Oceans away

Belle took off to Europe for a week last night and my “emergency” key went with her. It was a spur of the moment kind of decision but there really isn’t much use for an “emergency” key in the Orion (emergencies are typically due to some discomfort/injury created by a device and the Orion, which has been on me for more than 62 days straight hasn’t given me a moment of issue) and, especially when she’s not around to keep an eye on me, the only thing better from my perspective than a secured tamper-proof key is no key at all. The more my free will is removed from the equation, the better. And right now, I couldn’t get the Orion off for any reason, so free will is out the window until she gets back.

I say the Orion has been on for 62 days straight. Of course, there have been some short periods here and there it’s had to come off (such as). I don’t have to take it off for travel, but when I’m with family or co-workers I do just in case. I’m going to end January having been out 4.5 hours which is almost spot on to my goal for the year and, January being a heavy travel month so far, makes me feel my stretch goal of only being out about 24 hours all year is really doable.

I keep coming back to the rest of those goals and Belle’s recent apparent confirmation that “no stroking, no fucking, no coming” aren’t just goals, but the law, and not just for the year, but forever. I think one of the reasons that’s exciting for me (even though stroking, fucking, and coming are all things I will miss badly) is that I feel accepting my total denial of those things is the ultimate act of submission on my part. It perfects my submission.

I’m not saying any sub that’s not similarly situated isn’t doing it right. Not at all. Every sub and Dom/me and relationship and dynamic is going to be unique. But I’m wired (for as long as I can remember) to want my partner’s sexual pleasure to always come before mine. Always. And chastity and denial have allowed me to learn not only to be a better, more focused and attentive lover, but to find ways to make her pleasure my pleasure. In a very real and physiological sense. By accepting permanent chastity and denial (though it was not and should not be my decision at all), I’m demonstrating to Belle and the world that my commitment to my form of submission is absolute.

I could never, ever do this on my own. Belle’s authority and whatever device I’m locked in are what allow me to be this version of myself. And the more I’m this version of myself, the more deeply I feel this is me. What I am supposed to be. Thumper-centric pleasure (stroking, fucking, coming) are all distracting, indulgent, and destructive to the level of submission Belle has helped me attain.

So her taking the keys over an ocean away seems very fitting. No matter how horny and frustrated and achy-balled I get, relief should feel impossibly distant. My focus shouldn’t be inward. Not on my needs. I live to serve hers. Even when she’s not here.

Kinky pancakes

There’s a special thrill that runs through me when my fingers find Belle’s wet pussy each time she lets me get her off. I’m not so old (or haven’t been locked up so long) that I can’t remember what it was like in the before-times, during moments of great passion, to climb between her legs and line the head up and push it home as her soft, wet, hot folds enveloped me. And every one of those memories come pounding back when my fingers part her wetness and feel her slick clit. I moan each time as if I’m feeling it with the contents because, in my mind, I am.

And there’s a way that it hits different when, by all appearances, my odds of the contents receiving that sensation seem to be dwindling to very low percentages each day. Instead of the impact of my memories of feeling that hitting me, I’m crushed by the weight of all the future chances that I won’t get. And haunted by the fact I can’t even remember the last time it happened (309 days ago, if you’re counting and I sure am). And if it ends up being the last time…and I have no memory of the occasion…unf.

I’ve been concerned that somehow the kink algebra would change if the variable of “will this be the time” got zeroed out. Pleased to say it hasn’t. But has it been zeroed out?

After she came and I thanked her for letting me be part of it and she commended me for how well I get her off, she asked if I wanted pancakes for breakfast. Because that’s exactly how kinky shit is around here. Of course, I said yes because pancakes are amazing. And kinky!

Then she said, “Making you pancakes is the least I can do if I’m never letting you out again.”

I squirmed and the Orion filled up and I tightened my grip on her before asking, meekly, “Are you?”

She laughed out loud. Not a sly giggle. Laughed at me.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she made me pancakes. Kinky motherfucking pancakes.

It has occurred to me previously that while she had read all the recent posts about her potentially making me pussy free and really truly permanently locked, she never confirmed or denied my assumptions of what she’s said. She’s commented, sort of cryptically, but never said if I was right or wrong. Presumably, she doesn’t want to be denied the opportunity to change her mind at some point in the future. That’s aligned with how she’s approached her role in the past.

