got to keep my emergency keys in. Yeah, well, that broke the first time Belle opened it. Quality. Then the penis plug I ordered showed up. Yeah, that ended up being too fat to fit up my urethra. And trust me, I tried. At least it’s a quality piece of stainless. If nothing else, it’ll look great dangling from my keyring next to the car keys.

Then there was Belle’s cock. It started to feel a little weird in the tube in that overly sensitive and irritated way it does after it’s been in for a while. In this case, it had been three weeks exactly. She let me take it off to inspect the hotdog and, while there were no visible signs of wear, she let it stay out for the day to recuperate. That night, she wanted it back in. Not only because she was about to leave town for a few days (and she never leaves me alone anymore with free meat) but also because she expects and prefers my default condition to be locked.

But I asked not to be. Truth is, I was kinda sorta miserable. I can be locked indefinitely and enjoy it, but absent any external stimulation, it starts to become monotonous. So, even though she was going to be gone, she agreed to leave me out as long as I didn’t go overboard with the jacking off to porn. And, of course, I wasn’t allowed to orgasm.

In the past couple of days, I did manage to fit in a significant amount of self abuse. I really enjoyed the edging and took myself to the brink innumerable times, but found, after a while, a little voice creeping in to my mind as I did it. It wasn’t exactly telling me I should go ahead and come, but it seemed to be trying to distract me at the very worst moment so I’d accidentally find myself all gooey. Make me miss half a beat until the moment of no return was passed. I didn’t come, but it seemed as though I was crossing the admittedly vague guidelines she left me with. Time to stop.

But, of course, I have terrible self-control. So, I decided to lock myself back up. I know it’s not the same as when she’s around since I know exactly where the key is, but the device is serving as my deterrent. Also, the edging – even though Belle wasn’t part of it – was just what I needed. I don’t need any more at the moment, though I really want it. Once I was back in the device I felt an odd sense of wholeness descend. Not like last time where it felt alien and intrusive. This time, being out felt out of sorts and being back in felt normal. The device has become my security blanket.

In any event, I look forward to the next few days very much. The kids are going to be out of the house for three nights and Belle and I are spending one of them in a lovely B&B we’ve gone to in the past. I really, really need to have sex with her, and more than once. I need, in the very bottom of my soul, to feel her come hard. I desperately want to find myself back in the pre-London subspace. I don’t think one weekend can fix everything, but I hope it’s the beginning to the way out of the particular rough patch.

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2 months, 3 weeks, 5 days

That’s as far as I got. Two months, three weeks, and five days.

The end began with me getting Belle off. She was on her period and I was locked, so it was your regular nipple sucking, clit fingering affair, except when it was over, my motor got stuck revving at about 5,000 RPM. Belle had been slapping my nuts around a bit and, if I remember correctly, had placed little chrome clips on my nipples. I was rubbing and pulling and stroking the hard metal tube, grinding my butt into the sheets, and generally tripping out on my own desperation.

“Oh, god, I want to come,” I moaned, almost against my will.

She reminded me my time wasn’t up yet. I said it again. She repeated herself. I did, too.

Finally, she said, “I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but I don’t want to read your whining on the blog about it later and feeling all sorry for yourself.”

I pondered. On the one hand, I liked begging only to be refused. That’s how I had started, not actually expecting to be allowed out. I enjoy it when she makes me suffer. But, as I laid there, I found I really and truly wanted to come. I needed to.  Two months, three weeks, and five days was a really long time. I wanted to go to 100 days, and I was almost there, but the reptilian maleness had taken notice of the chance it was being presented with and pushed me onward. The rational side of my brain, also desperately horny and wanting very badly to come, said that the 100 day thing was never Belle’s idea in the first place. I had come up with it. If she was OK with me coming now, and I declined, then who, exactly, was denying who? I almost had to come in order to preserve the order of things. Yeah, that’s it.

So anyway, I took her up on it. She got the key and I removed the metal and immediately started stroking while she looked on. Right from the start, it didn’t feel at all like the last time she let me beat the meat. This time, I knew, was going to be productive. There would be gobs of sticky white stuff all over me when I was done, not a rapid release so I could retreat from the edge of bliss. I felt the cock swell and the internal gears lock into place. In maybe just a minute, I could feel the point of no return rushing towards me, then fly past me. I started to come.

It was very intense. So intense, I can’t remember how many slugs I shot, but it was many. I felt a prickly wave run from my scalp down the back of neck and into my shoulders. I wanted the surging hot goo to never stop coming out of me. Never. I just. Wanted. To come. And come and come and feel that crescendo of orgasm last forever.

