Month: April 2011

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Drift

It has been said before (in fact, I’ve said it before) that chastity is not celibacy. Those who think locking up a cock and/or denying a man his orgasm means there will be no sex are doing it wrong, period. Chastity is about better sex, more meaningful sex, and a closeness and intimacy not unlike that found in the halcyon days of a relationship’s beginning. If that’s how it feels more often than not, then things are working as they should.

Belle got home last Friday. Last night was, perhaps, the first night in which her jetlag wasn’t a factor and she wasn’t trying to go to sleep at 6:30 in the evening. But (there’s always a but) she had a business dinner and got home late, tired, and on her period. I knew it was out there, her period, but was hoping it’d hold off a few days. At least until I left on Sunday. But no.

So, since Belle came home, we’ve had one brief and very Belle-centered encounter. Normally, I wouldn’t complain about Belle-centeredness, but I got the self-abuse thing out of my system in the first week she was gone and have been looking forward to both tending to her and being tended to by her for a long time. It’s hard enough when she’s not there, but she has been there, physically anyway, while I’ve felt myself drift farther and farther away from what I can only describe as my sexuality. My urges and needs and connectedness that makes me a sexual being. And as I drift off into the distance, I feel less and less. Empty and depressed and lonely. The exact opposite of how chastity and orgasm denial are supposed to feel.

I don’t want to blow this out of proportion. I’m not at the end of the world here. But the arrival of the period last night was a blow I had not expected and it left me feeling down. This morning was Belle’s birthday. We all gave her cards and mine said something about how lucky I am to have her. I am. But when the kids had cleared off, she told me she knew I probably didn’t really feel what the card said right at that moment. She knew I was in a bad place and that things were hard for me. Hearing that, I felt like crying. She had said nothing about it before. I needed to hear that she knew even if there was nothing she could do about it.

And now I have and I can keep going a while longer. And maybe I’ve drifted just a little closer back to shore.

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Biking

I went for my first bike ride of the season this past weekend. Just over 13 miles in my spandexish bib bike shorts and the Steelheart. For whatever reason, I didn’t bike much at all last year and can’t remember ever doing it in the steel before, but, since it’s an often-asked question, I can report that it was no problem whatsoever. The compact, less obvious shape of the Steelheart Short was not an issue. The crotch is padded for comfort and that helped hide the tube, though the material directly above the padding was thin enough to clearly show the locking mechanism. Not just the shape, but also the steel. Since I wear a shirt over the bibs, it was well hidden.

Before starting, I lubed up quite a bit and found it was much more comfortable than the CB6K. Not only did the steel not cause any chafing around the scrotum, but the shorter, more downward pointing tube didn’t get pushed back into my pelvis as much. I did find that the entire device rotated so that the tube was pointing to the right and almost perpendicular to its usual position, but that was easily adjusted and didn’t cause any discomfort. The one bad thing I did discover, though, is that I need to sit up slightly in the seat when going over rough bumps (or, alternatively, rotate my hips back a bit). At one point, the tube was in direct contact with the seat and the PA ring was being held in direct contact with the tube so that when I went over a particularly jarring bump, all that force was communicated perfectly from the wheels to the little bit of flesh between my piercing and urethral opening. Oh. My. Gawd, did that hurt. Just the once, though, and now I know better. No lingering damage was sustained.

In other news, yesterday marked the end of my first orgasmless month. Well, four weeks, anyway. Twenty-eight days down, 140-some to go. During those 28 days, I was locked up for all but two and a halfish of them (for travel). I told Belle I felt like I needed a little attention outside the tube. Either direct teasing or being tied up and beaten or just beaten. Something. I’m feeling a little disconnected at the moment. She let me make her come Saturday and that was very nice, but I didn’t see her for two whole weeks and every time she touches me in even half-hearted and innocent ways, I feel a shock and low thrum deep inside. It seems to me that in these few days since she’s come back and is going through the jet lag thing that she’d really rather not have anything at all to do with me. I guess that’s to be expected, but in my state, it’s difficult to deal with. I find the denial and the being locked up makes me a lot more sensitive to her attention (or lack of) and emotional as a result. If I weren’t worried about being called sexist or genderist or some other ist I might say living the way I do makes me act more like a stereotypical woman than a man, but I’d hate to be called any kind of ist, so I won’t say that.

Also found out that I’ll be unexpected travelling for business next week. I will leave it entirely up to Belle to decide what my state will be while gone. No suggestions or anything from me. Whatever she wants. Either I’ll be free as a bird (with clipped wings) or locked like last time.

