Tag: orgasm

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Reward

Holidays suck. Yeah, OK, the kids like them and it’s always nice to see the family, but at the end of the day you probably spent more time with them that you really needed to and most assuredly you ate too much and, when it’s all over, you have to wonder where half the weekend went. It’s not so bad with proper holidays that give you an extra day or two off, but holidays that fall on a regular weekend day just blow.

Another reason they blow is that they tend to disrupt the whole “lifestyle” element of where Belle and I are right now. I wasn’t able to act around her in all the ways I felt compelled to, but a few things here and there got through. Like when all the men were downstairs watching the Masters in their big comfy recliners while the women were either upstairs or sitting on uncomfortable folding card chairs behind the men. Until, that is, Belle came in the room and I got up to let her have my big comfy recliner and I sat down on the floor at her feet. Not in a creepy servile way, but it was enough for me to let her know I was still in the headspace and still thinking about her.

Later, in bed, we talked about how happy we both are with things at the moment. I’m still kind of tingling from her show of control Saturday night and she’s very pleased with my attentiveness. So far, it’s been very much a win-win for both of us. She released me from the chastity device “for a few days” as a reward. She told me she knew that, in some part, my attitude has been shaped by the device, but she expected me to maintain the same exemplary level of service she has seen the week prior. If not, I’d go back in sooner. I told her I’d do my best.

We talked briefly about how long I had been locked up and that led to her tell me she didn’t like keeping score regarding enforced chastity duration or orgasm control. She feels like it’s too much work and pressure for her, so we’re not doing it anymore. Before, I was always trying to push my limit and see if I could break my previous duration records. Of course, I now know this is entirely backward. It’s not necessarily about how long I’m able to go locked-up or denied, it’s about the fact that I’m locked-up and denied because she wants me that way. Letting go of that need to exceed my previous “achievements” and just going with the flow of what she’s telling me to do, I think, has helped me move to a new level of submission.

In any event, getting out was part one of my reward. For part two, she allowed me to fuck her with the sole purpose of achieving my own orgasm. No foreplay, no pretense. She didn’t even get entirely naked, only removing her pajama bottoms. For a few seconds, I had a little wave of panic that I wasn’t going to be able to do something that was so centered on me, but after rubbing the cock over the her pussy for a few seconds, the reptilian beast woke up and, struggling through his chains, got to work.

I tried to last but couldn’t go very long. It’d been two weeks with practically no contact with the cock at all and no emissions other than copious precum. That, and the way she approached the act (as a “reward” and not connected to any overt act of pleasuring her) made it feel different than normal sex. Almost procedural or as an act of maintenance or something. In any event, she was able to help maintain that wall between those times when it’s about her and when it’s just about me and, since she was still partially clothed and we performed zero foreplay, made my time seem perfunctory. Note that I’m not complaining about that. It very nicely, whether intentional or not, reiterated that sex belongs to and is for her, not me. The sex that’s for me is not the same. It’s of a lower value than hers, undeserving of elaborate artifice, and is not unlike the positive reinforcement one would use during the training of an animal.

I know that sounds harsh – and I can’t say for sure it was her intention – but that’s how it seemed to me. In retrospect, I find it very hot. It has certainly left within me the lingering impression that she’s in control. Keeping my release a separate act from those centered around her pleasure would probably be a very good strategy for her to maintain my headspace.

When I came, it was in a torrent. Spurt after spurt, it felt like a bucket’s worth. I didn’t even get it all out since, even after I had withdrawn, it continiued to leak out of me. Two weeks worth of bottled up spunk poured out of me after about three minutes of effort on my part. Today, I hardly feel like it happened at all. I’m still really horny.

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Beat the clock

Day one of the new FLR experiment thingy went pretty well. I was motivated to wash, fold, and put away a couple of loads of laundry, did all the dishes after dinner, went and gassed up Belle’s car for her before work so she wouldn’t have to, got her coffee ready for the morning, and gave her a foot rub before also giving her a neck and shoulder massage. And no, it’s not all hot and steamy, but I did get a certain satisfaction from serving her. I wanted to do all of it and would have actually looked for a few other things, but there’s only so much time. This morning, there were a few things I should have done for her, but she got to them first. It just means I’ll need to be a little quicker next time. At some point, I’d like her to remember she can order me around, but whatever. Baby steps.

When we were finally in bed, the previous night’s sexually induced insomnia had left me totally exhausted. Even though my brain wanted to shut down, my body was too interested in her to let it. The feet and back rubbing had me too worked up and since she was letting me continue to touch her body and was talking to me, there was still a glimmer of hope she’d let me go further. I sure as hell wasn’t going to blink and roll over to sleep.

I was pretty sure she was debating internally whether she wanted a little something. I skated the seam between being affectionate and loving (and, hopefully, encouraging her to make the decision I wanted) and being overtly sexual. It has to be assumed by her that when I’m in this state, I am always ready for sex, but I am not allowed to make that too obvious. I can’t ask, can’t suggest, can’t lobby, beg or imply, and can’t be excessively forward in my actions. In short, no matter how badly I want to go down on her or fuck her senseless, I have to show composure and wait for her to offer. If Belle had said thanks sweetie and turned her back to me, I would have been disappointed, but would not have been allowed to register that disappointment in any way. Because, of course, it’s not about me. Sex is for her now. What she wants and when she wants it with the only goal being that of her total satisfaction. If she wants to throw me a bone just because she’s nice, then good for me, but I can’t sit at the table and drool while looking at it.

