Denying Thumper

According to my stats, it’s been 134 days since I saw the contents of whichever of the handful of chastity devices I’ve been wearing for the past 347 days straight. In fact, I have seen bits and pieces of the contents as I’ve swapped devices, but I only count “seeing it” when it’s totally naked and unencumbered by a device. Basically, it’s been nearly four and a half months since I saw something on my body that resembles a real penis.

I’ve been actively trying to avoid seeing it as a penis for about a year and a half. Ever since I had the weird experience of seeing it in the context of getting ready for a massage and it didn’t register as part of me. As if it was a penis I was seeing on Bluesky or Tumblr. Not mine. It was weird. But also it seemed like a logical and natural progression of being permanently denied.

It is, I do recall, super hot to be denied the satisfaction of a gnawing craving to jack off or fuck. But I also think it’s only natural that as the time between being allowed to use the contents for its intended purpose increases, that those feelings would evolve. And part of that evolution is letting go of the notion that I have a man’s anatomy.

That’s basically where I was when, 394 days ago, Belle told me to fuck her. That made my whole world turn upside down. But now I feel like I’m firmly back to the place where I was before.

There are, in fact, a few things I don’t track (hard to believe but true). For example, how long has it been since I thought about how nice it would feel to jack off? Or to fuck Belle? Or hell, fuck anyone. I have absolutely no idea. If I’m seeing porn or reading something really hot or even having sex, I can get very tight and super horny, but I have not for a long time thought about the contents as a thing I can do anything with. My mind just doesn’t go there at all. It’s as if my body has just forgotten about it or maybe simply accepts those things are not in the cards for me anymore.

Belle has said several times that she regrets letting me fuck her again, so it seems really unlikely that’s going to happen any time soon (if ever) and I simply don’t have any opportunities to have free-swinging erections, so jacking off is entirely off the table.

Speaking of which, Belle’s goal for me in 2025 was to be unlocked no more than 25 hours. So far this year, I’ve been unlocked 5.5 hours. Looking forward, based on what I know, I expect to be unlocked maybe another 4 hours-ish. If I can really end the year unlocked no more than 12 hours, that would crush any previous YTD numbers. It would be about half my previous least amount of unlocked time which was just over 20 hours and I remember thinking that was the least amount of time I could ever realistically do. Twelve hours or less unlocked means being locked statistically always. It’s 99.9% of the year.

Now that the concept of “statistically always” has been shown to be achievable, I’m starting to wonder if annual unlock goals make sense. I’m thinking we should reverse the logic. Perhaps the agreement should be I will be expected to be locked 100% of the time and every hour (or fraction thereof) I’m out results in some kind of punishment. I have no idea what that punishment would be, but there’s something really appealing about switching to a 100% locked assumption with specific penalties for not being so. Very hot, imo.

I was considering today as I was in the shower and soaping up the device and my balls and working my pinky into the head of the Evotion to make sure everything was clean what it means to be actually, truly permanently locked up and denied. I never, ever want to take the device off at this point. I resent every moment I’m required to be out. And I think that’s because being out breaks the bond I’ve built with the device. It ruins the dickless perception I’ve built around myself. Being out makes me not me. It turns me into the person I was before we brought chastity into our relationship and I embraced my submissive nature and learned to be a man without the thing we call “manhood.”

I don’t want to be that guy. Not ever. Not even for a little bit.

I’m now in the twelve month since the last time Belle let me fuck her. I usually tell Belle when we cross one of these little milestones and she’s never that impressed by them. I find the ticking of the days to be meaningful while she just…doesn’t. She’s never been that into the whole tracking part that I’ve been obsessed with forever.

Perhaps part of her ambivalence towards tracking duration is her realization that the amount of time I’ll be locked and denied access to her pussy and/or my orgasm is now set to ♾️. She’s made it pretty clear that the last time she let me fuck her, which was totally out of the blue and on a whim, was a mistake. I’m a lousy fuck thanks to having the hairiest of hair triggers and the experience ended up being so traumatic for me that it blew me out of my headspace for months.

When we crossed nine months and then ten, I asked her what the likelihood was that she’d let me fuck her again. She didn’t want to rule anything in or out because she wants to maintain the privilege of doing whatever she wants at all times, but it doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s going to happen anymore. In any event, she tells me I should assume no.

I didn’t expect her to let me fuck her again when it happened the last time but because that was such an annoying experience for her, I’m really expecting that it’s not going to happen anymore. And since that’s the only way I was allowed to orgasm, I assume that’s the end of that, too.

