Tag: relationship

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Wet, sweaty and smelling of pussy

Belle took me out of the Looker 02 last night. She didn’t have any immediate need for its contents, but would in the morning and she didn’t want to mess around with the key then. She wanted to be able to just roll over and fuck me, which she did. The penis, though, is stupid and didn’t understand the order in which things were going to happen. All it knew was the steel was off and out and all that normally compressed erectile tissue was free to go to town. I had a hard and persistent erection until I fell asleep.

Belle was funny when she let me out. She was obviously pretty excited to see the device emerge from under the covers.

“I like it when I lock you up and I like it when I let you out,” she said, “For different reasons, obviously.”

Her genuine excitement and the way she’s so well embraced her position over me makes me a very happy bunny.

As I was saying, I fell asleep wanting inside her and woke up in pretty much the exact same spot. As soon as we were both awake, we went right at is like a couple of teenagers. Her snatch was wet and her nipples were hard and she came riding the stiff penis in no time. Jesus god, she felt good.

Then she let me go at it. It was one of those times where I could fuck her and fuck her. I only got close to coming once and, as soon as that passed, I felt like there was no way I was getting close again. I fucked her long and hard and drenched her in my sweat. Faster, slower, deeper, shallower, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere.

I get really emotional in these moments. When I’m fucking her and loving the feeling of her sliding up and against the hard shaft after having felt northing really pleasurable there for nearly two weeks. With every stroke I feel a deeper gratitude to her for allowing me to be as I am. To having so well taken the responsibility of a denied husband to heart. I came out and said it while balls-deep and kissing her full, delicious lips.

“I’m so grateful to you,” I said, breathy and low.

“You should be,” she replied, calm and clearly.

And I am, of course.

I’d still be fucking her right now it if she hadn’t told me the ride had to end. And I’ll be damned if, as soon as she said it, the penis didn’t start to go soft. Fucker’s pretty well trained. I rolled off of her wet, sweaty and smelling of pussy. Ah, bliss.

The only real downside to all this is, about an hour later, my nuts really started to ache. Especially the right side. My balls felt tender, swollen, and heavy. Surprisingly, I don’t get blue balls all that much anymore, but they were full of their unnecessary product and complaining loudly. I told Belle it was nothing a hot bath couldn’t fix, but I won’t be having that before I go back in. No hot n’ soapy access to penis meat for me.

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Need

Alas, it has been quite a while since Belle and I had any sex. At least two weeks now. There’s no specific reason it’s been that long. She had her period, I got sick, she went away for the weekend. Regular access to her pleasure is, of course, the alchemic ephemera my body processes into its ability to sustain life without access to itself for indefinite periods of time. It’s a real drag (in every sense of that word) to exist without it. I’m not blaming, just saying. I need to feel her enjoying my touch. Need to hear her gasp and moan. Need to feel her quivering orgasm.

Need it all the way down.

breath

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Metaphorical brussel sprouts

I wouldn’t call the conversations Belle and I are having regarding when I’ll next have an orgasm “negotiations.” If they are, they’re not unlike how a child negotiates their bedtime or how many brussel sprouts they need to eat before they’re allowed to leave the table. Belle is, after all, totally in control of when I come. That hasn’t stopped me from sharing what I think. Like that kid who wants to stay up fifteen more minutes or only eat two, not three, of the vile little green globs, I am at best lobbying.

I point out to her that we have been in a long and sustained Good Place® lately with regard to our D/s overlay. Perhaps the longest we’ve been doing so well since we started. Yeah, we have had a lot of practice by now, but the one thing that’s been different is my orgasm has been totally off the table. I know it’s not going to happen and she knows it’s not going to happen. So, besides avoiding the hormonal roller coaster that comes even with infrequent (say, every month or so) orgasm, I’ve been free to really wallow in my occasional desire to come and she’s free to totally shut me down since there’s a hard date out there (not before January). The further away I get from my last orgasm (which was around July 3rd), the more I’m able (in these moments of calm reflection) to realize I do not need them physically or want them in any other way than in a primal and situational sense. And, as we get closer to that magical “sometime after January starts” period, I’m starting to feel that happily denied male anxiety. Some guys, I know, never get there. They’re denied three days and they’re crawling out of themselves to come and never get to the point that they’d rather not. But that’s not me.

