One of our favorite TV shows from the last couple of years is Hacks. It’s on HBO (OK, fine, Max) and follows a kind of Joan Rivers-esque stand up comedian late in her career (Deborah Vance played by Jean Smart) and a young bisexual comedy writer (Ava Daniels played by Hannah Einbinder) who’s been cancelled due to an insensitive tweet and ends up working for her. It’s in its third season which is a treat since it seemed to be ending after two.

You should watch it. It’s just terrific.

Anyway, in episode two of the third season, Deborah is guest hosting a talk show and pulls a guy named Lance out of the studio audience to be an impromptu guest. They have the following exchange:

DV: So what do you do for work?

Lance: I’m actually a TSA agent.

DV: Okay, that’s all the time we have, ladies and gentlemen. (laughter, rim shot) No, I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You must find some weird stuff in people’s suitcases.

Lance: It’s kind of X-rated.

DV: Oh, now you have to tell us. Come on.

Lance: A few years ago, this guy went through the metal detector. I guess he was wearing a — can I say “cuck cage” on TV? (laughter)

DV: Well, Lance, I think you just did. What on Earth is that?

Lance: It’s like a metal cage that goes on a man’s —

DV: TSA wand.

Lance: Yes. And you can only take it off with a key. But his wife had the key.

DV: And where was she?

Lance: In Miami. (laughter)

A couple of things. One, it’s still kind of surreal to see our weird little kink in the Muggle popular culture. It’s really hard to know how much, erm, penetration male chastity has in society and I agree that people who do it probably overestimate it, but then this happens and it’s clear that overall awareness of the practice is definitely growing (rimshot).

Two, the whole thing was played for laughs. That’s fine. There may be more awareness, but most people still think it’s funny. Most kink would be played for laughs, not just this one. I’m still waiting for enforced denial to be an integrated and not-for-laughs story element in popular media (and I expect I’ll be waiting a while). I want a real, main character locked up and for that to be part of the story.

Lastly, it’s really interesting to me that they called it a “cuck cage” not a “cock cage.” It’s not that I’ve never heard them referred to as that but it’s not at all the common term. I thought maybe “cock” was a word they didn’t want to use, but the show has no issue with all manner of profanity (it is on HBO, after all), so that’s not it. The writers made a choice to either avoid the word “cock” (which I doubt) or decided to really double down on the subset of guys locked in devices who are also cucks. So, was the audience laughing at the notion of a cuckold or the idea a guy would allow to have his dick locked up? Both, I guess.

In any event, even though it was played for laughs, later in the episode Ava says to Deborah, “You did a shockingly good job not kink-shaming cuck cages.” Hey, no harm, no foul.

The original plan was for Belle and I to watch that episode with our daughter which would have made the experience all that much more surreal. It was just the two of us, though, so we were able to enjoy the moment with more than just knowing glances.

And, seriously, it’s better to go through TSA with a plastic device on, anyway.

So much for so little

A little over three weeks ago, on a Sunday morning, as I was looking forward in anticipation to Belle letting me get her off, I was presented with the key.


I wasn’t expecting it, obvs. Not then, not ever. But there it was. And I was immediately freaked out. Belle told me not to be freaked out. But it was a visceral reaction and couldn’t be helped.

So the device came off and the contents slithered out. I went to work on her as usual, but of course it wasn’t in any way usual because instead of getting tight, I got hard. I could feel the head of the shaft move and rub against her leg and the bed and sheets and it was incredibly distracting. It is 100% true that I am not as good at getting her off when I know I’m getting off after, even when (or perhaps especially when) that getting off is the first time it was going to happen in 763 days.

Part of the distraction was a reticence on my part for her to touch it. She reached for it and was able to get it a little, but I didn’t do anything to move my hips to make it easier for her to grasp. I was feeling a great deal of anxiety at the idea. It just…wasn’t right. Of course, what she wants is what should be right. That’s the deal I signed up for. And what she wanted for two years, one month, and three days was for the contents to be crushed into little spaces locked around my nuts.

A small side note at this juncture. I don’t know how many times in those two plus years I had had unrestricted erections. Not very many. It had happened (like during that massage), but I’m going to guess, based on some back of the envelope math, that I had had well over 4,000 attempted erections during that period (including the nocturnal kind) and I can’t imagine that more than a couple dozen or so were outside a device. I can go months without that happening, especially if you get strict and only count real, fully extended hard-ons and not just when it gets kind of chubby during shaving and such. So it should be no surprise that the erect shaft I was sporting on that morning wasn’t much at all like the one I had before it went in. I noticed now that there’s a kink in the shaft. It’s not as straight as it used to be. You could see the angle at which the Orion pushes it when trying to get hard. It did get hard. Plenty hard. But there was a kind of disfigurement present. I have no idea if that’s permanent or just the kind of compression that penises can show when getting out after a lengthy lock up. And, honestly, I don’t care. But it was there.

