Embracing the vestigial state

Even though it was in the middle of Hashtag Locktober, Belle decided she wanted the contents. As is the custom now, she gave me the key the night before the morning she wanted to get fucked.

I need the key in advance so I can prepare the contents. Prep takes about an hour. I take three 20mg tablets of sildenafil citrate (aka, Viagra) and apply four or five sqirts of Promescent® Delay Spray for Men. This is all due to my being totally unable to 1) avoid orgasm 36 seconds after penetration, and 2) remain hard for longer than 36 seconds after that. I had hoped the Viagra would take care of that all by itself so I could at least feel myself fucking her, but even with the chemical erection support, it goes flat as soon as it squirts, orgasm or not. So the meds help me remain as hard as possible for her and the Delay Spray (basically lidocaine) keeps me from coming as quickly.

As an aside, the Delay Spray works well. Somehow, they’ve formulated it such that after a bit of time it has absorbed entirely into the penis and won’t transfer to Belle so only I am denied the sensation of penetration. The package says not to exceed three pumps of the spray but I find that four or so is better at deadening it and the Viagra keeps it hard even though it’s about 90% numb.

So I did my things and then waited for her to wake up. It’s my job to make sure everything is ready for her when she’s ready so that she neither has to wait around for things to take affect nor for there to have been too much time passed so that the precautions aren’t useful.

This particular morning, things lined up well and the contents were both good and hard but also almost totally without feeling so that after I got her off with my fingers, I was able to climb on top of her and provide a reasonable facsimile of having a normal male lover.

Unexpectedly, she told me she wanted me to come inside her. My routine isn’t designed for that. I specifically deaden the meat so that I won’t come but right after sliding it in, she told me she wanted me to. Of course, the precautions were working very well and I realized rather quickly that getting to a point where I was having a real, full orgasm wasn’t in the cards. On the plus side, I was able to fuck her for maybe the longest period of time in years.

Eventually, I could feel the rumblings of orgasm from somewhere behind my balls. I wasn’t going to come due to anything I felt on the shaft, but I was still going to do it. Some combination of feeling my hips grinding and her under me and the flex of the muscles necessary to do the act tricked my brain sufficiently that it was able to get there. But I didn’t get much of anything from the penis and the orgasm was typical of the ones I have now. Weird, somehow incomplete, and while productive from a volume of ejaculate POV, still less than entirely satisfying. I mean, she can make me come, but she can’t make what’s left of my ability to do it feel good.

But it was an orgasm and it was enough of one to make me very reluctant to get back in to any device after. The Rules are very clear:

I must be wearing a chastity device at all times, unless she says otherwise.

Belle’s Rules for Thumper

But I eventually did go back in. Even though the device felt foreign and weird and uncomfortable. I hated it.

The next day we went to dinner for our anniversary (which, coincidentally, is very near the anniversary for this blog — happy lucky 13th anniversary to me!) and she took the opportunity to ask how I was doing. Not, like, how’s your day going? More like, is this still what you want?

It was a bad time to ask. Had she brought it up 48 hours before, I would have wholeheartedly said YES. Things are GREAT. But 36 hours after coming, I replied somewhere between a shrug and a “fine…things are…fine.” But I realized how my lack of enthusiasm was being perceived and explained that I was in a period of profound sub drop. So of course, I was very happy with our dynamic. But it was, as I said, a bad time to ask and expect enthusiasm.

A few days later, we flew on a plane together. I was still feeling the impact of the orgasm and took the opportunity to let myself out before we went to the airport. Even though we were flying alone with no kids or friends or family around and if I got pulled out of line it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I wanted out. So I basically made an excuse for myself.

Usually, I’ll go back in right after the TSA invades my privacy, but I didn’t this time. I just…didn’t. Could have. Didn’t. And I didn’t when we got to our destination. Or at any other point that day, even though I was very clearly aware I was unlocked from all the incidental friction inside my pants (which drives me CRAZY). As we got into bed, I told her I was out. I don’t think she knew. She didn’t seem too impressed. But that’s how I went to bed.