So, no, that variable hasn’t been zeroed out. But the number of zeroes to the right of the decimal are growing. As are the days since I’ve been allowed to fuck her. This is the longest it’s ever been, by a large margin.

Back before the pancake conversation, when my fingers were still inside her and she was moaning under them, at that point when she starts to go over the falls and her hips take over and I know the best thing I can do is hold my hand in place as she finishes herself off grinding against me and I get to feel that amazing zinging pulsing of her pussy as she comes and comes…all those 309 days made the Orion as tight as it gets and the real psychic pain of being denied so long cut deep. I remember what her pussy felt like coming like that with the contents buried inside her — back when it could be called a cock. And I know that even if she does let me fuck her at some point, I’ll never feel that exact thing again. Because the contents, as a tool for getting her off, has been rendered useless. It can’t last nearly as long as it needs to to being her to orgasm and any attempt to do so only leads to her frustration. There’s only downside to her letting me out for that. No chance for her to get all the way and only the potential of me being annoying or moody or something as a result of the inevitable ejaculation that happens when we try.

It’s the way this potentially pussy-free path we’re on seems so obvious, in retrospect. The more I was denied, the less useful the contents became, leading to more and longer denial, leading to a further erosion of my stamina and usefulness, etc. That feedback spiral gets tighter and tighter until we’re where we are now. Cock-less. Even penis-less. Just contents.

All I can say for sure is I need to assume I’m locked up forever and never getting pussy in that way with that part of me again. And I’ll keep doing that until and unless I’m not. Because with this, as in all things, she’s in charge.

Goal setting

It’s that time of year when we set goals for ourselves. Which is an interesting thing to do with regard to the stuff I talk about on this blog since literally none of the things are technically under my control. So are these goals I’m setting for myself? Or goals set by Belle? Or…schwa?

I dunno. But I can set for myself the goal of being faithful and true to whatever Belle wants for me in 2023. So, the goals I’m prepared to support are…

  • No stroking
  • No fucking
  • No orgasm
  • Locked 99.4% of the year

Stroking, fucking, and orgasm are all up to her, of course. She may decide she wants to be fucked at some point. And if so, I’ll do it. She may expect I’ll come if I do fuck her. And if so, I’ll do it. She may even tell me I can stroke myself, but that seems highly unlikely since it’s been years since she let me do that. So, maybe those goals will work out, maybe they won’t.

I have signed up for my orgasms and penis access to be determined by Belle and if she determines I won’t get any of it, then I support her decision and will do what’s necessary to make it happen.

The locked goal is based on how often I was locked in 2022. I came in being locked 98.9% of the year. Keeping in mind the times I was unlocked, I think some of those times can be optimized downward. Pushing it to 99.4% would mean roughly 50ish hours of unlocked time during 2023 which works out to about 4 hours unlocked a month. The only times I need to be unlocked are for travel (especially if I’m with family or coworkers) or a doctor’s visit (though I don’t always unlock for those — it depends). I’ve gotten really good at keeping unlock time for travel to a minimum and some months I won’t be going though the TSA gauntlet at all while other situations where I’ve traditionally needed to unlock to go though metal detectors are solved by the Evotion Orion. As long as I don’t get any chastity injuries (and the Orion won’t give me any), I really think being locked all but about 50 hours this year is totally doable. Maybe I can make it even less. I think I’d ultimately like that number to be 24 hours which is two a month, though that may be tough.

Beyond the above, the only other thing I can think of that could be set as a goal is how many orgasms I give Belle. But, again, that’s not up to me at all. I want to give her one every day which is ridiculous. Even if I want to come up with a number, tracking towards it puts pressure on Belle who should come exactly as many times as she wants, no more and no less. So that’s not a goal.

In the end, the thing I have the most direct influence over is the time locked and that’s a function of focusing on minimizing reasons to be unlocked. The other “goals” are really just things I’m committed to. For 2023 or as long as necessary.

#PussyFree

I have been thinking quite a lot about the prospect of never getting to fuck Belle again. I mean, I thought about it a lot before I knew I may never get to again, but that was when I thought I might get to every time we had sex. Maybe that would be the time she produced the key and let me out and I’d get to slip it in. I didn’t think about it so much in between those times because why should I? But lately, I’ve been thinking it about often, usually just as I’m going to sleep (or trying to).

