We recently passed the second anniversary of the last time Belle let me fuck her. It’s also the last time she let me use the contents for anything pleasurable. Assuming she doesn’t change her mind about me being allowed to do those things again in the future, I think of it as less the anniversary of the last time I was allowed to fuck and orgasm (when I was made pussy-free) and more like the anniversary of when I entered the most logical end-state of being a permanently locked male.
I use the word “passed” rather than “celebrated” or “observed” because that’s how it went down. Belle knew it was coming up. I told her a few weeks ago. But nothing special was said or done on the day to mark it. In fact, I even missed it. I was reminded on BlueSky of it the day before because someone there did the math and assumed that 365×2 was the second anniversary, but this is a leap year so the actual anniversary was (365×2)+1. By the time I realized the day had come and gone it was +2. So the day “passed,” apparently as non-relevant to anything in particular as the contents itself.
A complicating factor in all this is that I’ve been sick. Not Covid. Some other 800 lb respiratory virus from hell that seemingly half the people I know are dealing with right now. Started as a tiny scratchy throat and a turned into a mild cough before being almost allergy-like before falling on my head like a baby grand piano. Chest congestion, head congestion, fever — the whole meal deal. It’s been awful.
Just before the piano fell, I decided to scratch an itch I’ve been having to go back into the Steelheart. I dunno, for nostalgia’s sake or something. I posted an old photo of it on BlueSky and commented that I was more nostalgic for the Steelheart than I am for what it contains, but here we are. So anyway, I was taking a nice bath and used the sudsy water to cover my view of the contents as I swapped out the Orion. I took advantage of the janky razor present at the bathtub (and not my usual Manscaped Crop Shaver) which was a mistake. I didn’t know it, but the janky razor gave me some nasty razor burn. But I was back in the Steelheart. Maybe an hour later, that piano fell on me.
I remember the first time I got sick and didn’t feel the need to come out of whatever device was on me at the time. I felt like that was a real milestone to accepting who I was. It was several years ago now, but prior I would want it off when sick (even mildly) and then all of a sudden I just didn’t. Like it wasn’t even on option. Even when I had Covid, the device was on me the whole time. But this time, it was the razor burn that did me in. I took a sweaty, feverish nap and woke up feeling fire from where the Steelheart folds some skin in on itself so stubble was against the raw but I simply had no ability to cope with it. I was also pretty wiped out and didn’t want out of bed so I simply retrieved the key from where I had left it and took the Steelheart off. And I put nothing back on in its place. I was just too fucking zonked to care.
At least, I thought I was. As bad as I felt, being unlocked made me feel worse. Of course, my hand found its way to the center of my legs and I felt the exposed contents resting between them. It felt so weird. All soft and squishy. But also so much smaller than what I usually find there. The Steelheart is probably like three times the volume of the flaccid contents and the Orion maybe twice as much, so feeling the difference really accentuated the notion reinforced by being separated from it for two years that its a sad little thing whose glory days are long gone. Feeling it out of its home was like feeling an internal organ on the outside of my body. It really felt like that. Because it’s usually inside.
The longer it was out the more unsettled it left me. It just felt wrong. Literally wrong. Not from a “ooh, I’m being so naughty” perspective or based on our dynamic or because I’m a sub. It just felt wrong. Wrong that I was all fleshy there instead of unfeeling plastic or metal, wrong that I could feel it moving against the inside of my sweats, wrong that it didn’t have its usual heft, wrong that I could even touch it freely. All wrong. So I eventually went into the bathroom to put the Orion back on. And that’s when I saw it.
I’ve said here before that I try not to look at it. The last time I saw it was in October of last year (because, you know, I track everything). I don’t avoid seeing it for any other reason except I don’t really want to see it. I don’t want to see it as what it used to be to me. But I did, unfortunately, catch a full-on glimpse of the thing in the bathroom mirror. So there’s that streak broken. Alas.
It struck me the same way it has before. It’s in the shape of a penis. But not a proud penis. Not one anyone would want to sport on themselves. This appeared to be a defeated, redundant sort of thing. Useless, forlorn, abandoned. Needing its cage.
I felt immediately better once the Orion was on. Not from an illness standpoint. Didn’t turn that corner for at least another 48 hours. But emotionally. I felt so much more secure and comforted by being back inside. Centered. Myself.
I’m just not a penis-having person anymore. At least not the kind of person that has a penis that isn’t half of a compound entity made up of it and a device to permanently contain it. This is the most logical end-state condition I mentioned above. It’s where we were always heading, I guess. Penisless.
The way being locked has integrated into my identity is so much more profound that I ever would have predicted or expected. It is literally how I identify. I don’t want to see it, feel it, be able to touch it. Those things are what define men, to me, and that’s not me. I’m this other thing. Male, not a man.
All this to say, two years after the last time, that I would, if told by Belle to do so, absolutely fuck her. In a moment (which is also how long I’d last). If she told me to jack off to completion, I would do that too. Instantly. If told to. But if given the option?
It makes me think of Drew and Jack. Drew gives Jack one chance a year to have an orgasm. It’s his choice. And each year, Jack declines the option. It’s been four years since he came. And I totally get that. I did not get it the first time Drew told me that. I was still having a handful of orgasms a year at that point and I confused craving orgasm with wanting one. I do crave it. And I would do it without complaint if told to. But I don’t want to. And Belle knows that better than anyone.
That’s what two year’s distance from shooting a load has taught me. Maybe, someday, she’ll tell me to do it again. Even she’s not ruling that out. But until she tells me to, I won’t. Not ever. Never again.