Yesterday I spent an inordinate amount of time in my company’s conference room. Due to the nature of my job, I’m often subjected to serial meetings that can leave me in there for hours at a time (which is why, when we remodeled the office, I spent so much time and money on it).
Anyway, near the end of the meeting train, I got up to throw something away. The chairs around the conference table were all discombobulated and made a bit of an obstacle course for me to thread my way through. Most of the chairs are your standard conference table kind with padded seats and plastic backs, but we also have three stainless steel desk chairs with higher than average backs like you’d find in the 40’s and 50’s in there for overflow. One of these was standing between me and the trash receptacle as I slid sideways to the trash and…
CLANG
The Looker 02 knocked against the back of that chair far more noisily than I would have expected. The chair rang out like a bell at the contact (can’t imagine how loud being knocked by the Steelheart would have been). There were a few stragglers in there from the last meeting and the noise made one of them jump (though I’m sure all of them heard it). She looked up at me quizzically. I just moved the chair out of my way and paid her no attention (though maybe I was blushing just a bit).
Such are the everyday issues wearing steel on one’s dick.
I got back to civilization late Saturday night after a very long drive. Along the way, I stopped for lunch at a Wendy’s with a particularly squalid restroom whose only attribute was that it was private. Once ensconced, I placed the Looker 02 back where it belongs. I am not above diddling with the penis on long drives and the farther I got from the woods the more it was on my mind.
The next morning, Belle decided she didn’t want any steel on the penis and instructed me to remove it. She then let me fuck her and it was fantastic. I recall wondering at some point whether she was going to let me come and I realized I didn’t actually have a preference. On the one hand, not coming would be great. On the other, coming would be, too. Once realized, I just let myself enjoy the pussy time safe in the knowledge that I’d end up however she wanted.
She wanted me to come. This time, unlike the past several, it demonstrated every bit of the word orgasmic. Wonderful and 100% guilt-free.
Next morning, the L02 was back. Where it is now and where it was when I slid too close to that metal chair.
On the subject of the significance of a chastity device, I just said:
Of course, it is a sex toy. But the “only” part doesn’t really do it justice. It’s a sex toy that represents something larger. It represents a level of commitment equal to, say, a collar in any other D/s dynamic. While it’s hard to wear a collar in public, it’s relatively easy to wear a chastity device. I think the drive to find the perfect device that can be worn in all situations and at all times stems from those who, like me, see it both as a physical restraint ensuring her control and as a symbolic expression of how significant and profound the changes wrought by denial and chastity can be on a relationship.
I’m thinking hard on this today (pardon the pun) since I’m about to take off on a week away from Belle in the wilderness. She’s let me out this time around (though I’ve done it before locked up). Sometimes I don’t want the device on. I like being free. More often, I don’t. Part of that is driven by the unique Venn diagram of kinks that makes up who I am but it’s more than that.
There are two ways one can integrate chastity into their lives. One is purely tactical. That is, they wear a device during a specific scene but don’t all the rest of the time. I’d guess these guys typically come at the end of their play. The other way is more strategic. That is, the device is employed as part of something larger. Neither is right or wrong or better than another, obviously. Also, I admit to simplifying. There’s as many ways to do sex as there are people.
In any event, ours is the strategic approach. Belle locks me up because that’s how we live in our D/s dynamic and we both like how being locked up and not having regular orgasms changes my personality and the way that improves our relationship. I’ve given her this control over me and, even though there’s this steel thing involved, being true to our dynamic is mostly in my hands. That is, I could cheat. I could find ways. I could come without her knowing. But I don’t. I’ve made a significant commitment to her. She decides when I come and when the penis is free.
The way we do it is in conjunction with our healthy marriage. It’s not a pathway to a healthy marriage. You don’t fix your relationship with chastity. You get to do chastity because you’re relationship is already fixed.
I take my commitment to her very seriously. That’s why I find so much significance in the devices she locks onto me. As I said, they’re both physical and symbolic. Not unlike a wedding ring. In the same way I feel naked without my wedding ring, I feel naked (most of the time) without her device locked onto me. I resent not being able to wear it.
In a comment to my last post, Tom called out those guys who wear their devices into gym showers, etc. I don’t think that’s cool, personally, but I do understand the desire to let the world know about my commitment to Belle and our relationship. I think that’s human nature. I’d guess a lot of these locked-up gym goers are exposing their states for different reasons, but there’s a big part of me what wishes we didn’t live in society where chastity and what it can represent is so…weird.