Anyway, back to the action. I was able to get her off, though it was far from my best effort. Just too much to think about. I let her bask and didn’t make any move at all. I thought for a moment (wished, actually) that she’d change her mind after her orgasm and I’d go back in without the chance to get it wet. But she reached for it and pulled me on top of her. She guided me towards the folds of her hot wetness and held the head there. Reluctantly, I pushed it in.

I did not want to. And I did want to. And that dichotomy will only make sense if you’re a permanently denied person like me. Of course, I crave the feeling of being inside her. But I crave craving that feeling more. And as I entered her, I felt the indescribable pleasure of hard penismeat sliding into wet pussy but I also felt the outer layer of my identity sloughing off.

To be fair, she was never really emphatic about not letting me fuck her again. She let me go along with the idea that it was over but, when pressed, never really shut and locked the door to the possibility. But I had fully embraced it. In a way, that was a kind of defense mechanism for me. There’s a difference between wondering if this morning, after 760-some mornings, was going to be the one she let me out versus carrying a certainty that, of course, this morning was going to lead to the 764th that was the same as all the others. It’s liberating. And it had become, in a way, my identity.

I had disassociated myself from the contents. It was no longer a practical part of my life, outside of the necessary maintenance required to keep it secured. I didn’t use it, see it, feel it. I didn’t have to think about it. I didn’t have to care if it was at all useful to her as a way to bring her pleasure because I had other, better ways to do that. I didn’t need to give it a second thought while providing her that pleasure (or even while feeling horny for any of the myriad ways I can get horny). I wasn’t a man like real men are. I was a locked man. Always.

But then suddenly I wasn’t. And not only was I unlocked, but I was feeling the inside of her with the hard shaft. I was feeling the heat of her body all up and down it and the fire of sensation where sensation was rarely ever felt. I am here to tell you, the level of sensitivity of a hard penis that hadn’t felt anything pleasurable for over two years is immeasurable with the technology currently known to man.

Even though she had directed me to do what I was doing, I had a lingering doubt or guilt or self-consciousness about doing it. I held my head down by her neck and couldn’t really look at her. It was the same kind of embarrassment I feel when she can see the contents outside a device or what I was feeling when she was trying to grasp it. It’s so weird to me to have an erection. So unnatural.

I didn’t last more than a minute. I tried to. She said she wanted this and so I wanted to give it to her, but in this one, very specific way, I am a lousy lover. A shitty lay. Totally useless. I never even got into a rhythm or felt like her pussy opened up to me fully before I knew it was coming to an end.

I shot my load into her. The sensation was overwhelmingly intense and emotional. Too big to be really pleasurable. Over two years of pent up natural desire for what was happening suddenly happening overlayed with the self-consciousness and even guilt and regret. As my load left my body in surge after surge, it was like a part of who I was was leaving my body, too. I was near tears. The conflicting emotions were hard to deal with.

Or course, it felt good. It’s designed to feel good. But it was such a great big complicated and multilayered feeling. And then it was over. My brain was swimming in the post-orgasmic chemical cocktail it hadn’t felt in such a long time.

After, it did not feel good. After, when the background radiation of continual denial and frustration were stripped away, it felt like someone had turned the saturation down on everything around me. This is the secret appeal to long term enforced denial. It boosts everything. Makes life more interesting. Gives it more texture. Makes you feel more. All the time. And when it’s gone — and it was dead and gone — its absence leaves a giant hole. And I don’t like it.

I’m still struggling to come to terms with it, tbh. She says it happened because it was what she wanted. I don’t doubt it. But my question is why she wanted it. I feel like she was taking pity on me and how worked up I get when getting her off. And I don’t want that pity. I just can’t accept that my 58 seconds of penetration was in any way good for her. I used to be able to fuck and fuck and really give her what she likes, but those days are gone. Long gone.

I don’t want to second guess her. I don’t want to be in a place where I reluctantly give her what she wants. But that’s how I felt. And how I still feel. For me, coming isn’t worth it. It felt incredible, of course. But I lose so much for so little.

And now I don’t know how to think about it. Is it going to happen again? Anytime soon? Was it a one-off experiment on her part or a new chapter? Will I be getting off on a regular schedule now? And if that’s her plan, do I have any right to resist? Shouldn’t I just go along with it as her will because that’s what I’m supposed to do?

I had accepted that I was really and truly forever locked. It was who I was. And then it wasn’t. And now I don’t know what I am. Or how I’m supposed to feel. We’ve been apart for most of the time since it happened. I was away for a week and now she’s away for work. We haven’t had sex since. I’m kind of nervous to do it again. I feel hesitancy in letting her see how turned on getting her off can make me because maybe that’s what led to her letting me out. But I also need to show her that because it’s part of demonstrating my submission.

