The horny report

I should have know I’d be horny today. That kind of intense, hard-edge gnawing that sits heavily in my balls and radiates out and up like the molten core of a reactor gone critical.

I should have known because last night, as I was in bed and about to go to sleep, I could feel it starting up. That very particular kind of feeling that one without access to a penis or an avenue to satisfy himself sexually feels. The kind of feeling that, in years past, would have kept me up all night. Tossing and turning and clawing at the steel. But last night, it was more like having a neighbor that throws too many late-night parties. Eventually, the noise becomes part of life’s background. Noticeable and present, but not as much an impediment.

But this morning. The party is a full-on three kegger frat house orgy. And my mind won’t stop dwelling on scenarios and imaginings that only make the thumping party music increase in volume and tempo.

This isn’t simple frustration. When a normal boy feels sexual frustration he’s never more than a quick trip into a bathroom stall away from relief, worst case. When a locked person like me feels it — locked in the way I am — there is no release. No hope for release. The frustration just builds on itself. Sometimes slowly and steadily and sometimes with incredible force. And then the mind keeps showing me objects and scenarios and making suggestions that are tantalizingly displayed on the other side of a perfectly clear, perfectly thick and impenetrable wall of glass. And rushing towards those temptations results in slamming against the glass again and again with the only end to the flagellation coming with exhaustion.

On my trip into work this morning, nearly from the moment I was out of the driveway, the tube was thickly full. The pants I’m wearing are among the tightest I have and they were pushing back at the tube and keeping it from rising while it, in turn, pushed back at its throbbing contents. Swelling to the point of feeling my heartbeat in the steel then feeling it back off slightly only to push forward again. That sensation of having a hard-on and feeling the pressure and gripping tightness of a slightly too-small base ring and then grabbing at it in frustration with the hand not on the wheel to try and tease out any kind of pleasurable sensation only to feel the numb, unrelenting hardness of metal. And that adding even more fuel to the fire.

I don’t know why this happened today. It’s apparently random how the hormones mix and cause the neurons to fire. Belle didn’t let me out for sex this past weekend so I was pretty horny after getting her off, but that’s normal. We’ll be apart this coming weekend so no chance for sex then. Maybe not the weekend after that, either. But I’ll be locked up the whole time. She made a point of reminding me last night lest I had any doubt by asking which device I was taking with me (probably the HT Nub, if you’re keeping score).

It’s also interesting to me in the way only a self-obsessed and inwardly analytical kinky geek could appreciate that my fantasies today are very much focused on the heterosexual side of my personal Kinsey Scale. Like most people, I don’t really think about what I’m going to fantasize about but I do pay attention to the porno film my imagination plays for me and this morning it’s exclusively cuckolding/facesitting stuff.

So, anyway, there you have it. This morning’s horny report. And now to Chet with Sports.

Verb to noun

Tom can’t remember the last time he came.

I get that. I only remember the last time I came because it was a little over two weeks ago. Before that? No idea. Honestly, not a clue.

In the case of Tom and Mrs, Edge…

We didn’t intentionally set out to do this, we just sort of… ended up here because we were having such a good time doing what we were doing. And as a result, it’s looking as if my last orgasm, as the joke goes, may well actually be my last orgasm.

I used to think a lot about when I last came and when she’d make me do it again and please could it be longer and gosh won’t that be hot? But somewhere along the way, it just stopped happening with any kind of regularity. And we stopped talking about it. And now, when Venus is in the house of whatever the fuck, she tells me to come and I do. But they’re months and months apart.

A while back, I stopped tracking them. I used to. I used to track everything. I still keep track of what I’m locked in and when, but only because I have an app for that. There’s a point at which it becomes meaningless. Chastity and denial stop being about the things they keep from happening and keep contained and start being about the lack of the things. When it stops being a verb and becomes a noun. Not a thing you’re doing, but a thing you are.

Oh, back to that again.

It’s not that she doesn’t like or crave penetrative sex. She does. But I’m really not good at it any more and the once or twice a month she lets me go inside her is more a treat for me than it is about pleasuring her. Maybe she’ll come to appreciate a way to scratch that itch that doesn’t require the penis. Maybe she already has. But not quite yet. So I find myself inside her every once in a while and a small fraction of those times, she feels like feeling me come. And then I do. And after that, it’s back to normal.

Someday, perhaps she won’t tell me to come again. If so, that’s how the end of orgasms for me would happen. Not declaratively, but quietly. Almost as an oversight. And by the time either of us realize it’s happened, it’ll also be obvious they’re not required. Or missed.

