Tag: relationship

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We talk

“Why do you do that? Why do you always go there? Saying we need to just chuck the whole thing whenever we hit a bump?”

She was referring to this comment from my previous post:

This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on.

I’d say I don’t always go there, but I have, on occasion, suggested we should end our experiment in D/s. For me, whenever I come to doubt that she’s getting anything out of what we do, a complex series of things spring up.

First, I fear that she’s sacrificing her own sexuality in order to serve mine. Nothing else would be more appalling to me. This is not to say I don’t think she should ever do something just because it pleases me. Hardly. That give and take is the foundation of any relationship, sexual or otherwise. However, the idea that she would wholly subsume her sexual identity under the weight of mine is something I’ve feared multiple times. If that were ever to be the case, that her control was merely a construct formed by her desire to see me happy, the entire thing would come crashing down. Her desire for control must be authentically hers.

Second, I immediately start to feel guilt over the ridiculously complicated nature of my sexuality. Why should it all be so fucking hard? Why can’t I be like the other boys? She doesn’t need any more complexity in her life and I feel that I’m only becoming more complicated as we go along, introducing new “rules” and concepts she needs to keep in mind. Sex should be fundamentally easy, shouldn’t it? Sex with me, at least from her perspective, is anything but.

Third, I feel shame. I am ashamed at the things I want from her. My desire to be controlled, to be bound, to be hurt. She’s a nice Catholic girl and I’m nothing more than a perverted deviant (and a heathen to boot) bringing implements of bondage, floggers, and other apparatus into the bedroom. I want her to do unspeakable things to me. Things that are fundamentally not within her nature. I’m a freak.

Fourth, there’s that fundamental difference between us sexually. She wants sex to be spontaneously conducted upon soft, down-filled bedding on bright, sunny Spring mornings with the sounds of birds outside and the scent of lavender on the cool breeze. I want it to be done in the dark, by candlelight, with black leather and stainless steel. I want pain and domination and inequity. Nothing about what I like is spontaneous. We are from polar-opposite regions. I fear she never gets what she really wants in a sexual encounter (think Jane Austen) because she’s always catering to my fetid desires (think Marilyn Manson).

We discussed all this. We will work on all this, especially trying to find ways in which her idealized sexual experience can be combined with mine. She doesn’t want me to feel shame, though I still do. We both feel guilt. We both worry about disappointing the other.

Specifically regarding last night’s encounter, I found myself saying something unexpected. I accused her of being selfish. She was stressed and our sex life was only adding to that angst, so she pulled the plug on it. Not only had she released me, she ended my denial. Capriciously, I thought, since her orgasm was already attended to and didn’t require me to be released. I said I thought that was selfish because I was in a really good place at the time. I was thrilled. The issues were hers and we should have talked them though instead of her, under the guise of being in control, unilaterally acting. It’s was hard for me to say that to her because I’m generally predisposed to accepting her control and serving her selfishness and generally being submissive, but I thought the way in which she acted last night was above and beyond all that. She was actively trying to kill the dynamic, at least for a little while. I had no desire for it to end. Certainly, there must have been another way that would have preserved what we each needed.

Beyond that, she struggles (continuously) with the need to satisfy. That my satisfaction comes, in part, from being unsatisfied is very difficult for her. She also draws a line to my sexual dissatisfaction and my infidelity. In fact, it was my dissatisfaction with her general apathy towards sex that sent me away, not with the sex we were having. In any event, she says she fears that we’ll end up there again. I can’t imagine that now. Sex before didn’t exist between us. Now, it’s front and center. How we were a year ago and how we are now are totally opposite.

In any event, we need to redefine for her what “satisfaction” means to me and to not confuse it with satiation. I am very satisfied now with being totally unsatiated. We can have that bright and lavender-scented Jane Austen-style sex some Spring morning, but I’ll be happier at the end if I’m left hard and frustrated and grinding into my chastity device as opposed to spewing my seed into her. We can both be happy as long as we accept new, flexible definitions of “happy”. She may I think I secretly want to come all over her. In fact, I want to want to come, but not actually do it.

And seriously, I don’t want to come. If, in the course of her fucking me because that’s what she wants, I happen to come because I can’t control myself, then so be it. I only hope she takes the opportunity to tease me about it (hopefully with punishment). However, and for the foreseeable future, I’d rather be left wanting it rather than having it. If she wants to torture me with forced orgasm – to rip it from me against my will – then fine, I guess. That can be hot. But that’s not what last night was about. That was about the opposite.

I have more that I could say, but the conversation was very emotional. I cried very hard a couple of times, and she cried too. I’m feeling a little wiped by the whole thing and sort of puffy-faced. In the end, of course, we didn’t decide to end our experiment. We talked our way through and will keep trying to find the right path. We hugged and kissed and cared for one another. It was all very Austen-esque, except when we were done, she locked her cock back up in plastic. That never would have happened to Mr. Darcy.