I don’t know. I’m feeling…uncertain and imbalanced. Nonplussed. That is the word. Nonplussed.

Passing time

We recently passed the second anniversary of the last time Belle let me fuck her. It’s also the last time she let me use the contents for anything pleasurable. Assuming she doesn’t change her mind about me being allowed to do those things again in the future, I think of it as less the anniversary of the last time I was allowed to fuck and orgasm (when I was made pussy-free) and more like the anniversary of when I entered the most logical end-state of being a permanently locked male.

I use the word “passed” rather than “celebrated” or “observed” because that’s how it went down. Belle knew it was coming up. I told her a few weeks ago. But nothing special was said or done on the day to mark it. In fact, I even missed it. I was reminded on BlueSky of it the day before because someone there did the math and assumed that 365×2 was the second anniversary, but this is a leap year so the actual anniversary was (365×2)+1. By the time I realized the day had come and gone it was +2. So the day “passed,” apparently as non-relevant to anything in particular as the contents itself.

A complicating factor in all this is that I’ve been sick. Not Covid. Some other 800 lb respiratory virus from hell that seemingly half the people I know are dealing with right now. Started as a tiny scratchy throat and a turned into a mild cough before being almost allergy-like before falling on my head like a baby grand piano. Chest congestion, head congestion, fever — the whole meal deal. It’s been awful.

Just before the piano fell, I decided to scratch an itch I’ve been having to go back into the Steelheart. I dunno, for nostalgia’s sake or something. I posted an old photo of it on BlueSky and commented that I was more nostalgic for the Steelheart than I am for what it contains, but here we are. So anyway, I was taking a nice bath and used the sudsy water to cover my view of the contents as I swapped out the Orion. I took advantage of the janky razor present at the bathtub (and not my usual Manscaped Crop Shaver) which was a mistake. I didn’t know it, but the janky razor gave me some nasty razor burn. But I was back in the Steelheart. Maybe an hour later, that piano fell on me.

I remember the first time I got sick and didn’t feel the need to come out of whatever device was on me at the time. I felt like that was a real milestone to accepting who I was. It was several years ago now, but prior I would want it off when sick (even mildly) and then all of a sudden I just didn’t. Like it wasn’t even on option. Even when I had Covid, the device was on me the whole time. But this time, it was the razor burn that did me in. I took a sweaty, feverish nap and woke up feeling fire from where the Steelheart folds some skin in on itself so stubble was against the raw but I simply had no ability to cope with it. I was also pretty wiped out and didn’t want out of bed so I simply retrieved the key from where I had left it and took the Steelheart off. And I put nothing back on in its place. I was just too fucking zonked to care.

At least, I thought I was. As bad as I felt, being unlocked made me feel worse. Of course, my hand found its way to the center of my legs and I felt the exposed contents resting between them. It felt so weird. All soft and squishy. But also so much smaller than what I usually find there. The Steelheart is probably like three times the volume of the flaccid contents and the Orion maybe twice as much, so feeling the difference really accentuated the notion reinforced by being separated from it for two years that its a sad little thing whose glory days are long gone. Feeling it out of its home was like feeling an internal organ on the outside of my body. It really felt like that. Because it’s usually inside.

The longer it was out the more unsettled it left me. It just felt wrong. Literally wrong. Not from a “ooh, I’m being so naughty” perspective or based on our dynamic or because I’m a sub. It just felt wrong. Wrong that I was all fleshy there instead of unfeeling plastic or metal, wrong that I could feel it moving against the inside of my sweats, wrong that it didn’t have its usual heft, wrong that I could even touch it freely. All wrong. So I eventually went into the bathroom to put the Orion back on. And that’s when I saw it.

I’ve said here before that I try not to look at it. The last time I saw it was in October of last year (because, you know, I track everything). I don’t avoid seeing it for any other reason except I don’t really want to see it. I don’t want to see it as what it used to be to me. But I did, unfortunately, catch a full-on glimpse of the thing in the bathroom mirror. So there’s that streak broken. Alas.

It struck me the same way it has before. It’s in the shape of a penis. But not a proud penis. Not one anyone would want to sport on themselves. This appeared to be a defeated, redundant sort of thing. Useless, forlorn, abandoned. Needing its cage.

I felt immediately better once the Orion was on. Not from an illness standpoint. Didn’t turn that corner for at least another 48 hours. But emotionally. I felt so much more secure and comforted by being back inside. Centered. Myself.

