Tag: orgasm control

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Solo

I could dive into this thing (that’s also happening here and there), but I’ll save that for another time. Instead, I’ll make yet another “progress” post about trains and stations…or something.1

I was in bed with Belle Fille earlier in the evening (yes, this evening – can’t sleep), kissing her chin and jaw and face and trying my best to maintain a semblance of control. Since one of the things that’s put Belle off recently is my voracious approach to her body when I’m awash with wanton lust, we’ve established an expectation that I will treat her personage with the respect that it deserves and not as though it were my blow-up girlfriend or something. Steve’s Michelle calls it “queenly dignity”. We don’t have a phrase, but it basically means I can’t grab her tits, shove my hands down the front or back of her pants, grind any part of me into any part of her, get all Doctor Octopus on her, or kiss her in an extra slobbery or tongue-intensive way. Without permission, that is. Sometimes, that’s what she wants. Most of the rest of the time, it’s too much. Therefore, I respect her personage.

So anyway, I was respecting the fuck out of her personage in bed a little while ago, as I said, planting the sweetest, most non-slobbery kisses I knew how on her sweet little face, hand placed sweetly and especially non-grabby on her side and pouring all my desire to do more into my right foot which was thumping on the bed like…well, like Thumper, when she turned away from me and opened her nightstand drawer. A moment later, I saw she had Pink. At first, I thought she was going to hand it to me, but no. She wasn’t. Instead, she moved her hand under the covers, heading south.

“But what about me?” I asked stupidly, sounding hurt.

“You’re…right there,” she replied, “I see you. Sometimes, a girl just knows what she wants…”

“Can I…help?”

“I don’t need any help.”

And she began. I was very close to her. I placed my hand over her torso, not moving towards her breasts (respecting the personage and all) and hugged her close. So close, I thought I could almost feel the vibrations through her body. Her eyes were closed, neck arched. She was entirely within herself, miles away from me. I felt her move her legs further apart and the memory of the feeling of her pussy enveloping what used to be my cock flashed palpably in my mind. I ached, literally and figuratively, to fuck her. The tube was all I could feel now, and it was throbbing. Pounding. Balls aching from the pressure of the ring being smashed behind them.

I was so close to her, I didn’t need to hear the sound of the vibe’s motor becoming rhythmically muffled to know she was fucking herself with it. Twenty days of denial screamed at the injustice of missing a chance to participate in her pleasure. Her orgasm started to build and the pace of her movements under the cover quickened. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I moaned. She came. I whimpered.

After a few moments, I placed my hand on her face and stroked her cheek as she basked in her self-inflicted afterglow. I felt small, wounded, unnecessary – submissive.

“That wasn’t a punishment,” she finally said, “It’s what I wanted, so I did it.”

The pressure in the tube doubled as her words stuffed me deeper into my subspace.

“I love you, Belle Fille,” was all I could say in return.

—

1 I’m not sure what it means either, but it might help if you go read the clusterfuck for yourself. ↩

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Dev and Thumper talk

Transcript of an instant message conversation in which Dev helps Thumper figure some shit out. After-the-fact commentary in italics.

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Dev: I read your post.  It was more positive than how you described it yesterday, which must be a good sign.

Thumper: i have two other bile-filled ones I never finished

Dev: I have an only semi-related question for you, or two questions really: (1) Are you able to cry? and (2) How does Belle respond if you do?

Thumper: (1) I can and have, but not in a while. (2) Hmm. Usually by trying to comfort me. Fix what I’m crying about.

Thumper: Last time i cried it was about feeling weird and guilty and like a freak for bringing kink to my marriage

Dev: right, maybe you blogged about that, it sounds vaguely familiar

Thumper: i think i did

Thumper: that was it

Thumper: there was lots of crying around the time i told her about the affair

Thumper: natch

Dev: yeah

Dev: She should have apologized about falling asleep.  Definitely.

Thumper: she eventually did, but in that pissy “i’m only doing this to shut you up” kind of way

Dev: But (IMO) she is right that you should stop pushing the dildo thing.  Like, a while back already.  (Sorry.  Please don’t hate me.)

