Tag: orgasm control

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Pardon

I made Belle come last night. No, that wasn’t her fourth orgasm since she decided my punishment for willfully ejaculating by myself in a hotel room, it was the first.

I admit that, in those times in which I was feeling especially needy (mostly while in bed with her and naked), I lobbied heavily for the lifting of the punishment, but in other more level-headed times (say, in the middle of the day while fully clothed and across the room from her) I felt guilty for doing so. I do respect the concept of her being able to make me pay for having an orgasm without her permission, but it was playing out kinda how I thought it would. She just didn’t seem interested in giving them to herself, even if I was right there next to her. I knew it, she knew it. So, last night, my fingers and Pink got her off.

And no, I really don’t want to feel like I got away with something, though I do. Perhaps that was the wrong form of punishment. I honestly do hope she comes up with something else.

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Consequences

Three of her orgasms. That’s what I’ve lost due to my willful masturbation last week.

Also, I’ve been informed, I won’t have another orgasm until November. That’s not necessarily as a result of the unauthorized ejaculation. It’s about the rythme she’s put me on recently. There will be two periods of travel between now and November, but both will be with someone else so the solo action described previously won’t be possible. Also, since I’ll be checking luggage on both of these trips, I’ll probably bring the protective device along just to be safe. Had it been with me last week, I wouldn’t have broken the rules.

So, did I break the rules because I’m untrustworthy and incapable of the honor system or was it something else? As regular readers know, I’ve been in similar situations before and not fallen off the wagon. Why was this last trip different? On the one hand, I was very tired and knew I wasn’t likely to sleep well at all had I not relived myself. I really wanted to sleep. I think, in balance, that was the primary motivator behind the infraction. However, as I said, I spent no time at all debating it with myself. There was a moment I distinctly remember where I was contrasting the night I knew I was about to face to the feeling of the PA rocking back and forth and my decision was immediate and without reservation. I don’t know if that means I can’t be trusted anymore. I know I would never try to sneak the device off or defeat it in some way (not that I could), but alone with an unprotected penis? When horny? I don’t know. It feels as though I can’t trust myself anymore, so why should Belle?

And in a way, I like that. The knowledge that I really do need to be locked up and that, had I my druthers, I’d be abusing myself were it not for the steel lock. Being an accomplice to my own denial has required a certain amount of reality suspension. Of course, I still need to be accommodating to the arrangement because my chastity is, at the end of the day, consensual, but now it’s got a different texture. It really is enforced. She says I can’t jack off and come without her permission so there’s a device locked on the penis to make sure I don’t because without it I might.

Is that evolution or devolution? Either way, it’s 16% hotter than before.

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Bits, bobs, etc.

I’m back in, if just for a few days. Belle let me out, as you may recall, a few days before I left on my hiking trip and even let me come (having said previously I’d get to orgasm in August). I was hoping I’d get another chance to get the penis wet before I left, but she came down with a cold and I was trying not to do the same either right before or during my trip, so excessive personal contact was kept to a minimum.

Luckily, she was in the mood (and I was way in the mood) and she let me give her an orgasm with my fingers on Saturday morning. For a second, it seemed like maybe that’s all that was going to happen and she wasn’t going let me have the pre-trip do-over, but in the end she did. I climbed on top and went to town, trying like hell to make it last, but failing as miserably as I usually do when the infrequent pussy time is granted. That orgasm was better than the one I had the week before and it’s left me wanting more, though she’s given no indication of how long it’ll be.

Last night, the steel curtain came back down and she’s secreted away the key. I’m actually pretty fucking horny right now. It was hard to clean the penis and its tube this morning because it wouldn’t get small enough to allow water to freely flow around inside there. I seem to be walking around with a semi-permanent semi. Whenever my thoughts even fleetingly head south or towards something sexual, I can feel it push against the walls of its prison.

Thursday, I head out of town for one night on business. If I’m still this horny then, I doubt I’ll be able to keep my hands off of it unless she very specifically says I’m not allowed or lets me take a device with me on the trip. Since I’ll probably be doing carry-on, it’d have to be the trusty old CB6K which I haven’t worn in well over a year.