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The unwanted orgasm

“Indefinitely” lasted until about 2:30 this morning. We had had a brief conversation about her comment to my last post where I basically expressed my confusion to her in person, told her I felt as though she had switched her position from the night before and made it sound as though I had put words into her mouth. But we never got to discuss it further – for me to also say I understand the extra effort denying me requires – since the kids needed to be put to bed and she fell asleep in my daughter’s room. I tried waking her a few times, but she wasn’t moving. So the issue was left hanging and I went to bed in a sour mood.

Around 2:15 or so, she was back in bed and on my side, arm over me. I was dead asleep and still conflicted about the strange way the day ended, but my hormones got the better of me and I felt the tube pressurize.

“Are you asleep?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, feeling the thick, hard root of the erection beneath the CB6K’s ring.

“I’m going to unlock you.”

What? “Why?” I asked.

“Because I want to have sex with you.”

Fair enough, but there was a sinking feeling in my chest just the same. She opened and removed the little brass lock and I removed the device. My trepidation had done little to lessen my erection and the sensation of the tube sliding off the hard meat caused me to sharply suck in my breath.

I turned to her, now totally naked, and she said, “And I want you to come.”

The sinking feeling sank faster.

“How do you feel about that?” she asked.

“I don’t want to come,” I replied.

“I’m ordering you to come.”

“It’s only been a week.” Actually, not even a week.

“I know.”

I started to run my hand over her, under her bedclothes, feeling her smooth warmth. But there was a heaviness laying over me. I really, really didn’t want to come.

“You’re in charge,” she continued, “I’m just going to lay here and enjoy it.”

Well, if I’m in charge, then I don’t get to come, is what I was thinking. My hands and mouth went to work. Emotionally, I was feeling very uneasy, but the hormonal sex lizard didn’t really care. The cock was achingly hard and insistently pressing into her leg. But it was not my intention to use it unless she ordered me to.

Her moaning and writhing became more pronounced. “How do you want to come?” I asked, knowing I had her right where I wanted her.

“I don’t know. That feels so good.”

No argument from me. I kept fingering her. Eventually, she came pretty good. No cocks involved.

As she lay there basking, I thought I could get out of the required orgasm I really didn’t want to have. But no. She opened herself to me, silently inviting me to mount her. I lined the head of the cock up to her wet warmth and drove it in. Of course, it felt heavenly.

“Do I have to come?”

“Yes.”

I started to fuck her, but felt myself in a strange in-between space. On the one hand, I was fucking, which was good (really, really good), but on the other, I still really did not want an orgasm. These two parts of me agreed to disagree and her control was the deciding vote. I kept going. Eventually, I came. It felt different. Like it was someone else’s orgasm I was only observing or something. The euphoric wave was missing.

Afterward, she had her arms around me and asked how I felt.

“Like I came.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Her executive coaching skills at work.

I pondered the question but decided 2:30 in the morning was the wrong time to get into it.

“Why did you make me come?”

“Because I wanted to take the edge off.”

“But I like the edge.” It’s kinda the whole point.

And then we drifted off to sleep.

This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on. I feel she released me and ordered me to come last night because the whole thing had suddenly become to much stress for her. We never really talked about what her comment meant, but she knew there was potential complication there based on my initial reaction. In order to avoid that, she pulled the release cord. All the way.

The cultural paradigm of appropriately satisfying sex says what happened last night was all good since we both came. The thing is, though, I find more satisfaction and a greater feeling of love from her when she doesn’t let me come. Telling me to have an orgasm is easy. Making me wait longer – to control it –  is hard. She took the easy way out. I suppose I could have put my foot down and refused to come, but really, what’s the point of that? It’s only sexy for me when she’s not letting me do it, when she’s asserting control. It’s entirely empty when I do it to myself. If I had done that and not come after she told me to repeatedly, I would have started crying and everything would have gone to hell. No doubt. I guess, at the end, it came down to two unsatisfactory choices for me. Avoid orgasm and be left with a pyrrhic victory or at least submit to her wishes, even though I didn’t want to.

If her reflexive reaction to this kind of thing is to pull the plug when it gets hard, should we even be doing it? It seems obvious to me she doesn’t really get anything out of leaving me frustrated. She doesn’t seem to be getting any kind of rush from controlling me the way Tom’s Mrs. Edge does in their relationship. She’s just doing it, letting it turn into this thing she starts to worry and stress about. I don’t want that for her. This is supposed to be fun.