Belle’s not committing to anything other than reminding me who’s decision it is. Based on the few cryptic things she’s said (and acknowledging that she’s still ruminating over it), it kinda sounds like she’s leaning towards nothing so dramatic as some kind of “THOU SHALL NEVER COME AGAIN” decree and will instead go with a more reasonable approach where I don’t come indefinitely. At least for as long as it makes sense. That could be an additional week or…however long it is. Then, of course, I will have some skin in the game. I’ll do whatever I can to keep it from happening, though I know that when she lets me fuck her there’s a 50-50 chance I’m going to really and truly want that orgasm. For me, it’s a bit more unsettling. I’d rather know. But she, it seems, isn’t prepared to go that far with me. Yet.

So, we’ll see. I get at least another month. I’ll keep squirming in my seat and pushing my metaphorical vegetables around as she decides my fate. However it ends up, it’s her call and I know it.

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Six months to life

Atone left the following in response to my suggestion that if one can go six months without having an orgasm, one can go much longer:

I don’t know if six months is the magic number but somewhere around that point I realized that it is possible that I might be able to go the rest of my life. The logic went something along the lines of – well, it’s been over six months and that went well, I should have no problem going another six months to make it a year. After a year it truly became normal to not have an orgasm, I could probably go another. It has now been almost 16 months and I occasionally think it would be really nice to have an orgasm but then remember how much happier I am now that I don’t do that anymore. I think if I had an orgasm now I would want another, and another. While the idea of a break is sometimes nice to think about I believe it would end up being rather unsatisfying.

This is going to be different for every person, obviously. Some men will recoil in horror at the idea of preferring a mostly orgasmless existence (even those who enjoy chastity or orgasm denial). Others of us, obviously, not so much.

I don’t think six months is a magical number. Niether is a year. They’re just nice and round. The thing I really gravitate toward in Atone’s comments is the part about how, at some point, it becomes normal not to have orgasms. At some point, it stops being a game or a gap or a test of endurance and it just becomes how you are. And you realize that you like yourself better that way.

Now, I know there’s a lot of dissonance out there about whether or not male orgasm denial makes men better partners (on all levels). I acknowledge that an ass is an ass and there’s no magic bullet to fix that. But I also know from first-hand experience that easy and frequent access to orgasms can make a man distant and even indifferent to their partner. I know that the disconnection of one’s sexual “satisfaction” (a word I use in the most tactical and transitory way possible) is detrimental to the health of a monogamous relationship (I can’t speak to non-monogamy, of course, though I have some opinions there, too). I’m not the perfect mate by a long shot, but I know I’m better now than I was when I could sneak off at night and pull one out.

What I’m saying is, at this point in my life and if it were up to me, I’d rather be the kind of guy whose default existence was to not have orgasms. Not that THOU SHALT NEVER HAVE ANOTHER ORGASM AGAIN or whatever, just that based on my experience, I prefer how it feels not to. I prefer how it makes me relate to my partner. Sure, there are complicating things that go along with being orgasmless (the occasional sleeplessness, an ever-present need for sexual attention, etc.), but in balance, they’re outweighed by how it’s changed my fundamental outlook toward my partner. The early years are behind us. The difficultly I had in adapting to this “lifestyle” are mostly over. I’ve come to terms with how it feels to keep the orgasm inside and am able to maintain that feeling in mostly productive space.

And it’s not that I don’t want to come. Of course, the constant desire to do so creates the thermal energy that fuels all the positive outcomes. When I mention to Belle that it’s been four months, it’s not because I’m dying for the next two to be over, it’s because I’m thinking, Jesus, it’s been four fucking months! In a way, it’s kinda like but then again totally not like an addiction. Once a certain kind of person is addicted to something, they always want it. The desire never leaves them. They have to learn to live with it. That’s where I am with orgasms. They still feel good. As Atone says, the idea of having one is appealing. But that would release certain chemicals in my brain that might lead to having more which would leech all the good stuff that’s built up inside me away.

Of course, this is all talk without Belle’s buy-in. Is she willing to make that exchange? Are the trade-offs sufficiently valuable to her to live without me intentionally coming inside her from now on? Also, by becoming one of those guys, will she have a hard time relating to me? Guys who don’t want to orgasm are…weird. Also, not for nothing, I gave her my orgasm several years ago. I can’t make this change without her consent either way. She’s my partner and I’m her sub.

In a way, this is like discovering the proverbial secret garden. You chase this little ball of orgasm denial into a dark and overgrown grotto and discover behind the hanging moss and ivy a Wonka-like environment you’re not entirely sure is known to anyone except a very few. It’s not all that hard to get back, but once there, why leave? I suppose you’re either going to grok that or you’re not.

