Tag: relationship

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Morning cup of angst

Denial makes me emotional. That’s a well-established fact. It makes me feel more connected to Belle and causes my feelings for her to intesify. Check. And, of course, it makes me horny. Kinda the point, right?

Well, for whatever reason, all these feelings and sensations are ratcheted up this time around. While professing my everlasting love to Belle for the 4,625th time last night, I felt on the verge of tears. Not from sadness or anything, just from the power of my emotions. It’s never been like this. I was denied almost a month last time, and it never got like this. What’s different? As Belle put it last night, how have the ingredients been mixed differently this time?

For one, she was away from me for a few days which allowed me to put myself into a frothy state with dirty pictures, nasty stories, and some self-inflicted genitorture. Also, looming in the not-so-distant future is my hiking trip which will take me away from Belle for more than a full week (and not just physically since phones won’t work were I’m going). I truly dread the prospect of being apart from her. In addition to that, we’re not likely to get any quality time for the next four days. She’s got work events, I have work events, we’re babysitting the infant nephew on Saturday, and she’s got a volunteer thing on Friday. It’ll be Sunday before we can really connect. Oh, and of course, I don’t know where the key is anymore.

On top of all that angst, I find myself starting to dread the time away from Belle for another reason. I won’t be allowed to come again for almost four weeks, but in the middle of that time I’ll be alone, in a tent, unlocked and horny out of my mind. Belle says I’ll just need to man up. She’s right, of course. And I’m the one who always says her control isn’t made of plastic, it’s made of brain matter. Yeah, that’s great as long as I’m wearing the plastic. For more than a week, and at the moment I pass my personal orgasmless record, I will have free, unfettered, and unsupervised access to her lonely, swollen cock.That’ll be much more dangerous than any bears, cougars, or coyotes for this little bunny.

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The bad bite

It’s been much cooler than normal here in the great northern wastes for the past few days and that’s left Belle with cold toes at bedtime. Therefore, she slides them up my leg and buries them in my nutsack, then has me close my other leg over them to warm them up. Sometimes she wiggles her toes. Happy to be of service.

That’s how last night started. Toes in my nuts. Happily, it was all up from there. We kissed quite a bit and I said many things, mostly related to how exceptionally happy she makes me, how beautiful and sexy I find her, how lucky I count myself to have a wife who will manage my orgasms, etc., etc. I was feeling pretty emotional. She really is the most wonderful mate any subbie bunny could have.

The kissing got more intense and that eventually led to her squeezing my toe warmers nuts pretty hard. I told her, breathlessly, how badly I wanted her to hurt me there.

“I am trying to hurt you,” she said. “That doesn’t hurt?”

“Well, yeah, sure, it’s uncomfortable. It feels really great, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like I want to be hurt.”

Which led to a quick tutorial on how to inflict pain to Thumper’s testicles. First, I gave her a little tour of each area and its relative sensitivity. The back of my nuts are the least sensitive. The bottom only slightly more. Sure, you can hurt me there, but you’d really need to give them a good thwack. The front of the sack (the part shielded by the tube hanging in front) is good territory. Much more tender than the previous two sections. It is hard to get to with all the plastic in the way, but totally worth the effort. Finally, I showed her the ultimately tender areas on each side. Also difficult to get to due to plastic and the fact that I have legs. A well aimed, forceful shot on either side will leave me squirming.

With that out of the way, she started flicking each testicle with her finger. Starting lightly and then with more intensity. It was good. Jolts of pain shot through me, but only a little of it lingered. And that’s what I’m looking for. Lingering, aching, internal pain. She’d be hard pressed to give me that just by flicking her finger, so I showed her how encircling the sack with fingers pulls it tight and exposes and entraps the two testicles like a couple of shaved bunnies in a cosmetics testing facility. Then she started hitting them. Again, more gentle than necessary at first, but with more force as she went on. She did create some lingering pain before it was over, but god, I want so much more. I want to know just how much pain I can take there. How badly can she hurt me? I hope she ties me up and tries to find out. Soon.

