Tag: orgasm control

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Focus

Something I was thinking about late last night when, in one of those random moments of wakefulness, I reached over and spooned into Belle and let my hand run under her nightclothes and over her smooth ass and the contents of the Steelheart pulsed and craved. It directly relates to my previous post about finding a Zen-like place to keep all my pent-up desire.

I mean, I wanted her. I needed her. Her pleasure is mine and I am really, really wanting to feel that. Distractingly so because it’s been so long since I had it. In the early years, it was remarkably easy to find anger in that. To want to throw all the internal stress out at her. But I don’t anymore. I know she knows how I feel and I know she’ll take care of me eventually. In due time. Not yet.

The way I was able to get through this period last night was to, as they say, see the glass as half full rather than half empty. Yes, I’m desperately needy, but I’m also exactly as I wanted her to keep me. Exactly. I am locked up, unable to touch my own body or attain a normal erection or in any way pleasure myself. I’m totally under her control in that way as I wished to be. It’s all I wanted for her to control my sex and now she does, completely. The best part is, she wants me this way. It’s impossible to imagine that she would have left me unlocked while she was gone last weekend. That’s just not an option for me anymore. And while I was unlocked while I was gone the weekend before (unavoidably, perhaps), she put me back as soon as I got home. I rarely get to stay out for more than a night at time now unless something external intercedes or it’s a special occasion. So I have the best of all possible situations. I’m locked and controlled because that’s how she wants me. That’s how she prefers me to be. I asked for exactly this.

Back around Labor Day, we talked some about that. How she considers my willingness to be locked by her a romantic gesture. She sees my sacrifice of orgasm and self-pleasure as a token of my dedication to her and our marriage. She finds comfort knowing what I’m not doing when she’s not with me. I allow this to happen to me because I acknowledge it makes me a better and more attentive partner. It makes our relationship stronger.

Yes, of course, that’s all true. But it’s not like I don’t get anything out of it.

And what I get out of it is what I concentrated on last night. The feeling of the hard steel pressing up between me and the mattress, squeezing my wannabe erection. The knowledge that I wasn’t getting what I wanted in that moment but I was getting all I wanted in the bigger picture. How, in only the way possible in this kind of dynamic, even not getting what I want is exactly what I want.

I’m desperately horny for her. That’s the reason we do this. We have sex when she decides. Period. I’m supposed to crave what I have no control over. Her pussy. The penis. Our sex. Everything. I’m not ignored, even though circumstances have conspired to make me feel a little neglected. I’m actually quite loved and cared for.

That’s what I focused on.

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Hyperactive mojo ball

Belle went out of town for the weekend yesterday. She won’t be back until Sunday night. Last weekend, I was out of town. The four days in between she was on her period. I don’t think we’ve had sex in two weeks. Le sigh.

If you’re a man (like me) who is sexually frustrated (uh, yep) and is married to a woman who locks his penis up because he can’t be trusted not to play with it all the time when she’s not around (guilty) and, even if it wasn’t, you’re not allowed to come anyway (you’re looking at him), you can deal with this kind of situation in one of three ways. I know because I’ve done them all.

  1. Be a whiney bitch. Feel sorry for yourself and act like nobody in the world appreciates what you’re going through.
  2. Get mad at your keyholder. See number 1. You’re miserable, she doesn’t appreciate you or your sacrifice, and why doesn’t she realize this is time you’re never getting back? Life is unfair and she’s worse.
  3. Fucking chill out and get all zen on this shit.

Regular men without the locked dicks or prohibitions on ejaculation can nip all this in the bud by nipping the fuck out of their buds (or whatever the kids are calling it nowadays). When you can’t do that, though, the brain chemicals and emotions and unrelieved reproductive fluids all gel together and form a hyperactive mojo ball that floats somewhere down behind your belt buckle, occasionally jetting out solar eruptions into your balls and cock or up into your brain making it foggy and unfocused.

Think of it like the core of a nuclear reactor. You can’t just let those things sit around anywhere. They need to be covered and maintained. In the wrong hands, they’re explosively deadly. When handled appropriately, all that power can be harnessed for good.

When I was first dealing with this stuff, I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know how to deal with the surges and the compulsions. Belle didn’t either, of course, or even really understand what I was feeling. But at some point, you figure out how to envelope all the crazy fluttering and need to do something and jitteriness. It’s still there. I can feel it right now. Physically. In my balls and in my chest and in my guts. Tingling and tickling me. But it’s not sending me into a bad place. Sure, it makes me want to look at a fuck-load of porn, but emotionally, I’m stable.

