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Archive for the ‘submissive husband’ Category

Not long ago, J and I invited another couple, who happen to be two of our best friends, to our country home for the weekend.  In the early morning hours of the Sunday, J and the other woman happened to be up before their two sleeping husbands.  As Judy made coffee, the other woman casually perused one of several bookshelves we have throughout the house.  Her eye was apparently caught by one, and she pulled it off the shelf.  “Hey, J?  What’s this?”

The book she’d selected was this one:

J, if you haven’t noticed, is fairly unflappable.  She simply said that it was a book I’d brought home one day, and changed the subject. (It’s the first book I’d ever bought on the subject, and not long after getting it I’d read pertinent parts of it aloud to J, in a night of confessions.)

Later that Sunday afternoon, after they’d left, J related the story to me with a hint of concern.  “What do you suppose she thought?  Do you think she’ll tell him?” (I work with him, and see him every day. J was concerned about potential echoes in my office.)

I smiled.  “I don’t care.”

My thinking was, they’re our friends, they’re a progressive couple, she is a very confident and accomplished woman (as is J), and he is always interested in discussing controversial and even anarchic philosophies.  Additionally, we live in a house filled with literally thousands of books.  She chose that particular, slim paperback book to inquire about.  I’m not a Freudian, but some of his aphorisms have extraordinary applicability to everyday life:

For example: There are no accidents.

Maybe her curiosity about it was coming from a very personal place.

Because:  one of the truths of being kept in the cricket for extended periods of time is that I’m led to a very personal place inside me, where being locked is not only sexy and beautiful and symbolic and necessary, but normal. The concepts and practices we’re discovering via male chastity interest me. Occasionally, they downright preoccupy me.

It’s not something strange or shameful to me at all.  I’d like to be able to talk about it with some people. Obviously, our sex life is private, and I’m not proposing that we sit around a table in a restaurant and talk dirty with people.  But many of the emanations that flow from being cricketed, as well as many of the principles involved, have little to do with the intimacies of our sex life.

Well, the bottom line is that incident happened a couple of months ago, and nothing ever came of it.  I remembered it this morning, and asked J to remind me what exactly was said.  I’m still cricketed, and I love J more than ever.  The way I see it is this:  if I never work up the courage to come out of the closet about being cricketed, and all that being cricketed means, I’m still way ahead of the game.  J and I, after all, came out of our respective closets together and ran right into each other’s arms, after nearly twenty years of marriage.  We grow as we go.  Life is fucking good.

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Days off — they are like days in.   There are days when for a variety of reasons he is cricketed only in his mind.

It seems I’m more human in his eyes when it’s off.  I watch myself teeter on the edge of annoying.  My scent seems no longer enough to completely intoxicate.  I am simply loved, quietly craved and always included.  I am no longer a cat scratch, a goddess, an oracle.  With the cricket off, I can be wrong.  It’s good to pursue chastity uncricketed at times.

The various levels of intensity are all interesting and interwoven.  The common thread is that through all we see ourselves in terms of each other.

He is my mirror, my axis, my smile, my sleep.

– J

For several weeks since I’ve last posted I’ve been cricketed sans cricket; that is: kept in chastity without the use of a chastity device.  The great world continued to spin.  Nevertheless, here, now, from the vantage point of being recently re-cricketed, I wholeheartedly reaffirm the core principles of this buh-log:  the implementation of male chastity into an intimate relationship doesn’t have to be merely “a sex game.”  A male chastity device doesn’t have to be just another sex toy.  I offer myself up to your scrutiny for the proposition that orgasm control and male chastity in a relationship can be founded upon natural, logical principles, with the end result being not only mindblowing sexual fulfillment, but a life-altering, philosophically and spiritually satisfying relationship with your partner.

I feel better in the cricket, I’m closer to her with it on.  The cricket is a wedding ring that’s just not for show (yet).  It has real significance and meaning for both of us.  It’s an acceptance, an admission, a confession, a declaration of love, a tangible statement of purpose and a proof of identity.  To those who claim, loudly and with a price tag attached, that male chastity is simply a game or a put-on, I respectfully disagree.  My workaday world is where I pretend.  This isn’t a game to me.  I think it’s a viable path to happiness for a lot of people.