I’m sure she feels that giving me an orgasm is a good thing, but I don’t want it. That is, I don’t want it as long as she doesn’t want me to have it. If she really doesn’t care either way and is only humoring me, then I’m investing a lot of emotional energy and enduring a lot of frustration for nothing. Maybe we should ditch this particular kink and find another outlet we can both enjoy fully.

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An indefinite period

She’s going to leave me locked up indefinitely. I’m not sure how long “indefinitely” is, but this fact came up last night after more talking (since work’s beat her down lately, that’s about all she had energy for). I was telling her how much more comfortable it makes me to think she likes me locked up. I told her, since she’s not really left me in the thing very much lately, that I figured she wasn’t all that into it and was only humoring me. She reiterated that she does like me in it. A lot.

So why have I not been in it that much? Apparently, she lets me out when there’s other stuff happening around us. For instance, we have relatives over this week. There’s no reason at all that should have any bearing on the status of her cock, but she let me out just before they showed up. Yes, it’s true she also wanted to fuck it, but still. I told her I would be happier if she didn’t worry about how I feel about the device at any given moment. If I’m not squealing (aka, safewording), then all I want her to consider is whether or not she wants me in it. Not whether or not I want to be in it. If she’s thinking about my comfort (or whatever) and I know it (which I do) then I can potentially use that to my advantage and manipulate my status. It’s much, much hotter to think she’s only considering what she wants with regard to the device. Besides, for the vast majority of the day, the device might as well not be there. It gets in the way of practically nothing other than peeing, jacking off, and sex.

Which is not to say she can’t let it out to play if that’s what she wants. This kinda gets to the fact that she doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s locked up. If she wants to fuck it, she should fuck it, then put it back in. If she just wants to tease it, then she should. Getting in and out isn’t that hard. Will I want to go back in? Certainly not if I’ve come, but again, who cares? It’s her cock, it’s her CB6K. If she likes the idea of me being in it, then I should be in it.

So anyway, at some point in this conversation, she said she was going to leave me in it indefinitely. I like the sound of that. I asked her to err on the side of leaving it in there more often since, of course, she likes it that way. If she likes it, then I fucking love it. Recently, my appreciation of enforced chastity has been on low ebb. Suddenly, I find myself more enthusiastic about it than I was when we first bought the CB6K.

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She likes it

It’s been 10 days now since she last let me come which is just about when the hormones really start kicking in. Based on previous experience, if she continues to deny me orgasm but still teases me and allows me to pleasure her, my level of frustration will continue to build until about three weeks when it’ll level out and maybe even start to drop off a bit. She’s only made me hold out that long a few times, but each time the pattern’s been roughly the same.

I also notice now that the tremulous vibrato of sexual energy that resonates in my chest (which I’ve described in the past as “carnivorous butterflies”) has become such a normal state of affairs for me that I only really notice it when it’s not there. I don’t know what causes this, but it’s enhanced when she has me in the device. It’s like all my sexual desire – basically, the desire to grab, stroke, and otherwise abuse her cock – feeds back on itself. It drives me to seek out sexually stimulating media (otherwise known as “porn”) which, in turn, only makes it worse since I can’t touch myself. It’s that kind of loop, pumping more and more hormones into my blood, that makes it impossible to sleep sometimes. Anyway, I’m feeling that now. A state of hyper-arousal. The carnivorous butterflies flapping around inside me.

Last night, I really wanted plant my face in Belle’s snatch and eat her up. Something, anything, to get her pheromones on me. To feel her pleasure and eventual orgasm which comes for both of us now. But she brought a bunch of work home with her and, by the time she was done with it, wasn’t in the mood for her bunny’s services. I may have let my disappointment show just a bit, but I’ve gotten pretty good lately at not feeling I’m in any way involved in deciding if I get to experience sexual pleasure and got over it pretty quickly.

She told me to get naked, which I did, and as I was laying above the covers next to her, clothed only in the transparent plastic of the CB6K, something Tom said recently in a comment came to mind. Belle and I hardly ever talk about the device. It’s her method of control, but it’s also the thing that mostly goes unsaid between us. So, with it being very visible and me still adjusting to my unexpected stint in lock-up, I asked her if she had any questions about it.

She thought about this a second and asked, “What’s the hardest part about wearing it?”

“God,” I said, “There are so many hard parts…” I seriously had to ponder that.

“Finding a place for it in my pants is hard sometimes,” I began, “And peeing. It makes peeing rather complicated. That sucks. And, of course, the nocturnal erections can be difficult to deal with. Those two can combine when the cock gets so hard in the tube that it makes peeing impossible. That totally blows…” I trailed off.

“The hardest part, though, is that I feel like you don’t always know what to do with me when I’m locked up.” Not sure where that came from. It just sort of popped into my head so I said it.

“But I like when you wear it,” she replied.

