In my job, I often find myself in rooms full of women where I am either the only man or only one of two. Today, I was in about four meetings stretching over five hours where I was outnumbered at least 4-1 by the double-x set. After the third hour or so, I started to feel the electric resonance of carnivorous butterflies bouncing around in my chest. These hormonal surges start to kick in after a couple of weeks of orgasmless existence, but I had never experienced one in that setting. I felt like getting up and running as fast as I could through the endless rows of cubicles of my client’s office. It was hard to sit still. When asleep, these surges will wake me up. When already awake, they apparently make me want to do jumping jacks on the conference room table.

In any event, while all this was going on, I happened to glance across the table at one of the more attractive women I was meeting with. Suddenly, I was presented the most intense and palpable, well, vision, I guess. Hallucination? I don’t know what to call it, but I felt my mouth on a woman’s hard, erect nipple and my hands on a soft, female form. Not exactly the woman I was looking at, but looking at her had triggered it. There was no face, not even Belle’s, it was just a nipple and a body and me. Instantly, I felt the CB6K fully pressurize. I was fairly useless for the next five to ten minutes as my mind processed the experience and the surge of testosterone (or whatever) was absorbed by my body.

I wonder if I blushed.

I needed to proceed with care and introduce the subject gently. I accept that this may sound manipulative but, in my defence, I did intend to be completely truthful with C and, remember, we had a pretty stagnant sex life at this point so anything like orgasm control/enforced chastity was a significant departure from our norm.

I started the process by raising the subject of masturbation with C. Did she ever masturbate when I wasn’t around? Unsurprisingly, she did but not very often. This led to a discussion of my masturbatory habits and I think she was a bit surprised that I was getting a grip on things quite so regularly. We discussed the fact that our sex life had slowed down and I told her that I had considered stopping masturbating as it reduced my sex drive. C was pretty clear that she wanted me to stop; her feeling was that it was a bit like cheating on her. I agreed and promised that I would not masturbate without her permission but warned her that I might turn into a horny old dog.

I kept (and have continued to keep) my promise to C. For the last month (at the time of writing), taking one off the wrist has become a matter of historical interest only. The effect on me was interesting: I certainly became more horny and interested in sex with my lovely wife but I also found I was appreciating her more in an everyday sense. I don’t want to give the impression that I suddenly felt that I had to put on a ‘pinny and pamper to her every need: I didn’t. It’s more that touching her or even looking at her gave me a feeling similar to the way I felt when we first started seeing each other. I looked forward to seeing her when she got home and loved to hug her or give her a kiss.

While this state of affairs was definitely an improvement, I still had a burning desire to take things further and introduce the concept of male chastity and orgasm control.

To be continued…

The next morning, she told me she had drifted off to sleep happy with the thought that I was locked under her key, unable to touch myself in any satisfactory way. She said she enjoys having that kind of control over me. I, not unexpectedly, revelled in her saying this. The familiar warm pulse of submission welled up within me. It’s still somewhat novel for me to think that I wear the device because she wants me to. It was my idea to introduce it, but now it’s all hers (as is the thing it contains). Pure awesome.

Saturday night, after a one of the finest late summer days I’ve seen at the cabin, she had me laying naked next to her in bed. Still locked up, she gently petted my balls until we both fell asleep. The next morning, now about two weeks since I last came, I was petting her back, hands roaming all across her body, except those places I’m not allowed to touch without permission.

“I’m being good,” I observed.

“You don’t have to be good,” she replied.

With that, I attempted to bring her to orgasm, but could feel in her a tension that left me wondering if we’d get there. When she’s in the mood, there’s a certain amount of time it should take me to get her off. As we passed that point, I maintained the ministrations of my mouth and fingers, but could sense it wasn’t going to happen. She eventually told me to stop, but said it wasn’t my fault she didn’t come. There was just too much activity in the cabin full of family for her to relax. I felt bad for her – for both of us, I guess, since her orgasm is our orgasm – but I didn’t dwell on it.

Sunday night, after a fine meal at the only nice restaurant within an hour’s drive of the cabin, we found ourselves alone with the kids asleep downstairs. As I walked into our room, she was sorting through her change purse looking for something. Funnily enough, she desired the use of her cock but had accidentally left the key to the lock at home. We both had a pretty good laugh at that. She didn’t want me to try bringing her orgasm again and instead repeated the previous evening’s gentle stroking of the stretched scrotum, intermingled with lingering tracing of my perineum and the occasional whack at my nuts. Lovely.

Throughout the weekend, and really into last week, I have to say that I’ve been plenty horny and desirous of sexual contact with her, but I’ve also felt myself resist taking any overt action based on those feelings. Previously, I’d have probably been all over her and pressuring her in several ways, but at least for now, I don’t feel the need. I’m very comfortable with my position as her sexual subordinate. When she wants it, she’ll ask for it. Until then, I’ll find some other way to make her happy. I guess you could say that it appears as though I’ve learned to be patient. The chastity device helps, of course.

Last night, I offered to give her a foot massage while we caught up on Mad Men. Just as before, I felt a great deal of satisfaction from the activity knowing that it was giving her pleasure and making her relaxed. After I finished (and the show was over), she produced her key. I was somewhat surprised as being unlocked wasn’t even on my mind, but I assumed she wanted to use her cock in the way she had not been able to the night before. After she let me out, I went off to ensure I was nice and clean.

Back in the bedroom, she had me strip and lay back on the bed. She rubbed and massaged the cock and my balls until I was sporting a very stiff erection. I flexed it several times, feeling it surge with blood and filling out to its most engorged state, just for the satisfaction of the sensation. It had only been a week or so in the device, but nothing beats the feeling of a nice hard cock.

She again smacked my nuts around, though with more force than before when the plastic was in the way. A couple of times, she actually balled up her fist and thudded into my right testicle, but not as forcefully as she could have. Lovely, exquisite pain radiated up and into my guts which, unless it’s your thing, you’d never really understand or appreciate.

Then she started to stroke me. Gently and slowly at first, but then with more speed. It felt simply glorious. I moaned and writhed and felt the tickling tell-tale signs of orgasm deep under the stiff root of the cock. I wasn’t sure if she meant to get me off, but I didn’t care. It felt too good.

And then she stopped. I moaned deeply. The absence of her touch reverberated in me and the bubbling optimism of my coming orgasm quickly receded. Then she started to stroke me again. This time, I swung my leg over hers to more fully open myself to her and pressed into her body. My entire being was being consumed by the sensation of her masturbating me. Shortly, I again felt the tingling of a nascent orgasm beginning to coalesce and again she let go, leaving the hard meat bobbing in her wake.

This time, the absence of her attention tore through me. I moaned even more loudly and my breathing was in ragged pants as I struggled to process my desire for her to keep going, but knowing I couldn’t ask for it. I kissed her chin and jaw and pressed my face into her breasts trying to find the outline of her nipples with my lips, but she pushed me away.

Her hand was back on the rigid, straining cock, moving up and down. I wanted it so badly, this sensation. More, I wanted to shoot my wad. I wanted the two weeks worth of spunk I had been carrying around with me to unload all over her hand and my chest. I wanted to come. I resolved to do what I could to hide any sign of an impending orgasm. I willed the internal process along hoping to take her by surprise.

Is that wrong? Was I betraying my oath of submission and the power I had investing in her over my release? I don’t know. I can’t say. All I do know is the urge to come had overtaken any other imperative. All there was in the world was her hand and the hard cock within it and the wonderful orgasm she was soon to bring into the world.

