Tag: tease and denial

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Self imprisonment

Belle let me out of the device on Sunday. It’d been nearly a week since she had some bunny lovin’ (due to her trip and a monster-long menstrual cycle) and she wanted her cock. She said it just like that. “Tonight, I want my cock.” Fucking awesome.

So she let me out and I cleaned it up, shaved, etc. I had that nagging insecurity regarding coming without permission, but it turns out she came so fast from my fingers that the issue never presented itself. After an appropriate amount of basking on her part, she told me I could go inside her. No coming, of course. Just like last time, I was overcome by gratitude. There’s the feeling of thankfulness, of course, but then there’s also this meta feeling that flows from that. The feeling of inequity and unfairness and how I, the husband, the traditional “head of household”, have so little control over my own sexual functions that I am forced into this position of servile gratitude simply over the chance to get the dick wet. Of course, that’s exactly where I want to be. Not emasculated, but harnessed. Restrained. Maintained.

In any event, I got very, very close to coming more than once. I love that feeling when the primal lizard urge to just keep going and come fires up and I have to struggle to reassert her control over me. And when she tells me it’s time to stop and I have to pull the throbbing meat out of her, cold and wet. It just says hard. Twenty, thirty minutes. Not bone hard, but there’s a plumpness to it that doesn’t seem to want to go away. My blind sexual instincts never seem to learn. I know there’s not chance of getting off (especially once she falls asleep), but the motor keeps purring just in case.

In the few days since, we haven’t had a chance to connect. Today, I’m at home alone and find myself extra super horny. So horny, that the urge to stimulate myself was becoming difficult to avoid. As I’ve written recently, I had this problem where I’d jack myself off, but never let me come. Doing so kept the hormonal levels high, but totally broke the link between my sexual gratification and Belle. She’s since expressly forbidden that behavior (again), so these thoughts were problematic. I decided to lock myself up as a preemptive measure. I couldn’t find her new lock or the keys (they’re not in the corner of her dresser drawer!) but I was able to scrounge around and find an open Master lock. Not a big fan of them since they’re kind of big, but at least it locks and I have no clue where the key is (on her keyring, I think). I was much more thoughtful this time around with regard to the device. The KSD-3G is in place, I used appropriately sized ring and my new O-ring and PA cable set-up. Very, very secure. No chance of rubbing one out (or even making the motions). When Belle comes home, she can decide if she wants me in it not, but at least I’ll be able to avoid making any mistakes in the mean time.

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I come and she goes

Why am I not writing? Because I don’t feel like it. Why not? Well, nothing’s happening. True, a blog about being denied orgasm is often about the absence of a thing, but in this case, nothing is all I have since Belle’s away for the week and I’m left locked up and not terribly horny.

For the two days before she left, she had me naked in bed and so, so slowly stroked the cock with her hand. Her touch was very light. I don’t know if she’d ever have been able to get me off that way, but I found it to be something near torture constantly wanting her to grab on harder, to move faster. The first night, she actually fell asleep that way – with her hand wrapped around the cock. It was still hard and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get any sensation from her limp hand. Eventually, her hand wasn’t the only limp thing.

The second night started out very much the same. Me, naked. Her, slowly massaging her possession. It was wonderfully maddening. However, this time, after a little while of the slow and gentle stuff, she started going a little faster and using more force. Before long, she was well and truly jacking me off and it was fucking awesome. All I could do was thank her again and again for the wonderful sensation. I didn’t think it was going anywhere in particular, but I started to feel the light tingling sensation that signaled an orgasm being to coalesce inside me.

I was about to say something about it when she said, “You can come, Thumper.”

Such beautiful words.

“I want to come,” I replied and pulled back all my internal barriers to orgasm.

She stroked and stroked and I laid there and reveled in the building release. In the moment just before I came, I tried to hold it back. Not because I didn’t want it or was trying to keep it from happening, but because I wanted to really feel it. I wanted that mind-blowing orgasmic energy to permeate my every cell. I felt like I was just hanging there, suspended in the pure light of release. I’m sure it was just an extra second or two, but the moment seemed to go on and on. Then I came, the clock started moving again, and I was spurting out all over her hand and my stomach. That familiar yet uncommon scent immediately washed over us in all it’s earthy, pungent glory. All I could do was lay there and whimper.

Then she wanted me locked up. My relationship with the device has become more complicated recently. She’s been leaving me out for longer periods and I come to enjoy my freedom. However, she was leaving the next morning and I’ve not exactly demonstrated a great deal of self-control lately. Putting it in place while the flaccid dick was still leaking its slippery fluid was harder than I thought it’d be. Now, two days later, I’m so, so over being locked up. This is actually pretty funny if you think about it. I can go weeks at a time and be somewhat disappointed to be let out but on the heels of an orgasm, two days seems like forever. I’ve obviously become somewhat spoiled of late.

She’s back on Friday and I’m not sure if she’ll let me out then or leave me in for a while. We have relatives coming to stay with us next week and while there’s no reason that should bear on her decision, I’d be surprised if she left me in while they were here.

So, there you go. While I collect myself and regenerate my desire to write, go read this recent post by Tom. Pure awesome. Also, I like this little post my Mykey because I can so relate.

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Punishment and the reluctant rabbit

Lately, I’ve felt a little off. Off in the sense that, outside the bedroom, I haven’t felt overly submissive or the need to provide service to Belle Fille that I’ve enjoyed in the past. I have my theories (which we’ll get into), but it all came home to roost yesterday.

Belle was in one of her cyclonic home organization phases. I’m not sure she stopped for more than 15 minutes yesterday from doing something – cleaning and organizing the garage, laundry room, downstairs bathroom, her closet, etc. Typically, I’ve learned to just stay out of her way when she’s like this as there’s no way to get her to relax until she collapses at the end of the day. The end of the day when we had previously said (or rather, she had previously said) we need some “special time”.

