Being bad

Left unlocked and knowing it was wrong, I couldn’t help myself. I was in a place where I could jack off in private, but not so secluded that it was guaranteed I wouldn’t be caught. But I had to. Had to. Now or never.

I wrapped my hand around the hard shaft and indulged. Quickly, alarmingly so, I was on the edge of coming. And I wanted to. I intended to. No one would know unless they walked in on me. They might, but I couldn’t stop. I focused my efforts on fast, short strokes near the head of the penis. The final stage of masturbation that would lead inevitably to spewing my long-denied orgasm. Oh god, I wanted it so bad. I wanted to feel it so, so bad.

Stroking. Quickly. So close. So…close. Just…close. Why…why am I not coming? I’m stroking. I can feel it in my balls. I can feel the orgasm right there. I’m stuck on the edge. I can’t make it happen. I can’t come. I’m…

…in bed. My hand wrapped around the hard, unyielding, packed steel.

Fuck.

I will myself back to sleep. Back to the fantasy.

And there I was again. Different place. But the same in that I could have been found out. If someone had looked in just the right place. They would have seen me just like I could see them. They would have seen me totally nude, contorted so that I was jacking off over my face, mouth open. Ready to eat it. Wanting to. And again, I was right on the edge. So close. Balls tight and tingling and the pressure of the impending eruption building along the hard shaft in my hand. I opened my mouth and extended my tongue to accept the inevitable.

Stroking. Faster. Faster. Oh, god, so close. So fucking close. Right there. Right…there…

And I’m awake again. Sharp, tight pain from the steel tube. So tight. Throbbing. I try to stroke the tube and the PA fixing pulls on the PA ring and makes it hurt even more. Impossible.

My heart is pounding. The steel won’t relent. I’m so horny. Desperate. Consumed.

Just another Locktober night.

The reason for the season

Belle and I found ourselves alone in the house Saturday night which, as the parents of two, is not the usual situation. We watched some random TV for a while then it occurred to her that she could make noise. Which means, she could scream her head off while coming which is her favorite way to come.

So the TV went off and to the bedroom we went. We started with some light making out then heavy petting then she told me to strip. She took my balls in her hands and roughly massaged them before moving to straight up squeezing and abuse. Of course, she knows I’m a masochist, but she also seemed to be enjoying this. I don’t think it was just for me.

“How can I make you come?” There are many options, even with no available penis between us. I could use my fingers. I could use a vibrator. She could use a vibrator. There’s her glass dildo. But what I really wanted, what I hoped she wanted, was for me to eat her out.


This whole interaction between us is, I think, indicative of what Locktober is all about. We’re about halfway through at this point and what I see a lot on Twitter from guys in similar predicaments is stuff about how long we’ve been locked up and how horny we all are and pictures to prove both (and, of course, I am totally guilty of all these things), but really, that’s not what we should be focusing on. Our denial is not what denial is about.

I think the purpose of enforced chastity and orgasm denial is to teach us that…

  1. The point of sex is pleasure and satisfaction for our partners, not us.
  2. The pent up energy of denial frustration should be redirected to maximizing their pleasure and satisfaction.
  3. We need to recognize and accept that the frustration and craving is our version of pleasure. Their orgasm is our satisfaction.

Every cell in my body tells me these things are true. But every cell in my body has been trained by a decade of being locked up and I am 100% submissive. There are probably a lot of guys (and their keyholders) out there who are just starting out who may not yet get that chastity and denial aren’t about being as horny as possible prior to eventual release and explosive orgasm. Of course, everyone gets to do this their own way and ultimately our keyholders are the ones who decide, but penis-centric thinking is the antithesis of what chastity and denial represent.

As the Ancient One told Doctor Strange, “It’s not about you.” It’s about them, our keyholders. If you think of chastity and denial as a thing you endure until they let you come again, you’re still thinking with your penis. If you talk to your keyholder about how long you will be locked up — either asking for that time to be extended or reduced — you’re thinking with your penis. Worse, you’re making them think about your penis.

Guess what? Once you hand over the key, it’s not your penis anymore. It’s theirs. And what happens or doesn’t happen to it is up to them, not you. Which is why your best bet is to only think about their pleasure. Their orgasm. Their satisfaction.

Locktober isn’t about you being locked. It’s about why they lock you.


Belle did want me to go down on her. I could barely contain myself as I moved down her body, kissing her nipples and her stomach and her pelvis before placing my face before the heat of her sex. Humid and potent, I pushed my tongue into her wetness and lapped at her clit. Hands on her hips, I could feel her gyrate against my mouth. Pressing her pussy into my face to make sure I hit all the right spots.