And it was right there. I could feel it starting to march up the ladder, yearning for daylight. I was about to come…until she stopped again. My moan was more a cry of anguish. It was over, this time for good, and the juices never flowed. The cock bobbed rhythmically as I flexed and pumped it as though doing so would cause the orgasm to spontaneously come into being, but I got nothing. Not even a meager dribble. Apparently, not as close as I thought.

Shortly afterward, the candles were snuffed and she was rolled over and going to sleep. I pressed the still hard meat into her as we spooned, careful not to grind it. I was horny beyond comprehension, but at the same time happy and satisfied, after a fashion.

My Belle played me very well all weekend long. I have not seen her more confident and comfortable in her role. Right now, things are going well. Very, very well.

A commonplace occurrence for me is to run a quick search in Google whenever I hear of, or try, something new. The idea that I should cease masturbating was certainly new to me so off to Google it was. I tried “stop masturbating” as a first search and came up with a list of sites offering techniques to help me quit this invidious hobby. One site warned me that “you are bringing upon yourself a life long destruction and harm.” Hmm, clearly I would be well rid of the habit but this wasn’t really what I was looking for. I was interested in seeing if other men had stopped masturbation as part of a strategy to improve their love life and whether it had succeeded. Expecting a load of nonsense from our fundamentalist christian chums, I tried “chastity”. The result of that search has probably changed my life.

What’s that? The second link down was Male Chastity Device Forum. What on Earth is a male chastity device? I clicked the link. Keyholder wanted. What’s a keyholder?

Some hours later I left the laptop and sat in a quivering heap. It is hard to explain how I felt. What I had been reading had pushed all of my buttons, ticked all of my boxes and left me incredibly excited. It wasn’t to do with stopping masturbation (I could do that on my own); it was all to do with giving control of my sexual activity to my wife. It was the control aspect that stimulated, not just my imagination, but also the (now) sturdy appendage that was straining against the front of my jeans. Did I have time for a quick wank – well perhaps not – let’s start as we mean to carry on.

So, what is male chastity and what is a male chastity device? Here’s a quote from Chastity-UK , a useful source for the beginner (that’s me):

“Chastity or chastity play today is not about total abstinence from intercourse, the chaste man has a release date to earn and look forward to.  It is the anticipation of a longed for orgasm which is the spice of chastity.  It can be about your submission to your keyholder and your willingness to please her, knowing that if you do as she asks you will be granted release at some point.  The feeling of a keyholder controlling your orgasms can be highly charged with eroticism, even when you’re both apart.”

As far as the devices go, they can be separated into the belt devices; rather like metal underwear or the tube devices which act as “trapped ball” mechanisms with a cock ring attached to a tube surrounding the penis. Tickleberry has some excellent articles on chastity devices in their library as well as some very erotic photos (see above). Some of the tube devices rely on a genital piercing to keep them (extra) secure but this, Dear Reader, is a little further than I am prepared to go.

I will fast-forward the next couple of days. Suffice it to say that I spent a long time reading everything I could find on the interwebs. In the end I had made the decision that a CB 6000 was the device for me. Cost, aesthetics and web reviews had clinched it; the big question now was “How the hell do I tell C”

To be continued…

If you have just come across this post while innocently surfing, I can imagine your jaw is now dropping and the expression “What The Fuck” or similar is hovering on your lips. Let me explain.

It is, I think, a natural instinct to take stock of how life is progressing at various checkpoints along the way. For most of us these are the “big” birthdays: 30, 40 and, in this case, 50. I certainly find myself doing this and mentally marking how things are going. In the past I have not found too many reasons to worry about the way my life has been progressing. A few missed opportunities, the odd stupid decision, a couple of things I wished I had not done or said but generally things were ticking along OK. This year was different. I had two serious concerns. The first was financial – we are not presently in a situation that is financially secure. This is a worry but not one that is likely to be of interest to anyone reading this blog. The second was that I no longer had a meaningful, intimate sexual relationship with my wife and it was making me very unhappy.

My wife, C, and I have been together for about 20 years. We have a young son and, like many couples in our position, sex has slowly moved onto the back-burner as concerns over schooling, after-school activities and all the stuff that just happens as you get older and have more responsibilities starts to take over. Sex between us was an occasional and predictable event – I would go down on her until she came, she would give me a blow job, we would fuck in the missionary position until I came and then we would go to sleep. Intimacy between us was missing; our conversation revolved around our son or the mundane activities of managing a home. In the evenings, when the boy had gone to bed, C would watch the TV and I would be in another room, on the laptop, roaming around the Internet.

The infrequency and predictability of sex left me vaguely unsatisfied but that just seemed to be the way things were and, at least, there was always masturbation to fall back on. Like many (if not all) men, masturbation has always been a part of my life. I reckon (and it is a conservative estimate) that I have masturbated at least once every three days, including bank holidays, since I was 14 years old. As a small aside, if we estimate that each ejaculation is about 5 mls then that’s roughly 22 litres (46.5 US pints) of my wrigglers that have met a sad, lonely end – this seems somehow depressing. Masturbation was a way of dealing with the frustration of a boring sex life.

Or was it? As a young man, masturbation had virtually no effect on my sex life. Let’s face it, I could generate an erection at the drop of a hat, shag like a loon and, given half an hour to recover, be ready to enter the fray once more. However, as time passes, the (reasonably) well-equipped repeater becomes a (reasonably) well-equipped single-shot rifle and having a wank depletes the ammunition and the desire to go shooting for a considerable period of time. Was it possible that masturbation was contributing to the paucity of our sex life rather than being a helpful prop for me to fall back on?

Of course, my interludes with Mrs Palm and her five daughters were not the only issue. It takes two to decide to sit out the tango and I realised that C and I were going to have to talk about our sex life and I was going to have to communicate my feelings and wish to spice things up again. This was not a conversation I was looking forward to since, as far as I knew, C was fairly happy with the way things were. I resolved, however, to stop masturbating and take it from there.

To be continued…

So, after leafing though it last night and seeing that Rika isn’t batshit crazy or anything, and after recognizing that the majority of the book consists of Rika speaking to the F in the FLR, I decided to basically ignore it. It’s Belle’s to read. If there are sections within that she thinks I should look at, then I’ll be more than happy to do so, but otherwise, its secrets will be hers. And really, they should be. If I’m to truly submit to her, then she needs to craft a flavor of dominance she’s comfortable with all on her own. She needs to own it and let me live within it. It can’t really be community property. I’m not saying I need to sublimate all my needs and emotions or anything like that, but in whatever way we’re able to practice D/s, she needs to bring the D and I need to bring the s. It seems to me, the less I think about how she should or should not practice domination, the more confident she’ll be in how she approaches it and the more energy I can expend being a better submissive. That’s the idea, anyway. She agrees the book is for her, not me, and started to read it last night. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

While she was reading it, I was giving her a foot massage. It felt really, really good for me since it’s been somewhat busy around the house over the past week and my opportunities to service her have been few and far between. I have been able to cook the dinners and clean up and such, but that just kind of feels like my job now and not so much a chance to make her especially happy. So, while she filled out the questionnaire, I spent 30 minutes lovingly caressing her feet.

Afterward, she asked for me to continue on her shoulders and neck, which I gratefully did. That kind of massage is fundamentally more intimate since she’s typically topless and I usually get more contact with her body since I straddle her legs while doing it.

At one point, I was kneeling just below her ass and laying over her to get a better angle on her shoulder muscles.

“That feels nice,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“The way you’re thrusting into me like that.”

