Skinny dip

Belle and I have been using her pool lately. That’s not a euphemism or anything. We have a pool in our backyard and I refer to it as hers because she wanted it and I really wasn’t too enthused but she paid for it so there it is. Her pool.

Anyway, it’s been hot as fuck for the past few days and we’ve been jumping in after workouts and runs and such. Sometimes together, but not always. I’m in it alone as I write this post, actually.

A couple of days ago we were in it and, since the fence is high and we’re living without offspring at the moment, we were naked. We came together and I had my arms around her and she had hers around my neck and her legs around my hips. The Orion started to feel tight as my thoughts turned to how her snatch was hovering, open and inviting, just over it.

The remembrance of being in similar situations before entered my mind. Of shifting my hips up and pushing her down and sliding into her under the water. Even as the Orion grew tighter at the thought, it almost felt like I had a proper erection extending away from my body and that the only thing keeping me from being inside her was a few inches of warm pool water. I shifted my hips up futilely, craving the contact that couldn’t happen, as the notion and the concept rather than the actual word never fell over my urges like a heavy wet blanket.

There’s a difference in being locked up and forcibly denied in that situation when instead of “never” you think “not now.” Her pussy was right there. Available, warm and inviting. And I’m told I will never feel what’s it’s like to be there again.

I don’t deserve it. I have no reason to feel entitled to it. It’s a gift from her to me that she has all the power between us to grant or withhold. I ceded that to her when I asked her to lock me up. This was always a potential outcome and one I had fantasized about many times before.

So as hard as it is to accept never, I don’t have a choice. And I have to admit that even now, as I sit on the ledge in the deep end of the pool with the sun warm on my shoulders and the current from the jet caressing my thigh and exposed balls, I’m incredibly tight from acknowledging having been put in this situation.

Hellsite convo

Over on the Hellsite, I posted this image with the caption “Fuuuucking horny this morning.” Because I was and I’m a nasty exhibitionist.

Normally, I’d just embed the tweet in my post but the idiot fuckwad that owns the Hellsite now (and thinks there’s a chance in hell people are going to start calling it a letter of the alphabet) keeps breaking it in ways that have included in the past making embedded tweets — which are, like, everywhere on the internet — just stop working so I’m not going to do that anymore. I’m barely able to bring myself to link to them since it’s possible/likely that’ll stop working any day now, too. Note, I also posted it to Mastodon if that’s more your thing.


This tweet elicited a question from a follower named Jack.

“Wondering, if milking would be a way to solve this?”

Which is cute because his assumption is me being super horny is a problem needing solving rather than the whole point of the exercise. Like, it’s a feature not a bug, Jack.

I replied, “Milking can help but can also leave me even more horny than I was.” Which is true. Milking can lead to a bit of relief but it’s not the same as orgasm and, since I’m not a good milker generally, can lead me to feeling way more frustrated after the fact than before.

Jack replied, “Just zero orgasms…seems overwhelming to me.” That’s totally fair. Not every guy who’s into enforced denial is into it in the same way. And, I think, age plays a large part. I used to jack off most days 20 years ago. Sometimes twice in a day. I do wonder how I’d adapt to permanent enforced denial if I was, say, thirty-five rather than fifty-five.

His reply caused another follower named Devin’s Latex Gimp to chime in.

“Yeah. In session is one thing, but other than that, I’ve been pretty clear it’s not something I could commit to. Couldn’t follow through with it, even if locked.”

Jack answered back, “I mean, I have done a few weeks. But without orgasm, I go bananas and get too focused kink/sex/release. But I like to wear it and find alternative ways to come. Admittedly, I really enjoy anal play now…a lot.”

When I said the other day, “I think about those guys who are locked up for a week or two or a month at time and who then get out and aren’t expected or told to rush back in. I wonder how many of them will keep living that way. And also how many will eventually end up like me,” I was talking about guys like Jack and not, apparently, DLG. If you’re setting as a limit being locked for longer than a single play session, it seems unlikely you’d end up permanently denied. But Jack’s predicament sounds very familiar to me. I was like that for years while being locked up. Getting to where I am now was a long road.

I’m not saying Jack will end up permanently denied. I don’t know him aside from his cute profile pic and our limited interactions on the Hellsite, but I find his situation illustrative of what I wrote about.