The Evotion 8 locked on my body became painfully tight and I was unable to lay flat on my stomach. I had to angle my hip up to relieve the pressure on the throbbing, desperate contents of the device.

The volume of her ecstasy grew as her hands moved from her breasts to the hair on my head. As she got closer to orgasm, she grabbed fistfuls of it, almost using it to steer my attention. Her pussy juice was flowing freely down my chin and coated my nose and face. The discomfort between my legs distracted from focusing all my senses on the tip of my tongue and how it was flicking over her and the reactions that elicited in her movements and exclamations.

Her orgasm exploded in a great, deep bellowing of pleasure. She was screaming her satisfaction and her pussy was spasming under my mouth. Her whole body tensed then released, one thing after another. First her hips, then her fistfuls of hair, then her back, then her legs.

I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to stop tasting her. To leave the center of the power she has over me. I was in the throne room and couldn’t bring myself to back out. So while she basked I lingered, breathing deeply her pheromones. Letting her pussy saturate my senses. The black plastic locked on my body refused to relent in its grasp.

I stayed as long as I dared. She’d be wanting me to snuggle and embrace her. She’d want the covers back up over her body. I wanted…what I wanted wasn’t the point. Of course, I wanted out. To fuck her. To slip into her fantastically wet pussy and pound it until I came. But that was fantasy.

And thinking too hard on that was unproductive. So I moved up and covered her and held her and kissed her and thanked her for everything she does for me. Including keeping me locked for all of Locktober and every other month.

Evotion 8 review

Evotion 8 male chastity device held in my hand

What I really want in life is a male chastity device that can be my “forever” wear. Not that I would literally never take it off because that’s just a (incredibly hot and potent and loin-stirring) fantasy. I’m talking about a device I never need to take off except for doctor visits, etc. The perfect set-it-and-forget it chastity device that enables indefinite, if not permanent, wear.

Continue reading “Evotion 8 review”

The horny report

I should have know I’d be horny today. That kind of intense, hard-edge gnawing that sits heavily in my balls and radiates out and up like the molten core of a reactor gone critical.

I should have known because last night, as I was in bed and about to go to sleep, I could feel it starting up. That very particular kind of feeling that one without access to a penis or an avenue to satisfy himself sexually feels. The kind of feeling that, in years past, would have kept me up all night. Tossing and turning and clawing at the steel. But last night, it was more like having a neighbor that throws too many late-night parties. Eventually, the noise becomes part of life’s background. Noticeable and present, but not as much an impediment.

But this morning. The party is a full-on three kegger frat house orgy. And my mind won’t stop dwelling on scenarios and imaginings that only make the thumping party music increase in volume and tempo.

This isn’t simple frustration. When a normal boy feels sexual frustration he’s never more than a quick trip into a bathroom stall away from relief, worst case. When a locked person like me feels it — locked in the way I am — there is no release. No hope for release. The frustration just builds on itself. Sometimes slowly and steadily and sometimes with incredible force. And then the mind keeps showing me objects and scenarios and making suggestions that are tantalizingly displayed on the other side of a perfectly clear, perfectly thick and impenetrable wall of glass. And rushing towards those temptations results in slamming against the glass again and again with the only end to the flagellation coming with exhaustion.

On my trip into work this morning, nearly from the moment I was out of the driveway, the tube was thickly full. The pants I’m wearing are among the tightest I have and they were pushing back at the tube and keeping it from rising while it, in turn, pushed back at its throbbing contents. Swelling to the point of feeling my heartbeat in the steel then feeling it back off slightly only to push forward again. That sensation of having a hard-on and feeling the pressure and gripping tightness of a slightly too-small base ring and then grabbing at it in frustration with the hand not on the wheel to try and tease out any kind of pleasurable sensation only to feel the numb, unrelenting hardness of metal. And that adding even more fuel to the fire.

I don’t know why this happened today. It’s apparently random how the hormones mix and cause the neurons to fire. Belle didn’t let me out for sex this past weekend so I was pretty horny after getting her off, but that’s normal. We’ll be apart this coming weekend so no chance for sex then. Maybe not the weekend after that, either. But I’ll be locked up the whole time. She made a point of reminding me last night lest I had any doubt by asking which device I was taking with me (probably the HT Nub, if you’re keeping score).