All the nut slapping had me lathered up (“Is it hot in here?”), so when she eventually gave me the green light to pleasure her I had a pretty good head of steam behind me. I was in my feral sex beast mode and wanted nothing more than to consumer her essence. All that energy that previously would go into getting the dick wet has nowhere to go and occasionally goes to my head. It’s not too surprising then that not too long into it, while I was sucking her nipples like a newly born calf, she cried out.

“OUCH! That hurt!”

“What? What I’d do? I’m sorry!”

“You bit me! That hurt!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry! Please, I’m sorry! Are you OK?”

“I’m not the one who’s supposed to be hurt.”

“No, of course not. I’m so sorry!”

“This is supposed to be about me, not you.”

SMACK. She didn’t hit me, but it felt like she had. Of course, she was right. I had lost control. I let my animal lust get the better of me. I don’t recall biting her, to be honest, but I had been struggling with the urge ever since she started smacking me around. I felt horrible. Really horrible. Not only had I hurt her, I had let her orgasm become more about me than her. Too much an outlet for my desire. As I said, I lost control. Totally.

After that, it was as though she had thrown a big wet blanket over me. Before, I was lost in a buzzing headspace of pure sex, but after I was totally cognizant of my every action. Total control. It was all very measured and gauged toward what would give her the most pleasure. I still feel very guilty for hurting her.

The orgasm was intense. I don’t really understand how it works inside her, of course, but she said it could have been so intense as to actually be painful, so she backed off of it a bit. She had already had too much pain. Ironically, the pain she caused me came back to her through my heightened desire.

Early this morning, I laid in bed, tube throbbingly full and waves of repressed sexual energy reverberating through me. It’s been a quite some time since I’ve been so horny. So abjectly, pathetically, profoundly turned on. The cock was flexing rhythmically almost all by itself. I could will it to stop, but it would start again if I wasn’t concentrating on it. It was as if some autonomic process was trying to push out ejaculate, because eventually I felt a surge of fluid leak out. Nothing like the amount in an orgasm, and nothing at all like an orgasm, but a good little slug.

I feel like I’m in uncharted territory, and it’s still another month before she’s said I’ll be able to come again. She makes me so, so happy.

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Belle’s return

Belle’s return on Friday was fantastic. Not that anything really mind-blowing happened, just that she was here. With me. When we’re apart, I’m not unlike a compass that can’t find North. When together, I understand my purpose for being.

While she was still en route, I cut out of work early so I could come home and tidy up. Something like a nesting instinct came over me, except instead of being a 8.5 month pregnant woman, I was a naked 40-something guy with an expensive tube of plastic locked to his unit. Yes, even though we have vast expanses of windows in our house (all with working blinds, I should point out), I felt the need to be as nude as I currently can be while performing the household tasks. More than that, I even went so far as to insert my trusty old Doc Johnson butt plug which, owing to the paucity of backdoor action I’ve experienced in the past several months, left me feeling satisfyingly full in spite of its modest size. You’d think the nakedness, the aloneness, and the hunk of rubber shoved up my ass would conspire to distract me from the tasks at hand, but in fact, I imagined the whole time that Belle was observing me in that condition and that succeeded in keeping me focused (and buzzing). Since we live with two kids, the opportunities to perform these kinds of tasks for her in the buff have numbered exactly zero. Now that I’ve imagined what it would feel like, I’m going to keep thinking about it until it happens for real. I’ve said lots of times that being naked before her with the device clearly visible still leaves me selfconscious. The thought of being forced into that position, while servicing her through household tasks, all in the bright light of day was, clearly, arousing. Basically, being naked before her for no reason other than she wants me that way is enough to set me spinning.

In any event, I folded all the laundry, made all the beds, cleaned the kitchen and bath and generally picked up so that the house looked maybe the best it’s ever looked upon her return from a trip (with the movements of the plug causing the occasional burp of precum to ooze out of me being my modest reward). I know that some people feel eroticizing housework is misogynistic, which it may be, but it’s also a potent turn-on for me when I’m in the right state. Belle’s said it turns her on, too, so my position is, misogynistic or not, we’re gonna keep doing it.

She looked amazing standing on the curb at the airport when I picked her up. She shone among the herd of tired, stressed, and impatient travellers. Once I had her in the car, in our own world, whisked away from the craziness of everyone else, I was in heaven.

