Month: August 2011

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Consequences

Three of her orgasms. That’s what I’ve lost due to my willful masturbation last week.

Also, I’ve been informed, I won’t have another orgasm until November. That’s not necessarily as a result of the unauthorized ejaculation. It’s about the rythme she’s put me on recently. There will be two periods of travel between now and November, but both will be with someone else so the solo action described previously won’t be possible. Also, since I’ll be checking luggage on both of these trips, I’ll probably bring the protective device along just to be safe. Had it been with me last week, I wouldn’t have broken the rules.

So, did I break the rules because I’m untrustworthy and incapable of the honor system or was it something else? As regular readers know, I’ve been in similar situations before and not fallen off the wagon. Why was this last trip different? On the one hand, I was very tired and knew I wasn’t likely to sleep well at all had I not relived myself. I really wanted to sleep. I think, in balance, that was the primary motivator behind the infraction. However, as I said, I spent no time at all debating it with myself. There was a moment I distinctly remember where I was contrasting the night I knew I was about to face to the feeling of the PA rocking back and forth and my decision was immediate and without reservation. I don’t know if that means I can’t be trusted anymore. I know I would never try to sneak the device off or defeat it in some way (not that I could), but alone with an unprotected penis? When horny? I don’t know. It feels as though I can’t trust myself anymore, so why should Belle?

And in a way, I like that. The knowledge that I really do need to be locked up and that, had I my druthers, I’d be abusing myself were it not for the steel lock. Being an accomplice to my own denial has required a certain amount of reality suspension. Of course, I still need to be accommodating to the arrangement because my chastity is, at the end of the day, consensual, but now it’s got a different texture. It really is enforced. She says I can’t jack off and come without her permission so there’s a device locked on the penis to make sure I don’t because without it I might.

Is that evolution or devolution? Either way, it’s 16% hotter than before.

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The unfortunate incident

I was away from Belle and unlocked for one night last week. Thursday night, to be precise. The night before, I was so jacked up and horny that I slept only a few hours here and there. I kept waking up with the kind of stuffed tube that only feeds upon itself with all kinds of visions and scenarios spinning in my head.

So, as I boarded the aircraft the next morning and flew a few hours to make a presentation in front of a bunch of total strangers,  I was operating on energy reserves. Forced fun following and an overly indulgent dinner of the kind reserved for important life events (graduation, marriage, death) or large corporate expense accounts left me in my mid-priced yet stylish hotel room aching for the bed and numerous pillows.

And I was, truly, exhausted. I neglected to pack any bedclothes so I climbed in between the cool, crisp sheets able to feel their cool crispness along my entire body. Even those areas that typically only feel the inside of a steel tube. Nonetheless, I was tired. Exhausted, remember? I laid back and opened my laptop in order to catch up with Facebook and the world news. My eyelids were leaden and I moved to close the computer and turn out the light.

But I didn’t. Instead, I thought to myself, let’s just see what’s waiting for me in my Tumblr feed. I clicked the link to The Portfolio’s dashboard and saw a stream of bodies materialize. At first, I can’t say it much affected me, but after a few moments and seeing a couple of particularly interesting specimens that nicely complimented my taste, there was a stirring beneath the sheets. My leaden eyelids lightened a bit and the veil of sleep withdrew a bit more. My left hand found its way to the pudgy penis and gently coaxed it into full stiffness.

The more dispassionate parts of my brain saw what was coming. I would likely edge myself for an hour or so (and it was already late) before perhaps allowing a couple slugs of creamy white goo out in a non-orgasmic emission. Then I’d toss and turn and deal with multiple erections and probably punch myself in places most men would wither to consider before finding myself standing bleary-eyed at the check-in counter for the flight home.

While pondering this certain fate, I also happened to notice how the stroking felt. How the fat, heavy PA ring moved within the head of the penis and how that sensation was, in a word, excellent. There are times, most men would agree, when jacking off is perfunctory and not especially great, but there are others when the loop of one’s hand and one’s member and one’s brain is in perfect tune. Where the three elements form a continuous element of pleasure. In that crisp white bed in that moderately-priced yet still stylish hotel room with the over-active air conditioner I felt such a oneness. And I weighed that oneness against my previously considered fate.

