Tag: orgasm denial

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Riding the thermals

I like porn as much as the next guy. I probably look at it more than the next guy my age since I’m unable to get myself to the place where it loses its appeal temporarily. Orgasmically speaking, I’m like a bird catching thermals. Spiral spiral spiral UP…spiral spiral spiral UP…always on the move, never resting.

I pay a lot of attention to the stuff that gets me off turns me on. Different things at different times. Sure, there’s the gender thing. Some days women are more appealing than men. But also scenarios. Women dominating men. Women being serviced. Men dominantating men/being serviced. Some days it’s just boobs that really get me going. Some days it’s just penises. Or men fucking women. I mean, this is all pretty basic, but what I’m saying is since I never “complete” a session with porn and only stop looking at it when I run out of time, I can pick up on how the texture of what I react to changes. It’s interesting. Well, to me anyway.

Some days, like yesterday, it’s men having orgasms that gets me. Specifically, close ups of men jacking off and then spewing their loads, thick and ropy, right into the camera and/or all over themselves. And when I say “gets me” I mean “leaves me staring slack-jawed.” The way a reformed smoker probably watches someone in a bar light up. Mesmerizing.

And I could feel it. The way it was to come whenever I wanted. Whenever I had the barest inclination to do so. How a guy can almost pull one out anywhere there’s a bit of privacy. At work. At the gym. In an airplane. That sensation of gripping a hard cock and how it felt in my hand and how as I got closer to coming I’d get up on my toes (if I was standing), eyes half closed, and then that breathless, weightless moment right after the point of no return and before the ejaculate slams past the prosate. Gasping. Moaning. Warmth.

Usually, I don’t miss it. Or I enjoy missing it. But sometimes, rarely, I miss it. I want it. I need it. It leaves a hole in me.

But it’s been so long since I can do it whenever I want that I find what I think it feels like and what it actually does doesn’t match. I imagine the penis feeling more substantial in my hand (to match the porn, I guess). Thicker. Longer strokes. And I can’t jack it or come without a sincere wave of guilt. And even if I could, it doesn’t last. I can’t savor it. Like the cigarette, once lit, is totally consumed in the first drag.

So I watch the men with their nice dicks do their thing and shoot their loads like a former fat kid pressing his face against the donut case glass. Wanting. Salivating. Jealous. But that’s all. Nothing more. Because there’s nothing more for me to do. If I ever had that kind of access to my own body again — to my own pleasure — it would mean I’d have lost so much that it would probably leave me sad.

But, you know. I’d still do it.

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Work those glutes

Belle’s been gone for about ten days now on her trip and doesn’t get back until day after tomorrow. Usually, when she’s gone, I get kinda rabidly horny and, perhaps not coincidentally, sleep gets harder to find. But, except for just one night about a week ago, I’ve been sleeping well on this trip. And, until the past few days, I haven’t been all that horny.

But WOW all of a sudden. I guess it may have started on Friday. I had a massage scheduled and, as usual, I was locked up. I busted out my emergency key and got all the way undressed for the rubbing and laid face-down on the warm table. The masseuse I see is incredible. About the best I’ve ever had. Chief among his attributes, besides his strong hands, is how he happily works my glutes. Once the shoulders and back are done, he lifts the heavy sheet up exposing one whole leg to the waist and tucks it under. Then he goes to town. Oh, mama, does he.

And, honestly, I’m helpless. There’s just no way I’m going to be able to lay there impassively as he rubs my ass and runs his stong hand along the crease of my ass cheek and down my inner thigh (and I may have gotten him to do that a bit more by complaining of a sore hamstring). He must get within a half inch of my balls when he does that. Whimper, for fuck’s sake. So he does each leg in turn then asks me to flip over. Then asks me to flip over. I let myself enjoy the first side and my mind wanders and things do what they’re supposed to do but when he switches to the other side I have to start thinking about taxes or something. I mean, I know that errant boners are a professional inevitability for someone in his field and I’m not going to lose any sleep showing a bit of chub through the sheet as he’s sitting up by my head to work my shoulders and neck, but I don’t want to be pitching a fucking tent. Friday, I was somewhere in between. The hard-on wouldn’t have been elevated above my stomach had it been exposed, but it was definitely…there. And then he does this thing right at the end where he pushes down on my hips and rubs the top of my thighs through the sheet and he get’s really close to the package. If I were a normal boy, I’d probably wank one out in the bathroom before heading over there but I’m not so I don’t.