On the socials, the way men in my situation refer to not being allowed to ever fuck their female keyholders is #pussyfree. I never really paid a lot of attention to it before because, of course, that wasn’t me. I may have been #pussyfree at that moment, but like rain in Death Valley, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Except now I’m led to believe sooner may be never and later may be forever. So suddenly #pussyfree has a whole new meaning. That hashtag is me.

And it’s more than just never being allowed to enjoy Belle’s pussy again. Some guys who are pussy free are cucks who, while not being allowed to fuck their wives, aren’t locked in chastity (at all or not permanently) and still get to jack off. But Belle doesn’t let me do that. Ever. So, not only will I never get to feel pussy with the contents again, unless something changes, I won’t be able to feel my own hand there again, either.

And if I don’t get to feel pussy or my own hand again, then…well, I won’t come again. So I’m not just #pussyfree, it’s becoming clear that I’m going to be #orgasmfree.

I have wanted this at certain points in the development of our chastity journey, but I never really thought we’d get here. I never thought she would get here. And I’m not going to lie and say I’m upset at the prospect of never coming again. Of never feeling a pleasurable sensation with the contents again. I’m not upset. I will miss it, surely. I have been missing it. But I understand why it has to be this way.

That said, it’s one thing to fantasize or imagine the eventuality and another to find one’s self living it. There’s a finality that I don’t think I had previously really appreciated. A finality but also a bit of a relief. Belle has lifted from me the need to concern myself with my own orgasm ever again. I don’t need to spend any time wondering if the next time I get her off if I’ll get a chance for myself, too. Because I won’t. Not that time, not the time after that, or the one after that. Not any time. No need to worry my pretty little head about it.

The ache in my balls. The gnawing craving. The fluttery urge I get when I touch her wet pussy. They’re not just the common companions I’ve grown accustomed to. They’re now permanent fixtures. Really and truly, not a thing I’m doing but what I am.

The finality of that is clarifying, now that I’ve worked it out. Any energy that might have been wasted thinking about the orgasm I might get and did I really want the thing I so badly craved and should I feel good or guilty for getting it if I got it because maybe probably I wouldn’t but maybe I would and then how would that feel and shouldn’t I just try and enjoy it even though maybe I didn’t want it after all? All out the window. How I am now — right now — is how I am. All I’ll ever be.

Got it. OK. Let’s go.

Addicted

I continue to be extraordinarily horny. Really, ever since that massage.

The night of the massage I bet I didn’t sleep two hours. I did fall asleep, but pressure from the device woke me up and then kept me up. I just couldn’t get visions out of my head. And every time I almost did — BAM — another sexy thought. It was torture.

The next morning, I basically devoured Belle. I was on top of her and moaning as soon as my fingers touched her wet pussy and I cried out when she came. And that energy has been with me ever since. Night before last I also couldn’t sleep and maybe got 2-3 hours. It’s been crazy.

But the thing is, I want this. Not just because it’s my nature to be a horned up denied sub left to stew in his own juices by his Domme wife, but because I think there’s something to the idea that the chemistry at work in a denied man’s brain is literally addictive.

When I’m allowed to come, there’s a distinct vibe drop. If I’m allowed to come twice in a few days (lol), it’s a total wipeout. And I feel…nothing. A void. I hate it. The lack of whatever’s churning around in me while denied is miserable. It’s like the color drains away from the world. I’m ornerier and sadder and no fun to be around. It’s legitimately like withdrawals.

I’m not physiologist or anything, but it really does feel like an addiction. Not to a sensation, like when I was a teenager and into my 20s and jacking off daily (sometimes more). It’s to the feeling of being turned on to distraction.

Belle knows this about me. She texted me after she read the last post and told me point blank that I was “a real pain in the ass” when she lets me out and I come. And, since I’m “pretty good at satisfying her” in other ways, she still doesn’t know when or if I’ll get out for that reason again.