In other news, the kids are out of our hair for the next nine days due to some construction in our house and this being the weeks between summer and school when they don’t have any daytime care options. So, up to the cabin they went with the grandparents. We won’t see them again until Labor Day weekend. I’m hoping the lack of company in the house will mean Belle hurts me or ties me up or both. I’d quite like to feel the sting of some hitty device on my ass or back or upper thighs. Maybe with some of the unspeakable nipple clamps in place…and my collar…

Oh look, there goes the penis again.

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Fleshy bits

“You look funny when your fleshy bits are out.”

That’s what Belle said to me a few days ago following her decision that I’d be out of the device and the unencumbered penis flopped around as I climbed into bed. Her reason for letting me be that way had to do with another camping and hiking trip I’m about to set forth on, though I don’t leave until tomorrow and she let me out Tuesday morning. There was a vagueness about whether or not my August orgasm would coincide with this.

The night before that, she had unexpectedly let me give her an orgasm. About midway through, she told me to get on my back and for a second I thought she was going to do something for me, but instead she threw one leg over my face and pressed her pussy down onto my mouth and eager tongue. I reached up and fiddled with her nipples while she grabbed the headboard and gyrated her hips around and lubricated the entire lower half of my face. The penis was straining in its prison as she moaned and groaned while exploring her new-found control over this particular kind of pleasure. It’s a little more natural for her, perhaps, since she used to usually need to be on top while fucking me in order to get off. In any event, she did achieve her orgasm while I laid there like one of those coin operated kiddy rides you used to see outside grocery stores.

The next day, I was out and distracted by the little meaty bit. I admit to playing with it more than I probably should have, but well within reason. I found I couldn’t very well curate The Portfolio while at work and then expect to be able to get up and walk around without demonstrating its affect on me. With the device in place, it always looks the same regardless of what’s going on inside. In any event, it and I were playing our usual game of chance until last night when she told me she would let me rub one out.

I will say right now it sucked. That was no fault of hers as she was more or less just an observer (she was feeling a little under the weather). She hopes that allowing me to come last night will give me the ability to control myself better so as to provide her with a nice ride on the erection tonight (assuming she’s feeling better). While excited for the event and eager to get going, I’m not sure I was in the proper mindset and may have rushed into it. There is a very palpable differnece between jacking off for the purpose of edging versus doing the same with the idea of coming. There was a point when I felt the orgasm building steam and I backed off in order to prolong my enjoyment (as if I wasn’t going to come) but then said fuck it and plowed forward so that when it finally started, there was a definite lack of fireworks. I did come and felt sleep/dopey/tingly from it, but it was hardly the kind of event I would have expected after being denied for two months, in either quality or quantity. I’m feeling more on edge and ready to come again right now than I was last night, so I hope she’ll give me another shot (literally) before I go. I also hope that if she wants to use the penis herself, that I’ll be able to accomodate her desire.

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Wedge relief

Belle finally wanted some action this morning. We were laying in bed being lazy and she said those magic words.

Just in time, too. The continued absence of my ability to pleasure her was starting to eat away at me. It actually seemed like a physical thing wedged between us. I will say it for the hundredth time, if I can’t turn my sexual energy towards myself, then I need to put it somewhere. If she’s unavailable, then it all curdles inside and I get grumpy and depressed. There just isn’t enough of that frisson I was talking about the other day to keep my furnaces stoked from being denied both my own pleasure and hers. She played it as best she could, but a few more days of it and I would have gone south big time. Even though I felt very far away from wanting to do it at the moment she said I could, it was seconds before all the boards lit up across my body. I did so desperately want her.

I tried to savor the opportunity and go as slowly as possible. While playing with her nipples, I climbed up on top of her and pressed the steel against her pussy. All around I could feel it’s heat but not on the penis itself locked away in the sensory deprivation chamber. I reached down and rubbed the short hard tube in and around her lips like I used to do in the old days before it was between us, but could feel nothing whatsoever where it counted. The sensation of feeling my thighs inside hers, my stomach on hers, my chest against her breasts and the taste of her mouth in mine all at the same time caused a strong pang of loss to erupt in my groins. I wanted in her so bad. I wanted the penis to feel hot and wet. I wanted to fuck like it was still a cock.