I’m just not a penis-having person anymore. At least not the kind of person that has a penis that isn’t half of a compound entity made up of it and a device to permanently contain it. This is the most logical end-state condition I mentioned above. It’s where we were always heading, I guess. Penisless.

The way being locked has integrated into my identity is so much more profound that I ever would have predicted or expected. It is literally how I identify. I don’t want to see it, feel it, be able to touch it. Those things are what define men, to me, and that’s not me. I’m this other thing. Male, not a man.

All this to say, two years after the last time, that I would, if told by Belle to do so, absolutely fuck her. In a moment (which is also how long I’d last). If she told me to jack off to completion, I would do that too. Instantly. If told to. But if given the option?

It makes me think of Drew and Jack. Drew gives Jack one chance a year to have an orgasm. It’s his choice. And each year, Jack declines the option. It’s been four years since he came. And I totally get that. I did not get it the first time Drew told me that. I was still having a handful of orgasms a year at that point and I confused craving orgasm with wanting one. I do crave it. And I would do it without complaint if told to. But I don’t want to. And Belle knows that better than anyone.

That’s what two year’s distance from shooting a load has taught me. Maybe, someday, she’ll tell me to do it again. Even she’s not ruling that out. But until she tells me to, I won’t. Not ever. Never again.

Sweet dreams

Living as a permanently denied person hasn’t really changed all that much lately. What I mean is what it’s like to be permanently denied has been pretty static. Which may be kind of obvious considering there’s this really big and important physical act I don’t get to do at all anymore. We’ve settled into this kind of rhythm where Belle lets me get her off and I get nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done in exchange. I have come to accept that and the way that affects me emotionally and physically has kind of settled into a kind of plateau.

I mean, it had.

A handful of posts ago, I wrote this:

I just don’t fantasize about using the contents. At all. Even in my dreams, I’m not using it for anything. I’m always locked. Always denied. Sometimes, I have dreams with sex and I’m 100% always locked in those, but there are other times I have dreams in which sex isn’t a part and my locked status is still a part of the dream. Like, nobody is asking or can tell, but in the dream, I know what’s going on in my pants.

Which was true. But, then, ZOMG, all of a sudden, last night, it wasn’t.

I had three dreams. Each one woke me up and were intense and left me feeling so much pressure inside the Orion.

The first involved me blowing some dude. Relative to what I wrote above, that was kind of normal. I was locked, on my knees, and I have no idea who the guy was. What was weird is that this mystery guy was also locked, but also somehow not which is how I was able to service him to the moment of his climax. You know, dreams are weird like that. But all I remember is a fragments of that dream. I do remember waking up and being very tight. Luckily, I was able to fall back asleep pretty quickly.

The next dream was where things were very different. I was fucking the ever loving hell out of Belle. In various positions, very hard, and for a long time. It was intense and driven and very much just fucking. But I never came. It went on so long that Dream Belle got kind of annoyed and tired and I remember picking up on that and freaking out that she wasn’t going to let me finish so I started to fuck her harder and faster and all that did was annoy her more. I can remember seeing the hard shaft of the contents going in and out of her, I could feel it, and it was amazing and I was loving it but also I had to hurry the fuck up because she was getting tired of it.

Then I woke up. OH MY GOD, I was so horny. So fucking tight, so fucking horny. An 11 out of 10.

The hilarious part of that dream, in retrospect, is how in reality I have essentially zero stamina and will come after only a handful of strokes which is a large part of why I’m not allowed to fuck her anymore. Dream me was a raging stallion. Real me is pathetic.

I did not fall back asleep so easily. I grabbed at the tight package between my legs then flipped over and ground it into the mattress and generally suffered being unable to do anything at all to relieve my frustration.

I did eventually fall asleep, though, because dream three was of me jacking off. It was as if I had somehow got the Orion off and was standing over the sink jacking it. The goal was to just edge myself, I remember thinking in the dream, since coming was against The Rules, but then I realized that no matter how close to coming I took myself, I couldn’t do it. I was once again jacking it harder and faster and never quite getting there. And, again, it felt so good. The sensation of my closed fist sliding up and down and rubbing the leakage over and under the head. OMG, yeah, that was the fucking shit. That was great, but then I really wanted to shoot my load. But I couldn’t. It was impossible.

And I woke up again, still so goddamned tight and packed and horny out of my goddamned mind.

At this point, someone will wonder if I had a wet dream. Jesus, I wish I had. But I’ve never in my life had a wet dream. Not even now, nearly two years after Belle made me pussy and hand free. Not even a trickle.

I guess it may be relevant to point out that I’m not at home. I’m traveling for work and I’m in a hotel room which, historically, has been the setting of intense self abuse. Hotels make me horny, I guess. But I have no idea if that’s what was behind this.