I mean, I knew I was being bad. And I knew it would feel bad later. But I wasn’t willing to abide by the rules. I wasn’t willing to accept my position.

The next morning, I woke up with a raging hard on. I was at least able to maintain some control over myself. I didn’t stroke it, but I did lay on my stomach and grind it into the firm mattress and revel in the pressure and friction. The head popped out from the side under my left hip and I rubbed the bit on the underneath and knew if I did just that for more than 30 seconds I’d come. So I stopped at about 20 seconds.

Belle turned over I spooned into her. I’m sure she could feel it. And it was a vacation morning when I should have expected some sex. But she wasn’t offering. But I wanted it. In fact, I did expect it. And that’s when I started to come back down to earth.

I should have ZERO expectations of sex. Sex is for her. For her to get pleasure and satisfaction. My satisfaction comes though giving her hers. Period. But here I was trying to fuck her. Because I wanted to fuck her. That’s not me. That’s not right.

I was locked back up within the hour.

The next morning, I was spooning into her again, but my entire demeanor changed. God, I absolutely fucking hate the version of me that was unlocked without permission and was trying to coax her into getting me off. She was much more receptive to the locked version of me and allowed me to eat her out. I could once again feel pressure and compression of the contents, but no friction. Nothing like that. Just the Evotion 8 doing its job while my tongue did its.

And when her hips bucked in my face and I could feel her pussy spasm in orgasm under my mouth and the contents strain in defeated futility, I felt so much more normal. So much more me.

And yeah, it was not lost on me she was far more willing to engage sexually with the locked me than she was the unlocked me.

Five days earlier when I was mounting her with my numb, chemically enhanced erection, I remember the thought flitting though my mind I really don’t need this. This is for her, not me. And, honestly, thinking back to her asking how I was doing, the only issue I have is that there are still reasons for me to be unlocked from time to time. I mean, that’s just how it is. It’s what she needs and, in the past, she needed it a lot more than now, so she’s already made a significant change to her expectations based on my limitations. I’m not asking that she stop letting me out for a fuck, even as infrequent as that is. It is entirely her prerogative and I accept that.

But we both know I’m better when the contents of the device are treated like some vestigial remnant of what I was prior to evolving into what I am now.

Speaking of which, my mom sent me a picture the other day of me in 2002. It was taken maybe two months before my daughter was born and I look like I’m 17. This was before Belle made me come, so the second thought that went through my head after being stunned a how young I looked was what a waste it was that it would be another six years before that guy’s dick was taken away from him. We’d already had our kids. The two we said we’d have. We didn’t need it anymore.

And that’s why I ended up locking on to the concept of vestigial. My phone defines it “forming a very small remnant of something that was once much larger or more notable. Or, pertaining to an organ or part of the body, degenerate, rudimentary, or atrophied, having become functionless in the course of evolution.”

I have evolved. Away from the needy, selfish, willful asshole who thought mostly of himself and his pleasure and into the full flower of the sub I always was deep inside. The sub that was trapped under the weight of the will of the penis. But here we are on the other side of all that. The penis is vestigial to who and what I am now. “Degenerate, atrophied, and functionless.” It’s not even a penis anymore. It’s just contents. Nothing more than a remnant of my former self. I always, always, always need to think of it that way. Because that is what it is.

And thank god we got here. I honestly can’t imagine what we’d be like right now if I still had a cock. I don’t want to imagine it. I am incredibly lucky Belle keeps me locked up. That she expects me to be. And prefers me that way. I can never, ever let my hormones make me forget that. Not for a day. Not even an hour. Not for a moment.

Hunk of burning love

Just got back from spending another week in the woods. Like last time, it was my intention to stay locked the whole time I was there.

In fact, I even told Belle I didn’t want to take any key at all. In the old days, I had an “emergency” key with me all the time but for years now I rarely have one with me. And I know I can do the woods for a week (or more) without a key and not need it or miss it and having access to it opens a tiny crack of opportunity to be bad and I don’t want to think about that.