But getting back to me for a second, I have previously worried that knowing I wasn’t getting out and wasn’t going to be allowed to come ever again would somehow change how I thought about enforced denial. It hasn’t. I think I’m still kind of getting used to the idea that I’m just done with penile pleasure, orgasm, etc. The idea (and typing those words) make me very tight so it still works for me, obvs, but it’s also hard for me to really believe this is where we are. That that’s it with shooting loads. I have no idea how or why I’ll ever feel that again. And that’s something.

I do love that it came from her. That it wasn’t a decision based on a conversation or whatever. We didn’t decide. She did. And she didn’t tell me that that was my fate. I had to figure it out for myself. As a sub, feeling the heavy hand of my Domme’s will in that way is satisfyingly profound.

Anyway, I don’t know what else to say to Jack or the Gimp. I guess all I can do is keep sharing my experiences and thoughts as I have been and people can see themselves or not in what I say.


Belle and I were in the pool yesterday, naked and having a chat. I was sitting on the underwater ledge in the deep end and looking down at how the titanium Orion was glinting in the refracted sunlight. She referred to me as “Permanently Denied Thumper” when she noticed what I was doing. Then she said that she really liked our newest device.

“You’re not going to miss ever seeing the contents again?” I asked.

“Nope,” she replied. Mostly, she explained, because I was very good at all the other ways of pleasuring her. But also, she said it had something to do with her British boyfriend. Long time readers may remember this guy, but for the newbies, he’s someone she’s had a pretty long term virtual relationship with. They actually met about a year ago, though nothing physical happened. But something is still happening, clearly, because she mentioned him in reference to me never being let out of my device for sex again.

I try not to pry. It’s her thing, not mine. I don’t go into lots of gory details about me and Frodo and I want to give her space for…whatever it is she’s up to with this guy. Though I expect I’d be way more into hearing about him than Belle would be about Frodo and me. All I know about him really is he’s from the UK and has a big cock. Way bigger than me.

In any event, she mentioned to me that while it may not be in the way I’d like, she is cuckolding me with him after a fashion. That piqued my interest so I probed a bit.

“Does he know I’m not allowed to fuck you anymore?”



I felt that particular form of cuck squirmyness. The thing that’s embarrassing and emasculating but also hot and tube-tightening. I probed a bit more.

“Does he know you keep me locked up?” Last time I asked her this (and it was a long while back, shortly after they met), she said no, it hadn’t come up.



OK, now this is something else entirely. She’s not just having some kind of naughty sexting thing with him. She’s let him into our dynamic. He’s an actual real person in our lives (not that you all aren’t actual real people, but you know what I mean) and he knows I don’t have a cock and my wife has no use for what I do have. Also, that his presence in our lives factors somehow into her algebra to deny me permanently.

It will remain enigmatic for me, though, unless she decides to tell me more. That’s her life, not mine, and she gets to have it without me.

Molecule by molecule

As of this morning, and according to my time tracking app, it has been 1,234 days since I was outside some kind of enforced denial device for a period longer than an a handful of hours. I was unlocked at about 10:00 PM on March 4, 2020, and went back in at about 7:00 PM on March 6th. I don’t even remember what that was about but I assume it was due to some kind of irritation from the Evotion 8 I was wearing at the time. Since March 6, 2020, I have been in one device or another for 99% of the time.

That’s for context.

I am not, of course, the only guy who’s locked up like that. While still a minority of all locked men (based on my unscientific surveil of followers and followees on the Hellsite), there are guys out there who’ve been locked up even longer than me. I’m not claiming some kind of record. But I also know that while it seems second nature to me, most guys who are locked up aren’t locked up like I am. And I think about those guys who are locked up for a week or two or a month at time and who then get out and aren’t expected or told to rush back in. I wonder how many of them will keep living that way. And also how many will eventually end up like me. I know two things. One, the person holding the key has a lot to do with deciding that (obvs), but also, two, the gravitational pull of being locked up is very strong.