When I started this blog, the first time I was denied access to her pussy was just 24 hours. Now it’s the rest of my life. Back then, I’d be locked up for days or weeks and then would be out for days or weeks. Now I’m locked basically always. She used to let me come every week or so. Now it’s never.

To be fair, I was a big instigator of pushing my limits. The more I was locked and denied the more I wanted to be that way. For a long time, I didn’t really think we’d end up here. But here we are.

In a way, I feel like it’s completing the circle this blog started sixteen years ago when we set out on this journey. Well, we have now arrived at the ultimate destination. I don’t really know what the purpose is any more of Denying Thumper now that denied is the only way I’m ever going to be.

I’m not officially ending the blog. But the conundrum remains. I already feel like every post is rehashing something I’ve already written about a year ago, three years ago, or five years ago. I don’t know that I have anything new to say.

“Can you imagine what our relationship would be like right now if we never started locking me up?”

I asked this of Belle the other morning just before our petting moved from light to heavy which inevitably leads to her orgasm.

She was quiet for a moment.

“No, not really. It’s been so long now.”

“Same.”

And then I happily got her off while the contents tried and failed to participate.

While it’s difficult to predict where we’d be without chastity and denial, I can imagine it. And I don’t like what I see.

One of the realities of being married to someone for multiple decades is that, I think naturally, the sexual spark wanes. In fact, the entire reason we started down a path that led to her keeping me locked up all the time and letting me come basically never was falling into the trap of sexual complacency. It’s also the case that people’s sex drives start to tail off as they get older. That’s just nature.

So, in at least that aspect of our relationship, I’m 100% sure it would be worst off today were it not for my permanent denial. I would most likely be doing what I was doing sixteen years ago and relieving whatever sexual needs I had in the shower as soon as they started to smoulder rather than approach Belle. I’m not suggesting we’d be sexless, but there’d be way less sex than there is now.

And my attentiveness and investment in her and our dynamic are greatly enhanced since she’s, while perhaps not my sole outlet for sexual gratification, certainly my closest and most important. And the natural ebbing of sexual interest has been delayed greatly by the fact I can never scratch my orgasmic itch as soon as it begins. I feel like that clock has been set back by decades due to my prolonged denial.

She says it herself when asked what the best part of keeping me locked is: focus. Focus on her, focus on us, focus on how I can be a better partner. No focus on the contents.

I have started to wonder how wanting to be permanently locked and denied qualifies as submission. When I was being locked longer than I might have wished in the past, then there was a real sacrifice being made. But now, I want nothing more than to be exactly as I am and on those very rare instances when she wants me not to be, it’s genuinely traumatic for me. If she asked for that to happen again, of course I’d comply. But in that case, being unlocked and then allowed to orgasm would be the act of submission.

That’s a mind fuck, huh?

So I guess the way I’d characterized my ongoing act of submission to her now is how I feel like I’ve permanently sacrificed the contents and every potential orgasm for the rest of my life to make our marriage and relationship and, by extension, her life better. More satisfying and rewarding. For her and me.

She doesn’t want to change anything. She will keep me locked up and denied essentially forever. And I feel like that is a gift of submission that I freely and gratefully give her every day. I’m very lucky to be with a woman who accepts it from me.

October 12 was the 16th anniversary of Denying Thumper dot com. 🎉

For about half that time (since 2016), I’ve been tracking the duration of my lock-up in an app called ATracker. Based on that data and making some assumptions about the time I’ve spent in a device before that (which was not as often — the amount of unlocked time has dropped dramatically in the second half of the our journey into enforced denial and chastity), I estimate that I’ve been locked up for a total of about 12 years.

Twelve. Years.

And, somehow, I wish it had been for longer. 😳

At this point, after all that time, it is a solid fact that I don’t really feel like I have a penis anymore. I reinforce that perception by making myself hear it out loud every day. Yes, the little bump in the road that happened (oh, look) exactly six months ago today did rattle my perceived penislessness for a bit, but things have happily gotten back to normal.

So, no, I don’t feel like I have a penis. I know the contents of the device I’m in (currently, the BA-31P) is in there and I know it’s shaped like and can function as a penis if it were outside the device, but that’s not the same thing at all. If I had a penis, it would mean I also had erections that I could grab onto and jerk or stick into her and both things could result in it squirting its goo (and that hasn’t happened in 132 days). Those are not things that are available to me, so functionally I am penisless.