So I told her as she hunted for the locked and numbered spare key that maybe I wouldn’t even take one. But calmer heads prevailed and I took her main key and wrapped it in paper and tape and had her sign it so any tampering would be painfully evident.

And yeah, good thing, because on the third day I found myself super dehydrated. It was hot and humid where I was and while I thought I was keeping up with my fluid intake, I was not and realized such when the urine dropping out of the Steelheart’s tube was deep orange. Bad, bad, bad.

Worse, urine in that situation becomes super concentrated and acidic. Perhaps if I was wearing the Evotion 8, it wouldn’t have been such an issue, but the Steelheart never drains completely and even after several trips into my tent to flush the tube with soapy water, I ended up with nasty burns on the underside tip of the contents.

So…yeah, glad that key was with me. I opened it with my multitool and took the Steelheart off and applied antibiotic ointment to the sore spots. Holy fuck, they hurt. Probably because I waited too long. I’m such a zealot.

Good news was, with those sores feeling as they did and where they were, there was no way at all I even considered playing with it. The best parts were on fire. The worst of the pain only lasted about 24-36 hours before it became just tender. Always amazes me how quickly the skin on the contents heals itself.

So by the fifth day things were feeling well enough that I was once again totally distracted by the novel sensation of a penis with feeling moving around and rubbing against the inside of my underwear and pants. I found myself on a hike getting a rather obvious erection from the sensation. Like I was 13 or something. Don’t think anyone noticed.

I stayed good the whole time. I did maybe give the morning wood a squeeze a few times but no stroking. And as soon as I got back in the house and hopped in the shower to hose a week’s worth of forest funk off me, I locked myself back in the Steelheart and told Belle everything.

So while part of me would love to see the key epoxied into the lock and broken off, no, that’s not at all practical. And going into the woods for a week without a key is a dumb idea.

Short and sweet touch-base

Belle and I just got back from taking our youngest off to school on the west coast. This means we are officially empty nesters. One big house for the two of us to rattle around in. It’s kinda weird, tbh.

But, there are advantages. Yesterday, I went for a run in the afternoon (I’m usually a morning guy) and came back quite warm and sweaty and stripped off my running gear and immediately jumped in the pool naked. Swam around a bit to cool off, then laid in the sun and got to feel its rays hit (nearly) every part of me and the wind move through every hair on my body. It was glorious. I mean, I miss my kids. I really do. But man do I like to hang out in my yard naked.

Another benefit of the trip was it allowed Belle and I to have a little chat about my chastity. Even though I’m locked up essentially all the time and she rarely sees me without a device on, it’s not something we talk about anymore. It just is. Like, why would you talk to your spouse about their toes? You wouldn’t. Aside from the occasional observation of which device I’m wearing, it’s a topic of conversation that’s disappeared into the background like Homer Simpson backing into a hedge.

On the one hand, that’s great. It represents a kind of goal state I think a lot of people with locked up penises want to get to. The fait accompli of being permanently kept. I am not complaining, mind you. The contents are supposed to be an afterthought.

On the other hand, I’m so thoroughly thankful that she’s taken on the responsibility of holding my key and chooses to keep me in chastity as often as I am and has even evolved how she prefers to receive her pleasure and reaches orgasm based on my desire to be locked up that sometimes I just want to pop with gratitude and enthusiasm. Even when the contents are trying to explode from their confinement and I can’t help but climb on top of her and grind the device into her pussy in frustration. That even then she doesn’t let me out. Doesn’t “feel sorry” for me. Just lets me stew and squirm and suffer in the ways I crave.

So we did chat. Once or twice. About the thing that just is between us. I thanked her her again (always, forever) for keeping me as I am. She said she can’t even think of me any other way now. How it’s obviously good for me. How she likes me better this way. I said how I like myself better this way. About how I think it makes me a better lover and partner to her.

And that was it. A little touch-base. A short status. Both of us happy with where we are. Both satisfied with the status quo. Neither looking to change anything in our dynamic.