The Look.

J has begun giving me a reminding look every now and then.   She doesn’t speak when she gives me this look.  The look says “I love you, but don’t forget who you are.  You’re my submissive husband, and your place is to attend to me in every way, all the time.”  The reminding look runs through me like a comb.  It cuckolds me, sissifies me, humiliates me, and warms me with J’s love.  The reminding look makes the cricket glow.

And as the cricket glows, so glows the world.

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J has been away on business for a couple of weeks, but here’s a post she sent me via email for you.

“Interesting Cricket Facts

My husband asked me when we first got a chastity device what we were going to call it.  We figured we would have to talk about it incessantly to each other, occasionally in front of others.  From the beginning our huge affection for what was then a CB600 absolutely required that we name it.

I suggested that we call it the cricket.  This name came out of nowhere really.  I did always love the sound of crickets and a certain James Agee description of early evening that is full of them.   Recently I had seen the word on my ipod and it amused me.

My husband agreed.  I think because it made no reference to what it really was.  No cage or lock or penis references.

It seems the name was more appropriate than we imagined.  Here are some interesting cricket facts.

Crickets (only males) have four types of chirps.   The calling chirp is loud and is meant to attract females.   A courting and softer chirp indicates a female is close.  The aggressive chirp is to frighten away competitor males.  The copulatory chirp is made upon ejaculating into a female.  Our name refers coincidentally to an insect that makes noise purely for sexual motivation.

Caged crickets in many societies are symbols of good luck.  We would certainly agree.

In popular culture the cricket usually represents good.   Jimminy Cricket as Pinochio’s conscience is an example.  In fact the cricket seems to encourage all types of goodness, cheerful patience, kindness and generosity.

Some facts are ones I have noticed myself about our own experience with the cricket.  For instance, one would anticipate that submission to another would make one feel weak, erode one’s feelings of confidence.  In fact it seems to have the opposite effect.  My husband’s recognition and acceptance of his submissiveness has made him more sure of himself, more likely to state his strengths and more likely to reassure me of my own.

Crickets by nature are heard and not seen.  My husband sometimes clanks and I sometimes jingle.  We find these noises sweet and humorous and completely unembarassing.   These sounds are the only outward indication that there is a cricket between us.   I know that each of us has wondered if other cricket wearers notice and know.

We both look forward to learning more about crickets and the newly coined verb.  Being cricketed promotes a learning process and we are entirely open to it.

J”

Here was my reply.  In case it isn’t obvious, I’ve been locked for several weeks.

“I wake up straining against cricket, aching for you,

aching for your control, aching for your kiss,

your slap, your grip.

When you assert the superiority of women, as you do in every aspect of your being, I feel a happy sustaining glow inside me.

A life as your fucktoy slave is all I’ve ever wanted.

Please hurt me whenever you want to, please spread my legs and fuck me, please never let me come,

please own me.



I love you.”

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Of all human failings, hubris exacts the most poetic revenge.  Within days of writing that “100 days is within my grasp,” I was reminded, however pleasurably, who’s really in charge.  How long I remain in chastity is not up to me.

This past Tuesday night, as we cuddled in bed, things inevitably heated up with her satisfying her cock hunger with my obedient penis.  After 71 days, my ability to withstand full-on, pedal to the metal cocksucking and intercourse was significantly compromised.  To say I was a loaded pistol is putting it mildly.  Her face and body were painted with moonlight.  I trembled with worship of her.

For the past several days, she’d been noticing that I’ve been dealing with a lot of stressful issues, completely unrelated to our relationship.  On this particular night, with my throbbing cock nestled deep inside her, she whispered into my ear that she thought I should come. Right now.

I didn’t need any further encouragement, and within three seconds the world inside my brain lit up with the light of ten thousand suns.  My entire body spasmed with almost indescribable ecstasy for several minutes, long after I’d emptied what must have been an ocean of come into her.

