Thirty before sixty

“It’s nearly November, Thumpie.”


“November’s your month.”

“No it’s not. You said December was.”

Pause. “I did?”

“Yes! You said December!”

I pulled up the relevant blog entry on my phone and showed her.

“Oh,” she said, “You’ve still got a ways to go, don’t you?”


We were out Saturday night on a date when that exchange took place. We saw a movie and were having a late dinner (by Midwest standards). Apparently, she forgot I was being punished. Had I just gone along with it, I’d be coming in a matter of days. As it is, 30 more days before it’s even an option.

After we had that misunderstanding resolved, she surprised me by telling me that once I come in December, she plans on leaving me out for up to two months during which time I’ll be allowed to do whatever I want. She says she recognizes I’ve settled into a nice place living without orgasms and she likes what I’ve become, but she wants to see what I’ll be like if I go back to living like I used to. As if I’m Pinocchio and she’s the Blue Fairy come to turn me into a real boy. Regardless, she says I will be locked up and denied again at some point and she expects me to be whiny and complain about it when it happens but that I will have no choice.

This news has left me with mixed emotions. On the one hand, as soon as she told me her plan I wanted immediate release. Why wait, I asked. Let’s just go now! But no, I have 30 more days, like it or not. Knowing that I will not only come in about a month but likely come a lot has got me so horny I can feel it in my teeth. She’s perfectly happy watching me squirm over it.

Then again, I admit to also feeling a sense of loss at the prospect of regaining this element of my life. When you live as I do with a deep well of desire never far away and a piece of equipment immovably affixed to your body, there’s a certain sense of specialness that goes along with it all. The device and my denial demonstrate that someone cares for me enough to take on the responsibility of tending to my sexual release. I’m not like the other boys. Once it’s off and I can squirt away to my heart’s content, I become like any other guy who can masturbate in the shower and come weakly whenever he wants. After living as I have for the past three years, I don’t ever want to go back.

Which, of course, is not to say I don’t have the raw desire to jack off daily. Of course I do. That’s nature. It’s my lizard brainstem pushing to execute its programming (and right now, it’s pushing pretty hard). But enveloping that is the belief (perhaps enhanced and perpetuated by the very hormones it produces) that being denied my orgasm has made me a better person. Once I come (and I will, a lot), this sense of “enlightenment” will evaporate. That’s the thing about denial. It’s like a perpetual motion machine. Once you start, you want to do it forever but once you stop, you barely want to do it at all.

I think what Belle wants to know is if any of my “better spouse” mojo will stick after three years of building it up or will I revert to what I was. I think I know what will happen. Knowing that she’ll eventually force me back to where I am now is a comforting thought.


Belle let me out of my confinement last Wednesday night in anticipation of our family trip to New York the following day. I had been encased for two solid weeks at that point, but I didn’t get much chance to enjoy my freedom since we were up late packing and the alarm went off in the wee hours of the next day so we could catch our flight. Then, three nights with the four of us in a Manhattan hotel room didn’t exactly lend itself to any penis play time.

But that’s not to say I didn’t get something out of it. Like any great city, New York is all about walking. Having not seen the light of day for so long left the head of the penis extraordinarily sensitive. As I’d walk, the motion would cause the penis to move against the fabric inside my pants and I’d find myself very distracted. What’s more, I’d eventually develop a raging boner, all from nothing more than incidental contact with my clothing.

We got home very late Sunday night and Belle told me I’d go in the next night. Monday morning, I found myself edging in the shower. It’s been two months since I came and I’m too weak to keep my hands off when I have the opportunity. Getting out of the shower, I decided to conduct an experiment that would provide me with practical information and make sure I didn’t spill any seed.

I’ve played around with lidocaine cream in the past and found it to be a really good way to temporarily deny myself the ability to orgasm even without a device in place. Recently, I’ve read several accounts of men in my position who’ve used it to allow their partners full penetrative sex while removing worry that it’d make them come (like this one). I told Belle this and she seemed somewhat interested in the idea since the most limiting factor of my denial is her enjoyment of riding the erect penis. Also, I have felt guilt in the past in not being able to give her this activity that she likes so much.

So, I bought a new tube of the stuff, this time at a 5% strength versus the 4% cream I’ve used in the past. What I wanted to find out was A) how long would it take before the penis was numb enough to safely use, and B) what parts of the penis could I leave with sensation and still not be concerned with orgasm?