Unfortunately, I can’t tell you how to do this (so maybe you don’t want that book I was talking about after all). How to refocus and learn to draw on the energy at the moments she decides are right is key to being able to live with denial. I don’t know if those who are only denied for short periods can ever have enough time to figure it out (or even need to). That’s not my life experience, of course.

I recall early on someone left a comment here that’s not too much unlike what I’m saying. The horny guy in me railed against what he was saying. Pushed back on it hard. Hated to hear it. But the guy I am now gets it. All the way down. It’s not always easy. We’re playing with a kind of fire, to be sure. But whatever and however it works, it makes things better for us. That’s all that counts.

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Nonfiction

Even though he had lowered the shades in the room they shared before going to bed, enough light leaked in to cause his eyes to flutter open. Daylight. Morning. Saturday.

He stirred and stretched a bit and his hand found its way (as all men’s hands do, seemingly by themselves) to his crotch. Scratch. Squeeze. Hard, but not as hard what he usually found there. His other hand reached just as instinctively for his phone. 5:58. The alarm was set for 6:00 anyway, so he turned it off and snuck out of bed trying not to wake her up.

Six o’clock is too damned early to wake up on a Saturday but he had to go to the gym and meet his trainer. This early spot was really hers but she decided a while back she didn’t like waking up that early on a Saturday, either, and told him he had to take it. She’d have his 9:00 spot. Kiss on the cheek. Thanks.

He padded around the house, still naked, morning wood bobbing around in front of him like an eager dog at the end of a leash. He tried to ignore it. Speaking of which, the dog would want to go out soon. Grab a Diet Coke. Get the sandwich in the microwave.

He didn’t like getting up that early but liked this early morning stillness. Like it being quiet. Liked being able to be naked around the house. Liked the kids being away so he didn’t have to cover himself. She let him close the blinds on the huge fishbowl-like windows in front of their home. The ones that let all the people see in and observe their every move, if they wanted to. He opened the door and grabbed the paper. Just a flash of nakedness, but no one to see it. Minor thrill.

Eat. Drink. Read. The dog came out. Back in their room (occasionally referred to as her room), he looked at her still sleeping and quietly grabbed his workout clothes. Sleeveless Nike shirt, light and airy. Under Armour compression underwear. Baggy Nike shorts. Branding mismatch. Ankle socks. Swiss shoes. Into the bathroom to pull everything on. Out the door with the dog. Walk.

Back in the house, he checked his watch. 7:16 now. Fourteen minutes. Need to go. He put his water bottle in his bag, found his keys.

He heard a stretchy groan from the back of the house. A mumbled call. She’s up. Go see her.

“Good morning,” she said, warm and sleepy. Covers up in the morning coolness, bit of nipple showing on the right side.

He climbed into bed and hugged her. Kissed her.

“Hi,” he said.

More kissing. More hugging. Holding her close though the covers.

She didn’t usually sleep naked. Not like him. But she was this morning. Naked and warm and smelling and tasting like her. His hips started to grind into her leg, though his clothes, through the bedding. He could feel himself start to harden. Push against the compression of his Under Armor. He pulled the comforter down a bit and put her nipple in his mouth.

“Mmmm. You don’t have time,” she said softly.

“There’s time,” he replied.

Mouth on nipple, mouth on mouth, one hand on nipple, one hand moving over her body, drifting south. Finding her neatly kept hairy patch. Slipping his finger over her folds. Mouth back on nipple, finger gyrating.

She moaned appreciatively. Her eyes closed and her lips parted and she felt his touch. His hardness was feeling distorted. Squished by the stretchy fabric. Compressed. But nothing he wasn’t familiar with. He’d had it worse. Much worse.

“You need to go,” she complained half-heartedly.

“I need to do this.”

Her back arched a little more, her legs parted a little more, he reached into a wetter, hotter part of her. Slick. Sexy. Her.

Her hips started to move. That’s a good sign, he thought. Fucking hell, he wanted her. But he wanted to feel her come more. He wanted to start her day with this. The rubbery soles of his sneakers caught on the fabric of the bed covering as he wrapped his legs around hers, pressed his needy sex into her. She pulled the covers down. Exposed herself to him. Allowed him full view of his alter.

He felt her rhythm quicken. Her breathing. Her heartbeat. Her pussy silky under his long fingers. More moaning.