In any event, she finally rolled over and looked at the clock. I expected her to next say it was time to sleep, but instead she told me I had ten minutes to make her come. Ten minutes!? I felt like Augustus Gloop in that scene from Willy Wonka where he first sees the room where everything is made of candy, but I fought the urge to eat everything in sight. I needed to pace myself knowing ten minutes was actually way longer than I needed to make her come. If I rushed it, I’d be leaving all that body access time on the table (and maybe get sucked into a tube and sent to the Fudge Room…or something). Eventually, I found my face planted on her snatch, hungrily eating her out. It was glorious. I wasn’t checking the clock, but when she finally went over the falls, it had been exactly ten minutes.

Afterward, I did not feel the usual pseudo post-orgasmic satisfaction I feel when she’s come. Her orgasm wasn’t quite enough for the reptilian sex monster living within. Vivid images of me fucking her flashed though my mind. The memory of the what the hard cock felt like in her wet pussy insisted that I move forward – that I mount her and fuck her. But that was impossible. If I had been out of the device, she would have felt my desire and might have even indulged me, but the plastic feels hard no matter the condition of what’s inside. Since I wasn’t demonstrating how badly I wanted her, there was no way for her to know it. When she declared the evening’s activities at a close and, of course, it was clear I would get nothing else, it was wickedly disappointing. But it was as it should have been and entirely what I should have expected.

I spooned into her, told her I loved her, and thanked her for the opportunity to make her happy.

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Marked man

I love it when Belle marks me. Whether it’s by biting me or giving me hickies or raising welts, I like to think her marks are representative of her power, control, and ownership. When she makes them, she’s leaving evidence that the body which displays them is hers, to do with what she likes, even if what she likes is to damage it. Uber hot. I get all light in the chest just writing about it. So you can imagine what I felt when she mentioned she should brand me.

Lucky bunny
Lucky bunny

That’s how I found myself laying over her legs, ass in the air, several hours later getting tickled by the tip of a black Sharpie dancing over my skin. She drew what you see to the right: a little bunny under a horseshoe with “BFR” written over it. “BFR” stands for Belle Fille Ranch which, apparently, is a rabbit ranch. That I can’t see the brand without a mirror makes it that much hotter.

I wasn’t really expecting any serious action what with her not feeling 100% and all, but once her mark was upon me, my passions were running pretty high. I was on all fours, her beneath me, and my right knee strategically placed so as to press my thigh firmly against her pussy, moving subtly as my body shifted. All I did was kiss her face and neck, but my thigh could feel the heat between her legs start to build. Her hand started to carass my inner thighs and I moaned, desperate to feel her touch higher up. She eventually did, lightly stroking my tight, constricted scrotum. Fuck, did I want that cage off. She gripped the tube of the CB6K and started to stroke it as if she was masturbating me, but that only drove my frustration higher since all she was doing was pushing and pulling the entire contraption and torturing my already strecthed balls. I found myself fighting once again the overpowering urge to bite her, to consume her, to gather her up in my arms and crush her. I knew – knew – that there would be no release for me. Instead of fighting it and causing a scene, I let the inevitability of her control wash over and calm me.

When she told me to make her come, I focused everything above her waist. I fingered and licked her nipples and kissed her mouth much longer than I would normally. I knew she wanted me to move south, to give her pussy some attention, but I stayed up north, letting her get just the slightest taste of tease and denial. I did eventually bring my hand down to her pussy, but I merely let it graze ever so lightly over her lips. Her hips squirmed and raised up, trying to make better contact with my fingers, but I kept them just close enough that she knew they were there but too far away to actually feel them. She was moaning freely.

When I finally let my fingers touch her, she was soaked and slicked with arousal. It took about two minutes to bring her to climax. When she started to come, my finger was still lightly resting on her clit. She arched her back and grabbed my hand, pressing me harder into herself, forcing my finger deeper into her pussy. The orgasm shuddered though her and I actually felt three distinct little waves of tightly focused muscle contractions move over the tips of my fingers.

Easliy one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever given her. Seriously, top three.

—

This morning, she finally released me from the CB6K. Plus, she let me have a ruined orgasm. What a kind and benevolent dictator she is!

This time, we tried the abandoned version of the ruined orgasm (as opposed to the over-stimulated version we tried before). She layed next to me, running her fingers though my chest hair and teasing my nipples and watched while I wrapped my fist around the freely hard cock. Sweet jesus, did that feel good. I had barely started and was already leaking freely.

I jacked off until I felt the first stirrings of the orgasm approaching, then pulled my hand off quickly. A tiny little dribble came out. We decided that wasn’t good enough, so I started in again. It took a lot longer to get back to that place the second time, though I had barely come. Eventually, I felt it again – the tickling, tingling sensation of impending orgasm. I gave myself maybe two or three extra strokes and this time had a fairly respectable hands-free ejaculation, though without the volume I’d have expected. Indeed, it was no orgasm. I felt none of the post-orgasmic high. No refraction. Just a few minutes later, I was still profoundly arroused. I asked her to pinch my nipple just to make sure. Oh yeah, that felt good. I was still horny as hell.