But, of course, it didn’t. In fact, just as suddenly as it started, I felt myself slip off the peak. I was still milking the meat, squeezing every last drop out, but the shores of Climax Island pulled away from me at sonic speeds. And, while not remorseful at all, I was disappointed. I felt almost immediately a sense of loss. Like I had been swindled into a transaction that I realized was a con the second my money left my hands.

This is beyond kink now. I do like the tease, the torture, the bondage of the device, and all that very much. But now that I live without them, I find the actual orgasm to be rather empty. The anticipation, the craving, the heightened sexual existence that comes from their nearly total absence is more rewarding, many times more, than the squirt it all revolves around. I feel so much when I’ve been denied – so much more alive – that the post orgasmic period feels nearly vacant of any feeling. The edge is all gone. The texture of my everyday horned up, locked up life is obliterated by the explosion of ejaculation. There’s no way the actual event of orgasm could ever live up to it.

In fact, I felt very little for several days afterward. Belle would ask how I was doing and I gave her noncommittal kind of grunts because, in fact, I felt very noncommittal. Neither good nor bad, hot nor cold, up nor down. I just was. Again, I wasn’t at all remorseful. Just kinda empty.

My feeling about it now is that infrequent ejaculation is necessary. Like an oil change or something. I need the occasional squirt to reset the levels and the vague emptiness it leaves me with is just a part of the cycle. I do know that, as I am once again starting to regain my sexual desire, I no longer like the feeling of what I once called sexual satisfaction. Living in a state of always wanting more is far better.

—

The other night, I was in bed with Belle, naked as she told me I could be and feeling the first inkling of sexual desire return. In the distant past, this feeling would have sent me into the bathroom to quickly and quietly rub one out over the sink, but that not being an option anymore, I was grabbing Belle. She had left me unlocked since the end of the two months, three weeks, and five days, so anything was possible. I made my move and was typically guy-like in my bluntness.

“I like you better when you’re locked up,” she said in exasperation. Just like that. I like you better when you’re locked up.

Almost immediately, she started to back away from the comment, hemming and hawing as if she had said too much. As if it would bother me to hear it. Finally, she corrected herself and said, “I like us better when you’re locked up.”

That might be true, but my actions would not have caused her to express that particular sentiment. She meant what she said originally: She likes it better when I’m sexually compliant. When the device she locks onto my body leaves me far less aggressive. When my frustration has no where to go and, in desperation, I seek only her climax as a surrogate for my own release.

And, of course, I was immediately very hard and way more turned on than I had been before her true feelings slipped out. I wish she’d own these feelings more and not be worried about my reaction to them. Hell, that’s exactly how I hope she feels. Hearing her say it – that she liked me better when I was under her control and unable to express myself sexually in any way other than in service to her – filled me with excitement, and not all of it sexual. I know that I occasionally push her up to her position of dominance (like so many other men in my situation) and that it hasn’t always come naturally to her or been something she’s comfortable with. But here she was, really feeling it. She hadn’t thought at all about what she was saying before she said it. It was awesomely honest and in no way contrived to elicit a certain response from me.

—

As I’ve been writing this, Belle asked me what I was doing. I told her and then I read to her the first 800 words or so. I’ve never read out loud to her what I write here and doing so was equal parts embarrassing, exhilarating, and revealing. I hope she asks me to do it again sometime.

In any event, I’m hoping to get the dick wet tonight. It’s been a really long time since she fucked me and I’m thinking a lot about how it’ll feel. She’s told me I’m going back into the device tomorrow, though she hasn’t said for how long. Nor has she said how long it’ll be before I come again. Perhaps she’ll let me tonight. I wouldn’t fight her on it. Even though I want to live without them, I feel the need for one. I want to feel it again. Just as much as I want to keep on feeling the need. She could start me on another period of extended denial and I’d like that, too.

Either way, I’m good.

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Whack job

So I’m back out and for pretty much the same reason as last time, though the symptoms aren’t as bad. I woke up Monday morning with an odd twinge on one side where the PA fixing is and a mildly irritated sensation down on the corona. I asked to have the fixing taken out and figured I could deal with the other part, but by nighttime it was approaching the super annoying stage. She let me out (after a brief time of not being able to find the key) and I again saw the same kind of redness around the corona and on the glans as before. I don’t know if this is a new issue or if it’s the same as last time that didn’t properly heal, but whatever, it’s back.