Later that night, she allowed me to bring her to orgasm, but not before abusing me un peu: pinching (and pulling, and twisting, and general evilness) to the nipples, some scratching, and fingernails driven into my ass. Bliss. When it was her turn, I found her to be incredibly wet with open, inviting lips. God, I missed her body. It’s sudden naked, aroused, and ready presence made me ache inside. The intensity with which my inner sex lizard demanded I replace my fingers with the cock desperately trying to achieve full erection between my legs was strong enough to leave me feeling slightly dizzy. It took a disappointingly short time to get her off. The lizard was not happy.

All day yesterday I was coming on to her with a zeal that would cause a strict interpreter of our Covenant to cry foul. Every kiss, every touch, every long look filled my plastic tube with frustrated desire. Device or not, it was my clear intention to fuck her that night with whatever piece of me I could get into her. I was beyond simple desire. I had crossed over into biological imperative territory. An entire generation of internal passive rabbits was at stake.

However, Belle had a different agenda. After dinner, she had me clean up while she read a book in front of the fire the unseasonably cool day had caused us to light. Lights low, Madeleine Peyroux on the iPod, fire cracking, and several glasses of pinot grigio conspired to leave Belle supremely relaxed. After our daughter was asleep (the boy being at a sleep-over was out of the picture), I sat on the floor near her head while she luxuriated on the couch, our dog laying on her torso. I looked at that dog and felt petty jealousy rise within me. He was getting the attention and body contact I wanted. Damned dog. I was on the floor while he was getting scratched behind his ears, head resting on her breast. Fucking dog. He looked at me with an expression that seemed to ask tauntingly, “Who’s alpha now, sucka?”

She didn’t ignore me, though. I was getting some gentle stroking that clearly wasn’t heading anywhere fruitful which eventually turned into scratching. To be honest, I don’t always enjoy the scratching she inflicts upon me in these unfocused ways, but the fact that she has the right to hurt me in any random way she wants makes up for that. In any event, I was getting impatient. The clock was ticking and with every passing second she was moving further and further away from a state that would result in me getting some action. Finally, she handed me the dog to take outside for his final piddle of the day. He and I exchanged words outside that clearly reasserted his position at the bottom of the social order, and as soon as I got back upstairs to Belle, she handed me the foot lotion and towel.

I’ll stop right here and say my feelings were not acceptable. Natural, understandable, but not acceptable. Or, at least, any hint that I was feeling them was unacceptable. It’s like I can’t figure out what I want. On the one hand, I crave her control. I want her to rule the cock. I crave submission. On the other, I want to fuck. And those two conflicting objectives often clash within me.

I had already lit every candle in the room, so it was fragrant and warmly glowing when she told me to undress. As I did so and the usual quick flush of embarrassment that accompanies the exposure of my condition washed over me, I had the palpable feeling of the device no longer being a separate thing. It was not quite a part of me, but it was, in fact, my normal state. It’s contents securely locked away, impotent, unneeded, and inconsequential, I was as I should be. Especially at that moment when we were clearly not headed toward any kind of sexual contact. The fact that I even had a penis attached to my body and was suffering from the side effects of it was purely my problem and not germane to the situation. Potent, heady stuff. All felt in the flash of a second before I knelt before her feet and started my work. Had it been possible, I would have been sporting a raging boner.

After her feet were well rubbed, I was back laying next to her and her hands wandered over me. I suggested it was time to sleep as a way to signal she didn’t need to continue if it was only on my account. I knew the score (which is to say, I knew there would be no score that night). She agreed, but didn’t quite stop. She didn’t really open her eyes, but her hand found its way to my crotch. Unexpectedly, she smacked at my balls. It was too light a tap and in the wrong spot to hurt, but my reaction suggested otherwise (gasp, jump). I laughed at that and told her it didn’t hurt (which caused her to do it again, this time causing just a twinge).

“Can I show you the right way to do that?” I asked.

“Sure. Later. Time for sleep.”

I got up and blew out all the candles. While on her side of the bed, she said, “You’ve got a cute ass, Thumper.”

