Center of my universe

I’m laying here in this fluffy, overly soft spa resort bed, wide awake and waiting for Belle to wake up, horny as fuck and tapping this out on my phone so as not to bother her. It’s been a lovely weekend she surprised me with on Friday. Massages and facials and hot tubs and steam rooms. And also the kind of fruity rum drinks I’m partial to.

This was a birthday present to me. In the beginning of our chastity dynamic, birthdays, anniversaries, and Father’s Day were all excuses for her to let me out and fuck. But I was only out this time for the massage. I was even locked up for the facial, even though it, like the massage, was performed with me naked on a massage table under covers.

Enhancing my elevated state of sexual frustration is how much time I’ve been naked here. Mostly in our room, but not exclusively. Belle has encouraged me to take our meals on the deck even though there’s a path beneath it. It’s wooded but not nearly so that our deck is hidden. Other side of the path is a golf course and the golfers in their foursomes address their lays and drive by in their carts from just after dawn to dusk.

So that was me, naked on the deck protected only by a towel hanging on the railing, but even that Belle eventually said was unnecessary. Anyone walking or carting by would only need to look up a bit to see me, naked as a jaybird (are jays more naked than other birds?). In fact, at least four golfers in carts did see me based on their catcalls. Belle’s investment in pushing the boundaries of my exhibitionism has been deeply stimulating, to put it mildly.

In a place like this there are two types of people. Women in groups of other women enjoying one another’s companionship and couples. I figured there’d be way more groups of women but I’m surprised by how many couples there are. I’m guessing a lot of relaxed, sloppy sex happens here.

Speaking of which, I was allowed to give Belle a fantastic blow job the other morning. I took my time warming her up and was leisurely with my tongue and mouth on her snatch so that by the time she was coming, her ass was scooting away from the intensity of sensation I was causing and I had to crawl after her to keep my tongue pressed against her clit. For just the barest split second moment afterward the contents of the Steelheart yearned to feel itself sink into her soft wetness. But the urge was fleeting. That’s not the purpose of our sex.

And of course it shouldn’t be. Yesterday she let me lay between her legs and rest my face on the mound of her pussy. The lace of her nightie was rough but the heat from what it covered radiated through. It radiated its power over me. Its authority. Her pussy is the center of my universe. Surely, it’s the center of my sexuality. I want it and to be closer to it all the time. And being allowed to just rest next to it. To bask in its essence. What a gift. I am so grateful.

This is what chastity has done to me. It has supplanted the contents of the Steelheart as the center of my sexual focus with something more deserving. It has allowed me to shed the selfishness that stems from having access to my own easy pleasure so that I have to work at achieving hers. I should not say “this is what chastity has done to me.” Rather, this is the gift of chastity. The lock has unlocked and allowed to flower the sub I have always been and wanted to be.

Libéré en étant enfermé, as it were.

I had too much ego attached to the contents. Chasity has destroyed that ego. Shredded it. And good riddance. I probably always had an overly ambitious opinion of my own endowment. But by having it so throughly removed from how I am allowed to express myself sexually, I have come to understand it’s always been nothing but optional. My true skills and value as a lover are and always have been everything but the contents. Attentiveness. Empathy. Patience. Penises have a way of forcing themselves to the center of the stage. And I guess some deserve that. But not mine.

So chastity has shredded my internal, emotional attachment to the contents, but it’s also destroyed its external, practical functionality. I used to be quite proud of my stamina and ability to fuck Belle for as long as she wanted me to. That’s entirely gone now. My staying power is measured in seconds. Our culture says that’s a pathology needing treatment but for me it’s a point of a different kind of pride. It’s a byproduct of my devotion to her and her pussy. A sign that the contents have been so deprioritized in our relationship that their function has atrophied into irrelevance.

For all this, I am incredibly grateful to Belle. That she has made the space for me to be who I really am. To have adjusted her own expectations. I couldn’t be more happy to be in her life.

Cluck cluck, cuck

There are a few basic facts that have led me to a place in my life where I want Belle to cuck me.

  1. Being kept in permanent enforced chastity has kicked into hyperdrive my natural submissive nature of seeking sexual pleasure and satisfaction for Belle without regard to my own. Effectively, my pleasure and satisfaction has been replaced with hers.
  2. Belle likes to be fucked. And her preference regarding the cock that fucks her is one that’s thicker/bigger than the one I can offer when I’m not locked up.
  3. Being kept in permanent enforced chastity has destroyed my sexual stamina. When I’m allowed to fuck her, I ejaculate in approximately 90 seconds.

Basically, she deserves to have the kind of sex she enjoys and I want her to have it. It’s as simple as that.

Or is it?

