Waiting the sick out

Like I said yesterday, I was sick last week. The kind of sick that for the first few days was just a little more tired than usual and some odd muscle aches that could have been chalked up to over-exertion at the gym but blossomed into a full-on feverish total-body festival of pain anchored by a complete collapse of my digestive tract. At least I never barfed. Man, I hate that. Once the worst of it had passed, the achy mildly feverish clammy and baby kitten weak stuff hung around. For days. And days. Besides the physical issues, the entire experience left me feeling emotionally wrecked. Nasty stuff.

In the midst of everything, as Belle was in New York, I felt an irresistible urge to rid myself of the Steelheart. I staggered out of bed and went to my bag where I (usually) keep the emergency key. But it wasn’t there. I turned the bag inside out looking and cursing and probing all the little nooks and crevasses knowing it had to be there and expecting to feel it at every second, but it wasn’t to be found. Then I stumbled back to the bedroom and looked in my drawer, then back to the living room to look in my little change/junk/headphones/European coin bowl. No dice.


Not happy, though I did have enough sense to know that once I was well again the idea of being totally trapped in the steel would likely be kinda hot. But at this point, it was the total polar opposite of hot. Icy death cold, it was. And it bummed me out.

Then I remembered. I took a different bag to LA with Drew and I know I had the key with me then though I never used it. I found that bag (which I thought I emptied) and there was the key. Whew. Fucking whew, I say. I took the device off and promptly failed to have anything like an erection for 96 hours.

Belle got home by the end of the week and then Saturday rolled around and it was something like three weeks since we had sex. But I didn’t want any. I was the least sexy feeling person in the world. But Belle did so we did. More or less. I did my nipple sucking and clit fingering thing and she had an apparently nice orgasm and, as hard to believe as it was, I had a boner so she invited me aboard. I think we fucked for about 32 seconds. Between me getting lightheaded from the exertion and her wincing from her still-tender horse-abused ribs, it was hardly a Penthouse Forums moment. But I got the penis wet.

We did a little better the next morning, but I still would have been perfectly satisfied not having sex. Besides the physical weakness, I just didn’t have the urge. But, again, she wanted it and that’s what it’s for, so have it we did. I was again invited to fuck her and was able to get to the point where I was almost going to come, so I stopped. But I still felt like I was about to come. But I stopped! But I still felt like I was going to come so I continued to be adamantly and very intently STOPPED. But it didn’t matter. Maybe eight or ten seconds after, I kinda sorta came anyway. Three undulating slugs of the stuff, all run together and shooting on their own with little muscular prodding. Like, it just sort of rolled out of me. Not just a squirt. This had intent behind it. Like an orgasm developed sentience and self-will and told me to fuck off. Belle thought it was fascinating and I thought it was awful. It felt like 60% of an orgasm. Kinda fun, not great, without much of the post-orgasmic chemical bang.

At some point over the weekend, I told Belle Drew was coming on Monday. I felt bad about this because besides being not really in the mood for sex in general, my mood for the kind of sex I have with Drew (you know, teh gay sex) was less than zero. My whole life, the bisexual part of me that finds men attractive and sex with them stimulating has ebbed and flowed. For the most part, since I’ve been seeing Drew, it’s flowed during his visits and the times when it was ebbing, it wasn’t ebbing dramatically or enough for me to be unable to perform. But this time, that shit had ebbed so far out to sea, it was barely visible as a little speck way off on the horizon. This was an old school ebb and I wasn’t just disinterested in sex with a guy, I felt like what it must be like to be straight. Just…ew.

This is not, it should be noted, a reflection upon Drew. It’s how I feel about all men at the moment. It’s the kind of dramatic swing that drove me crazy as a young person. How could I be so fucking turned on by men on a Tuesday and repulsed by them on the following Friday? WTF? And I say “repulsed” but that’s too strong. I’m not repulsed by Drew. He’s a friend, etc. But touch him? No thank you. Stay right over there.

And yeah, that made me feel terrible. He comes all the way up here, leaving Axel behind and taking away from their limited time together to see me and that all by itself can freak me out. But this time I wanted nothing to do with him as he wanted to do with me. We could still share a meal and talk and all that, but I felt a bright white line around me. Do not cross. Poor Drew.