Fat lot of good it does me, I thought as the last of the little flames went out.

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Seperate and unequal

There is a definite correlation between my sexual frustration and level of energy I’m able to put into the blog. More frustration equals more blogging. The more she lets me come, the less I have to say here.

So, since I’m here, I must be frustrated, right? In fact, Belle hasn’t let me come in about a week and on Sunday she put me back on the CB-6000. Then she took off to New York until Friday. So yeah, I’m getting there.

In fact, she let me come three or four times in the period around Memorial Day, but none of the orgasms were especially good for me. Either I was fighting them to allow her to come first or I was wearing my shiny new chrome cock ring which, it turns out, is tight enough that it restricts the flow of the ejaculation in an uncomfortable way. It’s dead sexy and makes the cock harder than it would normally be, but the spunk doesn’t fly as much as it kinda oozes after slamming into the hard metal’s constriction. It’s better than a ruined orgasm since I do get a portion of the emotional release, but it’s far less enjoyable.

As usual, I’ve found myself in a bit of a post-denial funk that sets in after she’s let me come a few times. I’m curious to know if this is primarily a mental thing or if it’s due to the release of all the hormones that’ve built-up during the denial. Whatever the cause, I am happier, more energized, and more connected to her when I’m not achieving orgasm. I don’t remember if I wrote this already (or just thought about writing it), but I’d like to figure out a way to maintain and level out these feelings. Since one orgasm after two to three weeks without usually doesn’t totally satisfy my cravings, I’d like her to try limiting me to a single spurt next time she lets me. Yeah, I get so fucking horny, but at the same time, I like it. The lows suck, but the highs are fantastic.

I’ve also been thinking about how she lets me come. I’m really pleased that she’s recently started to use the cock to get off, even when I’m not going to come (and even when I’m otherwise locked-up), but when she eventually does let me come, she always lets me do it inside her. This is, of course, entirely her prerogative, but in thinking about it, it does elevate my orgasm to the same level as hers since they happen at about the same time, in the same way, and look a lot like lovemaking. I do want to make love to her, but my sexual satisfaction is totally unrelated to that act. In fact, we make love at least a couple of times a week, but I only come about every tenth time. So, when she lets me come inside her, it kinda punctures the idea that my sexual release is less important than hers. Coming inside her during the act of making love knocks me out of my sub headspace.

There was one time where she let me fuck her and come, but she kept her breasts covered, didn’t come herself, didn’t let me pay attention to her in any way, and kept the lights on the whole time. It was less like lovemaking and more like maintenance. That time, I stayed in my headspace. In fact, coming like that put me deeper into it. I wasn’t being treated like a sexual equal and we weren’t sharing an emotional experience, she was just managing me. Also, in that case, she didn’t follow it up with more orgasms in the coming days. It was a single spike of sensation. In short, it was awesome.

So, to sum up what I’m saying, I’d like her to keep me to a single orgasm per release. Really make it an event. Also, I’d like my orgasms to be seperate and unequal to hers. Yes, I fully admit that this might strike some as topping from the bottom, but try to remember that Belle and I are still new at this whole Dom/sub thang. I need to give her feedback, right? She’s not coming to this dynamic with tons of experience (nor, for that matter, am I).

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Morning angst

Belle had a business dinner at what’s probably her favorite restaurant last night. While she was dining, I dragged the kids off to Target to stock up for our Memorial Day weekend trip north then did my best to haul all the crap into the house and get it put away. Oh, and did I mention it’s in the high 90’s here? Flippin’ hot.

Anyway, I was laying in bed after getting both kids down for the night panting for the wrong reason and watching the Daily Show when Belle got home. She got into her jammies and plopped down next to me and immediately closed her eyes. I, of course, was hoping for some kind of interaction with her since I hadn’t seen her all day, hadn’t come in three weeks, etc. She did tell me to strip which I appreciated since it was so damned hot.

So there I am, naked except for the CB6K, laying next to her, both of us above the sheets due to the heat. I’m still somewhat self-conscious when totally exposed in the device and being in that state automatically drops into a subbie mentality. But, as soon as Stewart was done, she rolled over to go to sleep. I got nothing – no talking, no touching, hardly any attention at all, really. She wanted me to spoon into her, but it was too hot. That, and I was feeling sorry for myself.

