Voyage aux terres du nord

I have an interesting hobby. One that, due to its esoteric and personal nature, is difficult to share with others (in real life), let alone find someone who’s as into it and well-versed in its idiosyncracies as I am let alone have real, face-to-face conversations about it with them. So imagine the enthusiasm with which I spent my day yesterday hanging out with Christopher Miers, the man behind Steelwerks Extreme. Drew was there to talk about the device he and Axel are buying. I was just there to geek out and bask in the coolness of it all.

Middle shelf, far right in the front: The first Steelwerks device ever made

Since he was in the middle of moving to new space, I didn’t get to see any of the heavy machinery he uses to coax beautiful and sexy shapes from ingots of raw metal, but I did get to peruse a case of samples, prototypes, early endeavors, and a small collection of his clients’ old devices (to which I will be adding a few carefully chosen specimens). One was a very early Steelworxx device, one a ridiculously small Mature Metal Jail Bird, and another was the first Lori’s tube I’ve ever seen in real life. It was like the beginnings of a penis predicament museum.

Chris was ridiculously generous with his time. He spent essentially the whole day just talking shop, eating lunch, walking around his Montréal neighborhood, and introducing us to his pals at Polymorphe, a manufacturer of latex fetishwear. We discussed and debated at length the merits of all the various device manufacturers (they all have strong suits and potential downsides) and then he fitted Drew in a device to help determine the size necessary for he and Axel’s new device. I was able to try on Chris’ personal device which was a big deal since he said I was the other person to wear it (if I wasn’t worried about how much of a fanboy it’d make me sound like, I’d tell you exactly how that felt) and, as you’d expect, it was gorgeous. So, you know, just another bunch of guys hanging around locking metal to their dicks. Though, to be truthful, Chris didn’t partake (and I’m not embarrassed to say, I wish he had, because fucking yum) but based on the fit of his device on me, I have a pretty good idea of the basic dimensions of his dick (blush).

The thing I appreciate about Chris is the intersection of craft, commerce, and even art he represents. Of course, it’s his business to sell these creations and he has the same concerns as any other small businessman (regulations, rent, payroll, etc.) but the meticulous care he puts into their construction and (especially recently) the level to which he’s advanced the artistic expression in the field of male chastity is truly exciting. We talked about how the merging of a few of his most recent creations would be possibly the most beautiful male chastity device ever made. It’s a device I’d like to see him make and, even better, be locked on me. But who knows. Maybe that’ll happen someday.

It’s also become really clear to me that the marketplace of fetish and kink products is divided into two camps. There’s the small manufacturers who make their wares carefully and with passion and whose livelihoods can often depend on their work and then there’s those who literally steal that innovation and creativity and knock it off overseas to sell at the lowest possible price. This has happened to Chris just as it’s happened to several others like him. It’s unfortunate and, I suppose, inevitable. I get that not everyone (actually, hardly anyone) can afford the very top of the market for any of these kinds of products, but I also think it’s important that as consumers we frequent retailers who respect their suppliers. At the end of the day, someone who takes one of Chris’ creations and knocks it off in cast metal from China simply doesn’t care about you or your penis. They just want your money. If you drop a couple hundred on their crap and it never leaves your drawer following the first time you tried it on, they consider themselves successful. Chris and other makers like him represent the antithesis of this way of doing business.

My only regret from yesterday is that I wasn’t able to spend more time in Montréal. It’s such a great city and has a vibe unlike any other in North America. In the same way Miami feels like it’s in South America, Montréal feels like it’s in Europe. Belle and I have been there together a few times and have also spent time in Québec City which is even harder to imagine is North American. If you want a European-like experience for a fraction of the prices (especially with the currently favorable American exchange rate), head north.

For those interested in what I looked like in Chris’ cage, it’s after the jump. I’d call it maybe 20% longer than I’d want, but the ring and tube diameter were just about perfect.

Continue reading “Voyage aux terres du nord”


Belle and I got to go out to breakfast by ourselves this morning. The kids were both still sleeping like the dead/teenage years so off we went with the New York Times to a little French place in Uptown.

Prior to that, we had been laying in bed wrapped around one another and being groggy and wonderfully Saturdayish. I was pretty hard up and she just started her period so my prospects weren’t very good, but did I mention how hard up I was? Normally, the Steelheart would have been biting hard, but I’ve been wearing it with its original 45mm ring which is too big to bite (though, on the downside, when also worn with my 4ga PA ring, it’s not unlike a cowbell hung around my balls). My pathetic whimpering caused her to asked what I wanted.