There really was no question. At no point did the alternative seem likely. I knew what was going to happen. I was going to come. And I was going to like it. Yes, I knew I’d feel guilty immediately afterward, but I also knew with a certainty how good the orgasm was going to feel. The inevitable build-up, the hovering on the brink, and the explosive fireworks that would run along my spine and over my scalp as the creamy payload spewed forth.

And, as long as I was being bad, I decided to drag it out. To really revel in my disobedience and make it count. As the orgasm would approach, I’d change my grip and make it wait, make it work its way back down. The big heavy ring deliciously tickling the most sensitive part of me from within while my hand teased it from without. I worked that load the best I could. I wanted to be bathed in ejaculate. I wanted to really fucking come. This wasn’t going to be a case of manslaughter. This was going to be first degree murder. Not premeditated, perhaps, but with all the same consequences.

And I came. And there were fireworks and tingling. Every hair stood up on my body. The cream gushed forth all over my stomach and hand. I came like a 17-year-old. It was glorious.

For 6 seconds. Then the stupor washed over me tinged with a froth of guilt. I staggered into the bathroom and wiped the offending paste from my body and fell back into bed. And I slept, knowing I’d tell Belle. Which I did. Two nights ago.

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I want this

And, you know, my birthday is coming up. I’ve been a good boy.

Well, pretty good. Mostly good. Not that I had a lot of choice.

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Bits, bobs, etc.

I’m back in, if just for a few days. Belle let me out, as you may recall, a few days before I left on my hiking trip and even let me come (having said previously I’d get to orgasm in August). I was hoping I’d get another chance to get the penis wet before I left, but she came down with a cold and I was trying not to do the same either right before or during my trip, so excessive personal contact was kept to a minimum.

Luckily, she was in the mood (and I was way in the mood) and she let me give her an orgasm with my fingers on Saturday morning. For a second, it seemed like maybe that’s all that was going to happen and she wasn’t going let me have the pre-trip do-over, but in the end she did. I climbed on top and went to town, trying like hell to make it last, but failing as miserably as I usually do when the infrequent pussy time is granted. That orgasm was better than the one I had the week before and it’s left me wanting more, though she’s given no indication of how long it’ll be.

Last night, the steel curtain came back down and she’s secreted away the key. I’m actually pretty fucking horny right now. It was hard to clean the penis and its tube this morning because it wouldn’t get small enough to allow water to freely flow around inside there. I seem to be walking around with a semi-permanent semi. Whenever my thoughts even fleetingly head south or towards something sexual, I can feel it push against the walls of its prison.

Thursday, I head out of town for one night on business. If I’m still this horny then, I doubt I’ll be able to keep my hands off of it unless she very specifically says I’m not allowed or lets me take a device with me on the trip. Since I’ll probably be doing carry-on, it’d have to be the trusty old CB6K which I haven’t worn in well over a year.

In other news, the kids are out of our hair for the next nine days due to some construction in our house and this being the weeks between summer and school when they don’t have any daytime care options. So, up to the cabin they went with the grandparents. We won’t see them again until Labor Day weekend. I’m hoping the lack of company in the house will mean Belle hurts me or ties me up or both. I’d quite like to feel the sting of some hitty device on my ass or back or upper thighs. Maybe with some of the unspeakable nipple clamps in place…and my collar…

Oh look, there goes the penis again.

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Buying advice

Since I just got back from my last week-long camping and hiking extravaganza of the year, I really don’t have much to blog about. Luckily, I received a question via the feedback page and have decided I could cheat my way into having a post by answering it here.

Reader Chris says…

I am planning to order a Steelheart device and have used your blog as a primary resource on learning about it’s pros and cons.

I appear to be similarly equipped (endowed?) as you (although no PA piercing) and use similar settings in my CB-6000. Although I use the second smallest spacer and the middle sized ring. (I think you use the smallest spacer instead)

Back in the day, yes I did.

 I am pretty sure that I want the 35mm wide tube and the 42mm a-ring.

I’m also certain that I want the integrated lock.