I got lost in the moment and Belle had to remind me what the point of the exercise was. Regretfully and with great effort, I moved down until my face was buried between her legs. I lapped and sucked like a starving man until she came with such intensity that she pushed my face away so I didn’t get to feel the orgasm flash through her pussy with my tongue. As she basked, I laid my face right inside her wet pubs and breathed in the singular scent of a woman. When it was time to go, I anointed myself with her pheromones. I could still catch little whiffs up until the time I showered.

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Still hard

The hardest part of living like this, for all you budding chastity/denial aficionados, is not the part where she strokes you, licks you, fucks you and leaves you throbbing hard, dripping, and desperate for more. No, that’s the good part. The hardest part is when she doesn’t let you, for whatever reason, have access to her body.

The situation should be familiar to anyone paying attention. I am locked in the device as often as possible. If it were not for real life getting in the way, it would be essentially permanent. I have no way to stimulate myself and Belle chooses to play the version of this game where she will sometimes touch me everywhere but the penis. She doesn’t see the need to let it out except when life, health, or orgasm require it. What I want more than anything is her. Her tits, her pussy, her everything. I want to ravish her.

So I’m pretty sure the last time she let me get her off was the day I got back from my camping trip, five days ago. On Sunday, we took the kids to summer camp. The oldest will be there until the end of the week, but the youngest gets back tonight. That means we had two nights of kidless living. I had hoped for some quality Belle ‘n Thumper time.

There was a bit of Thumper-centric activity on Sunday night. She put the wicked clamps on my tits and punched me in the nuts. The clamps, which hurt like a motherfucker, felt really good from the second she clipped the on. I was ready. The pain/pleasure conversion motor was humming in high gear. She yanked on the chain connecting the clips a bit which is fucking crazy intense. These things are so nasty that even shifting my position causes them to chew the soft pink nipple meat as they turn with me. It can be so overwhelming that it feels like I’m in a deep, dark cave and the only thing I see is two brilliant white lights burning in the blackness. They usually leave extraordinarily thin cuts on my skin, though so superficial that bleeding is never a question. Leaving marks is cool.

Anyway, yeah, so I have god’s perfect nipple clamps on and she starts hitting me in the nuts. There’s really no pain here, either. At least, by the time the sensation gets to my brain, it’s been transmuted into something else. I craved more than she was giving me, so I got up off my back (where she had told me to lay) so that I was on all fours over half her prone body (and yes, all this movement made the clamps gnaw and chew). I was hoping this would give her a better angle on my nuts, and I wasn’t disappointed. She balled her hand into a little fist and punched my sack, pulled tight by the straining penis in its cage. I reached down and held the tube in my hand to minimize the risk of getting the thin skin at the base of the tube pinched from her assault and to give her blows a more even base to strike against. In my head, I was begging her to hit me as hard as she could. I wanted something that would take my breath away and make me crumple over her like a doll. I wanted to feel it in my guts. But I couldn’t form the words. I couldn’t ask her. Something held me back. It could have been a combination of self-preservation and residual guilt for wanting this kind of attention. I don’t know. But I never asked.

When she was done (indicated by her pulling the clips off my tits), she kind of shut down and said, “I hope you can fall asleep,” or something very similar.

I admit, I was profoundly disappointed. I wanted in her pussy. I wanted to eat it up. I wanted to feel her writhe and moan and spasm to my touch. All she wanted to do was go to sleep. I got very still and quiet.

“Thumper, are you OK?”

No. But I said, “Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s not important,” I replied because, by rights, it shouldn’t be. I signed up for this. I have this thing on the penis which ensures there is nothing I can do except make her come if I want anything like a release for myself. I didn’t want to ruin an otherwise enjoyable experience by getting all moody, though I was. The best I could do was keep it from affecting her. So I ate it and let her go to sleep.