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The big pathetic mess of a post

I cleared my schedule so I could pick Belle up at the airport Thursday afternoon. It’d been three days since I had seen her and wanted some one-on-one time with her before the kids came home, etc. I was hoping for a little action but wasn’t positive I’d get any (nor did I expect to).

We unpacked from the trip and she was off doing something in the back of the house while I started writing the post of going gay. Eventually, I realized all the busy noises had ceased and that she was probably back there answering email, so I went back and nuzzled into leg while she clickity-clacked on the computer.

Even though I had been without orgasm for 19 days, I wasn’t feeling especially submissive. Hot and bothered, yes, but submissive no. It seemed as though the trip had drained all those feelings from me since we had basically zero personal time. Whatever it is that triggers that frame of mind within me, time from last emission isn’t the only factor.

In any event, I asked her if she wanted to mess up the bed a little. All the planets had aligned: I was unlocked and free, she was awake, and the kids were at school. She decided it was a good time and told me to get naked. After a little kissing, groping, etc., she said she wanted me to fuck her to orgasm. It may have been a shadow of insecurity that passed over my face, but I definitely wasn’t exude confidence. I’ve only been able to get her off that way without coming myself once this year. She had previously told me I wasn’t coming again in February (a goal I was completely committed to achieving), but I felt the odds of me being able to successfully restrain myself were low. Then, she dropped the bomb.

In fact, she did want me to come. She didn’t want me all worked up over not coming and she really wanted to get her orgasm from penetrative penile pounding. In retrospect, I should have stopped and talked this through. I was confused and a more than a little let-down that the previously stated goal of one month had been swept away so suddenly. Also, I should have pointed out that it wasn’t my concern that I couldn’t get her off with the cock, but that I couldn’t keep myself from erupting before she got her O. Seeing all this behind my eyes, she told me to suck it up and get going. This is what she wanted and she decides when I get to come, not me.

So I got to work. Again, in retrospect, I should have spent more time warming her up with my fingers before jumping right in (though in my defense, I was a little off balance with this surprise orgasm being sprung on me). With a minimum of foreplay, I climbed up and started to fuck her. It was my intention to resist my orgasm, even though she had given me permission. If by some small miracle, I got her off without coming, I was going to stop and see what she wanted me to do next. However, as expected, I lost control and came in a huge torrent. I fought it every step of the way until it happened. I maybe enjoyed three or four strokes, but kept right on going even as the head of my dick felt like it was going to implode from over stimulation. After a bit, she figured out what I was doing and told me to stop.

In short, I had failed. Again. I came (with permission) but had failed to give her the orgasm she wanted in the way she wanted it. Worse, once I stopped, my erection started to deflate rapidly so my ability to perform was basically nil. I felt terrible. Again, she told me to snap out of it and accept the fact that I did exactly what she wanted me to do, but all I could do was hide how I felt, not change it.

It’s pretty clear to me now that I’ve lost my ability to enjoy having a spontaneous orgasm. It seems I’m only able to enjoy those I know are coming and can prepare for. I’m not sure if she felt like she was doing me a favor by letting me come or if she really thought it would allow her to get what she wanted more easily, but in any event, I was left feeling stressed, unsatisfied, and ultimately a little depressed that I hadn’t achieved the one month goal. After scolding me to snap out of it, she told me to get Pink so I could finish her off. She had a pretty good ride at the end of the little vibe (at least, a really loud one).

Following this event and the last, I no longer think her goal for me of 12 orgasms in 2009 is achievable. She likes it best when I make her come with the cock. I can’t do that reliably. Desensitizing gel might help, but since it would require using a condom, I’ve never been able to find out since she hates them. And, she has thus far refused to let me experiment with a strap-on stand-in. She seems to have zero interest in that.

I feel as though our journey down this road of orgasm control has progressed so far that I really don’t ever want to go back. I can’t imagine coming every time we have sex. The weird and somewhat scary truth is, I’m not sure I even want to come. Or, more accurately, I don’t want to stop not coming. Does that make sense?

—

I wrote the above yesterday but didn’t get a chance to finish it before I talked to Belle last night. I told her what I told you – that I was unhappy with what happened on Thursday and that by saying so I wasn’t complaining or trying to assign blame or anything. It’s just what it was. She didn’t accept any blame and didn’t apologize for how it all went down (which is good – I wouldn’t have wanted her to). I told her I was worried about the 12 in ’09 goal and wasn’t sure it was achievable (at least not in a way that would allow her to experience pleasure in the way she preferred). She told me we’d figure it out. In the mean time, she’s not going to let me come until April. That’ll be a nice round 40 days from the last time I came to my next earliest opportunity.

While the prospect of not achieving orgasm for more than a month excites me, I’m still going to obsess over the fact that while she’s denying me orgasm, she’s also denying herself the pleasure of being fucked. I will continue to try as often as she’ll let me, though. I’m assuming that, with practice, I’ll get better at putting off my own climax. At least, I hope so.