She came. Now it was his turn to moan. More like a groan. Her passion in harmony with his desire.

He kissed her again. God, her taste. Her lips. So soft. So perfectly kissable.

“Thank you,” they both said.

“7:28,” she said.

He hopped out of bed, sprinted to his gear, into his truck, down to the gym. Barely late.

On the exercise bike warming up, he could still feel the hard-on in his shorts.

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Hacking

The other day, I was IMing with Dev (formerly of Devastating Yet Inconsequential) and the notion of chastity and orgasm control being a kind of life hack came up. According to the Wikipedia, a life hack is “any productivity trick, shortcut, skill, or novelty method to increase productivity and efficiency.” Seems to me that denial and chastity definitely do not increase the “productivity” of a very specific thing, but work with me here.

Cast your minds back to the beginning of our journey into the life of male orgasm control. We, Belle and I, had been through a hard time in our relationship resulting from the fact that we had pretty much stopped having sex. I went outside our marriage to find the kind of intimacy I wasn’t getting at home. I suppose it would be an easy thing to then draw a line and say I cheated, therefore I ended up in a chastity device and, as punishment, rarely get to have any orgasms. But that’s all wrong and kind of backwards.

Our problem wasn’t that I cheated (though, yeah, that was a problem all right), it was that we weren’t connected to one another sexually. I loved Belle. Never stopped loving her. Never wanted to leave her. I’ve never wanted to be anywhere but with her from the moment I realized I loved her. But we were not intimate with one another anymore, emotionally or physically. We were roommates running a live-in day care center. As I suggested yesterday, kink of any kind, when successfully executed, is the result of and the catalyst for emotional and physical intimacy. It’s only done well after a lot of communication and honesty with one another. The fact that we have kink in our relationship now is because we were open, communicated, and all that. The kink helps keep us that way, but kink is definitely the egg in this model, not the chicken.

The hack part, for me, is the denial aspect. Remember, my problem was that Belle and I had disconnected sexually. I relied on myself for pretty much all my sexual satisfaction and I resented it. She didn’t seem to care. I craved intimacy with another person, not just my hand or a sex toy. By slaving my orgasm to Belle (using the non-D/s definition of “slave” — a component controlled by another machine or component), we have essentially produced a situation where we cannot ever find ourselves in a disconnected place again. This isn’t about quantity of sex, mind you. We don’t have sex as often as I’d like. We have sex as often as she likes. But it forces the issue of emotional and physical intimacy. She controls when I come. She controls pretty much all my sexual activity. One of my primary sexual releases is her orgasm. We can’t move too far outside of one another’s orbits before the issue becomes evident and then it can only be corrected together, not by me slinking off to the bathroom after she falls asleep to jack off in the sink. I used to worry that we’d slip back to the old way. The disconnected way. In exchange for her controlling my orgasms and access to sex, I got security.

Sexually, we are one. That’s deeply intimate. It’s hard to get more intimate than that.

Another part of the hack is how it fucks with my hormones. I’m about to be 46 and, in the greater scheme, that’s not that old, but biologically, shit’s not as easy as it once was. Even if I wasn’t being denied orgasm, it would take me a lot longer to bounce back from one than it used to. When I was 17, I could fuck four or five times in a day and come each time. (I recall one day in particular when I did something like that and the last orgasm, which was maybe the sixth or so, was dry and hurt like a motherfucker…but I digress.) By not coming and leaving all those hormones in me, I feel as close to 17 as I’m likely to get again. Yes, the trade-off is huge. I rarely get to feel the awesome five to ten seconds of real, uninterrupted, unqualified orgasmic rush. But in exchange, I feel like a total raging sex god. Sometimes. At least when we get to fuck (and there’s been an awful lot of that this past week since the kids have been away).

I’m not saying we’ve discovered the key to marital bliss. We’ve discovered a key to marital bliss. And we’re hardly the first to use some flavor of male orgasm continence. I don’t know how what we do would work for a guy who didn’t want to be dominated or wasn’t all that into the bondage aspect of chastity or was just too wrapped up in his own masculine bullshit to even consider limiting how often he came. But it is a hack of the male sexual circuitry and it does work. At least for us.

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Mailbag

Reader sg4esubby reached out via the FetLife and had many nice things to say as well as a question for me:

My first question is how has the introduction of chastity affected your day to day relationship dynamic as well as its long term dynamic?