#chastitybump

Today while sitting in our truck while Belle took a turn driving on our multi-state camper excursion, I looked down and saw this…

Not all that unusual, TBH, but since I was just sitting there, of course I took a picture of it and posted it to Twitter. Like you do. That’s not the interesting part or why I’m writing this post.

The interesting part is the hashtag. After pecking that out and posting it, I was stunned to see nobody had ever used it before. I mean, why should they? But I’m never not surprised when I have an original idea and #chastitybump was one.

Of course, I don’t really mind when my #chastitybump is that obvious. I literally just wrote

I think all this is why I’m not nearly as worried as I used to be about my device being detectable by Muggles. I was running two days ago (and this morning) outside in light blue shorts and discovered as I was moving that I was sporting a fairly obvious bump that moved in a weirdly heavy way. And…I didn’t care. See it if you want. I dare you to ask me about it. I won’t take it off for you. Notwearing it is easy. It’s not special. But wearing it. That’s a thing I’m proud of. The dedication and the difficulty. It is special. It’s my super power.

And in that moment of hashtag inception, I was thinking about a) how hot I think a #chastitybump is (especially in new jeans I like a lot), and b) the defiant language I used yesterday, and c) how obsessed a lot of guys are about the devices locked onto them being seen through their clothing. And suddenly a movement was born. If only in my head. A way to help guys move past their #chastitybump worries and obsession. A way for them to be maybe even proud of it.

Because, when you boil it right down, what does a chastity device signify? Chastity is about devotion, sacrifice, and dedication. All noble and worthwhile things. The man who willingly accepts a chastity device is demonstrating attributes most people would value in their friends and partners. There really is nothing to be embarrassed about at all.

There is the issue of not wanting to involve others in your sex life without their consent. But the reality is (based on eleven years or so of catching people seeing my #chastitybump) nobody is going to ask. I mean, honestly, at this point the number of people I know and don’t who I’ve caught dick checking me has to be a hundred. Nobody has asked. Not a soul. And if they ever do, then they want to know and have therefore consented to get involved.

I think being less worried about one’s #chastitybump being visible is empowering. Being obsessed with stealth indicates that chastity is something to be ashamed of. In my opinion, that cheapens the commitment. I’m not going to go around with the shiny steel tube hanging out my fly, but I also will not go crazy trying to make it invisible.

Of course, creating a hashtag does not empower one with any kinds of special powers. But, if I was king of the hashtags, I’d ask that users of #chastitybump observe the following:

  1. #chastitybump is not for exposed chastity devices. We’ve already got plenty of tags for those. Therefore…
  2. #chastitybump should be used for devices that are covered with clothing. They should be at least minimally visible, but total obviousness is not required.
  3. Preferably, the #chastitybump should be under things like street clothing (shorts, jeans, slacks, swimsuits, etc.), but underwear is also acceptable (mostly because I didn’t think of this rule until after posting a few tagged underwear shots myself).

And that’s it, really. It’s time for us to own our #chastitybump. I really, truly hope this becomes a thing because the stigma of wearing chastity devices needs to be defeated. One little #chastitybump photo at a time.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Belle and I are about to leave on an 11-day road trip in our little camper. My social media accounts are about to swap over into “grandeur of nature” mode, fair warning.

It occurred to me as my hand was randomly down the front of my shorts feeling the smooth steel tube, warm with my body heat and slightly slickery from the lube I have to put under my balls, that I’d be really OK with Belle leaving the key at home. Being without the key while locked in the Steelheart is just about the hottest way to do the chastity and pretty much my optimal state.

It’s only happened a few times, and always when she says she’s forgot the key. I don’t recall it ever being intentional. I do recall, though, early on when I was still in the CB6K and we were going off on a weekend away for some reason or another that I was super fucking horny to get the thing off. I wanted to feel my hard-on and fuck the shit out of her. I was actually kind of angsty about it. She didn’t forget the key that time.

Ah, youth.

Chastity changes you. Not just hormonally and mentally and emotionally, though in all those ways, too. I was chatting with someone earlier about this. How not having a penis, the primary sex organ for a man, requires he become creative. Learning the other ways he can feel pleasure and that not all of them are from physical contact. It carves new pleasure pathways. Exposes hidden ones. He also has to learn how to pleasure his partner in ways that don’t involve penetration. For real, young men should be required to have sex with their partners for a full month without use of their penises to learn that critical life skill.