Now to finish the post I started yesterday. She told me on the way home from the airport that she was going to lock me up that day. The usual mix of being excited and somewhat dissapointed that my freedom was about to end passed through me. If I had a choice, I would not have gone in, but it wasn’t my decision to make. Later that evening, I showered and trimmed and put on the device with the lock in place, but not closed since she likes to be the one to make it click. However, as I got out of the bathroom, I found her dead asleep. The long days had caught up with her. I closed the lock for her. Funny thing is, she didn’t even know I was in the thing for the first 24 hours. It wasn’t until last night that she found out I had put it on. I could have bought myself a whole extra day of freedom.

After our talk last night and her decision to keep me denied through March, I found the warm and fuzzy submissive veil fall over me. This active expression of her control combined with the physical restraint of the CB6K seemed to be enough to send me over the edge, even though I had just had an orgasm. In fact, it now seems as though orgasmic release isn’t a huge factor in how I feel with regard to being horny or submissive. There just aren’t enough of them and they’re not of high enough quality to absorb all the desire I carry around with me.

In rereading this, I realize this post has been all over the place and is probably too long. Why anyone would want to read me kvetch about all this is beyond me, but it’s nice to have a place where I can do it.

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To O or no

I woke up Saturday, the day I would be allowed to come, deeply, deeply horny. More, I think, than I’ve been so far in the four months or so in which Belle’s been denying me orgasms. I spooned into the her still-sleeping form, doing my best not to wake her in that poky, annoying, denied male way, but did, in fact, place a hard, protruding, poky piece of meat between us. My first instinct was to be the eighth dwarf (Gropey), but give myself credit that she more or less woke up on her own. It wasn’t that I thought she was going to give it to me right then, but the day had dawned, and every little part of me knew today’s the day.

She had a little surprise for me. I was to be the beneficiary of her special, 24-hour, two-for-one orgasm sale! She was going to let me get one in the morning, and another in the evening. Holy. Shit.

Of course, even when I get to come, I come last. This time, Belle wanted to get her orgasm from the cock. Any time she has me put my dick in her after a couple of weeks of denial, I get worried. I placed myself in the zone and focused on her experience as much as possible. I could feel myself slide in and out of her, but in trying to ensure her orgasm came first, it didn’t feel like fucking as much as a side effect of making her happy. It’s hard to explain, but the sensation seemed to be routing through a different set of neurons or something. In any event, I was miles from coming when she started to approach her own orgasm. As usual, her peaking excitement caused mine to start to rise. She started to make shallow, short little moans and raise her hips to meet the thrusting of mine and I suddenly felt myself coming at the same time she was. Instead of thinking, “Oh, cool! We’re coming at the same time!” I thought, “Oh shit, I’m coming and she’s not done yet!” My orgasm started, but I clamped down on it as soon as I felt it. Once she was done, it was my turn, and I immediately felt the dregs of my orgasm come spilling out.

I couldn’t even tell at first if I had come. I eventually decided I had, though poorly, based on how I felt. Beforehand, I had been craving some abuse and feeling very submissive, but I could sense that those feelings were somewhat lessened. The idea of being hurt didn’t turn me on as much and I definitely felt a shift in my submissiveness. So, yeah, I came, but it was a really crappy orgasm.

Belle told me afterward that she knew I was going to screw it up (her exact words) which is why she offered the two-for-one. She wanted me to have a good orgasm and suspected correctly that my first crack at it would suck.

Night came and I was ready for the main event. This time, her orgasm was achieved a little differently. She wanted me to finger her but, before I could get there, she started to finger herself. I was working her tits while she was working her clit. Feeling left out, I started to fuck her with my fingers. Using this cooperative finger-fuck method, she came quietly yet hard. One of her more intense orgasms.

My turn started and I could tell I was already in the wrong frame of mine. I had a hard time staying hard. She was doing her best with scratching and pinching and hair pulling, but it was all having the opposite effect of what she intended. Eventually, I became too flaccid to stay in her and had to roll off and take a little break. After a bit of stroking I was able to get back in the saddle. She focused more on my nipples this time and that really worked for me. My orgasm, when it finally came, was almost feminine. Instead of spiking like a big exclamation point, it built slowly and evenly over an extended period. I started breathing harder and faster as I felt it get closer. Once I started, it felt like I just kept shooting wave after wave into her. So much so, that it spilled out of her and backed-up all over me. This was it. The kind of head-exploding orgasm that makes all the denial and frustration pay off.

These two experiences make me think I have a wiring problem. Well, not so much a problem as much a need to relearn how to come. My denial has trained me to stifle my “natural” need to orgasm each time I have sex to such an extent that I seem to be shying away from coming even when I’m allowed to do so. I need to figure out how, when she’s given me the green light, to allow myself to reroute to the old circuits and just enjoy it.

It also makes me think this behavior might have something to do with all the stories about extended chastity causing erectile dysfunction. While I haven’t been locked-up for a few weeks (but will be by the end of today), the same kind of dynamics are in play. No orgasm, no opportunity to orgasm, and, in effect, positive reinforcement for not orgasming. I’m not at all surprised that I’m experiencing these issues since my brain is by far the largest, most complicated, and most important sexual organ I have. I can see how what’s happened to me could happen to others and lead them to think that they’re dealing with physical damage rather than the manifestation of a psychophysical issue.