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Backstory

So I read this post over at Theo Black’s. You should, too, before reading the rest of this one.

Go ahead.

I’ll wait…I know, it’s long.

After four years, I honestly can’t remember how much of the Belle and Thumper back-story I’ve written about here, but I have been exactly where Theo is now. The best, most advanced geo-positioning device on the planet couldn’t find any space between where he is now and where I was once upon a time.

When I first met Belle, she was married to a nice guy. They lived in a nice house and he had good prospects and it was likely they’d live in an even nicer house someday (even though Belle always says, “No, this is the house I’ll spend the rest of my life in,” whenever she moves into a new one). She had married him out of college, as was expected, and things looked pretty good for them. Then, one day, Belle had a car accident. It wasn’t too serious, but she was shaken up and I, who worked about 15 feet from her office door but barely knew her as anyone other than that new girl who was kinda loud, poked my head in to see if she was OK. That was the point at which Cupid shot Belle. He didn’t get around to me until later.

Flash forward a while. I can’t remember how long. Months. Not a year, I don’t think. I became socially friendly with Belle and her husband. This was almost entirely Belle’s doing as I am, evidence of this highly personal and explicit blog not withstanding, a pretty introverted guy. I had dinner at their house, hung out with their friends, etc. At some point, I became aware of how Belle felt about me. I can’t recall now (but I’m sure she will) if it was something she said or if it was just that I’m a dumb guy but, given enough time, anything can soak through the denseness. Either way, I knew.

Flash forward a little while more. Belle’s husband learned he was being sent overseas for a year. It was a career development thing. Good for him. Means that nicer house was probably closer than ever. Belle said she wasn’t comfortable living in the current nice house alone. Could be true, maybe not. I’m not sure. In any event, I chose that approximate time to quit my job and go back to school (and by “go back to school” I mean “go to school in the first place and wait tables at a pizza joint”). I could barely afford my apartment. Belle had the idea that I should live in their house, thereby saving money and providing Belle a sense of security. At this point, I have no idea if the husband knew how Belle felt about me or not.

Flash forward a bit more. I was living in the room across the hall from Belle. I’d painted the walls orange (but a tasteful orange) and Belle and I had opened up to each other about ourselves to the point that she’d watch gay porn with me. We also watch a lot of Star Trek: The Next Generation while laying in my bed with only the tops of our heads touching. Cupid had yet to return and finish his job with us, but I was on his list.

One bright morning, I rolled out of bed all groggy and bedraggled while Belle was about to leave for work. I will never forget the next moment for as long as I live (and if I ever do, I don’t want to live past that point). Standing in the big kitchen, light streamed through the windows and onto Belle in a lovely green silk dress that nicely showed off her curves. She turned to say goodbye and the light made her beautiful green eyes sparkle and it happened. I fell in love with her. Right there next to the stove. I don’t know if you could tell by looking at me, but it just kinda punched me in the stomach. I was in love with a married woman in whose house I lived.

Small flash forward. We went to dinner at an Italian place at the Mall of America. Doesn’t sound especially romantic, but we’ve retroactively labelled this our “first date” (you know, for the kids). We shared a bottle of wine over food and went home. Somehow, I ended up in her room. I was sitting on the edge of her bed. We were just talking. Talking about how we felt. I held her hand. I told her hand many things. I started to massage it. I found myself kissing it. Just her hand. Then a bit more. Then, we had sex.

I slept in her husband’s bed that night. We woke up the next day, naked, together, under the sheets. I had to pee so bad, but couldn’t find the courage to leave the bed. I didn’t want to break the spell. I didn’t know what would happen once the previous night was officially over. So we laid there, quietly looking at each other under the sheets, me with a painfully full bladder.

The spell didn’t break when I finally got to pee. It only got deeper and more involved. I started sleeping in their bed every night. We had a lot of sex. I came up with the name Belle Fille about this time. We shared our secret with a few of my friends. One night, while walking over to our friend’s house in the rain, I stopped her in the pool of a streetlight and told her if she was ever in a position for it to happen, that I wanted to marry her.

Then she went on a prearranged vacation with him and her family. I, of course, stayed behind and took care of the dog and cried and stood in her closet and smelled her sweaters. Then she came back. The spell wasn’t broken, but the fragility of it was exposed. I was a mess. A blithering disaster that she had to deal with while inching closer to the end of her marriage.