I think about how guys who are introduced to chastity find they want more and longer lock-ups. About how they invariably start to hope and even lobby against coming. I was that guy. I guess I still am that guy. But, in my experience, nearly all locked-up guys get that way. And it’s not like, oh I dunno, mountain biking or something where there’s a thing they’re doing that’s fun and enjoyable to do again and again. Chastity and denial are about the things those who’re locked up aren’t doing. It’s how denial and being locked up feels that powers our craving for it.

Long term chastity and denial are some kind of bizarre emotional inverted Möbius strip. A self-referential loop. A thing M.C. Escher would draw. A condition that makes no logical sense and doesn’t seem to be physically possible, but it does and it is.

And I guess I’m just lucky as fuck that I’m married to a woman who understands that.

290

The other day I wrote:

“I have absolutely no memory of the last time she wanted to use the contents. I’ve been thinking hard about it and have no clue.”

And since I’m just laying here in the middle of the night horny as fuck and unable to sleep, I was thinking about this again. About how it’s been so long since she let me out and inside her and feel that amazing, incredible, sensation of hard penis sliding into wet pussy.

And then it hit me. I do know when it was. Or, I should say, I can figure it out. Pretty easily, actually.

I keep track of when I’m locked up and what I’m lock in. I’ve been doing it for years. Here’s how 2022 netted out:

Not only does the app I use tell me totals like that, I can go back and look at what I was locked in (or not) on any given day of the year.

Combine that with the fact that Belle is very consistent about when she lets me fuck her. She wants sex on weekend mornings, almost exclusively. But it’s 100% the case that when I get to fuck her, it’s a weekend morning. No exceptions. On the occasional weeknight when she wants me to get her off, that’s what we do. I get her off. I’m never, ever out at those times. Just weekend mornings.

So, all I have to do is find a weekend morning when I’m unlocked for a couple hours. Since I’m supposed to go right back into chastity after she lets me inside her, it leaves a gap in my lock-up that looks like that.

The first one I found was January 1, 2022. That was a Saturday and my log for that week looks like this:

Steelheart, Steelheart, Steelheart with a 3 hour 16 minute opening at about 9:00 AM and then Steelheart again. That’s me getting to fuck and then probably clean the device. And I actually remember that now.

I kept looking and found this:

March 20, about 7:30 AM, for 2 hours 31 minutes. A Sunday. Fits the pattern. I don’t remember that one.

I looked for the next one…and didn’t find it. No other unlocked gap on a weekend morning for the whole rest of the year.

The last time I was allowed to fuck my wife was 290 days ago. The last time I was allowed an orgasm. The last time I was allowed to feel pleasurable sensation with an erection.

Two hundred ninety days.

Me from 15 years ago — pre-chastity me — would not be able to wrap his head around that at all. It would be literally impossible to imagine, let alone imagine that I’d be OK with it. Me from a period not too long after we started using chastity in our relationship would be very conflicted. He’d think it was simultaneously hot as fuck but he’d be mourning the idea of not being able to come. Ever.

The me that’s writing this post is not conflicted. At all. While I do have strong urges to feel pleasure with the contents, I’m also very self-aware of the fact that I’m ultimately happier not being allowed to. That I’m a better husband and sub to Belle being denied that pleasure. That craving it, even to distraction, is better than getting it.

And, of course, this is what she wants. Where I am right now is 100% her decision. She has decided she’s not interested in my penetrating her. She’s satisfied with my fingers and mouth and her vibrator. Either she genuinely prefers those types of stimulation now or she’s weighed the cost/benefit of letting me fuck her and decided I won’t.

Of course, I do want to. Badly. My balls ache with the memory of what that feels like. Of what shooting a load into her is like. But I understand what I am. And I’ve freely given to her absolute control over my ability to experience those things.

I asked her if she was ever going to let me inside her again and she said, “I don’t know.” I don’t know, either, but 290 days is a long time to not need or want something. Unless a drastic change happens, it’s starting to feel like 290 days is just the start. That chance I got to be inside her and use the contents for the purpose it was meant for that I can’t even remember at this point…might really and truly be the last time she’ll ever let me do that.

I’m at peace with that if it’s the case. Like I’ve said before and repeat to myself all the time, this is what I am not something I do. And what I am is a man who needs to be focused on the pleasure of others, exclusively. To receive pleasure through theirs. And if that’s all I ever am again…

So be it.