Monday I felt kind of crappy otherwise and fell asleep early (even forgetting to make Belle’s coffee). Last night, though, I was feeling a lot better. The free meat was urging me to make the moves on Belle. These urges don’t feel the same as when I’m locked and know I’m not coming out. First of all, in those cases, I find I don’t usually get really hard until either my face is buried in her pussy or she’s moaning and writhing around. I respond to her and my impetus is to feel her reflected pleasure. But when I’m free, the cock gets hard way earlier in the festivities and my driving motivation shifts subtly. I still want to feel her come, but the cock (an eternal optimist) starts sending up suggestions and dropping little hints. I find myself grinding into Belle and acting much more like a regular guy as opposed to what I really am.

Belle even called me on that last night saying my actions didn’t suggest her pleasure was at the heart of my actions. I guess it’s true. I had a hard, free cock for the first time in a month and really wanted to feel something with it. Call it a moment of weakness, but the cock’s imperative loomed large.

Turns out, Belle didn’t act on the opportunity. She said she was actually turned on by denying herself the chance to fuck me. I have no idea what to do with that or even how it makes me feel. Her denial is, of course, mine and I’m wired to want her to have everything she wants, but if what she wants is to deny herself…it’s an unexpected loop. She did place her hand over the hard meat and I gyrated into her palm, just happy to have that stimulation. I was really hard and really turned on, but shortly, she was pretty much asleep.

As she turned over to go to bed, she said, “Since you did a good job today, Thumper, you can play with yourself.”

I immediately wrapped my hand around the erection and said, “Oh, thank you Belle Fille. Thank you.”

“Of course, you can’t come.”

“No, of course not. Thank you, Belle Fille.”

“Try not to stay up all night,” she added, “and you’re going back in tomorrow.”

I was amazed at how quickly I found myself at the edge of orgasm. I couldn’t stroke the full shaft more than maybe a dozen times before my prostate’s payload was locked and ready to fire. I was able to make rapid short strokes just under the head of the cock for more extended periods, but even then I was on the edge relatively quickly. I didn’t pick up any porn and instead just laid there luxuriating in the sensation of jacking off. It was a chance for all my senses to absorb the moment: my whole body felt the bed gently vibrate at my motion and I could hear the wet smacking sound of the precum-lubed slit. As little beads of semen were squeezed out, I picked them up on the tips of my fingers and placed them on my tongue where I swirled their unique viscosity over the roof of my mouth. When I’m that hot and milking myself so freely, I absolutely adore spunk. My hunger for it knows no bounds. In fact, that’s how I judge whether or not I’ve had an orgasm. I think, “Would I eat that?” If I don’t recoil at the thought, then it wasn’t an actual orgasm.

Anyway, I soon found that I was getting way, way too close to coming to keep going. Even after pausing to let everything ooze back down, I’d be right back at the edge after two or three strokes. Also, the skin on the cock’s shaft just wasn’t used to that kind of abuse. One of the ironies of prolonged device chastity I’ve discovered is that the longer you go inside, the less you’re meat is able to withstand the amount of jacking you want when it’s free. The skin loses the toughness it has when it’s constantly rubbing against the inside of my underwear or my clenched fist.

I eventually wound myself down and discovered I was exhausted. I laid on the very edge of sleep for what seemed like an eternity, but eventually did have a fairly restful night. This morning, I can still see little angry spots on the corona which I’m sure weren’t helped by all the whacking the night before. They don’t bother me, but I’ll leave it up to Belle to decide if I’ll go back in. Honestly, even though I had a nice time with it, I don’t really trust myself to be alone with the cock for an extended period of time. Not in the state I’m in now. I’d rather she put it back where it belongs until my time’s up. It’s just simpler that way. I only hope it decides to go quietly.

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Out and about

As promised, Belle let me out last night and left me out until this morning. After she removed the lock, I took all the metal off – both the device and the PA ring. Experience has demonstrated that the heavy ring will cause irritation when in place during exuberant jack-off sessions, but I also wanted a very natural feeling. Just skin.

Laying in bed under the candlelight, she placed her hand lightly over the flaccid meat. I closed my eyes and reveled in the sensation, so unfamiliar and relatively rare, that was only happening because she allowed it to.

She was petting it like a hamster when she said, “Thank you for giving it to me.”

“Thank you for taking care of it,” I replied. “I should have given it to you a long time ago.”

Taking the rapidly swelling meat between the tips of her fingers, she started to slowly stroke it until it was fully hard. My hips twitched and my ass pressed into the mattress as her pace quickened. I felt the old stirrings deep in my balls as the preejaculation mechanisms started clicking into place, but she stopped well short of an orgasm.