But I was good. I put the Steelheart back on as I dressed, but the shadowy nature of the room and the slight rush I was under trying to beat the erection that was rapidly developing had me put it on wrong in a way I don’t think I’ve ever done before. Usually, the PA fixing goes through the PA ring but I missed that somehow so the PA wasn’t secure. I had no idea until Sunday night when I realized the discomfort I was feeling in there was due to the PA fixing pushing the PA ring in ways it’s not supposed to. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to take the Steelheart off since Belle wanted me locked but it was heading in a direction where things were going to be hurt if I didn’t address it. In fact, there were already sore spots developing that I know from experience need to be allowed to breath more than they get to in the solid tube. The solution was pretty obvious.

Since I still had the key (no numbered tag being provided before Belle left and me being unable to find one), I simply switched to the Looker 02. So that’s where I am today. A day or so should be enough to be able to get back into the Steelheart and, since that’s Belle’s favorite and the one she left me in, I’ll swap back into that tomorrow morning.

So I felt the horniness growing over the weekend. Sunday I woke up and groped and clawed at the Steelheart in that way. This morning I was able to have some quality alone time with just me and a few carefully chosen inanimate objects and was left sweaty and panting and significantly distracted. Cruising the Nifty Archives and finding a story that hits all kinds of my buttons hard didn’t help. Or maybe it did. Depends on your perspective, I guess.

Being the exceptionally well-trained and obedient rabbit that I am, I never entertained any ideas of using the key and letting myself out. Even though I could warp my almost-injury into a valid excuse. Because if I had, I know I’d eventually have my hand wrapped around the hard penis and then I’d feel worse than rabidly horny. I’d feel guilt. Guilt isn’t sexy. Not in the slightest.

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Counting the stages and keeping my mouth shut

About a week ago, I tweeted…

Which pretty much sums up how it works most of the time. I can get to the point where I want to come so badly that I start at the second stage and only find my way to stage three about four hours later, but most days not. We can call them the three stages of denial.

But maybe there’s a fourth. See, Stage 1 there, “I hope she doesn’t let me come,” doesn’t even activate until she hands me the key to the Steelheart. It’s like the penis is a tiny Dr. Evil frozen away in its orbiting Bob’s Big Boy. Out of sight, out of mind. So really, the first question is whether the penis even gets out.

This morning, Belle didn’t let it out. It’s usually the case that the little Dr. Evil defrosts on Saturday mornings we’re not doing anything in particular. It gets let out, I get her off, then I stick it in, but she decided to leave it be today. On the one hand, I like getting out. A lot. More than I crave orgasm at any given moment, I crave sensation from the penis. Feeling her hand on it, feeling it hard and free, pressed against her, rubbing against her skin, sliding into her hot wetness. Just feeling. The Steelheart provides both no sensation in that when I touch it and grab it and claw at it all my hand feels is perfectly smooth, numb hardness that never changes but then, on the inside, it’s high pressure. Intense, consistent, unyielding resistance to my excitement. So yeah, having an erection that can be touched and feels good is something I look forward to.

But I also don’t think I deserve to be unlocked. Being locked is the default. Being unlocked is the exception. Not a treat or a reward or whatever. I hate it when I expect to be unlocked. I’d rather assume it’s not going to happen and be pleasantly surprised when it does than the opposite. Of course, when she wants it out, it should come out. It’s entirely up to her. I just don’t want her considering me and my cravings in that decision. I don’t want her to be nice to me just because.

So when I wrote that tweet last week, it was after we fucked and I didn’t get to come. Which, being solidly in Stage 3, was a relief. But when I was in her and sliding the penis in and out and losing myself to the amazing feeling of that the intensity of Stage 2 made me say to her how badly I wanted to come. I immediately felt bad for saying it. After, I apologized.