I’ve read that Navajo women intentionally put a flaw into the rugs they painstakingly weave, because perfection is supposed to be reserved exclusively to God.  One hundred is, after all, as arbitrary a number as any other, and this new phase of my life is not about accomplishing feats of endurance; the accomplishment is in our day-to-day acceptance of the truths associated with a husband’s natural place as submissive to his wife.  When she tells me not to come, I don’t.  When she wants me to, I do.  It’s as simple as that.  The journey is the destination.

End of day 3

:-P

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49 days and counting.  Far longer than I’ve ever gone before.  She’s never come more, I’ve never come less.  A pleasurable delirium — or is it simply fulfillment for the first time? — enfolds us as we lay naked in bed.    My sense of self ignites and burns away a little more each day.  I’m stripping down beyond mere nakedness.

If you’ve ever fasted, you know what I mean.  Truths about food and the process of eating become clear after a few days of not eating.  When you voluntarily go without food, you see the day-to-day world with different eyes, your sense of time changes, meanings present themselves as if for the first time.  But those meanings have always been there, you just need to see them.  The cricketed man wonders how he never saw himself and the world this way before.

She lets me out of the cricket every night, because she loves penis, she needs penis.  That’s why I’m here.  That’s my place.

She really likes stroking me, teasing me, slapping me around.  It makes my cock stand straight up and rock hard.  That’s my place.

She loves sucking cock.  She sucks my cock every night, but I’m not allowed to come.  I have to have a cock that will spring into usefulness whenever she needs it.  After more than a month of chastity, let me assure you, it does.  It makes me happy and proud.  It gives me a sense of self.  It’s my place.

Most nights she needs penis inside her after she has sucked on it a while.  “Don’t come, just fuck me.”

After a while of fucking I usually literally beg her to lick her.  I feel as if I don’t lick her I’ll die.  I need my mouth and lips all over her pussy.  I’m in a fever of submissive desire.  If she peed in my mouth I’d drink it like a man out of the desert.

After she comes, she usually just rolls over and goes to sleep.  I lay there a while, content, before I drift off.  Every morning I put the cricket back on, without a thought.  It’s my place.

So we go where life leads us, at our own pace, all in good time.  We’ve got that; we’ve got time.

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It’s not true that this past year has completely changed me, but it most certainly is true that I’ve stood at the threshold of complete change, that I’ve been brought to the brink of complete change.  In order to understand me — not necessarily male chastity, or submissiveness,  or anything except how those things apply to me and my life with J, you have to understand the following principles we’ve come to embrace, and, tentatively, subtly, espouse to others.  Please don’t take anything here personally or as an invitation to an argument.  I can only speak for me, and how J and I are growing in our relationship.  Also, please don’t get the idea we’ve sat around and hashed out the wording of this.  This is all merely my thinking.  A man in a cricket does a lot of thinking.

1. Women are superior to men: intellectually, physically, spiritually, emotionally.  At first this idea held only erotic attraction to me, but the more I thought about it, the more apparent it became to me, and I now consider it to be a general truth.

2. In any relationship between a man and a woman, the natural place for the man is in subservience to the woman.  In a marriage, the woman should as a general matter be acknowledged as the dominant partner, and the man’s role is to accommodate her needs and desires.

3. Orgasm control is essential for the healthy sexual expression of principles 1 and 2.   A man’s unfettered access to his own penis is cancer to his personal relationships.

4. Men are unable to control themselves regarding their own orgasm, and require a woman’s control in order to abstain from masturbating.

5. Without orgasm control, a man’s thoughts and desires are unmoored and scattered.  With it, his focus remains constant and unyielding on the goal of continually pleasing the woman who controls him.  The dynamic of orgasm control is healthy, natural and beautiful.

6. A man’s resistance to the principles set forth above is rooted in arrogance.  The current standard cultural definition of masculinity is profoundly flawed, and is a product of the insecure arrogance of men.

7.  A woman’s loving humiliation of her husband, including but not limited to the use of a chastity device, will over time act as an antidote to his arrogance.  Masculinity is an illusion waiting to be defined by you.