Anyway, I won’t be in any device, but I will try keeping the old locking cock ring on while I’m gone. Not at all the same experience, but the symbology is the same. At least to me.
Over the weekend, Belle let me come the way I’ve been waiting for. As I said, each of the previous recent opportunities have been less than optimal from my point of view. Sunday, she let me have the full meal deal.
After waking up, she got the key as she suggested she might the morning before when I got her off but stayed in the Looker 02. Once out of it (and it out of me), I felt a great surge of desire for her that always seems to be associated with the sensation of a full and unencumbered erection. Knowing that she like to be “taken” on occasion, I assumed the role of the traditional aggressive male sex partner and, while kissing her passionately, started to push down her pajama bottoms. Usually, I’d wait for her to take them off as a sign of what I was to do next, but not this time.
The top quickly followed the bottoms and as soon as she was fully naked, I climbed up on her and wrapped my arm around her neck and shoulders and pushed the hard penis into her as far as it would go. She made no objection. Instead, I heard appreciative sounds escape her lips as we roughly fucked.
I fucked her as I wanted to fuck. I fucked like a guy taking his partner. I fucked as if for me, but really it was for her. I fucked until I got too close to coming, then I backed off. Once. Twice. Three times. Then…
“Spill it, Thumper,” she whispered.
The gates opened with three or four strokes. I pumped a full and satisfying load into her. So many productive surges. Six? Eight? I left her brimming with me.
Then the effects of a real orgasm hit me. Drowsiness. Lethargy. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. So much more powerful than the little echos of orgasm I feel after she comes. A warm blanket wrapped around my brain as she got up to retrieve Pink. I laid next to her, eyes closed, and heard and felt the buzz of the little vibrator finishing her off. I played no part.
I was ready to go again within an hour. Not just feeling “OK, I could fuck,” but, “I NEED TO FUCK.” Surprising, really. She wanted me back in the Looker 02 the next morning so that’s where I am now, but I don’t feel like I just had a great orgasm. I feel like I’ve been denied for weeks. In the shower after some morning Tumbln’, my balls felt heavy and swollen. Last night, while trying to fall asleep, the L02 was so obviously there. In only the way that particular device can be.
I leave town this Friday for a week in the woods. After that, Belle’s in NYC. Who knows how long it’ll be before I get to go inside her again or I’m allowed to get her off. I don’t and that’s just how it should be.
Belle: It was wrong of you to ask yesterday.
Me: I know.
Belle: But I may make you. How do you feel about that?
Me: It’s up to you.
Belle: Say that again.
Me: It’s entirely up to you, Belle Fille.
Belle: Don’t ever forget that.
She continued on telling me that this was for her. Not me. She wanted to feel it, not give it to me. A little while later, after I had warmed her up in the usual ways, she was on top of me and I had her tits in my face. I was twenty miles from coming, then five miles, then 100 yards, then three inches all in about four seconds. While I was coming, she kissed me all over my face.
The last time I came, it was spectacular. This time, pathetic. No, seriously. Like, half an orgasm (volume-wise, as well – just a little spurt). I was ready, mentally, but apparently not physically. It’s not how I would have chosen to come (with her on top) but, as I said, it’s entirely up to her.
She hadn’t come yet so she rolled off of me and finished herself off with Pink while I listened and played with her nipples. Last night, she checked in with me to see how I was doing. In truth, I’ve been in a bit of a funk for a little over a week. Not too horny, not really jamming on the denial thing. She had let me out and I had been that way for five days or so, but that’s not what caused it. I didn’t really care if I was out or in (but, perhaps due to the pathetic orgasm, I have resisted being locked up since). We had relatives in town so maybe that had something to do with it. In any event, I don’t really feel like I came but also don’t feel all that Thumperish, either.
Belle commented that fucking me really wasn’t as great as she was expecting, either. She thinks she’s become more accustomed to my getting her off with my fingers. Maybe she’s been “trained” to prefer what our dynamic allows, too. That she would rather have my hand than the penis does, I admit, cause some stirring in certain places.
I can’t stop looking at this (ridiculously NSFW) picture. It fires on so many of my kinks. That cock, apparently twice the heft of the penis — the beautiful pussy, ready and available but also absolutely not — the perspective, as if sitting at the end of the bed watching — the fucking look on her face, “I told you…this is what I want.” Even his stubbly chin is hot.