Ooo, what I wanted. I wanted to jack off. I really did. I wanted to get the Steelheart off and jack off in front of her until I almost came, then stop letting the ejaculate splurt weakly out of the hard penis in a ruined orgasm. That’s what I wanted. But I felt bad saying it.

“I want to jack off.”

Ugh. OK, I guess I can live with feeling bad.

“There’s no chance that’s going to happen.”

“OK. Sorry.”

More snuggling, more attempted hard-on, more smelling her hair.

“I could jack you off,” I said helpfully. Sure, she was on her period, but I knew my way around that snatch and could get plenty done regardless.

“You’ll have go close the door.” So, you know what happened next. God, I love feeling her come. I love her hard nipples in my mouth and my finger on her clit and my face in her neck when it’s all over and she’s basking. And, as usual, as soon as it was over, I felt the penis start to lose its pressurization. Stupid fucking penis. Then she left me to stew.

So yeah, anyway, off to breakfast. When the food came, she asked me about my impending trip with Drew to visit Steelwerks in Montreal. She was asking about the hotel and looked it up on her phone to see where it was. We talked about what would happen there and then segued into chitchat about another dominant male who reached out to me via Facebook and what I thought of that. You know, what every other married couple talks about over breakfast. If I started to clam up, she prodded me to say more making sure I was aware she was perfectly comfortable talking about such things (yes, that’s for you, reader who assumes I’m still dragging Belle by her hair into my depravity).

The travel security has been figured out. I’ll go to the airport unlocked and take the Steelheart through the TSA checkpoint and put it on as soon as I’m on the other side. It’ll stay on until we’re either on our way to the airport again or we’re there and heading toward security. While visiting Steelwerks, I’m going to get measured for a device though we have no immediate plans to get one. Figure I might as well not waste the opportunity. The trip there is really for Drew and Axel and their needs, not me and Belle.

Even though it’ll be fascinating seeing the Steelwerks production facility and getting a behind the scenes view of where easily the most beautifully handcrafted chastity devices are made, I’m still struggling with my issues of separation anxiety. I know the trip will be fun and interesting, but I get anxious thinking about it and feel the need to cleave to her all the harder. I was feeling it last time I left her for a week, but she let me come the morning I was leaving and, like magic, 84% of the anxiety fell away. It’s clearly hormonal. I can rationalize it all I want but I can’t stop feeling it. Can’t stop the fluttery insecurity that builds in my chest when I think of being away from her. I think a big part of my sleeping issues lately have been because of this (not just the trip with Drew, but another week-long venture later in the month).

I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to come. Not really at all. Yes, of course, I have a huge urge to orgasm, but that’s not the same thing. Belle thinks I should see someone. Not sure what I’d say. “Yeah, my wife controls my orgasm and hardly ever lets me have them so I’m unnaturally attached to her…that’s OK, right?”

Pfft. It’ll be fine. I’ll get over it.

Advice to the reader

Some people don’t like that I’m bisexual. Some don’t like that Belle and I are in an open relationship and I’m allowed to get fucked by guys and have one that does so pretty regularly. They might not like that I enjoy playing with my ass or occasionally wearing lacy (men’s) underwear or am politically left-leaning or whatever.

Thing is, some people want me and my relationship with my wife to fit into their neat little fantasies. They forget that I’m not writing a choose-your-own-adventure novel here. This is a (relatively constrained) view into our real life. And rather than let it roll over them in a way where they can simply absorb an account of yet another in the infinite number of human sexual variations, the extra bits they don’t relate to annoy them. They want to cut them off. They want to put themselves in Belle’s place and lash out in her honor rather than accept I do nothing that she isn’t 100% A-OK with.

I do get it. I understand. Who hasn’t been reading a novel (or, more likely for this crown, some porn) and been unhappy with the author’s choice of action? I know I have. And then I either walk away or find a way to edit on the fly around the offending item. Or I just accept it for what it is. Of course, this isn’t a novel and it’s not porn (though it can be pretty steamy, I admit). This blog and my words shouldn’t be confused with those things and no amount of “constructive criticism” can change that. You get me as I am and you read what I tell you. If you don’t like that, then you should dynamically edit, skip, or leave.

Nothing in particular made me write this today. It’s just something that popped into my head. Something I wanted to say. This is real life, people. Not a performance.

Sleepytown trolly

“I’m going to help you sleep tonight.”

I’ve been struggling with sleep for the past few days. A bought of denial-induced insomnia.


“By letting you give me an orgasm.”

Unf. “I don’t think that’ll help me sleep.”

“What would?”

“You letting me come.”

Snort. “That’s not going to happen.”


“You don’t want to come anyway.”


“Say it. ‘Belle Fille, I don’t want you to let me come.'”

Whimper again. Squirm.