Thumper: totally

Thumper: actually, when she finally put it that way, it really turned me on

Thumper: if only she had let it lie

Thumper: “pushing the dildo”

Thumper: snerk

Dev: lol

Dev: btw, when Jos and I fuck, and I get to the point where I want to come (which I can’t from just fucking) or I am tired of him stopping (so as not to come) then I stop him and I use my vibrator while he fucks me with his fingers.  Fingers work much better than a dildo for me personally

Thumper: “pushing the dildo” would be a good name for a blog

Thumper: belle’s unusual in that she can come solely from fucking. i don’t need to stimulate her clit to make her come.

Thumper: i only know that’s unusual since i listen to dan savage’s podcast

Thumper: the difference between you and she is also that she *does not care* that I need to stop. she won’t let me.

Thumper: i think it’s one of the reasons she moved to the top recently

Thumper: so i can’t stop

Thumper: that *sounds* hot (Yes, it does!)

Thumper: but it isn’t

Thumper: not really (Yes, it is.)

Thumper: i obsess. (Jesus, lighten up!)

Thumper: during the fight night, she said she was “letting” me come in those situations

Thumper: when, in fact, i did not want to.

Thumper: she was actually “making” me come

Dev: yes

Thumper: seriously against my will

Thumper: which, again, could be hot (No shit!)

Thumper: if played the right way (Ding ding ding!!)

Dev: Sounds more like she is making you lie there and get fucked regardless of whether you come or not.  Which is also hot.

Thumper: that’s it

Thumper: if i don’t come, good for me. if I do, so be it. suffer the consequences.

Thumper: maybe i’m looking at this the wrong way… (Ya think?)

Thumper: cause right now, it sounds pretty good (Oh, yeah it does.)

Dev: I think there are ways she could put this to you that are very hot, but she’s not likely to find them and you don’t want to do too much coaching.  If you can find it in yourself to translate for her to yourself, it would work

Thumper: god, that’s smart

Thumper: that’s it exactly

Dev: I only really “got” the right words to say to Jos after he said them to me when we were switched, and it was so fucking hot that now I understand it deeply and can carry out my side of it better than ever before

Thumper: in fact, there’s so much i need to “translate” within myself

Thumper: hmmm

Dev: but I don’t think you’re going to switch with her so I don’t think she’s going to get it that way, if she even could, which is doubtful

Thumper: nope, she’ll never switch

Dev: but it’s clear that she just wants to fuck you and get her pleasure from fucking you without having to have a bunch of angst over whether she’s allowed to do stuff that (incidentally) makes you come

Thumper: that’s right. she could have said that

Dev: and that is a totally cool thing to want (IMO as a non-participant in your relationship)

Thumper: the denial is fine until it gets in her way

Dev: She CAN’T say that because for you it would imply that she doesn’t care whether you come or not and you can’t handle that

Thumper: she once said she didn’t care and that was bad. but, if it was just another form or torment…

Thumper: of testing me

Thumper: and punishing me if i failed (I think he’s starting to get it…)

Thumper: god, that would be cool

Dev: …which is how she handled it last time

Dev: now, it would be better if she would just beat you for your failure rather than doing the sort of “no sex, no touching” thing, but she’d have to be comfortable with that

Thumper: icy hot

Thumper: she already knows that’s close to my limit

Thumper: at least the way she applied it last time

Thumper: fuck, that hurt

Dev: And if it was right after you came it wouldn’t be sexy either, until later

Thumper: god no

Thumper: *or* she could make me clean it out of her. that’d totally do it for me

Thumper: without the pain, too…

Dev: But she might not feel like it, after coming herself.  I don’t know what she’s like.

Thumper: oh, yeah

Dev: and that sounds more like a treat than a punishment

Thumper: true

Dev: to me

Thumper: it helps that you’re a female

Thumper: here’s a crazy idea. would you mind if i copied this exchange, removed the real names, and posted it?

Dev: Not at all

Thumper: sweet

Thumper: thanks

Dev: 🙂

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How long?

I know I’m not supposed think about this stuff, but I’m a) a guy, and b) a geek. The guy part contributes a certain competitive urge above and beyond what’s necessary and the geek part is all about quantifying and what’s and how’s and such. After nearly a month, I’m back in the device and I’m thinking about how long it’ll be before my little friend gets to stretch his legs again…so to speak.

