My wrists strained against the velcro “luv cuffs” and the thick, cotton terry on which I was lying was warm on my back as my wife knelt between my legs and pushed the well-lubed dildo against my ass. The pain was dull, but short-lived as the large bloopy tip eased past my sphincter muscle. I winced slightly as each of the bloopy bumps passed through as she worked it back and forth, pausing once in a while to dribble more lube onto it. Finally, the muscle relaxed enough for her to edge closer to me and I drew a throaty breath as the rounded, upturned end pressed against my prostate.
This was the result of my sending my wife several emails that I had received from other chastity enthusiasts who had practiced some kind of milking. One of them struck me as being fuel for a very hot fantasy, and said, in part:
“Why remove a male’s chastity device to milk him? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to deny &/or control a male’s orgasmic pleasure by keeping his cock locked in a chastity device, while milking him? […] My KH currently enjoys giving me my release via extended erotic strap-on sessions, and I have grown to love them. […] There is just something extremely erotic in being totally helpless as she is sliding into me. […] no further direct stimulation to the penis is required, the feeling of being filled by the dildo is enough. The orgasm is intense, but not like the feeling you get with direct contact.”
Her own response to me had been overwhelmingly – and surprisingly – positive; she wrote back…
“Wow, Tom this method sounds like an interesting idea to me, in fact I am
feeling aroused over this. Would we have to buy another dildo or is the one
we have ok? We will need to talk about this a bit more. I would love for
you to be able to experience another type of orgasm.”
… and tonight we were attempting it for the first time. She figured that after being denied for the last three months not only an orgasm, but even the usual involuntary release, that I would be more receptive to the enjoyment. Apparently she was right.
She leaned forward, placing her hands on either side of me, watching my face, carefully noting my reactions. The harness held the dildo against her as she slowly thrust her hips forward. My cock was rock hard inside the plastic cage, and my attempt at erection was pulling the cage away from my body, the skin of my testicles stretched taut in my arousal. In the past, I’d never had much of an erection during anal play, but we’d never tried it with me caged before; three months without an orgasm had driven me to new levels of excitement.
A little more lube for good measure, and she continued to thrust back and forth, pausing only occasionally to reposition herself for comfort. It wasn’t long before we found a mutually agreeable angle and I responded by leaning my head back and allowing the waves of pleasure to wash over me. a little moan of pleasure escaped my lips. Damn, after being denied for so long this was like heaven. I moved my hips to meet hers, enjoying even the small spasms of protest as my inexperienced muscles became more and more relaxed, and my body became more accustomed to finding pleasure in these new sensations.
She took my nipple between her teeth and gently bit down; I shuddered, which caused my ass to clench a bit. I gasped at the mix of pleasure and pain. She balanced on one hand to reach down to caress my hard plastic cage, and to squeeze my swollen balls. She changed angles again, and the bloop pushed up against my walnut-sized prostate; I could feel it rubbing and pushing around inside me, and before long I felt something building, some kind of pressure. Not exactly an orgasm, but something close enough to it which I knew would need to be released.
Eyes closed in concentration, I bore down, ignoring the dwindling spasms in my sphincter. I tried to angle my own hips to meet hers, pushing against the dildo in order to enhance the pleasure in any way possible. I was aware of a slight feeling of embarrassment in the back of my consciousness as I heard myself begging for release. I shouldn’t be having this much pleasure, I thought to myself in between muscle spasms and the moaning as I enjoyed the new, unfamiliar sensations.
I wondered briefly what it would be like to have an orgasm from this, to come without touching my cock. The sensations began to build to a crescendo, and I enjoyed an intensity of feeling that I had never thought possible from this. I raised my hips even further, feeling both exhilarated and embarrassed, a slave to my passions and my own need for a long-overdue release. I wanted to pull her closer to me, but my hands were bound securely. The pain from my erection trapped in the CB3000 was overshadowed by my need to release, and I knew that I was only moments from erupting. I felt the moaning begin deep in the back of my throat at the same time that my stomach clenched. My head rocked from side to side. “Oh God, you’re going to make me come, you’re making me come,” I whispered. The smooth dildo pumped in and out, slowly, steadily; and I drew a large breath and gave one final thrust of my hips. . .
My eyes snapped open in the dark room.
Damn it! Dammit, dammit, damn it!
I turned my head slightly, and groaned silently at the clock. 4:25 am, much too early to get up. My wife was sleeping on her side, snoring softly, her back toward me.
The only evidence of one of the most erotic dreams I’d had in years was my cock still straining painfully against the hard plastic cage of my modified CB3000. No, that part wasn’t a dream, was it, I thought to myself. My body was trembling slightly, and I lay there for several minutes trying to calm down with breathing exercises. After a few minutes the pain of tautly stretched skin around my swollen balls began to subside, and I got up, grabbing a robe to ward off the winter night chill as I headed to the bathroom to pee.
It had been three or four weeks – not three months – since I’d been locked in, and I was obviously feeling the strain of being a thrice weekly sex toy for Mrs. Edge. I had been training myself to become aware of the involuntary releases that would occasionally happen during those times when I would bring her to thigh-clenching, back-scratching orgasms with my “other cock,” an extremely life-like silicone creation that mimicked my own size and shape almost too closely for comfort – my comfort, that is. My wife had taken to it like a duck to water from the very first time we tried it, two years previously. Usually I would last about two to four weeks before my body would spontaneously release my semen, so I was obviously due. But the dream was so real, so life-like; it actually felt like I’d waited three months. More, I distinctly felt embarrassment from enjoying being taken in that way.