It’s often said that the reason kinky people have more successful and satisfying relationships (on average) is because being in a kinky relationship requires communication on a much more significant scale than a muggle relationship. And that’s 100% true. But even a relationship like ours can become so well-inhabited as to lose the necessity for communication. So I am grateful for the short and sweet reaffirmation.

Chem-rections

Belle and I were driving along in rural Wisconsin where there are an unusual number of erectile dysfunction billboards.

“You should get that,” she said. I laughed. She wasn’t joking.

Flash forward to the other day. I had just given Belle her orgasm and we were cuddling afterward. I noted that the last time she wanted the contents out was in April and here we were in July and I was just curious (not implying, suggesting, or in any way inferring I wanted or needed or should be let out because that’s against the rules) what was up with that.

She again mentioned erectile dysfunction medication. Clearly, a seed had been planted.

To be clear, I don’t have an issue getting an erection. At least, not that often. I can get hard no problem. My issue, her issue, is I can’t stay hard. When she lets me fuck her, I will ejaculate without orgasm (which is like a ruined orgasm inside her) and then immediately go soft and stay that way.

It didn’t used to be like that. I used to be able to get past the ejaculation without orgasm bit and then stay rock hard and fuck her until she cried uncle. One big difference between now and then is the amount of time it took me to get to the ejaculation part. Used to be many minutes of fucking and now it’s literally 90 seconds, tops. Pathetic.

Ninety seconds of fucking is hardly worth the effort for Belle. I’m really good at the other ways of getting her off so why bother with the lock and key and the mess? Leaving me locked up gets her rocks off just as much and is simply more efficient.

But she does like to get fucked. And the strap-on has fallen out of favor since, again, she doesn’t want to be bothered. Thus her position that if the contents could get hard and stay that way, she’d let it out and enjoy it. If it can’t, she won’t.

This morning I filled out the erectile dysfunction questionnaire on the Roman website. I picked them because they advertise during Dodger games and the guy who started it is kinda cute. Anyway, I answered all the questions and may now be contacted by a doctor or they may just start sending them, we’ll see. Apparently it depends on what Minnesota requires.

So where we’ve come in this journey into orgasm denial and chastity is that my erections are forced into confinement and disallowed when they want to happen but may be forced into happening when they’d rather not. And this is…incredibly hot tbh.

Climate vs. weather

Belle and I are on an eleven day trip in our Airstream across eleven states. We’re on day ten now, so wrapping up soon, which is both a good thing (I miss my house and kid and nice big TV with redonkulous internet connection) and a bittersweet thing since these trips are the only time I feel like I’m not sharing Belle (in the non-sexy way) with her employer. That and I have a jonesing to be one of those full-time RVers who live from campground to campsite chasing 70 degree weather around the continent all year long.

Anyways, we woke up this morning next to a little pond on a farm in northern Ohio I found on Hipcamp. The night was on the warm side and the site we were camped at didn’t have hookups (again, the non-sexy kind — but the woman who lived there did sell us some of her chicken’s eggs for cheap) so we slept with the windows open to the sounds of toads and frogs calling to one another all night. It was swell.

I was sleeping, as I most often do, in nothing but the Steelheart and nothing at all sexy happened. (This is, apparently, the parenthetically non-sexy sex blog post.) And I only mention this because we were laying about this morning listening to the rooster and putting off getting back on the road and there I was all naked and stuff with shiny metal flopping around between us and nothing at all happened.

Why am I writing this? On the sex blog. If nothing sexy happened. WTF, rabbit? Well, more than knowing how to get a well-fitted device or which lube to put on to make wearing it easier or any of that picayune logistical shit, the one skill you have to master if you’re hoping to live with permanent chastity in your life is the 99% of the time that isn’t sexy. Even though you’re 100% (or near enough) of the time wearing a sex toy.

I struggled with this a lot in the beginning. For years, really. But at some point, the one with the kept contents needs to let go of the constant gnawing craving always just under the surface and make sure it stays under the surface until and unless the one holding your key wants it to come up. And the rest of the time, you’re locked up and that’s just how it fucking is. There’s no reward or attention or Scooby snack waiting for you for dealing with it all the time. Dealing with it all the time is the point.