Eventually, she told him. I moved out and he came back and I didn’t see Belle for a long time. That’s the part, right there, that’s exactly like Theo’s current position. It was horrible. I know it was horrible for her, too. Of course it was. It was a horrible time for everyone. I was living on the couch of the friends who knew and every night was me just tearfully gushing my sorrow and fear and crushed and smoldering wreckage of my feelings for Belle. I’m sure I was a very annoying house guest. I knew inside that I’d be with Belle again. I knew it was coming. But that didn’t make any bit of it easier. That didn’t make me stop worrying that somehow it was all going to come crashing down around me and the pain of the divorce and the selling of the nice house and everything else would prove to be too much for her and I’d end up alone again. I had been alone for so long and my fear, after finally realizing how I felt for her, was that I’d be alone again. That might be my greatest of all fears even to this day. I never want to be alone.

But it ended up alright. She moved into a duplex with her sister and I eventually moved in with her. I stopped the “going back to school” thing and have not, to this day, received any kind of higher education (more than a semester here and there). Belle decided at one point that she wanted to get away from everything and took a job in Boston of all places. She just told me this over lunch one day. “I’m taking a job in Boston.” I remember asking, “Can I come, too?” And then we moved to Boston for a year. The only thing I cared about was being with her.

Flash forward again. A year was spent in Boston. We moved back to Minnesota when we decided to get married and have kids. Not a year after that, we were standing on the Pacific Ocean exchanging vows. I cried then, too. Could barely choke them out. Our path to that spot for that event was so circuitous and I realized as I openly and honestly told everyone most important to me that I loved her and wanted to be with her for my whole life how precarious it all seemed back when I was sleeping on the friends’ couch. How lucky I was to have made it there. With her.

Of course, there’s more to the story than this. But reading Theo’s post made all these old memories and feelings come back in a way they haven’t for years. This is equal parts reassuring homily for Theo and cathartic reminder to myself of the strange journey we’re on. I’m getting choked up just writing this post. Even after 15 years of marriage, I can’t help but think of how it could have gone. How so many things change (houses, kids, sexual dynamics) but the really important things stay the same. I am so happy to be with my Belle.

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The first rule of Fight Club

The other week when the kids were at camp and Belle and I were alone, she offered me a night of whatever I wanted. All I had to do was tell her what that was.

Of course, I couldn’t. I couldn’t say what I wanted because, kinda like Santa Claus, once I said the truth the magic was gone. This is, obviously, very unfair to Belle. And counter-intuative. But it’s how I work. If I said, “do this and that,” then I would have a hard time accepting those things from her.

What I wanted was something like that one night we spent in a hotel last year. Major hot mostly because I didn’t really know what was happening at any given moment. It was all spontaneous on Belle’s part and it was fantastic. But, assuming she can’t pull a rabbit out of its funk every time, how are we to proceed? When the rare free night presents itself, how can we be sure to take whatever advantage Belle’s willing to let us have? Part of me thinks she should grok where I’m coming from since my kinks are well known to her now and we’ve had some practice at this stuff. Part of me also thinks we shouldn’t have to wait for special events to be able to indulge in a little quality time. But part of me also understands that none of this comes naturally to Belle.

Her idea was for me to write here what I wanted her to do. I can speak here more freely and more completely. I was supposed to do this a while back since this week is the last kid-free one we’ll have for a while, but I didn’t get around to it for whatever reason. Usually, when I know I have something to write for the blog, I’m anxious to write it, but this time I sat on it. And it, in turn, caused me to stop writing here almost altogether. I think my reticence is all tied up in the sub’s paradox of not wanting to be proscriptive but also needing to communicate their needs. I have needs, but relating them is hard. But let’s give it a shot.

In general terms, what I want it to lose control. To be tied up with my hands over my head and my feet to the footboard. To have the device taken off and the penis stroked until I can’t stand it anymore. And to be brought back to that place over and over. Until my high-level brain loses its ability to rationalize my desire not to orgasm and I truly need to come. Until I beg for it. And then, of course, I want her to not let me. To ice the penis into submission and lock it back up without ever letting me touch it.

Then I want to be hurt. Not too much, at first, but eventually quite a bit. I want angry red marks standing up from my skin. I want her to beat me and whip me and flog me and clamp my nipples and punch me in the nuts. We have a cane we’ve never used. I can imagine her gently hitting my ass and upper thighs with it before building ever so slowly to savage whipping that sends me falling deep into endorphin-fueled subspace. Where I stop pulling away and fearing each new fall of the cane and start to lean into them and crave them and feel the pain’s warm wave wash over me. I want her to build up a sweat from the effort of beating me. And I want to feel the sting of it every time I sit down for the next three days.