“Special time” because we’ve settled into this rhythm with regard to sex. It’s pretty much exclusively about her while I’m left to stew after she falls asleep. I have nothing particularly against this type of encounter, but it’s all we’ve been doing lately. It’s what I call “passive” denial in that I get turned-on and such, but she’s not doing anything to enhance my arousal. When she deliberately does things to bring me into a high state of frothiness (jacking me off, letting me jack myself off, making me fuck her – all without orgasm), that’s “active” denial. I need that. Plus, I’ve been feeling the urge to get back to that wonderfully spacey place she took me last time she beat me. In fact, we sat together after lunch and calmly discussed which way she’d abuse me later in the day. Wooden spoon? Last time, she didn’t like that because it made too much noise. Spatula? Ditto. Flogger? So anyway, you can see the general outline of what I thought “special time” would be. Her slapping me around, making me all hard and drippy, then letting me get her off. Preferably, over the course of an hour or more. Nice, leisurely lovemaking (as we’ve been able to redefine it).

So problem number one with this great plan was that I went on a 13 mile bike ride yesterday. That’s not outrageously long, but it’s been a while since I went that far and I’m not in peak physical condition at the moment. By the end of the day, I was feeling tired and had developed a headache (probably from my allergies which suck donkey right now). By the time we were in bed and the kids were sleeping, etc., I wasn’t in the mood for a whippin’. I still wanted the other part of our “special time” very much, but just as easily I could have gone to sleep.

First lesson: I should have said something. I didn’t tell her how I felt. She instructed me to strip and brought out the flogger. Her, clothed, standing next to the bed and holding the flogger. Me, naked and laying on the bed, looking up at her. I knew I wasn’t really up for the hitting part, but the subspace brought on by our relative physical positions fought my urge to say something. As she started to whack at me, I found myself unable to stay still. I bounced around the bed, up on my knees, on all fours, laying down. She had to circle the bed to maintain a good vector on my ass. As she was hitting me, she berated me for my unacceptable service lately. She called me out on laundry I had fallen behind in and generally criticized my lack of focus on her. In between whacks, she said she had grown accustomed to my service and felt it should resume. So, as opposed to the way I had been beaten in the past, this time we were cloaking the event in the cover of a punishment. My discomfort grew. I thought this should have been hot to me, but in combination with my headache and overall tiredness and previous desire for a more loving encounter, it just made me feel worse.

Eventually, she ordered me to stay in one position. She sat down and fucking wailed on me a few times (at least, that’s how it felt – I’m not sure if she was hitting me hard or if my ability to take it was low). I kept getting up and she kept telling me to get down. I wanted to kiss her, but she wouldn’t let me. I told her I couldn’t take it anymore. She assumed it was part of the game and told me I could always safeword my way out. I did not want to do that. It wasn’t that she was hitting me harder than I could stand. It wasn’t physical pain I was struggling with. So she kept hitting me. Finally, I sat up and said I did not want to be hit anymore.

She realized something was amiss and asked me what was up. I told her I really couldn’t say, but I didn’t want to be hit. I worried that she’d assume it was something she did wrong and that she’d have a crisis of confidence, but she valiantly tried to maintain her end of the dynamic. She left the room momentarily and I curled up on the bed, desperate for some tenderness (aka, aftercare). She came back in, laid down, and I held onto her, but felt no sexual urges.

I can’t remember her exact words, but she accused me of only wanting to be hit when the manner in which it took place was one I was comfortable with. That’s a fairly sophisticated charge for her to throw at me. On the one hand, no, I don’t want to always be comfortable with the way she smacks me around. It’s entirely acceptable to make me uncomfortable. And no, I was not suggesting she should not be able to punish me. But, on the other hand, it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I thought she’d hit me in a loving way, not a punitive way. I wasn’t trying to top her from below. I hadn’t pulled the plug in a state of pique over not appreciating her set-up of the scene. Not at all. I just hadn’t been capable of doing it.

I’m not sure she bought it. After our short conversation, she told me to get the lotion. She wanted a foot massage. Fuck, I thought. I really wasn’t in the mood for this, either. All I wanted to do now was go to sleep.

Laboriously, I dragged myself from the bed, retrieved the lotion and a towel from the bathroom, and began massaging her feet. The minutes dragged on. She had fallen into a light sleep during the massage, and while I still felt very shitty, I was at least relieved that when I finally finished the evening seemed to be coming to an end. I went around the room and extinguished all the candles. Getting back into bed woke her up and she told me to come to her. I inched over. She said, “Come here,” and I inched a little closer and put my arm over her in the most noncommittal manner possible.

“I want you to be inside me,” she said. The thoughtfulness of that nearly brought me to tears.

“I don’t think I can,” I said. I felt 500 miles away from an erection, let alone mustering the energy to fuck her.

“OK,” she said.

Then we fell asleep. But not before I moved away from her and turned over to face the other direction.

—

This morning, we were able to have a conversation about it (or, that is, three conversations since the kids kept acting like they were deserving of our attention all morning).

With regard to the mysterious inability to feel the need to do things for her, I think we’ve pinned that on the whole “active vs. passive” denial thing. Since I’m out of the device, I’ve been fulfilling my desire for desire myself. I’ve been stroking myself and letting myself get right up against an orgasm before backing down. No, I haven’t technically had permission to do this, but I somehow talked myself into it being OK. In my head, I had this imagined conversation with her where I ask permission and she, since she doesn’t want to have to deal with my neediness, gives it to me. In my hormonal state, I managed to turn that imagined permission into implicit permission. In effect, I’ve been masturbating, though not to the point of orgasm. Regardless, since I’ve transmuted sexual release with sexual arousal, what I’ve been doing is exactly the same as a man who jacks off to orgasm in the bathroom when he gets horny. I’ve replaced her as my sole source of sexual satisfaction. I am, of course, explicitly forbidden to do this now and she will become more active in ensuring my sexual frustration in the future.

