Tag: submission

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Can’t stop the feeling

There’s this feeling I’ve been having that I want to write about but I haven’t been able to figure it out. It’s the kind of thing I will noodle on while trying to fall asleep because sometimes, in that space just between wakefulness and sleep, inspiration will happen. Sometime I find I wake up with the idea ready to go. It’s weird, but it can work. But not this time. Not really.

There are two things I know about myself. Well, lots more than two, but two that are related to this feeling. One is my need and desire for orgasm has totally been reprogrammed. I find that I think about wanting one while inside Belle maybe 30% of the time (a percentage which is much higher when I know I might be able to have one versus knowing I will not be given permission) and I’ll occasionally want one when not fucking her as a result of looking at porn or whatever, but that’s a lot more rare. Regardless of my relative desire to come, I always know I’ll be happier if I don’t. In fact, the more desperate I am to come and am denied the experience, ultimately my…satisfaction (seems a weird word to use to describe not getting something I crave but we don’t seem to have a word that describes contentment from being unable to satisfy a craving and being satisfied by the want instead) will be higher. Also, if I come more than once in about 48 hours it absolutely negatively impacts my mood for about a week. In short, how my brain used to work with orgasm is gone. The firmware has been replace. So that’s thing one. Thing two is the longer I’m left locked up the more I want to be locked up. Being unlocked with a crotch unemcumbered is by far a weirder feeling for me than the opposite. Belle could make a rule for me tomorrow that said I am to always be locked unless she’s using the penis and I’d be thrilled. Being in bed and rolling over on my stomach and not feeling a hard lump pushing back at my hips makes me feel a little less grounded and centered. Having a constricted, inaccessible erection is deeply satisfying (that word again) and even comforting.

So, to recap, I don’t want to come and I want to always be locked in a device.

The feeling I can’t capture is how very deeply this sits within me. To the extent that I don’t really feel like a man anymore. I mean, sure, I feel masculine and look and act as masculine as I ever have (which, admittedly, isn’t always super masculine), but there’s an assumption of what being a man is that doesn’t quite fit me anymore. I don’t want to spread my seed and I don’t want to be able to play with myself. I even fantasize about my wife taking a lover she finds so satisfying that she no longer needs me for penetrative sex. In fact, the only thing that keeps me from feeling disappointment when she unlocks me for sex now is that I know how much she enjoys the feeling of being fucked. I’m doing it for her, I tell myself. Sure, it feels good. It feels really good, but I’m not motivated by that. I’m motivated by the desire for unrealized sensation more than the sensation itself. So what kind of man would rather his woman get fucked by someone else, doesn’t want to come ever, and hopes he’ll remain locked in a chastity device forever? And if I’m not a man, what am I?

I guess a third thing about me is that I’m much more motivated sexually by giving pleasure or being a vessel of someone else’s pleasure than receiving it myself. Feeling Belle come from my touch, how she loses herself in the ecstasy in the moments before orgasm, that I took her there. Those are very great rewards for me. Even before I was aware of my submissiveness, I was significantly more interested in my partner’s pleasure than I was in my own. When I’m with Drew, it’s the same way. The things he wants and needs are my goal. I could get into more detail, but suffice it to say I endure more then I would otherwise because I know it’s bringing him pleasure.

I’m not saying I’m not a man in a way to say I’m a different gender. It’s not like that at all. But being someone who would rather want than have, who would rather give than receive pleasure, who can move from having sex with a man or a woman with ease makes me feel very other. I look at porn and I see “real” men doing what porn says they do (even the gay ones) and I don’t see myself. I like it. I get turned on by it. But it’s not me. I’m like a different version of a male. “Male B.”

I suppose it would be the most straightforward to just say I am me and leave it at that. But we kinky folk like to sort and label and identify. And that turns out to be a kind of itch I can’t scratch. Submissive is a good start, but doesn’t feel like enough. A masochist surely. I dunno. I am a being of desire who wants to satisfy desire. Someone who wants to make pleasure happen for others. Either the language is failing me or my comprehension of it is.

It doesn’t matter, at the end of the day. Things are working. I’m with a wonderful woman and have a rewarding sex life. I don’t need better words. I can write them all down like this and make you see the shading between the colors. And I know that because right now today I’m deeply horny and have felt the Steelheart’s bite many times over the past several hours, all these feelings are more potent and nearer the surface. But I still have this feeling.

And now, this…

If you don’t like J.T., we can’t be friends.

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Presumptive assumptive

You’d imagine that at some point I’d learn not to make assumptions. My assumption this morning was, since I volunteered to get locked up so as to ensure my good behavior yesterday and, had I not, I’d’ve likely been left unlocked until later today, that I was going to get out again this morning.

She told me to go close the door and I did. When I got back into bed, I was on all fours and she reached up between my legs and started to caress my balls with her fingers. All five of them running down the sides of my increasingly taut ball sack, a few occasionally stroking my perineum. The kind of touch that makes my limbs weak and the cage so crowded.