“Really?” I continue to assume that she only puts me in it to humor me and that she’d rather have me out. In fact, I assume she does everything in an attempt to humor me. My submissive’s insecurity, I guess.

“What do you like about it?” I asked.

“I like that when you’re wearing it I know exactly what you can and cannot do with yourself. You’re a guy and all your wiring and buttons are different than mine, so I like knowing you really can’t do anything when you’re wearing it. I like knowing you can’t touch yourself.” She may have said some other things related to this, but frankly the buzzing sound in my head made it difficult to follow what she was saying. The tube was fully pressurized and my eyes kinda of half-closed as the blanket of subspace fell over me.

“I need to hear that. That you like it,” I said. “If you like having me wear it, then there are no hard parts.”

And that was about it. She was tired and was asleep shortly thereafter. I was awake and decided to read a book rather than surf the web since I really did want to sleep at some point. In retrospect, I’m really pleased she told me she likes when I’m locked up. That’s huge. I can put up with almost anything if I know she wants me to. On the other hand, my point about her not knowing what to do with me when I’m locked up is still out there. We need to talk more about that.

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BLOG WARZ: Bring on the hurt!

Over on Devastating Yet Inconsequential, Dev replied to yesterday’s post with one of her own. In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say I knew beforehand that she was doing it. In fact, I encouraged her to write it. It wasn’t like she took it upon herself to lay into me and Belle and our hamhanded attempt at a scene or anything. I thought the points she raised were worth further exploration. In talking about it, though, I thought it would be fun to create some kind of blog war in which we post ever-escalating vitriol at one another if only to drive traffic up on our blogs. That’s me. Always marketing.

Needless to say, since I totally just spilled the beans, I chickened out.

In any event, I have to say I find myself in basic agreement with Dev’s four points of what we did wrong. I’ll just use this space to help provide some texture to our POV.

  1. I should have told Belle beforehand that I wasn’t up to being beaten – Yes. Of course. However, I’m a simple creature who really wanted to have a nice time being abused and common sense did not intervene. I hoped against hope that I’d be able to pull myself together and enjoy it once we got going, but that was obviously a bad idea.
  2. Springing the punishment angle on me was bad form – In retrospect, that’s obvious now. I do give Belle props for thinking outside the box and trying something that, on the surface, sounded like something I’d like. In her defense, I probably would have done it, too. We’re both still pretty new at this stuff. On the plus side, we did figure out the parameters around which she could punish me which I think is a positive development.
  3. I should have safe-worded – Again, yes. Totally. I didn’t because I was too proud. I have a hard time admitting she took me to a place that was more than I could handle. Next time, I’ll know better.
  4. She should have provided after care – I’ll chalk this one up to inexperience, too. Plus, I’m not sure she appreciated how really fucked up I was (see point number 1). Also, I think she was trying to maintain her end of the dynamic in an attempt to salvage the evening. I admit, it was all a disaster.

As I told Dev already, the important thing is we learned from this experience. Also, that we’ve become confident enough that we were able to get over it relatively quickly and didn’t instead dwell on our shared suckage for a week or two. Had this happened early on, it would have been devastating. Everyone, I assume, goes through this kind of shit as they learn to navigate the minefield of BDSM (at least, everyone who isn’t doing so with a grizzled veteran).

Let our screw-ups be your guide!

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Punishment and the reluctant rabbit

Lately, I’ve felt a little off. Off in the sense that, outside the bedroom, I haven’t felt overly submissive or the need to provide service to Belle Fille that I’ve enjoyed in the past. I have my theories (which we’ll get into), but it all came home to roost yesterday.

Belle was in one of her cyclonic home organization phases. I’m not sure she stopped for more than 15 minutes yesterday from doing something – cleaning and organizing the garage, laundry room, downstairs bathroom, her closet, etc. Typically, I’ve learned to just stay out of her way when she’s like this as there’s no way to get her to relax until she collapses at the end of the day. The end of the day when we had previously said (or rather, she had previously said) we need some “special time”.

“Special time” because we’ve settled into this rhythm with regard to sex. It’s pretty much exclusively about her while I’m left to stew after she falls asleep. I have nothing particularly against this type of encounter, but it’s all we’ve been doing lately. It’s what I call “passive” denial in that I get turned-on and such, but she’s not doing anything to enhance my arousal. When she deliberately does things to bring me into a high state of frothiness (jacking me off, letting me jack myself off, making me fuck her – all without orgasm), that’s “active” denial. I need that. Plus, I’ve been feeling the urge to get back to that wonderfully spacey place she took me last time she beat me. In fact, we sat together after lunch and calmly discussed which way she’d abuse me later in the day. Wooden spoon? Last time, she didn’t like that because it made too much noise. Spatula? Ditto. Flogger? So anyway, you can see the general outline of what I thought “special time” would be. Her slapping me around, making me all hard and drippy, then letting me get her off. Preferably, over the course of an hour or more. Nice, leisurely lovemaking (as we’ve been able to redefine it).