It’s also interesting to me in the way only a self-obsessed and inwardly analytical kinky geek could appreciate that my fantasies today are very much focused on the heterosexual side of my personal Kinsey Scale. Like most people, I don’t really think about what I’m going to fantasize about but I do pay attention to the porno film my imagination plays for me and this morning it’s exclusively cuckolding/facesitting stuff.

So, anyway, there you have it. This morning’s horny report. And now to Chet with Sports.

Verb to noun

Tom can’t remember the last time he came.

I get that. I only remember the last time I came because it was a little over two weeks ago. Before that? No idea. Honestly, not a clue.

In the case of Tom and Mrs, Edge…

We didn’t intentionally set out to do this, we just sort of… ended up here because we were having such a good time doing what we were doing. And as a result, it’s looking as if my last orgasm, as the joke goes, may well actually be my last orgasm.

I used to think a lot about when I last came and when she’d make me do it again and please could it be longer and gosh won’t that be hot? But somewhere along the way, it just stopped happening with any kind of regularity. And we stopped talking about it. And now, when Venus is in the house of whatever the fuck, she tells me to come and I do. But they’re months and months apart.

A while back, I stopped tracking them. I used to. I used to track everything. I still keep track of what I’m locked in and when, but only because I have an app for that. There’s a point at which it becomes meaningless. Chastity and denial stop being about the things they keep from happening and keep contained and start being about the lack of the things. When it stops being a verb and becomes a noun. Not a thing you’re doing, but a thing you are.

Oh, back to that again.

It’s not that she doesn’t like or crave penetrative sex. She does. But I’m really not good at it any more and the once or twice a month she lets me go inside her is more a treat for me than it is about pleasuring her. Maybe she’ll come to appreciate a way to scratch that itch that doesn’t require the penis. Maybe she already has. But not quite yet. So I find myself inside her every once in a while and a small fraction of those times, she feels like feeling me come. And then I do. And after that, it’s back to normal.

Someday, perhaps she won’t tell me to come again. If so, that’s how the end of orgasms for me would happen. Not declaratively, but quietly. Almost as an oversight. And by the time either of us realize it’s happened, it’ll also be obvious they’re not required. Or missed.

#chastitybump

Today while sitting in our truck while Belle took a turn driving on our multi-state camper excursion, I looked down and saw this…

Not all that unusual, TBH, but since I was just sitting there, of course I took a picture of it and posted it to Twitter. Like you do. That’s not the interesting part or why I’m writing this post.

The interesting part is the hashtag. After pecking that out and posting it, I was stunned to see nobody had ever used it before. I mean, why should they? But I’m never not surprised when I have an original idea and #chastitybump was one.

Of course, I don’t really mind when my #chastitybump is that obvious. I literally just wrote

I think all this is why I’m not nearly as worried as I used to be about my device being detectable by Muggles. I was running two days ago (and this morning) outside in light blue shorts and discovered as I was moving that I was sporting a fairly obvious bump that moved in a weirdly heavy way. And…I didn’t care. See it if you want. I dare you to ask me about it. I won’t take it off for you. Notwearing it is easy. It’s not special. But wearing it. That’s a thing I’m proud of. The dedication and the difficulty. It is special. It’s my super power.

And in that moment of hashtag inception, I was thinking about a) how hot I think a #chastitybump is (especially in new jeans I like a lot), and b) the defiant language I used yesterday, and c) how obsessed a lot of guys are about the devices locked onto them being seen through their clothing. And suddenly a movement was born. If only in my head. A way to help guys move past their #chastitybump worries and obsession. A way for them to be maybe even proud of it.

Because, when you boil it right down, what does a chastity device signify? Chastity is about devotion, sacrifice, and dedication. All noble and worthwhile things. The man who willingly accepts a chastity device is demonstrating attributes most people would value in their friends and partners. There really is nothing to be embarrassed about at all.

There is the issue of not wanting to involve others in your sex life without their consent. But the reality is (based on eleven years or so of catching people seeing my #chastitybump) nobody is going to ask. I mean, honestly, at this point the number of people I know and don’t who I’ve caught dick checking me has to be a hundred. Nobody has asked. Not a soul. And if they ever do, then they want to know and have therefore consented to get involved.

I think being less worried about one’s #chastitybump being visible is empowering. Being obsessed with stealth indicates that chastity is something to be ashamed of. In my opinion, that cheapens the commitment. I’m not going to go around with the shiny steel tube hanging out my fly, but I also will not go crazy trying to make it invisible.