In any event, I came! WOO-HOO! Last night’s was one of the best orgasms I’ve had, like, ever. Belle will lock me up sometime today and hasn’t decided how long I’ll be in. According to our covenant, I need to be locked up for half the year and have so far only seen the inside of the polycarbonate for 12 days in 2009, so I expect at least a few weeks. If I was to guess, I’d say at least until after she’s had her period. Also, she reminded me I only get to enjoy nine more orgasms this year. Divide nine by eleven and you’ll find I will have to go for more than a month a couple of times.

Plenty of time to experiment with with the wiring.

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Emotional vomit

It’s been too long since my last post. One reason for this is that we were up at the cabin for the long weekend and, as I’ve said before, there’s no internet up there. The other reason is that I’ve been kind of in a funk and didn’t really know what to write, even if I could.

It started over week ago. Belle and I were laying on the bed and she said something that caused me to ask her why I was locked up. Funny that I can’t remember how I came to be asking her that, but it’s been so long that the details are getting kind of fuzzy. In any event, she said it was because I wanted to be denied. Yes, that’s technically true, but in fact, I would have rather heard it was because she wanted me to be locked up. The moment passed, but it kind of gnawed at me for the rest of the evening until later that night when she said, innocently enough, that she didn’t want all this stuff about denial and chastity and yada yada to be all that we ever talked about. She wanted some balance.

A couple of things. One, I was trying to give her balance before she said that. I know that I think about it and want to talk about it more than she does. I think that’s natural. For one, I’m a male and think about sex, like, all the time. For another, being a sexually frustrated and an “orgasmically challenged” male makes me think about it all the fucking time. But really, what most struck me about her comment wasn’t that. It was that this whole new twist to our sex life isn’t really about us as much as it was about me. That is, I feel as though I’m “coming out” to both her and myself regarding this side of my sexuality that’s been bottled up for so long. Yes, it’s also about us and our relationship, but not entirely. So, when she said she wanted balance and not to have to talk to me about all this sex stuff so much, it sounded like she didn’t want to deal with me and everything I was discovering and exploring about myself. No, that’s not what she meant, but it’s what I heard. It played perfectly into my own self-doubts. I lost it.

For a couple of days, I was a total disaster. Every time we talked about it, I cried. Not just a little. I fucking sobbed. Inconsolable. I really don’t know where all that was coming from, but I can still feel it within me. It’s as if all my insecurities fused together to form some kind of emotional shark that never stops swimming just beneath the surface of my psyche. It’s unnerving enough to be unearthing all kinds of new urges and desires, but to do it along side your wife of eleven years who, it turns out, doesn’t have any of the same proclivities is really, really hard. At least it is for me. Nothing she said was meant to reject or marginalize me or my feelings, but it all felt that way. As someone who is typically quite confident and who approaches life accordingly, this has been a difficult set of feelings to come to terms with.

At the end of our conversations, we decided that maybe limiting me to three orgasms this year was way, way too aggressive. Not only would that make it very hard for me to give her the balance she was looking for, it would also place a lot of responsibility on her shoulders in dealing with me and my constantly needy and sexually charged state. To be able to successfully take that on would require that she actually enjoy it and I just don’t think she does. Not enough, anyway. I’ve asked that we target ten more orgasms and see how that goes. If, as we go along, we want to take that number down, I’m all for it, but to jump right to three seems crazy for both of us.

So then, since I was such an emotional wreck, she took me out of the CB-6000. Not only that, she allowed me to have sex with her and I came. The actual orgasm was intense – almost too intense to be pleasurable. I found afterward that I wasn’t very happy about having come. I almost felt a sense of mourning for the period of denial I had achieved and let slip by. As if the coming was just a punctuation on my failure and bizarre fetishes.

ARGH. I hate this post. I hate how it shows how much doubt and insecurity I carry around and how uncertain I am about who I am and how to make that work in my marriage. I have a wonderful, supportive wife and yet I’m still kind of a wreck about all this. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Not for the first or last time, I wish I could just be fucking normal. Whatever normal is.

I should not even post this. I should delete it. But I feel like I need to emotionally vomit before I can start blogging again and I guess that’s what this post is: my projectile vomiting of all my inner demons upon you, my unknown reader. God, I fucking hate feeling like I’m not even sure I am what I think I am. I’ve been here before. Back when I was struggling with my bisexuality and not thinking you could be such a thing. But that was primarily a private struggle. Now I’m married with kids and a house and a dog and an expensive car and everything. Back in the day, I could withdraw. But not now. Now, I have to deal with it.

Someone please slap me across my face and tell me to snap the fuck out of it.

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Deny me

I’m going to ease my way into my task and start with the basics (and the one area we’re already doing pretty well in). In short, I want Belle to deny me my orgasms.

Last night, after all the emotional turmoil and crying and stuff, just as we were spooning in bed and starting the long slide into sleep, I asked Belle what the fewest number of orgasms was that she’d let me have over the new year. Without missing a beat, she said three. Three. Total. Not three more. So, I’ve already burned 33% of this theoretical minimum. Shit! I don’t think she was kidding. If she really does keep me to this insanely small number, then she will come fifty times more often than me. I get a little light in the head just thinking about it. As a matter of fact, moments after she said that, my cock was rock-fucking-hard. Harder than it’s been in a really long time. We’re talking, Man of Steel hard. She noted that not only was I hard, I actually dribbled a little precum from merely considering only coming three times in twelve months.