I hadn’t even realized I was, but once she mentioned it, I saw that my motions were causing the CB6K to rhythmically grind into her ass. Had I not been wearing it, and had we both been completely naked, it wasn’t very dissimilar from a position I’d use to penetrate her from behind. After all this clicked into place in my head, I felt the pressure build in the device and the nature of my position – the denied, chastised male dedicated to her pleasure – fall upon me in full weight. I was already sporting a healthy subbie buzz, but this sent it flying.

“Maybe we should try this position sometime,” she continued, suggesting I could fuck her from behind while massaging her shoulders. Whether or not that’s even possible, the idea of trying it, and her talking about sex while I was physically incapable of it, caused me to breath very heavily as my face hovered above her bare skin. It was wonderfully tormenting.

Finally, after the massage was over, she produced Pink, her little vibe. Even though she’s still on her period, she wanted me to get her off. I very happily complied, especially when she told me to get naked. She came quickly and intensely.

This morning, she was lazy in bed because she had the day off. While snuggling and spooning, she started to touch me. While chastised, I find myself especially sensitive to her touch all over my body. I’m not the first person to observe that locking away the primary male erogenous zone causes the remainder of the body to pick up the slack. She can touch me anywhere and set me off. In this case, it was my chest. Gently, she ran her fingers through my chest hair and down along my ribs. I felt myself melt. She traced down my side, over the top of my thigh, and found my balls. She may have also been touching the cock in its plastic case, but there’s no way I can feel that. As her fingers lightly caressed me, I felt my normal morning thickness try to grow against its encasement. The device, along with its contents, pulled up and away from my body. Laying on my back was intolerable. I turned over and got up on my hands and knees. Suspended from above, the straining package was more comfortable, but she continued to trace the contours of my stretched scrotum and I felt the tube of the CB6K throb as the meat it secured became more engorged.

“God, it’s so tight,” I gasped.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked while not stopping.

*whimper*

Finally, “No. Don’t ever stop.”

With this in mind, I recently ordered an acrylic ball-enclosed ring. The idea was that the plastic wouldn’t resonate against the tube as noisily as the hard metal does. The ring itself it much lighter than the metal, unsurprisingly, and the ball pops in and out of the flexible ring easily making the ring feel not so much like jewelery as it does a piece from a LEGO model. Also, it doesn’t seem to want to move around easily through the piercing. The stainless usually glides smoothly through the hole while the plastic tends to move in fits and spurts and drags against my skin. In any event, this isn’t that big of a deal since, when worn within the CB6K, it has been practically silent. I haven’t heard any sound from down there whatsoever. The ball enclosure is too big to fit through the slot at the end of the tube, so when hard, there’s a definite “coach class” crowdedness in there, but nothing at all painful or especially problematic.

Also helping on the noise front is the black Master lock I’m wearing. Typically, I place a small felt self-adhesive pad on the back of my other metal locks to help keep down the clankiness, but the Master lock has a black plastic shell and seems to fit more snugly though the hole in the CB6K’s locking pin. Less movement combined with a deadened impact means even quieter operation.

Next time I’m tapped to sneak up on someone ninja-style, I will do so confidently knowing that my chastity device won’t unexpectedly clank and blow my cover.

On the plus side, she said she’s happy overall with what we’ve done with our relationship. She likes that I’m more interested in doing things for her, likes that we’re having more sex, and likes locking me into chastity. Her reasons for liking the first two things are fairly straightforward. As for enforcing my chastity, she says she likes the sense of control it gives her. Likes knowing that my actions are limited – what I am (and am not) up to – when wearing it. This, of course, turns me the fuck on. I explained that doing something she tells me to do because she knows it’s what I want makes me feel good, but doing it because it’s something she wants makes it 50 times more exciting for me. I also reiterated to her that being locked up makes me feel cared for by her. Maintained. It demonstrates a willingness on her part to control me.

With regard to the service aspect, I like that she likes that, too. She and I were both turned on the other night when I cleaned the kitchen for her while she visited with her friend (which probably explains why she fucked me afterward). However, I told her I didn’t think I was providing very good service lately. I encouraged her to hold me to higher expectations. Also, there should be ramifications for not living up to those standards.

As for the sex part, I too am very happy with the frequency. On average, I’d say we have sex three or four times a week. A year ago, it was once every six weeks, so big improvement! She’s much more comfortable now being the only one of use who comes during these encounters than she was at the beginning, though she still occasionally struggles with it. I reiterated to her that I am very, very happy having fewer orgasms, but I know it sometimes puts pressure on her. In the past, not having sex led to issues in out marriage, and I think somewhere in the back of her head she still equates my sexual satisfaction with how much I ejaculate, but that’s got nothing to do with it. As I said, we’re having many times more sex now than a year ago, though I’m coming way, way less. Regardless, I’ve never been more satisfied sexually in my life. I’ll make sure to tell her happy I am more often.

The thing I told her I need more of (rather than orgasms) was teasing. She didn’t get what I was trying to say with that, and it occurred to me it is a rather vague term. I meant teasing as in “tease and denial”. Basically, turn me on and then leave me on. Make me hard, do things that might eventually cause me to orgasm, but then stop. She said she’d do more of that.

Finally, we got to the subject of my orgasms. Specifically, the frequency with which they occur. There is a significant amount of angst that builds up around this for both of us (probably more so for me). After talking about a few alternatives, we decided to try an approach that will allow a specific number over the next twelve months but at random intervals. I asked how many she though would be a reasonable amount and, after thinking about it for a while, said eight or nine. While she was thinking, I was too, and also came up with eight. So eight it is.

We’re going to toss into a hat the date of the next 52 Saturdays and I’ll draw eight, but won’t be told what they are. Those will be the dates (within a couple days in either direction) upon which I’ll be allowed to have orgasms. On the plus side, it removes the angst of deciding when I’ll come for both of us. On the minus side, it also removes a significant piece of her control over the spontaneity of those occasions. We’re going to give it a try and see how it goes. If she doesn’t like it, she can always change the rules again.

My only issue now is deciding what to do when I come by accident. It’s going to happen sooner or later. So far, she’s seemed reluctant to punish me (other than that one week when she took away my right to participate in her pleasure). We have a few homebrew crops she could use on me, but so far, she hasn’t. I’m not sure what’s holding her back from using punishment, but it seems to me to be an integral part of power exchange – that she has the right to punish me while I’ve little choice but to accept it. That really works for me, but maybe not so much for her.

So anyway, she started her period today, so that means I’m back in the device. We’ve fallen back to the black Master locks as the sharp little brass lock corroded last time I wore it. The Masters don’t seem prone to that. Too bad they’re so bulky and kinda ugly (and say “Master” on them – they’d be so much better if they said “Mistress”, don’t you think?).

“And what do you mean when you say ‘sex’?” At that point, I was wearing a chastity device still brimming with morning enthusiasm.

“The normal kind. I’m going to unlock you because I want to have my cock.”

“OK,” I replied. Sounds good to me, I thought.

“How do you feel about that?” she asked. I guess we’re still in communication mode following last weekend’s issues.

“I’m fine with it. Do you want me to come?”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you come.”

Silence.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means, given a choice, I’d rather you have a point of view on the matter. Even if you don’t, I’d like you to say you do. It doesn’t really work for me if you don’t care one way or the other.”

We’ve had this conversation before, but apparently she forgot. She decided I would not get to come. I offered to go clean up from my week or so’s imprisonment and she got the key while I pulled down the covers and exposed the device. She fiddled with it.

“It won’t go in,” she said.

“What do you mean it won’t go in?”

“The key. It won’t go in.”

“Are they the right keys?”

“They’re the only little keys I have.”

“Here, let me try,” I offered.