The thing is, there’s no reason for me to tell her. None. Because it doesn’t fucking matter. If I say anything about coming, one way or the other, I’m trying to influence her and that’s bullshit. Especially when the fucking penis is inside her at the time. If she wants me to, she’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Maybe I want to, maybe I don’t. Who cares. That’s the deal. I don’t come until I do and I don’t whine.

Maybe a part of me just wants her to know, “OMG, I’m so being denied right now!” but, of course, she knows that. But another part of me, the part that sits way down my brain stem and acts more than it thinks, is trying to put its finger on the scale of her decision. Maybe she’s considering it and by saying something it’ll cause her to lean towards letting it happen. I hate that part of me. That I can’t always keep it stifled. I’ve spent a long time learning how to keep it as far away as possible from the button that makes me come. Now I just need to learn to keep it from my mouth.

Orgasm denial and enforced chastity all boils down to managing conflicting urges and desires. I want to fuck you but don’t let me out, GAH coming would be awesome, I better not tell her. WHY DID YOU TELL HER!? Lock me back up, no keep me out, be nice to me, BE MEAN TO ME. Seriously, it’s stuff like this that makes me think being a top would be exhausting work. Subs are annoyingly complicated. We’re lucky anyone puts up with us.

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I come when she wants me to

Belle doesn’t like it when I think about how long it’s been since I last came. She doesn’t care for record keeping or counting days or recognizing feats of endurance or anything like that. I come when she wants me to, period. When did I last come? When she wanted me to.

But I have it bad today. Real bad. She let me fuck her this morning after she came and it felt incredible and I really enjoyed it and once again totally psyched myself into thinking she was going to let me go all the way. I got close and slowed down and thought, sure, she’s just dragging it out. Enjoying it. So I let the orgasm retreat and I shifted position and kept my breathing steady before picking up the pace again. Oh my GOD it was wonderful and I was very grateful she was making me wait because it was so much better and I felt myself closing in on it again but she wasn’t saying anything so I again did what I had to do to let it fall back. When I resumed, it was at a pace that would culminate with orgasm. This time she’d let me and it would be amazing and my head would explode and I’d shoot a ton so she’d overflow with it and FUCK it was going to be the best thing ever and wow it wasn’t taking long before I felt like I was getting close again.

I looked at her as I fucked her. She looked back.

“What?” she asked.

Oh, FUCKING HELL.

“OK, time to stop, Thumpie.”

A palpable sense of loss flooded up. I wasn’t going to come and it pained me to know it. I was seriously on the verge of tears. I wanted it so badly. It was right there. So close, but still behind her iron gate. Not going to happen. If she had said I could, it would only take two and half thrusts to get there. But she wasn’t going to say it and all I could do was collapse into her neck and feel the lizard coil up hard inside me, bitter with disappointment that flowered after being planted in a fertile expectation to which it had no right.

I made a small, defeated noise. She thought it was funny. She sniggered. I whimpered.

And now I’m sitting here typing and still wishing I could come. I still feel the need and it’s distracting and consuming and driving me crazy. I read back on the blog and found the last real orgasm I had even though she doesn’t like me to think about it. July 7th. So we’re just over two months. Record is nine. She wouldn’t think two is that much. That I could do more. Also, stop counting. Stop thinking about it. You come when I want you to. That last time you came was when I wanted you to and the next time will be when I want you to. When will that be? Stop thinking about it.

If I was locked up right now, I don’t think I’d be worrying about it as much. The physical presence of the steel restrains me physically as well as psychically. If I were locked up, it’d free me to think about other things. Oh, I’d still think about wanting to come, but it’d allow room for other things to sneak in. But being free means I’m consumed by my desire. It pushes everything else out.

I need to be locked up. Right now. But Belle’s not here and I’m not feeling like I have the willpower to do it myself. God, I want to come so bad. I crave it like nothing else. But I don’t need to come. It’s probably best if I don’t. And I clearly don’t deserve it.

Not that it matters. I come when she wants me to.