First off, this stuff ain’t cheap. I got a 2 ounce tube (this one, marketed as an anorectal cream – sexy!) and paid $50. I don’t recall how much the 4% cream I got last time was (and I can’t find it on Amazon any more), but it wasn’t anything like that much. The 5% version is more expensive, but I figured it’d also be 20% faster/longer lasting. Good news is, it doesn’t take much of the stuff to do the job so we should be able to get many session from the one tube.

The reason I wanted to know how long it took for numbness to set in is, of course, I don’t want to leave Belle waiting. Plus, I wanted to know how much advance planning it’d take to use. Turns out, I was sufficiently sedated after about 10-12 minutes (which is a bit faster than the 4% cream). I could still feel a little, but not enough to come. I applied it only on the head and maybe 30% of the end of the shaft, making sure to use the PA ring to get it down inside the urethra, too. I left some of the shaft with sensation since I’m worried that total lack of penile feeling would make keeping an erection difficult. Interestingly, once it had taken affect, the penis felt warmer than it had before. I assume this is because its skin couldn’t feel the air around it anymore. In any event, that was my clue that it was ready to try. I washed the remaining cream off and towel-dried the meat.

I jacked off pretty intensely for about 10 minutes. For most of that time, I had the sensation of wanting to come (my nuts even drew up as if I was about to), but I could never quite get there. It was like having a sneeze ready to come out, but never being able to get it out. I could feel the lower half of the penis pretty good, so my brain knew what was happening, but all the nerve endings in the business end were silent. After maybe 15 minutes, I started to feel like an orgasm was about to happen and I found myself edging again, even with a mostly numb dick. Unlike last time I tried this, there still was sensation in part of the shaft and that seemed to be enough after a long while to move the internal machinery in place. Next time, I’ll make sure to apply the cream further down the bottom of the shaft as feeling in that area seems to be integral in achieving orgasm even when the head has none. Also, if I have the time, I might also apply a second coat.

I think Belle wanted to have sex last night, but it was not to be. She told me I could stay out one more day, but I find being unprotected to be maddeningly distracting. Especially after two months with at least one more to go. Based on that, she allowed me to lock myself back up. After she fell asleep, I did (though not before giving the penis one last round of wanking). If she wants to use it tonight (or whenever), I can get it out quickly enough. If she gives me 15 minutes of warning, I can even make it safely fuckable.

I woke up at 5:00 AM for the first time in days with the incredible pressure of a secured erection. It was intense, as always, but not in a way bad. The discomfort was actually comforting. It’s a feeling only a happily denied man can appreciate, to be sure. The feeling of not being tempted by the annoying penis and there being zero chance of accidentally squirting. It felt safe and secure and perfectly natural.

The one with the urine in it

I was supposed to be out last weekend. Belle had said I would be, but it didn’t work out that way.

The plan was for the family to go camping with another family we’re friends with at a local state park. Not real camping since there would be electricity and a bathroom nearby (with real running water), plus about a hundred other people in neighboring campsites. Not at all like I’m used to. But, in a tent with a fire so it would kinda sorta feel like camping. Earlier in the week, though, Belle had returned from a business trip with a cold that did nothing but get worse until Friday rolled around so it was just the boy and I who went.

The Steelheart came along, too. Belle had forgotten about it. There were several times I thought to say something, but I never got around to mentioning it to her. So I was still locked (as I have been for two straight weeks). I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do about it. It wasn’t like being in the device would get in the way of any of the activities we were doing and it was only for two nights. My biggest concern was one of hygiene. Turns out there were hot showers there for the “campers” so Saturday morning I was in there swishing myself clean. Well, cleanish.

I observed something interesting, though. As any guy who is often locked up knows, it’s not always spring fresh down there. And what I’ve discovered is how long it’s been since a good cleaning isn’t necessarily a correlating factor to how it smells. Urine is, after all, distilled continuously and from constantly varying sources. Sometimes, it’s apparently odorless and not unlike hot water while at other times it’s not (as in the morning, for example). What I found was, as contrary to common sense as this may sound, peeing is one way to freshen up one’s steel tube, especially if it’s done after recently drinking a lot of fluid.

So anyway, I came back in reasonable working order and have been feeling pretty randy since Belle has recovered from her illness. She very subtly drove me crazy a few nights ago night by stroking my head and resting her hand on the device, finger tips brushing lightly against my tight scrotum. The next morning, we had some aggressive snuggling that left me feeling a little light-headed. I’m pushing eight weeks since my last orgasm and have only been out of the device for maybe 7-10 days total. I’m minimally seven weeks away from my next orgasm, though it’s hard to say since I’ve only been told “Decemeber”. It could be longer than that.