GAH.
Plus, I’m unlocked. Bad combination. Much suffering. I’m going to have to lock myself back up…
I have mentioned in the past how terribly hot (HAWT, I TELL YOU) I find chastity and denial in an all-male dynamic. Maybe it’s because one part of the pair does not get exactly and specifically what the other does, is required to do exactly what he may crave is done to him, and submits to an act he may wish he could perform himself. Female sexuality, while something I’ve tried to make a special study of, remains a bit of a mysterious black box. I know what inputs will usually result in which outputs, but can’t tell you how the mechanics operate. Male sexuality, though, I get. All the way down. Even more than male-female chastity and denial play, male-male seems to be nearly perfectly a ying-yang type of dynamic. At least to me.
This is why Schnoff’s is my current favorite denial blog (let’s not get too hung up in semantics, but I think of “chastity” as including hardware, though you all and Schnoff are free, of course, to call it whatever you or he wants). I love that he writes about real life and the ups and downs and stuff in between including steamy sex and, I think, he and I are driven by many of the same internal motivations. Obviously, as I’ve said before, we are all special little snowflakes when it comes to our personal sexual profile, but I see a lot of me in him. Don’t make me break out a Venn diagram.
Recently, Schnoffy boy posted several things that’ve resonated with me. Just today he related his and Bear’s July 4th activities and, oh yes, I wish for you to read them because they were niiice. Near the end, there was this bit (emphasis added)…
After, Bear remarked that sometimes he couldn’t tell.
“Tell what?” I asked.
“You are so eager,” he explained. “I sometimes can’t tell where your excitement for your own stuff ends and your excitement for my stuff begins.”
It may need explaining that dog play was Bear’s idea, as a pivot from pony play, and I went along with both ideas eagerly after an initial “wait what now?” reaction of a day or two.
I don’t know any more that where my stuff ends and Bear’s begins is an easy distinction to make, and told him so. My eagerness is real. My desire to please Bear is my stuff, and so dog play becomes my stuff, because it’s his stuff.
Personally, the most rewarding thing my deeply submissive soul finds in essentially permanent denial of my orgasmic release is how it draws Belle’s wants and needs and sexual pleasure so hard against mine that they’re deeply and permanently imprinted there. Like when you sleep funny on the corner of a pillow and wake up with it impressed on your cheek or when you take off tube socks and still see their relief on your calves. When you pull her sexual desires off of mine, you’ll still see them there. Obviously, we’re two people with separate and distinct motivations, but I want very badly to make mine assume as much as possible what is hers so that they’re indistinguishable.
Schnoff related a sizzling frot session in his latest post that I was easily able to relate to even though I’ve never performed the act described. It’s a core tenet of my sexuality that I want very badly to be the vehicle to the sexual pleasure of others. I get my pleasure by giving it to them. That’s only accentuated as I get farther and farther away from my last orgasm (or further and further, if you prefer). Sometimes, the act includes my own direct pleasure, sometimes it’s reflected, but theirs is always my priority.
Or, at least, I want it to be. When I start to feel like I’m getting too selfish or focused on my own stimulation through contact with Belle, I start to feel…bad. Not a good word, that, but the best I can do. Guilty? Some combination. I don’t want it to be about me so when it is it all kind of curdles. There’s a line I can approach (sticking my ass up while sucking her nipples so that she can play with my dangling balls and stuffed device) but anything more overt starts to feel weird (when she ignores the obvious opportunity, that can be just as good for me).
I mention that because Belle’s got into the habit of letting me have some pussy time once a week like clockwork. I’ve found myself focusing on that and thinking on it too hard and becoming expectational of it. Like a dog that’s treated too often and get’s pushy when he’s not given a Scooby snack after he does his business. I haven’t become pushy, but I could feel the sense of entitlement building and didn’t like it.
I shared this with Belle along with the suggestion that she make me earn pussy time. Even if it means I’m not out for weeks or months or only out to give Blue a firm core and then right back in. I don’t want to feel like I’m getting sex for my own sake. Of course, saying that opens up a bit of submissive’s dilemma for me because often she wants to feel like she’s being fucked. So it may feel like it’s just for me, but it’s not. It’s also filling a need she has (literally). I don’t want her to deny herself this pleasure. Maybe she should specifically tell me when I get to fuck her why it’s happening. Either because I’ve been a good rabbit or because she just wants to feel the penis in her. I’m pretty sure I could remain in the right frame of mind if I knew she wanted to feel me inside her and end up approaching it not unlike Schnoff’s frot session.