At this point, I think the penis is just too easy. It’s engineered by evolution to provide maximal pleasure as efficiently as possible. In general, they’re absolutely the easy way out, sexually. Most men and certainly men who would never consider being in chastity think this is exactly their point. But I have come to view it as a downside. For me, penises represent weakness. Temptation.

The other day, I was out all day because I was going to a sporting arena after work. I could have worn plastic, but didn’t because I also had a weird sore spot that a day out fixed right up. Every time I went to the bathroom I was presented with this weird little floppy meat thing instead of whatever rigid and usually shiny object I’m used to. Yeah, peeing was easier, but it was so…unimpressive.

That’s not a tiny penis kink thing. Well, not entirely. I mean, when it’s super flaccid it is really small. I said unimpressive because it’s so easy to use. That’s their raison d’être. The shortest possible line from desire to satisfaction. But a locked penis is hard. It’s about no line from one to the other. To be locked and denied for long periods is challenging in all the ways having access to a penis isn’t. And I need sex — my sex — to be hard. Challenging. In all the ways penises aren’t.

That’s how chastity has changed me. It’s bypassed my evolutionary wiring regarding “path of least resistance” pleasure. All my pleasure now needs to be maximally resistive. The more the better. Chastity, denial, bondage, bottoming, pain. It’s not that I don’t appreciate sweet sex. I get why it’s good and necessary. And my submissive, sexual service nature makes me willing to do that when it’s required of me (like when Belle unlocks me to fuck her). But hard sex. Resistive sex. That’s what I’m about.

Was I always like that or did chastity and denial make me that way? I dunno. My thinking is they tend to lower the water level of one’s sexuality exposing topography that’s usually hidden in the depths. And orgasmic satisfaction raises that water back up, turning the topography back into islands or submerging it altogether. But what do I know.

I think all this is why I’m not nearly as worried as I used to be about my device being detectable by Muggles. I was running two days ago (and this morning) outside in light blue shorts and discovered as I was moving that I was sporting a fairly obvious bump that moved in a weirdly heavy way. And…I didn’t care. See it if you want. I dare you to ask me about it. I won’t take it off for you. Not wearing it is easy. It’s not special. But wearing it. That’s a thing I’m proud of. The dedication and the difficulty. It is special. It’s my super power.

The presence of this thing on my body makes me more me than I am without it. I feel lesser without out. And it made me like this.

So yeah. Chastity changes you.

The Submissive Rabbit

If you follow me on Twitter, this is old news, but I’ve decided to spin up a new blog called The Submissive Rabbit to run side by side with this one to cover other aspects of my sexuality that don’t fit here.

I’m doing this because Denying Thumper is and always has been primarily about my relationship with Belle and my chastity and denial by her. But, as I’m a very lucky bunny, there are other things I’m experiencing that I find helpful to write about since that’s primarily how I process things. Also, you know, I’m a bit of a show-off. Back in the day, I put this kind of stuff on Tumblr but then they went and nuked their platform so I found this other aspect of me to be blogospherically homeless. Hence, TSR was born.

I wanted to make this announcement about TSR on DT to continue to be open and honest in my relationship and sexuality. If you’re interested in the further adventures of Thumper, here are a few links to get you started. If you’re not, welp, just ignore this whole thing I guess.

Another fucking blog from Thumper?

Weekend by the lake, Part 1

Weekend by the lake, Part 2

Weekend by the lake, Part 3

Weekend by the lake, Part 4

Avoiding temptation

Recently, due to travel, I’ve been in and out of the Steelheart and the Holy Trainer Nub. Since I was most recently traveling either with coworkers or family, the experience of my recent TSA run-in has caused me to go through security unsecured which has led to putting devices on in bathrooms immediately after.

I traveled for work a few weeks ago and took the Steelheart through in my carry-on. Same when I went to visit Frodo. It’s never caused any TSA agent to want to inspect it though I assume it shows as a very metal object on the X-ray, just not in a shape that they find interesting. There’s no telling if it ever will get flagged for inspection, but so far it hasn’t. Since on the work trip I knew where I was going to be the whole time, I felt comfortable being in steel, but this trip we were on last weekend was in touristy areas and occasionally steel becomes an issue so I was in plastic.

Someone messaged me to ask how I avoid temptation when locking and unlocking, especially when I’m alone, and does the penis ever get ideas of its own and make putting the device on difficult.

Starting with that last point, yes, it can get difficult. Though that’s the exception. I’m usually moving too fast and with too much purpose for the thing to get to a difficult state. It’s not uncommon for it to be plumped from the act of being contained, but if I keep my wits about me and don’t think too hard about it, it stays in a workable state. I’d guess more than 90% of the time there’s not much more than a little plumping that occurs. Barely amounts to a chubby.