I have heard these stories from others. I have lived that story. You lock up for a few days. Then it’s on Sunday through Friday. Then it’s over a weekend too and it’s been two weeks. Then it turns into a month. Then two, three, a year, 1,234 days. We locked penis-havers are complicit in this. The longer we’re locked the longer we want to be locked. The longer we’re denied, the longer we want to be denied. As if our pre-locked sexuality is slowly replaced, molecule by molecule, like a piece of wood being petrified, until it’s transformed into something else entirely. Something that our previous selves would have never understood.

I’ve written before about this change of mindset. (I mean, duh. Is there anything I write about that I haven’t written about before?) The way we stop associating and identifying with what’s inside the device. We become separate from it. Not literally. It’s still on us. It’s still in there. Physically attached, but emotionally separate. Emotionally detached. Alienated. Removed.

I think this is why when I see other guys on places like the Hellsite jacking off and shooting their loads that I have a hard time thinking of myself as the same species as them. The guys with the cocks using them on the holes of others for their own pleasure. I used to aspire to be one of them. I might even have assumed I was. But now I know otherwise. What I am now is what I always was meant to be. What Belle has helped me become.

I used to celebrate the contents. It defined me. Now I feel derision towards it. It’s simple urges and ridiculous preening.

Our transformations have been simultaneous. It has no job now. No purpose. It’s not fit for the thing it was designed to do. It’s useless. It’s needy. I feel like I share my body with this other being with its own motivations and desires and all I can do is feel sorry for it. Because it’s never going to get what it wants. Not anymore. Those days are behind both of us. It’s become pathetic and deserves nothing more than it gets now which is nothing.

Yeah, so WOW, huh? I don’t think all locked up guys feel this way. Not by a long shot. But I know some do. Are all locked up guys capable of ending up here? Or no? If they’re left that way forever, will they find themselves transformed like I’ve been? I suspect a lot of guys who are locked up less than me might recoil at what I’m describing. But there are others who read what I’ve said and find themselves hard (or tight) as fuck. And maybe that scares them a little. I dunno. Embrace it.

This post didn’t end up where I thought it would, though I can’t say I really had a plan. Sometimes, the words just fall out of the my fingertips in the order they do and even I’m surprised. Just call me ThumperGPT, I guess. But don’t call the contents anything else than what it is: contents. Packed away and stored with the other bric-a-brac and souvenirs.

Finger fuckin’ good

Something interesting happened yesterday morning. Well, two somethings. One was Belle let me get her off even though it was a weekday. I especially appreciated that since it was not entirely clear I was going to be able to get her off the next morning (spoiler: I did anyway) and each one of her orgasms is precious to me.

No, the weird thing was while I was getting her off. That was the first time she let me get to her pussy since finding out, definitively, that I wasn’t going to put the contents in there again. And knowing that, even though I was pretty turned on, I observed that I didn’t get very hard. It was…hmm. Plump. A bit of pressure. But a long ways from being tight. Also, I felt myself being very aware of my fingers. Of course, I always pay attention to what I’m doing while getting her off, but, again, I thought about how I’m not getting out anymore and that what I was doing right then was the only way I was ever going to be inside her again. My fingers, sliding in and around her clit, were the only part of my body that was going to “fuck” her from that point forward.

There was like an arch of energy going from my brain to the tips of my fingers similar to how I felt the last time I came inside her. Similar to how fucking with the contents felt. As if the finality of hearing, plainly and without prevarication, that that part of my life is done was causing certain pathways to be re-etched inside me. Brains are funny things, right? People talk of senses being heightened when others are lost. Limbs and appendages adapting to new purposes. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. No more pretending like maybe today, after 489 days, will be the one she lets me out to fuck. Every part of me knows it now and accepts it so maybe my lizard brain is making do with repurposing my fingers for what it would prefer the contents be used for. I have absolutely no idea, but it felt different to me.

I’m not saying I won’t every get super hard while pleasuring her again. I suppose I will at some point. But I noticed again this morning while going down on her that I was like yesterday. Plump, not packed.

In fact, I’m harder now writing about this than I was with my face in her pussy. 🤷🏼‍♂️

What I asked for and need

Over on the hellsite owned by the misogynist, anti-LGBTQ, trans-hating, pro-fascist manbaby, where, unfortunately, the pro-sex/kinky crowd still hangs out, there’s been some concern by a few of my followers that Belle’s decision to no longer let me fuck her has left me feeling sad or something. I’m not trying to come off as remorseful, so I’m not sure where this is coming from.