According to our friends in science, women like bigger and fatter cocks than the average man can offer.
No, for real. A study conducted by the UCLA Sexual Psychophysiology and Affective Neuroscience Laboratory found that women, when presented with phalluses of various lengths and thicknesses, on average chose six and a half inches as their preferred penis length. That was their preference for both long-term relationships and one night stands. However, women chose slightly thicker penises as their preference for the quick hook-ups.
On the other hand, The Journal of Sexual Medicinerecently found that the average American penis is 5.6″ long with 4.8″ of “girth” (which I assume is circumference). That’s almost an inch shorter than the female preference. The article on the UCLA study didn’t say what the girth preference was, specifically, but I’d assume 4.8″ of circumference is also on the low side of things. For those keeping score, the penis on me is nearly exactly that long but about a tenth of an inch less girthy.
These findings, of course, come as no surprise to me (or Belle who, after reading the article, said, “I could have told you that.”). I’ve gone to — ahem — great lengths to find a phallus Belle finds to be maximally pleasurable. In every single case, these other cocks are bigger than the penis. Like, a lot bigger. The one we have that’s nearly exactly the same size as me never became her favorite. So while Belle has enjoyed the bigger ones, she’s always found them to be too long. That led me to getting her the Vixskin Buck. Buck’s a full inch shorter than the Maverick or Blue but still the same circumference. More than an inch and a half more girth than the penis offers. A 25% improvement.
Vixskin Tex, Buck, and Maverick
We’ve only used Buck twice. Once right after he arrived and again this weekend. The first time, Belle claimed it was the “perfect size.” Not too long and nice and fat. (Aside: It really helps in finding the right cock for your wife when she to loses her inhibitions in telling you the one you have is not the one. Once past that issue, the search gets pretty efficient.) Then Buck sat unused for several months. Belle doesn’t seem to like to wait for me to get the strap-on strapped-on so when she wants to get fucked by a big cock the task usually goes to Blue. Since she’s in charge of the action from on top, the excessive length is easily controlled. In any event, poor old perfect yet neglected Buck came back out of the toy drawer on Sunday. Belle had let me out of the Steelheart just moments before. I had never used a strap-on while unlocked before and she wasn’t sure it could be done.
At first, after feeling the straps slide into place between my ass cheeks and cut across them from the weight of the dildo in front, the penis got quite hard. But it sat beneath Buck and was pushed down and away, bent at the root. Physically disrespected by her preferences. I rolled back over and put my hand back in Belle’s hot pussy and sucked her tit while my other hand reached down and squeezed the hard penis against the firmer and less forgiving shaft of the dildo. The sensation of feeling the difference between the two was one of those things I suspect you’ll either immediately understand as a guy (or woman) who gets off on this kind of thing or you will totally fail to understand as someone who just doesn’t.
The penis felt especially thin and inconsequential compared to its fatter, heftier rival. That was simultaneously humiliating and and terrifically erotic. Humiliating with a particular finality in that it wasn’t from a situation I was placed in or from a name I was being called or anything like that. It was a humiliation rooted in who and what I was. I will never, ever have a penis the size Belle prefers. That burns. Really. But in that fire is found a kind of physic torment and pain that triggers my cognitive masochism. It stung like a switch across my ass but also felt so, so good.
The last two times we used dildos on Belle (this one and the last time Blue came out), she told me she didn’t want me to put any lube on them. Both times, she failed to orgasm from the effort. That’s a disappointment, but a good lesson. Belle climbed up on my and put Buck inside her and fucked him hard and long but could never get the right feeling from him. She climbed off and told me to fuck her from above which I dutifully attempted. All the while, I could feel the tip of the still-hard penis brush against her inner thigh at an odd angle. Still, no dice. I took the harness off and suggested she let me try something different. I placed a small amount of water-based lube (Astroglide gel) on Buck and manually fucked her with it while flicking my tongue over her clit. Occasionally, I’d feel the big cock slide by as the tip of my tongue came into contact with it. Eventually, she came nice and hard with the dildo buried inside her and my tongue pressed onto her clit.
