One week down, 50-100 to go

“Can I come?” I asked, feeling the desire to do so build with each thrust of my hips.

“No, of course not,” she said with a laugh.

That was yesterday, just a week into the period of indeterminate length (at least a year but possibly two) in which I won’t have any orgasms. It’s as close as one can get, I guess, to living without them at all and that’s fine by me. I did want to come and would have if she had said I could, but she’s not going to let me. Not one more time this year. Not on purpose.

The last time I came prior to the weekend of January 5th was way back around July 4th. The date she had picked out for me to come again was January 6, but it actually happened accidentally the day before. She let me out that Friday from the Looker 02 I had been in nearly continuously for about six weeks. She may have been more turned on by the idea of fucking me than the other way around and on that Saturday, she climbed up on me, all naked, hot, and wet. It had been so long and we were so close to D-day that six of the seven seals I try and keep up in those situations were hanging loosely on their hinges. It was, for both of us, a very fine fuck. I was in OK shape until I felt her start to come and I found myself completely unable to hold back. Belle just felt so fucking good bouncing up and down on the penis. Turns out, I was a dead man from the moment she got up there.

The orgasm I had was unlike any I can recall having before. The typical male orgasm, if you graph it, has a period of build-up followed by a relatively short “oh my Jesus, here I come” segment followed by the back-of-the-head-eye-rolling spurting bit and finishing with the crash and sleepy-time moment of zen. This one, though, had all the grace and elegance of a tactical nuclear device. One second, I wasn’t coming, the next I was. And it was so intense and overwhelming that it pegged every sensor in my body. I tesned up solid and couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t as much distinct spurts of ejaculate as what felt like a jet of goo painting the walls of her snatch. Then, as soon as that was over, I could feel – distinctly – each and every one of the nerve endings on the penis head firing little individual needles into my cerebral cortex over and over again. I had to ask Belle to stop moving as it was all too much for me to bear.

So yeah, I came. Explosively. If I only get a handful more in my entire life like that, I’ll count myself a lucky man. But, it wasn’t the day, so she made me do it all over again the next morning. This time would be different. I’d be on top and, according to a previously negotiated agreement, if she hadn’t come before me, I would have to make her come by eating her out. Honestly, she wasn’t even trying to come before me. I was up there doing my best and all she was doing was letting me. As I got closer, a little voice in my head reminded me that no matter how hot I thought it was at that moment, I really wasn’t going to like the clean-up and that was sufficient to hold me back a bit, but the inevitable inevitably happened and I shot a healthy load deep inside her.

She gave me a few moments to bask in which I started to feel the revulsion of what was about to happen. I rolled to her side and started to finger her, hoping to get her into that and avoid my end of the bargain, but no dice. Actually, that made things a bit worse since I could feel how slimy and loose I had made her. Accepting my fate, I got to work, though I couldn’t allow myself to open my eyes and concentrated all my attention on her clit. Sensing this, she brought her hips up making me slip down and allowing my tongue to slurp in a gob of my revolting seed. God, the smell of it. Finally, she came and I was out of there in a flash. My own ejaculate was all over my nose, cheeks, and lips and ran down my chin.

And that was that. Last one of the year. I’m still not sure how she’s going to pick the date in 2014 on which I’ll be made to come again, but obviously, there’s no rush. We have all of 2013 to get through yet.


So it’s true, sports fans. The bunny did come over the holiday weekend. Once on Thursday inside Belle and once again the next day all over my stomach (with Belle in attendance, however).

She let me out in the morning and yet again chose not to get herself off on the penis and opted for my fingers. Once done, she let me go inside and have at it. I tried so hard to make it last. I felt very confident that I would. That I was in control and would have enough time to really enjoy the old-fashioned sex, but my mind started inserting images and thoughts into my head. The fact that Belle hadn’t needed the penis to get off and that it was usually locked up, forgotten, and unnecessary. That it and my ability to control it was a shadow of what once was since, of course, I have essentially no control over it at all anymore. That lack of control is what makes it such a worthless object for Belle. There’s really no way to stop the orgasm. I can’t stop it. It’s coming already…right now…there. Done. Well less than a minute and I was copiously pumping nearly six weeks of pent up ejaculate into Belle. It felt like it was over before it even started.

The next morning Belle wasn’t really interested in anything but allowed me to jack off next to her in bed. Again, I wanted it to last so I could at least really enjoy the build up to an actual climax as opposed to the stopping and retreat that normally happens when I have access to the penis. And again, while I lasted longer than before, it was over so soon. Just a hair trigger it all that remains (at least so soon after I get out).