Gah! I mean…whew. That’s, like, the biggest question you could ask. My only response can be this entire blog has been an attempt to answer it. In short, the increased emotional and physical intimacy that the overlay of chastity and orgasm denial has allowed has made my relationship with Belle perhaps stronger than it’s ever been. We’ve been married coming up on sixteen years and I’ve never been more into her (and her into me, I think).

But notice what I said there. “The increased emotional and physical intimacy that the overlay of chastity and orgasm denial has allowed…” That’s the secret. A clear and honest exchange of what we want and how we feel has led directly to where we are today. Of course, I think there’s a lot of special elements that denial adds into the mix, but it’s that openness and communication that’s really made our relationship better.

He went on to ask…

The second question is actually more geared toward your wife should she have the time to offer a response. We’re both curious as to her experience adjusting to controlling your orgasms and discovering the changes that took place as a result of that new control. Be it a more submissive husband or a more pestering annoying husband or anything else that she experienced.

Again, super broad question. Unfortunately, Belle’s not kept a parallel blog along the way so all you have is my take on it. Belle’s not usually been eager to contribute here and I’m not sure where she’d even start on this. Maybe if you could break it down into more bite-sized bits.

An anonymous source inquired:

Dear Sir,
I’m sorry for using this way of contacting you in this matter but I have to admit I find myself unable to register onto chastityforums. I must have been trying for like twenty minutes but I’ve been unable to find the bunny’s name.

Can you offer any advice?

Nope. Assuming you’re trying to find out my real name. I don’t put that out there. This is mostly out of consideration for Belle.

I misunderstood. It’s apparently in reference to a security question I set up on the Chastity Forums a long time ago and forgot about. The answer, of course, is “Thumper.”

Jesse asked:

Hi, I have a question about effects of chastity.  There seems to be a lot of conflicting information on the topic online so I figured I would contact someone personally who has first-hand experience.  Have you noticed the size of erections diminishing or the ability to achieve an erection after being in chastity?

This is a total urban legend. I’ve been locked up maybe 70% of the time (or more) for the past several years. I’ve had thousands of erections compressed and constrained by various tubes and cages. The penis is the same size erect now as it’s ever been.

You don’t say if you want it to be true or not. Most of the people I’ve seen discuss this online actually do want it to be true (or are happily claiming it is). I get that. I really do. But, fortunately or unfortunately (depending on your thing), penises are what they are and seem very difficult to change in either direction.

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Rolling a twenty

the big twentyI clearly remember the first time I played Dungeons & Dragons. It was the summer between sixth and seventh grade and I was over at my friend Steve’s house and he and a few other friends were about to start a session and one of them loaned me a character to play with. I had no idea what I was doing, but I loved the fact that this game (right at the dawn of home video gaming — not even sure the 2600 was out yet) required someone to tell the story we were in and all we had was some paper, pencils, and colorful dice, along with our imaginations, to be able to enjoy it. And, of course, our destinies weren’t fixed since we had to keep making decisions along the way.

Decisions such as mine to try and pick a lock on a door with this other dude’s character. I guess I was playing a thief, but not a very good one, because the lock was booby-trapped and the character was poisoned. I had to roll an icosahedron (fancy word for a twenty-sided die) and get a 20. Rolling a twenty is a very difficult thing to do since, obviously, you only have a one in twenty chance of doing it. I remember how all the other kids leaned over me to see what I rolled (and how the Dungeon Master in particular had a gleam in his obviously sadistic eye) and how the dude whose thief I was playing was especially sweating it (since once that character was dead, it was dead…for the most part). I, as I said, had no idea what was going on except all of a sudden I was expected to do this thing that everyone told me was just not done.

But I did it. Twenty.

And I was hooked. I played pretty faithfully well into high school, made a bunch of my own characters, bought little lead figures, all the various books (which I still have), multi-colored dice, and even played the role of Dungeon Master myself from time to time. I remember going home that night and enthusing to my mom about this awesome new game and the monsters in it and the weapons (like the vorpal blade — I specifically recall telling her about the vorpal blade) and how I suddenly knew what I was going to be doing for the rest of the summer (besides watching Price is Right). She gave me a lot of those “yes, dear”s and “uh-huh”s that moms are occasionally required to give their excited kids (whereas my dad eventually told me how D&D was a tool of the Devil, but that’s another story).

