Me on Twitter this AM:
Fuck. Forget I'm getting a massage this afternoon and I'm still locked up.
— thumper (@thumperMN) February 4, 2015
The place I get my hair cut is right across the street from where I work. Super convenient and the nice gay man who cuts me is obsessive compulsive about it and makes me feel like I get my money’s worth (and it’s more than most people would pay for a simple haircut, I’m sure). They’ve been building a massage room there for about the last ten years (or so it seems) and the masseuse they have is really good (if a 15 minute chair massage is any indication). I’ve been very excited about the prospect of having a massage option so close and convenient and have been bugging them every time I’m there about when they were going to start accepting table massage clients. Today is that day. So I booked a 90 minute rub down.
Problem is, the above tweet (and its fucking typo1). I’m still locked up. Of course, I am not embarrassed by this. No, really. If the dude giving me the massage was in on my private life and cool, I’d be perfectly happy staying inside the thing as Belle wants and/or answering any questions my state would raise for him, but I really don’t know him. Plus, of course, reputable massage therapists are always having to fend off jokes and innuendo about their profession, so the good ones treat anything sexual like kryptonite. Plus plus, it is entirely uncool to bring someone into your kink without consent.
This is something I struggle with when seeing the trainer. I know for a fact he’s seen the odd bulge in my shorts and I do little to hide it (though I do do a little). There’s a fuzzy line between not dragging someone into your kinky sex life against their will and needing to live your life as you’ve chosen. In the case of the trainer, I feel like I’m on the right side of it. In the case of a (presumed) muggle masseuse, wearing a device that would be obvious through the sheet and/or clank a little when I roll over definitely is not. I get the concept of being forced into a potentially embarrassing situation like that might be uber hot in a chastity femdom porn story, but seriously. Not in real life.
Since I forgot all about it, I don’t have Belle’s key which means I need to break into the one I have in case of emergency. Kinda bummed about that for no other reason than I’ve been able to maintain seal 1871290 since mid-March of last year. Now it has to die and be replaced with another silent key keeper.
It’s possible, I suppose, he’ll put a thick towel over me or a heavy sheet. And it’s possible that towel or sheet would be enough to hide the odd bulk of the Steelheart. But I recall one massage I got (at the Grand Californian at Disneyland of all places) where the sheet was ridiculously thin. Thin enough to figure out if the penis was circumcised. For real. Had I been locked, all would have been known instantaneously. It just seems really super creepy to me to not do something about the device if I can. Of course, I can. So I will.
While writing this, I’m still locked up. I’ll stay that way until I undress when I’ll pop the key and take the Steelheart off. Then, when redressing, I’ll put it back on. I’ll only be unlocked during the actual massage. Assuming, of course, that the key in the key safe is the right key. Damn. Just thought of that. Fuck.
Well…it is what it is. I’m pretty sure it’s the right one. We’ll know at about 3:10 this afternoon. Here’s hoping for that super thick towel or heavy sheet just in case…
UPDATE: The idea that I had the wrong key freaked me out enough to break into it and give it a test. Yes, it’s the right one. And yes, I’m still locked up.
1 Seriously, Twitter!? We STILL can’t edit fucking tweets? Facebook figured this out years ago now.