That’s what I want. And that’s what I can’t say. Because talking about the bubble makes it pop. Because this particular part of our relationship is a bit of theater. I need to buy the fiction that she hurts me because she values my suffering. Because she wants me to. I need to feel as though I’m giving her my pain in a reciprocal exchange. But I know she’s not a sadist. She doesn’t really like to hurt me. But she is a spouse willing to try to give me what I need. Unfortunately, it’s all so complicated.

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In response

Reader BT left the following monster comment on my last post. So monster, in fact, I decided the reply should get a post of its own.

I have followed your blog since it was fairly new and I have enjoyed it a great deal. Mostly because it isn’t focused on wank-fantasy stuff, but rather is much more about the day-to-day reality of embracing this alternative form of relationship for your marriage. This has made your blog a shining star for bringing this alternative life style out of the musty dark shadows of pornography and into the light of day, and hopefully a little closer to acceptance by non-participants.

I am a shining star, aren’t I? And adorably fluffy.

I was surprised at how quickly you and Belle took to the proposed arragement in the beginning, but until recently it seemed to me that there was still something incomplete about it. Something not quite fully formed. And that thing was that Thumper was still pretty much looking at the whole arragement (or at least writng about it) from the point of view of “What is this doing to Thumper?”

I’ve heard this criticism before. My response is that this blog is, among other things, a journal of what I feel and experience. I honestly don’t know what I’d write about half the time if “What is this doing to Thumper?” was off the table. If I knew what this was doing to Belle, I’d write about that, but I can only guess what’s happening in her head and heart. Also, remember that this blog is one of the ways I communicate with Belle. She expects me to say what I’m feeling.

With regard to how quickly we embraced our current lifestyle, it didn’t feel all that quick to me. We were at a place in our relationship when we were very open to new things and chastity was something I was very interested in (suddenly and unexpectedly), but how that morphed into the D/s dynamic we have today seemed to take a while. Even now, I’m not sure it’s done evolving.

But your most recent posts demonstrate that you have passed a kind of milestone at some point. I was very pleased and happy for you and Belle when you wrote the following:

“I’ll make sure her favorite vibrator makes its way into her suitcase. If she’s going to be so relaxed anyway, it’s better for me to know she’s able to take advantage of the opportunity. Even if I don’t get to participate.”

Although you rarely refer to yourself as such I hope you wouldn’t consider it an insult if I catagorized you as a “submissive male” while acknowledging that the ways and means of practicing male submission are as varied as there are couples. However there is one essential element common to all of them in my opinion: The focus of the submissive on bringing his Top pleasure and support even if this means not getting to do exactly what the submissive would like to do

I have no problem being called a submissive male. And I agree, what that means is quite varied. I know that now. I didn’t understand it three years ago. Back then, I thought all this BDSM stuff was quite orderly and logical. It’s not. It’s infinitely more organic than I expected.

So sure, I’m submissive. But I’m not a robot. Call me submissive-ish if you want, but I can’t always and forever only think of Belle’s pleasure over mine. Well, “pleasure” is the wrong word. “Satisfaction” might be better. I get satisfaction though her pleasure. I get satisfaction by being actively denied sexual release by her. I get satisfaction knowing that she’s enjoying (in whatever way she wants) my submission to her and how that affects me. Where our dynamic breaks down is when I get no feedback from her. When my submission turns into background clutter of daily life. It’s hard living how I do, though it’s enjoyably hard when she’s an active participant in the dynamic. When she’s not, it’s just hard. And then it’s depressing. And that’s not good.

This quote above shows that your focus has movied beyond yourself and you are begining to prioritize Belle’s comfort and pleasure above your own. And this no doubt because you derive your pleasure from knowing that she is pleased, which is the essence of a submissive’s focus in a relationship.

I do prioritize her pleasure and comfort, but I can only do that when I feel she’s prioritized me and our relationship in her life. I don’t disagree with what you’re saying, but I reject the concept that a sub should totally subjugate their feelings. This is a relationship. There must be emotional exchange underneath the D/s layer.

And once that bar has been crossed the following statement doesn’t come to me as much of a surprise at all:

Penises, it turns out, can be trained.”