I figured she’d have had enough penetration for one day but allowed me to fuck her anyway. “It’s not like I’m going to feel you,” she said.
Unf.
I slipped in easily, but not as easily as I do after Blue or Maverick have been to work. I think, if my Belle was the kind to fuck around with other guys, that I’d eventually be able to tell how big their cocks were just be being allowed to stick the hard penis in her. Buck had left her far more open than I would have and pushed the depths of her pussy out of reach of the penis, but I was able when thrusting very firmly to feel the very tip graze against the opening to her cervix. Even though Buck and Maverick/Blue are supposed to have the same diameter, I find the latter leave her feeling more fucked than the former. I suspect that’s because Maverick and Blue are fatter over a greater length of shaft than Buck. Following them, the penis has no chance of hitting bottom.
In any event, she let me fuck her longer than I thought she would. I was able to keep my own orgasm at bay and only got really close once. After, while laying in each other’s arms and nuzzling and cuddling, I told her how important it is for me to hear that she likes those bigger cocks over the penis.
“I don’t want you to feel guilty saying things like that to me.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” she replied. She asserted that we would need to spend more time finding the right combination of dildo and technique. That “perfect fit” I can’t and never will give her.
Later that night, as she was drifting off to sleep, she asked me groggily how long I could stay locked up. The question left me feeling extraordinarily submissive and it was difficult for me to form a coherent answer. I stumbled over it just before she fell asleep. The next morning, I gave her a real answer. The only possible answer. The one she must have known before she even asked the question.
I was hanging out in the shower yesterday quirting water through the Steelheart as I do. This is the usual moment when I can tell how I’m coming along from a lock-up male perspective. How am I feeling about it?
This particular morning, I was doing pretty good. “Pretty good” in this case being defined as being so horny and frustrated that just the feeling of the water surging around the locked meat (specifically, how it swirled over the corona) felt so amazing as to cause the contents of the steel tube to swell and block additional water from getting around in there. MOAR WATER!
As an aside, I know I’m not supposed to play with it, but does this count? It’s incidental to the act of cleaning it which is necessary. I dunno. The way it swells up in there kind of obviates the issue, anyway. Once it starts, it self-seals and stops.
And, you know, a normal guy in my situation would be wanting out of the fucking metal as quickly as possible but I, as any careful reader of this blog knows, am not normal. I had the feeling of being totally right with the world. I was exactly where I needed and should be. Inescapably locked, terrifically horned up, truly desperate for some kind of pleasurable sensation from the penis, yet hoping she’d keep me like that forever. Hoping that when we have sex this weekend, it’s with me in the device and one of her dildos in her.
This morning, after a very loud thunderstorm moved through and knocked our power out, I got her off sans dildo but still locked. She came twice in fairly rapid succession which is unusual for her. After, I climbed on top of her and pressed my stifled, steel-clad erection into her and she said, “You’re not getting out.”
I squirmed and hummed inside. I wanted two totally opposite things but got the one I deserved. I told her how lucky I was to have her along with some other things.
I keep having weird thoughts when I meet people. Not all people, but some. For guys (like this dude that was working a convenience store I happened into the other day), I wonder what kind of porn they watch. I try and pick if it’s classy or kinky or raunchy or just tasteless. I find myself sorting through various genres in my head and trying to match it to the guy in front of me. Harder than it may sound since I think one’s porn preferences are, more than anything, a mirror to one’s soul and souls are rarely on display.
I mention this because of the recent “porn makes men stupid” articles that have been floating around. This bit is from The Daily Mirror:
Too much porn can make men stupid, scientists have revealed.
A study by German researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development found that men who watch a lot of porn generally have a smaller striatum.
The striatum is the part of the brain which processes ‘rewards and motivation’ – leading scientists to believe that pornography damages this function.
They can also have less grey matter, making their brains generally smaller than those of men who rarely watch it.
And I’m thinking, wait a minute. How do they know the porn makes the brains smaller? Maybe their brains were smaller to begin with and that’s why they look at the porn.
The female leading author of the study Simone Kühn, did point out however, that it isn’t clear whether X rated material is making brains smaller, or whether men with a decreased striatum tend to watch it more often.
Oh. OK. Well, at least they were thinking about that. And, you know, I look at a lot of fucking porn, so maybe my brain’s OK after all.
