Forest, meet trees

The day after my previous post (you know, the “oh my god, the sky is falling, whatever shall I do” post), Belle and I had another chat. (And this, my friends, is where it gets funny). Turns out, she only wanted to flip off the D/s machine during that encounter. Not, as I heard, for an indefinite period. Just…you know…right then and until we were done.

Oh. Gotcha.

Seriously, we talked for a good half hour and neither of us understood that we had entirely the wrong impression of what the other was saying. I heard, “I can’t do this until I say I can again and I don’t know when that’s going to be,” and she heard, “I’m so mental about all this D/s crap that I can’t even have mutually pleasurable sex with my wife anymore.” It would be funny if it weren’t so…fucked up.

We’ve decided to try communicating while we talk just to see what that’s like.

We will now resume normal programing.

Blood

I am in a never-ending battle with my body hair. I really hate most of it. Not so much that it’s there, but that it doesn’t grow where and how I want it to. It just sort of pops up in random places and patches. I want things to be a certain way, and my body hair just doesn’t care.

So that’s why, before my daily chastity hygiene regimen, I was using the razor to neaten up the stubble growing around the device. I’ve cleaned up my pubes literally hundreds of times, though not usually while locked up. And, because it’s a razor on uneven and stretchy skin, I’ve nicked myself plenty of times. No big deal.

This time, Belle had headed off to the airport to pick up her parents which left me time to clean myself up for whatever she might want when she got back. I had already pulled the skin out from under the CB6K ring and shaved off the stubble and had moved to my scrotum. I love a smooth scrotum and its hair in particular is difficult to maintain since it seems to start growing out 12 minutes after you shave it off.

Next thing I knew, there was blood running down my hand and dripping onto the floor. Not just a little, but a steady drip drip drip of bright crimson. I felt nothing. No pain at all. I pulled out a handful of kleenex and sopped up the blood trying to find the source. Apparently, I had made a teeny, weenie, itsy, bitsie, infinitesimal (you get the idea?) little, tiny nick on my scrotum. In fact, the work “nick” makes it sound bigger than it was. The hole in my skin was no bigger than a flea on the butt of the mayor of Whoville. It was small. But blood coursed out of it. I kept dabbing at it waiting for it to stop, but it didn’t. It just came and came.

For a few seconds, I started to panic. I had nothing with which to stop the blood if it didn’t stop by itself. I would apply pressure by holding toilet paper over the cut for a while only to see the blood well back up once I pulled it away. I called Belle and asked her if we had anything to stop bleeding with, but didn’t really get into what was bleeding. We had nothing, so I asked her to stop on the way home to pick up a styptic pencil. In the mean time, I used one of our grabby clothepins to hold the toilet paper over the wound. That way, at least, I could put the kids to bed without blood running down my leg. So there I was, walking around the house, wearing my chastity device and a bunch of toilet paper pinched onto my bloody scrotum with a clothespin. Very sexy.

Belle came home with the styptic and met me in the bathroom. Seeing my condition, she was afforded the opportunity to roll her eyes at me and point out how high-maintenance I was. Yes, but worth it, right? At that point, I had had the TP clamped over the cut for at least an hour, but as soon as I lifted the clothespin, the blood came right back up. I could see it actually pulse out of me with each heartbeat. Visions of Dan Ackroyd in drag danced in my head. I applied the moistened tip of the styptic to the cut and…nothing. Now I had a bloody styptic pencil. Fuck. I started to wonder what the smallest wound was that I could bleed to death through. Would I need to go to the emergency room? How would I explain this? Well, at least it wasn’t a duct-taped hamster stuck in my rectum (Which, BTW, is why I think girbels are better for that since they have those handly tails. Just sayin’).

Belle suggested we remove the device. It wasn’t really in the way, but dealing with the wound would be easier without it. I really didn’t want it off since the last time I was locked up I came out early through similar (though less Terentino-esque) stupidity on my part. The thought occurred to me that even if we could stop the bleeding, this same skin would be stretched tight in a few hours by my nocturnal erections pulling on my balls. Would that reopen the cut? Would I wake up in the morning laying in a sopping pool of my own blood? I felt a great deal of disappointment as she unlocked the little chrome padlock and I slipped the tube off my dick. Fuck, again.

I reapplied the styptic and got the same non-result. This was really starting to piss me off. The cut was so little but wouldn’t stop being a tiny fountain of blood. I can only assume I nicked a blood vessel just under the thin skin. I had never seen anything like it.

Pulling back the tissue from the cut, I thought it looked like it might actually be slowing. I applied more styptic. Yes, it was. Big exhale. A few minutes later, it had stopped. The great bloody ball crisis of ’09 had finally come to an end.