Mexican rubdown

Belle decided that today, our last full vacation day in Cabo, that we’d have a 90 minute couples massage at our villa. I think couples massages are kinda creepy but I think massages are amazing and it’s been ages since I had one so I happily went along. Of course, I take the device off beforehand. While I wish I could leave it on, I don’t want to subject my masseuse to my kink.

At the appointed hour, the masseuses along with their concierge arrived at the house. Our bedroom is massive and had ample space for both of them and their massage tables. It has huge sliding doors that overlook the ocean and allow the sea breezes to blow in. It’s just lovely. They set up in there while I chugged my Malibu Bay Breeze.

Usually, masseuses tell me they want to start face down. This time, they wanted us face up. They left the room allowing us time to undress and get on the table. It was the first time in months that Belle had a chance to see the contents and I was super self-conscious about it. The sheet was pretty thin so while I waited for them to come back in, I just had to accept that the outline of the penis was visible. I laid there pondering what a weird little thing it is as they came back in the room.

Drawing from my many previous massage experiences, I expected not to be on my back for long. They do some upper chest and neck work and I usually roll over for the good stuff. But that’s not what happened this time. I’ve never actually had a massage like this before (little did I know). I was on my back for the majority of it. That wasn’t really an issue as long as she was working my neck, shoulders, chest, and arms, but then she moved to my legs.

Now…hmm. I have had, er, invigorating massages in the past. Whenever they start working my glutes, I get turned on. You just can’t touch my ass without getting me worked up. This little woman did more than that. She exposed my entire left leg. Her sheet discipline was loose. Usually, I’m used to them being fastidious and tidy with how they tuck the sheet to ensure modestly. This woman just sort of laid it places and then, if it got moved, she left it. She was not very concerned with my modesty. My first clue that something new was happening.

So anyway, my whole entire left leg was exposed to the top of my hip bone. She started from my calves and worked her hands up — way up — my inner thigh. She missed the penis by a centimeter. Then she did it again. And again. And try as I might to think of England, I could feel…stirrings. One hand was on my inner thigh while the other was rubbing the side of my ass. I tried so hard. Willed the penis to behave. But, honestly, it’s been months and months and months since I was last allowed an orgasm. In retrospect, what happened next was inevitable.

I could feel the penis chubbing out. It was probably 60-70% plump. I was mortified. That flimsy sheet wasn’t leaving anything to the imagination. But then she lifted my leg and folded it over my other leg to expose my thigh and glute more. And, in doing so, she pressed the growing erection between my thighs. Then she pushed down and proceeded to rub my ass.

That was it. I’d gone round the bend. I could feel the pressure and the sensation and knew I was, for the first time in my life while getting a massage, sporting a full, rock hard erection. And as soon as she let go of my leg, it was going to be perfectly evident. Not only did she put my leg back down, she turned the fucking thing out so my inner thigh was facing up. And the sheet was just loosely laying over my aching shaft, barely covering it. I didn’t look, but I could feel how the boner was up and in the air. I was tenting that fucking sheet, no doubt. It was probably bobbing with my heartbeat.

And here’s where I lost all sense of embarrassment. She proceeded, with this explicit display right in front of her, to run her hands up and down my inner thigh. Again, missing my ballsack by a hair’s breadth. And in doing so, the sheet kept moving and shifting so much so that I could feel the breeze on my balls which she had to be able to see. Not only was I clearly, clearly turned on, but she did nothing whatsoever to minimize what was causing it or even to try and hide it. So I was like, well, she knows what’s going on. She can see it. She might literally be able to see it. So I’m not going to be freaked out. She’s a professional.

Presumably, she doesn’t usually work on clients who haven’t come let alone been touched sexually in half a year very often. Maybe she doesn’t usually have to deal with such desperate, horned up men. But that’s what I am. And as long as she was clearly OK with me being almost painfully boned up, I was going to be OK with it, too.

She finished my left leg and went to my right one and it was was all exactly the same. I was hard as fuck and that damned sheet didn’t do a thing to hide it.