Twenty years ago, I’d be all like, “Whew! Finally got that boy thing out of my system! Man, what was that all about?” Now I know it’s a cycle. The moon will come back ’round. And Drew knows, too. So he was relatively understanding and demonstrated the patience one in his position must have when seeing someone like me on the side.

At one point in talking to Belle about this, I said something about his expectations and how I had tried to temper them and this and that and eventually said something like, “You know, it’s not like I’m in a relationship with him.”

And she shot back, “You are in a relationship with him!” And of course, she’s right. I am, of a sort. Not the usual kind. But it is one. As creeped out as that leaves the currently ascendant dumb straight guy part of me, it’s 100% true.

So this trip was, from a sex standpoint, a bust for him. And, as I’ve said, I feel bad about that. But, as I’m sure he’d say, it was still a good trip and it was nice to have a chance to talk about all the things it’s hard to discuss when there’s a dick in my mouth. At some point, I’ll be ready for him again. In the meantime, I’ll try and stop thinking about how squicked out his stubble felt on my neck as he hugged me goodbye.

Prior to his arrival, Belle made me go back in the Steelheart. I didn’t want it and thought if Drew hadn’t been coming that I’d whine and wimper and try to beg out of it. But he was coming so I had to.

In bed, I said, “I really don’t want this thing on me.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.

“It doesn’t matter what you want anyway.”


And then, “You know you’ll be feeling all subby and thanking me for locking it on you in a few days. Don’t you?”

Grrr. “Yes.” Sigh. “Yes, I do.”

Underwood under my skin

Last week, some kind of flu-like thing knocked me out pretty good and left me laying in bed for a few days binge-watching TV shows. One of those was House of Cards. It’s a show I watch in fits and starts mostly because Belle doesn’t seem that into it and I like to watch things with her that we both enjoy. HoC gets whatever time is left whenever I think of it (often watched while on the treadmill).

So, fair warning, I’m going to spoil the hell of that show in this post. I’m about three episodes or so into the third (and current) season, so if you’re interested in it, you’re probably further along than I am, but this is the internet so warnings must be posted. Also, if you’re ahead of me, please don’t spoil anything that happens later on.

I remember really well the moment we realized as viewers that Frank wasn’t cheating on Claire with Zoe. That she not only was aware of his dalliances but had no issue with them. I loved that the show was featuring a complicated monogamish relationship, even if at least Frank’s side of it was creepily calculated and politically motivated (in many ways, I found Claire’s relationship with Adam to be far more interesting and layered). Then, when we learn of Frank’s relationship with another man in his academy days, I was even more invested. Frank Underwood was bisexual.

And I kind of left it there. I didn’t think much more about it. A popular show was featuring an open relationship and a strong masculine character who fucked other guys once in a while. Two rabbity thumbs up from me.

But hours and hours of soaking in HoC over the course of two days has totally changed my POV about it. And it started with the episode where Frank and Claire tag team their Secret Service guy. That shit was not OK on many levels. And it made me rethink the show’s depiction of both Frank’s sexuality and his marriage arrangement.

I remember back in the 70’s and 80’s and 90’s when I was growing up that more often than not, characters with non-standard sexualities or gender identities were depicted as pathological. You couldn’t just be gay (let alone bi or trans) and part of the story. The fact that you were gay (or bi or trans) was part of your larger freakishness. There are exceptions (The World According to Garp), but usually that’s how shit when down.

So here we are now in the progressive 21st Century and we’re still doing it. Claire and Frank can’t just be murdering, amoral, power-hungry, self-absorbed sociopaths. They need to feature an extra layer of otherness to show to the audience just how amoral they are. They will sleep with anyone. Together. Frank sucks cock and goes down on women. What a freak!

This was set into sharp relief for me when I was back at work on Friday and talking to a colleague about my HoC binge. He said after he realized that Claire knew about Zoe and that it didn’t bother her that he knew they were too weird for him. And I was thinking, that is what told you they were weird? I mean, eventually Frank starts killing people and they both lie like fucking rugs but their relationship openness is what did it?