Thing is, there are other factors. Factors I’m sure any other guy with a cuck fantasy can relate to. I just cannot imagine anything hotter than the image of her getting fucked by another guy better than I can fuck her. Her enjoying the cock of another guy more than she enjoys mine. The other guy knowing she’s with him because I don’t measure up to her needs or exceptions like he does. The feelings imagining such an event are intensely, intoxicatingly, surreally potent to me. My ultimate sexual fantasy is, in essence, that my wife have the best fuck of her life and for it not to be from me.

And the reality of that comes into conflict with the first point above. Her pleasure and satisfaction is more important than mine. But in this case, my fantasy is so powerful that it clouds my judgment. Tricks me into thinking or behaving in ways that are actually about me and what I want instead of her and what she wants.

I mention this because the other day, when I was away on a work trip, Belle travelled to meet a guy she’s been communicating with for some time. There was the possibility that she’d fuck him and I had somehow found a way to kind of block the potentiality of that from my mind for the several months I’ve known about it. But then the fateful weekend came and it started to consume me. Pretty much every moment my thoughts weren’t engaged elsewhere, they went to what Belle was doing or about to do or had done. Images in my head of the things I want. And the constant tempering of those fantasies with the reality that she had told me nothing was for certain and that they may only hang out a bit and have a meal, etc.

The night of their meeting, I was a wreck. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t contain my cuck anxiety. I kept looking at her location on my phone and trying to discern things from it. Was she moving? Was she someplace different than before? Was that where she said she was staying or was it somewhere else? I’d go from imagining all kinds of explicit things that made me tight as fuck to the exact opposite where they met and it went horribly for some reason. I found myself in a spot I have never been before. A position I can’t even think of a word for. I was worried about her encounter and wanted it to be as enjoyable as made sense for her with no negativity or downside but I was 100% unable to do a damned thing. Had no control or influence over it. She really was outside our dynamic as a couple and I couldn’t help at all, though I wanted to, badly.

When I first encountered the concept of being cuckolded online it was one of those things that scared me because of how powerfully my body reacted to the notion. And how taboo the idea was based on literally everything our culture beats into us from the moment of our birth regarding how loving relationships are supposed to work. And in those early days, when I fantasized about being a cuck, I was always somehow part of the action. Being made/allowed to watch or something. In reality, I find that my natural instinct is to stay away. To keep out of it. To give her space and room to explore and discover. It was a process to admit to myself that the reality is being cucked really has nothing to do with me at all. Like every other part of our sexual relationship (honestly, every aspect of my sexual activity), she’s in charge and I’m not. But beyond that, I can’t offer her much more than moral support.

Obviously, there are lots of way to cuck a guy. Some woman are just fine with their cucks being more active participants. Some, like Belle, aren’t. I didn’t even tweet about it until just the other day and almost didn’t because, in a way, it seemed like it may have been out of bounds for me to do so. Like, that guy is part of her life, not mine, and it felt like something of an invasion of her privacy to give it my usual infinite navel-gazing treatment here and on Twitter. But ultimately, I found myself needing some friendly back-up and had no one else to go to. I had to vent somewhere else I’d explode.

But for me, the instinct was to move away from Belle and her friend, not towards them. I assumed I’d want to be in the thick of it, but the reality turned out to be quite different. It wasn’t porn, it was real life and it was tentative and fragile like any other potential relationship and the last thing Belle needed was a horned up weirdo husband blundering about in the midst of it.

In the end, Belle had a lovely time with him without anything more than spending some pleasant time together. I had worked myself up into such a state that hearing she had a good time was a massive relief. It didn’t even occur to me to be disappointed that she didn’t fuck him. And I guess that’s progress. The idea of her doing that is as potent as ever, but skirting as closely as we did to it moving from concept to reality (however close it ended up being) changed how I feel about it. It want it for her just as badly as I ever have, but now I want it for her more than I want it for me.

I’m currently reading 150 Years Of Gynarchy by Viola Voltairine and I’m finding it to be nothing short of inspirational. As I was flying home to see Belle, I came across this passage that, in a lot of ways, speaks to me regarding this episode.

In a consensual long-term D/s dynamic you have both agreed that Her needs, Her wants and Her pleasure take absolute priority. That is the framework. This is for real. It’s not a game. Your thoughts should always be on how to best please Her, not how to get your fetishes serviced.

150 Years Of Gynarchy, by Viola Voltairine

“Not how to get your fetishes serviced.” 💯 Whatever Belle decides to do with her exclusive prerogative to find other guys to fuck is not, and never will be, about me. It’s about her. Her needs, wants, and pleasure. And however she chooses to share her experiences with me is also entirely up to her. It’s not material for my fetishes and fantasies. To behave otherwise is, IMO, insulting and violates my commitment to our dynamic. I can’t control how that causes my body to react, but I have quite a lot of experience now dealing with unrealized sexual energy so have no excuses to act otherwise.

She will decide what she wants to do and I’ll be grateful she continues to be my Domme and keyholder, no matter what.