In a way, as frustrating as it was (and is — I’m still pretty horny tbh), it was also kind of nice to feel it. As I said above, things have settled into this kind of plateau for me and I missed the intense feelings of frustration that were so common back when the contents would occasionally be released and allowed to squirt into her pussy. Recently, the only time I get even remotely as worked up is right after she comes. And in between those times, I just am. I know I’m not getting out. It knows it’s not getting out. So the drama level is pretty low.

I say that, but the last couple of times I was allowed to share in her orgasm, I did really feel an urge to fuck Belle. And now last night. Is this a new phase? A blip? Something to do with the phase of the moon? No idea.

I noted on Bluesky yesterday that I’ve been locked up continuously, except for a brief respite here and there, for four years. In response to that post, a follower asked me, “So what has it done to you? Do you still notice changes to be ongoing? What have you seen most recently?”

Before last night, I probably would have just directed them to that post from November. That would have answered the “what has it done to you” part of their question. But this post answers the “what have you seen most recently.”

And, yeah, I guess there are still changes ongoing.

2023 by the numbers

Usually, I make a post about my year-end enforced denial stats. Usually that’s right after the end of the year, but here we are half way into January and I’m not writing it until what I’ve just recently learned is International Male Chastity Day. So I guess this will also be my, erm, “celebration” of the day.

I was locked in just three devices this year. The plastic Evotion Orion, the titanium Evotion Orion, and the venerable Steelheart. Had I not had to send the ti Orion back for some adjustments that involved the PA hook, it would have been just those two devices all year.

As I write that, I realize I never wrote a proper review of the ti Orion. As I recall, it showed up about the time fucking WordPress nuked my blog. In any event, I probably should write something up. Short story is, the Orion is, in my opinion, just about the best bespoke male enforced denial device design on the market, especially when factoring in PA security, so the titanium version is also quite good. I went back into the plastic version yesterday in order to attend to hair, hygiene, and to give it a deep clean and have been thinking that I might consider the plastic one to be the optimal version of the device. The titanium looks amazing but the plastic has a lot going for it (lighter, smaller due to thinner material, can go more places).

Another thing I’ve been tracking lately is when I last saw the exposed contents. I talked about it in my last post, so I won’t get into why again, but swapping devices is made into much more of a production when I’m actively avoiding seeing the thing inside truly naked. When I had the ti device off and was about to put the plastic one on, I wanted to shave the base of the shaft and some bits high on my sack that are either hard or impossible to get to when locked. To do so, I wrapped three-quarters of the contents in my hand and pulled it out so the base was fully exposed and I could clean up the hair. When swapping hands, I either looked away or closed my eyes.

I managed to avoid seeing the thing while also avoiding getting an erection, which was something of an accomplishment IMO. It felt clinical and my relationship with the contents is such that I can maintain my dissociative POV with regard to it and pleasure at least long enough to do some quick shaving. I had zero temptation to do anything with it whatsoever except lock it back up as quickly as possible, which I did with little drama or tumescence. The whole thing felt very transactional. As if I was tending to livestock or something.

Anyway, it’s been 102 days since I saw the stupid thing.

So I ended the year having been unlocked for just 20.5 hours. That’s down from 94 hours in 2022, 224 hours in 2021, 413 hours in 2020, and 2,099(!) hours in 2019. It was sometime in 2019 that Belle put her foot down and told me I had to be locked up at all times unless given explicit permission because I was “forgetting” to after she let me come, sometimes for weeks at a time. The last time I was out overnight was March 6, 2020. I’ve only been out for a handful of hours here and there since then (1,409 days). After that, I was only out for sex when she wanted the contents. Obviously, since that’s not going to happen again, the unlocked time has dropped precipitously.

It’s been 665 days since I last came inside her.

My unofficial goal for 2023 was less than 24 hours unlocked. I was doing really well in the first half of the year and it looked like I was going to come in way lower, but the second half had more travel. Thankfully, I still made it under. I asked folks on Bluesky and Mastodon what they thought my goal for 2024 should be. The options were:

  • 24 hours again (99.7% locked)
  • 18 hours (99.8% locked)
  • 9 hours (99.9% locked)
  • 0 hours (100% locked)

Unsurprisingly, a lot of people said 0 hours. The most popular choice was 18 hours. Just enough to beat last year. I asked Belle what she thought and she said it had to be fewer than last year to show progress and suggested 18 hours. So 18 it is. That’s about 12% fewer hours than I managed last year. And since she said it, it’s The Law.

Obviously, the big number for 2023 is zero. Zero times I was allowed to do anything with the contents that resulted in orgasm. Zero times is my expectation for 2024, too. Zero times is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life.

Happy International Male Chasity Day.