But I didn’t. I was up until after midnight and then awake at least three times with stifled erections so powerfully contained that I needed to get up and walk them off. It was a crappy night’s sleep. But that’s what I signed up for, too. In the morning, she said she was surprised I hadn’t blogged the night before. Usually, when I can’t sleep and am left feeling funky, that’s what I do, but I specifically held off until now because I wanted better perspective.

Next night, she had a work dinner thing and I had drinks with a friend. I got home about 8:30 and the house was hot but the pool looked inviting so I took a skinny dip. Our backyard is enclosed just enough to leave a bit of risk in this action, so that hit a few of my buttons. Regardless, swimming in the nude is 136% better than swimming with a stupid suit on and the water was glorious. The dusky sky reflected beautifully on the water’s surface.

Belle got home somewhat later and I was hoping that she’d want my attention, but no dice. We watched Niel Patrick Harris (upon whom she has a massive crush) on the Daily Show and she fell asleep with her hand in my crotch – palm on the tube and fingertips on my nuts. It was nice, but ultimately did nothing to give me what I needed. I wanted her fucking snatch but she wasn’t giving it up.

Finally, this morning, I woke up well after she did as usual and, before getting dressed, she sat next to me in bed and again stroked my nuts. It drove me crazy, especially when she got dressed right next to me few minutes later. The kidless window is closed now since our youngest gets home this afternoon.

So anyway, I am trying my hardest not to let this maddening lack of Belle time get me down. I am trying to remind myself that this is part of the deal. That I wanted to be out of the decision making loop regarding sex and to be frustrated and horny and denied and treated arbitrarily and unfairly. I really, really don’t want to put anything back on her because the deal is I have no right to do so. I am not entitled to her and should accept what I get with gratitude.

Yeah, that’s the hardest fucking part. And in case you’re wondering, no, it doesn’t get any easier with time.

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Nurturing the nature

No, this isn’t going to be one of those posts where I relate how difficult it is being the woebegone orgasm starved male. But, it could be and that’s the rub.

Somehow, I’m in a fantastic place at the moment. I’m horny as hell and so totally into Belle and feeling all subbie and service oriented and all the things that leave me with a filled tube and a warm fuzzy. I am painfully desirous of her, to the point where her hands on my balls last night and her stroking of my ass this morning seemed like it should have been enough to cause me to spontaneously combust. I can’t seem to get close enough to her and want every part of my body to be touching every part of hers simultaneously. I have the distinct desire to anoint all my skin with her juices and rub my entire face in her pussy. I have it bad.

But there were times in the past where I was operating under similar conditions and was miserable. It’s possible that a few random balls fell left instead of right in the pachinko game of my emotional state or it’s possible I’m just better at accepting my position and drawing strength from the things that in the past would drive me nuts. Why won’t she let me make her come? I ask that rhetorically because it doesn’t really matter. It’s still driving me mad, but I’m not resentful nor do I feel somehow entitled. Instead, the maddening denial of access to her has kindled an even greater aching craving that does nothing but emit the good kind of frustration and none of the bad. Instead of feeling like I’m missing out by her stubborn refusal I feel like she’s giving me the very thing I want so bad. To feel the need. To want. To see her being arbitrary with me. Perhaps even to deny me only to see me squirm. I am not trying to talk myself out of being happy. I only mean to set upon a pedestal the satisfaction I’m getting from my extreme dissatisfaction.

I asked Belle last night a question that I need to hear the answer to just because I need to hear it.

“Do you like me being locked up?” Sounds kind of pathetic, and I suppose that’s fair, but I like asking it.

“Oh yes, more than anything,” she answered with enthusiasm. That, of course, was exactly the right answer and, even though the tube was properly stuffed already, hearing her say that made it painfully so. Then I asked another question that popped out of my mouth rather unexpectedly.

“Do you think it makes me a better person?”

She paused a long time. From her perspective, answering this could be a problem.

“It’s OK if you do,” I said.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I think it does make you a better person.”

“I want to be better,” I replied, almost whispering, as the psychic dagger of all the emotions and urges and cravings that are my fevered condition twisted in my soul, “A better husband. For you.”