As far as the punishment thing goes, I told her I constantly crave ramifications. Lacking any consequences for my actions/inactions, their motivations sometimes start to lose their meaning. Even if I had kept on edging myself, there should have been something focusing me on my duties. So, while it felt wrong to me last night, I really want her to punish me when necessary. This isn’t necessarily a masochistic desire of mine. The part of me who wants to feel pain is not the same part of me who wants to transfer control to her. They’re kissing cousins, to be sure, but they come from different places in my fetid psyche. Acknowledging that she has the right to administer corporal punishment to me is all about power exchange. Hot, sexy power exchange.

She says she’s pretty sure I didn’t like being spanked by her last night and she exactly right. I didn’t like it. I felt like a little boy suffering the consequences of doing something he knew was wrong. It was embarrassing and emotional. Yeah, the pain stung and I was in entirely the wrong mindset to deal with it, but that’s the point. One is not punished when one decides it’s time. It happens when the punisher decides to do it. And it’s not always the case that the one being punished knows it coming. Yes, I want her to whip my ass when I’m not being a good boy.

And since I’m me, I could see it all in my head moments after talking about it with her. On some random weeknight when I least suspect it, she tells me to pull down my pants and bed over the side of the bed. She tells me she going to punish me for [fill in the transgression] by caning my ass [n] times. I will be still during the caning and will count out each strike right after it lands. If I move excessively or fail to count out the number quickly enough, she will add an additional number of strikes (her discretion, of course). After she’s done with me, I pull my pants back up, say to her those words that codify our power exchange, and go about our lives, my face is as red as my ass.

To that end, I went to Home Depot this morning and picked up a couple of those plastic rods that you use to open and close mini blinds (one for regular use and one in case she breaks the first over my ass). Whenever she feels I need to be reminded of the arrangement I asked for or need to be refocused on what she thinks in important, I hope she’ll use it on me. Maybe eventually we’ll buy a proper cane.

All this talking seemed to do the trick with me. While I had gone to bed and woke up absent any sexual desire whatsoever, by the time we got to talking about her right to administer corporal punishment, I had a health erection (shocking). As I write this, she’s in her bed taking a nap and I’d like nothing better than to go back there and go down on her until I feel the pulse of her rapture beneath my tongue. I was nowhere near that kind of feeling last night or this morning. I’ll assume that’s a good thing.

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Good night

Tuesday just kinda sucked from all kinds of angles, none of them related to Belle. I found myself at the end of the day in a frame of mind not unlike the one I would have found myself in a year ago – distracted by external factors and not emotionally present with Belle or the kids. It pissed me off. While that was normal ten months ago, it feels oily and distasteful to me now. We went to bed and I was still distracted. It’d only been about five days since I last came, so I’d only just begun to feel the return of of the effects of denial, but the distraction of the day totally overwhelmed that. My sex drive – a nearly constant companion for so many months – was absent. I wanted it back.

Belle gave me permission to take off my clothes and I immediately latched on to her. I didn’t really feel it at that point – in the old days, it would have been easier to just let her fall asleep – but with each kiss I planted on her face and as my hand passed over her body and across her skin, the desire to feel her have an orgasm started to incrementally build. I sensed she wasn’t entirely there and had she told me to get off so she could go to sleep it probably would have sent me into an emotional funk, but she didn’t

I finally asked, “What can I do for you, Belle Fille?”

“You can give me an orgasm.”

“How would you like to come?” I asked as I involuntarily pressed the stiff erection into her thigh. I wanted to fuck her now. A lot.

“With your fingers,” she said. “I like your fingers.”

I was not disappointed. The subby bunny was coming out of his burrow and the need to feel her pleasure was more pressing than worrying how it came about.

As I started to work on her, little waves of warm energy pulsed through my brain. This was right. This was good. She would come. I would not. She would feel satisfaction and fall asleep easily. I would not. She clearly wasn’t worried about my frustration or the hard cock pressing into her or what it meant or would do to me afterward. She felt no guilt. She wanted me horny and unsatisfied. This was about her pleasure.

For me, the best part of giving her that orgasm was at the end when she took a handful of my hair and used it to roughly pull my head from her nipple. No words. Just an abrupt motion that said, “That’s it, tool. I’m done.”

I didn’t start the evening in my “zone of denial”, but I was there by the end. I was desperately horny. She allowed me to enter her after her basking and glowing period and it felt fantastic. Of course, I was never going to come. I never got close. But the fucking. Sweet Jesus. I just adore her pussy. Every bit of it. Every tiny, little, wet, hot bit of it.

While she was indulging me with access to her body, I told her things she already knew. I said I never, ever wanted to come again outside her presence. I told her how thankful I was for her accepting control over my sexual release. How happy it made me.

Eventually, it had to stop. She told me the ride was coming to an end, but the struggle within me over the idea of pulling out was difficult. Millions of years of reproductive evolution was screaming within every fiber of body to keep going, but my mind – the part that embraces her control – eventually got the upper hand. I withdrew from the warm confines of her body and felt the cold air of control wash over the hard, wet meat.

Yep. It was a good night.

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Minnesota nice

An edited text exchange between Belle Fille and me from Wednesday night:

BF: Hi. How about some hot vibe action with I get home?

T: Um, you betcha.

BF: Be naked and ready.

T: Give me 5 minutes warning.

BF: I will. Can I be on top?

T: You can be wherever you want, but what’s that got to do with vibrators?

BF: There might be guests.

T: WTF?!

There were no guests. She was just fucking with me. She was at another work dinner function thing and apparently felt like playing with her rabbit’s head.

As I heard the garage door opening, I hurried around the room, turning off lights and lighting candles and stripping down to just my skin and attached plastic. I laid her two vibrators out on her side of the bed and then reclined on my side, as ordered: naked and ready.

After settling into bed a little while later, she opened her nightstand drawer and removed the key on its chain.1

“I want my cock tonight, is that OK?” she said as she unlocked the device.

