Tag: relationship

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Descent into subdom

I am totally the alpha dog in my office. Granted, it is a relatively small office and I am an owner and all, but sometimes I find it dizzying to move from my role as supreme creature in one environment to my wanna-be guysub role in the other. The fact that I read the blogs and write this one often while in the office only makes it weirder. Yes, it’s nice to be the boss when you want to dick around on the web all day.

It makes me wonder about the difference between those subs who are subbie in all they do vs. the ones who are quite the opposite in other aspects of their life. The bloggers I most enjoy, on the male side, are those who appear to only be submissive when it comes to sex. But I really enjoy the dominant female bloggers. That’s one of the reasons I was sorry to read of the demise of A Place to Draw Blood Laughing, though I expect it’s less a demise and more a caterpillar cocoon phase thing. I’ve recently acquired a taste for the omnipresent Bitchy Jones (and really, who hasn’t?). But wait, I’m digressing.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. All-the-time subs vs. sexual subs. I think a big part of why I like being sexually submissive is because I’m so not all the rest of the time. It’s like taking off a heavy coat at the end of the day or something. And I think I’m really starting to get the hang of it. I find myself less and less obsessive over what Belle’s going to do or let me do. I accept that I can’t have my cake and eat it to. Either she’s calling the shots or she’s not. I do feel free to make requests, but I have no expectation that she’ll go along with them.

I also find myself wanting to more and more do things for her around the house. The past three days, I’ve totally handled the end of day stuff (dinner, clean-up, even picking up both the kids a couple of time). It’s not as though I never wanted to do things for her before, but now I find I want her to spend as much time as possible relaxing and less time doing all the things she would be “expected” to do based on her gender. I want to take more and more work from her and am feeling less and less selfish. I’m turning into a total stereotype! All I need now is the fucking maid’s dress and black pumps.

I suspect this new found desire to be her housemaid might be coming from a combination of being terribly horny and her recent ability to make me hurt. Like I said following the silent ice and clothespins episode, I woke up the next morning still feeling the subbie headspace lingering over me. Over the course of the week, as we’ve had sex and she’s hurt me more (like last night – two words: yay clothespins!) it’s remained. In fact, it’s strongest in the morning. The hornier I get and the more she hurts me, the more I want to make her happy in any way I can. It may not be PC to say this, but it feels like the penis-hating feminazi femdoms might be right about the salutary effects prolonged orgasm denial has in controlling the feral manbeast. At least for this feral manbeast.

I have spent a lot of time wondering if I’m thinking about this or feeling it “right”, as if there’s One True Way to sexually submit. That’s one of the big things I’ve learned in that past few months: there is no One True Way. This will feel for me the way it feels. I will not expect myself to be one way or another nor will I deny any feelings that arise along the way. It is the way it is. And the same goes for Belle. She will be what she is and feel what she feels and like what she likes and I will adjust and adapt and get the fuck over whatever doesn’t match my preconceptions. Note, I will continue to obsessively self-analyze, I just won’t get too hung up on what I find along the way. Anyway, that’s the plan.

What I’ve found this week is, when it works, it really works. I get all warm and fuzzy and happy and want to curl around and into her. I don’t expect we won’t still hit our share of bumps along the way, but the past several days have shown that this path is not wrong for us. I adore where we’re heading and she’s starting to unearth what she likes about it, too. What a difference from ten days ago.

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An ocean of her

Oh, what a night. And forgive me if this one’s a little all over the place, because the evening was, too.

So it starts out with me telling Belle that the “other woman” contacted me via IM. I have agreed to always tell Belle when this happens since, as should be pretty obvious, my cheating on her has put certain trust issues between us. O.W. IMed me on Tuesday and I forgot to tell Belle until last night. Sometimes I forget, but I always dread it because it’s an opportunity to dredge up the silt from the floor of our relationship.

I can hear you saying to yourself, why the fuck do you have any contact with O.W.? Just cut her off. The issue is, I met her through my involvement with a wildlife non-profit which we are both still associated with. I have chosen not to do anything that could potentially damage her standing within this group (or, of course, mine). It’s made up of a lot of fairly conservative folks and an extramarital affair would be very serious to most of them. Our history is not known to more than just a few of the group and there are occasions when, due to the group’s activities, we need to communicate.