Schrödinger’s contents

I posted on BlueSky yesterday that it’s been 3.8 years since I was unlocked for any appreciable amount of time. It’s one the numbers I track on my phone using an app called Countdown+ which, the way I use it, is actually counting up.

Yeah, so, “3.8 years” is a weird milestone to call out and I didn’t actually know it was 3.8 years because the app counts days and I usually pay attention when the number rounds off to 10. In this case, it was 1,390 days. Getting pretty darn close to four whole years.

As a refresher, my definition of a day being locked up is a) one where I was locked for all but a handful of hours (“a handful” is what it would take to go to the doctor unlocked or travel through the TSA or what have you) and b) one where I was locked all night long. I don’t actually know the last time I was unlocked for more than “a handful” of hours, though it’s buried somewhere inside ATracker (the other tracking app I use). I do believe that the last time that happened was, as of today, 1,391 days ago due to a hot spot that needed to heal.

The reason I bring this all up is because I was pondering this morning that I’ve had 1,391 mornings dealing with nocturnal tumescence (aka, morning wood). Someone I was chatting with asked if I still got that and, yes, I do. I would probably talk to a doctor if that stopped happening. But yes, 3.8 years of stifled and contained nocturnal/nighttime erections (along with however many waking attempts I got from being horny).

Most mornings (and I do mean most — probably 80% of the time), it never wakes me up. I’ve become too accustomed to it. I know it’s happening when I do wake up and I guess it’s possible I’d sleep longer if I wasn’t locked up, but it’s nothing like the old days when I’d wake up in pain in the middle of the night and have to walk around to make the erection go away before I could sleep again.

Usually now I simply get off on the sensation of being so tightly contained. Like last night when at 1:30 I woke up and felt the tightness but was otherwise so horny I couldn’t go back to sleep. My imagination kept the pressure going and I was left to grind my tight package into the mattress like the horny bitch I am.

So yeah, anyway, back to the pondering I mentioned. Recently I’ve been wondering what the condition of the contents is with regard to its erection, if it could achieve such a state. Several years ago I wrote about how the shaft of the erection was dented from prolonged lockup. That post is from just over four years ago, so right before my current locked streak started. Has the dent gotten worse? Has it been deformed in any other ways? Has the much rumored yet never observed permanent shrinkage finally set it?

The other number that intersects this curiosity is my recent decision to never look at the contents unlocked again. I’ve been locked up for so long that even seeing the contents feels weird and dissociative. As if I’m emotionally detached from what’s inside the Orion. And now that I’m officially post-pussy, it feels right and natural to become post-penis. The last time I laid eyes on the thing inside the Orion was 84 days ago. I do not want to think of myself as a penis-having person.

So why the curiosity about what this thing I want to stop feeling like I have may look like erect? I dunno. Maybe it’s like a rhetorical kind of question. It doesn’t actually matter what it’s like since I have no expectation of it ever being used for anything like what it was intended ever again. But part of me also kinda hopes it is permanently disfigured from its containment. I saw the dent as indelible proof that the erection it appeared on was supposed to be locked up. If the dent’s worse or if there’s more or if the actual shape of the thing is drastically changed, then all the better.

Whenever I see an image of a beautiful cock, I think what a crime it would be if it was forced into a device. I guess I like to think that the theoretical potential erection I’m carrying around every day would be the literal opposite of a big, fat, smooth and perfectly arching cock: small, stunted, knobby, and not unlike a crustacean missing its exoskeleton. The more deformed and altered and even ruined it becomes, the more real and indelible and irreversible my post-penis existence is.

But as I said, it’s all theoretical. I won’t be seeing or holding or feeling any erections on me again. All I will ever have now is tightness. In my imagination, I can make it as Quasimodo-like as I wish. I can dream that it’s withering away to nothing since nothing is what Belle wants to do with it now. And it doesn’t actually matter what it’s really like. It can be all the things I want and need it to be now that nobody will want or need it again.


Got a comment on a post I wrote in July in which I was trying to process being told by Belle that I wasn’t going to fuck her again. I shall endeavor to respond to it here. Feel free to jump over there first and read it in context.

“I’m curious how she feels about never fucking you again. I mean, as you say, it was her decision, but it seems incongruous with what you say she wants.

My husband and I just listened to your episode on the chastity podcast, and you made it clear that she enjoys being penetrated, and enjoys (enjoyed) your cock. But you also stated that you haven’t fucked her in almost a year, probably would not be able to do so anyway, and she’s not entirely open to the cuckolding angle.

How sir, does she get the dick that you say she still wants?”

It was, as you said I said, her decision. And, it’s true, that for the better part of our relationship, she loved being penetrated. But she’s also said (and I’m pretty sure I’ve recorded it here), that being with a man who was essentially always locked up motivated an evolution in how she gets her pleasure. She really likes me to get her off manually. So much so, that she doesn’t see the need to let me out ever again for sex.