Eventually, she had me roll over. I positioned myself so the penis was pointing down. I figured that was better than if I had it pointing up and was laying on it the whole time. I don’t know if that was a good decision. She went right back to my legs and thighs and glutes. At this point, had I been alone with her, I would have thought she was angling for me to ask for a happy ending because she was just rubbing my ass. Not like the massages I’ve had before where they work one cheek at a time and assiduity avoid the cleft between. No, she was running her fingers right up my crack. Not so far that she touched my hole, but like Moses, she was parting those fuckers. So the penis, which was pointing down, got so fucking hard. So much so that it had to be visible between my legs and, as I said, her sheet discipline was nonexistent. My whole lower torso was exposed so she was clearly seeing the underside of the head of the penis peeking out.

She moved to my upper body, and again, I’m used to the sheet being placed just under my hip but above my crack. Nope. She had my whole ass hanging out. And she considered it an extension of my back. Her hands kept going to it and running across and over it and at this point I was starting to feel like I was getting too turned on. So when she started pressing on my hips, I legitimately started to think she’d make me come.

I’ve never had an experience like that. Ever. I was 110% convinced by the end that she was trying to turn me on. Maybe that’s just part of her schtick or maybe when she saw how my desperate horniness was manifesting itself, she decided to really lay it on. I don’t know. But making me hot and bothered was her objective by the end. No doubt.

Aside from all that, she was an incredibly skilled masseuse. Even if I hadn’t been near tears from horniness by the end, it would rank as a top three massage for me.

They left the room and I slipped my swim trucks back on. I tried to make it so Belle wouldn’t see that I was still pretty chubbed out. Walking around immediately after, the mesh liner was rubbing against the head of the penis and I was beside myself with distraction. As soon as I could, I went to our bathroom to put the Orion back on.

That was a challenge. The penis was looking very available and I was alone with it and it didn’t want to go back into the black plastic at all and, if I’m honest, I didn’t want it back in there either. But I was good and put it back in. As I was tightening the screws into place, I saw that I was leaking semen from the hollow PA pin. Even now as I’m writing this, I can feel the pressure in my prostate and gnawing desire to…do something.

I’m just…I’m so fucking horny right now. So goddamned horny. Jesus fuck. UUUUUNF.

The hand-to-pants paradigm

Guys, no matter their age, orientation, relationship status, or hair color all have one thing in common. They stick their hands in their pants. Maybe they do it in front of the TV. Maybe they do it only when they’re alone. Maybe they do it on Zoom calls. Usually, they do it absentmindedly. But they all do it. It’s a habit they begin to develop as very small boys, I guess. A fascination with this little tube of meat that sticks out of their body and makes them feel things. This hands-down-the-pants thing isn’t necessarily sexual. In fact, I’d say it’s mostly not. It’s just a thing we do. A place to keep our hand. A way to make a connection with ourselves.

Guys permanently locked in chastity aren’t any different. I often have my hand in my pants. I even find myself doing it in front of people, though I tend to not stick it too far down there in those times. Just feeling the top of my pubes is enough. But I’ll really get in there when on the couch in front of the TV or in bed looking at my phone. Of course, what I feel is not what most men feel. For me, it’s something hard and without sensation of its own. Lately, it’s been the feeling of textured black plastic. I run my finger over the protrusion where the shaft tube meets the base ring or along the edge of the flared head shield or I simply cup the whole unit along with my balls.

I get the same “reward” for doing that as a normal guy. Still make that connection with myself. Because on my body, “my penis” is whatever hard container is locked onto me at that moment. Currently, it’s the Evotion Orion (and it’s been that for the past 33 plus days and, I suspect, it’ll be that for the foreseeable future). But I was thinking this morning, as I was feeling it in my shorts while laying in bed waiting for Belle to wake up, that I’d no more consider the contents of the Orion as “my penis” any more than I’d consider the nasal bones and cartilage in my head as my “my nose.” My nose is what anyone can see in the middle of my face. And the penis on my body is the same. It’s this penis-shaped mass of 3D-printed plastic with the hollow titanium tube sticking out the end. That’s it.

I mean, I know there’s a real penis inside there. Of course I do. But I feel dissociated from it in a real way. And I find that the most effective way to learn to live with a constant background radiation of horniness is to stop thinking of it as a distinct thing. It’s not productive for a permanently locked man to obsess over what he’s not allowed to do or the various functions the contents could perform in the past. For example, I don’t think about what it’s like to pee without being locked. I only think about it as a locked man. The way it’s changed and the different hygiene techniques required. I just do it in a way that accepts it not as a second nature, but my nature.