I suppose some of it could be projection (or something like it, I’m no psychologist) in that, they would be sad if their spouse told them “You should have no reason to expect I’ll ever let you fuck me again,” so they read my reaction to the news in a sad light. I guess that’s natural since, for most people, being told they were done fucking would not be welcome news.

Of course, I’m not sad. I’m not…happy about it either. It’s complicated. But I’m 100% not sad. No remorse. No resentment. No regrets. I’m not mad, worried, depressed, or in any way perturbed by her decision. It’s her decision and she’s made it.

Thing is, I’m a sub. I crave her control over me sexually. I prioritize her pleasure over mine. I have always wanted her to make the decision for me as to when and how I’d be part of her pleasure. So, in no uncertain terms, she is giving me everything I’ve asked for.

Over fourteen years ago I wrote:

I like the inequity! I get off on the unfairness! Being arbitrary and capricious in the doling out of sexual experiences is exactly what I want. She should come ten times more often than me. She should tell me every day for a week when I’m going to get sex and then, on a whim, decide against it. I want her to leave me straining and hard and constantly yearning for release. (God, just writing this sends waves of excitement through me.) Of course, simply saying this can’t stop her from feeling guilt, but I can only continue to say it in hopes that eventually she’ll see that keeping me frustrated and in a state “normal” society would define as terrible and unfair is one of the ways I can find happiness and some sort of satisfaction.

The only thing that’s changed since then is that she doesn’t need to be capricious. She has perfectly logical reasons why I won’t fuck her again and I understand them. Kind of the opposite of capricious, actually. Of course, I wrote that when I still had a functioning “cock” and she was wired to prefer being penetrated by it.

So no, not sad. What I crave more than orgasm and getting the contents wet is being used for the pleasure of someone else without regard to mine. She’s given me that.

I may be indulging in some lingering mourning for that part of my life being over. I mean, it was over before I even realized it was over, but now I know so it’s, like, final. It’s perfectly natural for me to enjoy the sensations that come from sliding into a warm, wet pussy and even I crave orgasm when denied it long enough. Those feelings are never going away. And I don’t want them to. I need to feel that gnawing craving desire to keep me motivated. But I don’t want them more than I need to be controlled.

I told Twitter today that I woke up horny. I sure did! Don’t always, but there was something about how the contents felt packed into the Orion that hit different than most days and horny I was. Someone replied with something along the lines of, “Some days it’s hard to remember why we do this.” Well, no not actually. Again, I wasn’t saying that in a negative way. Being denied is what I want more than anything because it’s the outcome of being controlled and deprioritized. It’s the byproduct of being able to live in a truly sexually submissive state. It’s what it feels like to be me.

I guess in the same way some people can’t imagine living as I do, I am honestly totally unable to imagine living like a normal boy. Having a penis I can see and play with at will? Leaving my load on the shower tiles whenever I felt like it? What? God, it sounds bleak to me. I feel like if I came regularly and when I decided to a piece of me would die. The piece that was born nearly 15 years ago when the first device was locked onto me and Belle and I started fumbling though establishing the dynamic that brought us to today. I never, ever want to go back to those before times.

The last fifteen years have been a process of finding myself. I’m beyond lucky that my life partner is OK with who and what I am at this point in my life. Of course, I’m so grateful to her that she has taken the lead with our sex and learned to adapt and evolve as I have. There’s nothing in that that should be interpreted as a bad thing by anyone.

She finally said it

Belle sent me back to bed about midday because she wanted me to get her off. It was unusual in that we typically take care of that first thing, but I wasn’t going to argue with her.

In bed, kissing and rubbing and such, she had my balls in her hand I was feeling the pressure of being denied 483 days and said to her, “So it doesn’t really seem like you’re going to let me fuck you any time soon.”

She smiled and said, “You’re very good at satisfying me in other ways.”

This inferred to me three things.

One, our sex is about her satisfaction, not mine. At one point in our relationship, and even for some time after she started locking me up, having sex was at least incidentally about letting me have something, if only occasionally. And, at times, it was much more than occasionally. But not anymore. Now, she considered sex to be hers and about her. Why would I get to fuck when she was getting everything she needed already?