“Of course it is,” I replied.

“Of course it is,” she repeated, more slowly.

Luckily, I had earlier given it a really good cleaning, so it didn’t have the rest stop men’s room bouquet it sometimes has at the end of the day.

“Here’s what I want. Tonight, I will demonstrate my control over you by not having control. You will make me come any way you want. And, when I’m done, you can come. Call it my passive-aggressive dominatrix style. It’s Minnesota nice. In fact, when you write about this on the blog, I want you to call it Minnesota Nice.”

“OK,” I replied, worried that people not in Minnesota wouldn’t know what Minnesota nice was. “When you say I ‘can’ come, does that mean I have a choice?”

“No. You must come.”

“Oh. OK.”

I hadn’t been expecting this. I assumed (for whatever reason) that she’d let me come on the weekend. I hadn’t been mentally prepared for needing to bring myself to a place where I could come at all. I started some general pleasuring stuff while trying to rally the troops, but found that I couldn’t get it up. I don’t know if it was the 20-some days of orgasmless existence or the almost two weeks of chastity or what, but I could not get it up. The poor, neglected, abused little dick just flopped around, insistently flaccid.

I didn’t let it freak me, though. I moved over her body and let my torso and legs lay against hers. This kind of large-area skin to skin contact hardly ever happens anymore and feeling her smooth warmth all up and down my body fired off a few critical synapses. I still wasn’t hard, but I could feel it coming. To help it along, I started to rub the head of the cock against the lips of her pussy. She made little sounds at this which also helped the momentum. Soon, her biocock was at full mast.

Once her wet heat enveloped the cock, I sensed that there was a chance I could get her off without coming. Maybe it was the total surprise of the event, but I felt my own orgasm was far enough away that, with sufficient mental discipline, I’d be able to control myself. I started a slow and steady stroking while flicking my tongue over her nipples. The slightly contorted position works in my favor as it helps to take my mind off the action below. I focused as much of my mental energy on her nipples as I possibly could, doing my best to not feel myself fucking her at the same time.

After a little bit of that, it became apparent that I’d have to come up with another strategy. I needed a distraction. As usual, I turned to baseball. Very specifically, I started to thing about my favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. The Dodgers have been playing some really good ball lately. Now that Manny’s back. In fact, they just swept the Reds at home which is something like 11 or 12 straight home wins…

fuckfuckfuck, don’t come!

GREEN GRASS! They play on the green grass of Dodger Stadium, built by Walter O’Malley in Chavez Ravine the year after he moved the team west from Brooklyn. Such a beautiful stadium nestled up in the hills, beautiful green hills. I remember as a kid watching the nearby firefighter’s school do practice water drops on those green hills during the games…

fuckfuckfuck, DON’T COME.

MANNY! I’m really not a fan of Manny Ramirez anymore. Not since the whole drug thing. I mean, I gave those hated Giants such shit when they played Barry Bonds even after all his drug stuff went down. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t feel the same way about Manny. Besides, the Dodgers totally rocked while he was serving his suspension. Who needs him and his $24 million dollar salary…

Ooooooh GOD, don’t come!

I kept up a steady rhythm, not very fast but not too slow, and didn’t have to stop once (though a few times I missed a beat while finding something else Dodger-related to think about). Finally, at about the time I started to worry about how the Dodgers would get past the Phillies to advance to their first World Series since 1988, she started to make sounds like she was going to come. She shifted her hips and I could feel the head of the cock touching her cervix and it was getting harder and harder and harder to hold back the now completely inevitable orgasm.

“OH! Good job, Thumper!” she exclaimed in my ear. That’s it. She had come.

BING!

One and a half strokes later, I was coming, too. Big, fat spurts of three week’s worth of ejaculate. It felt so, so good. She told me how proud she was that I was able to hold it back. Very impressive, she thought. And I admit, I was pretty happy, too.

After I collected myself, I went to the bathroom and was struck by the overpowering smell of semen. It’s such an infrequent part of the action and I go so long without smelling it. Maybe it’s because it was aged and concentrated or something, but the smell of male sex was everywhere.

Back in the bedroom, Belle asked me to hand her Pink.

“Didn’t you come,” I asked, momentarily horrified by the thought that I had misread her and come before she did.

“Yes,” she said, “but I want to try this. Call it an experiment.”

“I’m all in favor of experiments,” I said as I handed her the discrete little vibe. The thing is, Belle never comes more than once. Like, ever. Her’s are more like men’s orgasms in that once she’s had one, it takes her a long time to build back the ability to do it again. Also, she’s usually unable to enjoy sexual stimulation right after due to over sensitivity. This was a very unusual event.

As she was using it on herself, I laid there and reflected on how that moment, right after I came, was so different than the other times I had been forced to watch her pleasure herself. It was interesting more than it was hot. None of the previous feelings of neglect and pain and injustice. But then, I noticed how nice her tits looked from my perspective and I started to wonder if the vibe slid in easier and felt different since she was lubed up with my recently expelled come. I felt a stirring in my groin.

As she continued to use the vibe, her face contorted several times into expressions I’d more easily associate with pain than pleasure. The sounds she made were more like those of someone being hurt. My Belle’s no masochist, so this made it even more unusual. Eventually, she came, but not as boisterously as she had the first time. I’m not sure if this is going to be a regular occurrence now or if it was just a one-time thing.

So now I’m back out of the device and the boulder of orgasm denial has rolled all the way back down to the bottom of the hill. Being allowed the one fantastic orgasm has left me feeling the need for another more than the three weeks of not being allowed to come. Weird how that works.

—

1 Yeah, I thought she was supposed to be hiding it better, too. ↩

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Your sandwich, Mistress

Last night was one of those choreographed movements of people only those with multiple children can really appreciate. The boy and I had a ballgame to attend, Belle had an after work bar thing, and the girl was hanging with the in-laws. The original plan was for Belle to go get the girl at about 8:30 since she figured the boy and I would be at the game until later, but, as is usually the case, after a few hours of baseball, the boy was ready to go. I texted Belle to tell her to stay and have fun and I’d deal with the kids.