Anyway, Belle knows I’m with her for good and we’ve figured out all the things that led to the affair and have successfully addressed them. I am now more fully committed and closer to her than I have ever been, as evidenced by my ability to draw out my kinky side with her. She knows this. But of course, it’s difficult for Belle to deal with these instances where O.W. appears uninvited in our lives. Last night was no different. She cried, I cried, things I did that make me cringe and feel incredible guilt are dragged back out from under the bed. It was an all-around no-fun time.

However, it didn’t end that way. Prior to all the drama, it had been a great night. I made dinner, did all the cleaning, and Belle relaxed and sipped wine. I rubbed her neck, she read the blog, we talked a little about it. It was all heading in a good direction. I desperately wanted her to be in a mood that would allow me to go down on her. I’m at about two weeks denied at this point and I find, as I’ve written before, that my reptilian brain starts plotting ways to consume her. Last night, I wanted desperately to bury my face in her pussy. No, I mean REALLY. I wanted to cover myself with her scent.

I totally saw from a mile off that we were definitely not heading in that direction. In the past, I would have gotten mad or overly frustrated by this, but not now. I still tentatively made the offer of orgasm, but she rebuffed as expected. I was over the top horny, but accepted it as part and parcel of the position I want to hold in our sexual relationship.

I was able, though, to talk to her about us, rather than O.W. and us. I wanted to go over the whole “is she enjoying/getting something out of our sex” thing. She says she’s not doing anything she doesn’t like and likes some things better than others, but to ask what she needs more of or differently is a bit premature. I’m totally cool with that and don’t want to rush her in anyway. I built-up my courage and asked her if she enjoyed the other night with the ice. Did she enjoy, in any way, hurting me? In fact, she said she did get some cruel pleasure from ripping the clothespins off my nipples. Seriously! I was over the moon happy to hear that. It was wonderfully cruel and hurt like fuck and she liked doing it! It’s like I won the lottery. After she said that, I started craving more pain. It was almost like craving sex. I wanted to get slapped or whipped across my ass with a belt or something. I offered a couple of times that if she wanted to take her frustration over O.W. out of my hide, she was more than welcome to it. No dice (and probably not a good precedent, anyway).

So on that high note, we turned off the light. I stripped (as she instructed) and spooned into her. I asked if she had thought about when I was going to come next. She paused for a while, as if unsure she should tell me, but eventually said I was going to come on Saturday. The cock jumped. I asked her if she knew when I was going to be locked up again. She paused again. Yes, immediately after coming. The cock did more than jump. I pressed my hardness into her.

Wanting her to understand better my desire (and, perhaps, to try to make her feel better following the emotional thrill-ride of the previous hour), I told her that I was profoundly horny and deeply frustrated, but instead of some free-floating need to fuck, it was entirely focused on her like a magnifying glass over an ant hill. I wasn’t just horny. Porn, for example, would not do it for me. It had to be her, specifically. That’s what I craved. She turned over and faced me in the dark. Hmm, I thought. That was unexpected. I continued to tell her that I thought she was beautiful, fucking hot, and was really turning me on. I let my hand wander over her body, down her pajama bottoms, over her ass…and she said nothing. I continued, thinking it was surely a trap – I would probably end with nothing and I braced myself to accept it properly and without resentment. I kept talking. I said that thoughts of her punctuated my day, that I couldn’t get her out of my mind, how badly I wanted to bite every part of her, how desperately I wanted to take her in my arms and pleasure her in every way.

At this point, I was squirming, crushing my hard cock into the bed, and pawing her like a bear cub. My desire was running high and on display. She wasn’t saying no, but she wasn’t saying yes either. I asked her, can I pleasure you? Yes, I could.

I dove under the covers and pressed my face into her midriff. I lifted her top and suckled her breast while my hand went between her legs and felt her heat. My male animal lust started to rise and I had to fight to keep myself gentle and tender. I wanted to eat her alive. Her pussy was too tempting and I found my face pressed against the fabric of her crotch, inhaling deeply. I actually bit her mound before getting back under control, but it wasn’t very hard and I don’t think she felt it. I pulled down her bottoms and planted my face over her hot, wet snatch.

Oh. My. God.

I was on all fours, parallel to her body, head down in an ocean of her. Her smell, her juices, her soft and tender flesh. I rubbed my face all around getting soaked and feeling her juices run up my inverted nose. My tongue dove deeply into her then flitted over her clit like a hummingbird, back and forth, over and across, again and again. The entire world ceased to exist and all there ever was or would be was HER. I lost myself in it all. It seemed to go on and on, but was over all too quickly. Suddenly, her thighs closed in on my head. She was pressing her pussy against my mouth and clamping onto me. I couldn’t hear anything, but felt her hips buck in rythm with the pulsing of her orgasm on my tongue.