Subsidence

My entire life, I can remember nothing but being attracted to all genders. Never, ever can I recall not finding just about anyone attractive. Even before I knew what sex was, I knew that sometimes there was another kid that made me feel funny inside. And they were always, always, always both boys and girls.

That said, it’s also always been the case that my relative attraction to one pole of the gender spectrum or the other ebbs and flows. If you imagine the Kinsey Scale and its zero to ten range where five is equally attracted to both ends, then I vacillate between three and seven. Thus has it always been. Which is to say, I’m never not attracted to either end of the gender spectrum (or, really, anything in between), but sometimes I lean more heavily one way or the other.

This was especially problematic when I was a teenager and I barely knew that “bisexual” was an option for me. All I saw around me was straight people and gay people and David Bowie. And whenever I thought, “Well, what am I going to be for the rest of my life?” (because that was the frame through which I understood sexuality), the fact that the foundation of my sexual preferences kept slipping and sliding around like Bambi on a frozen pond made me constantly struggle to know “what I was.”

You could say that that aspect of my sexuality is defined by constant, permanent flux. The variability of it is the only thing I have come to count on my entire life. So it’s really interesting to me how little variation there is in the other axis of my sexuality. I have no interest in being a sexual dominant. Zero. I am so close to being 100% submissive that if there was a Dom/sub version of the Kinsey Scale I’d identify as a zero (where, of course, the subs are the little numbers and the Doms are the bigger ones).

But, that sub energy is latent absent denial and chastity. That’s not to say I’m not a sub when I’m not denied. I have always had sex like a sub. I tend to want to bottom and I have always been focused on getting my partner off before me. I have always tended to serve, if not explicitly. But being denied the ability to have regular orgasms is like spraying lighter fluid into a campfire (not that I have ever done that nor would I encourage you to, either, if you like having things like eyebrows). If I’m not denied, I don’t become less submissive, I become more selfish. My D/s Kinsey number doesn’t go up, but my interest in expressing it wanes.

And it’s kinda weird to me how that works. My bisexuality doesn’t really change at all due to being denied. I’m way more horny all the time and find some things to be more of a turn-on when I’m denied, but my baseline preference for either end of the gender spectrum doesn’t really get impacted. My needle still bounces around on the gender gauge while it only pegs harder and harder to the left of the D/s gauge.

Heh. Pegs.

I recall when I first found chastity and the online community of people who practiced it that “you shouldn’t have to be locked up to be a good sub” was a thing that was often said. Hearing that made me feel like not a good sub since I knew I was way more into being that way the longer it had been since I last came. But, just like my variable kind of bisexuality, that’s just how I am. Since it was a topic of conversation then, in the mediaeval period of enforced male chastity, I can’t be that unusual.

This is something I’m thinking about because Belle let me fuck her for real about a week ago. And I “suffered” a massive sub drop because it’s pretty much impossible for me to put it in her anymore without blowing a load. And…I don’t know how to describe it. The pressure of denial inflates my sub persona and when one is gone the other goes and then I’m left feeling…different. It’s as if losing my sub energy is like losing access to a latent cone in my eye and suddenly a certain wavelength of color goes away for me. Until I build back a level of horniness that resurfaces my submission. It’s a part of me that’s become so familiar and dependable that its absence is keenly felt.

Luckily, all it takes to get it back is time. And a lock.

Back in my place

I’ve been back in the Steelheart for the past 21 days after briefly trying out a new device (the Cherry Keeper which was a bit of a disaster but I have another one coming so there’s no review yet). All through our summer vacation and up to this moment. I had it off briefly when we got home so I could give it a vinegar cleaning and shave my bits.

On the year, I’ve primarily been wearing the BA-31P and getting back into the venerable Steelheart has been interesting. It’s noticeably bigger and heavier than the BA-31P and, since I’ve spent the equivalent of 1,261 days in the Steelheart since I’ve been tracking time locked up, a very palpable sense of familiarity with it. Of all the devices, and even as much as I like the BA-31P, the Steelheart is and always will be home.

There was a moment during our trip before Belle let me get her off when I was feeling somewhat on edge and a bit despondent at the length of time that had passed since I was able to get to her pussy. The weight and bulk of the Steelheart made me super aware and even self-conscious about wearing it in front of her. Which is quite odd for me. It’s much more usually the case that I feel self-conscious when the contents are exposed but, in that moment of unhappiness I was struggling with, why was I locked up? What is the purpose of being locked in that steel when nothing at all is happening?

It’s been said by me and other chastity bloggers that enforced male chastity is not a “set it and forget it” kind of thing. Being separated from the contents absent any external stimulation is psychologically challenging. The lack of stimulative sexual energy that comes from being denied during sex allows the device to transform back from an integrated part of my body into a hunk of metal. And there was a specific moment when I was naked and climbing over Belle to get out of bed when my legs were spread wide and the Steelheart was dangling and swaying and pulling on me where I was suddenly very conscious of its foreign metalness. It made me wonder to myself What is the fucking point of this thing?