Figuring out how to deal with the feelings of disappointment – even touches of resentment – is something I really need to do. I’m better than I used to be, but far from where I feel I need to be. I hate that I still have expectations with regard to her attention. If I was being true to my stated goals, I’d stop doing that. The constant craving for her interaction with her should be rerouted into more productive avenues. It’s OK to crave her, but not to expect anything from her. But it’s getting harder (pardon the pun) every day now. The incline of my denial is getting steeper and steeper.

And yet, I fear my own eventual orgasm. I don’t want to lose the way I feel right now. I like how denial keeps me focused on her and I don’t want to wait the week to ten days needed to build back to this point. No, I don’t want my feelings to get so strong that they become an impediment, but at the same time, losing them is also an impediment. I’d really like to find a way to skate the seam between overwhelming frustration and satisfied apathy.

Anyway, there you go. A piping hot heap of angst to accompany your morning coffee.

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The choice

Saturday night, Belle gave me a choice I didn’t want. She told me that she was going to unlock me so she could play with her cock but, as long as she got what she wanted, she really didn’t care if I came. Those are the words she used.

“I really don’t care if you come or not.”

She was trying a new tack – that of “casually indifferent domme”. She was casting me in the role of inconsequential accessory which, normally, I’d totally appreciate, but, since the bedrock of our relationship paradigm is her control over my orgasms, to say she really didn’t care kinda sorta knocked the foundation out from under my motivation. I instantly felt this. If she didn’t care, why hadn’t I come in three weeks? If she didn’t care, what was all the suffering for? In fact, the suffering is for her, but now she’d basically said she didn’t want it. Of course, I knew I had taken it to the nth degree – beyond what she intended – but that’s how my hormone-addled brain processed it. She wasn’t really saying she didn’t care. It was just part of the scene. I should have said something but I was in that weird subby headspace that stops me from telling her when something doesn’t work for me and I remained silent.

As we started, I was having an internal debate. Should I come or not? She had basically given me tacit approval to do so, but she didn’t actually say I could. Also, I didn’t want it to happen this way. Not through her apathy (feigned or not). I come when she says, “you can come,” not before. I needed her to let me. So I decided I would resist and try to keep it inside.

What followed was pretty hot. I started out rather clumsily and distracted since I was having that “should I or shouldn’t I” debate in my head, but before I could get too far along, she took over and told me she wanted to be on top. I rolled over and she took it from there. I lined the cock up with her pussy, but instead of sliding right down and getting on with it, she eased onto it s-l-o-w-l-y and then stayed down, moving subtly with me completely inside. Then, again slowly and purposefully, she’d go up, then back down – like regular fucking but in quarter time. I tried to engage her nipples, but she said not yet, leave them alone. I tried to get into a reciprocal fucking rhythm, but she told me to stop. I looked up and saw her head back, a rapturous look on her face. She was fucking the cock, not me, in her own way and as she wanted. I was just the thing her dildo was mounted on. The thought of that almost made me shoot my load. In fact, seeing her enjoying me in that way brought me very close, but she slowed and paused at exactly the right moment and I avoided falling in. My breathing was coming in short, shallow pants. It was all incredibly sensual. After a bit, the pace quickened, but not as fast as it would normally be. I was allowed to engage her nipples and from that point on, I was all business. I could, of course, still feel her sliding up and down on the stiff meat, but I was in the zone. My near-come had pushed the urge back.

After she climaxed, I felt instant regret at not coming myself. I felt like a dupe for not taking the chance I had. I laid there, confused and more than a little anguished with a steady, insistent erection. By the time I worked up the nerve to ask if I could ruin an orgasm (if, for no other reason, than as a consolation prize), she had already drifted off to sleep.