So problem number one with this great plan was that I went on a 13 mile bike ride yesterday. That’s not outrageously long, but it’s been a while since I went that far and I’m not in peak physical condition at the moment. By the end of the day, I was feeling tired and had developed a headache (probably from my allergies which suck donkey right now). By the time we were in bed and the kids were sleeping, etc., I wasn’t in the mood for a whippin’. I still wanted the other part of our “special time” very much, but just as easily I could have gone to sleep.

First lesson: I should have said something. I didn’t tell her how I felt. She instructed me to strip and brought out the flogger. Her, clothed, standing next to the bed and holding the flogger. Me, naked and laying on the bed, looking up at her. I knew I wasn’t really up for the hitting part, but the subspace brought on by our relative physical positions fought my urge to say something. As she started to whack at me, I found myself unable to stay still. I bounced around the bed, up on my knees, on all fours, laying down. She had to circle the bed to maintain a good vector on my ass. As she was hitting me, she berated me for my unacceptable service lately. She called me out on laundry I had fallen behind in and generally criticized my lack of focus on her. In between whacks, she said she had grown accustomed to my service and felt it should resume. So, as opposed to the way I had been beaten in the past, this time we were cloaking the event in the cover of a punishment. My discomfort grew. I thought this should have been hot to me, but in combination with my headache and overall tiredness and previous desire for a more loving encounter, it just made me feel worse.

Eventually, she ordered me to stay in one position. She sat down and fucking wailed on me a few times (at least, that’s how it felt – I’m not sure if she was hitting me hard or if my ability to take it was low). I kept getting up and she kept telling me to get down. I wanted to kiss her, but she wouldn’t let me. I told her I couldn’t take it anymore. She assumed it was part of the game and told me I could always safeword my way out. I did not want to do that. It wasn’t that she was hitting me harder than I could stand. It wasn’t physical pain I was struggling with. So she kept hitting me. Finally, I sat up and said I did not want to be hit anymore.

She realized something was amiss and asked me what was up. I told her I really couldn’t say, but I didn’t want to be hit. I worried that she’d assume it was something she did wrong and that she’d have a crisis of confidence, but she valiantly tried to maintain her end of the dynamic. She left the room momentarily and I curled up on the bed, desperate for some tenderness (aka, aftercare). She came back in, laid down, and I held onto her, but felt no sexual urges.

I can’t remember her exact words, but she accused me of only wanting to be hit when the manner in which it took place was one I was comfortable with. That’s a fairly sophisticated charge for her to throw at me. On the one hand, no, I don’t want to always be comfortable with the way she smacks me around. It’s entirely acceptable to make me uncomfortable. And no, I was not suggesting she should not be able to punish me. But, on the other hand, it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I thought she’d hit me in a loving way, not a punitive way. I wasn’t trying to top her from below. I hadn’t pulled the plug in a state of pique over not appreciating her set-up of the scene. Not at all. I just hadn’t been capable of doing it.

I’m not sure she bought it. After our short conversation, she told me to get the lotion. She wanted a foot massage. Fuck, I thought. I really wasn’t in the mood for this, either. All I wanted to do now was go to sleep.

Laboriously, I dragged myself from the bed, retrieved the lotion and a towel from the bathroom, and began massaging her feet. The minutes dragged on. She had fallen into a light sleep during the massage, and while I still felt very shitty, I was at least relieved that when I finally finished the evening seemed to be coming to an end. I went around the room and extinguished all the candles. Getting back into bed woke her up and she told me to come to her. I inched over. She said, “Come here,” and I inched a little closer and put my arm over her in the most noncommittal manner possible.

“I want you to be inside me,” she said. The thoughtfulness of that nearly brought me to tears.

“I don’t think I can,” I said. I felt 500 miles away from an erection, let alone mustering the energy to fuck her.

“OK,” she said.

Then we fell asleep. But not before I moved away from her and turned over to face the other direction.

—

This morning, we were able to have a conversation about it (or, that is, three conversations since the kids kept acting like they were deserving of our attention all morning).

With regard to the mysterious inability to feel the need to do things for her, I think we’ve pinned that on the whole “active vs. passive” denial thing. Since I’m out of the device, I’ve been fulfilling my desire for desire myself. I’ve been stroking myself and letting myself get right up against an orgasm before backing down. No, I haven’t technically had permission to do this, but I somehow talked myself into it being OK. In my head, I had this imagined conversation with her where I ask permission and she, since she doesn’t want to have to deal with my neediness, gives it to me. In my hormonal state, I managed to turn that imagined permission into implicit permission. In effect, I’ve been masturbating, though not to the point of orgasm. Regardless, since I’ve transmuted sexual release with sexual arousal, what I’ve been doing is exactly the same as a man who jacks off to orgasm in the bathroom when he gets horny. I’ve replaced her as my sole source of sexual satisfaction. I am, of course, explicitly forbidden to do this now and she will become more active in ensuring my sexual frustration in the future.