I write that from my current frame of mind which is horny as fuck and it’s hard to really appreciate where I was then. Now, I see the Steelheart as a fundamental aspect of my body. I wear some kind of device more than almost anything else that comes into contact with my body. Only my wedding ring and earrings are on more and maybe not even my wedding ring which I take off a couple times a week for things like the application of skin lotion. Right now I cannot consider myself complete with unlocked and exposed contents. But back then, it felt very foreign.

So, to answer the question from past me, the point of the thing is actually pretty simple. And it’s one I need to work on never forgetting. Fact is, I do not deserve to be any other way. I. Do. Not. Deserve to have a penis that is free and can grow during erection or be played with. Not now. Not before I figured that out, and not after. Not ever. That reality is fundamental to who I am. Since getting back into my normal headspace, reminding myself of that truth is something I’ve been doing daily, usually as I’m going to bed and trying to fall asleep.

I do not deserved to be unlocked.

I don’t pretend to know how this works. Why some men should never be locked and others can take it or leave it while those like me should never be any other way. But that’s how it is. And that’s how I am.

But beyond that, the device (whichever device I’m in) is a perpetual demonstration of my commitment to Belle. I’ve agreed to The Rules and by being locked up regardless of whether or not I’m horny or she’s horny or we’re having sex or not, the physical barrier between me and the contents are a simple fact of my status like the ring on my left hand. This one doesn’t project that status to the world (unfortunately, outside the readers of this blog and my Twitter followers), but it’s important for her to see.

And in a lot of ways, the device I’m in is part of my identity. Alpha studs have their cocks they swing around and chastity subs have whatever is locked on them. If I’m not locked up I feel like there’s a loss of something internal to me. It makes me feel imbalanced and inauthentic.

Finally (at least for this post) there’s the fact that the device’s contents just aren’t that worthy of freedom in the first place. Belle has left it locked up for longer and longer lengths of time and, when I ask about that, she says she just prefers me that way. Prefers me to get her off with my fingers or mouth. Probably can’t come that easily from my penetration anymore, especially since when she does let it out, it doesn’t provide her with much pleasure and barely barely lasts but a few minutes at best. I’m sure I get more pleasure than she does from it and, as such, if she can’t be bothered to let me out, then what right do I have to be any other way? Sex is not for my pleasure. My pleasure is reflected from hers and whatever she allows me to have directly is a gift that needs to be cherished.

I should probably bookmark this post and remember it for the next time I’m in a funk about being locked up. I need to remember that I don’t decide when we have sex, she does. And it’s not about me. And that she cares about me and what I’m feeling even when what I want isn’t possible.

Essentially, I need to bookmark this post when I need to be put back in my place.

Dog blocked

Belle and I are on our mid-Summer RV road trip. I say “mid-Summer” because it’s technically true (the days are getting shorter now) but we’ve found in the Rockies (both Canadian and where we are now in West Glacier, MT) the local version of mid-Summer is still 2-4 weeks away.

In any event, part of my issue with this trip has been one of our dogs. She’s adorable and I love her but she’s a rescue and emotionally needy to such an extent that, if we had her right after we got married, I’m pretty sure we never would have had kids. Her M.O. is to maintain a position directly between us every morning no matter what we do. When we’re at home and can distract her with breakfast and close doors, that’s fine. But in our trailer there is no door between the bed and the rest of the space and she’s…persistent. Her pointy little nose works its way into the most tight embrace.

That led to me not being able to get Belle off for longer than I would have to go otherwise. Sure, I’ve gone longer, but usually because we’re apart. In this case, she’s right there but our canine cock-blocker (if you can even say someone in my position is being blocked that way) can’t be sequestered anywhere long enough to allow me to attend to business.

Except for yesterday morning. Our dog was in bed with us, but off to the side(!!) and didn’t make her usual move to get between us. So we took advantage of the opportunity.

At that point where Belle was juuust about to hit the point of no return, I found myself sympathetically moaning in an almost whining kind of way. I was tensed up like I was about to come instead of her. I needed it that badly. For days I had been short tempered and generally grumpy and this was why. Not that I needed to come. Of course not. Because I’m me, I needed to feel her come. I needed to feel her pussy spasm in orgasm under my finger while the tube of the Steelheart pounded between my legs. I needed to feel the animal desire to stick myself into her wet warmth. To feel that craving gnaw at me. And it did.