I took the little key and lined it up with the keyhole. It wouldn’t go in. I turned the key around. No dice. They were the right keys, but for some reason, they weren’t fitting into the lock. A mild wave of panic came over me.

I tried forcing the key, but it’s just a little wisp of a thing and I was afraid of breaking it in the keyhole. After some consistent pressure, it slowly slid into place and, begrudgingly, turned. The lock popped open. The little brass lock with the sharp edges – the lock that originally came with the CB6K – had corroded.

With the lock open, I went and removed all the polycarbonate from her cock, cleaned it up, and shaved off the stray little hairs I couldn’t get to with the device in place. I walked back into her bedroom.

“Wow,” she laughed, “it looks so different like that!”

She wanted “normal” sex meaning I got on top and fucked her. I spent some time working her with my fingers hoping to get the ball rolling a little before I was expected to give her an orgasm with the cock that wasn’t allowed to come. She was good and wet by the time I put the cock in her, but I kept my mind on other things and my tongue on her nipples, trying not to hear the sounds of ecstasy she was making as I stroked in and out of her. As I pondered the Dodger’s playoff chances and whether or not it would be better for them to be playing as the division leaders or from the wild card spot, I noticed her breathing and sounds of pleasure begin to indicate she was getting closer to our objective.

“Deep, Thumper!” she yelled, “Deeper!”

Obediently, I fucked her more deeply, driving the cock all the way in as far as I could. Her approaching orgasm was the freight train while mine was the little roadster racing for the railroad crossing. Either she was going to cross first, sending me smashing into oblivion, or I’d get there first and sneak one in right in front of her. I was rooting for her.

She started to come and, as soon as I knew she was well over the falls, stopped all motion hoping and holding my breath against the orgasm I knew was astonishingly close. Regardless, I felt the cock start to pump its payload into her, but without the motion, missed the full sensation of a normal orgasm. Laying next to her afterward, I felt myself somewhere in between a real orgasm and a ruined one. I sort of half came.

A little while later, I was at my workbench putting several drops of 3-In-One into the keyhole. When it leaked back out, it was brown with rust. I put more oil in it and worked the lock until it felt smooth and easy. That oil came back out clear.

The rest of the day found us shopping, going to a movie and then to dinner, enjoying our time without kids (they’re with the in-laws all week up north). Our plan was to watch another movie at home, but soon after we got in the house, she informed me we were going to have sex again.

In bed and naked, I started to rub my face against her body through her pajamas. I worked my way down until my face was between her legs, kissing and biting with my lips the soft warmth of her pussy behind the thin fabric. I buried my nose in her, deeply inhaling her essence and felt the cock harder than it had been in a long time. I pulled her bottoms down and started to devour her, licking and sucking at her clit, rubbing my nose and face in her juices. I may have “half come” earlier in the day, but it had done little to lessen my arousal.

I changed my position so that I could reach up with both hands and play with her nipples, leaving my face deeply planted in her snatch and the hard cock grinding into the mattress. I was hungry for her pussy and it, apparently, was hungry for my tongue as her hips were bucking and her juices were flowing freely, running down my chin. Her eventual orgasm seemed much more powerful than the one from the morning and she clamped onto my head with her thigh muscles, forcing my nose and mouth into her and cutting off my oxygen. She was coming hard, so I kept my tongue in motion as her legs painfully pressed against the sides of my head.

I couldn’t breath, my tongue was cramping in effort, and sharp pains were shooting through my jaws as she squeezed me, but the orgasm was remarkable. I could feel it. Its energy radiated out of her pussy and into me, filling every corner of my body with its power. Her orgasm was our orgasm, and it felt deeply satisfying.

She finally released me and I laid with my head on her inner thigh, face still close to her pussy, panting and feeling her orgasm ringing within me. This feeling of attachment to her pleasure is one of the most satisfying side-effects of orgasm denial. Somehow, her sexual satisfaction can transfer to me leaving me feeling a kind of post-orgasmic high, though doing nothing to diminish my arousal.

I moved back up towards her face wanting to be closer while we basked in the afterglow. I was careful to move the cock so it pointed down and lay against her labia instead of accidentally entering her. After a few moments, she told me I could go inside her, though not come, of course. I hadn’t expected this and wasn’t prepared. The cock was already losing its stiffness in the aftermath of the orgasm she had just had, but I ran its head up and down her outer lips and it was ready for action after just a few seconds.

And then I fucked her. I fucked her and fucked her. Like an animal. All there was in the entire world was her pussy and the cock that was plowing it and I wanted to keep doing it forever. I started to grunt with every downstroke and felt myself nearly get lost in the action. A thin tendril of control was all I had to pull myself back from the edge, just a few strokes short of orgasm. I slowed, but tried not to stop. I felt the orgasm retreat, but not my desire to fuck her into a quivering puddle. The driving male need to fuck fought with me. I withdrew from her, placing me face against her stomach, and I felt the power of my desire buckle under the weight of her absolute control. The animal within howled in protest and I moved back up, trying to get back inside her.

“That’s all you get, Thumper,” she said. From deep inside, I started a low, long moan of anguish. Not in protest of her decision, but from the agony of my internal conflict. I would not feel her heat wrap around me again.

Later, I laid with my face against her chest and fell asleep with remarkable ease. Happy, horny, and satisfied.

Tonight, Belle got home later than usual following another happy hour. They seem to have at least one a week where she works. No big deal for me since the kids are off with the in-laws for a whole week. I worked out, showered, and then started watching TV waiting for her to get home. She pulled into the garage at about 9:30.

In general, I’m pretty excited about this week alone since we should get plenty of personal time together. I’ve been locked up for eight of the last nine days and haven’t come since Saturday. Not a huge period of denial by any stretch of the imagination, but tonight I’m particularly pretty horny what with the “adults only” vibe and the slowly building hormone levels. Typically, she comes home from these happy hours in a pretty good mood and she’ll let me pleasure her. When she finally got home tonight, I was horny and expecting some action.

She wasn’t thinking the same way. She snuggled up against me and we watched some TV together but I was jumpy with desire. I felt down around the opening of the CB6K’s tube and found it slick with precum. I was dripping with anticipation and all she was doing was stroking my ribs while she watch Everybody Loves Raymond. Once Ray was over, I started in with my nuzzly, kissy stuff hoping to coax her into something, but she as already getting sleepy. At least she recognized my state.

“I like it when you’re like this,” she said, “Right here on the edge. I’m going to leave you there tonight.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked hopefully.

“You can rub my feet.”

“Is that all you want rubbed?”

And then we exchanged words regarding my poor attitude. She was right. In retrospect, I acknowledge I was being lippy. She actually raised her voice with me and then accused me of being defensive. I probably was being that way. I shouldn’t have been. But god, I’m so horny.

I rubbed her feet with the lotion and, as I expected, she fell asleep half way through. I felt disappointment. I felt a little resentment (we haven’t had sex since Sunday). I was kinda mad at her. Oh, and I felt very horny.

Then I remembered what she said. I like it when you’re like this. I was so interested in getting her to let me get her off that the words rolled right off me. I was thinking too much about my own needs again. I laid there and pondered my predicament as I fingered the little brass lock with the sharp edges. She was asleep, feet massaged, perfectly content while I laid next to her, horny as hell, cock locked in plastic, wide awake and buzzing. And she likes it when I’m like this. Warm pulses of energy filled my chest as I lowered into my submission. If only I had been focusing less on my own desire and more on hers, I could have felt that earlier with her. She was holding up her part of the deal while I was being selfish and petulant.

I can do better than that.