Of course, creating a hashtag does not empower one with any kinds of special powers. But, if I was king of the hashtags, I’d ask that users of #chastitybump observe the following:

  1. #chastitybump is not for exposed chastity devices. We’ve already got plenty of tags for those. Therefore…
  2. #chastitybump should be used for devices that are covered with clothing. They should be at least minimally visible, but total obviousness is not required.
  3. Preferably, the #chastitybump should be under things like street clothing (shorts, jeans, slacks, swimsuits, etc.), but underwear is also acceptable (mostly because I didn’t think of this rule until after posting a few tagged underwear shots myself).

And that’s it, really. It’s time for us to own our #chastitybump. I really, truly hope this becomes a thing because the stigma of wearing chastity devices needs to be defeated. One little #chastitybump photo at a time.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Belle and I are about to leave on an 11-day road trip in our little camper. My social media accounts are about to swap over into “grandeur of nature” mode, fair warning.

It occurred to me as my hand was randomly down the front of my shorts feeling the smooth steel tube, warm with my body heat and slightly slickery from the lube I have to put under my balls, that I’d be really OK with Belle leaving the key at home. Being without the key while locked in the Steelheart is just about the hottest way to do the chastity and pretty much my optimal state.

It’s only happened a few times, and always when she says she’s forgot the key. I don’t recall it ever being intentional. I do recall, though, early on when I was still in the CB6K and we were going off on a weekend away for some reason or another that I was super fucking horny to get the thing off. I wanted to feel my hard-on and fuck the shit out of her. I was actually kind of angsty about it. She didn’t forget the key that time.

Ah, youth.

Chastity changes you. Not just hormonally and mentally and emotionally, though in all those ways, too. I was chatting with someone earlier about this. How not having a penis, the primary sex organ for a man, requires he become creative. Learning the other ways he can feel pleasure and that not all of them are from physical contact. It carves new pleasure pathways. Exposes hidden ones. He also has to learn how to pleasure his partner in ways that don’t involve penetration. For real, young men should be required to have sex with their partners for a full month without use of their penises to learn that critical life skill.

At this point, I think the penis is just too easy. It’s engineered by evolution to provide maximal pleasure as efficiently as possible. In general, they’re absolutely the easy way out, sexually. Most men and certainly men who would never consider being in chastity think this is exactly their point. But I have come to view it as a downside. For me, penises represent weakness. Temptation.

The other day, I was out all day because I was going to a sporting arena after work. I could have worn plastic, but didn’t because I also had a weird sore spot that a day out fixed right up. Every time I went to the bathroom I was presented with this weird little floppy meat thing instead of whatever rigid and usually shiny object I’m used to. Yeah, peeing was easier, but it was so…unimpressive.

That’s not a tiny penis kink thing. Well, not entirely. I mean, when it’s super flaccid it is really small. I said unimpressive because it’s so easy to use. That’s their raison d’être. The shortest possible line from desire to satisfaction. But a locked penis is hard. It’s about no line from one to the other. To be locked and denied for long periods is challenging in all the ways having access to a penis isn’t. And I need sex — my sex — to be hard. Challenging. In all the ways penises aren’t.

That’s how chastity has changed me. It’s bypassed my evolutionary wiring regarding “path of least resistance” pleasure. All my pleasure now needs to be maximally resistive. The more the better. Chastity, denial, bondage, bottoming, pain. It’s not that I don’t appreciate sweet sex. I get why it’s good and necessary. And my submissive, sexual service nature makes me willing to do that when it’s required of me (like when Belle unlocks me to fuck her). But hard sex. Resistive sex. That’s what I’m about.

Was I always like that or did chastity and denial make me that way? I dunno. My thinking is they tend to lower the water level of one’s sexuality exposing topography that’s usually hidden in the depths. And orgasmic satisfaction raises that water back up, turning the topography back into islands or submerging it altogether. But what do I know.

I think all this is why I’m not nearly as worried as I used to be about my device being detectable by Muggles. I was running two days ago (and this morning) outside in light blue shorts and discovered as I was moving that I was sporting a fairly obvious bump that moved in a weirdly heavy way. And…I didn’t care. See it if you want. I dare you to ask me about it. I won’t take it off for you. Not wearing it is easy. It’s not special. But wearing it. That’s a thing I’m proud of. The dedication and the difficulty. It is special. It’s my super power.

The presence of this thing on my body makes me more me than I am without it. I feel lesser without out. And it made me like this.

So yeah. Chastity changes you.