It was several minutes of anguish and pain. Even more than usual. Much more than usual. She could see on my face something was up and asked if I was OK. Then I was presented with the kept and denied man’s dilemma. I could say, “GODDAMN IT I WANT TO FUCK AND COME,” but my rules say I can’t ask for that and I really, really, really only want to get to do it when she wants, not when I want, and by even saying I’m that desperate I could sway her into giving it to me out of pity but I know — I know — I am not deserving of that pity. So I’m sitting there roiling inside, unable to say what I want because it’s not supposed to matter (and I do not believe it does) and, besides, do I really want it anyway?

So after a few seconds, I simply said, “I’m fine.”

Minutes later, the worst of it was past. My balls felt enormous and tender and the tube was still full and I could tell it was sticky inside, but the weight of not getting her off, which is all that matters, was lifted. I felt better the whole rest of the day. And yeah, I want to do it again, but I’m able to better process that I don’t decide when it happens. I’m better able to deal with the wait.

Later that day, we were on an open-top bus tour of Glacier National Park and she was sitting next to me and had her hand alternatingly on my thigh or forearm and absentmindedly was moving her fingers over my skin. It was like fire. Perhaps unknowingly, she was silently tormenting me with that simple touch because I was so on edge and so needy and so desperate. The tube kept pressurizing and my mind kept racing and I was all frantic sexual energy on the inside. But managed to maintain my cool on the outside.

That one orgasm — her orgasm, not mine — allowed me to center myself. To feel more like me. And it happened even with the damned dog laying there next to us.

Be ready

Belle let me come last weekend. She gave me the key Saturday night meaning I was to go though my routine the next morning while she slept so that I’d be ready when she woke up. I call it “my routine” but that post I just linked to might be the last time I did it so I’m not sure one can use the word “routine” for something that happens so infrequently.

I don’t think the date of that post is the last time she let me out to fuck/orgasm, but I don’t know for a fact that it wasn’t. I know I don’t have a distinct recollection of it happening after that event and know it hasn’t happened at all this year. So, perhaps, it was five months ago. Minimally more than three months ago.

I also don’t know if Belle has any specific idea about how long she makes me wait. I presume it’s dependent on when she wants to feel me inside her, but I also think she knows that can’t be too often while also keeping me in the headspace she likes me in. Since I don’t keep track (anymore) of when I get to come, I also can’t know if there’s a pattern, but my guess is she’s on pace for 3-6 times a year based on my faulty memory and limited evidence. I think about how I used to come that much in a week just before we started using chastity…

Anyway, thanks to the Viagra and Promescent (and my phone), I was laying there with a mostly numb, incredibly hard erection when she was ready to commence activities. It took a lot of effort on my part not to rush things while trying to get her to orgasm first, but she was also apparently impatient and told me to go inside her before I got her all the way off.

When I’m in the situation of the chemicals making me as hard and sensitive as a rock, all I can really feel well is the tightness and heat of her pussy. It leaves me feeling overconfident and, even while trying to distract myself with even breathing and thoughts of baseball, it isn’t long before I realize the end is nigh. I do last longer with the spray, but it probably still wasn’t more than a couple minutes.

It felt like orgasm wouldn’t end. Even after I had shot my load, I felt involuntary contractions trying to milk as much juice as possible. My whole body arched around the erection. My abs actually kinda cramped from the effort.

When will it happen again? Will it be five months? Five weeks? Five days? Tomorrow!? No idea. I don’t even bring it up. I’m not allowed to either 1) ask for an orgasm, or 2) advocate against one so I tend to just not talk about it at all with her for fear of it being misconstrued as one or the other. Of course, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to do it and I certainly don’t need to know if and when she wants it to happen again.

In a way, that total lack of control creates its own kind of peace. All I have to do is be ready for whatever she wants.

Meditations for the chastity submissive

Being a man kept in chastity isn’t something you just do. I mean, sure, you can just do it. Order a device on the interwebs and lock it on yourself the very moment it arrives. Then…wait. In fact, that’s exactly what I did. But being locked up and being what I like to call kept* are different things. Some people only want to be locked up for a play session or a weekend or whatever, that’s cool. But some of us, when we feel the tightness build inside the devices locked on their bodies, want — need — more than that. We realize we’re different. That the act of locking us up somehow sets us free. Libéré en étant enfermé, etc.

But it’s still hard! It’s a struggle of wills between millions and billions of years of evolutionary programming and our higher brain’s infinite ability to think and overthink and twist the commands written into our DNA into so many figurative pervertable objects found in the hardware store of our imagination. And since I’m looking back at more than 13 years of being kept in chastity (yeesh), I have been pondering some useful ponders that penis-having people earlier in their journey might find helpful.

I guess I’d call them meditations on chastity and denial. Hey, there’s this post’s title. These are mental practices I’ve learned over the years that have helped me transform from what I was — dick-thinking, orgasm-chasing, under-appreciative of my partner, ultimately dissatisfied with myself — into what I am: a chastity submissive. Centered, appreciative, and feeling more myself and right than I ever have.

Maybe they’ll be useful for you or someone in your life, too.