Chastity needs to go from being special to being mundane. To being just how you are. And I’m not saying that’s easy. It’s not. Because “just how you are” is a way that leaves you way more attentive to what’s not happening and what you can’t do and that makes you (most of the time) want to do it all the more. Gaining the ability to keep all that pressure and emotional turbulence under control is maybe the most important thing a penis-haver kept in permanent chastity can learn. For their sanity and the sanity of whoever is holding their key.

I can go back to the beginning of this blog and find posts by a rabbit who didn’t get that. Who felt as though he was owed something for doing the hard thing and staying locked up. But of course being locked up is what I want. So, if anything, I owe Belle for keeping me that way. What I know now (and what’s a central part of our dynamic) is she owes me nothing. And being all needy and sad about the sex or orgasms or simple penis pleasure being missed out on is the single best way to fuck up having someone keep you away from the contents of the device.

I think being kept in chastity does lead to more intimacy and trust and sex and an overall increase in hotness, but it’s like the difference between weather and climate. Chasity improves the climate of the relationship, in our experience. The trend is positive. But one hot or cold or wet or dry day does not make a trend all by itself. So the trick is to focus on the long haul climate changes and not wake up every day with an expectation of what the weather will be like by lunch time. That’s not how it works at all.

Permanente

In response to my last post and the note I put in it saying I don’t count time spent switching devices or cleaning/hygiene as “unlocked,” Tom commented…

The word “permanent” is the worst word to use, except for all the others. I’m unlocked for medical, travel (neither of us want that kind of attention), and when I head out on longer distance cycling jaunts (no point in having me get all chafed).

And I totally agree. I actually tweeted about this a while back. What does it mean to be in “permanent” chastity?

I consider myself to be “permanently” kept in chastity. Even though, besides times like I mentioned above, I have been unlocked for things like doctor visits or trips though the TSA with the kids, etc. “Permanent” because I have permanently handed control over my locked status to Belle. And Belle has said many times (and, in fact, my rules unequivocally state) that I am always to be locked unless I absolutely cannot be or she wants what’s inside. And, as anyone who’s been to my blog before knows, I always want to be locked up. In my heart and mind, I am forever and always locked in chastity.

Buuuuut, according to a strict reading of “permanent,” what I describe isn’t that. There are guys (and other penis-having people) on the net who have riveted shut their devices. There are guys (and other PHP) who will tell you they haven’t been out of their devices for yeeears. And…OK.

Look, I’m here to tell you right now the idea of literally never ever seeing the contents again because they’re locked away into a device forever and always is, absolutely, hot as fuck. But I can also tell you, with a high degree of expertise on the matter, that it’s impossible. At least with current technology.

Setting aside how simply impractical it is (the kind of stuff Tom said) and how complicated it would make certain aspects of one’s life, the cruel fact of the matter is chastity devices get peed on a lot. And urine is like really hard water. It leaves mineral deposits. And that shit needs to be dealt with. Even when I wear the Evotion 8, a mostly plastic, mostly open device that sails through metal detectors, the issue of mineral accretion happens. And when that’s not dealt with, the bits that are against skin or literally through the head of the penis become really uncomfortable.

I would estimate that the reason I ask for the Steelheart to come off nine out of ten times is because the PA ring gets a crusty build-up that ends up being super uncomfortable and irritating. I can go maybe three weeks before getting there, but I always do. The Evotion and Halfshell, being the other two PA-fixed devices I wear, are the same.

So far this year, I have been unlocked 3 hours and 53 minutes. That’s three times Belle wanted the contents inside her and one trip to the doctor. Three hours and 53 minutes out of 4,175, AKA locked up 99.9% of the time. So no, not permanent because that was in five different devices and the contents did get wet three times, but man. How much closer to permanent can you get? I mean, in a relationship where my keyholder still does, if however infrequently, want to take the contents out for spin.