Openness and ethical non-monogamy are very much in the cultural conversation at the moment, but it has yet to be portrayed in the popular culture as a normal and positive thing. Not on a show that has a lot of eyeballs, at least. And portrayals of female bisexuality have made some gains lately but masculine, non-confused, healthy bisexual males are still a thing we’re waiting to see.

So no, House of Cards is clearly not the monogamish bisexual’s Will and Grace. Not even. Probably the opposite. And that pisses me off.


Belle and I got back from our week-long, kid-free adventure in the wild(ish) west on Sunday. All in all, it was a good trip and probably the longest continuous time we’ve spent nearly exclusively in one another’s company in the entire time we’ve been married. Just us, in a car or a room or hiking around all week long. It was really nice. Mostly.

On Thursday, we headed out on a half-day horse ride. The place we were staying has a handful of wranglers on staff and a coral full of horses and Belle had been looking forward to going out on a ride for weeks prior to us getting there. Every night, they’d let the horses out of their corral so they could run around and head into the bigger paddock for the night and Belle would go on about how pretty they were, etc. What is it about chicks and horses, anyway?

While my last update from the road indicated I was locked up, she did let me out prior to riding since there’s a lot of things one can do in a chastity device, but sitting in a saddle with your legs splayed open wide probably isn’t one of them. Also, I dressed up like a cowboy (all I was missing was the nice big belt buckle) and that kind of turned her on. I suspected and hoped she’d want the penis later that night.

Turns out, it was just us and one wrangler. The wrangler was a young woman, maybe 23 or so. It was her first season being a wrangler but she’d been around horses most of her life. We set out about 1:30 and headed off into the woods. I was on a big brown gelding and Belle was on a slightly smaller though still big blonde-colored filly. The weather was unseasonably cool and overcast pretty much the whole week and that day was no exception. We got rained on for about a half hour near the start of the ride and then again at the end.

We meandered through the hills along narrow trails and few forest roads. Never saw another person or animal. The fields were filled with different colorful wildflowers and the trees smelled fresh and piney after the rain fell. In the distance, giant craggy mountains rose up, some still with snow. Up until the very end, it was a really nice time, rain and all.

We stopped a gate that marked the end of the ride but the wrangler couldn’t get it open. It was one of those back-country gates that was just barbed wire and a few sticks and it looped around a post. She tried several times but, perhaps because of the all the rain causing the wood to swell, it wouldn’t budge. She didn’t have gloves and wouldn’t take my help (probably because I’d have had to get back up on the horse after), so we took “the back way.” That was maybe 10-15 more minutes of riding and led to the back of the barn and coral area. We could see the ranch house from there.

The wrangler’s horse was up front, then me, then Belle. She went down a little hill on the path towards the gate, my horse followed, and Belle’s horse went into a tree. For whatever reason, instead of going left down the trail, it when right and through the thick branches of the pine tree there. The wrangler said, “Well, that was rude,” so I turned around to see what was going on.

Belle was coming out of the tree as I first turned, but was leaning way out over the right side of the saddle. The branches had been too dense for her to stay on right and was basically pushed out of place by the tree. I assume her awkward position freaked the horse out so it started to act up and whinny. That made my horse nervous and I had to turn my attention back to it but not before I saw Belle’s horse buck her up and out of the saddle. My last image of her was suspended high in the air next to the horse. All this happened very quickly, of course.

I reigned in my horse the best I could and looked back. Belle was laying face down on the ground, left arm sticking straight out from her body, totally motionless. The Wrangler and I both called out to her, but she didn’t respond.

I’ll say right now, Belle’s fine. More or less. Nothing serious, nothing broken, nothing permanently wrong. But I didn’t know that then. I recall a cold wave wash down from the top of my head to the back of my legs. Time seemed to decompress and the motion of the wrangler dismounting and going to Belle happened in slow motion. A mass of things crammed into my brain all at the same time.

Was she dead?
Was she paralyzed?
How will I tell the kids?
What will the call to her parents be like?
Why won’t she move?
Just MOVE.
And even, Our dinner plans are pretty much shot now.