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Saturdayish

Belle and I got to go out to breakfast by ourselves this morning. The kids were both still sleeping like the dead/teenage years so off we went with the New York Times to a little French place in Uptown.

Prior to that, we had been laying in bed wrapped around one another and being groggy and wonderfully Saturdayish. I was pretty hard up and she just started her period so my prospects weren’t very good, but did I mention how hard up I was? Normally, the Steelheart would have been biting hard, but I’ve been wearing it with its original 45mm ring which is too big to bite (though, on the downside, when also worn with my 4ga PA ring, it’s not unlike a cowbell hung around my balls). My pathetic whimpering caused her to asked what I wanted.

Ooo, what I wanted. I wanted to jack off. I really did. I wanted to get the Steelheart off and jack off in front of her until I almost came, then stop letting the ejaculate splurt weakly out of the hard penis in a ruined orgasm. That’s what I wanted. But I felt bad saying it.

“I want to jack off.”

Ugh. OK, I guess I can live with feeling bad.

“There’s no chance that’s going to happen.”

“OK. Sorry.”

More snuggling, more attempted hard-on, more smelling her hair.

“I could jack you off,” I said helpfully. Sure, she was on her period, but I knew my way around that snatch and could get plenty done regardless.

“You’ll have go close the door.” So, you know what happened next. God, I love feeling her come. I love her hard nipples in my mouth and my finger on her clit and my face in her neck when it’s all over and she’s basking. And, as usual, as soon as it was over, I felt the penis start to lose its pressurization. Stupid fucking penis. Then she left me to stew.

So yeah, anyway, off to breakfast. When the food came, she asked me about my impending trip with Drew to visit Steelwerks in Montreal. She was asking about the hotel and looked it up on her phone to see where it was. We talked about what would happen there and then segued into chitchat about another dominant male who reached out to me via Facebook and what I thought of that. You know, what every other married couple talks about over breakfast. If I started to clam up, she prodded me to say more making sure I was aware she was perfectly comfortable talking about such things (yes, that’s for you, reader who assumes I’m still dragging Belle by her hair into my depravity).

The travel security has been figured out. I’ll go to the airport unlocked and take the Steelheart through the TSA checkpoint and put it on as soon as I’m on the other side. It’ll stay on until we’re either on our way to the airport again or we’re there and heading toward security. While visiting Steelwerks, I’m going to get measured for a device though we have no immediate plans to get one. Figure I might as well not waste the opportunity. The trip there is really for Drew and Axel and their needs, not me and Belle.

Even though it’ll be fascinating seeing the Steelwerks production facility and getting a behind the scenes view of where easily the most beautifully handcrafted chastity devices are made, I’m still struggling with my issues of separation anxiety. I know the trip will be fun and interesting, but I get anxious thinking about it and feel the need to cleave to her all the harder. I was feeling it last time I left her for a week, but she let me come the morning I was leaving and, like magic, 84% of the anxiety fell away. It’s clearly hormonal. I can rationalize it all I want but I can’t stop feeling it. Can’t stop the fluttery insecurity that builds in my chest when I think of being away from her. I think a big part of my sleeping issues lately have been because of this (not just the trip with Drew, but another week-long venture later in the month).

I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to come. Not really at all. Yes, of course, I have a huge urge to orgasm, but that’s not the same thing. Belle thinks I should see someone. Not sure what I’d say. “Yeah, my wife controls my orgasm and hardly ever lets me have them so I’m unnaturally attached to her…that’s OK, right?”

Pfft. It’ll be fine. I’ll get over it.

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Sleepytown trolly

“I’m going to help you sleep tonight.”

I’ve been struggling with sleep for the past few days. A bought of denial-induced insomnia.

“How?”

“By letting you give me an orgasm.”

Unf. “I don’t think that’ll help me sleep.”

“What would?”

“You letting me come.”

Snort. “That’s not going to happen.”

Whimper.

“You don’t want to come anyway.”

Whine.

“Say it. ‘Belle Fille, I don’t want you to let me come.'”

Whimper again. Squirm.

“SAY IT.”

Quietly, “I don’t want to you to let me come, Belle Fille.” It was truth, but being forced to say it was like a high heel grinding my inner sub into a tight, hard corner. The kind of space where it’s most content.