I have a few questions for you if you don’t mind:

1) Your SH-S is 70mm… the longest available steelheart length is 105mm, which is roughly the same the cb-6000. I’d like something smaller in length than the CB-6000 but don’t wish to encounter any nocturnal pain (pain which you dont seem to mind so long as tolerable)…

What length do you feel would provide the better fit w.out the night time discomfort you get using the 70mm tube? I’m thinking 85 – 90mm… thoughts?

In my experience, having a tube that arrests the erection at a size as close to the penis’ flaccid length as possible is more comfortable than one that allows it to reach half-mast. However, the more the erection is compressed, the more pressure is placed on the cuff ring. Were I to do it over, I would have ordered a tube that was perhaps even a little shorter than the SH-S tube (70mm). I do need a little extra space in there for the PA and fixing hardware, but I bet I could lose 3-5mm as still be good.

In short, I think the nocturnal pain is more a function of the ring, not the tube, and shorter tubes tend to be better than longer ones.

2) the extra tube ring added for comfort… you mentioned that it occasionally causes discomfort, lol. Do you still recommend the extra feature? I see you have it on both steelheart tubes that you’ve ordered

The weld holding the “comfort” ring on is the culprit. I wish Dietmar would not place it at the bottom of the tube where the pressures between the erection and the thin skin attaching it to the scrotum is the greatest. Perhaps two offset a centimeter or so in each direction would be better, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve ordered both my tubes with that ring because I suspect the thinner, relatively sharp edge of the tube by itself would be problematic. I would advise getting it but seeing if Dietmar could either ensure the weld is very smooth or offset it as I described.

3) I can’t stand the idea of squishing the boys through a solid ring so I plan to order the Bipartite ring instead (http://steelworxx.de/Bipartite-A-Ring-for-all-cb-47p.html ). Any experience with such a ring and/or any opinions?

From my experience with the CB6K, I think any nook or cranny is a problem, especially when on the ring. I think having it hinged is asking for problems. Popping my nuts though the ring has become a bit more twingy lately as I think they’re larger than they used to be, but it’s a very fleeting sensation and way worth not getting any hot spots from a hinge. I would not pay extra for that feature.

4) Finally, any other advice of any kind that you feel will help me in ordering the best device is greatly appreciated. Thank you for your time… and your blog!

I think your wearing the CB6K first is the right approach. As I’ve said before, it’s not a perfect analog to moving to steel, but it helps get you in the ballpark from a sizing perspective and allows your body to adjust and “settle in” to what it probably your true size. You don’t say how long you’ve worn the CB6K, but I’m assuming it’s been long enough that you started at a larger sized ring and spacer and moved down over time.

I also think when buying custom steel, you need to prepare yourself for the likelihood that at least part of it will need to be adjusted after you wear it. I had a too large ring and tube, though only the ring was immediately obvious to me. Based on what I read in the experiences of others, it seems like 30-50% of guys will replace a piece within a few months and north of 75% will replace another chunk or even order an entirely new device after a year or so.

Good luck! Moving to steel was the best thing we’ve done with regard to chastity play. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.

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Fleshy bits

“You look funny when your fleshy bits are out.”

That’s what Belle said to me a few days ago following her decision that I’d be out of the device and the unencumbered penis flopped around as I climbed into bed. Her reason for letting me be that way had to do with another camping and hiking trip I’m about to set forth on, though I don’t leave until tomorrow and she let me out Tuesday morning. There was a vagueness about whether or not my August orgasm would coincide with this.

The night before that, she had unexpectedly let me give her an orgasm. About midway through, she told me to get on my back and for a second I thought she was going to do something for me, but instead she threw one leg over my face and pressed her pussy down onto my mouth and eager tongue. I reached up and fiddled with her nipples while she grabbed the headboard and gyrated her hips around and lubricated the entire lower half of my face. The penis was straining in its prison as she moaned and groaned while exploring her new-found control over this particular kind of pleasure. It’s a little more natural for her, perhaps, since she used to usually need to be on top while fucking me in order to get off. In any event, she did achieve her orgasm while I laid there like one of those coin operated kiddy rides you used to see outside grocery stores.