“I’m going to leave you in there this morning.”

Whimper. Then she made a half-laugh amused sound.

But she kept at my balls so I almost didn’t care that I wasn’t getting out. Almost. I kept thinking about her hot pussy and sinking back into it. But then she’d stroke my balls again and the thought would falter and go unfocused.

“You’re leaking on my arm.”

Whimper, again.

The Steelheart was so tight. So fucking unrelentingly tight. I could feel my heart beating inside it as the erection fought the warm steel. Futile. It became a fight between feeling the wonder of my balls being caressed and the ring and tube crushing them in response. Then she pressed on them. Hard. The sack being so tight made it especially vulnerable to that kind of action. I moaned/groaned in response.

“I don’t know how to interpret that.”

Me either. It hurts and I’m frustrated into a stupor but I like the intensity of it. The loving hardness of her. Don’t stop doing it/stop doing it.

I repositioned myself to lay beside her and she pulled off her night clothes exposing her beautiful breasts. I put both my hands on them and rolled her nipples between my thumbs and index fingers. They hardened to my touch and the mean steel pressed into her leg. Her hands went straight for her pussy. Her hips were grinding and moans left her lips and she got herself off while I focused upstairs. I wasn’t expecting this.

Her pussy is so much to me. The whole world. After yesterday’s wonder, today was turning into the opposite. I was getting zero pussy. I could tell by her sounds and her movement this wasn’t a warm up act. She was going all the way and, once there, wouldn’t want or need me to touch it.

She came as loudly as she dared and maybe a quarter as loud as she would have liked. Yes, Belle’s the kind you can hear from down the block in the summer.

Whimper, 3X.

This is a different kind of denial. Denial of access. Of feeling her come. Sure, I was there. In the room where it happened. But it was all hers. It was hard for me. Harder than being locked up. Harder than making myself avoid orgasm when every cell in my body wants it.

We laid together after. She was coming down and I was vibrating inside. Uselessly. There would be no focus of my energy in our bed today.

“I’m so horny,” was all I could say. Stupidly. Of course I am. But I needed to say something and that was the only thing that pulled itself together.

“Hmf,” she replied. In a way that clearly communicated the lack of interest she had in my comment. The pointlessness of it.

“Being horny is better than not, right?”

“Thank you, Belle Fille.”

Later, in the kitchen making breakfast, I felt amped up and jumpy. Wonder why. But I also realized that my earlier comment sounded passively manipulative. What she wanted this morning was to make herself come. There’s nothing whatsoever wrong with that and, while I can be disappointed in not getting what I wanted, I don’t get what I fucking want. Because that’s not what our sex is about and I know that and that’s what I asked her for. It is pointless for me to say I’m horny when it was obvious I was. Being horny is normal for me and not her problem. It’s a feature, not a bug, so don’t report it.

I apologized for saying it. I reiterated that she should always do what she wants. I should never say or do anything that could motivate guilt within her if all she was doing was operating under the established rules of our dynamic. Which she was.

The problem wasn’t her. The problem was me and my assumptions. I cannot assume I’ll be let out. And, regardless, I cannot assume that when she gets off it’ll be as a result of my actions. Figure it out, you dumb bunny.

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Objects in mirror are closer than they appear

Mrs. Fever had a typically insightful comment to my last post regarding the issues of objectification in open relationships and it’s made me think. Belle, in particular, appreciates hearing her point of view. In any event, you should read it if you haven’t.

Objectifiction is tricky. Some of us want to be objectified, but that’s not my point. I think it’s well neigh impossible for us as sexual beings to avoid all instances of objectifying the objects of our desire. I mean, we call them “the objects of our desire,” right? If you’re checking out porn for the purpose of relieving sexual tension (I’m told that’s what some people do with it), then you are going to objectify. It’s inevitable. There are even times when you’re with a significant parter that you might slip into the mode where you’re objectifying them. What I’m saying is, I think it’s a natural human thing to do. But, I also get why someone wouldn’t want to be objectified. To be reduced to an action and have all the dimension stripped away sounds icky. 

I think this is more an issue with men than women, though I could be wrong. In any event, I’ve found myself both objectifying Belle and TOG over the past several days but also being very cognizant that they’re both real people with real emotions and motivations that have nothing to do with what makes the penis swell inside its steel containment. The second night after Belle revealed the extent to which she’s been communicating with TOG, my furtively fertile imagination simply would not stop imagining their time together. As the fantasy got into high spin, the scenes started to condense until the moment that looped through my mind over and over was a tight shot of his cock buried balls-deep in her, flexing in orgasm as he shot his load into her. It was pure pornography. It was the distillment of the cuckold fantasy. The literal money shot. And it wasn’t necessarily about Belle and TOG. It was about the concept of Belle and TOG and their actions in the context of our marriage. So, I totally get what Mrs. Fever is coming from. In the light of the day, I can still feel the significance of that image in my mind but I also feel a little guilty for it. Because I also know that those two are both complete human beings doing something that’s about them and not me but part of me wants to make it all about me.