And while I would be freaked out if she told me tomorrow to fuck her again, that doesn’t mean I don’t ache with the craving to do it. The act of fucking has kind of bifurcated for me. There’s the glorious sensation of what the erection sliding into her feels like and then there’s the rest of it. The part where I climb on top of her and feel our bodies make that connection and I grind and gyrate my hips and hear and see her respond to being fucked. I have been totally useless at that second part for a long time now. Chastity broke my ability to fuck as well as stole my opportunity. But I still want to do it. The act of it. I like fucking her and since I know how much she likes to be fucked, I feel bad about not being able to do it. Luckily, there are ways.

I’ve used a strap on with her many times, though not as often as I’d like. Of course, she decides what we do, but part of me thinks the reason we don’t use it as much as she used to use me for that is that we don’t have the quite right cock for the harness. She’s the Princess and the Peen. We’ve tried several and all have been left behind. But now there’s a new one vying for attention.

We recently received the Ubberime Splendid dildo. It was ordered in the “medium soft shore 8a” density so it’s not too squishy but not too hard and in the medium size.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed after getting home from the gym showing it to her and she held it in her hand and proclaimed it to be “the perfect size.” That’s basically an inch longer and thicker than me. And as she stood there over me holding this “perfect” shiny blue cock, she started to smack me in the face and head with it. She was using this erection I am hoping beyond hope she’ll allow to replace my locked member in our sex life to slap me repeatedly in the forehead and my left cheek and she was laughing.

It was an unexpected thing for her to do and unexpectedly humiliating for me. But also profoundly hot. So fucking hot. Because what I am is a pathetic cuck.

I don’t know why this turns me on so much. I can’t explain it. At all. There’s no logical way to make it make sense to you. But it’s true that I simultaneously crave fucking her, fear fucking her, and desperately want to fuck her so well with another cock bigger than me that she only wants it in the future and never the real me ever again. 🤷‍♂️

Anyway, Belle took off today for a trip with her girlfriends to Rome and Paris so it’ll be a little bit before we get a chance to christen the Splendid. I’ll be sure to report back when that happens.

Belle is away for the week taking the younger kid back to college. I was already pretty worked up since, for a variety of mundane reasons, I have not been allowed to share in her orgasms very much for a while now and, I find, whenever she leaves me, my horny index ratchets up anyway. So last night I was pretty tossy-turvey in bed trying to get images, scenarios, and thoughts to go away.

It’s now been 82 days since I last came. Eighty-two days since I stroked myself, 80 days since I saw it/I was last unlocked. One hundred twenty seven day since she ordered me to fuck her. These numbers, for me, are not that big but I feel like I’m just now feeling like I did before that last fuck with regards to the contents. It was very disorienting to me to jack off like I did. It broke the spell that I didn’t have a penis. And that stuck with me. I feel like, just now, I’m getting back there.

There are multiple levels to this permanent enforced denial thing. Feeling like you don’t have a penis anymore is a deeper level than just wanting to always be locked up. It’s beyond thinking about whether or not you want to be allowed to orgasm. It’s hard to describe, but it’s where I was fully prior to the last fuck.

Before then, I was regularly (daily, if I remembered) reminding myself, out loud not just in my head, that I didn’t have a penis. I would literally say, “I don’t have a penis.” Saying it and hearing it reinforced the practical reality of it. And last night, as I laid there and the device would pressurize over and over, I felt that urge to disassociate from the thing causing the pressure. And the words came out all by themselves.

“I don’t have a penis.”

The thing in the cage seemed to fight back at that, if feebley. Like the Whos down in Whoville, it said “I am here!” So I said again, I don’t have a penis. And I said it again. And again.

Permanent enforced denial is something of an ouroboros — a snake eating its own tail. It creates and perpetuates itself. And I, due to how I’m wired, do everything I can to reinforce that cycle. Even though it’s meant letting go of what used to be the most important part of my body.

I am pushing to reestablish that dissociative condition with the contents. To that end, three words came into my mind to describe it: stunted, pathetic, useless. These are words I never would have used in years past. Even for several years after we started practicing denial. And, the irony is, it is the denial itself that makes these words apt descriptors.

Stunted. The definition of that is “inferior in size or quality.” Synonyms are “scrawny” and “scrubby.” Prior to its permanent imprisonment, the contents was a well formed if slightly below average sized specimen. Now, it has conformed to the shape of the interior of those devices it has spent literally years inside of. First the Steelheart, and now more often the Evotion Orion (though currently the BA-31P). When it’s out and hard, it’s not the same shape. Doesn’t feel the same. Doesn’t look normal. I’m pretty sure it has been permanently altered by its experience.