It was all that, but mostly I felt the need to be with her. To go to her. My horse was still freaking out and taking me away from Belle along with the other two and I struggled to keep it steady while focusing my attention on Belle’s still motionless figure and the wrangler girl kneeling next to her. She told me not to dismount but the longer this went on and the longer there was no sign of life from Belle and the farther away the horse was taking me, the less inclined I was to follow her advice. I started to sit up in the stirrups and the horse jumped so I sat back down. All I could do was look back at the huddled shape of my wife in the mud and the near-child of a person with her as the horse sidled away from the scene.

Finally, after what seemed like ten minutes but was more like 15 seconds, I heard Belle moan. Then she yelled out a string of words that didn’t make sense to me, but one of them was definitely “water.” My heart started beating again, but I was still very worried about a spinal injury. The wrangler was getting Belle to respond to questions (“Are you hurt?” etc.) and I told her to tell Belle to mover her fingers and toes. She did this and then the wrangler turned her over.

At that point, I figured the two worst possibilities were off the table and I was able to focus more on the situation. I could move again. I decided I had had enough of my fucking horse, pulled back on its reigns, and dismounted as cleanly as possible. It was a longer drop than I was expecting, but at least he didn’t fuck around as I did it. I started to walk over to where Belle was and the horses all galloped off.

I saw that her pupils weren’t dilated, she knew who I was and seemed pretty cognizant of where she was. She could even remember her Social Security number. The wrangler’s shitty Walmart radio wasn’t getting through to the barn or ranch house, event though they were only about 100 yards away. She took off and left me with Belle, who was sitting up but woozy. I held her hands and looked at her and fought back the first of many moments of realization as to what almost just happened. I still needed to keep my shit together.

I don’t remember exactly what we talked about sitting there alone in the mud. I bitched about the radios and she sort of smiled and told me it would be all right. I kept asking her how she felt and she said fine, though she was getting a really nasty knot on the right side of her head and had an angry red swelling setting up over the bridge of her nose. I thought for sure her nose was going to be broken seeing as she basically landed, according to the wrangler who saw the whole thing, on the side of her head and face.

Eventually, the wrangler came back with the ranch’s first aid person and some cold packs. About 45 minutes later, the EMTs showed up. That’s about the time Belle can start to remember stuff. She remembers the tree, but not coming off and nothing until the EMT was asking her to follow his fingers with her eyes. When he was done with his examination, he started talking about our “options” and I was thinking, “We have exactly one option: You put her in that ambulance and take her to the fucking hospital,” but before I had to express my feelings on the subject, he talked himself into taking her in.

Just before they lifted her into the ambulance, I gave her a kiss on the forehead and nearly lost my shit again. A ranch hand rode me over to our cabin on an ATV so I could get out of my wet muddy clothes and grab some for Belle who had been shivering from shock and cold for at least a half hour and continued to do so for another several hours. In the cabin alone, I came close to falling apart again, but I focused on gathering her stuff. She told me what she wanted but I realized I couldn’t make heads or tails of her clothes in that state so I just shoved a bunch into a bag. I remembered her insurance card, at least.

I got into our car and they still hadn’t left the pasture where the ambulance was. I waited while continuing to do that Lucy and Ethel thing with the candy and the conveyer belt, but with my emotions. I was shoving them in my hat and down my shirt and anywhere else so that I could maintain the ability to drive. It took us an hour to get the hospital and it took another few hours to get the MRI and some pain meds shot into her until we could leave. Instead of the nice meal we had been planning on the ride, we shared McDonald’s drive-thru before driving an hour back to the ranch.

As I said, there’s been no sign of permanent damage anywhere. She shows no symptoms of concussion which I find remarkable. She had really significant pain in her ribs in the days following but a follow-up X-ray showed no fractures. Probably just separation. The ER doc found a bruise on her calf roughly the shape and size of a horse hoof so, in addition to being thrown, she was trampled.

It’s been a week now. A week and a day. The swelling is down on her head and nose but it’s drained down and left her with a nasty-looking black eye and a massive bruise on her neck behind her ear that’s since moved down to her neck along her collar bone. She looks like she was punched in the face while being strangled. The pain in her ribs is getting better, but she’s still at least a week away from being able to go to the gym.