Short story long, I think when it comes to the concept of locking a penis in a device, we need to have a slightly more liberal definition of the word permanent. I would not argue with someone who wants to say they’re in indefinite chastity. Or some other wiggly turn of phrase. But I hope we can all agree that at some point, two or three nines to the right of a decimal point is more than sufficient to rank as permanent.

I mean, if you’re keeping score. If not, disregard this whole post.

Maintenance

Belle gave me the key to the lock in the Steelheart this morning since I’m going to a ballgame with one of my kids tonight. We’re so free in the United States we need to go through metal detectors to enter places like sporting arenas. My god, smell the liberty.

In any event, I used the opportunity of switching between the Steelheart and the Cobra (yes, I will write a review of it eventually) to clean, shave, and trim. I’ve been locked up continuously for 59 days so it was time.

Note, I don’t count time out swapping between devices as “unlocked” nor do I count the 10-15 minutes it takes to do the cleaning and hair maintenance. Some purists who think permanent chastity means welded on might chafe at that, but it’s always been my rule.

The Steelheart came off and went into its vinegar bath (which is kind of like that scene in Star Wars when Luke dipped C3PO into a vat of oil) and that left me with…it. The contents. The thing I’m not supposed to touch except when doing just what I was about to do.

It felt so weird. Just how it moved and bobbed and the sensation of it as a free penis rather than the compressed object it usually is. It looked rather normal considering it lives a life not unlike some invertebrate under a rock, never seeing sunlight. But I found the way it shifted around and caught the light sort of mesmerizing. It made me feel kind of fuzzy and dopey.

I stayed focused on my tasks, but as I had to lift it to shave the shaft and the other places I usually can’t get to, I was left with the palpable impression that it was something other than me. Not of me. More something I was. A presence that was trying to tempt me to be that way again.

I got the shaving done and moved to the trimming and the temptation grew stronger. It chubbed out a bit. Not hard. Not a hard-on. Plump. Suckable. Heading towards strokable. So tempting. Like it was talking to me. Belle won’t mind. It’s OK. Just a squeeze. Just a few strokes.

I put the base ring around my balls and pulled the penis through and I felt it start to grow more from the touching and pulling and constriction of the ring. Before it could get very far, I shoved the cage down over it. Squishing it. Reducing it. Putting it away.

I felt simultaneously senses of relief and regret. I could have gone too far. But I didn’t. But I could have. But I didn’t want to. But I did want to. But I didn’t do it.

That’s the thing about being kept like I am. Getting out, even for 8 minutes or whatever it took to do the maintenance, even for someone like me totally committed to being permanently maintained except for those times she specifically wants to use me, is dangerous. I’m always on the edge. Cheating and bad behavior is always so close. Too close.

But at least now it’s tidy.

Identity

I’ve been thinking a lot about identity lately. There was a recent call into the Savage Lovecast about whether or not being kinky was equivalent to being LGBTQ+ (more or less) and then there was this meme I retweeted that claimed chastity was an identity and then there was this great post on my third favorite chastity blog, Locked Doc. And I suppose most of what I’ve been writing here for a while now gets to the issue of identity.

Dan’s answer was problematic for me because he boiled being kinky down to “it’s just how someone has sex.” At least, that’s how I recall he left it. So it’s not an identity like, say, being lesbian is. And I do get the point that to be openly and happily lesbian (for example, not picking on lesbians), one does need to be identified as such, even and maybe especially by people who are not lesbian. That’s what being “out” is all about, after all. But the “it’s just how someone has sex” part hit me because I think at its root it’s how a lot of people have dismissed homosexuality. I know from personal experience that otherwise straight people have urges to have sex with people of their gender and sometimes choose to indulge those urges and then use that experience to say all same-sex attraction and sex is a choice. “It’s just sex, not an identity.” And that’s nonsense. Some of us can choose to have sex with people of any gender while others can’t because the idea squicks them out. And sex pretty obviously isn’t the same as feeling love, fulfilled, secure, etc.