The mistake a lot of people seem to make when they try and draw their partners into a D/s arrangement is wanting them to live up to the fantasy expectation they bring with them (perhaps that’s a problem with all relationships, come to think of it). I told Belle this morning that even though we’re perilously close to making real pretty much the most potent fantasy left in my head, I do not want it to happen at the expense of either her or TOG. She needs to think about her own emotional health and his and if shit happens and it doesn’t make sense for them to proceed, I’d rather that then know it was a bad experience but he still fucked her. Basically, I don’t want my kinks or desires to influence how their relationship develops. Even if that means it develops in a way that doesn’t satisfy my fantasy, either at all or completely. As in all other things, reality is better than fantasy because it’s real. At the end of the day, I love her and only her happiness is my goal. Also, I don’t want my fantasy to be part of fucking up what sounds like a nice young man.

In other news (yes, there are other things going on between us!), Belle thinks that during this period of my submissive “reset” that I stay locked up. That could be for a while. I think she’s right. I think what I need more than anything right now it to be woken up every morning with the Steelheart squeezing the the fuck out of the penis. That, to me when I’m in the state of mind I’m in now, is comfort and love. To be sure, I want to fuck her more now than I have in a long, long time. But I need to feel that and not have it satisfied. 

I feel bad for sort of unilaterally checking out of our dynamic like I did. I know why I did it, but it was unfair of me to do it without communicating. I asked her to not let me get away with it again. If I refuse chastity, I need to be able to explain why. And I also asked her to make me do it anyway. The most toxic thing to my submission is implied indifference. She wasn’t being indifferent, but I was.

I have, I until recently, thought of D/s as an overlay to our base romantic relationship. I think that was true, but it’s been overlayed for so long I’m not sure there’s any difference anymore. I find that I’m simply incapable of getting excited about sex that doesn’t have a power exchange component. That when I’m not actively giving up power, then I’m not really being sexual. It’s like the D/s is less an overlay than it has been laminated onto our base relationship. They’re now inseparable and there’s no going back. Not ever. With that in mind, I should not be allowed to pretend otherwise.

To help keep me centered on my subness, I have asked Belle to help me come up with some kind of active demonstration of my submission to her. She is much more the Goddess than the Mistress and doesn’t get off on making me actively submit, but I feel as though I need just a small token of that to keep myself from feeling disconnected. Some little submissive touchstone I can moor myself to. We’ve had versions of this in the past. For a while, I wasn’t allowed to sleep naked without her permission to do so. I would have to ask permission to get into bed with her as a reminder that it was her bed not mine. I suppose someone would point out that wearing a steel chastity device all the time seems like the ultimate “submissive touchstone” but that’s so much a part of me now it’s hard to see it any other way. So, I don’t know. Not sure what it should be and Belle doesn’t either. Ideas?

I have news regarding Drew to pass along, but this post is long enough and it really should have its own. That will have to wait just a little longer (also, it needs to perhaps gel a bit further). Oh, mysterious!

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On the bounce

It’s kind of surprising to me how quickly and ferociously my sex drive has come back. Like I said yesterday, it started to peek its little head out of the box I was keeping it in (all blinky and tentative like a baby bear leaving the den for the first time in the Spring) on about Saturday and then seemed to exponentially grow until Sunday when I was sporadically super horny on the flight back (what percentage of guys going into those little bathrooms on planes do you think are jacking off?). Monday it was on point to the extent that I could just find the will power to get a device on. Last night was a bit of a challenge falling asleep since laying on my stomach pushed the Looker 02 into me in a delicious and distracting way and laying on my back inevitably led to my fingers poking through the bars of the device’s cage and feeling the hard shaft of the insert buried inside me. Today, I’m walking around with a ball of vibrating horniness in my chest and sneaking time with Tumblr whenever possible to stare slack-mouthed and in kind of a daze. But the thing is, nothing else has changed. It’s like all I had to do was give myself permission to feel sexual again. 

During the time I was in my funk (which, based on the dates of my posting here was more like a month and a half at least), Belle did let me come several times. Maybe three or four times. But I was all kinds of messed up. The one morning we had sex on the trip, after I got her off, I was desperately hoping she’d not let me come. I fucked her for about a minute or so (usually about as long as I can last anymore) before slowing down to keep it from happening and then she told me I could. I started back up again but quickly lost my erection. It’s been like that lately. Like the penis and the brain aren’t working in tandem in any way. She let me masturbate to completion, but even then I felt weird about it. Almost guilty. Or maybe not guilty. More like disappointed. But how would she know? It’s not like there’s instructions printed on the side of my box and I am the rules say I’m not to tell her what I want with regard to orgasm. It’s supposed to be entirely up to her. 