I am reporting to you what she’s told me. I can also report that she does, in fact, get off quite well from other methods that don’t involve penetration. She gets as many orgasms as she wants. I know exactly what I’m doing when giving them to her. The way she screams tells me all I need to know.

“How do you reconcile the tension between being a ‘service oriented’ sub, while simultaneously destroying your ability to serve her with something she still desires?

How does she feel about being denied PIV sex during your chaste adventures? Has she just given up on the idea and decided to adapt around you? That sounds wildly selfish for a scenario that’s supposed to be about denying you and making it ‘about her.’”

If she wanted me to fuck her, I would fuck her. In an instant. I didn’t ask to never fuck her again. As far as I can tell, she weighed the pluses and minuses of me fucking her and decided there were more minuses from her POV. I don’t need to reconcile it because it’s her decision, entirely.

For several years, she’d want to me fuck her and I would. In fact, it’s written into my rules that I can’t complain about such things, and I didn’t. Her decision to cut me off wasn’t as a result of my prodding. She did it all by herself.

The issue I take with your questions is the perspective that the only thing that matters when in a relationship with a man in enforced denial is what he does with his penis. Keeping me locked up has other benefits that Belle has decided outweigh her previous preference for PIV. I’m more attentive, more accommodating to her wishes, more focused on her pleasure. I’m not perfect and I don’t suggest that locking a man up makes him so, but she notices a difference between unlocked slash recently orgasmed me and the locked and denied me. And she likes the latter more than the former.

It’s also the case that she, as my mate and life partner, cares about how I feel. She knows how being denied makes me. She knows how living in a permanently submissive space affects me. And since she cares for me, she’s apparently willing to make some adjustments.

“My husband agrees, this seems a lot like topping from the bottom.”

If you want to boil down the relationship dynamic of two adults who’ve navigated more than 25 years together and a power dynamic that’s similarly evolved over 15 years to such a simple thing, I guess that’s your (and your husband’s) prerogative.

I read a lot into your comment. I don’t know how you came upon my blog (perhaps as the result of a Google search, perhaps — more likely, based on history — at the suggestion of your husband), but I see a lot of judgement in your words. Trust me when I say, there are a lot of ways to incorporate enforced denial into a relationship. I should know since Belle and I have done most of them.

We didn’t end up here overnight or by accident and it’s possible we won’t stay here forever. But here is where we are. Neither of us are being duped by the other and all signs point to us being perfectly happy with it.

The prince and I

Today is the 15th anniversary of the day I got my PA piercing. Some things leap out reading that old blog post. One, it’s really weird seeing me talk about the contents as if they were a) mine and b) not just the contents. I even called it a dick (which, I suppose, is a pretty innocuous term — at least I didn’t use the C-word). Two, I was worried about how the piercer would judge it for being small which, I mean, lol at this point, right? I was still holding on to a lot of outdated masculine pride.

It’s always kind of surprising to me how quickly we went from playing around with denial devices to me having my body modified to help with the enforcement aspect. It was only about two months from my first blog post, which I wrote before even having the CB-6000 in our possession, to when I was getting a hole punched through me to make it all that much more metal. And all that PA security experimentation was pretty much disastrous. I probably wrote a couple dozen posts about trying to figure out how to use a length of wire outside the CB6K fed through the PA ring and then attached to the lock. That was about the time I realized penises like to grow and shrink as part of their daily routine and when you literally wire it so it can’t do that, it motherfucking hurts.

I do kind of miss PA jewelry. Feeling a thick, heavy PA ring move around inside the head of a penis during sex or masturbation is pretty delicious and I think PA rings in general look hot as fuck. But that kind of expression is behind me, of course. Most men use PA jewelry as a way to beautiful their cocks and enhance the pleasure they receive from them. I don’t have a cock, let alone anything that resembles one, and the days when I could use the contents for anything pleasurable are over.

What the PA represents to me is a way to integrate my body into the device that perfectly enforces my permanent denial. The metal I’m encased in wraps around and through me. It’s not about affectation or beautification. It’s about absolute security.

Though, that said, I do think most devices I’m secured into are more attractive than what they contain.

I don’t judge anyone who does enforced denial without a PA (or some other) piercing. Of course not. There is no One True Way. But, for me, it’s not real unless a part of it goes through that 15 year old hole in me. Unless I have no choice but to always be in it. Everything about it is different. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Luckily, devices in general and my knowledge of how to use them with the PA piercing have advanced considerably over 15 years. It no longer represents an often painful complication of being locked up. Rather, as with the hollow PA hook in the Evotion Orion, being pierced actually enhances and simplifies being permanently denied.

