Archive for February, 2010

Day 27.  This cycle ends tomorrow.  Call me crazy, but I’m of two minds about it.  Of course I want to come.  Of course I’m bursting with desire.  I’m a crazed rogue bee who’d sell his soul to pollenate a wax flower.  But there’s a strange yet insistent satisfaction — comfort —  pleasure even, in remaining completely sexually active yet at the same time locked in chastity.  The prospect of it ending, even if only for a couple of days, gives me pause.  The truth is I love having a cock that remains useless until she unlocks me, and that even then remains useless but for it’s ability to provide her with everything an erection is good for other than ejaculation.

The other day she asked whether my feelings were dependent upon being kept locked in a chastity device.  The answer is of course no, but there’s no denying that our sexual lives are hundreds of times more explosive and intimate since we began using the cricket.  I think of it like this: it’s as if I were a grossly near-sighted person who suddenly put on a pair of very powerful glasses for the first time in his life.  The cricket opened my eyes.

Additionally, intimacy is based upon shared vulnerabilities.  The cricket has opened lines of communication straight into the heart of our darkest and most guarded secrets.  We hold each other closer now against the dark the the world around us.

In wearing the cricket, I offer these truths to J:  Women are inherently superior to men in most aspects of civilized life.  My proper and joyful place in life is in being submissive to your needs and demands.   A husband is a confidante, helpmate, lover and sexual plaything, and my goal on a daily basis is to perfect those qualities in myself.  If every husband were kept in a cricket, the world would be a better place.  I’m in love with you.  The cricket brings all these truths into sharper and more immediate focus.

Listening to you I get the music

Gazing at you I get the heat

Following you I climb the mountains

I get excitement at your feet

Have a good weekend, comrades.

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Day 25.  At this point I’m generally okay during the day unless I get distracted by thoughts of J, and then my mind starts to fill up with gelatinous goo.

I proposed my idea about a summer of chastity in bed last night, and was met with a gentle initial resistance.  “But I like it when you come.  Why should I have to give that up for the entire summer?”  I think it would be wildly romantic, I replied.  She’s taken it under advisement.

She told me last night that she wants my cock hard for her every night, to play with before she goes to sleep.  I told her (and understand: at this point I’m hard as a rock and out of my mind after ten minutes or so of her playing) oh please that would be great please just tell me I can lick your beautiful cunt every night I need that so bad oh so bad baby I think about that all day.

“We’ll see,” she said.

We kissed and hugged and snuggled for a bit more.  She’d had a hard day, and had to be up early the next day.  I, in stark contrast, was much like a pirate at a prom, just back from a breadfruit run to the South Pacific.  Perhaps she sensed my ardor.  “If you’re going to lick me, do it fast. I have to sleep.”

Cat-like, I pounced.  It took a fair amount of control to behave better than a starving man at an all you can eat buffet, but I’m a shining example of evolution.  I learn.  I concentrated on loving her cunt, and not mauling it.  I want to get better at it every day.

And a quick postscript, one that demands a more thoughtful follow up.  At a certain point while we were discussing the summer of chastity idea, I told her that I adored her, that I worshipped her, that I want to spend the summer at her feet.  She said, “I want you to spend the summer at my feet anyway. Do you worship me and adore me just because you’re in the cricket?”

I thought about that all day, and  I’ve got my own ideas on that issue.  What are yours?

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“You have such a beautiful cunt.”

Said she to me last night, mounted between my open legs, as she humped me determinedly.  Despite the fact that it’s still me inside of her while she does this, within a few seconds it feels like it’s the other way around. With one hand on the small of her back, the other gently stroking her hair back from her face, I replied that I love her cock, and that she fucks me really, really good.

It’s day 23 of the cycle.  Because of reasons related to metal detection, I had to go through the day without the cricket on.  I didn’t like it.  I feel better when I’m locked up.

I’m at that point, now familiar to me, where I don’t want the agonizing euphoria of this period of submissive chastity to end.  I’d like to stay in the cricket for longer than a month at a time.  I can’t imagine the view from here ever being better than it is like this.

I’m going to offer her a summer of chastity and sexual servitude.  In other words, for me to remain cricketed from the end of June to the end of September.  Am I able to do it?  I honestly don’t know — I think there may be a very fine line between rapture and insanity — but I want to try.  I want to see where this leads us.  The idea of spending an entire beautiful sunny and warm summer aching and unconditionally devoted to satisfying her seems like a miracle to me right now.

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It would be glib to observe that every day is Valentine’s Day to the man in the cricket, but ah, glibness is one of the qualities the cricketed man surrenders fairly soon after his wife snaps shut the lock.  Sincerity takes its place, with a heartfelt inflection finding its way into everything the cricketed man says.  Whether my sincerity and constant displays of affection become insufferable, only time will tell.  Ultimately, I believe I’m the man I’m supposed to be in the cricket.

Last night she unlocked me to play with her penis, and I begged to lick her to orgasm.  Afterwards, we fell asleep with me out of the cricket.  I woke up in the middle of the night with my hand stroking my own erection, for the first time in months.  As I swam up from the depths of sleep, my penis felt different to me, like something other than me.  And in the fog of awakening I thought: Jesus, my cock is huge.  (Sensory deprivation is a funny thing.  But even stranger than that is the notion that I can go weeks without touching or even seeing my cock in anything other than a caged flaccid state, and yet not feel deprived at all.  In fact, quite the opposite.)  I rolled over and spooned J and whispered into her ear that I love her, and I do.

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caption contest!








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Day 20 of the cycle.  I think I’ve effectively become a zealot.  I’ve come to the conclusion that the surrender of control over his orgasms by a husband to his wife is the secret that can — literally — change the world for the better.  The “ordinary” mode of sexual cohabitation between men and women is rife with opportunities for disaster.  When permitted unfettered access to his own orgasm there can’t be any consistency in a man’s expression of devotion or affection to his wife.  A man kept in chastity, and committed to a mode of sexual life that has as its only end the satisfaction of the woman, allows them both to experience never-ending feelings of intimacy and love for each other.

Pre-conceived notions of what constitute true and lasting sexual satisfaction need to be shaken off, along with a good deal of ego.  The goal is a communion that transcends fleeting gratification. A man kept in chaste sexual service to his wife exchanges orgasm for exaltation.  When reverence for his wife is allowed its proper place in a man’s heart, the sexual intimacy shared by a couple takes on deeper, richer, and more satisfying meaning.

There’s is no end to the irony.  J’s control of my orgasm, and her denial of that orgasm for a month at a time, hasn’t led us into a life of asceticism or repression; to the contrary, our physical happiness has flourished like never before, and our intimacy has become an ongoing creative act.

She comes home tonight after five days away. Life in the cricket for me is now pretty much 24/7.

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J’s calendar

For Christmas J made me a 2010 calendar which schedules the twelve orgasms I’m allowed to have this year.  I thought you might like to see it.

The calendar is constructed from a large spiral bound pad of heavy black paper, bound at the top.  The pages flip up and over.  A painting by Matisse is on the cover.

On the pages above the months is a “pin-up” of an erotic painting.  On one day of each month’s calendar is a small hand drawn heart, signifying the day on which I’m allowed to have an orgasm.

As you can see, the last time I came was January 23.  On the pages between each month there are, on the top, excerpts from poems, and on the bottom, another painting.  Here are the pages that separate January and February.

And here’s February:

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