You can also see the growing cracks on the CB6K. Gonna have to do something about that pretty soon..

Previous HNThumpers here. Read all about Half-Nekkid Thursday over at Osbasso’s

“I want to make love to you,” I said.

“How are you going to do that? I wasn’t going to let you out today.”

“We don’t need that to make love.”

“But what are we going to do?” she asked.

“Have sex. You know, the kind of sex we have now. The kind that doesn’t require the cock. There are so many options…” I trailed off as I planted sweet little kisses along her jaw and neck.

“Hmm. That’s confusing to me,” she said, “We need to call it something else. You can’t make love to me when you’re locked-up.”

“OK, how about saying I just want to make you come?”

“I’m good with that,” she said.

My thinking with regard to calling it “making love” versus just saying “making you come” was to help close the divide between what she likes and what I want from sex. For me, when she lets me pleasure her, it’s every bit as meaningful as when she lets me fuck her (whether or not I come), but I think in her mind, those acts are very different (one perfunctory and one-sided, the other romantic and inclusive). I’d like her to start equating all of our sexual encounters as acts of love making because that’s how they feel to me, even the ones where I’m left throbbing and frustrated. Guess I’ll keep working on that.

“Why do you want this?” she asked. I assume this question stemmed from of our recent bout of communication.

“Because I’m horny,” I admitted. “I’m horny and need to feel you come. You come for both of us now. And, of course, I want you to feel pleasure. And I need to feel you feeling it.”

I suppose a really good submissive would have led with the second part of that, but I just said the first thing that came to mind. I was on her because I was horny and wanted to feel the release of our (her) orgasm. Even if we were having “normal” sex, I’d still be initiating because I was horny and wanted to fuck her, right?

“OK,” she said, “Close the door.”

–

Sunday night, I rubbed her feet while watching the Mad Men premiere. When it was over and the TV was off, I started kissing her again. Not sure what I expected to happen since she had just come that morning, but I like the contact even when it doesn’t end in sex.

“You know,” I said tentatively, “When you leave me locked-up – when you deny me for a long time – I feel more cared for than when you don’t. It makes me feel loved.”

“Really? That’s an odd thing to say.”

“Well, I know it’s harder for you to deal with me with I’m like this, so when you do it you’re demonstrating the willingness to maintain me. I like how that feels. Like I said, it makes me feel loved. Special.”

We then had a brief exchange where she accused me of previously saying it wasn’t harder for her when I’m locked up, but, as I wrote here on Saturday, I totally acknowledge the extra effort it requires. Since we never got a chance to talk about it, I was never able to clarify my position on that. I think that helps explain my negative reaction to what happened later that night…but I’ve already covered that ground.

In any event, I was distracted by some part of her and just enjoying the access (even though it was through her pajamas) until she tapped me on the head with something hard. It was Pink, her favorite vibe.

“Do you want me to use that on you?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” she said, “You’re fine where you are.” She slide the vibe into her pajama bottoms and I heard its low thrum as she clicked it on.

“Do you want me to do…anything?”

“Nope. I’m good.” I could feel the vibrations radiate through her and into the mattress.

When she was done, she reassured me that the solo action wasn’t the result of anything I had done wrong. She wasn’t punishing me. It was just how she wanted it.

“You know if you could, you’d do the same thing yourself. Sometimes, that’s what I want, too,” she explained.

What I find remarkable about this is the old Belle Fille (the one married to the old Thumper – the ones who hardly ever had sex) would have never masturbated in front of me, let alone do so with no expectation that I’d have any role or reciprocal attention. It was what she wanted, pure and simple. I was not necessary and, due to her growing sexual confidence, felt no guilt with regard to my frustration whatsoever.

I think that’s beautiful.

She was referring to this comment from my previous post:

This morning, I find myself once again (yet totally unexpectedly) doubting the path we’re on.

I’d say I don’t always go there, but I have, on occasion, suggested we should end our experiment in D/s. For me, whenever I come to doubt that she’s getting anything out of what we do, a complex series of things spring up.

First, I fear that she’s sacrificing her own sexuality in order to serve mine. Nothing else would be more appalling to me. This is not to say I don’t think she should ever do something just because it pleases me. Hardly. That give and take is the foundation of any relationship, sexual or otherwise. However, the idea that she would wholly subsume her sexual identity under the weight of mine is something I’ve feared multiple times. If that were ever to be the case, that her control was merely a construct formed by her desire to see me happy, the entire thing would come crashing down. Her desire for control must be authentically hers.

Second, I immediately start to feel guilt over the ridiculously complicated nature of my sexuality. Why should it all be so fucking hard? Why can’t I be like the other boys? She doesn’t need any more complexity in her life and I feel that I’m only becoming more complicated as we go along, introducing new “rules” and concepts she needs to keep in mind. Sex should be fundamentally easy, shouldn’t it? Sex with me, at least from her perspective, is anything but.

Third, I feel shame. I am ashamed at the things I want from her. My desire to be controlled, to be bound, to be hurt. She’s a nice Catholic girl and I’m nothing more than a perverted deviant (and a heathen to boot) bringing implements of bondage, floggers, and other apparatus into the bedroom. I want her to do unspeakable things to me. Things that are fundamentally not within her nature. I’m a freak.

Fourth, there’s that fundamental difference between us sexually. She wants sex to be spontaneously conducted upon soft, down-filled bedding on bright, sunny Spring mornings with the sounds of birds outside and the scent of lavender on the cool breeze. I want it to be done in the dark, by candlelight, with black leather and stainless steel. I want pain and domination and inequity. Nothing about what I like is spontaneous. We are from polar-opposite regions. I fear she never gets what she really wants in a sexual encounter (think Jane Austen) because she’s always catering to my fetid desires (think Marilyn Manson).

We discussed all this. We will work on all this, especially trying to find ways in which her idealized sexual experience can be combined with mine. She doesn’t want me to feel shame, though I still do. We both feel guilt. We both worry about disappointing the other.

Specifically regarding last night’s encounter, I found myself saying something unexpected. I accused her of being selfish. She was stressed and our sex life was only adding to that angst, so she pulled the plug on it. Not only had she released me, she ended my denial. Capriciously, I thought, since her orgasm was already attended to and didn’t require me to be released. I said I thought that was selfish because I was in a really good place at the time. I was thrilled. The issues were hers and we should have talked them though instead of her, under the guise of being in control, unilaterally acting. It’s was hard for me to say that to her because I’m generally predisposed to accepting her control and serving her selfishness and generally being submissive, but I thought the way in which she acted last night was above and beyond all that. She was actively trying to kill the dynamic, at least for a little while. I had no desire for it to end. Certainly, there must have been another way that would have preserved what we each needed.

Beyond that, she struggles (continuously) with the need to satisfy. That my satisfaction comes, in part, from being unsatisfied is very difficult for her. She also draws a line to my sexual dissatisfaction and my infidelity. In fact, it was my dissatisfaction with her general apathy towards sex that sent me away, not with the sex we were having. In any event, she says she fears that we’ll end up there again. I can’t imagine that now. Sex before didn’t exist between us. Now, it’s front and center. How we were a year ago and how we are now are totally opposite.

In any event, we need to redefine for her what “satisfaction” means to me and to not confuse it with satiation. I am very satisfied now with being totally unsatiated. We can have that bright and lavender-scented Jane Austen-style sex some Spring morning, but I’ll be happier at the end if I’m left hard and frustrated and grinding into my chastity device as opposed to spewing my seed into her. We can both be happy as long as we accept new, flexible definitions of “happy”. She may I think I secretly want to come all over her. In fact, I want to want to come, but not actually do it.