Allowing it to rest, she ran her fingers down along the shaft and over my scrotum. I was moaning quietly as she lightly touched my balls, then she clutched them in her hand and started squeezing hard. Harder. Her fingernails were digging into me almost past the point of tolerance before she suddenly released them. Then she slapped them. Then she punched them. She landed two or three blows that sent tendrils of pain down my legs and into my guts. She’d give me just enough time for the red glow of pain to subside before striking again and harder.

“Please, can I touch it?” I asked. I wanted to feel my own hand around that cock. She said yes, and I started to beat the hell out of it. I was stroking the shaft while she kept her fingers playing with the sack, occasionally slapping, squeezing, or punching.

It was all supremely indulgent. All the attention was focused on me and, while she let me kiss her passionately, she turned down multiple offers for anything else. All she wanted to do was reward me, and I was grateful for it.

Before she went to sleep she told me I could keep playing with it as long as I didn’t come. I got close to multiple times, but it was never a serious danger. Clear precum leaked copiously, but mostly through my empty piercing.

After about another hour or so, I too went to sleep and felt the cock stinging from the attention it received. I had jacked it raw. I think that, because it’s in the steel tube nearly all the time now, that its skin has become much more sensitive. I felt this very much on its head. It really isn’t like a normal cock anymore. It’s been domesticated. It’s like a hothouse flower. No longer wild, it needs to be maintained and treated with care. Next time she lets me out for this kind of fun, I’ll have to remember the lube.

This morning, Belle’s off on a three day business trip and the cock, naturally, is back in its protective shell. She’s been gone less than 30 minutes, but I feel her absence acutely. I miss her so much already.

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Double punishment

It’s late. I should be asleep.

Last night, I forgot to make Belle’s coffee so this morning she had to wait for it. I got up as soon as she told me, but still, she didn’t get her first cup until after her shower. Tonight, she told me I would be punished.

After the kids were down and out, she told me to take my clothes off like she does every night. I got up, stripped, and started to get back in when she stopped me. I hadn’t asked permission. Then, she showed me the tube of Icy Hot. I immediately started to whimper and whine. I told her how sorry I was for forgetting the coffee, that tomorrow’s was already set up, that I wouldn’t forget again. Didn’t matter. She already had a dollop of white paste on her fingertips.

I knelt on the bed and she reached under me. I felt her smear the greasy, cold liniment across my scrotum, stretched firm by the stainless steel chastity device. She laid back and opened her arms, inviting me in. I placed my head against her chest, still waiting for the first blast of heat. Once it hit, setting my balls on fire, I started to pull away but she held me close to her, face smothered in her breasts. I moaned, panted, and writhed the best I could, but she held me tight. One wave of fire would subside to be replaced by another, each time she held me firm and unable to move. Eventually, the waves of pain started to recede more quickly and crest a little lower each time, though the effects of the Icy Hot continued to linger.

She let me go, and I got back on my knees, legs spread, face to the mattress, letting my tender balls hang in the cool air. I cradled them and probed them with my fingers. Poor little things. It wasn’t their fault I forgot to make the coffee.

“Where’s Pink?” she asked.

“In my drawer,” I said, “but I’m afraid to use it on you. I have Icy Hot on my hands…”

“Get her out.”

I reached into my drawer and handled the little pink vibe as lightly as possible. “Give it to me,” she said, holding out her right hand. She had used her left to apply the Icy Hot.

The vibe disappeared with her hand under the covers and I heard the low thrum of the vibe’s motor kick in. I moaned some more. It had been days since Belle allowed me to pleasure her and I felt the need badly, especially after my punishment. I put my mouth on her shirt over her nipple.

“Did you ask?” she said sharply.

I retreated, still on my knees, sore sack suspended, and pressed my ear against her so I could hear the vibe better. The sound of its thrumming rose and fell as it slid it in an out of her. I could see it in my mind, wet with her juices, parting her full, pink labia, pressing against her clit. I wanted to feel it myself so badly, to press my mouth against her, to lick her soft folds.

“Please, can I do something?” I asked. She said nothing. Her head was back, jaw sharply defined in the candlelight, lips parted. She ignored me.

The rise and fall of the vibe’s motor increased its rhythm and Belle’s hips started to gyrate next to me. I closed my eyes and imagined how it would all feel under my hand, vibrations running up my wet fingers, her nipples hard in my mouth. The stainless tube was now filled and the tightness of the meat caused the Icy Hot to flare back to life. My crotch was on fire as she came quietly.

After a few moments of basking, she wordlessly handed me the warm vibrator. I replaced it in my drawer and she turned over, already half asleep.

And that’s why I’m here now, writing it all down for you.