Even though she’s had to deal with all the physical consequences, we both think my experience was much more emotionally traumatic. In the matter of seconds, I went from an enjoyable ride in the wilderness and thinking about that evening’s plans to having to face a life without her. Or with a severely disabled her. I never really lost my shit, though I came really close in the ER at her bedside as the doc talked about all the possibilities they might find in the MRI. For several days, every time I thought of the accident and the vision of her laying in the mud motionless came into my mind, it was all I could do but sigh heavily and grab her hand and wait for the terror to pass me by. It’s really only been in the past few days that the last echo of that is gone.

Of course, I knew before this that Belle’s the most important thing in the whole world to me. She and the kids are all that really matters. They are all that matters. But I never really expected to have to deal with the enormity of what that meant so quickly and from seemingly nowhere. Unfortunately, it’s colored the whole trip for me. I loved being with her and loved our shared experiences, but that one event and afternoon crowds all the other stuff out. Maybe, in time, it’ll move off into the recesses of my mind and the good stuff can come out. Maybe not. Whatever, I still have her. Still in one piece.

Why in the hell?

This post is written as a primer of sorts for those just discovering an interest in male chastity or for someone who’s just been introduced to the subject by their partner. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Please feel free to add your POV in the comments.

I suppose the vast majority of the uninitiated (ie, muggles) would have no idea why any man would want to subject himself to enforced male chastity (which I’ll call EMC for this post because that’s a lot of letters to keep typing out) or, conversely, why any woman would want to do it to her man. They might also wonder about all kinds of other kinks like D/s and masochism and bondage but I don’t think I’m qualified to try and suss out the motivations of those of us who are wired to enjoy those things. But, I think I can try and break chastity apart to help see the value of it in a relationship.

Of course, I’m a guy and I’m married to a woman who I’ve been with for more than 15 years and that’s the aperture through which I see chastity and can write most intimately about it. Additionally, I think chastity play comes in lots of variations and flavors and the way we do it and how it works for us isn’t necessarily the way that will work for everyone else. I’m not saying it is. But I am saying that my experience talking to others on the subject and reading other blogs, etc., has made me understand there is a broad similarity to our stories that suggests a common foundation for relationships like ours.

111004_getitVenn diagrams are those charts that have two or more overlapping circles that represent different things. Where the circles intersect show how these things, when combined, make a third thing. If I were smarter or more talented at such activities, I’m sure I could make one for EMC, but I’m not so I’ll hope you know the concept and just move on. In any event, EMC can combine several kinks and motivations together into one package: Dominance and submission (D/s), sadism and/or masochism (S/M), and bondage (put it all together — what’s that spell!? — BDSM). But, I don’t think the main practical, real-world benefit of EMC is necessarily kinky at all. And I don’t think it needs to be practiced that way or considered as kink.

At the very heart of EMC is the concept of orgasm control (OC because we’re making acronyms today). OC is what you get when you decide, as a man, to stop rubbing one out whenever you get a shadow of an urge to do so and let the energy and desire build until it can be put to a practical purpose. I think of OC as fundamentally an internal thing and not part of a D/s power exchange dynamic (in which case, it’d be orgasm denial, but I’ll get to that later).

Why would a guy want that? To what end? Aren’t orgasms wonderful and best enjoyed like peanuts at a ballgame — frequently and in plentiful numbers? I have so many thoughts about this, but I’ll try and boil it down. First off, yes, orgasms are wonderful. We are literally designed to crave them. In a way, we’ve been created through evolutionary forces to become addicted to the hit of chemicals that flood our brains when we have them because in many cases that means we’ve spread our seed and satisfied life’s mandate to multiply. And when we’re young (teenage years through the twenties and thirties, depending), men can’t get enough of them. I recall jacking off so often at one point my dick became raw from the friction, but I kept doing it anyway because OH MY GOD I had to. On top of the evolutionary forces at work, our culture conditions men to value their sexual release over most other things and to revel in our ability to do so. There is a lot of pressure, both physical and social, behind frequent orgasms to be sure.