She didn’t get the text until she was walking to her car, but when she did, she turned around and headed back to bar. She called me and, and since we were in my car, the Bluetooth picked it up and she was on speaker.

“Thanks for getting the kids, Thumper.”

“No problem. Stay as long as you want. Have fun.”

“You’re the best husband ever,” she said with a particular tone in her voice, “I want you to light the candles, because when I get home…”

My fingers flew to the phone to take her off the speaker. Did she forget the kids were listening?!

“Um, yeah? What did you say?”

“I said, when I get home, I’m going to reward you.”

Wow. Nice! Get in the house, kids! Time for bed!

I guess a little back story is necessary. In the past, the frequency, duration, and activities surrounding these after work drinkfests used to annoy me. Sufficiently that we’d argue afterward (or get close) or I’d stew. I’m not going to get into all the reasons why, but it was mostly thanks to the fountain of resentment that existed in our sexless marriage. Now, with her pleasure being my first priority, I wanted her to stay and live it up with her girlfriends/co-workers.

Three hours later, she came home. Previous resentfully stewy me would have been pissed, but current submissively Belle-focused me was happy she was happy. I did not expect any “reward” since it was after midnight and I had already drifted off to sleep. I heard her out in the kitchen making noise for longer than seemed necessary, so I went out to her to see what was up. I found her stooped over a take-out box containing BBQ ribs from the weekend, gnawing on the slabs of bony meat they contained.

“Didn’t they feed you at this thing?”

“No. I’m starving. I’ll be back there in a minute…” *GNASH* *CHOMP*

I went back to her bed and kind of floated between states of consciousness until her carnivorous moment was over. She crawled under the covers, still smacking her teeth and smelling of alcohol and food.

“Get your clothes off, Thumper.”

Mkay. Done.

Punch in the nuts.

“Miss me?”

“Ungh.”

She then proceeded to inflict several types of abuse on her cock. Presumably, my reward. I could tell the evening’s libations had left her in a different mood than usual. She was being much more forceful. Cruel, even.

At one point, she grabbed the loose skin near the end of the shaft with two fingers and pinched and twisted it in the most hurtful, wonderful way. That was new. The attacks to the balls were not the usual tentative slaps, they were balled-fist punches. She was really trying to hurt me. I found myself closing my legs and involuntarily grabbing at her arm. It was crazy since I did not will myself to do this, it just happened.

“Open yourself to me, Thumper,” she said in a cool, even tone. It sent a warm flush through my body. I slowly opened my legs, exposing myself to her blows.

Then she started abusing the shaft of her cock. Punching, slapping, squeezing and cruelly bending and twisting it, even in it’s hard state. Any previous inhibitions she may have had with regard to inflicting raw pain on me had dropped. There were no intermittent loving strokes or touches mixed in with his action. It was all about the hurt. I was feeling wonderfully spacey from it all.

She grabbed my nuts and started to squeeze. Hard. Harder. My face twisted in agony. It felt like my scrotum was going to burst.

“You like this, Thumper? Is it doing anything for you?” Harder still, a cruel, almost mocking tone to her voice. Where was this strength coming from?

She released me and I could breath again.

“God, I love you so much,” I panted.

“I know.”

After a moment to collect myself, I asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “Go make me a turkey sandwich.”

Not exactly what I expected, but her wish is my command, right?

“And use the swiss. It’s in the bottom drawer on the left…”

So I got up and made her a sandwich. Never has a turkey sandwich played a role in one of my sexual encounters, but it’s at least nice to see she can still surprise me after nearly 12 years of marriage.

“Here’s your sandwich, Mistress,” I said three minutes later as I reentered her bedroom.

She was asleep.

“Belle?”

Nothing.

I smiled at the absurdity of the scene. Candlelight everywhere, the cock between my legs engorged, me holding a turkey sandwich, her asleep.

I put the sandwich in a baggie in the fridge, blew out the candles, and curled up next to her in bed. Happy.

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Time out

The Thumper clan is enjoying the extended 4th weekend at the family lake-side rabbit warren (first referenced in the three part saga, Crossing the Rubicon). It’s a smaller than usual family gathering. Only me, Belle, offspring, and Belle’s parents. In the in-law lottery, I have to say I did pretty well. They’re great people.

In any event, Belle was luxuriating on the couch on the screen porch while I sat at the other end with her feet on my lap. It was just the two of us, so I started to massage her feet. After a little while, her mother came in the porch and sat down in another chair. Then her dad showed up. All four of us sitting there, and me sort of absentmindedly rubbing Belle’s feet.

“Does your husband often massage your feet?” my mother-in-law asked Belle.

“Oh, yes. Several times a week. Whenever I want.”

Now, there’s nothing especially odd about a husband rubbing his wife’s feet, but the act, for me, is connected to my submissive side. To hear my Belle discuss is so calmly, that I not only rub her feet but do so several times a week. Whenever she asks. I admit, I was feeling very self-conscious.

“In fact,” Belle continued, “he even got some special foot cream to rub my feet with. He’ll massage my feet, my neck, my back. He’s a wonderful husband.”

I changed the subject.

—

Later that night, I massaged her feet properly: With lotion and no prying eyes from the in-laws. As usual, she was fully dressed in her bedclothes while I was naked except for whatever she chose to have attached to her cock. In this case, the chrome cock ring. I was down at her feet, kneeling, with her feet in the V-shaped space created by my legs.

“I think my mom’s jealous about the whole foot massage thing,” Belle said lazily.

“Hrmmm,” I replied. I’m very fond of my mother-in-law, but any connection between her and my sex life is a non-starter.

I gave her the best massage I could. My hands, already strong, seem to be getting stronger with all the rubbing she’d been having me do. In the past, I’d be aching from the effort after 15-20 minutes, but not any more.