Friday night, she asked me how I felt. Pretty flat, to be honest. Orgasm is a massive let-down now, though at least I’ve already started to feel the build-up again. The floppy-floppy weirdness of the penis will wear off in a few days (along with the odd jellyfish-like gelatinous nature of my nuts – they’re so much more orderly when trapped by a steel ring).

Next we’re in an interesting period. The boy and I head out later this week to go camping on the west coast. We won’t be home until the 21st. Based on the conditions we’ll be in and the lack of essential privacy, I won’t be able to go with the Steelheart on. It needs to much hygienic maintenance. But, if the new Jail Bird arrives in time, it’s possible I could wear that. It wouldn’t be to keep me from doing anything since the lack of hygiene privacy will mean no masturbatory privacy, either. It’s really more about the control thing. Even when it’s not necessary, it’s there. All the time, it’s there. That’s what we both want. But, if the JB doesn’t land before I leave, it’ll just mean one or the other will go on as soon as I get home.

Now that I’ve come (and assuming she won’t let me do it again before I leave), I’m thinking about the next time it might happen. Belle likes to attach these occurrences to holidays or holiday-like events. My birthday is close to Labor Day, so that’s a possibility. In mid-October is our anniversary. Closer in, there’s a couple of weeks here and there when both kids will be absent at camp or visiting relatives. Those are also viable options. Or, since she’s reading this and knows I know how it works, she might skip over all those options entirely. Or she may not care and pick one anyway. In either event, I won’t know very far in advance and will have little choice.

Twice is not enough

Memorial Day weekend came and so did I. Twice.

Belle didn’t let me out of the Steelheard until the morning after we arrived (Saturday), but after having me get her off with my mouth and fingers (no penis, again), she let me fuck her until I came. It was one of those super intense orgasms that you get after an extended denial that wasn’t bad but wasn’t exactly good, either. Somehow anticlimactic. By 3:00 that afternoon I wanted to go again but I had to wait until the next morning when she let me fuck her once more (but with her top on). That one was all about me (which I’m not a huge fan of) but it was a better orgasm.

Usually, twice in quick succession like that would spend me for a while. Monday, though, Belle wanted me back in (all of 48 hours out) and by the time we got home that night I was as horny as if it never happened. So horny, in fact, that it almost became a chastity-induced night of no sleep. As it was, I only slept for about three hours. That made the trainer especially fun the next morning.

She let me get her off again this morning. I was up on my hands and knees rubbing my face against her breasts while she reached under and gently caressed my balls. The steel tube pressurized completely while my fingers found her wet snatch. It was all over far too quickly. She held my hand against her, my finger curled up toward her G spot, and she came intensely yet quietly. After a respectable amount of basking time for her, I grabbed her and held on, pressing the tight tube into her. Fuuuuuck, I’m horny.

“You haven’t even been in there a week, Thumper.”


I know that, of course, but tell it to my body. I can’t remember ever having two orgasms leave me essentially where I was before they happened like this.

Rising tide

Where were we? Oh, right. On a break.

It’s been one month since I wrote that. One month of not wearing a chastity device and one month of essentially coming when I want. Yes, the deal was that I wasn’t supposed to come without Belle, and it started well, but I failed there. Easy access to the penis and our hiatus in other action along with her distraction by work gave my reptile brain the momentum it needed to make me think for a second or two longer during masturbation. That’s all it takes.




I have no idea how many times I came in that month. Not as often as I would have under “normal” circumstances, but perhaps more than I have in the previous six months combined. That is, until about ten days ago. I hadn’t come in a bit and was feeling pretty horny. Instead of acting on that desire, I let it sit and grow. Then Belle told me that as soon as she gets back from the long business trip she’s currently on, I was going back in. Break over. That made me want to try to start the break in the proper state of mind. So I haven’t come now for about a week and a half. Hardly any time at all, really, but I’m feeling it.

A few days ago, after Belle had left, I was alone in the house with time on my hands. A bad combination for those who haven’t come and are trying not to. I ended up on all fours abusing myself with Mr. Stryker and his lesser cousins, locking double cocking ring in place, chain between the nipple clamps swinging. Of course, cock ring or no, I had access to the penis and worked it hard. I put some of the numbing cream on before hand but not so much that I couldn’t feel a thing. In any event, I was well and truly fucked (literally) and super horny (as you can imagine). I didn’t come, but I jerked it raw and wanted more. A lot more. There was a tickle in the back of my brain saying the break was still on. There would be few chances to come. I should take advantage of it.