Anyway, I was moderately turned on this morning but not as frothed up as I can be. So I was surprised to find that I had passed quite a lot of thick, ropey white goo during my morning leak. Not only that, but I kept leaking all morning long, even after my shower. That slick n’ slippery stuff just kept drip, drip, dripping out of me. Plus, I have to say, my nuts felt absolutely massive to me. Fat and swollen as I groped them in frustration.

Last night, she finally let me get her off. Her pussy was so wet and so hot that just touching it made me moan. It’s remarkable how just feeling her there can electrify me. In the past, it was just a junction to get past before inserting the penis. Now, I crave just that. When she came, I had two fingers in and felt the post-orgasmic spasms perfectly. For me, more moaning and an overwhelming desire to bite something. For her, bliss.

Once we had settled down to sleep, me spooning into her from behind, she rapped her knuckle against the device which was at about the same spot as her hand.

“I just love that steel tube,” she said.


Year three

Today is the third anniversary of Denying Thumper.

  • 627 posts
  • Half a million words(?)
  • 8,923 video views
  • 37 HNThumpers

Still going strong.

Had I more time, I’d get all introspectively Thumpery, but I’m rushed today. Couldn’t let the day pass without a post, though.

Tickleberry è morto?

I’ve only just noticed that appears to be…dead. It was one of the very first sites I found three years ago that helped me wrap my brain around this nascent chastity kink I was getting into. It was full of some really excellent practical information. Not only that, they had some freakin’ hot videos of sexy guys being tormented by evil women.

I admit to never having purchased from them, but they were in the UK and the shipping charges were prohibitive. Plus, most of their stuff I could get from a US seller. Anyway, I’m sad about this.

Poor Tickleberry. Ye shall be missed.


Celtic Queen, in response to my last post, left the following comment:

Thumper, this sounds like a trite question (it isn’t meant to be) but are you happier as a person now?

Put another way, did control of your sex make you unhappy?

Then Chaz added…

You state that your OK with it. I think those that say you are trained might offer congratulations, yet I get more a sense of resigned acceptance from this post. It almost has a BCWYWF feel to it. I would echo CQ’s comment. Are you happy? You say you have changed, I would like to ask is it change for the better? Are you a better husband lover friend father? “BROKEN” as a title I would take to mean your will, but could it refer to something that needs to be fixed?

As I started to formulate a reply, I realized I might need a little more room, so here we are.

Starting at the end and with the title “Broken,” that was just a play on words. I used the “broken horse” metaphor in the post to describe how I was feeling about my sexual urges and it was a reference to that. Also, as I alluded to in the post, “broken” might have been how I would have described those feelings at an earlier stage in our dynamic. I wasn’t trying to say I was broken or my sex drive was (hell no!) or we were or anything ominous like that.

With regard to resigned acceptance, I guess that’s not an inaccurate description. What other option do I have? I could rail against my confinement and the generally low level of sexual activity we’ve had lately, but to what end? To put extra pressure on her? To make her feel guilty? To suggest I want out of the device and from under the dynamic? I don’t want any of those things. Hell yes I want more sex, but the timing wasn’t right and no matter how horny or frothed up I get, there’s nothing I can do about it. So yes, resigned acceptance. Acceptance that being the object of long-term enforced chastity isn’t always a crazy pornfest type of existence. Sometimes, things don’t work out how you’d like them to. You might be able to characterize resigned acceptance as negative, but you might just as well call it a healthy frame of mind and more productive than moaning and pissing about my grievances.

With regard to the “be careful what you wish for” vibe, yeah, totally, I was going for that. I can remember how incredibly turned-on the idea of chastity made me even when I was actually in that kind of relationship. I can remember how surreally horny I used to get and hopped up on hormones I’d be. This, though, is perhaps what the long tail of chastity looks like. Once your body adjusts and the new device smell goes away, you have to figure out a way to live with it. Be careful because sometimes it’s not all that hot. Sometimes, it’s freaking boring.

Am I a better “husband lover friend father”? I would really have to let Belle answer that, but I think I am a better husband. I think I was already a pretty good lover, though now I’m not able to use the penis on her in the way I know she likes. I was already very attentive in bed. I’d say that’s a push. Better friend? No, we’ve always been good friends. Better father? I’m not sure any of this has impacted that aspect of my life much at all.

Now, am I happy? That’s a bit trickier.

CQ asked, “Did control of your sex make you unhappy?” In a way, yes, because control of my sex led me to cheat on Belle. But, larger than that, control over my sex also led me away from her as it was easier and more convenient to pleasure myself than to seek that pleasure from her. I’m not making that “masturbation addiction” argument as I think it’s crap, but had I been able to jack off at will over the past few weeks, I wouldn’t be at all drawn to Belle for my needs. And isn’t that pretty much the entire point of enforced chastity? To bring a couple together so they can enjoy sexual intimacy only with each other and not by themselves? That morning we finally had sex was fantastic even though I was fucking horny as hell and left literally dripping with desire afterward.