Our Covenant says I’ll be locked up 183 days in 2009 – six months total. That was written back before Belle said she didn’t want to keep track of things like how long it’d been since I came and how many times she let me do it, etc., so I’m not exactly sure she still feels bound to that goal (plus, of course, the first rule of Our Covenant is that there are no rules – Belle Fille can do whatever she wants). In any event, as of this writing, I’ve been locked up 89 days this year. That means, with over half the year gone, I need to be forcibly chastised another 94 days out of the 170 left until 2010. The longest stint I’ve experienced so far is 18 days back in May.

Why does this matter to me? Well, as I said, some of it’s plain old guy stuff. Hang out on any chastity forum or community and you’ll find guys who’ve been locked up for way longer than 18 days. And, of course, Tom’s been locked up for something like four and a half years. Straight. Or something. And the other thing about me, the thing that you’d learn if you knew me in Real Life, is I always assume if something’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing. I wonder what’d it be like to keep the thing on a month. Two. What would it be like not to come until Labor Day?

I’m screwed either way, of course. Knowing the date takes the spontaneity out of it. If I know I’m not coming until Labor Day, the days in between become an long slog to the finish line. But not knowing drives me crazy, too. Tomorrow? Saturday? Next Friday? When, damn it!? Then again, I suppose that crazy part is what makes this good, right?

Since Belle’s the one who decides these things and since Belle likes her cock too much to leave it locked-up for too long, I know I’ll never pull one of those multi-month deals any time soon (unless, of course, we invest in modern technology – did I mention it’s on sale?).

In the mean time, I think I’ll revel in the angst.

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Piggish manbeast

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

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

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

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

Zing!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorta,” I replied.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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More PA cable madness

My obsession with increased chastity security via my PA piercing is well-documented. Last time, I had decided, once and for all, that a cable through my PA’s ring was not an option since the penis likes to move around in its tube over the course of the day and that movement causes a light yet persistent pulling against the piercing which, eventually, becomes intolerable.

But I keep thinking about it. Like, all the time. I hate the fact that, even with the KSD-3G, I could, if I really and truly wanted to, slip the cock out of the device (though I’m not entirety sure I’d get it back in). So the other day, I was thinking about something Tom did with o-rings and rubber bands (yes, he’s just that crafty). I didn’t use his method, not because I thought it would prove ineffective, but because I have hardware in the vicinity to work with that he doesn’t. His solution provided exactly the inspiration I needed to find what I think makes the CB6K perfectly secure.

Cable through o-ring through PA ring through flesh
Cable > o-ring > PA ring > flesh

I took an o-ring (not sure of the size, but I’ll add that when I get home) and put it into my PA ring before snapping it shut. The ring is big enough that it requires a tool to open, but brute force can close it. Then, with the little black ring dangling from my larger stainless one, I put the tube on and ran the PA cable though the o-ring. Once locked, the penis is perfectly secured. Yeah, I could always cut the o-ring, but I was never looking for a solution that couldn’t be defeated with tools. The entire device could be removed with the right tools, right? All I wanted was something that could not be defeated with nothing more than my hands and imagination. Now I have that.

I’m not in love with the MacGyver-esque look of it (at least it’s black), but I’m very please that, more than 24 hours after putting it into place, it feels no different than usual. So far, the penis hasn’t tried to move up into the tube far enough to cause any pulling whatsoever. I’m a very happy – and secure – rabbit.

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Hung over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re welcome, Thumper. Thank you.”

And with that, we slept.

Until I didn’t.

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Guilt and submission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sunday…I guess

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

“Sunday,” she finally said.

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

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

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

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

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Your sandwich, Mistress

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

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

“Thanks for getting the kids, Thumper.”

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

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

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

“Um, yeah? What did you say?”

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t they feed you at this thing?”

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

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

“Get your clothes off, Thumper.”

Mkay. Done.

Punch in the nuts.

“Miss me?”

“Ungh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She released me and I could breath again.

“God, I love you so much,” I panted.

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was asleep.

“Belle?”

Nothing.

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

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

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Good Thumper

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

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

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

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