8.  A chastity device is a symbol of fidelity, a reminder of submissiveness, an expression of love, and a piece of decorative jewelry.   It shouldn’t be forgotten that all of this is fun and erotic and hot and beautiful and lasting and real.

TELL HER TODAY:  I did a little more than a year ago, and guess what?

HAPPINESS

(details as all this applies to us here and now to follow)

(cricketed)

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Guess what, I’m still here!  Sorry for the delay in posting. This is just a quick note to let you know how things are going.  I’m still in the cricket, still discovering, still happy.

We’ve reached a point where I completely identify as a submissive man kept in chastity by his wife.  I accept the truth and beauty of the natural superiority of women.  It’s been a year of living submissively, and I hope we can go deeper. I’m comfortable in my own skin.

I’m hoping I can stay in chastity longer.  I never want the feelings that chastity brings to the surface of our lives to go away.  Our relationship glows with a wonderful soft light.

I’ve begun licking my cum off of her pussy.  It started out very naturally and unplanned.  One night a few weeks ago, while my cock was inside her and she was humping me, I got very close to the edge and pulled out.  About tablespoon of cum leaked out of me onto her beautiful pussy, and I just instinctively knew what to do.  As I licked it off of her, it spread onto my nose and cheeks.  I can’t explain why, but eating my own cum for her is important to me, and I hope it can continue. It reminds me of my correct place: I’m a cum-eating husband.

When she wants my penis inside her, which is every night, she sometimes wants my legs spread and up in the air, with her body between them and on top of me.    We’ve acknowledge that this feminizes me, and I hope we can continue to explore this.  It means what it means, it’s true, and it gives us both an ideal pleasure.  When the time comes to be fucked in the ass, I’ll be ready.

I’ll write in detail about these things soon, I really just wanted to let everybody know that the cricketed man is still alive and well.

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J is resolute about keeping me in chastity, but she’s also unfailingly polite.  She’s never mean; to the contrary, she’s an extremely nice person.  She asks for things rather than demanding them.  She speaks in a soft, pleasant tone of voice.

And she enjoys a hard cock to play with almost every night.

Last night, as I writhed in the standard madness that accompanies satisfying her, I asked her to consider skipping my May release date, based upon my accident last week.  In other words, I was suggesting that I be kept in chastity for a longer period of time.  (Having one’s orgasm controlled creates waves of desire that routinely crash upon Irony Beach.)

She stopped what she was doing with my cock and looked my straight in the eye.

“Let’s get something straight,” she said.  “I decide if and when and how you get to come.”  Then she put me back into her mouth.

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It’s taken me about five days back in the cricket to feel the way I should.  That seems reason enough to justify being in the cricket for longer stretches of time.  The irony of this is not lost on me.  However, the fact remains that there’s absolutely no reason for any comme ci, comme ça period.  I need to be thinking with the clarity of a submissive husband in chastity all the time.  J deserves nothing less.


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The first thing to do is to clarify the I. The I saying I love you is me, the real me.  The me I’ve never told anyone else about.  I love you so much I’ll tell you, I’ll show you.  I’ll be the me necessary to make the I in I love you part of a completely honest and true statement.

There’s a seminal theory of literary criticism propounded by Harold Bloom in his book The Anxiety of Influence, which holds that every poet struggles with and eventually against the influence of the greater poets who preceded him, and that that anxiety either makes or breaks him.

I’ve been fascinated with that theory for almost 30 years, and in my opinion it has applicability to artists and non-artists alike.  There’s an anxiety inherent in every person’s realization that they think differently from accepted societal norms.  (In the final accounting, my money is on nobody in the deep recesses of their hearts truly accepting “accepted societal norms.”   Accepted societal norms generally suck.)  The anxiety of living up to what’s expected in terms of sexual identity creates the need for stuff that destroys relationships, like secret, shameful masturbation.  That anxiety forms the chains that keep you from being happy.  One day I’ll actually flesh this point out and write about it.  In the meantime, there is no meantime.

It’s a trip, let me tell you.

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