Quietly, “I don’t want to you to let me come, Belle Fille.” It was truth, but being forced to say it was like a high heel grinding my inner sub into a tight, hard corner. The kind of space where it’s most content.

“Of course you don’t. You want to get me off and then, because my orgasm is your orgasm, you’ll get sleepy after and fall asleep.”

I had my doubts. Especially when she started talking about her “boyfriend” and how he’d never say anything like that to her. That he and his big cock always came. All I could do was whimper into her nipple as she said these things and I fingered her clit and thought about this mythical alpha male who’d likely laugh at the locked penis and the way she kept me.

“I’m going to make you work for this one, Thumpie. I’m going to enjoy myself.”


It did take a while. She got wetter and I kept sucking and fingering but I never felt her start to get close. Eventually, she took over her own tits and was tweaking and twisting her nipples while I watched and kept my finger on her snatch, rubbing and flicking and penetrating in all the ways I know, through hours and hours of practice like a musician knows his instrument, she liked best. Even that wasn’t enough for her and she got her vibrator and gave it to me but quickly took it back leaving me nothing more than a spectator to her self-pleasuring.

She came, slowly and deeply, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel her pussy clench against my fingers or her back arch or any of the waves of ecstasy that go with her orgasm. I didn’t share it. I heard it and saw it, but I didn’t know it like I usually do. It didn’t go through me. I was just the fluffler that got her into position.

Of course, I don’t begrudge her anything. We have sex so she can come, always, and however she wants. We never have sex so I can come. Whatever we do, if it’s what she wanted, is what we should have done and I don’t have a right to take issue with any of it. She’s right that even though I may crave my own orgasm I never want her to give it to me. I don’t need any orgasms. I only get them when she wants to feel me come in her. Even that can feel more about her than me.

She was left drained by her effort and its successful culmination and I was left pretty much as I was before. Tired but not sleepy and now that much more wired and trying to push images of her and another man out of my mind. She fell asleep quickly and I tried but couldn’t connect with it. I kept thinking and tossing and feeling separation angst (I have some trips coming up) all the while trying to keep sexual images and thoughts as far away as possible.

At about 11:30, I got up and took the last Tylenol PM in the house. I don’t like taking it but I could feel the kind of panic in me that usually unspools into zero hours of sleep. Then I went in the living room and read more of the book I’m getting through. By 12:30, the pill was taking over and I was yawning. I sent back to the bedroom, stripped, crawled in next to her, and tried to get on the road to Sleepytown.

Eventually, I did.

Express yourself

I saw this on Facebook…


My immediate feeling was to say, “Fuck you,” but since it was probably my mom who posted it, I refrained. As the father of a preteen girl, I want her to express herself as she is most comfortable. If she wants to look like the girl on the left, fine. Like the ones on the right, fine. Or anywhere in between.

My second feeling was, man, this is some grade-A sex negative slut shaming right here. Humans are sexual beings. Many, many girls at 14 are biologically prepared to have sex. Our culture says they shouldn’t and I’m not advocating they should, but we also can’t stick our head in the sand and pretend they’re not going to do it or they’re not going to feel like expressing themselves sexually. Neither is it possible to assume those girls on the right are any more likely to engage in sexual behavior than the girl on the left. Never mind the fact this kind of assumption is next door neighbors with the “she had it coming” rape response. Bottom line, it’s bullshit to judge anyone based on their appearance, especially girls.

Thirdly, the skeptical side of me kicked in. We don’t know the age of any of these girls. We don’t know how the ones on the right dress all of the time nor do we know if the one on the left has ever dressed differently. Also, not for nothing, “when I was 14” probably wasn’t last year but that car is definitely relatively new. So, assuming any of them are 14-year-olds, it’s obvious girls dress both ways now. Also also, having been a 14-year-old myself more than 14 years ago, I can tell you for an absolute fact some girls dressed just like the ones on the right, only without the ability to record it as a selfie.

Lastly, I wonder what would compel someone to even create this. What kind of judgy, insecure, pitiful, unhappy soul sits around and worries about how girls dress? This is more a “I wasn’t a slut” statement and my basic assumption is those who sit in judgement and go to lengths to say what they aren’t pretty much all of the time are.

Here’s a fun exercise: Imagine what the boy version of this would be. Chances are it’d be more about race or social status with no mention at all about sex. That’s because young men are quantified by their capacity to commit violence and young women are quantified by their capacity to have sex. Because we’re fucked up. Because we’re afraid of boys hurting us and we’re afraid of girls controlling their own bodies.

Sex is good. Sexiness is good. All these things are perfectly natural. We should embrace people no matter how they choose to express themselves. Even (especially) young women.