So yeah, we’re doing well here. She’s getting off on not letting me get off. She likes the control. Likes how frustrated I get. Likes how it gives her power over me. She wants to be the calmly collected one while I’m all hot and hard and struggling for composure. In fact, I have zero complaints about this intersection of my kink and our sex life. I’m not even sure it still is just a kink. There’s an almost transcendental aspect to decoupling orgasm from sex and letting the urge build within. I love how it makes me think and feel and how it changes the way I treat Belle.

There’s just one thing I’m going to work on in the new year. I’m going to truly let go of thinking about coming or not. I’ve often found myself worrying that she’s going to tell me to come when I’m not ready or perhaps not let me on a night I expect it. From now on, I won’t even consider it to be an option. The next one might be tomorrow or it might be in a year or maybe never again. If she’s in control of them, then she’s in control. I need to absolutely release authority to her.

I would ask that she give me some warning before letting me get a release. As I’ve said before, I feel as though my approach to non-orgasmic sex is different than “normal” sex. My head’s just not in the right place to come. Hopefully, she’ll keep that in mind. If not, then I’ll deal with it.

Adjunct to orgasm denial is the ruined orgasm. Since the task left to me was to give Belle actionable things I want done to me, then I’ll add this to the list. According to Wikipedia, a ruined orgasm is one that is “unsatisfactory, awkward or even painful to experience”. There are four ways I’d like to experiment with having my orgasms ruined. The first is one we’ve already done once. Immediately after I come, make me eat it. I won’t want to, but make me do it anyway. Probably the best way would be to scoop it up and put it in my mouth for me since I will be loathed to do it myself. (Afterthought: You could also try telling me I’m going to eat whatever I produce beforehand which will cause me resist the pleasure of the orgasm. Making me fight with my own body, as you do when you deny me my orgasm, turns me on.) The second method would be to jack me off to the moment just before ejaculation, and then let go and give me no further physical stimulation. Either I won’t squirt, in which case I’ll be excellently edged, or I will, but won’t feel the same orgasmic pleasure from it. The third method would be to inflict pain at the moment of ejaculation. The best way might be to have me jack off and then grab my balls and squeeze the fuck out of them right when I start to come. I like this kind of stimulation when I’m aroused, but to do it during ejaculation will most certainly take away the pleasure. The fourth method is overstimulation. This one involves jacking me off until I come but then continuing to stroke me using my own ejaculate as lubricant, preferably concentrating on the head of my cock. Honestly, this one will probably require I be strapped down since I will fight it, but if you do it for even just an extra 20 or 30 seconds, that orgasm will be thoroughly ruined.

You might ask why. Why in god’s name would anyone want this done to them? Well, you could similarly ask that question regarding everthing I want, but in this case it’s primarily about you asserting your dominant position over me and what happens to my cock. Not only can you allow me to come, but sometimes, you can ruin the event for me. That’s the level of control you have over my pleasure. Not only that, but it hits all my unfairness buttons, too. If I’m only allowed a very limited number of orgasmic events, how terrible is it that you won’t even let all of them be satisfying?

Note: As far as I can tell, many who practice BDSM and ruined orgasms wouldn’t actually consider one that is ruined to have been a real orgasm. You can use that info any way you like, especially when it comes to math.

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One on 1/1

Belle surprised me this morning with permission to come. She had previously told me I’d have to wait until she got back from overseas, which would have put me at a minimum of 16 days, but I guess a combination of my plaintive, horny eyes and a fit of New Year’s generosity moved her to allow me to climax. It’s only been about six days since the last one, but that was coming off nearly three weeks between events and I can’t say I felt fully satisfied from it. I was very horny this morning – more than a six day denial should have made me. Based on comments from Tom and Eileen, this is apparently normal. Finally! I’m normal!!

In any event, Belle took me by surprise. All I wanted was to fuck her. She told me when I started that I’d get to come after her orgasm but, following her climax, I found that I couldn’t come. I tried and tried, but eventually had to roll off and stroke myself to stay hard. My feeling is that I’ve totally separated the need to come to climax from the act of intercourse. Truth is, after Belle came, I felt a kind of sexual satisfaction. Yeah, I was hard and turned-on, but I really didn’t need more than the reflected heat of her pleasure. This is totally different than the dopey lethargy of post-ejaculation satisfaction, but just as meaningful for me. I think, since I assumed I was not going to come, I had approached our sex with a different headspace – that of the denied male. Suddenly, I found myself staring down the barrel of my own orgasm and I blinked.

Belle was very supportive after I rolled off in defeat. While I stroked myself, she kissed me, pinched my nipples, and squeezed my balls. After a little while, I got back in the saddle and finally came. I had to be quiet since the kids were both up, but had I my druthers, I would have been screaming. It was a good thing.