Which is absolutely true. Somewhere in the makeup of a sub male’s brain some little bit that used to cause the penis to get erect at the mere whisper of a ghost of a chance of getting some action finally learns that THIS male isn’t in control of THAT outcome. And if the current situation is one in which there isn’t likely to be any need of an erection, it doesn’t bother with creating one. This is a remarkable phenomnina when you consider it: Essentially the sub male’s brain acknowledges his submissive condition at a very visceral and subconsious level. When that occurs it seems fair to say that the man in question isn’t posing as a submissive, or play acting as a submissive, or taking the submissive role in a scene… he simply IS a submissive (at least in the particular situation.) It has become part of his makup. Part of what and who he is.

I agree. And when it happens, it’s amazing hot and satisfying. When she makes me give her an orgasm and then teases me about how I will receive nothing in return I actually thank her for it. Feeling that way fills me with warmth and comfort and love. It’s fantastic.

Soon after that point the following to also becomes very true:

“I don’t need to be strung up and whipped or tied to the bed all night or facesat until I turn blue to know she cares. Sometimes, all it takes is a few words and a gentle touch.”

I think that the insatiable desire for the kinky stuff is the manifestation of the need to demonstrate to oneself or one’s partner the dominant and submissive nature of the relationship. At some point that is no longer as necessary as it once seemed. In its place is a special sort of intimacy between the sub and his top and a peaceful and contented acceptance of the dynamic by both parties.

Hmm. Perhaps. But for me, I really enjoy being tied up and hurt. I enjoy it a lot. Sometimes the pain she inflicts on me is a demonstration of my submission. When she decides to clamp my nipples out of the blue or smack my nuts around or apply Icy Hot to them. In those cases, whether I want it to happen or not, I accept it because it trips my submissive triggers. However, I really really like pain. I like being flogged and otherwise whipped and beaten and that’s really not about submission. That’s about feeling the wonderful buzz of masochism. The bondage is the same. I like feeling the powerlessness of being bound and abused. I like struggling against it. It turns me on.

I can’t say how these things would feel if I wasn’t a sub because I am, but I know there are dominant types out there who also like pain and bondage. It can’t always be about submission. In any event, while I don’t need her to engage in that kind of activity to make me know she cares, I still crave them. Deeply. That need is a part of me, not us.

I suppose that you may have already figured a lot of this out. But then again maybe you haven’t considered that the three quotations above are interrelated toward a common point. That point being the DS nature of your marriage transforming from a sort of overlay of your relationship with Belle to being an essential part of it.

Our relationship has to work on several levels. It’s not just D/s. But I do agree that we’ve both invested so much psychic energy into our dynamic that its removal would be traumatic for both of us. I’d say it’s integral at this point, though perhaps not essential.

I’d love to hear what your take is on all this. That is how do you see yourself and your marriage as a DS relationship, if you see yourself that way at all? As I mentioned you rarely refer to yourself as a submissive, nor do you refer to your marriage as a DS relationship. And you certainly have never referred to Belle as a Domme or anything like that. And why would you? Who really needs labels? Especially these labels that always seem to conjure up so many negative stereotypes. But at this stage I don’t have any better language to describe it.

The label thing is perhaps the biggest reason I don’t use them that much anymore. Belle doesn’t like being called a Domme and while I don’t have a problem identifying as submissive, I’ve learned there’s a lot of baggage that comes with the term (mostly in the form of what “real” submission is, etc.). I’m not embarrassed by how I am but I am aware that what it means for Belle and I isn’t what it necessarily means for others.

I guess the way I’d summarize this post is by saying I want and need to feel Belle’s satisfaction and pleasure, even if it comes at the expense of my own because, ironically and paradoxically, that gives me satisfaction. But I can’t be expected to live in a way in which neither of us is satisfied. I don’t want to live without sexual stimulation, I just want to live without ever having sexual release. It’s the old “chastity is not celibacy” thing. In the end, no relationship works without an exchange of what the other partner needs, even D/s relationships.

Thanks for your thoughtful comment.

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A pair of milestones

Two milestones to report on today. One of minor consequence, one not so much.

I’m coming up on four weeks in the Steelheart. Not a record or anything, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the little feller for a month (on Monday). Long term lock up and denial, like everything else in the universe, operates on a cycle.

  • I first go in, usually after just coming, and the best I can hope for is that the device doesn’t piss me off for the first week.
  • By the second week and into the third, I’m pretty horned up. Everything is sparkly and fun and the hormones leave me nicely buzzing.
  • Past the third week, absent any external boost, things start to drag. Occasionally, it’ll feel OK being in, but left on my own, everything starts to sag. I can get depressed, demotivated, and all around bummed out by the experience.