With regard to the avoiding temptation, I think the thing about that is I don’t want to be unlocked. Not ever. I resent having to be that way. And because I want to be locked up, I can generally be trusted with the key. Belle lets me have it when I need to take it with me and we don’t get hung up on where it is or what I’m doing with it (though when I went to see Frodo she asked for proof I was locked which is just sweet and hot).

While with Frodo, I did have to unlock a few times due to concerns about possible metal detectors (which were unfounded, it turns out), but again, I am never thinking of ways to cheat and/or get out of chastity. There is simply no way I could be with Frodo like that. I’d hate it. It’s impossible to consider. The Rules are the rules and I’m so invested in them the idea of not following them is totally alien to me. Luckily, Frodo gets that and has never even joked about me not being true to Belle’s expectations. To the contrary, when I was unlocked while we were out and about he made a point of telling me I didn’t need to be that way.

No, it’s not unusual for me to crave the contents, but it never goes beyond that. Just this morning on the way to work, I was distractingly horny and intensely aware of the Steelheart and what it was keeping me from and the desire to have access was achingly palpable, but that’s as far as it goes. I crave the crave. That is the point of what I am: always yearning, always struggling, never satisfied. Controlled. Obeying. Denied.

Unf.

Popping the lock and letting it out would destroy everything. Temptation only works when the prospective object is something one desires. I do not desire the penis as a penis. I desire what not having access to it creates.

Freedom to feel

It occurred to me very shortly after I hit the publish button on that last post that I was going to have to think out the significance of this:

“I feel that this past weekend I allowed myself to really feel for Frodo how I have felt for him for years and express that to him as honestly as I ever have. And it’s exactly because we are both married to who we’re married to that that love can exist as it does. And it’s no less intense and no less valid than any other love I feel.”

Especially when compared to everything I’ve said here before about my bisexuality and my Twitter profile where I say I’m a “bisexual heteromantic submissive masochistic underwear enthusiast baseball fan. Usually locked in chastity.”

I mean, the submissive masochist underwear baseball stuff is totally true. As is the chastity. And I’m absolutely, 100% bisexual. But heteromantic? I am very definitely feeling something that would seem to exceed the bounds of heteromancy (full disclosure, I have no idea if this is a word). So what’s up, rabbit?

The time in my life when I was struggling the most with feelings of sexual attraction towards men combined with a deep desire to be with a woman and create a family was more or less the same time Frodo became so important in my life. When we were transitioning from childhood to adulthood. One of the main reasons I never pursed a romance with him at that time (and we’re talking like 30 or more years ago at this point) is that I already had in my head what I wanted in life. I had known it for as long I could remember. A wife. Children. I remember pretending I had kids from a very young age and by the time it was getting close to when I could make some it was the late 80s and early 90s and all the options available to same sex couples today (marriage, adoption, surrogacy) were pipe dreams or non-existent. And I think every time I started to get emotionally closer to Frodo around this time I would freak out and hit the eject button (which, in turn, hurt Frodo and was totally unfair). Because Frodo lacked a uterus.

So, to me, heteromancy was my destiny and I would not let anything get in the way of that. And since that was the case and Frodo was the only male I ever felt anything close to romantic love for and I never bothered to pursue any other men for that kind of connection, I could easily say (once I found the word) that I was heteromantic. Sex with men was great and totally something I was up for, but beyond that? Nope. They couldn’t give me what I wanted from life.

But the is future now. I’m not 20 anymore (sigh). I have a kid who’s that age and another right behind him. I got what I wanted from life. A woman who I love and two amazing children who have turned out better than I had any right to expect. So the imperative to reproduce has been satisfied (and is now all about patiently waiting for the grandkids).

So not only has that factor been lifted, I am also not single. I have that relationship with a woman I craved. And it’s healthy and happening right alongside whatever else might be happening in my life. So that need for female companionship and my urges to feel her body and get her off in the specific and delightful ways women get off is still available to me.

What I’m saying and where I’m netting out on this is that we are never complete beings. Things are always happening and time grinds forward and as such what was once thought to be immutable aspects of ourselves have to evolve, too. I feel that I am now more free to feel how I have felt for Frodo for decades. I can be more honest to him and myself. And the reason it’s possible is a combination of things the 20-year-old version of me never could have comprehended, let alone predicted.

So I’ve changed my Twitter profile.

I suspect it will change again. Because that’s what life is. And it’s only really over when the change ends.