We’ve been fooling around with orgasm denial for about three months now, but I felt today was a milestone. Sex and orgasm, for me, have been fully decoupled. It’s like I have two ways to make love to my wife now. The first, much more common method, is primarily about giving her pleasure. The pleasure I receive is hers reflected back on me, plus the hormonal rush of sexual frustration. The second way, of course, is where I also get to come, but it seems I need to know it’s allowable to get there in a good way. If I think back, this is how it’s felt for a while but I’m only just now realizing it. Those times she’s “sprung” an opportunity for emission on me have always been more difficult (and maybe even a little less satisfying) than those I knew were coming. I think this is all about how I approach the sex and which of the two methods I bring to the event.

This all kind of segues into a conversation we had a few nights ago. Now that we’re starting a new year, I’ve been thinking about how many times I might come in twelve months. In no way am I trying to usurp her authority over this, but I told her I’d be very happy with something between 18 and 20 orgasms in 2009. In a perfect world, she’d keep me off balance and not parcel them out in a nice evenly distributed pattern. Maybe two or three in a week and then nothing for at least month. Something like that. In any event, we seem to be thinking along the same lines.

I have no idea how many times the average 40-year-old male jacks off, but I’d guess I was doing it about two or three times a week, more or less. That’s about a 140-events-per-year pace. Now, I’m looking at something less than 15% of that over the next twelve months. In fact, it’s likely that Belle will orgasm seven times more often than me in 2009. I am overjoyed at the prospect.

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Christmas break

It’s been almost a week since I last wrote here. I guess I’ll call that my Christmas Break.

I was trying to get into a rhythm where I blogged about once a day, so six days off has left me a little rusty as well as contemplative regarding how I’ll blog in the future. On the one hand, I want to blog regularly (like I said, maybe 5 times a week, or thereabouts). On the other hand, I don’t want to get too repetitive. I mean, how many times can I come here and write that Belle denied me another orgasm before you all wander off? Once the bloom is off the orgasm denial flower, how many times can one write about the same non-event? The secret, I think, is spending more time describing the donut and less thinking about the hole. Of course, the longer I’m denied the more I think about holes…and what you can do with them…and how even now I’m getting plump thinking about a freakin’ donut hole. Sheesh. OK, back to it, then.

Christmas Day was notable for two things. First, my Belle Fille had the stomach flu all day. Merry Christmas, sweetie! That sucked (mostly for her). Luckily, she was right as rain the next day. Second, Christmas was the first day I actually forgot my dick was pierced. No pain, no uncomfortableness, in general, no weirdness of any kind. I count it as the first day of the rest of my penis-pierced life. The next day, Friday, Belle felt so good that she wanted me to fuck her. During the healing period, Belle hasn’t been able to enjoy her cock as often as she’d like and, since it was feeling pretty good, she wanted it in her. I used the one non-sheep intestine condom I had. I felt a wince once or twice, but otherwise it was a good experience for both of us. She reports being able to feel the curved barbell a little, but not a lot.

After she came, she told me I could, too, if I wanted to. It’s a testimate to how far orgasm denial has taken me that I actually had to think about it for a second. Three months ago, the option of not coming would have seemed very strange to me. Now, I find myself more than willing to trade the momentary intense pleasure of orgasm for the long burn of denial-driven frustration and basking in the reflected glow of her pleasure. But yeah, I came anyway. Unlike last time, it was good. Really good. Not head-exploding good, but pretty damned good just the same. Afterwards, I pulled off the spent condom, tied it off like a water balloon, and was surprised at the volume of ejaculate it contained. Man, that was a lot of little swimmers.

Yesterday was a good day. Belle and I were really into each other all day. She was giving me long looks and saying nice things and I was loving the attention and looking forward to pawing her that night. Once the kids were down and out, the pawing commenced. I asked to be able to pleasure her with the cock again and, while puting on the condom (we bought more of the latex variety), made the offhand remark that it had been a while since I had to deal with the things.

If you’ve read this blog for a while or spent time reading the old entires, you’ll know that this past summer Belle and I went though a difficult period in our marriage. In short, I cheated on her. We both agree that we should share the blame for allowing our marriage to get to a state where that kind of thing was even possible, but I was the one who cheated and therefore am the one who bears more of the blame. While we’ve come a remarkable way from those days, the pain I caused her occasionally surfaces, as it did with my seemingly innocent remark about using condoms. She immediately deduced (correctly) that I did not use a condom during my affair. I can explain why I chose not to, though it’s not important to this story and will only sound like I’m defending myself.

Belle did not stop me when my comment suddenly opened up the old hurt and anger. I was in her and doing my best to pleasure her when I felt something wasn’t right. I stopped, we talked, I apologized for the millionth time. I think she felt bad that her feelings got in the way of our moment, but I tried to tell her she shouldn’t. How could they not? Her feelings are more than valid and if anyone should feel bad, it should be me. In any event, we were able to get past it and she allowed me to bring her to climax manually.

As she approached her orgasm, I again felt the sympathetic vibrations within me and heard the little whimpering moans coming from my throat. I simultaneously relish and dread the moment of her orgasm. I’m allowed a fractional share of her pleasure but, shortly after, my access to her body comes to an end. Perhaps it was the earlier penetration, but for some reason I found myself hornier than I would have expected just 24 hours after my own release. She told me it would be a while before I was allowed to come, if for no other reason, because she’s leaving the country for a week starting next weekend. I asked if she was going to take the little vibrator, Pink, with her. Yes, she is.