And that’s fine. That’s how it should be. If it never comes out and never gets used — if no one ever sees it hard, if I never fuck with it, if I never hold its hard shaft in my hand — it doesn’t matter what condition its in. Its normal and natural state is to be encased and unusable.

When it first started to change, this bothered me. But now I want it that way. I don’t want to see it as anything other than contents and I want it to always show its status if it’s visible to anyone. I want it to be stunted.

Pathetic. “Inspiring scornful pity. Ridiculous. Silly.” It is a pathetic thing. All it can do is fill a hard shell when the kinds of situations for which it was designed are happening. It looks pitiable. It can’t do anything. It wants to, but it’s denied. Fully and always. And a big part of its patheticness comes from the third word.

Useless. “Having no beneficial use or incapable of functioning usefully.” The last fuck with Belle shows that. I came almost instantly. I can’t give anyone pleasure with it because it can’t be used long enough to provide any. It’s “unserviceable, ineffectual, meaningless.” And again, it is that way because it’s always locked up. And I want it that way because it is always locked up!

To be clear, it was never that impressive. But it wasn’t useless. It wasn’t pathetic. It wasn’t stunted. Denial created those conditions. Denial created in me the desire for those conditions. It is so far removed from being a “cock” — physically and mentally and emotionally — that pretending like I have anything like one seems ridiculous.

The point of this is, it shouldn’t exist separately from its housing. They are one now. So, practically, I just don’t have a penis. I have this compound entity that is more than the sum of its parts. But also less than it was. But also exactly what it should be.

My primary sex organ at this point in my life is the middle finger on my right hand because that’s the finger I use to stroke Belle’s clit and make her come.

It’s the first and, often, only part of me that gets to enjoy her hot, wet snatch and the sensations I receive from that touch feel as powerful to me now as what it used to feel like when I was allowed to regularly slide my erection into her. It’s maybe even better than that since this touch tells me in a nanosecond how well I’ve gotten her warmed up and ready. I can feel how wet and full and open she is. How receptive to my attention. The way her lips slide under my touch and open for me as I move the tip of my finger across and into them sends shuddering waves of pleasure through me that’re both very different than feeling the hard contents slide in but also very similar.

The uninitiated might read that and be horrified at the prospect of being driven to the point of not thinking about one’s actual sex organ as even secondary or tertiary let alone primary. Realistically, the contents of the device doesn’t even rank. And that’s good. For me, anyway.

By narrowing all my sexual focus to the tip of my finger, which cannot come too early or fail to stay hard or make me in any way self-conscious , I am far more focused on Belle’s pleasure. Instead of thinking about when I get to fuck her which makes me impatient and rush and lose my focus on her, I’m actually incentivized to make it last as long as possible. Since all I’m going to get is what it feels like to get her off and, once she’s had her orgasm, my time sharing that pleasure with her comes to an end, I work to make it last as long as I can and that enhances and extends her pleasure.

Her pleasure is my only priority.

I can’t really give her any pleasure with the contents anymore. When she last let me inside her with it, I came in about a minute. I can’t fuck with any kind of authority or rhythm. I can’t do anything that really makes her feel as though she’s been or is being fucked. I have zero confidence when trying to use it and knowing all that makes me a nervous wreck. Knowing that she can see it our touch it makes me terribly self-conscious because being essentially permanently encased for the past several years has left it a weirdly stunted and unattractive specimen.

The entire experience is just not good for her and if it’s not good for her it’s not good for me. If I can’t be pleasurably useful to her, then what’s the point?

She’s told me twice now that that last fuck wasn’t worth it for her. The cost in what it did to me and how it impacted our dynamic wasn’t outweighed by the pleasure she got out of it.

And, of course, it’s all tied together. I stay locked up and don’t get to fuck her because it’s not worth it for her because I’m a lousy fuck because I’m always locked up. ♻️

Feeling the ever-present frustration of being perpetually locked up is, for me, far preferable to the nothing I feel after I have an orgasm. The frustration powers my dedication her pleasure and keeps me energized to service her. I get so much more satisfaction knowing how I’m kept makes me a more attentive and skillful lover for her. Feeling something other than just pressure on the contents would be really nice, of course, but that’s just not in the cards for me.

So be it.