And seriously, I don’t want to come. If, in the course of her fucking me because that’s what she wants, I happen to come because I can’t control myself, then so be it. I only hope she takes the opportunity to tease me about it (hopefully with punishment). However, and for the foreseeable future, I’d rather be left wanting it rather than having it. If she wants to torture me with forced orgasm – to rip it from me against my will – then fine, I guess. That can be hot. But that’s not what last night was about. That was about the opposite.

I have more that I could say, but the conversation was very emotional. I cried very hard a couple of times, and she cried too. I’m feeling a little wiped by the whole thing and sort of puffy-faced. In the end, of course, we didn’t decide to end our experiment. We talked our way through and will keep trying to find the right path. We hugged and kissed and cared for one another. It was all very Austen-esque, except when we were done, she locked her cock back up in plastic. That never would have happened to Mr. Darcy.

So why have I not been in it that much? Apparently, she lets me out when there’s other stuff happening around us. For instance, we have relatives over this week. There’s no reason at all that should have any bearing on the status of her cock, but she let me out just before they showed up. Yes, it’s true she also wanted to fuck it, but still. I told her I would be happier if she didn’t worry about how I feel about the device at any given moment. If I’m not squealing (aka, safewording), then all I want her to consider is whether or not she wants me in it. Not whether or not I want to be in it. If she’s thinking about my comfort (or whatever) and I know it (which I do) then I can potentially use that to my advantage and manipulate my status. It’s much, much hotter to think she’s only considering what she wants with regard to the device. Besides, for the vast majority of the day, the device might as well not be there. It gets in the way of practically nothing other than peeing, jacking off, and sex.

Which is not to say she can’t let it out to play if that’s what she wants. This kinda gets to the fact that she doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s locked up. If she wants to fuck it, she should fuck it, then put it back in. If she just wants to tease it, then she should. Getting in and out isn’t that hard. Will I want to go back in? Certainly not if I’ve come, but again, who cares? It’s her cock, it’s her CB6K. If she likes the idea of me being in it, then I should be in it.

So anyway, at some point in this conversation, she said she was going to leave me in it indefinitely. I like the sound of that. I asked her to err on the side of leaving it in there more often since, of course, she likes it that way. If she likes it, then I fucking love it. Recently, my appreciation of enforced chastity has been on low ebb. Suddenly, I find myself more enthusiastic about it than I was when we first bought the CB6K.

I also notice now that the tremulous vibrato of sexual energy that resonates in my chest (which I’ve described in the past as “carnivorous butterflies”) has become such a normal state of affairs for me that I only really notice it when it’s not there. I don’t know what causes this, but it’s enhanced when she has me in the device. It’s like all my sexual desire – basically, the desire to grab, stroke, and otherwise abuse her cock – feeds back on itself. It drives me to seek out sexually stimulating media (otherwise known as “porn”) which, in turn, only makes it worse since I can’t touch myself. It’s that kind of loop, pumping more and more hormones into my blood, that makes it impossible to sleep sometimes. Anyway, I’m feeling that now. A state of hyper-arousal. The carnivorous butterflies flapping around inside me.

Last night, I really wanted plant my face in Belle’s snatch and eat her up. Something, anything, to get her pheromones on me. To feel her pleasure and eventual orgasm which comes for both of us now. But she brought a bunch of work home with her and, by the time she was done with it, wasn’t in the mood for her bunny’s services. I may have let my disappointment show just a bit, but I’ve gotten pretty good lately at not feeling I’m in any way involved in deciding if I get to experience sexual pleasure and got over it pretty quickly.

She told me to get naked, which I did, and as I was laying above the covers next to her, clothed only in the transparent plastic of the CB6K, something Tom said recently in a comment came to mind. Belle and I hardly ever talk about the device. It’s her method of control, but it’s also the thing that mostly goes unsaid between us. So, with it being very visible and me still adjusting to my unexpected stint in lock-up, I asked her if she had any questions about it.

She thought about this a second and asked, “What’s the hardest part about wearing it?”

“God,” I said, “There are so many hard parts…” I seriously had to ponder that.

“Finding a place for it in my pants is hard sometimes,” I began, “And peeing. It makes peeing rather complicated. That sucks. And, of course, the nocturnal erections can be difficult to deal with. Those two can combine when the cock gets so hard in the tube that it makes peeing impossible. That totally blows…” I trailed off.

“The hardest part, though, is that I feel like you don’t always know what to do with me when I’m locked up.” Not sure where that came from. It just sort of popped into my head so I said it.

“But I like when you wear it,” she replied.

“Really?” I continue to assume that she only puts me in it to humor me and that she’d rather have me out. In fact, I assume she does everything in an attempt to humor me. My submissive’s insecurity, I guess.

“What do you like about it?” I asked.

“I like that when you’re wearing it I know exactly what you can and cannot do with yourself. You’re a guy and all your wiring and buttons are different than mine, so I like knowing you really can’t do anything when you’re wearing it. I like knowing you can’t touch yourself.” She may have said some other things related to this, but frankly the buzzing sound in my head made it difficult to follow what she was saying. The tube was fully pressurized and my eyes kinda of half-closed as the blanket of subspace fell over me.

“I need to hear that. That you like it,” I said. “If you like having me wear it, then there are no hard parts.”

And that was about it. She was tired and was asleep shortly thereafter. I was awake and decided to read a book rather than surf the web since I really did want to sleep at some point. In retrospect, I’m really pleased she told me she likes when I’m locked up. That’s huge. I can put up with almost anything if I know she wants me to. On the other hand, my point about her not knowing what to do with me when I’m locked up is still out there. We need to talk more about that.

I picked Belle Fille up at her place of employment this evening and told her that I had locked myself into the device because I was having impure thoughts about myself. She congratulated me on my self-control (which, I pointed out, if I had any, would have obviated the need for the device). Then, tonight when I asked if she would take the thing off, she declined. She’s apparently very happy to have me locked up at the moment.

Two.

Also in the car on the way home, Belle said it was a good thing I put it on because otherwise I may have done something requiring punishment. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out something derogatory with respect to her inclination to punish me. You know, since I picked the lock of my chastity device and all and have still not been punished. Understand that I’m not exactly sure I want to be punished because it’s going to hurt like fuck, but I do actually like the idea of her having the right to punish me. It’s complicated. In any event, my derision was not well received. She says she’s been waiting for the right moment. I pointed out that all the books say it’s important to discipline your dog at the time of the incident, not hours later. Otherwise, there’s a disconnection. You know, between the digression and the resulting punishment. OK, well, in any event, she may or may not be punishing me sometime in the future. When it happens, you’ll be the first to know. I mean second. Well, OK, technically third.

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.

So, long way to say, I felt my kit was on all wrong. And she was out of town. With the key. Now, if you knew me in real life, you’d know I kinda sorta obsess over things like this. It was driving me nuts. I really wanted the KSD in there and I wanted the smaller ring. My fevered monkey brain kicked into gear.

My lock, seen above and in place on this blog’s about page, was chosen because I thought it was pretty. Truth is, Belle’s never liked it because it’s fussy to open (never sure which way to turn the key), but I’ve always appreciated it’s shiny aesthetics. I like shiny. Plus, it’s key is not so ugly. There was a time when I thought Belle could wear the key on a pretty chain I got her and it looks almost like jewelry, but since she never wears the chain, that doesn’t really matter. The downside of my pretty chrome lock is that its mechanism is exceedingly simple. You can see right into the keyhole and I’m pretty sure all the key does is move a little thingy in there allowing the clasp to spring open. So, with that in mind and the imperfection of my situation gnawing at me every moment of the day, I bent open a thick paper clip, used my needle nose pliers to bend over the end, and started fishing around in the keyhole. After about five seconds, bingo! Lock was open.