The thing is, though, while it’s really hard to keep my hands off of it when I’m this turned on, I knew how I’d feel after the orgasm. Belle’s warning me of the end of the break brought me back into line and while a very rudimentary part of my brain wanted the orgasm, everything higher up didn’t. That’s what orgasm denial does to men. It sets up an internal war over the penis and orgasm. Higher brain functions at battle with lower ones and constantly the need to feel one’s hard member in hand. The higher forces had regained the advantage, though. I put the device back on.

I know where the key is, of course. Belle doesn’t have it, I do. I’m purposefully denying myself what I could have because I honestly can’t trust myself. If I take it off, I may give myself an orgasm. An orgasm I don’t want but desperately need. The key is in my bathroom drawer. I saw it last night and I caught myself fingering it before I even thought to touch it. Maybe just a short jerk, I thought. I’d even leave the ring on. It’s not like I’d really be taking it off…right?

So that’s where I am. Aching balls and a tight early morning throbbing between my legs. Pretty much right where I want to be.

It’s a team sport

Friday night I was laying in bed flipping and flopping and trying to ignore the fact that I was working up to another sleepless night due to an overabundance of hormones. It’s been a hard few weeks since Belle and I had so much time apart, but also we’ve been in a period where she’s not been too interested in me or what I’m able to do for her (i.e., little or no sex). It was three o’clock in the morning and I was stewing.

Apparently, my tossing woke her up. When I realized this, I started to talk to her about it. I told her that the game we play is a team sport. It requires two to work. I can’t do it by myself. Also, our relationship is enhanced by the hardware that’s attached to the penis, not defined by it. If she didn’t feel interested in engaging, then we didn’t have to do it. Indeed, “setting and forgetting” has the opposite affect on me. I didn’t feel closer to her, I felt more distant. And while I wasn’t trying to guilt her out or sound angry, I could feel myself moving in that direction.

She told me to take it off. She also told me I could come. I was simultaneously sad and excited. I couldn’t really discuss the prospect of having an orgasm rationally. My hand was even shaking. She unlocked the lock and I disassembled the steel and jerked off next to her. When I came, it was a relief. I could feel the wave of sleep-inducing chemicals wash out of my brain. After wiping the goo from my body, I found sleep.

The next morning, she wanted to fool around. Surprisingly, I had it in me. I offered to let her come by riding the stiff penis, but she opted for the usual fingering. She said she’s been “trained” to want it that way. Funny. We’ve both been trained. After she came, I fucked her to completion. Two orgasms in less than six hours. The decadence.

We’re not on a total break. I’m not allowed to come without her, but I’m not sure if that means there’s any limit to how often I can come as long as she’s there. Even though I’d done it twice in the past day or so, I want it again. I’d be doing it right now except she’s not home. The device will be off for at least two weeks since we leave next Saturday for our Spring vacation.

In any event, things might get a little quiet around here for a while. I’ve got some HNT queued up for Thursday, but other than that, I’m not sure what else I’ll have to talk about.


As if three colds weren’t enough. Last week, my daughter came down with some kind of nasty stomach flu which she passed to me 24 hours later. It was bad. I didn’t like it one bit. But, it wasn’t as bad as what came right on it’s heels.

I didn’t go to a doctor, but I’m fairly certain I had a kidney stone. I woke up Friday at about 3:30 AM with a sharp and intense pain in my side just under my ribcage. It got progressively worse until we called a nurse and she said to take some Tylenol and rest comfortably. If you’ve ever had one of these evil little things, you know “resting comfortably” is outside the realm of possibility, though I was able to minimize the pain by laying still and using a hot pad. By daylight, the pain was coming and going and changing positions (moving from my side towards the front of my abdomen). I was able to get up and help get the previously sick girl off to school only to be struck by the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my whole life as soon as she left. I broke out in a cold sweat and felt like I was going to throw up. Absolutely horrid.

Then it went away. Poof. Gone. Only minor and infrequent twinges remain (some of which I was still getting yesterday). The new symptom is occasional and overwhelming urges to pee. Even when I know there’s nothing there, I have the feeling of needing to go. It’s not unlike how the prostrate will sometimes feel when I’ve been denied a long time and I know it’s all plump and ready to go, but way stronger. This, along with the pain, are classic kidney stone symptoms.

The part I haven’t had yet is the actual passing of the stone. I don’t know if it always involves pain during urination, but I’ve had nothing like that. Yet. Time will tell if I get to have the full meal deal. I suppose at some point I should go to a doctor, but from everything I’ve read, they don’t do anything about them most of the time and let them work themselves out naturally. I can do that at home and save the co-pay.