The next day, I was out and distracted by the little meaty bit. I admit to playing with it more than I probably should have, but well within reason. I found I couldn’t very well curate The Portfolio while at work and then expect to be able to get up and walk around without demonstrating its affect on me. With the device in place, it always looks the same regardless of what’s going on inside. In any event, it and I were playing our usual game of chance until last night when she told me she would let me rub one out.

I will say right now it sucked. That was no fault of hers as she was more or less just an observer (she was feeling a little under the weather). She hopes that allowing me to come last night will give me the ability to control myself better so as to provide her with a nice ride on the erection tonight (assuming she’s feeling better). While excited for the event and eager to get going, I’m not sure I was in the proper mindset and may have rushed into it. There is a very palpable differnece between jacking off for the purpose of edging versus doing the same with the idea of coming. There was a point when I felt the orgasm building steam and I backed off in order to prolong my enjoyment (as if I wasn’t going to come) but then said fuck it and plowed forward so that when it finally started, there was a definite lack of fireworks. I did come and felt sleep/dopey/tingly from it, but it was hardly the kind of event I would have expected after being denied for two months, in either quality or quantity. I’m feeling more on edge and ready to come again right now than I was last night, so I hope she’ll give me another shot (literally) before I go. I also hope that if she wants to use the penis herself, that I’ll be able to accomodate her desire.

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The choice

RougueBambi said, regarding comments left by other readers of my previous post:

I really don’t understand, how someone can “not understand the bisexual thing” after what Thumper just wrote. It’s not a thing you choose. It’s a fucking sexuality.

I think what they were saying when they wrote they couldn’t understand bisexuality was the same thing I said in my post, “It’s hard for me to relate today to someone who doesn’t find something appealing about both male and female forms.” The word “relate” is probably better than “understand” because I can understand how someone would not find those of their gender sexually attractive the same way I can understand how people find all kinds of bodies and acts attractive I don’t. We all have our types. We all have our kinks. But, as someone who is firmly attracted to both genders, it is difficult for me to relate to those who aren’t (especially those with an equal yet opposite determination).

I don’t want to dwell on that so much as I want to talk about her other point. “It’s not a thing you choose. It’s a fucking sexuality.” I agree entirely that I did not choose to be attracted to both genders. I’m not sure, all things being equal, I would have chosen it and that is, ironically, the giant hole in the argument for all those who claim homosexuality is a choice. Like anyone would choose to be ostracized by their friends and family, discriminated against by their employer and the government, and basically treated like a social waste product for fucking centuries upon centuries of Western culture. Or, more personally, that I would choose to lose some of the most productive sexual years of my life because I couldn’t find a way out of my own crossed signals to a place where I could enjoy myself with willing partners of either gender. No, what you want to fuck is not a damned choice. It’s hard-wired. Like handedness and Tea Party psychosis.

But.

I did make a choice. I chose the heterosexual path. I chose it because I felt more emotional satisfaction with women but also because it was, of course, the far easier choice to make. I chose it over having to come out to my family and friends and over uncertainly in how I’d live and what I knew was a very real prospect of never being able to form a lasting relationship with a man. I chose having my own kids with my own partner and I chose not to be treated like a moral deviant. I made this choice fifteen years ago and times have certainly changed, but I’m sure the core of the choice would remain the same if I had it to do all over again. One could argue that my inclination was already towards heterosexuality, but I am far more than just a little homosexual. I am very definitely a “rounded up” heterosexual. I eventually rounded myself up and essentially locked 45% of my sexuality in a box for the rest of my life in order to have a “normal” relationship with a woman.

I cannot be alone. I know I’m not. I remember all those guys I sucked off who are now in the same place I am with a wife and kids and everything. I don’t think many of them were as close to the middle of the Kinsey scale as I am and most were experiencing “situational” homosexuality driven by their teenage hormones, an inability to score with the chicks, and a more than willing slut of a boy readily at hand. I’m sure that many of them, when pondering the whole “is homosexuality a choice” thing, think it may be based on their life experience. They experimented with the gay thing and decided not to explore it further. Therefore, it’s a choice. They might even look at me, the willing and eager participant in their experimentation, and see someone else who made their “choice”.