It’s a telling indication of my rapid change of heart that a week ago my relationship with my own orgasm left me feeling blue but today writing those last few sentences strains the cage I’m wearing. Playing with the things we do in our dynamic — the way we force the higher brain to disconnect, override, and otherwise fiddle with urges and processes that are instinctual and natural — is not to be done lightly. But now that we have, I will never be the same again. Our dynamic isn’t an overlay on top of my sexuality anymore. It’s replaced my sexuality. That’s not a bad thing. It’s just a thing and not one whose significance I think I really understood until recently. 

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B.Y.O.D.

D/s is weird. Weird in that from the outside and to the uninitiated, it looks like the D side of the slash is in control but from the inside it’s clear that’s not true. It’s the lower-case consonant that sets the parameters of the dynamic (limits, boundaries, etc.) and, therefore, the rules the D has to follow. So no, the D’s power is not limitless. They call the shots and the sub wants them to, but the shots they call are enumerated by the sub. But it’s not always the case that the sub’s Dominant is all that interested in calling shots regardless of which are available to them.  

Some of us came to understanding our submissive nature later in life after pairing up with an unsuspecting partner. That can be catastrophic if the partner is not in any way cool with their other half’s inclinations to submission and unable to indulge them. Of course, that’s not me. I have a great spouse who’s willing to make all kinds of accommodations, but she’s not sexually dominant. She’s not naturally motivated by or wired for it. Seems to me guys in my boat (S.S. Subby McSubface) have two options. They can hope and wish and push for their wives to be active dominents or they can accept their wives’ more passive dominance. I think of it as the Mistress vs. the Goddess

Before I go any further, the usual caveats about this being from my point of view and not in all ways encompassing of the infinite diversity of human sexuality apply, etc blah blah.

The basic difference between the Mistress and Goddess, in my mind, it that Mistresses demand submission and Goddesses accept (and perhaps even expect) it. Some women (and men, but that’s not what I’m talking about) get off on playing within those boundaries established by the sub and pushing buttons and seeing how far they can go. Call them sadists or whatever, but they’re wired to find pleasure in how the sub responds to them. But my thinking is most women aren’t wired like that and while they may come to appreciate the benefits of having a submissive husband, they just aren’t going to ever be the kind of parter who will be forceful in asserting their dominent position. In those cases (more or less the case I’m in), the sub needs to find a way to project their submission onto their partner in kind of the same way religious devotees worship a theoretical deity. They need to construct in their minds a suitable target for their submission taking advantage of the topography of their surroundings. I know I’ve done this with Belle. At least she’s a tangible person who can interact with me and not some invisible sky friend throwing lightning bolts down from the sky or killing my crops with drought. 

I say all this because recently our D/s dynamic kind of sputtered out. Sometime around the beginning of March I started to feel it slip away to such an extent that I found no pleasure in wearing a device (though I did for a little while only because it was expected). Then, she let me out just before leaving for a trip and forgot to tell me to go back in and I didn’t remind her or put it back on by myself. When she got back, I said I didn’t want to wear it and she didn’t push it. This kind of thing has happened before for short periods, but the big difference is, other than when she initiated, I also pretty much lost all interest in sex, too. I tried to look at porn but I just couldn’t. Like, it wasn’t just uninteresting to me, it kind of annoyed and even disgusted me. I never touched the penis and never even thought about it. Not sure I even had an erection outside of the nocturnal kind and/or when Belle wanted me to. 

So, what the fuck, right? In unpacking this with the therapist Obi Wan, I came to understand that I was kind of like a religious person whose faith had been shaken. Not because of anything overt that Belle had done, but because of life. She’s been very busy at work and traveling and, I’d say, in a grumpier mood than usual. Any one of these things or even the combination of them over a short period I could deal with, but this was sustained for weeks and longer. Long hours at work followed by more work when she got home followed being absent and then perhaps flavored with my own issues led to a general collapse of the dynamic’s infrastructure. Even in the best of times, I need it to be bigger and more elaborate than she needs it to be so I’m by necessity “holding up” more than one half of it. When the footings on her side got a little crumbly, I couldn’t do it anymore and it fell down. 

But my submission and our rules are too ingrained to disappear completely. Instead of unilaterally disengaging and doing my own thing sexually, which is what happened years ago and led to all kinds of issues in our marriage, I simply shut down. If I can’t get a hard on looking at porn I can’t jack off and come without permission and that means I never have to deal with the reality of what that would have meant. My sex isn’t just mine anymore and acting like it was would have been too much to deal with so I just packed it all up in a box and put it on a shelf. But my sexuality is a big part of who I am so this left me dispondant. 