When I was done, I was laying next to her and feeling a great swell of sexual desire build within me. I’m still being punished so didn’t except any Thumper-centric action, though I held out hope I’d be able to watch her pleasure herself.

“Is there any thing else I can do for you?” I asked. I ask that and, I’m sure, she hears “can we have some kind of sex now?” but I really and truly do want to know if there’s anything other than sex I can do for. And, of course, I want to know if we can have some kind of sex.

“No, I’m good, Thumper. Thank you for the foot massage.”

“Thank you for letting me give it to you,” I sincerely replied. I crave contact with her. I crave the opportunity to give her any kind of pleasure, even if it’s not sexual. When I’m as deep in my headspace as I have been the past few days, brimming with roiling sexual desire and a full charge of static submissiveness, being able to touch her skin in a pleasurable (for her) way calms me.

That being said, I thought I’d try my luck at a little somethin’.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“What is it, Thumper?”1

“Can you hit me? In the nuts?”

She took her finger and ran it over my scrotum, the cock ring making it and its contents more prominent than usual, and then down the length of the turgid cock. She took my breath away.

“Oh, no, Thumper. He’s in a time out, isn’t he? He’s been bad…”

“But,” I stammered, grappling with the sensation of her finger on my neglected flesh, “you made me come. It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know, but you didn’t have permission. So no, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Whimper.

“I don’t want to hear your pathetic whining, either.”

“I’m sorry, Belle Fille.”

—

1 We really do call each other Thumper and Belle Fille, even in real life. I don’t have any other kind of honorific to use with her like “goddess” or “mistress”, so I always call her Belle Fille when I’m feeling the submissive mojo.↩

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Ramifications

In my last post, regarding my forced yet unauthorized orgasm, I said:

I, of course, think there needs to be ramifications. I have no idea what, but I really need to feel the consequences of coming when I’m not allowed or, ultimately, it won’t mean anything.

What I meant was, Belle was acting nonchalantly about the orgasm she pulled out of me against my will that she had not given me permission to have. It seemed, if I needed permission to come, that there should be some kind of consequence for having come (even when she basically made me do it). I would have expected the “court” to take into consideration not just the crime, but also the circumstances surrounding it. Punishment, yes, but tempered.

Well, it turns out I’m married to a hanging judge. Here’s my punishment:

  • No sexual contact with Belle or her cock, unless otherwise and specifically directed, until Monday, July 6. I can barely touch her anywhere on her body without permission.
  • No participation in Belle’s orgasms, other than observation, until Monday, July 6.

Sounds simple, but in reality it’s tantamount to the nuclear option. Six days of not being allowed to touch her (or myself) is bad enough (especially since she still hasn’t placed me back in the device), but no orgasmic participation!? For nearly a week? Man. It’s not like I killed a guy. That’s harsh.

However, Our Covenant is clear. First and second on the list of “Punishable Offenses” is unauthorized orgasms and failure to provide Belle an orgasm when she requests one. I committed both at the same time. Not only did I come, but she had to finish herself off with the vibrator. Also, the punishment for these things leaves a lot to her discretion:

c.    Punishments
The punishment Thumper receives for violating a rule will be determined solely by Belle Fille. This can include extending periods of orgasm denial or chastity or revocation of his ability to participate in her sexual gratification or the infliction of pain beyond the threshold he finds sexually gratifying.

d.    Determination of guilt
Determination of Thumper’s guilt for any offense is made at the sole discretion of Belle Fille. Thumper is not allowed to argue Belle Fille’s determinations of guilt or sentences lest they be doubled.

So yeah, I’m screwed. And – just so we’re clear – I am not fucking arguing the sentence, OK?

Not only did I have to lay there last night while she fucked herself with Pink (which, BTW, took much longer than when I do it), but, after she came, she was so spent by the experience that she fell asleep on her back (very usual), right after telling me I was only allowed to touch her once she rolled over onto her side to go to sleep. Which she did not do. So. No participation in her orgasm and no physical contact with her afterward. The bunny was totally shut out.

We’re heading north tonight for the 4th weekend and she’s said she’s bringing Pink along for the trip. Realistically, she could have three more orgasms and leave me out of them. Three more extended periods of listening to the vibe move over and into her, the little moans that escape her lips prior to the big ones upon climax, and three more throbbing hard, no-touchy cock moments for me. All because she made me come.

I love my Belle Fille.

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Stupid penis tricks

I think this is neat, though I assume you’ll find it gross. I figured out yesterday that, if I remove my PA jewelry and pinch the head of the dick closed, I can pee just fine through my piercing. What do you think, future HNT material?

I only mentioned that because it made me think of this post’s title and I wanted to use it in the worst way.

More talking last night. We are doing so much talking lately. Mind you, I don’t have a problem with talking. Shit, I can write a 2,000 word blog post like nobody’s business, so talking certainly isn’t a problem. I over analyze and bellybutton gaze with the best of them.

Turns out Belle is still processing anger and hurt from six months ago when I was her lousy cheating husband and not her fuzzy little bunny. I respect that and want to do what I can to help her, but I simply cannot comprehend where she’s coming from. Where we are now is so much better than where we were prior to The Troubles. Personally, I have never felt more love for Belle or been happier in my marriage. In addition, I’m more sexually fulfilled now than at any time in my life. Not exactly satisfied since, you know, that kinda of goes against the paradigm and all, but my sexual relationship with Belle is more honest and open (even with myself) than any I’ve ever had (and, in my younger years, I had plenty). I am so very happy.

But Belle still has sadness. Moments of great sadness. And I can’t understand it. I can’t relate to the time travel required to revisit the hurtful, painful times in the past. Right now is wonderful for both of us (she says), so why dig up when things sucked? We know why the affair happened and what we needed to do to fix it. It’s been fixed. We’re not the same couple we were nine months ago.