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New shiny

Belle gets home today. She’s currently over the north North Pacific on a beeline for San Francisco, completing the second to last leg of a four-flight journey back to me. She’s been in China, Cambodia, Indonesia, and Vietnam on this trip. Obviously, I’m very excited for her to get home. It’s been a long couple of weeks.

While she was gone, I picked up a new shiny piece of steel, though not one I wear between my legs. In this case, it was a stainless cuff from House of Collars by Dom Wolf. I’ve been looking at them for years and almost bought one on several occasions. I finally pulled the trigger. It locks on using itty bitty headless torx screws. Here’s what it looks like on yours truly.

There’s lots of reasons I love this thing. First, it’s stainless. I have a real thing for shiny steel. It’s nicely made yet still a bit rough around the margins as something befitting a slave should be (though that’s not really me, is it?). Also, it’s a piece of genuine bondage equipment I can wear 24/7, out in public, that’s practically invisible as such to 99% of those who see it. Over the course of the week or so I’ve had it on, only one person said anything about it but didn’t seem to recognize it as anything other than a chunky bracelet. And it is pretty substantial. It’s not simple jewelry. It feels like a handcuff on my wrist.

Which, of course, turns me the fuck on. After putting it on for the first time, every time I felt its heft shift on my wrist, I thought what it’d feel like to have one on both wrists and on my ankles and even around my neck and the tube contents would swell. I imagine the cuffs around my wrist being locked to the ones around my ankles, a chain attached to the collar, tube dripping…*shudder*.

Anyway, it’s a nice feeling having a little sliver of what’s going on in my pants out there on my arm for the world to see. I didn’t talk to Belle before getting it so it’s not like I’m wearing it for any other reason except that I want to and I like it, but it represents more than just a chunky bracelet. It represents the enforced restraint and lack of control that turns my crank so lustily.

If you’re in the market for such a thing, I highly recommend Wolf’s work.

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Damn dam

As I was preparing myself for the day yesterday, the though occurred to me that there was a chance I’d be confronted by a metal detector. I mean, it was our plan to enter a Federal installation and all. There was the key and there was the device (all freshly cleaned and lubed), but I decided against it. I had been to Hoover Dam several times, but not, apparently, since 2001.

So there we were, in line to the visitors center, and I had already passed by about 56 large yellow signs warning me of the extreme security measures in place, but I looked right though each of them. We were in line for the 90-minute tour, though my mom had already said she wasn’t interested in it (some kind of fobia about being at the bottom of the damn and all that water or something) and the female offspring didn’t seem all that into the idea, though the boy was. Then, just as I was about to cross the threshold into the lobby, I saw them. It was just like an airport in there. Multiple X-ray conveyers and metal detectors. And guys in uniforms. They might even have had guns.

Shit, I thought as a cold wave of inevitability laced with a healthy dose of panic washed though me. Then I thought, I can’t go through there. I’ll set it off, and apparently said it out loud, too. The boy made some kind of acknowledgement, though I was feverishly woking out what to do next and didn’t really hear him.

“Let’s go have lunch,” I blurted. It was 11:30 and the tour was an hour and a half, so it was a plausible cover to get me out of there. On the way back up the escalator, I worked though all the escape options. There weren’t any, of course. The device cannot be removed at all absent heavy tools or the key (which was on the 47th floor of our hotel back in the city). There was no way we were getting in there.

At first, I was very disappointed. Not just because I wanted to see it, but mostly because I was going to potentially ruin it for everyone else. However, when I came up with an alternate plan over a meal of snack bar burgers and turkey wraps, nobody seemed to mind. In the end, we spent an entirely enjoyable couple of hours crawling over the dam, checking out its nooks and crannies and muscular WPA architecture (it really is a beautiful thing).

So anyway, vacation planning affects aside, it’s probably a good thing I’m in it. When I took the SH-S off before we left, I should have done it after my shower since, once again, I succumbed to the sensual pleasures of antibacterial soap applied properly (though without climatic completion, of course). The cock’s siren song is so strong that this morning I saw the key in my dop kit and really, really, really thought about using it. Just a little bit of jacking off surely wouldn’t be so bad, right? Just a little? I can only imagine what it’d be like were it not there.

And, for the record, I did not use the key.

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No cheating

We’re travelling today so I need to come out. The plan was for me to pop the seal on my emergency key and then reseal it when we get back on Monday (and, in between, put the device back on). I wanted to be able to demonstrate conclusively that I did not release the meat prior to our departure, so I made the following video. Nerdy, true. Obsessive compulsive, maybe. But, no one can accuse me of cheating.