I also remember two girls named Anne and Pam. They were best friends and had attached themselves to the circle of guys I was hanging out with. We’d get together to play D&D at one or another’s houses while our parents were at work and Anne and Pam would always seem to be around so they got sucked in. Not that they wanted to. I have to admit I have no idea what they would have rather been doing since I was a self-absorbed teenage boy and they were outnumbered by a bunch of others just like me, but for some reason they decided to half-heartedly play along (we also played a lot of Diplomacy which they also soldiered through without enthusiasm, but I’m not going to talk about that because I’m trying to make a point here).

And the other day it occurred to me how much kink is like Dungeons & Dragons. I suppose I cannot be the first person to make this connection, but they both involve fantasy sessions where one person is in charge and others willingly submit to their authority. They both are replete with rules and traps and interpersonal dynamics that are only clear to those with experience or a willing guide. They both have friggin’ costumes and personas their players use to escape from the mundane world. Really, it seems to me, the same source of energy that feeds one’s involvement in a game as deep as D&D is where kinksters go to energize for their play sessions.

And, of course, there are adult, real-life versions of Anne and Pam involved. Namely, for me and those like me and many reading this blog, I’m talking about our spouses. My mom didn’t need to get all that into D&D to appreciate how much I liked it. She was on the outside. Our wives, though, (or partners or whatever you have), like Anne and Pam, do. And there’s no reason to think they’ll be any more enthusiastic about it than Anne and Pam were. Except Anne and Pam could have just walked away (they did, eventually) whereas our spouses don’t have that as such an easy option. To them, we’ve suddenly discovered a vast and compelling obsession with a complicated game they previously had no interest in playing (or maybe that it even existed) and, worse part is, the rules are obtuse, unclear, and often being generated on the fly by their suddenly enthused partner.

Imagine that from their perspective.

No, really.

If you’re lucky (like I am), your partner is willing to learn the rules (or, more correctly, establish them with you). If you’re not, they aren’t. But in either event, rushing into it and trying to go from Vanillaville to a fantasy sex slave cuckold in permanent chastity has about as much chance of success as my rolling a perfect twenty almost thirty years ago. It could happen, but nobody can remember seeing it for themselves.

So anyway, think about that. Think about how much guys like us expect our partners to digest and change and how impatient we generally are about it because we’ve just found this awesome new game! No, really, you’re going to love it! Really! There are no Player’s Handbooks (well, there are some that try to be, but the rules aren’t so well defined). There are no Monster Manuals. This shit is complicated and often unexpected with its arrival in a relationship. At least from their perspective.

You can drop a guy into a D&D session without guidance or warning and tell him to roll a twenty and it’ll be OK. You can’t do that with the person you share your life with. You need to go more slowly.

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Stress balls

So I have a bunch of stress about stuff right now totally not related to my sex life (and really, it’s not life and death stuff, just really bugging me) and it’s so bad that last night, with the kids away at camp and Belle offering up some “personal time” in the bedroom, I was unable to keep my shit together enough to let it happen.

First thing we did was talk about the stressful shit. Then we talked about my orgasm. Not a specific orgasm. Like, my entire ability to do it. Since the unexpected release earlier in the month, I’ve been wondering what’s up with the previously established schedule that indicated I needed to wait until July, 2014 to come. So, after the stressful shit discussion, I asked her what her plans were. I didn’t mean for it to be a big deal, I was just trying to change the subject to something a little sexier. And I failed.

I am not, as Belle suggested, upset over the last time I came and it hasn’t been bothering me. It was enjoyable and it’s over and I don’t regret it. She says it happened because she has to be able to decide when that happens. I don’t challenge that. I want her to control it and so does she. But, if the deal is I have to wait until a certain date but then she makes me go ahead of schedule, then we’re not waiting for the date. I cannot count on not being able to come before then as it may happen at any time. She seems to be thinking that if there are any limits on her control over me coming (even limits she herself has imposed) then she’s not in total control. There is a certain logic to that, but, as I said, that means the date thing is out the window.

At this point, I honestly don’t care. Experience suggests I’m a better little rabbit when we’re using a schedule. It allows me to more freely want the orgasm if I know she’ll deny me because of where we are on the calendar. When we’re not using a schedule, I end up doing other things she doesn’t like (like keeping track of how long its been). Also, I get all angsty wondering if now’s the time or if I have to wait. That said, I’m fine if she wants to go back to trying it that way. It’s been more than a year since that was how it worked. In something like 15 months, I only came three or four times. Perhaps it’ll work differently now. I don’t know and I’m not trying to tell her how to do it. I must be willing to do whatever she wants. That’s how this shit works.