Afterward, I came up for air and she laid there, as if lifeless. My cock was raging, straining but I was feeling her reflected afterglow and all was good.

So now I know I’m coming on Saturday. For a brief moment, I was deflated it was so soon, but that didn’t last long. Now, right now, I want to come badly. I want to come in her, on her – I don’t care. I just want it so bad.

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Personal Jesus, the second coming

Wow, how many people have I insulted in how many ways with that title?

There were some really great comments in Personal Jesus that I wanted to address, so I’m moving them out here so I can do so more publicly.

First up was Dev who said:

I think the suffering thing is one of the hardest for the dominant partner to deal with, even if the dominant partner happens to be a sadist (like me). Because to really push the suffering can mean really taking the partner somewhere that they really do not want (in the moment) to go, but are deeply thrilled by. It takes a lot of trust to know that this is really all right. It takes a lot of times of them coming back later and telling you how awesome it was for them.

I have seen a change in Belle’s behavior regarding the suffering as we’ve gone along. Before any of my sexual oddities became clearly known, she always knew I liked a little pain in my sex. She’d twist my nipples or scratch my back and it was all good, but it never really hurt. She was holding back because I’m sure she didn’t know how much pain I really wanted or could take. Now, she’s freaking medieval with both her use of nails and when she abuses my nipples. After each event, I have been careful to tell her exactly how much I liked what she had done and, as best I could, describe how much pain she had inflicted. She’s become quite adept at making my nipples scream and knows the tender places into which she should dig her nails. She has, on several occasions, really hurt me which, of course, I adore. A newer thing for us now is CBT. With that, we’re about where we were with the nipples three months ago. Each time, she hurts me a little more, but she hasn’t yet crossed my limit. And don’t even get me started with the biting. I get positively weak in the knees, the way she bites me.

Then Tom Allen said:

[I]f you want to suffer, then how can you really call it suffering? And if Belle doesn’t care one way or the other about it, then you’re going to feel that she’s doing it simply to satisfy you.

I can’t really answer that first question. It’s a conundrum. As I said above, I’ve always enjoyed a little pain in my sex, but to truly suffer – to be taken to the edge and beyond – I think that’s different. I can’t say why exactly, but I want to suffer for her. I want something above a dash of painful spice. And it’s reciprocal. I want to feel it from her and for her. This is altogether different than anything I’ve expressed or desired before.

And as far as figuring out what to do if she never really enjoys it and is only doing it for me, I guess I’d respond that everyone in a relationship does things like that (or should). It’s a give and take and while I need to be prepared to do for her things I know she likes that I don’t particularly care for, I expect she’ll do the same for me. And I need to get over the fact that she’s not enjoying it as much as me. My Belle is the personification of the good, giving, and game partner, as I also try to be for her.

Tom went on to say:

Ms. Rika has an interesting take on this – she writes (her website has been hijacked) that it’s more important for her to find what she wants, and to dominate from that perspective. Later, when she’s more comfortable, she can “reward” you by doing things that make you feel good, simply because one acknowledges that partners should make a point in pleasing each other a little bit, as long as it’s not too far out of their comfort zones.

I think that’s a very sensible approach and one I think we should work on. I want Belle to find the vector into this that rings her bell. I will endeavor to be patient while we find that path.

You need to stop feeling disappointed that she doesn’t “get” what you get; and start supporting what she does get. Remember, you’ve had years and years to develop your twisted, perverted fantasies; she needs time to catch up.

Maybe I sound disappointed on the blog, but I’m really not. I appreciate so much what Belle’s been willing to try and how much she has given me in a relatively short time. I do get impatient but it’s because I’m so damned horny all the time. I’m not a patient person to begin with. Mix in some hormones and it’s even worse. Nevertheless, I know I’m a very lucky man to have such a mate.

Then Dev came back and said:

One thing I’d recommend – and since I don’t know either of you, this could be totally horrible advice, but that’s what you go to the Internet for, right? – is that you be really, really open to hearing from Belle the truth about her own personal experiences. Use your very best encouragement and just handle whatever you hear back. And do this often, like all the time.