If any part of me was coming off the hormonal edge, the sudden and crystal thought of her pleasuring herself on the other side of the world with Pink while I was hard, horny, and denied here at home had me instantly hard and miserably flooded with desire for her. Even now as I write this, I find myself in a state of excited frustration more suited to three weeks without release, not three days. Exacerbating this is Belle’s promise to let me know each time she comes while she’s gone. Due to the time difference, I imagine I’ll be in an afternoon meeting when I receive a text message from her with the news. She’ll be basking while I’ll be squirming. Not fair. Wonderfully, gloriously, not fair.

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Well, that sucked

Nineteen days of orgasmless existence came to an end this morning with a pathetic squirt. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

It all started in the dark at about 4:30 when my Belle Fille woke me up asking if I was interested in sex. “Ermph?” I replied. I had made my advances the night before since it had been an even numbered day since my last orgasm and she had previously expressed an preference for non-odd numbered days. However, “nineteen” is also the title of a song Belle liked in high school, so we were going to wait until the 19th day. Yeah, super. OK. Let’s wait! I’m sorry, what was I saying about wanting her to be capricious?

<clenched teeth>Good night, sweetie.</clenched teeth>

Flash forward six and a half hours to her proposition. Seriously, now!? It’s the middle of the night. Well, let’s not look this gift-wife in the mouth.

I did my dead-level best. I’m not sure I was even awake for most of it, but I did manage to get her off by going down on her. And here, guys, I have to make a confession. Even after nineteen days, I more than half hoped she’d let me roll off and go back to sleep. Yeah, I was hard and she was ready, but this was going to be not just the first time in almost three weeks, but the very first time with steel installed through my unit. But no, she wanted me to go. The reptile in me seized the moment and told the fluffy bunny to fuck off as I groped around for the condom package in the nightstand.

According to my piercer, I need to use a condom for about 6-8 weeks. At my current rate of consumption, I’ll burn through exactly two rubbers in that time. Now, it’s been a while since I used one of these things. Shopping for them is a little different than in the old days. Instead of picking them up in a greasy gas station convenience store, I made my selection while standing in the wide and well-lit aisle of our local Target superstore while moms with toddlers pushed carts full of Christmas toys and toilet paper nearby.  Before me was a six by twenty foot cornucopia of brightly colored prophylactic boxes. Ribbed, studded, spermicidal, thin, ultra thin, and magnum – all available in quantities from three to ninety-six from three different manufacturers. I was overwhelmed. Who the hell needs dozens of condoms, anyway? These things do expire, right? Halloween’s over, so passing them out to trick-or-treaters couldn’t be it. Perhaps they were intended for fall-out shelters or the nightstands of terribly lucky and/or delusional men.

Anyway, up on the top shelf in a little black box with a sheep’s head on it was a pack of three condoms apparently made from the intestine of the aforementioned animal. The writing on the box said these all-natural contrivances were the very thinnest and allowed for the most sensation for the discriminating gentleman (who might also have a latex allergy). They were roughly three times more expensive than their non-animal-based counterparts, and I’m just shallow enough to equate price with quality, so I bought them.

As it slid wetly out of its torn little envelope there in the inky blackness of our bedroom this morning, it occurred to me that it felt entirely unlike a mass-produced marvel of modern petrochemical manufacturing. Instead, it felt like rolled up skin. Rather than stop and consider what I was about to put on myself and risk the blood in my swollen member rushing off to some quiet, out of the way capillary where it could go back to doing what the rest of my body wanted to do, I sallied forth and unrolled the cold, wet, skin-like animal byproduct onto my sex.

The sheep on the package could just have well stood for a wool sock since that’s what it felt like I had on my dick as I entered Belle. I felt warmth and pressure, but couldn’t really tell how much of me was in her at any given point. Maybe the sheep my condom had come from had unnaturally thick intestinal walls. In any event, it didn’t really matter since the curved barbell in the head of my cock slid back and forth and pulled uncomfortably on its still-healing hole. I had to withdraw, but was pleased to release my manhood from it’s sheepy sensory deprevation chamber. One might think I felt sad that the sheep’s life was thusly wasted on my unchristened condom, but one would not only be wrong but one might also be freakishly obsessed with the rights of thick-intestined farm animals.

Once the intestine was off, Belle let me masturbate. Honestly, I should have stopped and just gone to sleep, but I felt I had gone that far and, with the ghost of Wooly the Sheep hanging over the bed, I wanked my meat. Normally, I like to alternate from the base of my shaft to the head, but the area I like to rapidly stimulate is currently healing, so I could only stroke the bottom two-thirds of the cock. Eventually, I coaxed it to give up the semen. It didn’t feel good at all – it felt like a hell of a lot of work. Its volume was unremarkable which, in itself, is somewhat remarkable considering how long it had been. But no, it wasn’t fireworks and earthquake stuff. My cranium did not explode. I did not see lights. Instead, the orgasm weakly flung itself onto my stomach, barely making it over my belly button.

I felt like the guy who sat through a joke he’s already heard, but told with an overly long set up and a bungled punch-line. I’m hoping Belle isn’t too tired tonight because I’d like to call a mulligan and get my do-over.