No, I won’t say control over my sex left me unhappy, but having her control my sex does make me happier more often than not. Nothing in this world in perfect. There are no silver bullets. Living as I do is the same. There are good days, there are bad days. There are fucking amazing days, there are god awful days. In balance, though, I am where I want to be.

So, as a coda to my previous post, I should say having that one sexual session has changed my attitude remarkably. I’m feeling much hornier and more connected to my desires than I was before. Even to the point that holding the device in my hand as I clean it makes me think so much about what it means to have it on that it fills up with chubby penis meat and I can’t flush water through it. I’ll find myself fingering the hard ring under my waistband and, again, the stupid penis will try its best to plump out.

I am denied. My sex is totally controlled. And I am so fucking turned on by that.


After almost three years of living with a penis locked into some kind of device, it’s often felt like a battle was going on inside me. My inclination to want to be dominated and denied going up against my hormonally-supercharged sex drive. It didn’t help that the very nature of being denied by a device is, in itself, a kind of sex play that kept desire for actual sex play top of mind.

If you’ve read this blog for a while (or from the beginning), you’ll know what I’m talking about. The number of nights I’ve laid in bed frustrated and angry at Belle for ignoring me and my needs have been numerous. I submitted to Belle in body only. My mind and spirit wanted more.

You might be wondering why things have been quiet here and it’s because things have been quiet here, in the real world, as well. Due to travel and nighttime work obligations and whatever else, we haven’t had sex for at least two weeks. Instead of being petulant or grumpy or in some way pressuring Belle, I just sort of cruised. I didn’t feel angsty inside. I didn’t feel much of anything. It was like my sex drive had been taped up in a box and put away somewhere out of reach.

Sure, I wanted her. I wanted all kinds of things, but I didn’t dwell on it or let any of those feelings back up on her. There was a sort of zen-like calm over me. Had I been out of the device, I’m sure I would have been rubbing the penis at every opportunity, but I didn’t have access and it was like it wasn’t even there. Before, not only would this have been hard for me to imagine, but I would have hated the very idea. Not having a great urge for sex and not really missing that urge would have been a state of mind I would have actively resisted.

Be that as it may, here I am. I’m not unhappy about it. I should be. I would have expected myself to be, but I’m not. How is it possible that I’ve gone over six weeks without an orgasm and have been denied access to the penis for nearly all that time and am not pissed off over the lack of sex? I dunno. If you were so inclined, you’d say I’ve been successfully trained. That the spirit of my inner male has been broken and the animal that once resisted control has now taken to its tack and saddle with equanimity. I think that’s about right. I am not, fundamentally, the same man I was three years ago. Not even one year ago. The experience of infrequent orgasm and nearly perpetually locked manhood have deeply affected me. Sometimes, I don’t even feel like a man anymore. I look like one and sound like one, but I’m not one. I’m something other. And, against all expectations, I’m OK with that.

We did eventually have sex, though. Yesterday, she let me feel her and suck her and finger her to orgasm. When it was over, I was quite hard and packed tightly into the tube. I wanted more. She started gently fingering my nuts and I opened myself to her, silently begging for more of her attention. Instead of more gentle caressing, she slapped me. Smacking my nuts instead of what I really wanted. I didn’t say anything. I just took it. She’d stroke and caress then SMACK! Inside, I was begging her to stop that and only be gentle, but whenever the words got close to being said, I felt them get trampled by the heavy boots of my domination. I don’t have the right to tell her what to do with those nuts. If she wants to make me feel good through them, she can. If she wants me to feel pain though them, she can. If she wants both, she can do that, too. And, while it hurt, it also really turned me on. And it made me appreciate all the more those moments of gentle caressing.

“Fuck, I want to be inside you,” I moaned on all fours, her body beneath mine.

Smack, smack! SMACK!! I cringed. It was as if she was reminding me of my place and punishing my impertinence.

Gently caressing the tight nutsack, she said, “Not now, Thumper. Soon. Maybe. It’s better for you to wait.”

Of course. She’s right. I should wait.

Later that morning, as I walked around the house in my baggy pajama bottoms, I could feel cold sticky strands of precum dripping down my inner thigh, getting caught up in my leg hair. Reaching inside, I could feel the end of the tube slick and covered with the gooey byproduct of my position. Bringing it to my face, I inhaled its subtle aroma and sucked it off my fingers. And I moaned.