The third stage can be averted though some kind of sexual contact with Belle. I think it’s possible to stay in the second stage or very early in the third indefinitely as long as I’m getting the kind of stimulation that keeps the hormones fired up. Belle’s got a new job and is working a lot and has shown little to no interest in me, so I’m well into the third stage now. Plus, she’s out of town again this weekend so there’s no hope of any relief on the horizon. I’m not abjectly depressed or anything, but the bloom is off the chastity flower. Long term chastity is a team sport, as I’ve said. You can’t play it by yourself. I’m not to the point of wanting out or crying uncle, but something has to give soon.

The other milestone is with my personal training and exercise. Getting fit seems to be a bit of a trend in the kinky blogosphere of late. Must be something in the lube. Anyway, I though I was six months in, but doing the math in my head yesterday, I realize I’m not quite there yet. I started in mid-January, so mid-July will be six months. Right?

So. Progress. I have lost weight, but it’s not happened in way I’m familiar with. According to the scale, I’m down to 223 pounds from my peak of 237. On paper, that doesn’t sound too impressive over five months, but I think a lot of the fat loss has been compensated by muscle gain. I feel different. I’m harder all over, but especially in my legs and arms. I have muscles where I’ve never seen them before. Drying off in the bathroom the other day, I was shocked at what my shoulders and arms looked like. Plus, my clothes are fitting differently. It’s definitely working. My scale is one of those fancy ones that measures fat as well as weight and the fat line on its accompanying iPhone app is dropping faster than the weight line, so again, yippee!

I’ve found that cutting back on food has been very difficult, especially as I’ve started to run more. I just need more fuel than I used to. Eating like a bird now would impact my ability to function. I don’t really pay attention to the weight I’m using at the gym, but I know that I can now bicep curl 120 lbs (both arms at the same time) and bench press in the neighborhood of 150 lbs. Those aren’t Olympic numbers or anything, but they’re way better than I could have pulled off before. I’m also able to run for more than 4 miles on a treadmill (which is easier for me than running outside – the best I’ve pulled off on the road is like 3.3 miles) and plank for almost two minutes. I remember the first day working out I was only able to plank for about 30 seconds. God, what a lump I was.

The thing about all this working out is that once you start, it becomes kind of a perpetual motion machine. I wake up every day after the gym with some kind of muscle aching and the running can often cause my legs and feet to hurt the next day, but the only thing worse than doing the exercise is not doing it. I crave it. Running is not all that much fun, either when it’s happening or immediately afterward, but I really want to do it. It bugs me to go more than one day with no exercise of any kind now. That’s good…right?

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Pillow talk

Belle and I had one of those checking-in moments the other night. She knows how desperate I am right now and wanted to make sure I wasn’t going off the rails. Usually, this starts by her asking me how I’m doing and me answering in a non-verbal grunt and shrug kind of thing. This from the guy who always says communication is so important in our kind of relationship.

She teased more out of me (so to speak). I told her I was fine. Not GREAT. Just fine. I told her how horny I was and she once again reminded me that I had only been locked up for a week. A mere flicker of a butterfly’s eyelid for me. Do butterflies have eyelids? It matters not. You get the gist.

I may have asked how long she meant to keep me in. Usually, it’s fairly easy for me to see the milestones upon which I get out. I can’t see one of those before mid-July at this point. She told me she was thinking of letting me out for Father’s Day. Honestly, I had forgotten all about Father’s Day. If I hadn’t, I might have dismissed it since it was relatively so soon after Memorial Day (about three weeks). It’s not always easy to know what “getting out” means. Do I also get to come? Or is it just freedom?

In my somewhat needy and totally horned-out condition, I admitted I didn’t want out. I didn’t want the device off and I didn’t want to come. OK, accuse me of bottom topping. Go ahead. I’ll wait…

Humming…

But it’s true. Yeah, my body is saying it wants out and wants to come, but my soul wants to stay in and be denied the pleasure. Even on Father’s Day. Especially on Father’s Day. The denial is so much more potent when it happens even when a reasonable person would expect otherwise. It’s best when it’s capricious and unfair and in no way respectful of what’s “right”.

What I want more than anything else is her. Not the porn, not the stories, not anything but her. To feel her writhe at my touch and hear her breathe fast and ragged before she finally tenses up in orgasm. That’s what I want. Not freedom. Not access. Certainly not orgasm. I have that feeling in my loins of a swollen prostate and I clutch and claw at the steel tube desperately wanting to get at its contents and I end up grinding into the mattress and being too distracted to sleep, but I also don’t want it to stop. Not ever.