As far as the punishment thing goes, I told her I constantly crave ramifications. Lacking any consequences for my actions/inactions, their motivations sometimes start to lose their meaning. Even if I had kept on edging myself, there should have been something focusing me on my duties. So, while it felt wrong to me last night, I really want her to punish me when necessary. This isn’t necessarily a masochistic desire of mine. The part of me who wants to feel pain is not the same part of me who wants to transfer control to her. They’re kissing cousins, to be sure, but they come from different places in my fetid psyche. Acknowledging that she has the right to administer corporal punishment to me is all about power exchange. Hot, sexy power exchange.

She says she’s pretty sure I didn’t like being spanked by her last night and she exactly right. I didn’t like it. I felt like a little boy suffering the consequences of doing something he knew was wrong. It was embarrassing and emotional. Yeah, the pain stung and I was in entirely the wrong mindset to deal with it, but that’s the point. One is not punished when one decides it’s time. It happens when the punisher decides to do it. And it’s not always the case that the one being punished knows it coming. Yes, I want her to whip my ass when I’m not being a good boy.

And since I’m me, I could see it all in my head moments after talking about it with her. On some random weeknight when I least suspect it, she tells me to pull down my pants and bed over the side of the bed. She tells me she going to punish me for [fill in the transgression] by caning my ass [n] times. I will be still during the caning and will count out each strike right after it lands. If I move excessively or fail to count out the number quickly enough, she will add an additional number of strikes (her discretion, of course). After she’s done with me, I pull my pants back up, say to her those words that codify our power exchange, and go about our lives, my face is as red as my ass.

To that end, I went to Home Depot this morning and picked up a couple of those plastic rods that you use to open and close mini blinds (one for regular use and one in case she breaks the first over my ass). Whenever she feels I need to be reminded of the arrangement I asked for or need to be refocused on what she thinks in important, I hope she’ll use it on me. Maybe eventually we’ll buy a proper cane.

All this talking seemed to do the trick with me. While I had gone to bed and woke up absent any sexual desire whatsoever, by the time we got to talking about her right to administer corporal punishment, I had a health erection (shocking). As I write this, she’s in her bed taking a nap and I’d like nothing better than to go back there and go down on her until I feel the pulse of her rapture beneath my tongue. I was nowhere near that kind of feeling last night or this morning. I’ll assume that’s a good thing.

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Good night

Tuesday just kinda sucked from all kinds of angles, none of them related to Belle. I found myself at the end of the day in a frame of mind not unlike the one I would have found myself in a year ago – distracted by external factors and not emotionally present with Belle or the kids. It pissed me off. While that was normal ten months ago, it feels oily and distasteful to me now. We went to bed and I was still distracted. It’d only been about five days since I last came, so I’d only just begun to feel the return of of the effects of denial, but the distraction of the day totally overwhelmed that. My sex drive – a nearly constant companion for so many months – was absent. I wanted it back.

Belle gave me permission to take off my clothes and I immediately latched on to her. I didn’t really feel it at that point – in the old days, it would have been easier to just let her fall asleep – but with each kiss I planted on her face and as my hand passed over her body and across her skin, the desire to feel her have an orgasm started to incrementally build. I sensed she wasn’t entirely there and had she told me to get off so she could go to sleep it probably would have sent me into an emotional funk, but she didn’t

I finally asked, “What can I do for you, Belle Fille?”

“You can give me an orgasm.”

“How would you like to come?” I asked as I involuntarily pressed the stiff erection into her thigh. I wanted to fuck her now. A lot.

“With your fingers,” she said. “I like your fingers.”

I was not disappointed. The subby bunny was coming out of his burrow and the need to feel her pleasure was more pressing than worrying how it came about.

As I started to work on her, little waves of warm energy pulsed through my brain. This was right. This was good. She would come. I would not. She would feel satisfaction and fall asleep easily. I would not. She clearly wasn’t worried about my frustration or the hard cock pressing into her or what it meant or would do to me afterward. She felt no guilt. She wanted me horny and unsatisfied. This was about her pleasure.

For me, the best part of giving her that orgasm was at the end when she took a handful of my hair and used it to roughly pull my head from her nipple. No words. Just an abrupt motion that said, “That’s it, tool. I’m done.”