But, as we grow older our ability to squirt as often as we once did usually declines. The reserve of sexual energy we carry around with us starts to ebb and the time between feeling the need to come stretches out. I think of this energy (and I can’t think of anything else to call it) as a natural resource with a purpose and function in the confines of our relationships. Jacking off is great, but most guys want to follow their biological imperative to procreate and put that stuff into a warm, wet, living hole. But, as it happens for people in long-term monogamous relationships, there are a great deal of factors that work against a rewarding sex life as time goes along (repetition, kids, jobs, health issues, etc.). We develop grooves in our patterns that become the opposite of sexy and motivating and that leads men to follow the path of least resistance (i.e., jacking off to porn).

Note that I am not making any kind of argument or judgment against porn. I actually quite like it and think enjoying it is perfectly natural and not something we should be ashamed of. I also tend to reject most claims of “porn addiction.” If a guy ends up spilling over porn too much, then he’s wasting this energy I mentioned that would otherwise be used in his relationship. It’s self-perpetuating in that wasting his energy though an interest in fantasy can lead to a lack of interest in the reality of his partner causing her to become resentful or angry or hurt (or all of those things) which in turn only reinforce his porn consumption habit (and is therefore labeled “addiction” far more often than it should, IMO). In any event, as that energy resource becomes more scarce and life and familiarity conspire against a fun, sexy relationship, using it up on porn reduces his interest in trying to recapture the spark between he and his partner.

Of course, relationships (typically) contain two people and he alone is not responsible for maintaining it. Usually, there’s plenty of blame (if you want to use that word) to go around. The reason I fixate on him and his orgasm is I think it can, through OC, be used to bring a sexual relationship back into shape.

So, long way to go, but here we are at the doorstep of what OC can mean in its simplest and most direct form. If a man chooses to only have orgasms when he’s with his partner, then he’ll quickly learn to think of her again as the source of his sexual pleasure. It’s not an automatic thing and she needs to be fully invested in the idea and prepared to take on the responsibility of playing her part, but when done correctly they can both find themselves back into a state not too dissimilar from when they were first together. He’ll naturally become more interested in what she’s thinking and feeling and invested in her happiness and she’ll see and appreciate that. It can help knock a lot of frost off and get the gears turning again.

In no way is this kinky. Zero level kink. I’ve found in my marriage that Belle sees it as a demonstration of my commitment to her and our relationship. That’d I’d give up my “right” to come as often and wherever I like and save it all for her. Sure, for us there are a lot of kinky things layered on top, but at its core, this is what EMC is about.

Some people who grok this concept think it’s some kind of magical palliative that will fix whatever ails a relationship. That’s not at all true. All relationships need a foundation of communication and trust to succeed. Orgasm control (or orgasm denial — getting there) or chastity are stacked on top of those elemental aspects which must be present. But, if the basic necessities of a reasonably healthy relationship are working, then I’ve found focusing one’s orgasms on one’s partner can draw the two more closely together than perhaps they’ve ever been.

All that said, this is a post on my blog and therefore it cannot end at the simple control of orgasm. Truth is, a lot of men (most, perhaps) who are into this idea are also into wanting to take it further. From self-control of orgasms to no control over them. That’s when it turns into orgasm denial (OD). The “denial” part can be scary and confusing, but what it really means is the man isn’t able to come when he wants or feels like it, even during or after having sex. Women are often socialized in our culture to think this idea is massively cruel and will feel guilt at not letting him orgasm each and every time the opportunity presents itself, but for those men wired a certain way, this only amps up the impact of OC and is something they actually crave. There’s no rule as to how long he should be denied orgasm. Some women let their men come once a week or once a month. Some longer. Far longer. Some never. But realize, few if any start out that way.

For us, it was pretty much that I’d come every other time we had sex. Then it got longer. Once a week or so. I found the longer I was made to wait, the longer I wanted to go. I started to crave the crave, so to speak. I would rather want to come and feel that desire build inside me than actually do it. And once Belle let go of any socialized guilt and became more confident in the control I happily transferred to her and, most importantly, learned that I was a better partner to her when I wasn’t coming, my denial became second nature. I now have no expectation of orgasm when we have sex. She usually makes me wait many weeks, even months. When I do get to, it’s because she wants to feel me do it inside her much more than she actually wants me to come. As crazy as this might sound to someone just starting out, we’re both much happier this way.