On the non-medical front, Belle and I both felt good enough on Saturday morning for some real sex. I busted out my emergency key at the hight of the barfing because the device was really, really not making me feel any better being on there (and I was about three light years from wanting to do anything with the penis anyway), but life had returned to all corners of my totally free body by Saturday. She not only let me fuck her, she let me come. It wasn’t a great orgasm (as is common after a longish denial) and I came really fast (one minute, tops) and she made me put the device back on as soon as it was over. It wasn’t unit this morning that I didn’t resent the damned thing. That magical cloaking device I was talking about last time was stone cold dead and has only started to flicker into life since I woke up this morning. Starting to get horny again. Apparently, the cloak operates on pure hormones (not antimatter like on Star Trek).

So there you are. Up to speed. Hopefully, the infirmary-like atmosphere around the house is gone for a long time.

Four after ninety-nine

I’ve started this post like three times. When it comes to writing for my blog, my muse is my frustration.

So, yeah, she let me come. Two times in each of the last two weekends. I know I reported here before that she was going to let me do essentially whatever I wanted to do with the penis, but the rubber’s hit the road and she’s told me I can’t come without her being present.

And, honestly, I’m perfectly happy with that. In fact, the other night I was begging her never to let me come without her again. She cautioned me to think about what I was asking for, but I was all rapturous and liked how her hand felt around the very stiff meat and maybe wasn’t thinking too terribly deeply about what I was saying. Regardless, I meant it (and still do).

Therefore, I am not, at the moment, Thumper denied. I am at best Thumper restricted. I can pleasure myself and fiddle around with the penis but orgasm can only happen when I’m with Belle. So far, that’s meant in Belle, though I don’t know for sure if that’s part of the rules I’m working under. I’d like to feel an orgasm of my own doing, but she hasn’t let me.

The orgasms she’s let me have were interesting in that they were all different. The first, after ninety-nine days of denial, really wasn’t all that good. How could it have been? It was more like sneezing after feeling one coming on for a long time but being unable to make it happen. Not so much pleasurable as it was just a release. The next day was number two and it was a little better, but still just OK. Then everything cratered. Belle went to NYC and I lost any and all interest in sex or sexual thoughts. Even this blog curdled for me. I couldn’t think about it. It embarrassed me. So I ignored it. I also sank into a shallow depression that probably wasn’t entirely driven by the sudden change in my brain chemicals but couldn’t have been helped by it. I was pretty miserable.

Then the next weekend came around and my libido stirred like a sleepy cat in a sunbeam. I came twice more and cratered again, but only briefly. At least these two orgasms were pleasurable. By Wednesday, I was feeling horny again (which was quite the rebound). It’s amazing how low I go now after I come. My sex drive doesn’t just drop to zero, it goes into negative numbers. It creates a vacuum.

Yeah, so anyway, this shift in the rules isn’t at all what I thought it’d be. I’m very happy to find I’m not entirely free to do as I please because I don’t ever want to live like that again. I’m also pleased that Belle seems to be getting whatever she wanted out this little experiment. I’m sure she’s missed getting fucked by an apparently normal male and I’m also sure a girl likes her guy to squirt inside her every once in a while. But, if I’m honest, I’m also looking forward to the day we can go back to “normal”. After two weeks, I still can’t get used to this squishy floppy bit of meat between my legs. It’s just not right. (The DCR, BTW, hasn’t been on that much. Belle hasn’t wanted me to wear it.) And while I like the idea of coming, the aftermath turns me off (literally and figuratively). I’m actually kind of afraid of it.

I don’t know. I’ve been so far away from normal for so long now that even this not normal approximation of normal leaves me feeling off kilter. I’m still controlled and there are still rules and I like that, but it’s not the same. I’m not complete without that steel tube. I miss its company and crave its confinement. I want to see my reflection looking up from my crotch, not a pink prick. I’ve thought of locking myself up during the day just to feel it again, but have resisted. I will remain as I am without complaint for as long as Belle wants me to, or course, though I look forward to the day she puts things back they way they should be.

News you can use

Following a recent comment by a faithful reader who was seeming to suggest that the quality of my content was perhaps not as good as should be desired from a blogger of my reputation and obvious skills, I have decided to heed his advice and bring you a few news items you may find humorous/informative/better than my usual drivel.

First up, researchers have discovered a link between those men who have sex with animals and their incidence of penis cancer.