I’m doing this. At least, I think I’m doing this. At least, I’m trying to do this. I’ll ask her to make sure I’m doing this.

I remember pretty early in my relationship with Jos, we were lying in bed and he asked me what I wanted to do. I couldn’t figure out the answer, because the question I was actually asking myself was, “What would be [from an outside or ‘objective’ perspective] sexy to do next?” And then suddenly I realized that, no, I can just do what I actually want to, and it will be all right.

That must sound really basic and messed-up not to “get” but it actually took trust for me to promote my own wishes in bed rather than thinking of it from some overview perspective about what is sexy or right or good to do, etc. Having a partner who encouraged honesty was a big deal in that process.

Who am I to criticize someone for not getting something obvious? This whole blog has been an exploration of me figuring out otherwise obvious things.

So did Jos do anything to help you come to that realization or did you get there all on your own? I agree that women are socialized to consider the needs of others before theirs, even in bed, but I really want Belle to do what she wants first and primarily. This is very hard for her. She’s been brought up in an environment that was about putting others first. When it comes to our sex, I want it to be about her first, second, and third.

I read what I just wrote and realize I need to fight the urge within me to want to be treated unfairly and to suffer. I need sexual gratification. I need it to be about me every once in a while. I know that. I’m not saying I want to live some kind of malesub porn fantasy where she brings me out to worship her pussy every night and then kicks me to the floor when she’s done. No, not that or anything like it. I do, though, want our sex to be about her mostly and for most of the time.

It’s one thing to try (for instance) beating someone. It’s another thing to know that you’re going to have to claim that you liked it, or that you insist on it, or that it wasn’t for them at all but for yourself. You (the dom) should be able to actually just do it, and then reflect on how it was for you, and be honest if it didn’t work.

I agree. But what’s my role as the sub? Am I allowed to ask for things that she doesn’t like? Or should I just accept what works for her and move on? This is the tricky bit for me because I’ve never been submissive before in anything. I have no idea what the rules are. I said above that I assumed we should continue to do for each other things we know the other likes, even those things we may not be individually thrilled with. Does that continue to apply in a D/s dynamic? Should she do things she’s OK with mostly because I like them?

I don’t know. This is getting to be a ridiculously long comment.

And that’s turned into a rediculously long post in response to your rediculously long comment! Regardless, thank you both so much for your thoughts. I really appreciate them.

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Personal Jesus

Following some of my recent posts, a friend emailed me to caution against forgetting that there’s two people in my relationship. He was concerned that I might lose sight of the fact that Belle needs to get something out of all this, too. I have endeavored to always keep that in mind, but I appreciated the reminder and last night shared the email with Belle.

This very subject has come up in our most recent counseling session (yes, we’re still doing that). What I need and want now requires so much more proactive involvement from Belle and what she wants and needs has remained pretty much the same. So, what’s in it for her? I am prepared to do whatever it takes to satisfy any fantasies she has or wants to explore, even those that would fall outside the nascent D/s framework he have going. So far, she hasn’t asked for anything out of the ordinary. Absent a quid pro quo fantasy exchange, I asked Belle what she likes about what we’ve been doing. What does she get out of it? Here’s what she said:

  • The deeper intimacy we share now that all my kinks have been exposed
  • Our increased amount of communication
  • Reading this blog (sort of relates to the two above)
  • The turn-on she gets from watching me clean the kitchen for her (relatively new)
  • Pink, her little vibe
  • All the extra orgasms she’s been getting

I may have missed something, but it’s mostly right. It’s not a bad list. It is obviously a woman’s list, but that doesn’t make it bad and, since she’s a women, it’s unsurprising. I’m overjoyed that she’s actually getting something out of all this. Whether it’s worth the extra effort she needs to put in is only something she can answer, of course.

After she was done relating these things to me, she said the look on my face suggested I wasn’t satisfied. No, it’s not that I wasn’t satisfied, but there was one thing in particular I was hoping she’d say that she didn’t (though I never, ever want her to say it unless it’s true).

Having this conversation allowed me to frame up something that’s probably second nature to a lot of experienced submissives. Now that the words have formed in my head, it seems so obvious that I can’t believe I’ve never said it before in quite this way. Basically, I want to suffer for her and I want her to recognize and appreciate that suffering.

“Kinda like my own personal Jesus,” she said.

Depeche Mode? That was unexpected. “Yeah,” I sad, “Guess so.” What else should I expect from the Catholic school girl?