I’ve grown enough in this role of denied horny guy to not let the resulting disappointment get me too far down. Yes, the whole “I don’t care” thing did leave me an emotional slag heap, but I also knew that my feelings were par for the course. It is expected that I’d feel this way from time to time (if not most of the time). If anything, I could take pleasure from the knowledge that Belle has gotten really good at taking the initiative and doing what she needs to do to get off, regardless of my satisfaction (or if I’m even involved). That’s where I wanted her to be (and it’s a place I wasn’t really sure she could get to). So, annoyed at myself just the same, I was able to turn the disappointment back on itself and feed my submissive little rabbit with it. I was pathetically horny. She was blissfully satisfied. All was right in the world.

The next morning, Belle slept in, so I went and replaced the CB6K. She had said she wanted it back on me “sometime” on Sunday, but I wanted it back on as soon as possible. I wanted to reassert the control she pretended to cast off the night before. Later, once she was awake, I brought her a cup of coffee and the Sunday Times. As soon as seemed appropriate, I told her how the previous evening’s vibe was wrong for me. I told her I was worried she’d feel guilt or that the misstep would feed lingering insecurity. She told me she recognized the issue and wouldn’t take that approach again, but that she felt no guilt whatsoever. You win some, you lose some, seemed to be her point of view. What else matters except that she got what she wanted? Suck it up, rabbit boy.

Damn, why didn’t I just fucking come when I had the chance?!

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Pink punishment

I have been punished. Well, at least I feel like I’ve been punished.

Last night, Belle said I was going to rub her feet, which is all well and good and very expected since she just had a pretty terrific orgasm the night before, but before I got started, she asked for Pink, the little vibe that could.

“Get that smile off your face. You’re not going to be involved in anything,” she said.1

Really? … OK.

So I got Pink out of the toy chest and handed it to Belle in much the same way a dog might hand its master a rolled up newspaper if, in fact, dogs could do such things. Then I rubbed her feet for 20 minutes as we watched AC360.2

When the rubbing was done, she was pretty relaxed and, had I not handed her a vibrator 20 minutes earlier, I would have expected she’d be drifting off to sleep. In fact, she looked like she was drifting off.

“What are you going to do with Pink?” I asked, as if I was inquiring about the day’s weather forecast, trying to sound disinterested.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she replied sleepily.

Gah! What!? Why!? Jesus, let me! I didn’t say those things, but they all leapt to mind simultaneously. I didn’t even know where Pink was. She was still in her nightclothes, covers pulled up over her breasts, all cocooned and sleepy looking. No outward indication that she wanted to get off at all.

So, back to AC360. He was saying something about something3, but I wasn’t paying much attention. Too distracted by the mysterious and unusual thing happening next to me. Then, about three minutes later, I noticed a little motion under the covers in the general vicinity of her crotch.

“You’re doing it right now!” In front of Anderson!

“Mmm-hmm.”

I turned off the TV. With it out of the way, I could hear the muffled thrumming of Pink on its lowest setting. Louder, then quieter, louder, then quieter as it was moved up and down, in and out. I started to feel the oh-so-familiar pressure between my legs while I divided my attention between the rising and falling motion of the covers and her face, brow furrowed, eyes closed, mouth half open.

It took much longer than I thought it would. If it had been me doing it, I’d have had her off in half the time, but she wasn’t working her nipples and, while I knew that would help her, I didn’t move in as I wasn’t allowed to be involved. I just laid next to her, eyes darting up to her face, then back to the covers, gripping my pillow and feeling the throbbing inside my tube.

Her breathing turned to shallow pants and the thrumming of the vibe became more insistent as she kick in it’s highest setting. Her hips started to gyrate and the rising and falling of the tent became more noticeable. She was really starting to fuck herself with the little vibe and her whole pelvis was getting into it. She turned her face away from me and started to arch her back and neck. Her heavy breathing became mixed with quiet, rhythmic moans as she got closer to the edge.

I whined, scrabbled at my confinement, and felt totally powerless.

The little rhythmic moans became little rhythmic “oh, fuck”s as she spread her legs open more and, I assume, shoved the little vibe all the way home for the finale.

She came, while inside, my boiling desire howled in protest.

Afterward, I felt…weird. In the past, when she’s masturbated in front of me, we were both naked and I had some involvement. This time, I wasn’t even a spectator. I was less than that. I was immaterial. She was fully clothed, totally covered. She wasn’t putting on a show for me, she was getting herself off in much the same way she would had I not been there. It was 100% about her.