I never really said only of this to Belle. I didn’t want to be perceived as being unsupportive of her and what she needed to do with her job. So I just let it all happen. In general, Obi Wan thinks I don’t do enough to ensure my needs are being taken care of in the relationship. He thinks I tend to avoid conflict with Belle. He’s probably right. Of course, “ensure my needs are being taken care of” is an interesting concept for a sub, but it makes sense when the D/s dynamic as seen as an overlay to the foundational relationship. My needs are, to a certain extent, for my needs not to be taken care of, but only in the dynamic. Down in the foundational relationship, I was feeling neglected and maybe a bit taken for granted.

Again, Belle didn’t do this on purpose. She wasn’t being a terrible spouse. But I didn’t say what I was thinking because I was afraid it would cause her to think I was not being supportive to her needs and I didn’t want to get into a fight about it. 

Last week, we were away on a family vacation. Except for one night, it was close quarters for ten days. I hoped and expected that the trip would be when I turned a corner on all this. Not sure if it’s because of my expectations, but by the end of the trip I found myself a lot more interested in the penis that I had been for nearly a month. To the enxtent that yesterday I put the Looker 02 on. Porn was all of a sudden super hot and had I not locked it up I would have been pulling on it. This is not to say I or we are out of the woods or there won’t be some backsliding. Belle’s still busy. No reason to think that will change. Maybe this is just a little bit of sunlight breaking though some clouds or maybe a high pressure system is settling in. No idea. 

Obi Wan thinks Belle and I should see a therapist together. He even gave me some names of kink-aware people he knows (he doesn’t really do couples). I don’t know if we’ll take it that far or if we’ll figure it out but ourselves. Time will tell. 

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An interesting conversation

“Describe to me what sub space is to you. What does it feel like?”

That’s what Obi Wan, my therapist/counsellor/whatever, said to me yesterday during our session. As I’ve said in the past, I like Obi Wan because he’s sex-positive and comes pre-loaded with a broad understanding of BDSM. We were having a related conversation about subbing and being in a Dom-sub dynamic and then this question came out. It was unexpected and I was at a loss for words.

“Oh come on, you’re a blogger,” he chided. How can I not have words?

Remember that scene from Sex, Lies and Videotape where Andie McDowell’s character is asked something and she just smiles coquettishly and blushes? Funny, I can’t remember what made her do that, but I felt my face warm up trying to find the words to answer his question and that’s the first thing I thought of.

Obi Wan has never said so, but I’m pretty sure he’s dominant. Our relationship is odd in that he knows everything about my sex life and predilections and relationships but all I know about him is he’s married to a woman. But in talking about it, he just comes off as dominant. Maybe he’s switch, but that’s not the vibe I pick up predominantly. There was something about being asked that particular question by a presumed dominant who’s also a sort of authority figure that made me squirm and lose my ability to create a coherent sentence. Then, as I struggled, he just sat there. Waiting through the silence.

To be clear, I didn’t feel threatened. I didn’t feel as though I were being taken advantage of. It wasn’t anything like that. This wasn’t a bad thing.

Once I found my ability to talk again, I felt myself in that doped up warm n’ fuzzy subby hazy zone. Having to describe it to him in that way triggered a mild sub space incursion. It was odd. Last time something similar happened was when I was visiting the Boston area and had lunch with Geek Domme. She didn’t put me on the spot as directly, but there were a couple of times during the meal when I had a hard time looking her in the eye. Same thing with Obi Wan. I spent a lot of time looking at the various bric-à-brac strewn around his office as I tried to form some coherent sentence structure.

Paraphrasing what I said, sub space or being submissive feels…warm. Comforting. As my sense of control slips under theirs, it’s like all the sharp edges of our interaction get knocked off. A glow appears in my chest and my limbs feel light. Somehow. Or something. If there’s some physical act involved, like putting on a chastity device or a collar or being told to strip, it happens that much faster. It’s a feeling of being somewhere I belong. Need to be. It’s hot, yes, but there’s something tangibly different between that and the basic urge to fuck. It’s much more nuanced. There’s much more texture and topography. I want to demonstrate my willingness to submit. To feel their satisfaction at it. For them to use me for their pleasure. However that happens. To feel them taking their pleasure from me.

He was paying close attention.

Then I said more about being restrained. How sometimes a non-restraint restraint – one which isn’t totally secure and involves some cooperation from me (“hold your hands above your head and keep them there” or “don’t let go of this”) – is hotter than something I can’t resist because it by itself is a form of demonstrating submission. I don’t move because they told me not to and while I might want to if I’m uncomfortable or whatever, I don’t and they know why. I talked about pain and how when it’s really humming it stops being pain and becomes something else altogether. Same circuits, different energy. And about how that can feel like floating in a bottomless pool of intense sensation. One I can’t necessarily get out of by myself.