“Of course you don’t. You want to get me off and then, because my orgasm is your orgasm, you’ll get sleepy after and fall asleep.”

I had my doubts. Especially when she started talking about her “boyfriend” and how he’d never say anything like that to her. That he and his big cock always came. All I could do was whimper into her nipple as she said these things and I fingered her clit and thought about this mythical alpha male who’d likely laugh at the locked penis and the way she kept me.

“I’m going to make you work for this one, Thumpie. I’m going to enjoy myself.”

URRRRRGH.

It did take a while. She got wetter and I kept sucking and fingering but I never felt her start to get close. Eventually, she took over her own tits and was tweaking and twisting her nipples while I watched and kept my finger on her snatch, rubbing and flicking and penetrating in all the ways I know, through hours and hours of practice like a musician knows his instrument, she liked best. Even that wasn’t enough for her and she got her vibrator and gave it to me but quickly took it back leaving me nothing more than a spectator to her self-pleasuring.

She came, slowly and deeply, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel her pussy clench against my fingers or her back arch or any of the waves of ecstasy that go with her orgasm. I didn’t share it. I heard it and saw it, but I didn’t know it like I usually do. It didn’t go through me. I was just the fluffler that got her into position.

Of course, I don’t begrudge her anything. We have sex so she can come, always, and however she wants. We never have sex so I can come. Whatever we do, if it’s what she wanted, is what we should have done and I don’t have a right to take issue with any of it. She’s right that even though I may crave my own orgasm I never want her to give it to me. I don’t need any orgasms. I only get them when she wants to feel me come in her. Even that can feel more about her than me.

She was left drained by her effort and its successful culmination and I was left pretty much as I was before. Tired but not sleepy and now that much more wired and trying to push images of her and another man out of my mind. She fell asleep quickly and I tried but couldn’t connect with it. I kept thinking and tossing and feeling separation angst (I have some trips coming up) all the while trying to keep sexual images and thoughts as far away as possible.

At about 11:30, I got up and took the last Tylenol PM in the house. I don’t like taking it but I could feel the kind of panic in me that usually unspools into zero hours of sleep. Then I went in the living room and read more of the book I’m getting through. By 12:30, the pill was taking over and I was yawning. I sent back to the bedroom, stripped, crawled in next to her, and tried to get on the road to Sleepytown.

Eventually, I did.

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Regression towards the mean

I’m not going to say I feel 100% normal in the wake of whatever the fuck made me sick a couple weeks ago, but I’m getting there. Went for a run this morning before it got too hot and, while I didn’t make the full distance, I was able to manage 3.5 miles at a reasonable pace before wussing out. Also, there’s this…

Which is not to say I’d be any more fun now than I was when Drew was here last week, but I can tell things are returning to normal. The percentage of images on Tumblr featuring men that make me withdraw like a snail with a poked eye stalk are down to about 23% (even when I’m my most biflexipanful, it never goes much below 13% — there’s some crazy shit on the Tumblr).

I kinda made a joke about it, but not being into all the genders for that little while was unsettling. I felt like one of my senses had been lost. Like a superhero without my superpower. I like being bisexual and love the equal opportunity nature of my nature and to feel half of it go dark like that wasn’t much fun. But stuff like this is starting to do it for me again, so the kryptonite or whatever is apparently off my neck now.

Belle and I had some nice sex this weekend, though she wouldn’t let me out for it yesterday. That was as she intended — frustrating. She teased me by stroking my balls and slapping them around a little while I sucked and licked her nipples. The cage was biting hard as she came under my fingers and knowing I wasn’t going to feel that hot wetness around me burned.

Today, she let me out and played with the free penis a little which was enough to make me melt with pleasure. Only when you can’t feel your penis will you truly appreciate how wonderful it can make you feel when touched by another hand. Being inside her felt like pure liquid pleasure. I’m so focused on her pussy now. Once that device comes off, it’s all I can do to keep my hips from homing in on hers.