Nearly everything I want in our sexual relationship eventually gets back to this. The orgasm denial, the pain, the bondage – all of it. For me, that suffering is a demonstration of my love. The more she asks me to suffer, the more I’m able to show her how much she means to me. The other night with the ice was perfect in that she went beyond where I was comfortable (the “easy” pain) and really and truly pushed me. It hurt. And I was thrilled. Not having orgasms is the same kind of demonstration, though it’s a longer, slower burn. I don’t think until last night she really appreciated how hard not coming is. She said she could go months without orgasm and not really feel a difference, but for me, it’d be rough. Unlike her body, mine continues to produce hormones and fluids and is designed to expel them regularly. There are chemicals my brain will only make after an orgasm that help keep me in balance. Plus, I can feel actual pain from not releasing. I assumed she knew all these things, but I think she thought not coming just made me hornier. Yes, it does, but it’s so much more than that. And I want and am willing to experience these things for her.

She shot back, quite rightly, that I wanted to feel these things, right? They give me a perverse pleasure. I like the whole pain and suffering thing. So surely it’s not all about genuflecting for her. My response is, of course it isn’t. I do need to get something out of the relationship. Being submissive doesn’t mean I don’t want to experience gratification, it just means I get it from different places. This, I think, is the common denominator of all relationships. Mutual gratification.

Which, of course, gets us back to the beginning of this post. I’m not sure we resolved anything specific during the conversation, but we surely moved some heavy boxes around. I’m glad we talked and I’m glad my friend gave us the little shove we needed to get the ball rolling.

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Good news for Thumper from the NYTimes?

The NYTimes magazine had a fascinating article this weekend about female sexuality. Turns out, most sex researchers have historically been male so most of them have been focusing on men (shocking). Also, since men’s sex is hanging right there for all to see and seems to be uncomplicatedly and directly connected to his reptilian brain, it’s also fair to call such research “low-hanging fruit” (not to be confused with Jeff Stryker, of course). But now, there’s a new crop of female sex researchers and they’re doing a whole bunch of new stuff in the field of whatgetsherhotology.

To wit: A researcher named Meredith Chivers showed women images of men having sex with men, men having sex with women, women doing other women, a single female working out, a hot guy ambling naked down the beach, and some monkey’s getting it on (just to fuck with their heads, I guess). Then, she had them indicate on a keypad how hot each image made them while at the same time sticking a little thingamajig up their vaginae to measure what was going on down south. Turns out, the women almost always indicated they were not turned on by images that made their pussies flush with blood.

[W]ith the women, especially the straight women, mind and genitals seemed scarcely to belong to the same person.

Tell me about it. Jesus, that explains so much. They could have stopped right there and over 20 years of vainly trying to understand women would have ended with vindication. But wait, it gets better.

Much later in the article, another researcher named Marta Meana used a Cirque du Soleil performance of “Zumanity” (which is apparently nothing more than athletically impressive live-action soft-core porn) to make this assessment:

For women, “being desired is the orgasm,” Meana said somewhat metaphorically — it is, in her vision, at once the thing craved and the spark of craving. About the dynamic at “Zumanity” between the audience and the acrobats, Meana said the women in the crowd gazed at the women onstage, excitedly imagining that their bodies were as desperately wanted as those of the performers.

And then a little later on:

The generally accepted therapeutic notion that, for women, incubating intimacy leads to better sex is, Meana told me, often misguided. “Really,” she said, “women’s desire is not relational, it’s narcissistic” — it is dominated by the yearnings of “self-love,” by the wish to be the object of erotic admiration and sexual need. Still on the subject of narcissism, she talked about research indicating that, in comparison with men, women’s erotic fantasies center less on giving pleasure and more on getting it. “When it comes to desire,” she added, “women may be far less relational than men.”

Excuse me while I do a little happy dance.

OK, back. Didja happen to notice the parts I bolded, underlined, and italicized? (What, too subtle?)

Obviously, that kind of thinking plays right into my plan for world domination. I am all about Belle Fille’s pleasure. She is the epicenter of my “erotic admiration and sexual need”. In fucking spades.

I’m not saying my Belle is the same as “women” in these studies. Each person is like a snowflake, etc. But it’s awfully encouraging to see a possible physiological connection between the way I am and wish to relate to her and the way she may be wired-up internally.

Oh, and as for the part about why the womens’ responses disagreed with their snatches? Read the article. It’s full of *ahem* juicy tidbits like that one.