My head was buzzing. I was so turned on, but knew there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t use her pleasure to bleed of my excess pressure since she had blocked my access to it. It was done. And all I could do was lay there and churn. She was spent and satisfied and I was ten times hornier than I would have been had I been the one to make her that way. It was torture.

Her hand came out from under the covers and she handed me Pink, wordlessly. Where I had once been the jockey who rode the races, I was now the lowly stable boy left to tend to the tack after the race was won by someone else. The vibe was deeply warm. I resisted the urge to lick it, to suck off her essence. I simply held it and contemplated how well this event demonstrated her position over my sexuality.

I got out of bed to wash her toy and replace it in it’s case in the toy box before climbing back in. She never moved.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” she purred.

“Why did you do it yourself? Why didn’t you want me to help?”

“Look, don’t give me that whiny crap–”

“I’m not whining! I just want to know, that’s all.” I felt extraordinarily submissive to her at that moment. I felt tiny and expendable.

“It’s my decision and that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want you involved.”

“OK,” I said, meekly.

Yesterday, I suggested it would be tricky figuring out how to punish a masochist. Today, I know how. This is how. Deny my totally. Nothing for me, everything for her. That’s punishment. Cruel and effective. The mere suggestion of being put through this again will keep me in line.

As sleep approached, I felt disconnected from her. Normally, I spoon into her as I fall asleep, but I couldn’t. She was laying on her back, arms and legs out, in a position that made spooning impossible and, since I still wasn’t sure to what extent I was allowed to engage with her, I didn’t try to put my arms or legs over her. Snuggling felt inappropriate, as if I’d be intruding. Her entire attitude, even in how she laid there, sprawled across the bed, more than a little asleep, was self-centered. I even had to shift my position to make room for her legs on “my” side of the bed. Her embrace of the dominant high ground was striking.

This morning, I’m fucking wired. The sub energy is humming inside – to such an extent that I still feel like I can’t touch her and have a hard time looking her in the eye. She, however, looks at me in an admiring, appreciative way suggestive of a jockey/horse, gearhead/hotrod, master/slave relationship. She owns me. She owns my cock, my sex, my heart, and she owns my soul. And, she knows it.

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1 As usual, all dialog is approximate yet accurate with regard to intent.↩

2 So what about that Anderson Cooper? Gay, right? He’s like a cute little gay elf you just want to put in your pocket.↩

3 Saying something bad with his mouth, but something good – oh, so good – with those steely blue eyes.↩

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News flash

So, according to CNN, women think it’s sexy for men to do housework! What’s more, men who do more housework get more sex than men who don’t.

Let me just roll that around in my head for a minute. Guys who do housework get to have more orgasms than those who don’t…but I’m doing more housework than ever yet coming less and less. Hmm. [stroking chin] What’s that all about? Oh, yeah! I’m a freak. Gotcha.

Of course, it’s not just about the sex and, obviously to me now, “sex” can be defined in ways than a lot of men can’t imagine, but the thrust of the article remains that there is a connection in a woman’s mind between seeing her man do domestic work and her desire to fuck him. If most women are prewired that way, then does that mean most women are at least somewhat predisposed to accept an FLR-type relationship? My observation of Belle supports the article’s premise, though Belle’s not in it for the whole “FL” thing. She’s not a natural dominant (at least when it comes to me). Even though my list of required duties is well-defined, she’ll still do some of them for me. I totally get the positive connection between housework and sex, but to take that up to the next level (a level – unsurprisingly – never even hinted at in the CNN article), she’d have to expect me to do those things.

I’m not complaining or anything. I’m just observing. And wondering how to integrate the concept of “shared responsibility” into a Dom/sub dynamic. I’m supposed to keep the dishes clean, but I heard her this morning doing them while I was still in bed. It made me feel good that I didn’t have to do them, but then I also felt bad and conflicted because I was supposed to do them – and knew there’d be no negative repercussion of her feeling the need to do them instead.

If the consequences of me not performing my duties is Belle eventually doing them for me, then what’s changed? And how do I, the supposed submissive partner, stay motivated in the face of that? I think there needs to be a hard line around the things I’m really, truly supposed to do and some kind of negative consequence for not performing those duties to her satisfaction. I feel like I need that kind of structure and definition.