I didn’t start the evening in my “zone of denial”, but I was there by the end. I was desperately horny. She allowed me to enter her after her basking and glowing period and it felt fantastic. Of course, I was never going to come. I never got close. But the fucking. Sweet Jesus. I just adore her pussy. Every bit of it. Every tiny, little, wet, hot bit of it.

While she was indulging me with access to her body, I told her things she already knew. I said I never, ever wanted to come again outside her presence. I told her how thankful I was for her accepting control over my sexual release. How happy it made me.

Eventually, it had to stop. She told me the ride was coming to an end, but the struggle within me over the idea of pulling out was difficult. Millions of years of reproductive evolution was screaming within every fiber of body to keep going, but my mind – the part that embraces her control – eventually got the upper hand. I withdrew from the warm confines of her body and felt the cold air of control wash over the hard, wet meat.

Yep. It was a good night.

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It’s all good

It’s totally predictable now. Orgasms = diminished urge to blog about not having orgasms. Interestingly, my interest in non-orgasmly focused topics goes up. If this blog covered other aspects of my life, then I’d still have something to talk about, but since it’s so focused on our sex life, it suffers when she lets me come.

My last post was very hard to write simply because I lost the desire to write about it. Looking back, I’m not that happy with it, but there it is. Belle let me come again on Saturday morning, but it wasn’t her idea. I was feeling pretty frisky, what with the unencumbered man meat I was sporting, and I made that friskiness known by climbing up on her and gyrating said man meat into her. Subtle, I know. Not exactly respecting her personage, but I totally would have cut it out if she had told me to. And that’s the thing about respecting her personage. I know I get more sex (or, what passes for sex for me) when I can come on to her. The trade-off is, she’s under less pressure to give in and is therefore happier. I’m left recognizing situations in which I probably could get her to let me do stuff, but I’m forced to let them pass due to our agreement. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying. That’s what accepting her control means, right? Saturday morning, though, I pushed the limits knowing she was in a good mood and we had nothing much to do and the kids weren’t all in our face or anything. She indulged me.

I did not intend to come as I did not have permission, but I let my concentration slip as she approached her orgasm and came anyway. I kept right on pumping through it which caused the head of the cock to burn in oversensation, but she needed to come still. Afterward, she told me I could go but, you know, I already had. How do they not notice? I’m literally spraying fluids into her and she can’t feel them? Oh, well. Coming accidentally didn’t make me feel all that bad because I now know I really can control my orgasm, even after more than three weeks. It’s just a matter of practice. Lots and lots of practice.

In the days since, I’ve felt wispy feelings of denial start to creep back (which might explain why I’m here). She’s been playfully touching her cock and saying little things at random times and that helps a lot. Last night, after she told me to get naked, she gave it the most gentle little strokes as she fell asleep  – like petting a small animal – with random thwacks at my nuts mixed in. It was nice. Very nice.

In general, I’m feeling really, really good about where we are now. It’s like we’ve settled into a nice little groove. I feel her control with me all the time. The idea of coming absent her go-ahead is alien to me now. Plus, I’m not all freaked about how my feelings have changed since I know it’s temporary (and the 10-14 days after the orgasm give me the highest high anyway). She seems very comfortable in her role and, as I said, is being playful about it. In short, things are awesome.

Nowhere to go but down, right? 😉

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Top vs. Domme

Further pondering following my previous post on how to be happy as a guysub in an otherwise vanilla marriage.

Over on Dev’s blog, I made a comment that I didn’t understand the difference between a top and a domme. I might still not totally understand it, but in reading on the subject, I think I’ve come across some insight other submissive dudes might find helpful. It’s this: Belle does not dominate me, she tops me. OK, fine, all you crusty old timers roll your eyes or whatever it is you do, but I think a lot of guys who slant towards the sub side of the range confuse domination and topping. They’re subtly yet significantly different.

According to Sex-Lexis.com (a dictionary of sexual terms), domme is defined this way (and all the emphasis is mine):

A female-dom or dominatrix , a woman who enjoys dominating role in a dominance-and-submission scene, as opposed to sub (a submissive).

And top is defined this way:

In sex games and activities, the sexually dominant or active-partner (as opposed to bottom or passive), the one who controls the stimuli of a scene in both physical and psychological (fantasy) play.

And…

In BDSM, the person who controls, restrains, or administers the discipline , the player who inflicts sensation and/or bondage on another.

There are other definitions of both, but these are the ones I think are relevant. The key difference is the domme enjoys the dominant role while the top is the one who controls – no particular enjoyment is mentioned. Which is to say, a domme surely tops, but not all tops are dommes since domming suggests one should get off especially on the topping. Savvy?