Note: This is written from the point of view of someone who has another person in their life holding their key and with whom they have sex. Self-locked guys can still get something from it, but it's not my experience so it's not a perspective I can write from.

Acceptance
You need to accept and understand that you want to be kept in chastity. You (almost certainly) asked for it. And when you did that, you gave someone else control over…all kinds of things. When and how you have sex. When and how you achieve orgasm (if ever). And you know that’s how you want it to be. You know it’s how you’re supposed to be.

I have found it immensely helpful when I get to a point where I find the denial more than I can bear to meditate on that last part in particular. I am supposed to be this way. I can’t change it. I can’t help it. And fighting it is senseless and counterproductive. So I will, in those moments of quiet, solitary struggle, repeat to myself until I find calmness: This is who and what I am. This is my normal, natural state. I cannot change it. And, honestly, I don’t want to.

The other aspect of acceptance is the realization that whatever hot chastity porn ideas you brought into your dynamic with your keyholder are not reality. Once that whole other real person is involved — the person you’ve asked to be responsible for your key and the denier of your orgasms — what they want and how they want to do it suddenly becomes more important than your solo (probably masturbatory) fantasies.

Patience
It’s all too easy to get carried away on a wave of sexual frustration and try to climb into the driver’s seat sexually. I recall being super frustrated and that leading me to be very pushy when it came to initiating sex. It’s easy for a chastity submissive to forget that their partner/Dom(me)/keyholder is, in fact, pretty sexually satisfied and not thinking about sex all the time. The impatience of denial is corrosive to the dynamic of chastity submission.

It’s important to b-r-e-a-t-h-e when the waves of frustration are breaking over you. To not let that frustration manifest as aggressive behavior towards your keyholder. That’s a sure-fire way to turn off the one person you’re most invested in turning on.

Eventually, your urges have to learn they’re in the back seat. By design. And that when you do get to engage sexually, you benefit from being patient and slow and savoring the time you get pleasuring them. In whatever form that takes.

Attentiveness
I think the most important thing a chastity sub can do is to learn their partner/Dom(me)/keyholder’s pleasure preferences as well as they know their own. To learn exactly how their orgasm develops, their stages of pleasure as they build toward that moment, where they can be drawn out to maximize that pleasure, the tactics to employ if they seem to be drifting out of the zone, and when to pull back when you’re going too hard or fast. Pay attention to them.

It’s not that I think sex should not be enjoyable for a chastity sub. Of course it should. But it’s critical to learn how to make their pleasure your pleasure. The act of pleasuring them becomes the main point of the exercise. Learning that ensures that a chastity sub will always get some level of satisfaction when having sex, regardless of whether the key shows up.

Mindfulness
I don’t think one can be attentive without also being patient. One cannot be patient without learning acceptance. These concepts build on one another. And it’s the act of being mindful of how these concepts interlock and thinking about how that redefines a chastity sub as a sexual being where it all comes together. I spend a lot of time thinking about these things. Interrogating my motivations and critiquing my behavior.

It’s how I came to peace with my status as a chastity sub. To accept my place in sexual relationships. Like I said up above, my body and how it reacts to the chemicals it produces as a result of being denied conspire to make persistent mindfulness a necessary part of my submission.

Gratitude
It’s probably the case that you, the one who wants to be locked up and denied, brought the idea into your relationship. It’s also probably the case that your relationship pre-dated your admission to wanting these things. Which means the person acting as your partner/Dom(me)/keyholder probably didn’t ever think they’d being in a relationship like the one you want.

Note: I say all this knowing that the increasing visibility of chastity in porn and even popular culture means more and more people will not be in the same boat as a lot of guys who got into it before it became "popular." But I think it’s still the case, especially in male-female couples, that the majority of them are as I described above. Regardless, I think the following applies. 

By definition, locking a guy up and taking his penis off the menu means their partner/Dom(me)/keyholder will be giving up the device contents, too. At least some of the time. And even if that’s somehow not the case, they are acting as keyholder. Which is not without responsibility. In either event (or both), they’re investing time and energy keeping you in your state and dealing with the consequences. Plus, they may need to reprioritize how they get off. Learn new ways or be open to different types of activities or techniques that perhaps they never even considered previously.

And, of course, most importantly, the person holding your key has accepted you as you are. Your non-standard, not-taught-in-any-Disney-movie needs and desires. And being accepted is perhaps the greatest gift you can get.

* Yes, I will keep trying to make this a thing FOREVER.

Reflections on the care and feeding of a locked penis-having person

A few days ago, Locked Doc wrote a post called “How to Own a Permanently Locked Sub.” And it’s great and while I was reading it, I was thinking, Damn, why haven’t I ever written something like this? Well, turns out, I did. Something like it, anyway.