I hoped like fuck, as she was approaching her orgasm, that she’d let me come. I so wanted it. Wholly and completely. When I got inside her, I slowed when I felt it coming since she hadn’t told me to do otherwise but the second time, I blurted it out.

“I want to come so bad.”

Without a second’s pause, “No.”

That led to a momentary burst of intensity in my fucking, but I also immediately started to feel guilty that I said it. So much so that the penis started to lose its internal pressurization. It still felt amazing, but my blatant disregard for the rules of the dynamic ruined my vibe. I stopped of my own volition and rolled off of her.

“I’m sorry.”

“There was a time,” she said, “when you’d say that and I’d feel a pang of guilt and it would leave me conflicted. But not anymore. Not at all. When I let you come, it’s because I want you to. When I don’t, it’s because I don’t want you to.”

And that, my friends, is what true denial is like. I wanted to come. Still do. But she wasn’t having any of it. I come when she wants, not when I want. Thanks to upcoming time apart, it’s highly unlikely I’ll have another chance to do it for three more weeks. And that’s just the way it is.

After she left the room, I put the Steelheart back on. I hadn’t been out for even an hour and spending some time without it would have been nice, but I felt as though I didn’t really deserve the free time and also felt a free penis would be too much of a distraction. When she felt the hard tube in my pants, she approved, called me a good boy, and I kissed her. Madly and deeply.

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Waiting the sick out

Like I said yesterday, I was sick last week. The kind of sick that for the first few days was just a little more tired than usual and some odd muscle aches that could have been chalked up to over-exertion at the gym but blossomed into a full-on feverish total-body festival of pain anchored by a complete collapse of my digestive tract. At least I never barfed. Man, I hate that. Once the worst of it had passed, the achy mildly feverish clammy and baby kitten weak stuff hung around. For days. And days. Besides the physical issues, the entire experience left me feeling emotionally wrecked. Nasty stuff.

In the midst of everything, as Belle was in New York, I felt an irresistible urge to rid myself of the Steelheart. I staggered out of bed and went to my bag where I (usually) keep the emergency key. But it wasn’t there. I turned the bag inside out looking and cursing and probing all the little nooks and crevasses knowing it had to be there and expecting to feel it at every second, but it wasn’t to be found. Then I stumbled back to the bedroom and looked in my drawer, then back to the living room to look in my little change/junk/headphones/European coin bowl. No dice.

URGH.

Not happy, though I did have enough sense to know that once I was well again the idea of being totally trapped in the steel would likely be kinda hot. But at this point, it was the total polar opposite of hot. Icy death cold, it was. And it bummed me out.

Then I remembered. I took a different bag to LA with Drew and I know I had the key with me then though I never used it. I found that bag (which I thought I emptied) and there was the key. Whew. Fucking whew, I say. I took the device off and promptly failed to have anything like an erection for 96 hours.

Belle got home by the end of the week and then Saturday rolled around and it was something like three weeks since we had sex. But I didn’t want any. I was the least sexy feeling person in the world. But Belle did so we did. More or less. I did my nipple sucking and clit fingering thing and she had an apparently nice orgasm and, as hard to believe as it was, I had a boner so she invited me aboard. I think we fucked for about 32 seconds. Between me getting lightheaded from the exertion and her wincing from her still-tender horse-abused ribs, it was hardly a Penthouse Forums moment. But I got the penis wet.

We did a little better the next morning, but I still would have been perfectly satisfied not having sex. Besides the physical weakness, I just didn’t have the urge. But, again, she wanted it and that’s what it’s for, so have it we did. I was again invited to fuck her and was able to get to the point where I was almost going to come, so I stopped. But I still felt like I was about to come. But I stopped! But I still felt like I was going to come so I continued to be adamantly and very intently STOPPED. But it didn’t matter. Maybe eight or ten seconds after, I kinda sorta came anyway. Three undulating slugs of the stuff, all run together and shooting on their own with little muscular prodding. Like, it just sort of rolled out of me. Not just a squirt. This had intent behind it. Like an orgasm developed sentience and self-will and told me to fuck off. Belle thought it was fascinating and I thought it was awful. It felt like 60% of an orgasm. Kinda fun, not great, without much of the post-orgasmic chemical bang.