I don’t know if porn makes me stupid, but I can certainly feel stupid while looking at it. Sometimes, I can get lost in it and lose complete track of time. Usually, guys have a built-in governor in their orgasm that makes them stop but guys like me don’t have that. We just keep making whatever brain chemical gets made when we’re aroused (not to be confused with the other kind of fluid that leaks out of our penises) and it’s some pretty fucking potent stuff. So that’s me, the slack-jawed, glassy-eyed porn addict letting his striatum wither away as he looks at an endless Tumblr stream of raunch and sodomy.
That striatum thingy was new to me so I looked it up. According to the Wikipedia:
In humans, the striatum is activated by stimuli associated with reward, but also by aversive, novel, unexpected, or intense stimuli, and cues associated with such events.
It’s been a really long time since I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express, but that’s really interesting to me. Clearly, people like me aren’t hooked up in the typical way vis-a-vis the whole “reward and motivation” system. I’m not motivated like most people and the things I find rewarding most others would think were kinda fucked up.
In an unrelated but also kinda not turn of events, I found again this old article from The Daily Beast about cuckolding being the “intellectual sex fetish.” I don’t know about that, but I had a hard time even finishing that article at work.
This isn’t like swinging, and it’s not a threesome. Cuckolded men (aka “cucks”) only observe their wives’ infidelities, they don’t participate. And that’s why they find it a turn-on: They’re left out, looking on as the woman they love climaxes with a better man than them. It’s a form of psychological sadomasochism. Some people get turned on by whips, chains, and physical pain. Cucks get aroused by mental anguish.
Yeah, and some of us get turned on by whips and chains and physical pain and the idea of our wive’s fucking around with other guys.
“Imagine looking at the guy who’s about to go to bed with your wife. Imagine hearing the man crying out in bed with your wife,” says Paul, who pleasures himself “like a madman” during these encounters. “The high point of cuckolding is when your wife says she wants the other guy all the time and never wants you. Sally’s body makes it very clear that this is true. It hurts me worse to know this, so it’s better to know.” Worst/best of all is watching Sally bond with the other man not only physically but emotionally—when, as Paul puts it, she’s “masturbating him with her mind.”
I wonder how the striatum is similar in kinky folk and different from the vanilla kind (if at all). Or maybe I need to stop thinking I’m on the cast of St. Elsewhere and just roll with it.
Oh, and the weird thing I think about when I meet some women is what they look like giving head. Or if they actually do give head. Or swallow. Or let their boyfriends fuck their ass. That kind of thing. So, if we ever meet, you’ll know I’m either thinking about your porn habits or imagining you with a big cock in your mouth. Sorry. Nothing personal. Can hardly control it…
Yesterday I was Tumblin’ and came across an animated GIF of a woman reaching around a man to jack him off. He was standing and she was right behind him, leaning against something. They were both totally naked. The image was looping over the few frames where the guy was shooting his load. I found myself unable to scroll past. His ejaculate leapt from the end of his cock in a graceful arch and his face showed both the knitted furrow of pre-orgasmic concentration on his forehead and the gasp of release on his lips as they parted and his load surged out. It was…intoxicating.
I don’t know what it was about this specific image, but it really affected me. The more I watched it (and I must have seen that guy shoot a couple of hundred times, at least), the more I became him. I felt her grip around his hard shaft and the hot slug of goo push it’s way down the heart of his cock and release into the air. His balls tighten and prickle, the hitch in his breath as the orgasmic release hit his brain. The weakness in his knees as he slumped back into her warm breasts. Over and over and over.
UUUUNGH.
And I was like, Fuck, I want to come. I really do. I want to feel that. And the weight of the finality of never feeling that again really hit me. I can’t say to myself that, sure it’s been a long, long time, but it’ll happen someday. Just wait. It’ll happen. Because, no. I have no reason to think it will.
I told Belle about it last night as I was laying on top of her and rubbing the free and very hard penis into pelvis. I told her how badly that image made me want what he was getting. How great I felt the loss of orgasm at that moment.
And she said something along the lines of, “Yeah, that’s nice. Too bad for you it’s never going to happen again. I know what’s best for you.”
My balls were already churning but that kicked everything up to eleven. I may have whimpered. I felt like I was at the bottom of a very deep well all the water crushing down was her and her control over the penis. And while it was difficult to accept, it also seemed so right. That’s where I should be.
I told her it was worth it. That she should take all the orgasms I’d ever have for herself. To use that energy to maintain me how she wanted me to be.