So no, you can’t choose what turns you on. But you can choose how to live your life. If that choice goes against your nature, you will be miserable and probably pretty unsuccessful at it. I made my choice and that choice allowed me to get on with my life. Because of it, there are things I want and will never get that sometimes eat at me from the inside out. Simultaneously, there are other things that fill my life with joy and contentment and a sense of purpose. In the end, I made the only choice that made sense for me.

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Sweet transvestite

I was having an email exchange the other day with a reader who identifies as bisexual about what it was like to be sexually attracted by both genders myself, specifically as a young person. It’s hard for me to relate today to someone who doesn’t find something appealing about both male and female forms. Not just the shape of their bodies and format of their genitals, but the very different emotional and psychological attributes of each bring to an encounter.

For as long as I can remember, there were things that appealed to me about both boys and girls. Things that eventually started to play out as sexual games (or as close as you can get when you’re very young). I knew that I shouldn’t tell my parents about these things and I also knew that obviously the boys ended up with the girls eventually, but it all seemed so perfectly natural to me. And until I was in junior high, I never had any kind of fun with another boy who seemed weirded out by it. There was this one guy who lived nearby who always seemed more than happy for me to go down on him but was never all that enthusiastic with the concept of reciprocity.

For a long while, after I figured out how not normal it was to play around with boys, I used to think there was something about me, specifically, that made them think I would be up for stuff the other boys wouldn’t. Perhaps that’s true, I don’t know. Maybe there are signals we project unknowingly or I exhibited certain mannerisms or had the right kind of pheromones or some shit like that, but by the time I entered high school, I figured out that I had had way more same-sex fun than any other of my friends. Even the ones that were starting to show signs of being gay. Interestingly, it seemed like the gay boys had had less experience with other boys, perhaps because they were overly self-conscious about their feelings. Who knows. Anyway, for a long time, I thought it was me, not them. That I had somehow invited this attention and that they felt I was a safe source of something they would never tell their other friends about.

At some point, I started attracting a few girls, too. Turns out I liked them just as well as the boys, but for different reasons. I think they liked me because I was “sensitive”, but no matter, I just cruised though my middle teenage years kind of bouncing back and forth (even on the same day, but only once at the same time). I am the kind of person who needs to identify and categorize things, myseld included. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I was. I was certainly not straight, though my heart and soul yearned for the company of a woman. Then again, how could someone who only looks at other men as sex objects be gay? That sounds like a horrible life. It seemed like everyone was trying to “round me up” to gay. My gay friends said bi was a stage and my straight friends all thought the same thing.

There was one boy in particular, who I’m fortunate enough to still call a good friend, that I was especially unkind to for a while. He was very much enamored of me and I liked him a lot (and his outstanding cock), but I could never connect with him beyond really liking him and his cock. On those occasions in which I felt like I should probably be gay, I’d go to him and make him feel like I was more invested  in him that I could be. Ultimately, that left him feeling hurt and disappointed. That cycle happened several times. At least six over the course of many years.

That I never did that to any girl has not only to do with my innate feeling that they were “different” and not deserving of such treatment, but also because by the time I got into my twenties I had pretty much stopped seeing them entirely. Maybe it was fear of my own uncertain sexuality that kept me from pursuing them (or, really, letting any of them pursue me), but there were years in between my last serious girlfriend and Belle. By the time we were having sex, we had already been friends for a while. She knew about my history with boys, had watched gay porn with me, and seen some of the toys I used to pleasure myself. For the first time really, I had a girlfriend who knew what I was.

At some point, maybe 15 years ago or so, I realized I was just what I was. That I wasn’t entirely normal, but that I wasn’t and didn’t need to fit into any commonly recognized buckets. That’s not to say I embraced this realization with heroic fervor. I spent a lot of time hiding myself from Belle out of a misplaced sense of shame and embarrassment. That was a mistake.