And yeah, technically, OD is kinky. It’s a form of D/s. Power exchange. I get off on not having control as I’m a natural submissive and Belle gets off on having that control over me, though she’s far from a Domme and would never describe herself that way. A lot of couples end up like this. Women who never fantasized about dominating their partner even once find a way to do it that works for them. They back into a dominating position as they see the benefits of investing the time and effort into it has on their partner and their relationship. Because of this, Tom Allen has described OD/EMC as a “gateway kink.” That’s entirely true, in my experience.

Beyond denial is the practice of enforced male chastity. That is, using a locked physical device to maintain control over not only a man’s orgasm but also his ability to access his body as he has his whole life and even his ability to achieve an erection. Not every couple gets to this stage. Some women are simply squicked out by the whole thing. Some men can’t handle the physical demands of being locked up, even for a little while. Some woman think he’s not truly being denied unless he’s also demonstrating sufficient willpower to keep his hands off himself unless she says it’s OK. All that is valid.

On the other hand, some men get off on the added layer of control the device represents. They get off on how they need to modify their lives to accommodate it and how it’s always with them and always, in every scenario and situation, reminding them of the control their partner has over them. It ticks the bondage box really well and can even be made to fill a need for masochism. Finally, I think penis restriction is, in itself, a distinct fetish that EMC uniquely satisfies. For whatever reason, there are a lot of men that get off on being locked up. More, it seems, all the time. The profusion of devices at pretty much any price point in recent years has either fuelled that interest or is a direct result of it. Probably a bit of both.

The desire for a device by either the man being locked up or the partner holding his key can also be practical. In our relationship, Belle doesn’t even allow me to play with myself. I want to abide by that rule and try very hard to do so when I’m not locked up (which isn’t that often), but it’s hard. She knows I won’t come without permission and thinks I’ll avoid self-stimulation most of the time, but if I’m locked up, she can know for a fact I’m following her rules. Chastity devices allow an additional layer of deterrence to be added to a couple’s dynamic and some of us (like me) need that.

In summary, the one thing I want to leave with someone newly exposed to the idea of EMC is that it should not be viewed as weird. There should be no shame felt for wanting it. Human sexuality is ridiculously and wonderfully complicated and manifests in many ways. I believe there to be millions of men interested in some aspect of what I’ve described here with a sizable chunk actually practicing it in some way with their partners (or alone). The more you get into the subject, the more you realize that “kinky” is a highly subjective term. Most people are interested in something they or someone else would think is kinky. The sooner you let go of any fear of exploring sex beyond the traditional way it’s portrayed in a lot of media, let go of concern of judgement, and realize we’re all sexual beings of some kind with needs and desires as unique as we are, the sooner you’ll find satisfaction and happiness. Sometimes, in ways you never, ever expected.


Once Belle let me out the other morning, after having been in for so long, I fell into a familiar pattern. It started with me being nearly unable to contain my desire for her with my grabby hands and moaning and gyrating the super-hard penis into her. She had to tell me to take it down a notch since, when I’m like this, it’s pretty obvious I’ve forgotten that sex is hers, not mine.

So yeah, familiar pattern. I got her off in the way she likes the whole time thinking what her hot, wet snatch was going to feel like enveloping the penis. Then she came and nearly immediately I felt the hydraulics start to release. By the time she told me I could go into her, the penis was already at about 70%. Fucking got it back up to the mid-eighties at least, but then after only a few seconds I was really close to coming so I stopped and then the bottom fell out of the thing. Totally limp.

“That’s too bad. I was going to let you come.”

Then it turned into a head thing, big time. Since the penis was already wet and I was so turned on, coming sounded pretty good to me, but the fucking stupid thing wouldn’t turn over and the more I thought about it and fretted over it, of course, the less inclined it was to cooperate.

Eventually, I was able to stroke it to an acceptable erection and she told me I could come that way and, with the heavy PA jewelry flopping to and fro and the unusual sound of fapping filling our room, I did and it felt like the world folded up backward and exited out the top of my head as I shot my load. Unbelievably intense and only marginally enjoyable as a result.