I asked her this morning (not long after she petted my naked ass for a while, so yeah, I was feeling pretty dreamy) why she paused. The reason, she said, was that she didn’t want to imply that I wasn’t a good person already. She’s so sweet. Of course, I know I’m not a bad person. Why would she have married me if I was? But I also know that I’m at heart a selfish one. I am the (perhaps) rare selfish sub. And it bugs me. I honestly do want to be a better, more service-oriented, less needy submissive male. Not only because it makes me feel better, but because it makes her happier, too. I don’t need her to tell me I’m not already good. I do need her to tell me chastity and denial makes me better and to keep me honest when, for whatever reason, I drift off.

I used to think that kink and my sexual perversions were all separate and tidy little chunks sitting next to each other. But that’s not how it works. They’re more like light refracting and reflecting and combining and shifting inside me, sometimes with unexpected results. I feel very keenly now how much I want to be found wanting. I don’t know if I would describe it as a degradation-type kink, but I want to hear that I’m not as good by myself as I am modified in the way being locked up and denied makes me. I want to know that the woman to whom I have given my submission is using it to make me a better creature. I want to feel that by being better in my position that she’s happier and more satisfied both being with me and in her life in general. I have felt this way before and lost it. I don’t want to lose it again.

To that end, I’ve asked Belle if we could institute a new routine for me. I’ve given her a little notebook to write on the first page all the things she expects of me by default. What I need to do all of the time, without being asked or reminded. Then, on subsequent pages, she’d write those things she wants me to do that come up along the way as we live our life. Situational expectations and desires of hers. I’ve also asked that on every Sunday she look at the book and make a note of how I’ve performed over the past week. Whether there are punishments or rewards is entirely up to her. I want to get to a place where my reward will be hearing her tell me I did a good job. I’d love to be punished, for sure, but setting up a system of carrots and sticks is tricky with someone like me. I might end up doing a bad job specifically so I’d get the stick.

The danger in all of this is taking a “set it and forget it” kind of approach. I think the majority of people tend to let their relationships go down that path and find themselves dissatisfied sooner or later. I, being all complicated n’ stuff, need a little more attention with regard to maintaining a proper frame of mind and emotional state. I am so thankful that I’m partnered with a woman who is willing to deal with that. The well-being of our dynamic is constantly moving so our approach to keeping it within a satisfying range of operation is something we both need to be mindful about, not just her.

Anyway, I’m rambling now. Bottom line, I’m happy, she seems happy, I want us to stay that way. After almost three years, we might just be figuring out the care and feeding of the submissive male. At least my particular subspecies, anyway.

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Different goals

Pain, Pleasure and Denial is a newish chastity and denial blog I only recently discovered written by a guy calling himself goodhubby. It’s sometimes hard for me to get too invested in these (ironically) because they so frequently flare up, go like crazy for a bit, then fade away, but I like this guy. I like that, like me, he over-thinks spends a lot of time analyzing how denial is working in his head and his relationship.

The really interesting bit about his blog, though, it that’s it written by a top. This is an exceedingly rare combination, I think (at least in the blogosphere). I recall one blog a couple of years ago like that, but it went dark and was eventually deleted. In that case, the dom thought of chastity as an experiment and, I have to admit, wasn’t written so well that I actually got inside the head of the guy. All he really did was recount their sex, if I recall correctly. In the case of goodhubby, it sounds like his denial (and her control of his orgasms) is a somewhat permanent arrangement. This really turns a lot of preconceived notions on their heads. A top who is denied by the bottom. I look forward to reading more!

In a recent post, he keyed into something Belle and I discussed last night between our marathon talkfest and when she let me get her off.

What has changed, though, is that I no longer seem to see sex as a source, or vehicle, for reaching orgasm. I fully expect not to orgasm, when we have sex. I go into it devoid of that expectation of orgasm. Sex has become about NW’s pleasure (orgasms included), just like it always has. For me, though, it has become a time when my arousal, physically and mentally, will be carried to the very edge, but never released. The edge has become the ultimate goal, with respect to my pleasure, not the orgasm. In fact, despite the obvious want that is welled up, I am mentally averse to the idea of release.