Thank you, Prince Albert, wherever you are.

The last urge

The other day, I found this sexual orientation test. Probably on Bluesky, but I can’t recall exactly. It’s not like I am wondering at all about my orientation, but I took it anyway just to see what it would say. I was almost immediately taken aback by this question:

For me, this was question 2. I stopped and stared at it. I was stumped because my immediate interpretation of “intercourse” was “fucking.” Of course, that’s not what “intercourse” means, but that’s how my brain read it and I didn’t know what to do. Once I decided to interpret it as what it actually means (“physical sexual contact between individuals that involves the genitalia of at least one person”), I was fine. But, literally, I stared at that question for a full 30 seconds.

I just don’t fantasize about using the contents. At all. Even in my dreams, I’m not using it for anything. I’m always locked. Always denied. Sometimes, I have dreams with sex and I’m 100% always locked in those, but there are other times I have dreams in which sex isn’t a part and my locked status is still a part of the dream. Like, nobody is asking or can tell, but in the dream, I know what’s going on in my pants.

And my waking fantasies — not just the elaborate ones I really think about but, more tellingly, the ones that spring to mind unbidden and in the moment — never involve me penetrating anyone anymore. Similarly, unlike for a long time even years after enforced denial came into our relationship, I no longer fantasize about or have the urge to jack off. Being hard outside the device, let alone holding and jacking myself, just doesn’t appeal at this point.

The only urges/fantasies I still have from before being permanently locked is to orgasm. When those happen, I can hold those in my mind and examine them and know, at a high level, that I really don’t want to come because of what I’ll feel like after, but the residual directive from millions of years of evolutionary programming is powerful. So I’m left with urges to empty my load without any urges to do the things that allow me to do so.

Maybe, someday, that urge will go away too. I’m not sure how it can, though. I have a deep psychological need to feel permanently horny. Not, like, 150% full on white-hot leaking all the time and dazed kind of horny. I want that, too, but in smaller doses. What I want is like what the Hulk in The Avengers had at the end of the movie. I need to always have the ability to get horny whenever I need or want to (though for him it was angry, but you get the point). And I can’t see how being horny can be removed from the urge to orgasm. That’s literally what horny is.

But…I dunno. “Horny” used to be defined for me as an urge to do the things necessary to shoot my load and now those things are gone. I want to be used to serve and pleasure others and left wanting more, not use the contents for anything at all. Could I get to a point where I was still horny but not having any urges at all to orgasm? I guess it would be silly to say never because I never thought I’d feel like I no longer had or needed a penis. No longer wanted to have or need a penis.

For a lot of my life, and for most people, “horny” is a thing you try and get rid of as soon as you start to feel it. You either hook up or jack off or do whatever you need to do to make “horny” go away. Living in a state where you can regularly banish “horny,” alone or with others, is considered normal and healthy. But for me, and I’m sure a lot of people like me, “horny” is the point. It’s the status quo. The lack of feeling it leaves a void. Its presence starts to define us and give our sexuality form and purpose. When I’m feeling that kind of nagging, lingering horniness that floats around and won’t leave, I feel the most like who and what I am. That can be really hard to deal with when it comes, but I need it as badly as someone else needs to get rid of it.

If I ever got to the point where I didn’t feel an urge to orgasm and it led to me not feeling horny, that would be a huge problem. I would be despondent. So, if the one is dependent on the other, that last urge is one I’m happy to continue to deal with. It could be that without it, I’m nothing.

P.S. Yes, according to the test, I’m still really, really bisexual. Whew.

Fit for purpose

As she was fondling the package of titanium and testicles between my legs this morning, Belle told me being that way made me “fit for purpose.”

Fit for purpose.

I then got to work getting her off. I gently pinched and caressed her nipples. Licked, and sucked on them. Pressed the flat of my hand against the hot mound of her sex. Parted her lips with my fingers and touched her wetness.

Fit for purpose.

I got tighter as I went on. As she started moaning and writhing. As she got wetter and my fingers danced over her clit.

She came hard. Loudly. Her pleasure peaking as my tightness reached its maximum.

There was no point in during this encounter did I pine for penetration. No wistful memory of what it felt like to slide into her. To fuck. To shoot my load against her cervix. No moment after her orgasm where I wanted to climb on top of her and press the device into her as if I could still enter her. None of those cravings or desires. If they’re not truly and fully dead inside me, they’re barely clinging to life support.

Fit for purpose.

She hasn’t let me use the contents for 602 days. As I first touched her pussy and felt how inviting and ready it was, the only craving I could sense was to do what I was doing. I moaned from the pleasure of feeling hers. Of being allowed this most intimate contact with her.

I am, thanks to her, fit for purpose. Finally and completely.