In the mean time, I’m just happy she’s happy and, as confirmed by CNN, really does get turned on watching me clean the counters.

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Focus-pocus

Here’s one for you. I can’t remember when my last orgasm was. It was either April 28 or May 2. Maybe Belle will remember. In either event, it’s been a while and I can feel it. [UPDATE: Turns out, she can’t remember, either. Glad it’s so important that neither of us can remember the last time it happened. (Insert little eye-rolling emoticon here)]

Saturday night, I really wanted some action. My daughter had a friend over for a sleep-over so Belle was disinclined to do anything athletic (and didn’t even let me sleep naked). In the past, I might have pressed my luck and gotten annoying. The desire was sitting there, just beneath the surface in the middle of my chest, but I felt very much controlled and calm. She wasn’t being particularly dommy or anything, but nonetheless, I kept my hands to myself. It was a nice feeling, knowing that I really badly wanted to make a move but respecting the line we’ve constructed. I didn’t cross it and was pretty happy with my myself.

But just as we were drifting toward that zone where the lights go out and we go to sleep, she asked for a quick, stealthy orgasm. Of course, I was immediately engaged and, with the help of Pink the vibe, got her off as efficiently as possible. What I liked about that was, since I wasn’t pushing, she had asked for the orgasm purely out of her own indulgent desire. This wasn’t about making me happy or anything. It was all about her wanting a lil’ sumthin’ before going to bed. All I got out of the deal was her thanks and little kiss (which, of course, was A LOT).

Last night, similar situation, except this time I slipped. My hand absentmindedly found her nipple through her shirt and was swirling around it making it stand up. She said she wasn’t in the mood for anything like that and I immediately felt bad – much worse than I really should have. Apparently, I’m only capable of maintaining my subby exterior when actively concentrating on it. I felt a little ashamed and more than little disappointed in myself for slipping in such a small yet egregious way.

After the mishap, I asked her if she was happy. If she liked the arrangement we were living under. If I was doing a good job or if I could, in any way, do a better job. You know, typical submissive angst. She, of course, said everything was great. That I was great. That I was doing a great job, etc. But I know I could do better. I know there are more things I could do for her and that I’m not always as timely in doing the things she’s already put on me. But, she’s very sweet and probably thought I was fishing for compliments or something.

A week or so ago, she told me I wasn’t going to come before Memorial Day. Last night, I asked her how far she thought I could go. While talking about it, she admited to letting me have orgasms in the past when I become difficult to maintain. She recognizes the line where, once crossed, it’s just easier for her to let me squirt than it is to deal with my elevated hormones. Being in that sweet spot at the moment where I can still deal with my hormones but also am approaching the peak of my desire to serve her, I hear that as a failure on my part. At some point (that she’s recognized but I haven’t) my focus slips. Just like my fingers accidentially finding her nipple and touching it in a way they shouldn’t have, I lose a necessary level of control over myself.

In any event, Memorial Day is still two weeks away. Part of me wants her to keep pushing me well into June so I can demonstrate better self-control. I’m in that weird, headspacey placy where I want to be denied, denied, and denied some more. Oh, and locked up. Like, for a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she’s a better judge of these things. I think I’ll just do what I have said I’d do: let go and let her decide.

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Both sides

A cool post over on Outside Vanilla that is rare in that it contains both sides of the conversation. The original post, by MyKey (the denied dude), and a comment by who I can only assume is his female dominant, Sandy.

From MyKey:

If I didnt *really* enjoy it on some level she would not be doing it this way. But she knows full well that its a love hate thing, I do want to cum, I do hate the riding crop, and yet she will push these things further than I would go, for her own enjoyment. And that makes it so much hotter for me, her kink feeds my kink, her dominance feeds my submission…

And from Sandy:

It’s just so much fun, but it really is that much fun because of the feedback and connection it gives us. I’m not sure if this part of me is here to stay, but I already know it would be very difficult to go back to a more equal relationship.

Go read the whole post. Not only is it cool to see both sides of the coin, it’s also more than a little hot.