That’s such a perfectly succinct way to put it. I have no idea how that works or what’s going on mentally or physically when that turn happens and the entire purpose of sex has been rewritten, but it’s profound (and, apparently, not necessarily related to submission).

The bit that aligned with what Belle and I talked about had to do with recalling the very first night I didn’t come after sex. I remember she came after I fucked her with the penis (that’s how it happened the majority of the time back then). I remember being in her and doing my usual thing letting her glow and resisting my urge to keep fucking until I came, but only out of deference to letting her enjoy the orgasm. I stayed in a little while longer and she let me fuck her a bit more, but eventually I had to withdraw. The incredible ache that induced in my chest as I pulled a perfectly good boner out of her pussy before it did what, at the time, I thought its job was had to be one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done, especially since that was well before I think Belle really invested herself in keeping me denied. I pulled out and did not come on my own. She would have let me in a second. I remember laying on my back and she curled into me and stroked my armpit hair and tried to bring me down off the hormonal surge. The penis was cold and wet and hard for a long time and my heart was racing and all my senses were on edge. She, of course, fell asleep way before I did. All the next day I felt like I was on speed, but in a good way. I’d have to go back and look, but I think she let me come the next night. So I was denied for a whole 24 hours.

Now, of course, it’s totally different. The penis is no longer able to get her off and, horny or not, I get instantly sleepy once she comes (though that’s not the same as actually falling asleep). I very seldom think about the orgasm I’m not getting because there’s just no reason for me to have one. If I’m aware of anything, it’s that I always wish it took her longer to get there so I could enjoy her more. That longstanding and popular notion that orgasms are either a) required for the man, optional for the woman, or b) mutually assured, just doesn’t apply to us. The very definition of sex that I carried around for three decades is gone.

Belle used an interesting phrase to describe this. She say’s I’ve “nicely evolved” into what I am now. The implication that evolution leads to a superior form was not lost on me. It’ll be interesting to see how a top “evolves” in chastity to a submissive female. How they both evolve, actually.

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Almost there

I get home tomorrow. I will have been away for something like 11 or 12 days, depending on how you count. I really need to be back there.

Previously, I expressed a concern that being free for so long would tempt me to do things with the penis I probably shouldn’t. First day away, I admit I diddled a bit with it, but as I got further and further from Belle, my interest in it lessened more and more. I’d wake in the tent, snuggled into my sleeping bag, with the penis stiff and hard, but I had basically no desire to play with it. I gave it a few wanks to see if I could kindle a response, but there was nothing. For more than a week, it became just this little tube of meat I urinated through. It was as if the spirit of my sexuality was left behind with her and all I took with me was the useless machine it normally animated.

But, as I’ve driven the many miles back to Belle, the penis has started to become interesting again. This morning, the first time I updated The Portfolio since I headed into the woods, I found my hand wrapped around the hard flesh, pumping it furiously and feeling the heavy PA ring knock around at the end of it. My scrotum tightened up and I felt the electric fire starting to build inside, but I stopped well short of orgasm (though a little leaked out). Then, for the rest of the day, I was very aware of the unencumbered condition of my crotch. Even peeing became somewhat erotic in a strange way. I could feel the stream passing through my prostate and my fingers on its skin would cause the penis to respond by chubbing out and looking very tempting.

It occurred to me at some point over the course of the day that it’s been about a month since Belle last let me come, so it’s only natural that I’d find the penis needy, though it’s reawakening as I get closer to her is more than little interesting. I’m still at least two weeks away from my next orgasm as Belle previously said I wouldn’t have one before August. I find myself craving two things. First, her. Her presence, her scent, her warmth, and her pleasure. Second, her control. Cold, hard steel locked onto the penis keeping it out of reach and less of a distraction. Maybe its stirring is driven by the knowledge both it and I have that its days of freely knocking around down there are coming to an end.