So the conversation got tense. She got defensive, I got defensive. It wasn’t an argument, but I still ended up feeling very down and exactly like a fucked up, overly complicated, pain in the ass, needy sub. I haven’t felt that way in a long time. And we didn’t have sex.

I suggested that perhaps, with all the stress, we just take a break from the whole denial thing. Or scale it back. Maybe I only come when I’m with her but otherwise I’m not being denied. Just controlled. If there’s a silver lining, it’s that she rejected that out of hand. She has no interest whatsoever is being “normal.” Not ever again, she said.

A complicating factor in this is that she let me out two days ago and let me play with myself all I wanted the night before last. It was a lot of fun and I had a hell of a time falling asleep, but it left me with achy, full balls and, as we “discussed” the current state of affairs, I really, really wanted to come. Not in a sexy way, per se, more in a “fucking hell, my balls are blue and they hurt and they feel all swolleny and ow” kind of way. There’s always that hormonal overlay for the denied part of the equation, I suppose.

I wonder if I didn’t have an unintended hand (so to speak) in Belle’s experimental release. I have recently got in the habit of telling her how badly I wanted to come when she let me fuck her and even asking if I could knowing she’d say no. Telling her that I wanted it, letting myself want it, and hearing her say no is, really, the pinnacle for me. But I think that may have swayed her somehow. That hearing me say it meant she had pushed my denial too far or something. When really, it was the opposite.

So anyway, I await word on how we move forward. And maybe if we can have make up sex tonight. Not “make-up” as in after a fight, but make up as in the game got rained out and now we need to schedule a double header. A double header. That would be cool, actually…

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Devil fruit and other news

I broke a rule the other day. I had just finished a book on my Kindle and I went and bought another. For $15. Except, I’m not allowed to spend any money without Belle’s approval, am I? I even need permission to spend two bucks on the App Store. This is supremely annoying, but I guess I shouldn’t like all the rules.

I admitted I did it, at least. Belle said I’d have to be punished and ruminated on that for a few days. In the end, she decided that I’d have to eat some banana. I loathe bananas. I don’t like how they smell, I especially don’t like their slimy texture. I don’t understand why anyone eats them. I offered to pay the $15 back (how, I don’t know, though my ATM withdrawals seem to be a bit of a loophole in the “don’t spend money” thing). But she didn’t want money. She wanted me to be punished.

It wasn’t a lot of banana. Just a few slices. She was about to leave the house yesterday morning when it went down. It was left-overs from my daughter’s breakfast and, having seen them in advance (I should have tossed them out, in retrospect), I feared this would happen. Belle didn’t specify how I had to eat them, just that they had to eaten, so I cut them into halves and swallowed them each whole with a swig of Diet Coke (my morning caffeine delivery beverage of choice). Gagged twice, once pretty seriously. She was there, all dressed in her work clothes, impatiently waiting for me to finish. Almost literally tapping her foot. It was awful. Ugh. Just thinking about it makes me ill.

Belle was gleeful over the whole thing. Like, ridiculously pleased. Later in the day, in remembering the event, she actually giggled and clapped her hands like a little girl. She really got into her role as the punisher and was quite pleased with herself for devising something so unpleasant. She said to me it had to be bad so I wouldn’t break her rules again. It was pretty bad.

In other news, I’m feeling somewhat recovered from the unexpected orgasm Belle pulled out of me. We haven’t talked about what my expectations should be going forward. It’s been interesting having just one after such a long period without. I don’t think this has happened before. It’s usually at least two, but there’s zero sign another is forthcoming (so to speak). In any event, I still feel different than usual. More horny, more locked up, less happy about it all. Not that I’m unhappy, mind you. Not at all.

In other other news, I’m considering moving my blog from WordPress.com to DreamHost (their DreamPress product, specifically) because of this. Freaks me the fuck out. Frustration that we live in a time where a serious discussion of the kinds of topics I cover here (and the accompanying imagery) could be considered so outrageous and beyond that pale that a company like WordPress would make it all cease to exist without warning or reprieve in a blink of an eye maybe if they fucking feel like it (and they apparently don’t always and it’s hard to know if and when the whim will ever strike them). Terrified that it all could, as I said, cease to exist in the blink of an eye! This site is so personal to me. It is me. I think it’s the manifestation of what blogging is all about. I hate hate hate that I even have to dick around with the idea of moving.