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Too long

I was looking though the little notebook I keep on my nightstand in which I have recorded each time Belle or I have achieved orgasm this year and was struck by something. No, it wasn’t that I’m an obsessive compulsive weirdo for keeping a log of when either of us comes (though you could argue that). It was that it has been a whole week since we’ve had a serious sexual encounter with one another.

I’ve posted about this before, but it bears remembering that prolonged denial of orgasm can be very detrimental to a male’s state of mind. I’ve been grumpy and a little depressed and, I think, a contributing factor is this week of no sex. It’s perfectly normal for couples to occasionally go a week without fooling around, but I don’t think it’s normal for a male in my condition to completely abstain from any sexual release over that time. I find the need to come transforms into a need to have her come. Denial of both makes me kinda nuts. To stay sane, I need to give Belle some bunny lovin’, and soon.

What I find interesting is that I’m now able to go a whole week without feeling the jagged hormonal edge of denial. When we first started doing this, 48 hours would leave me a tangled ball of sexual yarn, but I’m only now starting to feel the frantic little moments in my chest telling me I’m starting to build pressure. I’m curious if the period before I feel this way will continue to lengthen as my body adjusts to its new release rhythm or if I’ll eventually find the outer wall of my capacity to be denied before experiencing side-effects. Lately, a week seems to be about when I first feel the return of the carnivorous butterflies. If she denied me for a month at a time, would that move out to ten days? Two weeks?

I admit that a big part of why I like to be denied orgasms is how it makes me feel. The emotional and phsycological aspects aside, I like the hormonal high I get from a build-up of sexual need. It would be kind of a bummer if I found that I essentially developed a resistance to the hormones and needed a longer and longer denial period each time to get high from them. Because, I really do like to come. Really. I swear.

I think this need for a higher high is part of why I really want to try new things with Belle. As I’ve posted before, the idea of being locked-up while fucking her with a strap-on really lights up my board (as does turning the tables and having her fuck me). I can only imagine the effect being that turned-on would have on my high. I’m like some kind of bizarre sexual cliff diver always looking for the next, bigger rush. This is especially true since Belle had me write down all my interests during her trip. All those ideas churning around in my brain looking for a way out…

This line of thought eventually brings me to wondering what we do if I eventually find orgasm denial no longer flips my switch. What will the next drug be? And is it even as simple as an all-or-nothing state? I suspect the successful strategy would be to weave together my interests in bondage, pain, sexual submission, and denial into something that never relies too much on any one aspect of my perversion. The even bigger trick will be to find a combination that also lights Belle’s fire since her interests are not my own. As I’ve recently been reminded, this isn’t all about me. She’s both the focus and instrument of my pleasure. If, in the end, what makes me happy doesn’t make her happy, then it’s not going to fly.

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Piercing problem

And then, as if I wasn’t in a bad enough mood, this happens.

Yesterday, in the early afternoon, I was sitting down to pee (don’t get me started) and one of the little metal balls from my PA’s curved barbell dropped into the toilet. Luckily, the bowl was fresh so I reached in to the very cold water and fished it out. Unfortunately, since I was locked up, there was no way for me to get the ball back on, so I fiddled around a bit and was able to get the jewelry off. I figured I’d get let out by Belle that evening and I’d replace it.

BUT, by the time I got around to it (less than eight hours later) I found the hole and shrunk such that there was no way I could get the 8g bar into it. I tried and tried. I mean, I really tried and eventually gave up for fear of hurting myself. I’m about to head off to Saint Sabrina’s to see if they can help me out. I know the hole isn’t closed entirely because it still drips when I pee.

So I’m laying there with Belle last night and the entire thing started to play on my newly enhanced insecurities. If I hadn’t been wearing the stupid fucking chastity device in the first place, I could have gotten the ball back on. If I hadn’t pierced my stupid fucking dick, I wouldn’t even have this problem. Why, oh why, does it all have to be so complicated? Why can’t I just have a nice, unpierced dick like all the other boys? And why do I want her to lock my cock up in the ugly plastic thing?

Please, don’t inturrupt my pity party. It’s almost time for cake.

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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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Three times

Saturday afternoon, we successfully extracted Belle Fille from the regional airport. She’d spent the better part of a full day coming back from the other side of the world and felt like it. We whisked her home and shortly had her soaking in a hot, sudsy bath.

