Think Carefully 16

Orgasm Imbalance

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

{ Note: This is the sixteenth installment of this story. If you have not read the earlier chapters, this one will make more sense to you if you do. The opener can be found here: Think Carefully. }

I was struggling, kicking, and crying out when the last stroke from Gloria’s hairbrush landed. I hate to act the wimp when I’m over Gloria’s knee, but that brush is so damned painful when she slams it down on my ass—my already freshly spanked ass. Chores’ performance penalties are given with the brush after the weekly maintenance spanking on Friday evenings.

Maintenance itself is no pleasure trip over my lady’s lap. I asked Gloria once why she spanks so hard when giving me a maintenance spanking. From my reading, those were supposed to be reminders of our relative status in the marriage and encouragement to do well in the coming week. Maintenance spankings are not given for any particular failure on my part. Punishment spankings are for when I screw up. Her answer was her maintenance spankings are, “meant to deter you from screwing up, and they wouldn’t provide much of a deterrent if I did not spank you hard.”

Difficult to argue with that, and arguing over spankings is not smart in general, so I didn’t. I couldn’t help wishing Gloria put less thought into the purpose and delivery of spankings and did not take them so seriously. When I first suggested to my wife that she spank me, I assumed I was the only real Spanko in the family. Got that wrong.

Gloria put her brush on the kitchen table and lightly trailed her fingers across my burning ass. She waited until I’d gained a modicum of self-control and said, “That wasn’t so bad as last week. You did much better on your chores, and there was the fifty percent discount for agreeing to play this weekend. Naturally, I had to make the few I gave you especially hard to compensate. Up you get,” she said and patted my ass. I struggled to my feet lest those pats turn to slaps. “Into your corner, no talking, no rubbing, no fidgeting. Use the time to think of ways to be a better husband in the coming week.”

I heard Gloria gather up her phone and hairbrush from the table, fill a glass with ice and water from the refrigerator dispensers, and leave the kitchen. My first thought when she left: Good, she’s gone. I can rub my tortured bottom. My second thought:  Shit! She’d know. I don’t know how she’d know, but she would, and there’d be hell to pay. The very, very last thing I wanted was to risk being taken back across my wife’s lap for a little corrective therapy.

Standing still with nothing new to see, nothing to hear, and nothing to do makes time crawl. At one point, I tried to take my wife’s advice and think about ways to be a better husband.

I thought: Uh. Uhm… I got nothing.

Considerate performance in the bedroom is one category that comes to mind when guys think about being a better husband. However, Gloria recently launched a one-person campaign to right the orgasm imbalance between the sexes, and she has taken complete control of that issue in our home. Not much for me to be a better husband in that category, other than follow her lead.

I gave up and resumed trying to estimate how long I’d been standing there and wondering how much longer I would be forced to remain.

Gloria finally came back to the kitchen and released me. As I turned from the corner, her eyes dropped to my crotch and she grinned. “I love your new blue decoration,” she said. “Step out of your shoes, pants and undies, and take off your shirt.”

My pants puddled at my ankles when I clambered off Gloria’s lap and walked across the kitchen to my corner. The hassle of that limitation to my stride ranked far below my greatest concern at the time, and I’d given my clothes none of my attention. So now, rather than pulling up my pants, making myself decent again, Gloria wanted to see me in the altogether with her latest chastity cage addition. The new game, as she called it. With the ache and itch in my backside, I’d almost forgotten the snug blue plastic chastity cage in front.

When I was as naked as I was likely to get this weekend (i.e. nothing but the cage), I did a slow turn to let Gloria see the blue tube from all perspectives.

“I love it,” she said. “If women everywhere would use such devices, the orgasm imbalance would disappear overnight. Leave your clothes, you won’t need them. Let’s go to the bedroom so you can thank me for your spanking in comfort.” She grasped my plastic enclosed package and led me to the stairs.

Years ago, I came across a study of men and women reporting on how often they achieve orgasm when having sex. In it, 95% of hetero men reported usually or always achieving orgasm, compared with 65% of hetero women. Hence the Great Orgasm Imbalance. That struck me as unfair, so I’ve always done my best to even the odds. I mentioned those statistics to Gloria in passing recently. Not sure why I brought it up, but she thought that sounded about right, though the reported female number might be higher than reality. Since then, with Gloria taking control, she sees to it she is always satisfied. If she’s not in the mood, we don’t try. If she is, we don’t stop until success for her is achieved… repeatedly. Success for me? Not as critical. In our house, the traditional orgasm imbalance is now inverted.

When we reached the bedroom, Gloria dropped her hold of my cage, laughed and stripped off her clothes, flinging the mundane and the intimate garments to all sides. Naked, she dove onto the bed—giving me a delightful view of her ass in the process—rolled onto her back and spread her legs. “Time to thank me. You’ll be graded on your sincerity,” she said and giggled.

I’m not sure how sincerity is measured when a man goes down on a woman, but I do my best.