I didn’t choose WordPress.com because it was free, I picked WordPress as a platform because it had all the features I wanted. I chose WordPress.com so I wouldn’t have to deal with the hassle of taking care of my own install. Over the years, we’ve paid WordPress not an insubstantial amount to add video and remove ads and have a custom domain, etc. This isn’t a money issue, it’s a convenience and functionality one. But, I’m either left to, as Ferns said, “be prepared and wait” for the day where my site resolves to a page that says my blog has been deleted or take things into my own hands and get ahead of the issue. I’ve already signed up with DreamHost (with Belle’s permission, of course, since it required I spend money) but I’ve run into a problem. Because I’m picky and particular, I want to prepare the blog on DreamHost first then switch the DNS so that to you, the reader of my blog, it all looks rather seamless. But I can’t seem to do that. And it’s bugging the crap out of me.

OBNOXIOUS TECHNICAL BIT

DreamHost wants the blog’s URL to set it up under DreamPress but, as you can see, I’m kinda using the URL for something else right now. I thought about setting up a subdomain for the specific purpose of preparing the blog and then swapping it out for the proper domain when the time came, but GoDaddy (my registrar) won’t let me do that with a URL hosted elsewhere (and mine’s at WordPress — you’re soaking in it). WordPress doesn’t seem to offer this service, either, so I am stymied. I could always use a different URL altogether, I suppose, until it’s time to swap or I could change the domain to be registered with DreamHost (since GoDaddy is, I think, a horrible company anyway) but that’s kind of a pain. I’m not doing anything right now because the simplest path forward is blocked and, have I mentioned, I HATE HATE HATE that I have to dick around with this bullshit.

Any advice or other ideas would be welcomed in the comments.

/ OBNOXIOUS TECHNICAL BIT

Finally, I’ve been meaning to mention Steelwerks Extreme’s new site for a bit. I don’t know how long it’s been like it is now, but I became aware of it about three weeks ago, I guess. For those unaware (and I’m sure that’s not many of you considering where you are), Steelwerks makes some of the most amazingly beautiful chastity devices on the planet. Their construction techniques and materials are absolute top-notch and the fit and finish of the final product appears to be impeccably gorgeous. I’ve always admired their products, but never considered asking Belle to acquire one since it seemed like the only limit to what you could get was your imagination. I found that a little overwhelming. Now, they’ve done a great job “productizing” their devices so, for me anyway, it’s easier to shop and choose and then customize. More like how Mature Metal and Steelworxx merchandise their wares.

classic-pa-chastity-device03So while perusing their new site, I found a model they call The Classic PA. This is kinda of like a cross between the Steelheart and the Looker 02. Simple and lovely and shiny. Like the Steelheart, it’d be completely secure via my PA piercing and, like the Looker, it can have a PA insert. Unlike anything from Steelworxx or Mature Metal, the Steelwerks device is expensive (remember what I said about impeccable, top-notch, and gorgeous?). I asked for a quote for essentially what you see here and they promptly informed me it’d be $2,875 CDN (today, that’s just under $2,800 USD). I knew it would be a lot…but wow. Don’t get me wrong. I think these things are worth every bit of what they charge. But damn.

In any event, I showed the site and the device to Belle and told her how much it was. She was immediately drawn to the beauty of the device but didn’t seemed too intrigued until we watched the promotional video and she saw the key. Again, for the unaware, Steelwerks devices are “locked” with a proprietary screw with an S-shaped screwhead. It can only be opened or closed with a matching S-screwdriver. That screwdriver can be hidden in a wide variety of custom made objects, but Belle liked the lovely necklace option. It’s clean and sleek and totally appropriate for any woman to wear. Currently, Belle keeps the key to me in her purse since the Steelworxx keys are kind of ugly (as are most). Seeing it always on her and nestled between her breasts would be, simply put, awesome.

Short story long, I think it’s entirely possible she’ll be ordering one of these someday. Not right now as we’re in the middle of some other expensive projects around the house, but I know my Belle. This is on her radar. It’s just a matter of time.

Now excuse me while I back-up my blog…

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She kept pumping

The festive July 4th weekend was a time of reflection for me since it was exactly a year ago that Belle let me have what turned out to be the last orgasms of the year and was the kick-off to my longest orgasmless period yet. I didn’t come again until January of this year and that was supposed to be the last time until July of next year. But it didn’t turn out that way.