I used an oyster analogy. Oysters get sand in them and it pisses them off so they do what they do and eventually what they get is a pearl. It’s a lovely, wonderful thing (at least to us humans) that all started with an annoying, painful thing. And it’s still in there, beneath all the layers. It never goes away. I get that. But it’s built upon and eventually becomes the foundation of something so much better. That’s our relationship right now. At least, that’s how I see it.

I’m not dismissive of Belle’s feelings. I try to talk her through them and do what I can to be supportive. Any time she needs to cry or talk, I’ll of course be there doing my best to understand.

Somehow, we ended the conversation with her still wanting the back rub she asked for before we went to bed. I was tired, and figured she was, too, but I had the oil and the towels and the hands, so rub away I did. I was really horny at that point. The slick oil on her naked back, the erection held securely by its chrome cock ring pressing against her ass and back…it was heaven. Again I found my hands moving against her skin and the feeling that I was masturbating in my mind. Somehow, the similarity of the motion combines with my heightened arousal and I feel like I’m jacking off. She really has become the focus of my sex. When I touch her, when I pleasure her, when I get her off, I’m touching, pleasuring and getting myself off.

When the massage was over, she again surprised me by asking for Pink, the little vibe. It was still in my drawer from the last time she used it, so I was able to get it pretty quickly. I never actually turned it on, though, because after a few moments of feeling my fingers, she announced she wanted to get off on her cock.

“I want to feel my cock in me. I want to watch you suck my tits while I ride my cock. Can you handle it, Thumper?”

“I think so,” I stammered.

“There is no think. Do or do not,” she replied, channeling Yoda.

“I can do it, Belle Fille,” I said with more confidence than I felt. To hedge my bet, I let my fingers become more insistent hoping she’s come that way and I’d avoid the risk of an unauthorized orgasm.

No dice. She really enjoyed the finger action, but nonetheless rolled me on my back for her main event. As she slid down on top of me, I tried to think about anything – anything – other than what was happening. After a little bit, I felt the familiar tingle and placed my hands on her ass to slow her down. She stopped for a moment and the urge passed, but then she started back up again.

And almost immediately, the tingle started back up again. I tried everything I had read about postponing orgasm. I bore down and applied internal pressure to the general area and that helped a little. Doing so caused my abdominal muscles to tighten, which she felt.

“What are you doing, Thumper?”

“Trying not to come.”

“How’s it going?”

“Oh…OK…I guess.”

“Good, because I’m going to fuck my cock for a good long time…”

Mother.

I knew I was doomed. The tickle grew and started to coalesce. Orgasm was imminent. I placed my hands back on her ass and pressed down, trying to make her stop. She did, for a second, but then started gyrating over the fully engulfed member.

“Oh god! Oh no! I’m going to come!” I was pleading for her to stop, but she wouldn’t. I felt the wave crash over me and a half dozen thick spurts of ejaculate surged out of me. I tried to fight it, to a point, but she was still gyrating. I was helpless. It was as if she pulled the orgasm from me, totally against my will.

A few moments later, she rolled off. “Give me Pink,” she said. I ripped through the bedsheets and under pillows trying to find the damn thing. My head was spinning with the sudden release and the guilt and the feeling of disappointment. Finally, I found the vibe and made a move with it toward her pussy.

But she grabbed it out of my hand. She pressed the button and I heard the thrumming little motor sink into her semen-lubed pussy. I left my hands off her until the very end and then it was only to rub the nipple closest to me. She didn’t push my hand away and finally came in a cascade of “oh, fuck”s.

She said afterward that she didn’t care if I came. It wasn’t her concern. She was getting her pleasure and that’s all that mattered. She didn’t feel like stopping so she didn’t. Very simple. I, of course, think there needs to be ramifications. I have no idea what, but I really need to feel the consequences of coming when I’m not allowed or, ultimately, it won’t mean anything. Then again, she knew what she was doing. Knew I was helpless to stop it. I don’t know. I’m confused.

In the mean time, I’m still pretty horny. And feeling guilty. I wish I had last night to do over…

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The rabbit returns

I’m back. Miss me?

So last night, the first full night of my return, was full of talking (and a little sex – I’ll get to that in a minute). Belle was somewhat put off by my lack of subbie Belle-oriented behavior. Funny, she thought, since our “arrangement” was my idea and now she’s so accustomed to it that when I’m not in the proper state of mind, she’s annoyed with me. Unfortunately, she really didn’t say anything about it until we were in bed at the end of the day. She was right, of course. I hadn’t been focused on her in that way, though I certainly was horned up and wanting her in more mundane ways. My excuse (such as it is) is that I was so far out of my headspace after a week in the woods and 18 hours on the road getting home, that I couldn’t just snap back into the groove. As I’ve said, I’m not by nature a submissive person. It’s a state of mind I need to work on in order to achieve. Had she said something about it – made it clear that I was underperforming and that she was disappointed – I think I would have fallen back into the groove (or started to, at least). She feels she shouldn’t have to say anything, though that’s difficult for me. Hearing her assert her dominance over me gives me quite the charge. She suggested that I had been out of the device for too long and I felt a combination of foreboding and excitement that always exists within me after being free for a while. I value my freedom but also crave her control. She neglected to say when she’d put me back in.

After that, we talked about my trip. The one rather important thing I neglected to mention here on my blog was that the The Other Woman was also on the hiking trip I took (along with eight other people, including her fiancee). As I’ve said previously, I met her through a group of wildlife enthusiasts – the same group I was hiking with. My participation in this trip was always kind of up in the air. Belle and I are in a very different place than we were nine months ago when I was unfaithful, but still, it was difficult. It was difficult for Belle and it was difficult for me. In any event, Belle wanted to know how it was. How I felt, etc.