My post is/was called Keyholding 101 and dropped in August of 2015 and explains why I didn’t remember it because, Jesus, have you seen how many posts on here? So I re-read it as if I’d never seen it before (because I honestly have no recollection of it) and, I’m happy and relieved to report, I still agree with what I said (and how I said it).

My post was written very much with female keyholders in mind. Doc’s is written from an all-male perspective but, also, for someone who doesn’t necessarily hold the key since, you know, open relationships are thing. So they’re both really interesting and complimentary posts, though I think anyone of any gender in a relationship with chastity as a core dynamic can get something from what each of us wrote.

I was struck with how similarly we hit certain points. Doc wrote…

First off, I do agree that there is no ONE RIGHT way to do chastity. What works between two consenting adults is all you need to worry about, so you’re going to have to talk about it.

And I wrote…

I’ll say right up front I’m not about to lay out the One True Way. Every person in every relationship, not only sexual ones or kinky ones or ones involving hardware on penises, needs to find how they’re made satisfied and happy by it.

Doc also wrote…

We think about our cages ALL THE TIME. We know you don’t, but it is a huge part of our identity, and we need you to acknowledge and appreciate it. Even if its just a comment here and there about our locked status, we need to know you acknowledge the commitment we have made. An occasional grab or a remark will be very appreciated and will make us feel as though you “get us”. The more you acknowledge our locked status, the more turned on we get, just FYI. Most of us want to hear that, we really crave it, in fact. If you want to own locked property, you are going to have to pay attention to it, even if its to tell us that you don’t think about it (ironic, but it’s true). Just don’t ignore it.

And I said…

The only things he really needs from you is an understanding that you haven’t forgotten he’s locked up, you appreciate this predicament, and you take the key very seriously. There are countless stories on the web about those who get talked into holding a guy’s key even though they’re not really into the idea and they “set it and forget it.” This is the worst from the locked man’s perspective. As a keyholder, you’re really only reminded of the chastity dynamic when you can see his locked penis or he says something to you about it or you want to have sex. For him, it’s something he’s aware of all of the time. If you lose sight of that fact, chastity can feel very lonely and even pointless for him.

Doc said…

If you hold the key, recognize it for what it is. It’s a gift from us and we see it as a sacred responsibility. 

And I said…

He needs to know you cherish the “gift” of male chastity and know it can be hard (even if that knowledge won’t get him out of the device any sooner).

I’m not going to quote his whole post. You should check it out if you have not already. I think that Doc guy is a pretty reasonable fellow which explains why he and I are hosting occasional Twitter Spaces on the topic of chastity. Our first one was last Saturday. Check that out, too, if you have not. You can even join us next time!

Transubstantiation

Last night I was opining on the Twitter about how I perceive my body. I had been out for a few hours that morning so I could get though the airport security gauntlet (with the family or I probably would have hazarded one of the plastic devices through pre-check) and it left me contemplating how that made me feel.

Bottom line, I resent being forced out of it. I resent being made to be that way because…well, it’s not me. That was the point of the Twitter missive. I ended the thread with…

As I was drifting to sleep (finally — damn, I was horny), a word likewise drifted though my mind. Transubstantiation. Which our Catholic friends know to describe how some believe the bread and wine of communion become the body and blood of Christ. I mean, it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. But the faithful say they believe it. And probably some of them do.

And it’s kind of like that with chastity after you do it long enough. The chastity and the denial and how they build on and reinforce one another. Eventually you start to feel like the device is part of you. Then you stop feeling that way and actually believe it.

Like (most of) the Catholics who take communion, I know my form of transubstantiation is an article of faith. If not faith, then some kind of wishful thinking, perhaps. I do not want to think of the contents as anything more than I said in that tweet. The insides of the chastity device. That’s what they are. To me. But then sometimes I have to confront the fact that they’re something else, too.

When Belle lets me out so she can enjoy the contents, that’s one thing. It is her prerogative. But when the world enforces its inability or refusal to accommodate my faith, it’s infuriating. And unsettling.

As an aside, someone asked me (again) on Twitter today if chastity makes penises smaller. I can’t stress enough that it does not. If it did, I’d know. But I did think as I said that to him that even if it were true…so what? When you’re so mentally and emotionally attached and invested in being locked in chastity that you stop wanting what’s inside to be seen as anything like a real man’s cock — to stop being a separate thing from its vessel — then I’d say you’re also well past the point of freaking out about it getting a little smaller from the transformation.

Of course, not all men in chastity feel like I do. Maybe they would someday if they stayed at it long enough. Or maybe they never will. But it does seem to be a distinct path some of us go down. The this is not what I do, this is what I am branch. Where you don’t spend any time thinking how great it will be when you’re out of your device and allowed to come. Because that’s not you anymore. That’s not what you do. It’s quite literally not for you.