So why Frank N. Furter? Well, there was a time in high school when my friends and I (including that boy from above with the really nice cock) would go and see The Rocky Horror Picture Show every week at the local dive theater. Week after week until I knew the words to the movie by heart. I love that fucking movie. Not only because of the special time that was in my life and how grown-up it felt to be out late seeing a movie that was essentially about a guy that builds his own living sex doll, but because there was this big, beautiful omnisexual being on the screen for me to identify with. Frank wasn’t gay or straight and nobody seemed to really give a shit. Not only that, but on my side of the screen were hundreds of kids like me cheering him on (some even dressing up like him – mostly straight boys, but don’t get me started). He was a real, almost positive roll model for me. Yes, he does end up killing a guy with an ax and is killed himself at the end of the movie, but along the way he looks fabulous and fucks Brad and Janet and Rocky, plus a midget or two. I liked Frank because in a weird, fucked up kind of way, I saw myself in him. And he was in charge and having fun (except for at the end) and didn’t bother apologizing to anyone along the way (OK, except for Riff, again at the end, but that’s only because Riff was pointing a gun at him…and just when it seemed like he was getting his life together).

There’s really no reason for me to tell you all this right now except that I was feeling a little writer-blocky and knew, once I saw this picture of Frank fly by in my Tumblr stream, that I could riff for a thousand words or so on the subject of being a sexually mixed up kid living in the time of late-night movie transvestites from another planet.

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Pictures don’t lie

I had to go into enforced chastity’s no man’s land today: The other side of airport security. Belle, who’s in NYC, didn’t want to let me stay out any longer than necessary. Therefore, I’m posting this photographic evidence that I am back in and locked up.

Before:

20110804-055735.jpg

After:

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Note the date (on the paper and of this post), the numbers on the locks, and their condition in each picture.

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Wicked pincher

Back in the can today. I woke up and the little annoyed spot was 86% healed. Not sure what it is about the skin in that area of the body, but is seems to put itself right faster than other skin.

So, I worked out this morning all free and floppy (figured there was no reason to make stuff grind down there any more than necessary), showered without rubbing for the genie (bonus points should be awarded), and locked the device back into place so I could greet the day in the manner in which I have become accustomed.

All great, right? Wrong! I’m in my first meeting of the day and start to feel an odd little twinge from the area where the bottom of the penis joins with the scrotum. There might be a name for that little bit but Wikipedia is failing me. So anyway, I slyly shift my seating position and give the device a little shove in order to unpinch whatever little bit is being squished. No luck. The odd little twinge starts to grow a bit more insistent and I start to shift in my seat in a vain attempt to sort it out. Again, no luck.

It’s at this point that the sensible part of my brain (the one I clearly inherited from my mother who is nothing if not a picture of Midwestern sensible) starts berating the rest of my brain for thinking this whole chastity thing is hot. The meeting over, I retreat to my office and reach not so subtly down my pants to pull the whole device away from my body. This is often a way to “reset” whatever little bits of skin have become trapped by whatever little bits of steel.

Fucking hell, that hurt! Jesus! I’ve never actaully felt anything like that. A strong, intense burning from that otherwise nameless intersection of tender male parts. I frantically started rooting though my bag looking for the emergency key, but as soon as I start I know I won’t find it. It’s safely nestled in my nightstand drawer where it’s been for months. FUCK.

I retreated further to the server room. It has a lock on the door and is infrequently entered. Once behind the door, I pulled down my pants to do a visual on the tortured meat. Lifting up the tube to get a look at the spot sends such an intense stab of eye-watering pain that my knees almost buckled. It’s so bad I halfway expect to see blood. How could there not be? But there isn’t.

After more gingerly approaching the lifting (actually, more pushing the nuts out of the way than lifting of the tube), what I see instead is a little ball of penis skin trapped somehow under the edge of the tube right at the base of the penis. I’ve never ever seen this. Nor do I have any idea why it’s trapped, but the trapped skin has turned white from the stress of the pinch. Without a key and with no ability to reach down to that part of the device on the inside, I started to pull the device away from me while simultaneously trying to work the shaft back with my other hand, pulling the skin on the very flaccid little member from the top hoping to free it on the bottom. It was a motion similar to what I’d do if I was trying to pull out, but of course, that’s impossible. All I wanted to do was free the pinched bit.

I can’t say why it was pinched or what caused it to be so stubborn in getting itself unpinched but I know the very nanosecond it got free. I felt a cool wave of relief wash over me starting at my shoulders, going up over my head, and down my front. And just like that, the pain was gone. The Wicked Pinch of 2011 was no more.