One of my favorite non-sexual ways to service her is to wash her hair. I don’t do it like they do at the salon. For me, getting her hair clean is secondary to the main event which is to massage her scalp, neck and shoulders and spend as much time as possible just touching her. I sit behind so I have full access, but I have to be careful since I have strong hands and she prefers a firm yet gentle touch. In any event, after I had washed and rinsed and had just finished applying the conditioner, I was cradling her head by holding her along the jawline just under her ears. I was experiencing the greatest urge to reach down and touch her naked body. My fingers remembered the feel of her pussy and I knew I could be there in seconds. There was a time when I would have done just that, but I resisted. I resisted even reaching down and touching her breasts which were bobbing there, half covered in bubbles and water. I just sat there, holding her, my head down, and let all these desires resonate within me. I wanted her badly, and she knew it.

“I used Pink three times while I was gone,” she said quietly.

That got my attention. My head snapped up. “What?”

“Three times,” she repeated. “I used Pink three times.”

I had several opportunities to talk to her over the course of her trip and she never said anything about this. She told me how busy and tired and stressed she was so I assumed she never got around to it. Assumed and not surprised. But no! She did. Three times. The realization of this flooded through me. She, of course, has no restrictions against sexual pleasure of any kind. I suffered while she was gone, unable to sleep or think about anything but her, while she was half a world away with a vibe sticking out of her pussy. The searing inequity of our predicaments burned and delighted me.

—

Saturday night, she was finally next to me in bed. Finally, I could turn over and see her there. My former self, feeling what I was feeling, would have been nothing but hard-charging hands, but this new me just laid there, smiling, and taking the occasional kiss.

Her lips. Oh, god, her lips. Knowing as I did that I was not going to archive orgasm that night – indeed, that I wouldn’t even come out of the CB-6000 – everything else about her was amplified in my mind. The touch of her lips on mine was exquisite. The smell of her breath, the taste of her mouth…all of these details that might normally be missed or minimized on the way towards the inevitability conclusion of the past became my entire reason for being there. Her. All of her. And whatever she wanted or needed.

It’s cliche, of course, but life with orgasm denial is about the journey, not the destination. It’s about driving the slower, scenic route instead of the highway or deciding to cross the country via rail instead of jet plane. Slower travel means greater anticipation for the arrival, but it also means taking the time to absorb the dozens of little details from along the way and letting them – the small pleasures – accumulate and outweigh the one that’s big, simple, and selfish. So I smelled her, felt her, tasted her, and loved every fiber of her – all through my lips.

Eventually, she told me to get naked. I did and embraced her fully, feeling her body against mine – finally! – and pressed into her the hard plastic that had become my manhood. We kissed even more passionately and I felt pressure build in the tube. She started to claw me. Driving her nails into the flesh around my groin, raking them across my back, ribs, and ass. Twisting, pulling, and stretching my nipples. Heavenly. Finally, she took firm hold of my trapped scrotum and began to squeeze it hard while chewing on my neck. The flood of sensory input quickly overloaded me and I actually screamed blissful agony into her pillow. She stopped and I collapsed, panting, glowing, warm with her abuse.

After I collected myself, I said, “Funny, I imagined something sweet and gentle on your first night back.”

“Starting now, it will be,” and she pulled up her top.

Cutting to the chase, I don’t think I’ve ever felt her wetter. Using my hands (and wishing they were my mouth), she started to make sounds like she was coming. They went on and on. Minutes ticked by. Eventually, it ended with a flushed, exhausted crescendo.

Hang it from an aircraft carrier, boys: Mission accomplished.

—

Sunday night and I’m making dinner while she sips her wine and reads Denying Thumper at the bar. She hasn’t spent much time looking at all the thousands of words I wrote for her while she was gone. Too busy, she says. Fine, I think. Not that it would have taken much time, but I guess I’d rather be here with her when she sees first sees them. Nervously, I watch her for reaction. Whenever she give little laugh, I ask, “What?” I walk behind her to see where she is. The waiting is killing me.

When she gets the end of the last entry, she’s crying. I’ve moved her. I come around and hold her and kiss her and thank her for being with me, even though I’m annoyingly complicated and high maintenance. She says I’m her favorite person in the word and she isn’t a big fan of simplicity, anyway.

After dinner, I ask to be released for hygiene purposes. We’re in the bathroom and I’ve got my encased unit exposed, waiting for the key, when she pulls my head down by the hair and just looks into my eyes. She’s waiting for something. Ouch. What is it? Oh! I tell her my phrase, the one that reaffirms my purpose and position. She releases my hair and unlocks the device.