OK, put it this way. Subby guys all want the domme. They want the woman who will get off on crushing them under foot in any and multiple (loving, of course) ways. In fact, they should be looking for those kinds of women to have relationships with. But, a lot of men, for whatever reason, don’t figure that out until after they’ve made a life with a woman unsuspecting of this desire. In those cases, it can be that the guy lucks out and finds his wife/partner is secretly his opposite number, but most often it’s the case that she’s not. So, the best he can hope for is that she’s OK topping him. You cannot make a person who does not get off on power exchange get off on it, but you might be able to talk one into doing it situationally for your benefit.

This requires that one has a GGG partner. “GGG” is a term coined by Dan Savage that stands for “good, giving, and game: good in bed, giving equal time and equal pleasure, and game for anything—within reason.” If one’s partner is not GGG, it is unlikely they will be willing to top. For the most part, that’s where I am with Belle. She’s not a domme. She’s just not wired that way. But she’s figuring out what trips my trigger and is eternally GGG. She has her limits, but is willing to explore whatever I want within those.

If Belle and I have succeeded at this, it’s because I never asked her to be my domme. I told her what I wanted and asked that she do it to me, but not to fundamentally become someone she’s not. Because she’s wonderful, she does most of what I’ve requested. She’s getting better at it all the time.

I can ask for nothing more. And really, neither can you.

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Authenticity

I admit right up front, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about here. See, over the past ten months or so, as it’s become more and more clear that I have a side of me that is this odd creature called a “submissive male”, I have thrashed about trying to find a construct under which to operate. Some kind of framework assembled by those who have come before me to help me find The One True Way I will find happiness with my otherwise vanilla wife.

The web is terrific for this kind of thing. Well, I should say, it’s terrific at disseminating and echoing the prevailing thought. As has been pointed out recently by Ranat1, according to the web, there appears to be two One True Ways to be submissive and male at the same time:

  • The he-slime, boot-licking, worm fodder kind of malesub
  • The Arthurian knight-in-shining-armor kind of malesub

 
Neither of these things work for me so much. For one, I have simply too high a regard for myself to follow the he-slime model (for more than 45 minutes or so, that is) and the whole “good knight and m’lady” thing just seems kinda like it stems from those frustrated that their days in high school drama class are too far behind them. And, of course, at the end of the day it’s still just me and Belle, the two who have been married almost 12 years (11 of which occurred before my descent into depravity).

What’s become clear to me (and what Ranat’s post and the subsequent conversation about it have helped along for me) is that there is this other way. In fact, there are lots and lots of other ways. In fact, the best and most successful way is the other way. That is, everyone’s unique and they’re partnered with equally unique people. In some cases, there’s a huge overlap between what they’re capable of doing within their relationship and the prevailing paradigms, but in others, there’s less. Some poor bastards never figure that out. They look around, see guys in chastity belts and French maid outfits, and assume that that’s the way they need to express their need to submit to a strong woman. Unfortunately, the poor mate in this scenario a) may not be strong or much interested in pretending to be, and/or b) may not really want to live with a chastity-wearing male French maid since, you know, she’s probably attracted to virile men since that’s what she paired off with. These guys are doomed to failure. Years and years of failure.

Why? Because they define the way success looks based on their perspective (which, in turn, is formed by this fucked up, limited, web-propagated crap). There might be a way forward, but it sure as fuck doesn’t look like anything on the web. The measure of success Belle and I have enjoyed stems from being authentically who we are and not who others are or think we should be. In fact, we are the Borg. We (mostly I) troll the web looking at all the options, reading the perspectives, picking and choosing those that look like they might fit, trying them on, keeping some, discarding others (most). What we have created (and continue to create) is something wholly unique to us because we are unique people. It works for both of us, not just me and not just her. A lot of guys (and even me, sometimes) forget that there’s this whole other person in the relationship with their own turn-ons and fantasies and potential kinks who needs to be just as authentic as they do. IF they’re successful after the kink is introduced, it will only be because they are both being themselves, not because she finally clicks into one of the limited precast roles he’s trying to define for her.

As I said above, I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about. Some bloggers are really good talking about the Big Picture. I have been relegated to quite happily making the kinds of posts Steve called the “progress” type, as though my relationship were a train stopping at well-known femdom stations before we “got there”. Truth is, I’m still way too early in this to really know where that station is or what track will get us there (or even to know when we’ve arrived). I’m the reporter who says what happened to who at what time and in what way. I leave the why’s and what it all means to others. At least for now.

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1 I’ve linked to that post now, like, 56 times which, from all the pingbacks it’s created, makes me look like I’m desperate for attention which, of course, I am but I don’t particularly enjoy looking that way and, in this case, is overstated. In any event, go read it and all the comments, because it’s some of the best intercourse on the subject I’ve seen in all the time I’ve been looking for such things (and yes, I said “intercourse”). ↩