Then he kind of sat up a bit and pulled on his pants and repositioned himself. Unmistakably the sign of a guy needing to make room in his pants. I was feeling it, too, but the steel made repositioning impossible and unnecessary.

So that was…interesting. The conversation quickly moved away from that place. I felt the mild sub buzz wear off after a few moments. The mood shifted and it was like the lights came back up.

In fact, we ended the session early. We were out of things to talk about ten minutes before the appointed time. He suggested I didn’t need to come to him anymore and he’s probably right, but I’m going to keep my appointment for two weeks from now on the books and think I’ll probably make a few more at that interval. I feel good. The reasons I went to him in the first place seem to have resolved themselves, but there’s something about ending I don’t feel comfortable with just yet.

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Work those glutes

Belle’s been gone for about ten days now on her trip and doesn’t get back until day after tomorrow. Usually, when she’s gone, I get kinda rabidly horny and, perhaps not coincidentally, sleep gets harder to find. But, except for just one night about a week ago, I’ve been sleeping well on this trip. And, until the past few days, I haven’t been all that horny.

But WOW all of a sudden. I guess it may have started on Friday. I had a massage scheduled and, as usual, I was locked up. I busted out my emergency key and got all the way undressed for the rubbing and laid face-down on the warm table. The masseuse I see is incredible. About the best I’ve ever had. Chief among his attributes, besides his strong hands, is how he happily works my glutes. Once the shoulders and back are done, he lifts the heavy sheet up exposing one whole leg to the waist and tucks it under. Then he goes to town. Oh, mama, does he.

And, honestly, I’m helpless. There’s just no way I’m going to be able to lay there impassively as he rubs my ass and runs his stong hand along the crease of my ass cheek and down my inner thigh (and I may have gotten him to do that a bit more by complaining of a sore hamstring). He must get within a half inch of my balls when he does that. Whimper, for fuck’s sake. So he does each leg in turn then asks me to flip over. Then asks me to flip over. I let myself enjoy the first side and my mind wanders and things do what they’re supposed to do but when he switches to the other side I have to start thinking about taxes or something. I mean, I know that errant boners are a professional inevitability for someone in his field and I’m not going to lose any sleep showing a bit of chub through the sheet as he’s sitting up by my head to work my shoulders and neck, but I don’t want to be pitching a fucking tent. Friday, I was somewhere in between. The hard-on wouldn’t have been elevated above my stomach had it been exposed, but it was definitely…there. And then he does this thing right at the end where he pushes down on my hips and rubs the top of my thighs through the sheet and he get’s really close to the package. If I were a normal boy, I’d probably wank one out in the bathroom before heading over there but I’m not so I don’t.

But I was good. I put the Steelheart back on as I dressed, but the shadowy nature of the room and the slight rush I was under trying to beat the erection that was rapidly developing had me put it on wrong in a way I don’t think I’ve ever done before. Usually, the PA fixing goes through the PA ring but I missed that somehow so the PA wasn’t secure. I had no idea until Sunday night when I realized the discomfort I was feeling in there was due to the PA fixing pushing the PA ring in ways it’s not supposed to. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to take the Steelheart off since Belle wanted me locked but it was heading in a direction where things were going to be hurt if I didn’t address it. In fact, there were already sore spots developing that I know from experience need to be allowed to breath more than they get to in the solid tube. The solution was pretty obvious.

Since I still had the key (no numbered tag being provided before Belle left and me being unable to find one), I simply switched to the Looker 02. So that’s where I am today. A day or so should be enough to be able to get back into the Steelheart and, since that’s Belle’s favorite and the one she left me in, I’ll swap back into that tomorrow morning.

So I felt the horniness growing over the weekend. Sunday I woke up and groped and clawed at the Steelheart in that way. This morning I was able to have some quality alone time with just me and a few carefully chosen inanimate objects and was left sweaty and panting and significantly distracted. Cruising the Nifty Archives and finding a story that hits all kinds of my buttons hard didn’t help. Or maybe it did. Depends on your perspective, I guess.

Being the exceptionally well-trained and obedient rabbit that I am, I never entertained any ideas of using the key and letting myself out. Even though I could warp my almost-injury into a valid excuse. Because if I had, I know I’d eventually have my hand wrapped around the hard penis and then I’d feel worse than rabidly horny. I’d feel guilt. Guilt isn’t sexy. Not in the slightest.

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So I wait

Last weekend, I was out of town. The weekend before that, Belle was. She’s in Chicago today. It’s been a while since we had quality time together, let alone had sex, because it’s a busy time of year all the way around. It’s during periods like this when being locked up is it’s most difficult.

I mean, sure, being locked up when your face is buried in her pussy is hard, but it’s the kind of hard you want. This is the kind of hard you don’t want. The kind of hard that, for a normal man, would be lessened by a few jack off sessions to take the edge off and relieve the boredom. I’m not a normal man, though.