“Tonight, you’re going to rub my back and massage my feet and then I’m going to sleep, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After the cleaning, I bring the lock back to her. She likes to be the one to make it click. We’re in our room and she’s got me by the hair again. Quicker on the on uptake this time, I say the magic phrase and she locks me up. Without warning, she has me by the balls. Really, she’s got my poor, stretched balls in her grip and she’s pulling HARD.

“How was the shower?”

I’m processing the question and the pain at the same time. I don’t really answer as much as I utter an incoherent sound.

“How. Was. The. Shower?” SQUEEZE.

“GOOD! It was good, thanks,” and she releases me.

“That’s nice,” as she leaves the room.

Finally, later that evening, after the massaging is over and she’s smelling of scented oil and is all rubbery and relaxed, I ask her about my release schedule. Was she serious about three times in 2009? No, not exactly. Three more times is what she meant.

I will get to come three more times this year.

I shudder at the thought. The chastity tube instantly starts to throb painfully. Three times. For real. I will only have three more orgasms all fucking year. I’m turned on and terrified. Can I do this? I’m babbling and fumbling and scared as hell while trying to process that yes, for real, she’s serious. She will come and come and I will…wait.

“I know you’re always trying to be an over-achiever,” she says, not incorrectly. “This’ll give you something to blog about, won’t it?”

Fucking christ. What have I done?

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Enjoy me

Finally! The last post in the 9-part magnum opus of posts related to the task left to me by my Belle Fille before she left me, high, dry, and horny for a week. The title of this one’s a little weird, but I wanted to keep the the whole “<blank> me” meme I had going. You’ll get the picture.

—

Belle,

Up until now, I’ve pretty much focused on what I want with these posts. The list of desires pent up in the perverted imagination of your sexually deviant spouse is extensive and I wouldn’t blame you if it’s left you spinning and anxious over the numerous things I’m asking you to keep in mind all the time, every time we go to bed.

I won’t bother with the typical prattle about how glorious it is to be a dominant woman with a subbie, servile husband willing to dote on you hand and foot. First of all, you know that’s not the best description of me. To a certain extent, maybe, but not entirely. Also, I know you. It’s really hard for you to let others do things. There’s too much of your mother in you for that. And to suggest that my engagement level with you should be predicated on flooding me with repressed sexual desire is silly. If I can’t be a focused, loving spouse without all the D/s stuff, then the D/s stuff is only there to mask a huge underlying problem (kinda like a men’s room air freshener). In any event, we’ve already had our huge, underlying problem exposed and have gone a long way towards addressing it. Yes, I will be more interested in you in every way. Yes, I will want to do more things for you. I won’t be able to help it. It’s hormonal. I won’t totally discount the value of the extra attention, but I’m not so naive to forget it comes with a cost of additional work on your part to maintain and/or fend off my constant sexual desires.

When I say “enjoy me”, I mean this should be fun. Not just hot and sexy and blood-pumping, but really and truely joyful. You are my best friend. I have never been closer to anyone ever in my life. When it comes to our sex, I don’t want us to get bogged down by all the shit that comes along with it. That shit’s supposed to work for us, not against us. So, don’t ask yourself if you’re being dominate enough. Don’t try to do it “right”. Don’t worry about coming up with words you wouldn’t normally use or try to say them in a manner you’re not comfortable with. Have fun with it. Embrace the silly nature of it all. Joke about it. Don’t think it’ll bother me at all if you do because I fully acknowledge the silly, silly things I’m asking you to do. We make each other laugh in every other aspect of our lives, why not this one, too? And if we get to have a bunch of hot, sweaty sex along way, fan-fucking-tastic.

As I’ve said before, I’m only interested in doing all these things with you. The real you. The you I fell in love with and made babies with and want to spend the rest of my life with. No one else. I don’t want and would never ask you to become someone else to indulge me. Do what you can. Do what you enjoy. The rest will work itself out. We’ll keep talking. We’ll keep adapting.

So with that, I have faithfully completed the task you assigned me. I consider myself very lucky to have a beautiful, caring woman who is willing to accept so much and go so far for me. I deeply appreciate all that you’ve done thus far and all you’ll ever do for me in the future. Never forget that I am, right now, exactly where I want to be. By your side.

Yours in every way,
Thumper