My lover was practically dripping before I even got to her clit. Tonight, she was definitely in the mood. I filled my head with sincere intentions and went to work. My wife buried her fingers in my hair and guided my mouth and tongue. I also used a very sincere finger, then two, plunging in rhythm with my mouth. True to form, Gloria turned ticklish after her third gasping explosion and shoved my head away and closed her legs tightly together.

“Scoot yourself up here, baby,” she said.

When I lay even with her on the bed, Gloria reached down to play with my cock cage. “Oh,” she cooed, “poor baby can’t come out to play. So sad. Maybe I should go visit him.”

Gloria shoved me onto my back and sprawled across me, kissing her way down my body. She stopped at my right nipple and played with it with her tongue. When it hardened, she nipped it with her teeth then moved further down, kissing her way over my abs (not six-pack worthy, but not what I would consider flabby). She paused to swirl her tongue in my navel.

When Gloria reached my crotch, she leaned up and said, “Here him is, all tucked away safe in him’s shiny new home.”

I strained to get hard, and failed, obviously. The tube was short with a downward curve. I couldn’t straighten, much less form an erection. As my cock tried to lengthen, it pushed the cage out from my body, but the restraining ring behind my balls held it back. My balls ached in response. I already suffered in chastity, and I’d been wearing the device for… what? An hour?

Gloria let herself back down and gently kissed the tip of the tube. “I bet he loves being tucked away, safe from any abuse,” she said. “I’ll just let him know I’ll protect him.” With a loud slurp, Gloria sucked the tube into her warm, wet mouth. The tip of her tongue played with me through one of the openings that ran down the side. I could just feel her, but the effect was to make me ache for more, and for my balls to ache in earnest.

My wife pretty much stopped giving me head after we married. Her actions now were a mockery of the days when we were dating, in the back seat of my car, in the back row at the drive-in movie. We were so hot for each other; I can’t tell you how many movies we didn’t watch.

“This isn’t fair,” I groaned. “If you let him out of that cage, he could perform all kinds of magic for, or to you.”

Gloria pulled off with a wet plop and laughed. “We can’t do that,” she said. “This is fun, and you promised to play our new game all weekend. Actually, the weekend hasn’t started. This is just the lead up.” She cocked her head to the side, pretending to go all thoughtful and said, “You know, we agreed the game would be over after the weekend, but I’m trying to remember… Did we specify that was after this weekend, or next weekend, or after the third weekend next month?”

“Now wait one minute!” I protested. “You know very well…”

When I started to speak, Gloria swung around, straddled my shoulders with her knees and lowered her pussy to my mouth, ending the discussion. Knowing my best options for winning this debate under these circumstances, I put my tired tongue back to work. I knew she was just pulling my chain. And that’s another image I will not share with my wife. All she needs is a chain with which to lead me around by my new blue cage.

I can’t always tell for certain in Gloria’s case, but I think the Big-O score for this night finished at Gloria – 5, John – 0. Her score may have been higher than five. Mine was capped at zilch. Gloria was doing her personal best to correct the overall orgasm imbalance between the sexes.

When we were both exhausted, Gloria pulled me into a spoon with her behind me, her arm around my waist, and her hand gently cupping my encased package. She drifted off almost immediately. Me, not so quickly. My balls ached, I was thoroughly frustrated, and our position seemed unnatural. When we spoon, I pull Gloria into my body—my manhood nestled against her warm bottom—not this other way around.

I finally drifted off, but awoke several times during the night. My cock seemed to be in a constant state of semi-arousal. My guess is that with the cage effectively hugging it, it couldn’t fully relax. Aching ball syndrome kept me awake.

A frustrated case of morning wood finally woke me not long before I usually get up on Saturday, so I abandoned all efforts at further rest and climbed out of bed, moving to not disturb my wife’s slumber. Yesterday’s clothes were still down in the kitchen. I got a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from my dresser and headed for the bathroom. I stood over the toilet bowl for my morning pee, and tried, too late, to stop when it occurred to me the cage might cause the stream to squirt in all directions. Fortunately, everything was lined up, so it wasn’t a problem this time. Something to be conscious of this weekend.

I turned the shower on to get good and hot. My face had been thoroughly used by my wife last night, and her fragrance lingered. Not unpleasant, but irritating under the circumstances. I stepped in and let the spray crash against my shoulder blades and run down my back. I was frustrated and feeling deprived. My wife’s orgasm imbalance campaign was going to be a trial for me. Finally relaxed, I cautioned myself to not let my feelings show around Gloria. Attitude adjustments are a real bitch to bear.

Out of the shower and dried off, I found a pair of jeans and my crocks and headed down to the kitchen to start a big pot of coffee. When I’m home on my days off, I drink lots of coffee in the mornings, then switch to water in the afternoons to rehydrate.

I was early, and after Gloria’s assault upon the international orgasm imbalance last night, I figured she would be late. So, I sat at the kitchen table, full cup of hot-and-black at hand, the news on the flatscreen with the volume low, and my kindle open to my current read. Not a bad way to start a Saturday morning. Now, if I could just get that damned cage arranged more comfortably.

END of Part 16

The story continues with: Think Carefully 17 

Copyright © 2024 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

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