These extended periods where life gets in the way of the hotness and push the dynamic we’ve both worked to achieve into the background are so hard because it keeps me in a kind of limbo. I just sort of endure. In the past, I’d struggle with keeping my emotions under control in these times. I probably still do, but I’m at least more aware of myself now. My fuse tends to be short and my mood swings quickly but I just sort of keep my head down and push through knowing it’s temporary.

This is when the real dedication of releasing control over oneself kicks in. It’s not fun. It’s not exciting. It’s dreary and can seem pointless. Last night I was in the otherwise empty bed and my hand was on the Looker and feeling as much of the penis inside as I could and poking at the hard rod deep inside and my balls hanging down fat between my legs. That can be a deliciously frustrating situation but it can also make me feel like nothing much at all. Not a man. At least not like any other I know. I realize that in a way my sexuality is all about others. Like a reverse vampire, it’s only visible when reflected off someone else. I am still craving some kind of sexuality (not just sex, but the feeling of being sexual) but absent Belle as a focus, I don’t really exist. I mean, yeah, that’s a bit dramatic and probably not true, but it’s how that situation can feel.

I find I need to focus on the act of submitting. Just doing it is what matters. That the nothingness of being locked and unable to pleasure myself or give her pleasure is, in itself, valuable. In fact, if I can’t do it when it’s not fun, then it has no real value. I have ceded control over myself and accepted my submission even when it’s hard and it is my job to endure those times. It’s the deal I made and the commitment I signed up for and I know she wants me this way and appreciates my difficulty. Also that we’re both happier this way and it’s how things must be.

So I leave my hand on the warm hard metal and feel my heavy balls with my fingers and rub the little bit of remaining foreskin that sticks out between the bars with my thumb and I draw strength from the steel. Its contents have never felt less like something I control or own. Referring to it as “my” penis has never felt more wrong.

No, I’m not a man. Not a normal one. But that’s not my fault. We just don’t have enough words to describe the variations of manliness. But I am me. I am nothing else but. And I am for her and she is for me.

So I wait.

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Stupid penis-having person

I posted a picture of me in the Looker 02 this morning and said there was a story behind it. It’s not a good story. It’s a story of me being a stupid penis-having person.

It starts last week. I was in the Steelheart and Belle was out of town over the weekend so I was locked up for a total of two straight weeks. Not that I got a lot of time out since I was locked up the previous two weeks, too, and she only let me out Sunday morning to fuck and told me I had to be back in by noon (which I was — made it with five minutes to spare). So, something like a month with about four hours of freedom, AKA the usual. By the time Belle got home I had been dealing with some burning inside the tube after I peed. It started out being mild and occasional and got worse and more frequent. Had she not been on the verge of coming home, I would have popped the emergency key and dealt with the issue, but since she was about to get home, I simply muscled though and amped up my hygiene by rinsing the tube each time I peed (it didn’t hurt at all in between). Turns out, there were two spots of red irritation that more or less lined up with the PA fixing bar.

That’s the second time in about six weeks that I was driven out of the tube for similar reasons, though this time was worse. Not sure exactly why this is suddenly an issue, but I suspect it’s because I’ve been very active lately and running a lot. It could be that it was just too much bouncing around. The area where this latest issue developed was in the excess skin under the penis’ head that is the remnants of my foreskin. I find I have a bit more there than the other guys I’ve been with, so it could be that it got caught between the ring and tube wall a little too often until it was rubbed raw. Or perhaps the increased activity should have been combined with an increased focus on hygiene. Don’t really know.

So she let me out. Luckily, that skin heals amazingly quickly and two days later things were in vastly better condition, though probably not healed enough to go back in. By Wednesday, it was in good enough shape that it wasn’t even sore to the touch anymore. Which is where the problem starts.

I was at home in the afternoon with only the dog as my company. I let him out the back door to do his business and, while waiting for him to find the perfect spot, found my hand in my pants. This is a thing a lot of guys do, of course, though I probably do it more than most when I’m unlocked if only for the novelty of feeling a squishy meat tube and not a locked hot metal one.

As god as my witness (and no, I don’t believe in him, but I’m trying to accentuate my conviction on this point), I did not decide to do what came next. But, as I looked out the back door at the dog, my hand started squishing and kneading the penis. The penis, being a penis (and a needy desperate one at that) started to do what penises do. My hand, being a guy’s hand (and being equally desperate and needy and apparently conspiring with the penis) did what hands do when they find hard penises in them. Next thing I knew, my pants were open and sagged down around my butt, my underwear was pushed down under my balls, my left arm was propping me up against the door to help me stay standing while the waves of pleasure coming from my jacking right hand washed over me. I was rushing headlong into an orgasm before my frontal cortex snapped out of its trance and noticed the dog standing outside the door watching me and wanting to know why I was making him stand around in the cold.