As a person who came to realize his kinky nature relatively late in life, I can say quite firmly that while it is how I have sex, it is also inconceivable to me that I’d have sex any other way now. I am kinky. Could I have vanilla sex with someone? (I mean, assuming I was ever unlocked.) I guess, sure. Theoretically. But some gay-identified people occasionally have sex with people of genders other than their own and that doesn’t change their identity. I am exclusively interested in having kinky sex now. I’m not sure Belle would call what we have kinky sex, even when she unlocks me allows me to fuck her, but it is. Regardless of the status of the contents, all our sex is in the shadow of a power imbalance. I may not be tied up and she may not be standing over me holding a crop, but it’s kinky nonetheless.

Bottom line, the only kind of relationship I could have with another person would be a kinky one. Specifically, one where I was the sub/bottom and was kept in chastity permanently. I would not be able to be happy with anyone absent those dynamics. That is me, permanently and 100%.

So that’s my sexual identity sorted. There’s also the aspect of gender identity. As I said a few weeks ago…

And while I’m biologically male, being essentially permanently kept in chastity makes me feel like something other than a man. It’s rewritten a lot of my motivations and behaviors that define “man” in my mind. I’m not claiming to be non-binary or anything, but I sometimes feel as though I’m passing as a man rather than actually being one. That I’m actually some other thing we don’t have a word for.

Over on Twitter, someone brought to my attention a post on the Become Her Slave blog where Giles English pondered what it would be like if we treated men kept in chastity as if they were a separate gender. It’s an interesting thought experiment and some of what they wrote I agree with, but the point is, for men in long term/permanent chastity, even being able to have that kind of conversation makes a ton of sense. We just feel how it makes sense.

The part I liked most about Giles’ post was the idea that locked men would be recognized by others. That our state would be accepted and there would be a way to telegraph it to the world (other than walking around with our devices hanging out). And I really crave that. I crave being seen for who and what I am. To be understood and accepted. Because, besides identifying as kinky, I am a kept man.

If that’s not identity, I don’t know what is. It’s So. Much. More than “how I have sex.” When I’m locked and feeling the device and knowing its contents are not under my control and the sex I have is totally predicated on that fact and even my involuntary fantasies and thoughts presume no functioning penis, we have moved way, way past any kind of tactical sexual process.

So my identity is kinky, sub, bisexual, kept male. And probably another couple things, if I think about it (poly and a bottom, for example). How do I boil that down to a pithy set of pronouns? Or expect some muggle to understand the nuance in what it means? Well, I can’t. But it doesn’t change that that is who I am. It doesn’t change the fact I wish I could live authentically and be seen. I’m not enough of a warrior to understand how to make a world where those things are possible, but that doesn’t change that I wish all of it were.

Stress

The past few months have been daunting for me. Mostly related to dealing with an aged parent and being an only child, but contributing to the stress has been a significant home remodel project (which I’m not doing but has nonetheless created a lot of disruption in the house), some personal travel, my daughter’s high school graduation, her resultant anxiety about going off to college and some dithering about whether she wants to do that or take a gap year, and Belle’s job requiring her to work ridiculously long hours here at her office away from the office (aka, our house). Plenty of things to knock me out of my comfortable rhythm of life. And this week will be something of a crescendo as many of these things are intersecting and, oh yeah, I forgot to block my schedule at work.

Part of the comfortable rhythm I mentioned is when Belle lets me get her off. North of 95% of the time I get to bring her to orgasm is on the weekend. Weekend mornings. And a lot of those mornings I haven’t been home or some other thing has gotten in the way. I doubt in the past five or six weeks I’ve given her more than a couple orgasms instead of the ten or twelve that might otherwise have happened.

And that sounds not great for her on the surface, but for all I know she’s been taking care of herself while I was away. It’s really not great for me because, as I’ve been kept in chastity this entire time, I have no outlet for all the energy built up inside me. A normal guy might go jack off for relief, but my one and only outlet for that kind of thing is Belle’s pussy and I’ve barely touched it.

This has led to me feeling a lot more stressed than I might otherwise and also somewhat emotional with swings back and forth as well as being short tempered. The dark and unpleasant side of enforced male chastity.