Luckily, I was able to hit a stall in an MSP bathroom (perhaps the very one Larry Craig used) and put the Steelheart back on. I felt how each of my testicles popped though the base ring that’s not quite as big around as the left one. The PA ring slide into my urethra though the piercing and then the PA fixing though the ring. The coolness of the steel envelop the small appendage and encase it once more. Bringing them all together again. As they should and were meant to be.

I felt the transubstantiation. The little pink thing became hard and shiny. Heavy. Perfect. One.

So, so tired

I remember first hearing about Covid-19 about two years ago. Which makes sense since, you know, “19.” For me, it’s closely associated with the holidays because we were on a family Christmas vacation to our favorite place in the world and talking innocently about it as if it wasn’t about to flip the whole world upside down and shake it like it was trying to dislodge lunch money.

Then I remember coming back to the real world and having talks at work about it and what we’d do when “community spread” inevitably started in our state. Most of the folks in the company thought the few of us saying things like “quarantine” and “shut-down” were being alarmist. We closed our office and had people working from home earlier than most, but things started to move very quickly in February and March of 2020. I thought maybe that’d last about a month. Six weeks, tops. We were the United States, for god’s sake. We knew how to handle shit like this. Lesson in hubris learned. Lesson in how selfish some of us are learned.

As plugged into Covid as I thought I was, I distinctly remember the creeping horror movie moment of being at Target and seeing empty grocery shelves and people shopping like they thought the world was coming to an end. As plugged into Covid as I thought I was, I was not prepared for what it actually meant to live though a global pandemic. I remember worrying desperately for my mom, my employees, and my family. We were not prepared — none of us, though we knew this thing was going to happen some day.

I was an early advocate for universal mask usage and recall thinking the CDC was making a grave error when they pretended they weren’t necessary to wear (moral: always tell the truth as best you know it). I am also a fervent advocate for vaccination. I have been doing my best to let science be my guide throughout Covid, understanding that science isn’t an always forward-moving thing and needs time to solidify.

I say all that because even though it’s the holidays again and we’re scheduled to make our holiday trip to our favorite place next week (and require negative Covid tests to do so) and there’s an aggressively contagious new variant rushing around the world and more than a 1,000 Americans a day are dropping dead, things aren’t the same as they were two years ago. I’m not the same. I went to see Spider-Man last night. In a pretty full theater. With crowds of people in the lobby. I mean, I was masked, but 2/3 of those around me weren’t (which means my mask wasn’t doing much good to protect me).

Thing is, I am just so fucking tired of Covid. Everyone is. And there are vanishingly few things I love more than seeing new Marvel movies with my kids. So that’s what I did. With a bunch of other people who feel the same way, apparently.

In Minnesota, 71% of people have at least one vaccine shot. In my county, that number’s 81%. Ninety-nine percent of my fellow Hennepin Countians who are the most at-risk for serious illness and death are vaccinated. And there’s a ton of early data that suggest Omicron is, yes, much more infections but also instigates noticeably less severe illness. I’m triple vaxxed as is my entire family. As could be everyone I see around me (except those who have some pre-existing medical issue that complicates their vaccination). We are flooded with vaccine in the United States.

At one point last night, I looked around at all those happy-looking, festive, spider person fans smiling and talking and laughing and breathing all over one another and wondered if I was still in my own little corner of the multiverse. Had I slipped into a reality without Omicron? What were these people thinking? Then it occurred to me that I was also there. And I was there because we’re not in a pandemic anymore.

Covid is endemic now.

We can no longer avoid getting it while living a normal-looking life. And the people most at risk at this point are the ones too stupid to do the most obviously right thing: get fucking vaccinated. The vast overwhelming majority of those in the hospital for Covid are the unvaxxed. The vast overwhelming majority of the dead are unvaxxed (more than 160,000 since June in the U.S.). It’s probably the case that most of the spread we’re seeing is, you guessed it, from the unvaxxed. So me and, statistically, 8 out of 10 of the people at the movie with me last night had little to realistically fear from Covid. And nearly all the victims of it now are people who have made a conscious decision to remain vulnerable. And, honestly, the rest of us can’t be bothered to do anything anymore for their benefit.

I’m gonna get Covid. At some point, if I haven’t already had it. It’s a certainty. And when I do, it will almost certainly be a moderate to mild illness. And I’ll get over it. Because too many of us have refused to do the right thing for themselves and everyone else in our society, the “post-Covid” ship sailed a long time ago. It’s never going away. Thankfully, for those with the reasoning to appreciate it, we have modern medical science to make it a nuisance.

There are indications Omicron is exactly what we needed. A variant that creates less severe illness, especially in those of us who are protected, and spreads quickly. Our best hope is to use the vaccine to help build our immune defenses so we can easily survive infection. If you refuse that simple miracle of human achievement for whatever reason, Dr. Darwin will explain it to you in the afterlife.

In the mean time…Jesus, I’m just so fucking tired. Of all this.