Of the 118 penile cancer patients, 45 percent reported having sex with animals, compared with 32 percent of healthy men, who visited the medical centers for benign conditions, check-ups or cancer prevention. Fifty-nine percent of men who had sex with animals did so for one to five years, while 21 percent continued the behavior, also known as zoophilia, for more than five years. The subjects reported a variety of frequencies for their sex acts, ranging from monthly to daily.

Two things. Penis cancer!? Great. Now I have that to worry about. Also, it’s a good thing that in all my animal sex fantasies, I’m the bottom.

Second up, it is now possible to see what a woman’s orgasm looks like inside her brain. You can even see a video of an orgasm as it develops if you follow the link.

To make the animation, researchers monitored a woman’s brain as she lay in a functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) scanner and stimulated herself. The research will help scientists to understand how the brain conducts the symphony of activity that leads to sexual climax in a woman.

So how long until a portable version of this is developed to help men know when she’s faking it he’s doing it right?

The unfortunate incident

I was away from Belle and unlocked for one night last week. Thursday night, to be precise. The night before, I was so jacked up and horny that I slept only a few hours here and there. I kept waking up with the kind of stuffed tube that only feeds upon itself with all kinds of visions and scenarios spinning in my head.

So, as I boarded the aircraft the next morning and flew a few hours to make a presentation in front of a bunch of total strangers,  I was operating on energy reserves. Forced fun following and an overly indulgent dinner of the kind reserved for important life events (graduation, marriage, death) or large corporate expense accounts left me in my mid-priced yet stylish hotel room aching for the bed and numerous pillows.

And I was, truly, exhausted. I neglected to pack any bedclothes so I climbed in between the cool, crisp sheets able to feel their cool crispness along my entire body. Even those areas that typically only feel the inside of a steel tube. Nonetheless, I was tired. Exhausted, remember? I laid back and opened my laptop in order to catch up with Facebook and the world news. My eyelids were leaden and I moved to close the computer and turn out the light.

But I didn’t. Instead, I thought to myself, let’s just see what’s waiting for me in my Tumblr feed. I clicked the link to The Portfolio’s dashboard and saw a stream of bodies materialize. At first, I can’t say it much affected me, but after a few moments and seeing a couple of particularly interesting specimens that nicely complimented my taste, there was a stirring beneath the sheets. My leaden eyelids lightened a bit and the veil of sleep withdrew a bit more. My left hand found its way to the pudgy penis and gently coaxed it into full stiffness.

The more dispassionate parts of my brain saw what was coming. I would likely edge myself for an hour or so (and it was already late) before perhaps allowing a couple slugs of creamy white goo out in a non-orgasmic emission. Then I’d toss and turn and deal with multiple erections and probably punch myself in places most men would wither to consider before finding myself standing bleary-eyed at the check-in counter for the flight home.

While pondering this certain fate, I also happened to notice how the stroking felt. How the fat, heavy PA ring moved within the head of the penis and how that sensation was, in a word, excellent. There are times, most men would agree, when jacking off is perfunctory and not especially great, but there are others when the loop of one’s hand and one’s member and one’s brain is in perfect tune. Where the three elements form a continuous element of pleasure. In that crisp white bed in that moderately-priced yet still stylish hotel room with the over-active air conditioner I felt such a oneness. And I weighed that oneness against my previously considered fate.

There really was no question. At no point did the alternative seem likely. I knew what was going to happen. I was going to come. And I was going to like it. Yes, I knew I’d feel guilty immediately afterward, but I also knew with a certainty how good the orgasm was going to feel. The inevitable build-up, the hovering on the brink, and the explosive fireworks that would run along my spine and over my scalp as the creamy payload spewed forth.

And, as long as I was being bad, I decided to drag it out. To really revel in my disobedience and make it count. As the orgasm would approach, I’d change my grip and make it wait, make it work its way back down. The big heavy ring deliciously tickling the most sensitive part of me from within while my hand teased it from without. I worked that load the best I could. I wanted to be bathed in ejaculate. I wanted to really fucking come. This wasn’t going to be a case of manslaughter. This was going to be first degree murder. Not premeditated, perhaps, but with all the same consequences.

And I came. And there were fireworks and tingling. Every hair stood up on my body. The cream gushed forth all over my stomach and hand. I came like a 17-year-old. It was glorious.

For 6 seconds. Then the stupor washed over me tinged with a froth of guilt. I staggered into the bathroom and wiped the offending paste from my body and fell back into bed. And I slept, knowing I’d tell Belle. Which I did. Two nights ago.

Fleshy bits

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

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

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

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

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