Two, I cannot satisfy her in that way. I mean, I already know this. But she was saying it by essentially shrugging and telling me I was good at getting her off “in other ways.” Manually, orally, etc. I don’t think she likes to say it explicitly. As if it will injure my male ego or something. My sexual ego has been whipped into shape enough not to be bruised that way. Well, not bruised so much that it would leave a mark. Of course I can’t satisfy her that way. I can’t last two minutes after insertion before I start spewing. There’s nothing in it for her, I know it, she knows it. Go back to step one: it’s not about me. So, no point.

Three, I was unlikely to ever get to fuck her again. That’s been my assumption for some time, but she’s not said it. But if her logic is sex is about her satisfaction and me fucking her doesn’t lead to her having much if any then I was unlikely to ever get the chance to regain something of my old skill and stamina in that department since, as far as I can tell, the only way to get it back would be if she allowed me to do it a bunch. But…the logic doesn’t go there. I’m no good at fucking her so I won’t get any chances at getting good at fucking her which will ensure I remain no good at fucking her.

While I was working at getting her off, she was being somewhat vocal since we were alone in the house. You’re very good at satisfying me in other ways, was echoing in my head amongst the above thoughts.

I asked, “You mean like this?”

“Mm-hmm. This is what you’re best at.”

Eventually, she came so hard she had to push my hand off her pussy. The contents are never tighter and my urge to be inside her is never more fervent than right at that moment, but I had to smile. I am good at this. It is what I’m best at. Now.

After we dozed a bit in her sparkly post-orgasmic cloud, I was tight again and pushing into her leg. She let me get on top of her and bring the titanium-clad contents up against her heat. I groaned in stifled desire.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” she said to me.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you want in there desperately but if I let you in there you’ll regret it as soon as you’re done.”

I put my head on her chest, feeling bad for indulging myself in that way. I don’t want to make her feel guilty.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No reason to feel sorry. I’m perfectly fine with you feeling desperate.” And then, “I know what’s best for you.”

Oof. Of course, she’s right. I really did want to fuck her. Badly. And it’s true that even though I would jump at the chance without hesitation at this point (483 days, after all), I would feel…conflicted after. But hearing this, on top of what she’d said earlier, made a pretty tight logical trap.

I said, “It doesn’t sound like I should have any reason to expect you’ll ever let me fuck you again?”

I really just needed to hear her say the words. Without ambiguity.

She replied, “You should have no reason to expect I’ll ever let you fuck me again. Eternally denied.”

There was a rush of emotion. Hearing it, finally. The weight of the reality that the part of my life with a functioning penis was over. She’d said it. We’d reached the logical end of the chain of events that began when I showed her the website listing with rudimentary “chastity” devices almost 15 years ago and told her I wanted her to control my orgasms. Every part of that evolution for both of us, emotionally and physically, pointed there. To that moment in our bed when she told me I was never going to fuck again.

“I understand,” was all I could say back to her. And I do.

Aaaand…we’re back

On May 18, 2023, after more than fourteen and a half years of happily hosting it and taking my money for the service, WordPress decided to suspend my blog.

It was…jarring. To say the least. It felt like a part of me was cut off. Like a part of who I was was amputated unexpectedly. It hurt me, emotionally. More than I thought it would, though I had never really give much thought to the eventuality because it had been so long. I suppose I always knew it was possible, but like I said, fourteen and a half years. Long time.

It feels really good to be writing here again. It’s been so long I don’t really know what to say. I’ve been saying a lot on Twitter, I guess. Publishing threads that would have been posts here had that been an option. I do have a review of the Titanium Evotion Orion to write. Spoilers: it’s pretty great. But other than that, I feel like I need to relearn how to move this muscle.

I don’t know how long I’ll write this blog. Maybe I’ll never choose to stop, maybe I will. But if I do, it will be because I chose to do so. My suspension was far too abrupt. Too emotionally violent. I am super fucking grateful to have this back (even though all the images and videos and such are gone — need to scape those off the Internet Archive over time).

I have to thank Super Sleepy, a Twitter follower, who made this possible. I was stuck and they came to my rescue. Thank you thank you thank you. 🙏🏻

Ok…so…what was I saying?