I padded back to bed and pulled up the covers, and quietly eased back into bed. I spooned against her curvaceous ass, my cock still twitching the cage against her warm cheeks. I practiced breathing for a while and eventually fell into a fitful sleep. At least it was Saturday and I could stay in bed for a little longer.
She woke up before I did. I was on my other side and she was pressed up against my back. She reached around to fondle me, and it took only moments before I was reacting to her fingers massaging and squeezing my balls. Wordlessly she got up to pee, and I took advantage of those few moments to reach into the nightstand drawer for the harness and dildo. I had it fastened on by the time she came back to bed. She made appreciative noises while she fondled my cock, and I feigned reacting to her stroking. I reached for the lube as she rolled onto her back.
We had gotten into the habit of calling the dildo “my cock” when I was wearing it and referring to my penis as “my other cock” when locked in, and then switching the appellations when I was unlocked. My wife enjoys both – as do I – and we spent a little morning time together in pleasant, fun, lovemaking. She came several times – nothing earth-shattering, just the pleasant sensations that lift one’s spirits for the day – and despite my raging arousal a few hours earlier, I was able to sublimate the desire into a feeling of enjoyment and satisfaction. When she was nearly satisfied (as signified by her declaring “I’m getting tired again.”) I asked if she would mind if I lay on my back and watch her as she rode me.
I really enjoy her riding me, and this doesn’t change when I’m wearing the harness. When I’m not caged, I enjoy telling her about some fantasy or scenario while staring up into her eyes, and alternately getting myself worked up and holding back. I was very aroused, and started to tell her about my dream.
And that’s when it all began to go wrong.
When I tried to describe how it felt in the dream to be coaxed along to a near-orgasm, she sort of screwed up her face and got “the look.” I knew immediately that she was getting weirded out. I stopped talking. She shook her head and said that she thought it was “too much” for her, “too dominatrixy.” I caressed her as she rode to a last, small orgasm, and she announced that she was done for the morning. I, on the other hand, felt strangely unsettled. Concerned. Hesitant.
We snuggled up and after chatting for a bit, I tried to sound her out; not necessarily on the idea, but to figure out what changed so suddenly in her mood. “Oh, that’s such a guy thing,” she said carelessly. “What is it with you guys, you all want to get something up your ass?”
I was taken aback – we’ve rarely discussed this, and in my own estimation, most guys distinctly do not want something up their ass. I again tried to explain what was going on in my head, that I’d just had an intensely erotic dream and wanted to discuss it; it didn’t mean that we had to run out to buy any equipment.
“I don’t know why you guys can’t just be satisfied,” she went on. “I can’t imagine what you see in it, anyway.”
I didn’t get it. I was sure that I was speaking English, but it’s as if she didn’t understand a word I was saying. I just wanted to talk, to fantasize out loud. And why was she talking about all these other “guys”? What did they have to do with anything? I could hear the screaming in my head “No, no – I don’t want to talk about what you think all guys want; I want to talk to you, and I want you to talk to me! To me!” She made a few more comments about “guys” in general, and then decided to get up and start the day.
And that was it.
I was dismissed. Not merely my fantasies, but my desire to open up – to open up to her – about another layer of my sexuality was pushed aside, ignored, dismissed as something not worth her attention.
She stepped into the bathroom, and I cleaned up the bedroom, declining to join her in the shower. There was something odd about the entire exchange, something that I could not quite put my finger on. And suddenly, I was back ten years ago, at a point in our relationship where I felt neglected, when I spent months pleading for her to pay attention to me, to try to understand me, to invest as much emotional energy in me as she seemed to do with her nightly tv drama characters.
I felt vulnerable, exposed.
So I started putting the walls back up.
A week or so later it struck me that what she had done was completely deflect the conversation away from her. She had dismissed my attempt to open up by casually comparing me to other guys, by stereotyping my fantasies, as if they were of no consequence, as if they were some phase that I would grow out of – like monster truck rallies or a desire to buy a motorcycle. But by that time, the walls were already going up. No way in hell was I going to risk re-opening the conversation. I became a bit withdrawn, detached.
Not that she noticed.
The holidays hit, and the cooking and visiting and parties, and the guests and visitors took up our time for several weeks – sex was infrequent, let alone time to talk. By this time I was no longer wearing the CB3000 – not that it mattered. My libido had flown south with the geese, and then she caught a flu and was sick and tired for a couple of more weeks. Then back to work. And the longer we went without talking, without being intimate, the more difficult it became for me to bring it up.
Then we were into the end of January. We had not had an intimate conversation for well over a month; everything was holiday, vacation, new furniture, or plans for some event or another that was coming up on the calendar.
One day it came to me that being kinky was an incredible liability; I could no longer feel safe exploring it – hell, it seemed that I could no longer explore it at all. And then I realized that the wall not only served to protect me from being hurt, it also served to contain the sexual frustration. The desires. The kink.
And then the dreams started again. Intense, erotic dreams. Sexual desire was trying to re-establish itself inside me, but I kept blocking it. I began to feel sad, and eventually, angry.
Then I discovered that I had two thoughts which seemed to over-ride everything else, both driving and restraining me:
I was kinky.
And I was very, very lonely.
If you found this interesting, you might also be interested in some of my other real-life experiences which are listed in the True Tales page.