At some point over the weekend, I told Belle Drew was coming on Monday. I felt bad about this because besides being not really in the mood for sex in general, my mood for the kind of sex I have with Drew (you know, teh gay sex) was less than zero. My whole life, the bisexual part of me that finds men attractive and sex with them stimulating has ebbed and flowed. For the most part, since I’ve been seeing Drew, it’s flowed during his visits and the times when it was ebbing, it wasn’t ebbing dramatically or enough for me to be unable to perform. But this time, that shit had ebbed so far out to sea, it was barely visible as a little speck way off on the horizon. This was an old school ebb and I wasn’t just disinterested in sex with a guy, I felt like what it must be like to be straight. Just…ew.

This is not, it should be noted, a reflection upon Drew. It’s how I feel about all men at the moment. It’s the kind of dramatic swing that drove me crazy as a young person. How could I be so fucking turned on by men on a Tuesday and repulsed by them on the following Friday? WTF? And I say “repulsed” but that’s too strong. I’m not repulsed by Drew. He’s a friend, etc. But touch him? No thank you. Stay right over there.

And yeah, that made me feel terrible. He comes all the way up here, leaving Axel behind and taking away from their limited time together to see me and that all by itself can freak me out. But this time I wanted nothing to do with him as he wanted to do with me. We could still share a meal and talk and all that, but I felt a bright white line around me. Do not cross. Poor Drew.

Twenty years ago, I’d be all like, “Whew! Finally got that boy thing out of my system! Man, what was that all about?” Now I know it’s a cycle. The moon will come back ’round. And Drew knows, too. So he was relatively understanding and demonstrated the patience one in his position must have when seeing someone like me on the side.

At one point in talking to Belle about this, I said something about his expectations and how I had tried to temper them and this and that and eventually said something like, “You know, it’s not like I’m in a relationship with him.”

And she shot back, “You are in a relationship with him!” And of course, she’s right. I am, of a sort. Not the usual kind. But it is one. As creeped out as that leaves the currently ascendant dumb straight guy part of me, it’s 100% true.

So this trip was, from a sex standpoint, a bust for him. And, as I’ve said, I feel bad about that. But, as I’m sure he’d say, it was still a good trip and it was nice to have a chance to talk about all the things it’s hard to discuss when there’s a dick in my mouth. At some point, I’ll be ready for him again. In the meantime, I’ll try and stop thinking about how squicked out his stubble felt on my neck as he hugged me goodbye.

Prior to his arrival, Belle made me go back in the Steelheart. I didn’t want it and thought if Drew hadn’t been coming that I’d whine and wimper and try to beg out of it. But he was coming so I had to.

In bed, I said, “I really don’t want this thing on me.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.

“It doesn’t matter what you want anyway.”

Swoon.

And then, “You know you’ll be feeling all subby and thanking me for locking it on you in a few days. Don’t you?”

Grrr. “Yes.” Sigh. “Yes, I do.”

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Confidence game

Pursuant to my last post, Belle got home from her trip pretty horny. She was still on SoCal time so didn’t feel like going to sleep at her usual hour, though I also wasn’t sure she wanted to have sex. She knew I was pretty turned on because it was a day starting with a consonant but I just laid there and let her pet my head and back for a while and didn’t push it. Then she told me to close the door.

By the time I was back to the bed, she was naked. She told me I wasn’t getting out and I probably whimpered. As soon as I touched her snatch, I found her to be soaking wet. Not kind of turned on and ready to go wet. Fucking dripping wet. As if we’d been messing around for an hour instead of just starting. I moaned into the nipple in my mouth and sank my fingers into her heat.

Really, all I can say if UNF. I wanted her badly but I wasn’t getting out. The Steelheart bit down hard as my fingers and mouth made her squirm and moan and whisper dirty little things into the top of my head.

She came awfully hard. I wanted to bite her nipple I was so turned on. She could tell. She knew how bad I was. She just told me it was good for me. It was the best thing for me. Though I wouldn’t admit it, it was what I wanted.

There is nothing sexier in the whole fucking world than confidence.