Then I realized what I had done. I had picked the lock to the device Belle had placed upon me. I had actually physically defeated the device. This was not good. I thought to close the lock and forget it ever happened, but the monkey brain is nothing if not pragmatic. It told me, as long as I had the lock open, I should at least put the KSD in there.

But surely, I argued back, I can’t take the thing off!?

No, no, my good man, said the monkey in an oddly affected British accent (I think all monkeys speak with British accents), you can leave the tube on, can’t you? There’s a good fellow. Carry on.

And then he threw some poop at me.

In any event, I did manage to get the KSD in place without removing the tube. It was tricky, but I was able to wrap my actions afterward in a shred of decency. While I had picked the fucking lock, I had not removed – even for a second – the part of the device that most represented her control over me.

Yesterday, I spilled the beans to Belle. I told her we needed a new lock since I knew how to open it. She seemed surprised at my cheekiness. Yes, we certainly did need a new lock. Then I went into the bathroom and, apparently to put a very fine point on my recent admission, picked the lock again and put on the smaller ring (again, without removing the tube). Instead of putting the thoroughly disrespected (yet still very pretty) chrome lock back, I took the ugly, sharp-cornered little lock that originally came with with the CB-6000 on. Its only redeeming quality (other than being totally secure against the monkey brain) is that it’s small. Otherwise, its very utilitarian.

I stepped out of the bathroom and handed Belle the keys to the new lock and the open chrome lock. Security has been reestablished.

Last night, she said opening the lock without permission deserved punishment. Of course, she’s right. It’s a huge transgression. If she carries through with the threat, it’ll be the first time she’s punished me since we established our understanding regarding her right to inflict corporal punishment. We’ll see what happens next…

I miss her. She’s not here. But her control still is. All I can do is run my fingers over the hard plastic shell she’s placed over this piece of meat that I gave her. I want to touch it. Badly. I want it out. I want to make it hard and I want to stroke it. And yes, I want to make it come. Oh god, I want to make it come. But I can’t. I feel her control clamp over me and I know it’ll never happen. All I’m left with is an aching desire. An aching, burning desire gnawing away at me. Look inside, though, and it’s all glittery. Like an abalone. Hard, rough, difficult on the outside. Smooth, iridescent, beautiful on the inside. Totally worth it.

I am the outside. My animal lust clawing at the plastic. She is the inside. Smooth, cool. The reward.

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.

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. ↩

Belle usually wakes up kinda early. Five-thirty, or thereabouts, and once up, she immediately gets on her computer and starts clickity-clacking. I’ve trained myself to fall back asleep after her alarm (and first snooze, and second snooze, and third snooze) goes off, usually by snuggling up against her while she replies to all the email she’s picked up overnight.

This morning was a little different. For whatever reason, I woke up and didn’t find her sitting up with her laptop. Even in my groggy state, I realized it was a rare opportunity for some mid-week morning snuggle time and wrapped myself around her (of course, in a way that respected her personage and all that).

She laid there, stroking my head, and said, “Thanks for putting me in charge, Thumpie.” Just like that. Thanks for putting me in charge. I hadn’t said boo to her up to that point. It was entirely unsolicited.

I was dealing with the typical morning chastity tube issues, but upon hearing these words, my issues were suddenly bigger (or trying to be). Besides the physical reaction, I felt a surge of warm excitement fill my chest. I embraced her harder, kissed her, then pressed my face into her. She made me very happy.

Minutes later, she was up and the clickity-clack had started. I had rolled off and was laying next to her on my back, tenting out the covers regardless of the plastic contraption. I was thinking of getting out of bed, but before I did, she placed her foot on my left hip and burrowed her toes into the space between my inner thigh and nuts. And she just left it there. On the one hand, it was just her foot – nothing special. On the other hand, I’m more than three weeks denied, so any contact with my nakedness is cause for attention. Also, I felt pinned. I’m quite sure I was projecting into her action, but to me and the nice buzzy headspace which her earlier comment had created, it felt like a very possessive, almost aggressive move. Of course I wasn’t physically pinned by her, but mentally – emotionally – I felt as though she was directing me to stay where I was. So I did.

–

The previous evening, she related an exchange she had with a couple of female coworkers. One of them had been complaining that she resorted to giving herself pedicures and was unhappy with the result.

“You should make your husband paint your nails,” Belle suggested.

She then told them that she did, in fact, have her husband paint her nails. The one with the ugly toenails said she would have her husband paint them, to which Belle responded, “You might find it turns you on.”

Zing!

I have to admit, the first thing to go through my mind when she related this to me was concern that they’d get the wrong idea and think I was [fill in your choice of submissive male negative stereotypes], but then decided I like that fact that I had given her something to brag about in front of her friends. Who cares what they think? They probably think she’s lucky. I hope she feels that way, too.

–

Dev’s recent post about her potentially doing things in bed more for the benefit of her partners rather than herself touches on something I find myself worrying about with Belle. Specifically, that she has done so much to help me make several of my sexual fantasies a reality and I have done basically nothing to help her achieve hers.

Which is not to say I haven’t tried. I asked her a little while back (about the time I wrote about how her having a boyfriend would turn me on) what her fantasies were. What’s the craziest thing she’s ever wanted to do because I want to help her do it.

Something vaguely about another woman. Nothing specific. Not like, I want to fuck a girl. No, it was just kinda sorta a fuzzy thing about another girl. Maybe kissing one. Not actually doing anything. Just…a girl. She had to pick the one thing I couldn’t do for her since, you know, I’m a boy.

It’s hard for me relate since my fantasies are so very specific (“No, this goes there, that goes over there, and then you do this with it, unless it’s Tuesday, in which case…”). I don’t vaguely do anything in my fantasies. Mine are epic Ben Hur-like productions with extras and period costume and herd animals and massive sets.

So anyway, I know that Belle’s getting lots of great orgasms and everything but I want to fulfill her not just physically, but also mentally. I want her to live her imaginary fuck. But, you know…it’s just this girl.

–

I’m getting my hair cut this afternoon when my guy (who, of course, is gay) and I overhear someone else and their client talking about a new tattoo the client got and we both look trying to get a peek but we can’t see anything (which is unfortunate). Then he asks me if I have any tattoos.

“Not yet,” I reply. Belle’s already told me she wants me to get the thing she drew on my ass tattooed there, but I haven’t done anything about it. Not that I’m opposed, I just haven’t gotten around to it. In any event, he’s kind of surprised by this. That I would get a tattoo.

So I tell him I’d be more than happy to modify my body more than I have, but my job kinda makes that difficult (since I’m often trying to talk relatively conservative people into give me large sums of money). Then he tells me that the other guy with the tatted-up client has a boyfriend who’s thinking of getting a piercing.

“You know,” he says, “down there,” motioning with his scissors toward his navel.

“What kind?” I ask innocently.

“The kind that goes through the you know…”

“A Prince Albert?”

“Yes!” he hisses.

Maybe I’m jaded since I come here and frankly discuss dicks and pussies and physical beatings and all kinds of raunchy kinky shit, but I suddenly found it incredibly funny that I was having a conversation with this grown up gay man in which he couldn’t bring himself to use real words to talk about cocks. Also, I had to make a choice. I, of course, know a whole lot about being pierced down there. Should I spill the beans? I mean, if you can’t talk to your gay hair stylist about your genital piercing, who can you talk to about it?