I’ll back up.

I had been ruminating on how I’d mark this personally significant date (kinda like my independence from orgasms or something), but I never found the time over the busy holiday to sit down and do it. At Belle’s instruction, I brought the condoms and lidocaine with us to the northern retreat so she could enjoy the penis freely and I expected to be let out for that purpose at some point. She did let me out, but we didn’t do anything other than the usual stuff, though she did let me fuck her one morning and it was grand. We fucked like teenagers. Wildly and energetically and the whole time I was enjoying wanting so badly to come but being refused the right. I begged and cajoled. I bargained and justified. But no. It was good. It was how things are supposed to be. I was totally under her control.

I didn’t pressure Belle to use the lidocaine so as the last morning away from home dawned, I figured she just never wanted to give it a shot. As we laid there in bed, Belle started to run her finger along the length of the penis and around my inner thighs and around my nuts. It felt great. The erectile tissue did it’s thing and she wrapped her hand all the way around the hard shaft and started to pump. I splayed out, back arched, and lost myself in the feeling of her pleasuring me. I didn’t think she’d keep going for very long so I didn’t do any of my internal stuff to hold back the inevitable. She was really pumping and I was getting closer but I still didn’t try and stop anything since she wasn’t going to let me come (I thought). Suddenly, I realized I was very close and I said something to her about it. I made it quite clear where I was. She kept pumping.

Inside, the rabbit was appalled. Horrified. This was not supposed to happen. But the lizard, remembering the 17-year-old style fucking from the previous morning and the short leash and tight collar it’s been made to suffer though, was triumphant. He knocked my higher brain offline and rode the crest of the orgasm up and over the explosion of chemicals that seemed to hit every part of my sensory system simultaneously.

It hurt, I came so hard. I can’t say it was enjoyable. It was too intense. But the bubble had been burst. A real fucking orgasm, dreamy dopey hangover and all. Belle commented on how little ejaculate there was, but she hadn’t really been stroking me that long. This wasn’t as much a shot as it was an implosion. I laid there, stunned into paralysis, and felt the great billowing sail of my denial deflate inside my chest. Not sorrowfully. I refused to let myself think of it that way. Belle whispered something about how that was a demonstration of how I wasn’t in control of anything. When I could move again, I snuggled into her and wrapped my arms and legs around as much of her as possible.

Did I want to come? Of course. Desperately. Would I have chosen to come if she had asked my preference? Maybe. Am I glad I did now? Um…I dunno. Like I said, I’m trying not to think of it as a good or bad thing. I’m trying to think of it as analogous to when she hits my balls. Sometimes, I don’t like it. It’s not what I want at that moment. But I take it because it’s a symbol of my lack of control. That’s what this was, I suppose. What does this mean to the previously expressed July 2014 date? No idea.

Typically, I find I need two orgasms after a long denial to feel really sated. The first one is horribly intense and over the top. The second on is fanfuckingtastic. Then I’m totally out of the game for a week or more. This time, she locked me back up within 24 hours. I didn’t want the device. I wanted to stay out. The other shoe hadn’t been dropped. I wasn’t really in the zone, but I could feel the lizard sitting expectantly on the rabbit’s head. Last night, as Belle slept, I was laying there with my hand on my balls and hard, hard tube and yearning to be out. The device felt especially cruel. I wasn’t in subspace at all. I was in horny needy male space. That’s a different thing. She sensed my different attitude before dinner and asked where my usual subbie persona was. “Wiped off my stomach and into a dirty sock,” I said.

Today, I still feel like I’m in kind of a nether zone. Not what I usually feel. Not bad, just different. I am really horny. I mean, horny. Crudely so. My balls tingle and ache a little. I am not a fan of the steel between my legs. It’s a weird combination of things. Regardless of how it feels or how much I like it, it is an excellent demonstration of what Belle said she wanted it to be. I am not in control of my own sex in any way.

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Lido-can

Thumper's sex kitI’ve experimented with Lidocaine before with some success (that is, if you define “success” as having an erection you can’t feel and won’t come), but never with Belle. It was fun to play with it while masturbating, but I’m not allowed to do that anymore so it was just basically sitting around in the bathroom drawer. Since I haven’t been able to satisfy Belle with the penis in the way she wants lately (and have been feeling guilt commensurate with that failure), I thought it was time to try it with her.

This post contains an NSFW image, so keep clicking if you want to hear the rest of the story…

Continue reading “Lido-can”