What I decided once and for all on the trip – something I’ve pondered quite a bit over the past three-quarters of a year – is that the dominant paradigm of monogamous life-long relationships is not the only entree at the buffet. In fact, I do still have feelings for TOW, but they’re entirely different that those I have for Belle. As I told her last night, Belle is my mate. My other half. She completes me. I have never wanted anything other than to be with her for the rest of my life. She really is the love of my life. My feelings toward TOW are clearly inferior to those I have for Belle. They lack depth, richness, and complexity but they exist. I don’t know that I’d call it love. If love is what I feel for Belle, then it’s not exactly that. I feel like I need a new word. More than like, less than love. In any event, these feelings don’t in any way detract from my feelings for Belle. If anything, they enhance them. During those moments over the past week where I felt a resurgence of my feelings for TOW, I felt even more in love with Belle. I can’t say I fully understand how that works, but there it is. I know in my heart of hearts that TOW is no threat to what Belle and I share, even though I continue to carry these feelings around for her.

I also wanted Belle to know that I didn’t regard these feelings for TOW as representative of anything lacking in my relationship with Belle. They are separate and parallel and in no way competitive. I do not want to leave Belle and/or replace her with TOW, but the affection I feel for her is real. Is this polyamory? I don’t know. Perhaps. I can’t say I fully understand the concept enough to be able to say that’s what I’m experiencing.

What I am capable of saying, however, is that the idea of Belle having a little piece on the side seriously turns me on. Like, seriously. I told her as much. As soon as I brought it up, I felt myself stiffen considerably. Unlike Belle, who loses energy to the perceived competition TOW represents, I feel that I’d gain energy from her having a paramour. It’d make me want her even more. The competitive energy would convert to a greater desire on my part. Again, I can’t explain this. It runs entirely against what we’re all taught by society as to the model of the perfect relationship. I’m sure a part of this has a lot to do with where my head is now with regard to her sexual satisfaction. We’re not equal. My sole purpose is to ensure she’s totally sated at all times. In fact, according to Our Covenant, “Belle Fille claims the right to achieve sexual satisfaction in any way she sees fit.” When she decides she wants a vibrator over her cock, that’s a major turn-on for me since she’s sacrificing an element of my pleasure to ensure hers. It reinforces her position. If she took that several steps further and replaced the vibrator with the cock of another man…well, I get somewhat light-headed just thinking about it.

All this talk of cuckoldry had me well and truly worked up. She instructed me to close the bedroom door and remove my clothes. As she laid on her back, I was again looming over her body on all-fours. She gently rubbed and stroked the stiff flesh between my legs, my balls, and – eventually – even my exposed crack. Sweet Jesus, that felt glorious. I flexed my hips in order to fully expose myself and told her, even though I knew it more than a little squicked her out, I totally wished she could fuck me. Feeling her fingers glide smoothly over my puckering little hole sent me into a drooling stupor. I was snapped out of that when she slapped my nutsack. She didn’t hit me hard enough and in the right place to cause the level of pain I really crave, but she got a few good one’s in there.

After being reduced to a simmering pot of sexual energy, I pleaded for a chance to do something to her. Anything. Please.

She pulled up her top and I latched on to her nipple as though my life depended on it.

“Gentle,” she reminded me.

“Yes ma’am. How would you like to come?”

“I can’t decide,” she replied.

“Your cock is available,” I reminded her.

“I don’t want to hear your lobbying.”

“I’m not lobbying. Just making a statement of fact. I know how much you like it.”

“Yes, but your fingers are so sweet.” She removed her bottoms, now totally nude. “Put them in me.”

I obeyed. She was incredibly wet as I ran my fingertips up and along her slick contours. She moaned.

After a few moments, “Stop! I’m going to come too soon.”

My fingers retreated from her snatch, but continued to stroke the inside of her legs while my mouth stayed on her breasts.

“Oh god, you’re going to make me come without even touching me. STOP!”

I pulled away entirely. She was significantly turned-on. It had been more than week since her last orgasm (she neglected to use her vibrator while I was away) and her body, now that it had become accustomed to regular relief, had a lot of pent-up energy. It didn’t take much to put her on edge.

She climbed on top of me, but didn’t put the cock in. She just rubbed her outer lips against it like an animal in heat and almost immediately came (hard). My desire reverberated within me. I felt a pang of regret for not getting inside her, but also a thrill at how turned-on I could make her.

After she had a few moments to bask and glow, I asked, “Can I put it in? I want to fuck you so bad.”

“Sure.”

I grabbed what used to be my cock and positioned its head between her lips and pushed it home with my hips. Holy fuck, that felt good. Her moist heat sent the reptile brain within me into autopilot and I began to slide it in and out like a piston.

“I promise not to come.”

“Liar. You’ll come.”

“No, I won’t. I promise,” as I continued to fuck her.

“Liar.”

“I swear I won’t come without permission!”

“Good, because you don’t have permission.”

And I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her. Crude, half-formed fantasies about her non-existent paramour flashed though my brain. I can’t imagine my desire could have gone any higher. I so badly wanted to come, but knew it wasn’t allowed. I had to stop once as I got close to the edge, but had plenty of time to pull back before starting the steady rhythm again. I could have gone on like that all night. At one point, I opened my eyes to see her head being propped up by one hand, a bemused and somewhat bored expression on her face.

“You’re being so kind to me,” I told her. “Thank you for humoring me…uhhhng…oh, that feels soooo good.”

I had to stop again as another orgasm approached and she decided to pull the plug.

“OK, that’s it. You’re done,” she said as she lifted off me. I felt her hot wet pussy start to slip away and I lifted my hips in order to keep it inside her as long as possible. She pulled completely clear of me and I felt her soft wetness slide its last over the head of her cock as it fell back and bobbed, so hard and so desperate for more of her, suddenly cold. It flexed on its own volition. So, so desperate.

A short while later, after she had put her pajamas back on and the majority of my desire had eaten itself, I said to her, “I bet you’d let your boyfriend come.”

“Who says it’d be a boyfriend?”

Oh, fuck!