The next morning, we were back at it. I had been out all night so the urgency was reduced and had just come so the stakes were lower. I rarely come more than once in a few days anymore. But, after getting her off and getting inside her, I got close again in just a few seconds and she told me to come. So I did. Apparently she wanted to feel that and was cheated out of it the day before. A bit more enjoyable this time around, but still felt like a hot marble shooting out of me.

So man. Twice in two days. I would normally expect that to knock the wind right out of our dynamic and leave me feeling the low ebb of denial energy. That was the case, but only for that day. The next, we were on the road for our week’s adventure together and I unexpectedly found myself really horny. I was still free of the Steelheart and as the miles rolled under us, I’d feel waves of arousal wash over me making my pants fill up, my chest surge with fluttery energy, and my hand tighten around hers.

We stopped at a dusty gas station just south of nowhere and, while paying for the gas, an absolute specimen of a man walked in to get some lunch. Belle spotted him first and pointed him out. Always fun when you and your wife can appreciate an especially well-formed piece of man meat together. This guy was wearing faded jeans and an old t-shirt and ball cap. We went out and sat in the car as he walked across the station’s tarmac carrying his sandwich into a stiff wind. The old shirt was pressed against his fantastic chest and abs and his jeans were molded around his thighs and, if I may say, magnificent ass. Belle said something about his eyes and I was like, he has eyes? He was so pretty it made my teeth hurt. People this perfect should not be allowed. But yeah. Unf.

So the next morning, I woke up before Belle with a still free penis and it was doing its usual morning thing and I was still turned on in a pretty significant way and images of that Adonis walking into the wind wouldn’t leave my mind and she was right there and I was fucking horny. Insistently so.

“I’m not having sex in this hotel room,” she told me flatly. Hard to blame her as it wasn’t very nice, but I thought as I laid there that I’d had sex in plenty worse in my day. After a while of me being annoyingly horny, she told me it was time to put the Steelheart back on. We had to wait for the stupid boner to go down and, even then, it wasn’t totally gone. I pushed and shoved and squeezed an unhappy penis into its pen before she put the lock in and turned the key.

“OK, now you can give me an orgasm.”

AAARGH! That minx. Such a tease. I moaned and groaned and the steel bit down on its victim.

“This is what you need, Thumpie. Later today, you’ll tell me so. You’ll thank me.”

So, yeah, I got her off. As I was doing my thing, she said, “I love feeling the hard steel press into my leg while you do that.”

AAARGH, again.

Yesterday’s driving was not unlike the previous days in that I’d have these attacks of arousal only this time the Steelheart kept things in check and the feeling of that happening only made me hornier and that only made the Steelheart bite harder. Rinse, repeat.

But she was right. We stopped at Devil’s Tower in Wyoming and hiked around. After a couple miles, we stopped to admire the geology and, standing there, I did thank her for locking me up.

“It’s how you’re supposed to be,” she said. And she’s right.

Confidence game

Pursuant to my last post, Belle got home from her trip pretty horny. She was still on SoCal time so didn’t feel like going to sleep at her usual hour, though I also wasn’t sure she wanted to have sex. She knew I was pretty turned on because it was a day starting with a consonant but I just laid there and let her pet my head and back for a while and didn’t push it. Then she told me to close the door.

By the time I was back to the bed, she was naked. She told me I wasn’t getting out and I probably whimpered. As soon as I touched her snatch, I found her to be soaking wet. Not kind of turned on and ready to go wet. Fucking dripping wet. As if we’d been messing around for an hour instead of just starting. I moaned into the nipple in my mouth and sank my fingers into her heat.

Really, all I can say if UNF. I wanted her badly but I wasn’t getting out. The Steelheart bit down hard as my fingers and mouth made her squirm and moan and whisper dirty little things into the top of my head.

She came awfully hard. I wanted to bite her nipple I was so turned on. She could tell. She knew how bad I was. She just told me it was good for me. It was the best thing for me. Though I wouldn’t admit it, it was what I wanted.

There is nothing sexier in the whole fucking world than confidence.