Less than 24 hours to go…

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Just under the wire

OK, so maybe I will squeeze in one more post before I’m out of here…

Regarding the Jail Bird, it’s not going to happen. Aware that I’ve never been able to stay in that device for more than a few days without developing significant discomfort and suspecting that it’s likely a fit and spacing issue, I decided to try something I read about on Chastity Forums. Not sure who it was that did it, but they were able to create a little extra space between the bottom of the cage and the A-ring by slightly bending the post upward. I tried this yesterday afternoon and the post promptly snapped off. I don’t know much about metal work (whereby “not much” I mean “pretty much nothing”), but I thought welding would create a stronger bond between two pieces of metal. So now, if I ever want to wear the JB again, I’ll need a new A-ring. Which I probably needed anyway.

And, as I’ve been harping on, this now means I’ll be unsecured for the duration of the trip. Belle does not want me in the Steelheart and I guess I understand. Regardless of understanding, it’s her decision. It doesn’t help that I’m in that golden sweet spot where the device and I feel fused and there’s little to no discomfort and I’m even sleeping through the early morning tightness and find it creates a comforting sense of security rather than being something I need to endure. I don’t know if when this happens that anything physical has changed or if it’s all in my head, but I’ve even found myself, when waking with a fantastically full and tight tube, flexing the penis in order to feel more tightness and constriction. As with so many other things, my level of tolerance increases over time.

It’s not like I’ll have ample opportunity to take advantage of my temporary freedom, but I really don’t trust my hand and the penis together unattended even for short periods. There will be little moments (and the chance for several hot, soapy showers in hotels on the way there and back) and, of course, every morning it’ll be all perky and proud and asking for attention. Thing is, when you’re a man in my condition, you end up thinking about what’s in your crotch an awful lot regardless of its state. However, it’s an entirely different flavor of obsession when a healthy ribbon of opportunity is swirled though it. I will try to be strong. Upon return, I will no doubt be anxious for Belle to put me back in.

Belle and I chatted a bit last night about some of the recent blog posts. She’s mad at me (or trying to be) for taking the device off without her knowledge (though I strongly disagree I did it out of spite, as she suggests). While I took it off, I also put it back on, so I feel like I should get some points for that. Also, we talked about my reaction to being belittled, humiliated, made fun of, etc. She says she can’t really see herself humiliating me, but is OK with belittling me. I don’t see much of a difference, but if she can find it in her heart to make fun of me every once in a while, I’ll be happy.

In a related development, I’ve decided to update Thumper’s Rules of Usage and Style regarding how I refer to the sex organ attached my body. It’s clearly established that I never refer to it possessively (it’s not “mine”). I either refer to it as a separate object (i.e., the sex organ) or as hers (though I tend to favor the former style because the latter can be confusing to new readers – “Wait a sec. She had a cock?”). I have typically called it a cock but have just decided to no longer use that word. To me, “cock” implies something unrelated to me or it. A “cock” is an aggressive, action-oriented thing meant for fucking. An in-your-face kind of tool that’s been designed for erect penetration. My little piece of meat doesn’t do any of that. It’s very seldom any longer than the 2.75″ allowed by the Steelheart. From the outside, it never seems to change at all, regardless of how I’m feeling or how much pleasure Belle’s letting me give her. It certainly has practically nothing to do with Belle’s pleasure like a cock would. The only time it gets to be inside her is when she’s giving me one of my infrequent orgasms. Last two times it happened, I’m not even sure she had her top off. It may give her emotional pleasure to let me orgasm, but the act itself doesn’t provide much sexual pleasure for her. The thing’s roll has been demoted to little more than an instrument of prostate maintenance. There’s no aggression down there and certainly little action. It’s not a cock at all. It’s just a penis. And that’s what I’ll be calling it from now on.

I can almost hear eyeballs rolling in some sockets from here, but it’s my blog and I can call it whatever I want. So there. At the end of the day, for me, words have significant value and power. Thinking of it as just a penis strongly resonates with my submissive core. Thinking of it as a little penis just about makes me swoon.

So, finally, this is the last post I’ll make until I’m out of the woods sometime after the 17th or so. As I said yesterday, there’s an HNThumper loaded up for next Thursday, but that’ll be all. I might be able to reply to comments depending on access to cell reception. We’ll see.