[wpvideo sQO50L0W]

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Bedtime story

Sleep is good. Saturday, the night Stryker’s Beast mauled me, I got to bed late and slept little. Too horny. Sunday night, I went to bed early but woke up two hours later and was wide awake until 3:30. Horny again. Yesterday, I felt like the walking dead by about 6:30 in the evening. Slogging through the kids’ homework was torture. By 8:30, I was ready for bed. The kids were all down and out by 9:00. The pillows were waiting.

But then, the little voice of the hormone sprite whispered in my ear. “It’s time,” he squeaked. The irresistible force of my horniness started to push up against the immovable object of my exhaustion. I procrastinated in the bedroom, looking at dirty pictures and reading smutty stories. The Beast called to me. The occasional twinging aftereffects of my weekend ass stretching had reduced to nearly zero. I had kept the area shaved and was ready and very willing to put that dildo back where the sun don’t shine. Except for the tiredness. I laid there, internet in hand, and waited for the internal struggle between raging hormones and expiring brain cells to work itself out. Finally, at about a quarter to ten, I gave up. Whatever fire the sexual frustration lit was smothered under the blanket of weariness. I slept like a stone and didn’t wake up until 5:30.

The pressure in the tube was intense and reassuring. I could have eased it by taking a leak, but I decided to lay there and revel in it. I even exacerbated it by rolling onto my stomach and putting my ass up so as much blood as possible rushed into the cock. I rolled over on my back and let it’s awkward heaviness flop around. I reached down and felt the hard smooth tube and the heat it radiated from within, my tight nutsack and the hairless trail that led from its encircling steel ring to my asshole. I still needed rest, but I was rested enough that the peaks of my desire rose above the fog of sleepiness. Had it not been so close to the start of the day, I might have acted, but there was no time. Instead, I simply allowed myself to experience the unique attributes of my life of chastity. Tight tubes. Hormones. Desire.

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Tids and bits

A couple of things I neglected to mention while describing my ass pounding:

  • The Stryker dildo is of the vac-u-lock variety and I purchased along with it something called an EZ Rider inflatable ball. My thinking was it would allow better penetration while not putting so much strain on my knees (which are not as springy as they were 20 years ago when I got my first suction cup Stryker dildo). Nice idea, but the ball sucks. The dildo moves around too much on the ball’s vac-u-lock plug making it more difficult to line it up and keep it in place. Plus, the little plastic doodad that supposed to keep the air in the ball kept popping out in situ. Had I to do it over again, I would have gone with the suction cup version instead and saved the extra $25. I could have put it towards the price of a fucking machine. Don’t suppose those are covered by Medicare, do you?
  • Nipple clamps! I totally forgot to mention I used nipple clamps at various points during the event. At different times, I was using three separate types, from mildly pinchy to wickedly so. I had the most vicious things available dangling from the tender pink flesh while I was cleaning up and they bit harder as I moved about, chain swaying and chest flexing. I was so horned up by that point that it seemed my capacity for pain was limitless. Those little fuckers hurt like hell, but the twin lasers of intensity were converted into pure sexual pleasure by whatever twisted little circuit in my brian makes me a masochist. Same idea behind the later ball-busting which was some of the most intense I’ve experienced. Getting trapped in a fucking bear trap probably would have made me shoot right there in my tube.
  • Speaking of the tube, it and I are very much in the zone right now. We’re in that phase where we’re one one and it seems more an extension and natural part of my body than a sex toy. I read on some blog recently advice that chastity play should only be practiced from time to time and not constantly for fear that it become boring. The flip side to that for some is that it’s not a situational sex game. It’s a lifestyle. Even though it’s causing me a great deal of frustration, there’s honestly nothing more than I’d want right now than it locked onto me. Its absence would be like losing an appendage.
  • In all the discussion about the size of the Stryker dildo, I forgot to mention that I wish they would have made one that was his actual size. His cock is so fantastic and working up to being able to experience the bulk of that dildo takes so long that, it seems to me, a 7.5″ version would probably result in more actual pleasure than the freakishly large member they produced. It’s not that I don’t absolutely adore that dildo, but just imagine being able to work yourself over with the real deal first before supersizing. Bliss.
  • Finally, it’s got nothing to do with the ass pounding, but I also forgot to mention that I slipped one of the Pinks into Belle’s open suitcase just as she finished packing Friday night. She got to her hotel room in China and found it nestled in with her underwear and bras. I knew she had forgotten about it because she packed somewhat in a hurry. I didn’t think she should have been without her favorite vibrator for two whole weeks. Hopefully, she’ll partake in its pleasure and tell me about each and every time she does.