I felt terrible. Like I said, I never decided to jack off. I never decided not to, either. It just happened. As the kind of chaste man whose condition is enforced by steel, whatever muscles one uses to resist that kind of incident are flabby and atrophied. It’s not that I showed no will power. I showed nothing but animal instinct.

So I went upstairs and tried to do some work. That didn’t last long. I opened the Tumblr app and flipped through and the penis, which never really went all the way soft anyway, was back in force. I rubbed it though my jeans and felt the ejaculate my previous stroking pulled up had leaked all over inside my underwear and was starting to soak through the denim in a large dark patch. I flipped over to Literotica and found a hot enough story when my hand started pulling the buttons of my fly open and I finally found a way to stop the madness. It was incredibly hard (pun intended). My head was swimming in the hormonal cloud of intense frustration. My face felt flushed and I was even a little light-headed, but I knew I was heading into very dangerous waters. Yes, I had broken Belle’s rule about playing with it, but that’s perhaps a veinal sin compared to actually making myself come. This whole incident lasted maybe ten minutes, but I went from a simple, unsuspecting rabbit released on his own recognizance minding his own business to rabid drunken scofflaw Gila monster shooting up the town from the window of his ’73 Pontiac GTO.

I had to go back in. I had to. But I still wasn’t in the right condition to be in the Steelheart, so I rooted around until I found the Looker 02. I shoved it up the penis, turned the key in the lock, and put the key in the usual spot for Belle to find. She didn’t find it though and, when she noticed I was in it, she didn’t ask why. I never had the courage to bring it up. Good thing she doesn’t know about this blog…oh, wait.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up the Looker 02.

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Counting the stages and keeping my mouth shut

About a week ago, I tweeted…

Which pretty much sums up how it works most of the time. I can get to the point where I want to come so badly that I start at the second stage and only find my way to stage three about four hours later, but most days not. We can call them the three stages of denial.

But maybe there’s a fourth. See, Stage 1 there, “I hope she doesn’t let me come,” doesn’t even activate until she hands me the key to the Steelheart. It’s like the penis is a tiny Dr. Evil frozen away in its orbiting Bob’s Big Boy. Out of sight, out of mind. So really, the first question is whether the penis even gets out.

This morning, Belle didn’t let it out. It’s usually the case that the little Dr. Evil defrosts on Saturday mornings we’re not doing anything in particular. It gets let out, I get her off, then I stick it in, but she decided to leave it be today. On the one hand, I like getting out. A lot. More than I crave orgasm at any given moment, I crave sensation from the penis. Feeling her hand on it, feeling it hard and free, pressed against her, rubbing against her skin, sliding into her hot wetness. Just feeling. The Steelheart provides both no sensation in that when I touch it and grab it and claw at it all my hand feels is perfectly smooth, numb hardness that never changes but then, on the inside, it’s high pressure. Intense, consistent, unyielding resistance to my excitement. So yeah, having an erection that can be touched and feels good is something I look forward to.

But I also don’t think I deserve to be unlocked. Being locked is the default. Being unlocked is the exception. Not a treat or a reward or whatever. I hate it when I expect to be unlocked. I’d rather assume it’s not going to happen and be pleasantly surprised when it does than the opposite. Of course, when she wants it out, it should come out. It’s entirely up to her. I just don’t want her considering me and my cravings in that decision. I don’t want her to be nice to me just because.

So when I wrote that tweet last week, it was after we fucked and I didn’t get to come. Which, being solidly in Stage 3, was a relief. But when I was in her and sliding the penis in and out and losing myself to the amazing feeling of that the intensity of Stage 2 made me say to her how badly I wanted to come. I immediately felt bad for saying it. After, I apologized.

The thing is, there’s no reason for me to tell her. None. Because it doesn’t fucking matter. If I say anything about coming, one way or the other, I’m trying to influence her and that’s bullshit. Especially when the fucking penis is inside her at the time. If she wants me to, she’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Maybe I want to, maybe I don’t. Who cares. That’s the deal. I don’t come until I do and I don’t whine.

Maybe a part of me just wants her to know, “OMG, I’m so being denied right now!” but, of course, she knows that. But another part of me, the part that sits way down my brain stem and acts more than it thinks, is trying to put its finger on the scale of her decision. Maybe she’s considering it and by saying something it’ll cause her to lean towards letting it happen. I hate that part of me. That I can’t always keep it stifled. I’ve spent a long time learning how to keep it as far away as possible from the button that makes me come. Now I just need to learn to keep it from my mouth.

Orgasm denial and enforced chastity all boils down to managing conflicting urges and desires. I want to fuck you but don’t let me out, GAH coming would be awesome, I better not tell her. WHY DID YOU TELL HER!? Lock me back up, no keep me out, be nice to me, BE MEAN TO ME. Seriously, it’s stuff like this that makes me think being a top would be exhausting work. Subs are annoyingly complicated. We’re lucky anyone puts up with us.