So, as he was wrinkling up his nose at the prospect of not having sex for a whole month after you get it done, I dropped it on him.

“What?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard me.

“I have one of those. A Prince Albert.”

“WHAT!?!” he exclaimed, blushing deeply. It was hilarious.

Then, of course, the questions came pouring out. How much did it hurt, does it make sex better, what’s it like peeing, did I do it before or after having children, etc., etc. He also wanted to know if you got hard during the piercing. I told him getting hard was the last thing that was gonna happen during the event.

In retrospect, this was quite clearly the longest conversation I’ve ever had about penises (mostly the one on me) with a man I had never and would never have sex with.

]]> http://denyingthumper.com/2009/07/20/something-new/ Mon, 20 Jul 2009 20:12:00 +0000 thumper http://denyingthumper.com/2009/07/20/something-new/ Odd thing last night. We’re in bed¹, the candles are glowing and smelling nice, the kids are down for the count, and she’s told me to get naked, and…and…that’s it. For the longest time, I was just laying there with her and not roiling in repressed sexual energy. I wasn’t particularly fighting with any urges to attack or otherwise manhandle her. It was weird. I knew I was horny and, as soon as she let me rub a knot in her back and was therefore touching her skin, I started to really feel it, but beforehand, it was like the dog: present in the room, but not engaged in any way. Like my sex was idling until she called for it. I don’t know how I feel about that. She complimented me on controlling my urges and all, so I guess that’s a good thing, but it was very strange finding myself in a situation like that and not feeling the way I’m used to feeling.

It’s been twenty-two days since I last came and just over a week now in the device. The twenty-two days is a record, I think, but the week is nothing special. I’ve done way longer. I also noticed, as I find every time I’m locked up, that situations that would normally cause me to get an erection don’t. Like it’s not worth the bother. So it makes me wonder if this is all just a side-effect of her being in control or if I’ve gone around the curve and am losing some of my sex drive (which, from what I understand, can happen to those denied for a long time). It’s not like I’m worried about it since, once she let me rub her back, I was horny again in a second. I know it’s still in there. But where was it hiding?

The other thing is, since I’m supposed to be under control and respect her personage, I find the little things turn me on a lot more. Well, “turn me on” isn’t quite right, because it feels different. Like when I was touching her back. I put my face down on her skin just to feel the contact. I felt a stirring in the tube, but I never got a raging hard-on. It was more like a man dying of thirst being able to splash water on his face. Then, when we were done, I rolled over and she placed her hand on my lower back/upper ass. Fuck! It made me whimper. Again, no hard-on, no urge to rip her clothes off. It was much less specific. Kind of a free-floating desperation.

I don’t know what it is, but I know I haven’t felt exactly like this before. It’s like I’m becoming more docile. Like sexual release is off the table and all the hormones know it. My body craves…something, but it doesn’t manifest as any specific activity.

She said, just before she let me rub her back, that in the past she might feel sorry for me at this point. That she might let me get a little something out of pity. But not now. She recognizes where I am and I suppose feels something, but not a compelling desire to allow me relief. I’m not unhappy and she’s perfectly satisfied with my behavior and the sex she’s getting.

So, whatever I’m feeling, I’m going to assume it’s OK.

–

¹ I haven’t done the math, but I’m pretty sure something like 96% of all my posts start with us in bed. That’s OK, right? ↩

I was in bed with Belle Fille earlier in the evening (yes, this evening – can’t sleep), kissing her chin and jaw and face and trying my best to maintain a semblance of control. Since one of the things that’s put Belle off recently is my voracious approach to her body when I’m awash with wanton lust, we’ve established an expectation that I will treat her personage with the respect that it deserves and not as though it were my blow-up girlfriend or something. Steve’s Michelle calls it “queenly dignity”. We don’t have a phrase, but it basically means I can’t grab her tits, shove my hands down the front or back of her pants, grind any part of me into any part of her, get all Doctor Octopus on her, or kiss her in an extra slobbery or tongue-intensive way. Without permission, that is. Sometimes, that’s what she wants. Most of the rest of the time, it’s too much. Therefore, I respect her personage.

So anyway, I was respecting the fuck out of her personage in bed a little while ago, as I said, planting the sweetest, most non-slobbery kisses I knew how on her sweet little face, hand placed sweetly and especially non-grabby on her side and pouring all my desire to do more into my right foot which was thumping on the bed like…well, like Thumper, when she turned away from me and opened her nightstand drawer. A moment later, I saw she had Pink. At first, I thought she was going to hand it to me, but no. She wasn’t. Instead, she moved her hand under the covers, heading south.

“But what about me?” I asked stupidly, sounding hurt.

“You’re…right there,” she replied, “I see you. Sometimes, a girl just knows what she wants…”

“Can I…help?”

“I don’t need any help.”

And she began. I was very close to her. I placed my hand over her torso, not moving towards her breasts (respecting the personage and all) and hugged her close. So close, I thought I could almost feel the vibrations through her body. Her eyes were closed, neck arched. She was entirely within herself, miles away from me. I felt her move her legs further apart and the memory of the feeling of her pussy enveloping what used to be my cock flashed palpably in my mind. I ached, literally and figuratively, to fuck her. The tube was all I could feel now, and it was throbbing. Pounding. Balls aching from the pressure of the ring being smashed behind them.

I was so close to her, I didn’t need to hear the sound of the vibe’s motor becoming rhythmically muffled to know she was fucking herself with it. Twenty days of denial screamed at the injustice of missing a chance to participate in her pleasure. Her orgasm started to build and the pace of her movements under the cover quickened. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I moaned. She came. I whimpered.

After a few moments, I placed my hand on her face and stroked her cheek as she basked in her self-inflicted afterglow. I felt small, wounded, unnecessary – submissive.

“That wasn’t a punishment,” she finally said, “It’s what I wanted, so I did it.”

The pressure in the tube doubled as her words stuffed me deeper into my subspace.

“I love you, Belle Fille,” was all I could say in return.

–

¹ I’m not sure what it means either, but it might help if you go read the clusterfuck for yourself. ↩

Our Covenant says I’ll be locked up 183 days in 2009 – six months total. That was written back before Belle said she didn’t want to keep track of things like how long it’d been since I came and how many times she let me do it, etc., so I’m not exactly sure she still feels bound to that goal (plus, of course, the first rule of Our Covenant is that there are no rules – Belle Fille can do whatever she wants). In any event, as of this writing, I’ve been locked up 89 days this year. That means, with over half the year gone, I need to be forcibly chastised another 94 days out of the 170 left until 2010. The longest stint I’ve experienced so far is 18 days back in May.

Why does this matter to me? Well, as I said, some of it’s plain old guy stuff. Hang out on any chastity forum or community and you’ll find guys who’ve been locked up for way longer than 18 days. And, of course, Tom’s been locked up for something like four and a half years. Straight. Or something. And the other thing about me, the thing that you’d learn if you knew me in Real Life, is I always assume if something’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing. I wonder what’d it be like to keep the thing on a month. Two. What would it be like not to come until Labor Day?

I’m screwed either way, of course. Knowing the date takes the spontaneity out of it. If I know I’m not coming until Labor Day, the days in between become an long slog to the finish line. But not knowing drives me crazy, too. Tomorrow? Saturday? Next Friday? When, damn it!? Then again, I suppose that crazy part is what makes this good, right?

Since Belle’s the one who decides these things and since Belle likes her cock too much to leave it locked-up for too long, I know I’ll never pull one of those multi-month deals any time soon (unless, of course, we invest in modern technology – did I mention it’s on sale?).

In the mean time, I think I’ll revel in the angst.