And here we are very late on a Sunday with me staying up to pick up my mom at the airport after being away for yet two more weekend mornings with their pussy access meaning tomorrow I’ll be extra tired as I balance work, life, mom, etc.

I have no tidy ending for this one. I’m stressed and unpleasantly frustrated. I need an outlet. And I don’t have one. Hurmph.

The confidence of the contained

What with Covid receding (in the US, anyway), life is starting to return to some kind of normalcy. One part of that is our daughter now goes to school four days a week rather than being remote as she was when the year started. And, since she’s vaccinated, she’ll be in-person at college next year, too.

I only mention that to set the stage for what happened earlier. It was just Belle and I alone in the house and…wait, you’re expecting some hot sex thing here, aren’t you? Oh dear. I’m sorry. It wasn’t hot sex. I should have maybe said that earlier so as to avoid you getting your hopes up.

Anyway, we were at home alone and I was back from my run and she was in the bathroom after her shower doing her hair and stuff. Being alone meant I could hop in the shower with her in there but leave the door open so she didn’t get steamed out. And as I stood at the sink and got ready, naked as I prefer to be, I could leave the door open as we conversed about various things even as she was going back and forth from our room and the office.

Right after I put the shaving cream on my neck I got a call from the contractor doing work on the house about some piece of minutiae related to the work he’s doing for us (I’m picky and he knows it). So I took the call and we discussed the minutiae and our plan for going forward and after I hung up went out into the hall to discuss the thing with Belle. Both of us, standing in the hall, she clothed and ready for the day, me totally naked except for the Holy Trainer v4 Nano (Steelheart needed cleaning) and shaving cream on my neck.

There was a time right after we started using chastity in our relationship that I felt super uncomfortable with her seeing it. It made me very self-conscious. In my defense, it was the CB6K which is hideously ugly, but still. I wasn’t really ready to accept the device as normal. I still felt like a freak for wanting it on me. And that led to insecurity about it.

Now it’s the total opposite. Had I been unlocked for some reason, I suspect I would have put a towel around my waist in that situation because I don’t like her seeing the contents exposed anymore. When she unlocks me for her pleasure, I turn away from her to remove whatever I’m wearing and get back to her and under the covers as quickly as possible. I realized I was doing this at some point when she told me to get up and close the door after she let me out and the two steps back from the door to the bed where she could see the contents flopping in the breeze made me fight the urge to cover it with my hand. I’m just super not comfortable with the thing anymore. Not with her, not with myself. Not at all.

And in thinking about this and my last post, I find the device makes me more confident now. Which I guess has to do with me feeling more whole while I wear it. At the end of my camping trip, we drove out on the road that’s basically a washed out creek bed and stopped in a clearing a few miles from the highway to air-up tires and say our goodbyes before we went our separate ways. I wanted to also change into street clothes from my smelly camping stuff and stood in the open back door of my truck and did so. At one point, I was completely naked except for my socks and the Steelheart and I didn’t feel scared or rushed or any of the things I would even if I was just changing in a locker room where nakedness is expected. Somehow something has flipped in my head where enforced chastity equals confidence and floppy visible penis equals anxiety and even something bordering on shame.

If I explore this more, that time I was pulled out of line and made to show the device to a couple TSA agents in Chicago didn’t leave me feeling embarrassed or shamed. It made me feel empowered. I even liked it. Not that I’m going out of my way to flaunt what’s between my legs (I mean, other than here and on Twitter and Instagram), but when it has to happen and it situationally makes sense, that’s how it is. Deal, world. I suppose this is why my chastity bump doesn’t freak me out anymore. OMG THEY CAN SEE MY BUMP. Yeah, okay. Whatevs.

I wish we lived in a world where everyone’s uniquenesses were accepted and celebrated. Where the millions (my estimation) of men around the world in chastity were understood and tolerated. In short, I wish this part of me wasn’t secret. I can’t change that it has to be, but I do get to decide how I feel about people knowing it about me. And I refuse to let their ignorance about it influence my confidence that it and I am valid.