It’s been just over three months since Belle told me to fuck her (ninety-four days, to be exact). Only recently have I started to feel my denied self again. My equilibrium was knocked off center to such an extent that I did the things I’m never allowed to do, should not do, and in the past would not have done. But in doing so, I put myself back on the path I would rather be.

The precipitating event was when I decided to wear the Cherry Keeper device on a work trip I went on a little over a month after the fuck. That device keeps the contents completely inside me and totally nullifies any hint of a penis and I find that to be unbelievably hot. I also find it impossible to wear for any real amount of time. Usually, it gives me sores on the head of the contents but this time it gave me a hot spot under the base ring under my left testicle. Which I absolutely should have expected and which I absolutely helped bring into being.

I was laying in the room of my Airbnb feeling suitably horned up and was getting off on the feeling of total nullification. As the contents firmed up, it occurred to me how the sensation of being completely inside myself was not unlike how I first learned to masturbate. I would roll my little penis up then rock back and forth on the resulting nub while basically humping the ground. So, for the purposes of scientific inquiry, I gave it a shot. Uh, literally.

Turns out, it worked. Really fucking intensely. The contents now are very different than they were fifty-whatever years ago, of course, so the amount of pressure I felt was a lot higher. Also, the Cherry Keeper pushed it even further in and gripped my balls hard. Didn’t take too long for me to go over the falls (my trigger is still pathetically short) and make a messy little puddle under the device.

I should have felt guilty about it. But I didn’t really feel anything. Except for the pain the device caused me where it wounded me. I couldn’t keep it on and brought no other device with me, so I was out.

And I wasn’t done. I can’t recall the specifics, but a day or two later I fully jacked off. Again, I came almost instantly because that’s the pathetic, orgasm starved creature I have become. I didn’t feel a lot of enjoyment from it. It was just something I did because I could get away with it.

Neither occurrence has any excuse other than I somehow lost the plot after being allowed to fuck her. It was like there wasn’t much reason for me to be locked or denied. Somehow, going from thinking I was never going to fuck or come again to having done both broke the spell I had fallen under. There was a penis in there. And I could do things with it. Things I didn’t think were possible anymore.

But having just found myself with two self-inflicted orgasms in as many days on my hands (and floor), I had some serious self-reflection to do. Belle let me have the one when I fucked her but these two were totally out of bounds.

I felt like that one fuck, which I never thought would happen but about which I had no say or control, shook a lot of conceptions I had about myself and seemed to put me at something of a crossroads. With the spell of being a penisless beta sub cuck broken, there was a pull from the more primordial parts of my psyche to start entertaining them again. To reclaim the contents for what it was designed for. To basically stop being what I had become.

Instead of upturning my identity, I decided to recommit to the course I have been on for years. I am a penisless beta sub cuck. It’s not something I play at. I can’t stop the kind of animal cravings that come with the testosterone in my blood and the organ between my legs, but I’m more than that. I am not controlled by those things. They are controlled by my commitment to giving them over to Belle. Submitting them to that control makes my life better and our relationship stronger.

The other day, we were in the pool together. I was naked as I like to be, but especially in the pool, and of course locked in the Orion and she swam up to me and wrapped her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist. She was very close to me and I was immediately aware of both how much in my face her tits were and how close to the encased contents her pussy was. I could feel the pressure build.

“You know,” she said, “the last time I let you out, it totally wasn’t worth it.” Not worth it because of what it did to my headspace, she explained, and also not worth it from the standpoint of what she wanted out of it. Basically, I’m a lousy fuck and get bratty and sullen after. Hearing that, I was as tight as I can be. Hard as fuck inside the device.

I don’t ever want to be anything more or different than I am right now. This is it. This is what’s right for me and for us. And I need to remember that even if she does want to try again with letting me out to fuck or for any other reason, that it doesn’t change anything. I am a penisless beta sub cuck, no matter what she decides in the moment to do with me. It’s how I’ll be for the rest of my life. And knowing it and living it makes me very happy,

So anyway, these are the things I’m tracking now and where I am as of this writing:

• Last fuck — 94 days ago
• Last stroke — 49 days ago
• Last orgasm — 49 days ago
• Last time I saw the contents — 47 days ago
• Days locked — 47

I will track these numbers knowing I have total control over how I conduct myself and no control over what she wants of me. By themselves, I’m not defined by them. But inasmuch as I do have agency over my actions and behavior, they are a testament to my commitment to Belle and her authority.

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.