I can’t tell if after all this time she’s thinking about letting me out because it’s what she wants or if it’s what she thinks I want. We seem to be past the point of her showing any kind of interest in the penis as a sexual object , though I supposed she might still want to feel it inside her. Maybe even wants to see it flopping around in the air. I don’t know. We kinda fell asleep after all that (which is to say, she fell asleep and I laid there soaking in my swirling hormonal caffeine).

Yesterday, I was grumpy at the end of the day. More annoying life stuff that I had misinterpreted or forgotten about or whatever. We were snappish at each other. Not sure how much of that was the hormones talking. It does manifest that way sometimes. I desperately wanted to defuse the situation so, when she came to bed, I offered to rub her feet with the lotion. I had hoped it would end in sex, but it didn’t. Just her feeling really nice (which is good, too). I again failed to fall asleep before 2:00. Still too wound up.

Belle leaves in a few days for a trip with some girlfriends. Yes, the kind of trip where in the porn stories the wife tells her friends about her husband’s locked penis. Just the girls and some wine in a quaint setting. I hope to be able to get her off before she leaves. If not, I’ll makes sure her favorite vibrator makes its way into her suitcase. If she’s going to be so relaxed anyway, it’s better for me to know she’s able to take advantage of the opportunity. Even if I don’t get to participate.

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Bean spilling

I have a couple friends with whom, regardless of time apart, I can fall into conversation with as if we did it every day. One is the boy I kinda sorta dated during high school and after who ended up being the best man in my wedding and the other is a friend I met though work twenty-some years ago (and to even be able to write a sentence with that kind of time span in it freaks me out). Last night, she was in town on business. It happens somewhat infrequently, but we ended up having a lot of one-on-one time. I suppose I should come up with a name for her, but I can’t think of anything at the moment so she’s just “her.”

So anyway, we spent a lot of time taking about our personal lives and how they’ve evolved over the years. Both of us happened to fall in love with married people at about the same time, though the outcomes were very different, so there was much catching up and comparing of experiences. Also, after I first moved to this city, I wrote a lot. I did this because I was an angst-filled youth in a new town with no friends and not even a TV. There was time, so I wrote. Not unlike how I write now, but that was all fiction while none of this is. I used to send it to her to read back then. This was, of course, before the internet. We’re talking wood pulp marked with petroleum-based ink being manhandled by government workers.

In any event, she asked me a couple times if I still wrote and I gave sort of mumbling noncommittal answers. She even suggested I was writing in secret which was either very perceptive or a lucky guess, but she eventually pressed me by saying, “You don’t even have a blog or anything?”

“Oh, I have a blog.” What? How are you going to explain this, bunny boy?

I guess I thought I’d just say it was secret and leave it at that, but over the years we had shared very personal details about ourselves and she was having none of it. She wanted to know what it was about and why was it a secret. I told her it was started immediately after Belle and I had issues in our marriage and it detailed our relationship. She pressed some more. I said it also described my evolving sexuality. She said she knew I was queer and I said there’s a lot more to sexuality than gender preferences. Finally, I told her reading the blog was not unlike cracking open my head and peering into the most intimate and private part of my brain. And that there were explicit pictures. Of me.

She was perturbed. She felt I was keeping it a secret, even then, because I didn’t have faith in her and didn’t think she could handle what she saw there. I tried to explain that it was not that at all. That not everyone wants to know the kinds of things I say here about the people they associate with. I have many friends whose sex life I’m not even remotely interested in and frankly don’t want to hear about. My reticence in divulging the blog and its contents were out of respect for her right not to know everything about me. But she wasn’t buying it. Then I got nervous.

It’s not that this blog is embarrassing to me. It’s not. Really. This is who I am and I have no issues with it, but there are only two people I know of who know me personally who also know about this blog (and I’m married to one of them). Widening that circle is sort of a big deal. Also, it’s not just about me. Belle’s in here, too. At this point, I maintain my secret identity mostly out of respect for her.

In the end, I spilled my guts. Everything. We discussed my perversions, we discussed the relationship dynamic, we talked hardware, she knows I haven’t come in a month. The sky did not fall. There were many questions and I was forthcoming with answers to them all. We have very different life perspectives, but we respect one another and (I assume) her opinion of me is safe (but there are almost 700 posts here for her to read, so we’ll see how that goes).

So now there are three people who know (you know, not counting the teeming horde of you guys who come and read my drivel).