Similarly, it’s just not productive to think about what unfettered erections can do. I don’t have one of those anymore so indulging myself by focusing on what I can’t do is not just counterproductive, it’s downright corrosive to my well-being. I should (and do) focus on what I can do, even if that list doesn’t include stroking, fucking, or orgasm. In fact, that is the entire point of being kept in chastity. Focusing on what can and should be done to and for the person holding the key. Period.

That’s my advice to guys struggling with being in long-term or permanent lock-up. Focus on what being that way gives you, not on what it takes away. Focus on them and their pleasure and yours will follow. Accept how that changes you. How the constant horniness empowers and motivates you. How it makes you feel whole. Embrace it. Celebrate it. For a lot of us, it’s our calling.

Also, just go ahead and stick your hand down your pants. You know you want to.

Dreaming of paradise

I’m sitting at gate G10 at MSP waiting for my thrice-delayed, once gate reassigned holiday flight out of the frozen wastes of Minnesota in the middle of what’s being described as an historic, category 3 hurricane-equivalent winter storm. In order keep my mind off the fact that I absolutely, positively must get out of here today, I’m writing this post.

Since we’re approaching the end of a month that coincides with the end of a year, I’m thinking about numbers. Specifically, the numbers that count the hours I’ve been locked in any of the various devices Belle uses to restrict my access to erections. It looks like 2022 will end with about 95 hours of unlocked time for me. That’s a 57% decrease from 2021 which was itself a 46% decrease from 2020 and the first time I’ve been under 100 hours in that unprotected state.

The other morning Belle and I were in bed naked and I was enjoying feeling her warm softness next to me when she reached down and cupped her hand over the Evotion Orion I’ve been wearing since it showed up. I cupped my hand over hers. My hand, her hand, the Orion, the contents. I’m not sure there’s a more intimate embrace a denied man can have with his keyholder. It’s, of course, frustrating, but also leaves me with a profound sense of being cared for. And about.

“How do you like this one?” She asked me.

“It’s fine,” I said, “Comfortable. Does what it’s supposed to do. What do you think of it?”

“I like it. It’s so…small.” Ball squeeze.

I moved my leg in between hers and just the suggestion of what lay between them started to make the contents swell and press against its confinement.

“Are…you ever going to want what’s inside again?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She replied casually. “That’s not really your concern, is it?”

“No…no it’s not.”

I have absolutely no memory of the last time she wanted to use the contents. I’ve been thinking hard about it and have no clue. It wasn’t when we were on our anniversary trip back in October or after that. Wasn’t around my birthday in September. Wasn’t when we were on our summer road trip. Events like that used to be when she’d want it, but I recall specifically that she did not. It seems like it had to have been sometime since about midyear, but it’s been so long I can’t tell you. And I have no reason to believe that our annual year-end trip to warmer climes won’t be equally pussy-free for parts of me.

The other night I had a dream the details of which I cannot remember except that at one point I was naked, about to have sex with Belle, and not in a device. But the penis I had was…useless. It was hard as a rock but its shaft was nonexistent. Just a head. Basically, my dream cock was a micropenis. Totally unsuited to any kind of penetrative purpose. Not even enough to get a thumb and forefinger around to jack it off. But Belle was fine with that. I remember she smiled at me. Expected it. I was surprised but she was not.

My identity has so totally evolved into a non-penetrative male that even my dreams have been edited to reflect that fact. That hasn’t happened by accident. My inclination to want to be kept locked has led Belle to do so more and more and even adjust how she prefers me to pleasure her. We’ve both been transformed by essentially permanent chastity.

I have been thinking a lot about the micropenis in my dream. The idea of being physically incapable of the kind of pleasure most men enjoy is powerfully evocative to me. Even though, when I’m running my fingers over Belle’s wet clit and feeling it pulse with her orgasm, I never want more to be balls-deep inside her. But living a reality where “balls-deep” is like an inch and it’s not even possible for me to feel insertion (as opposed to simply being denied the right) is…woof. Makes me really tight.

And, if you think about it, that’s fucking crazy. Chastity and denial have totally rewired and resculpted what being sexual and male are for me in ways I could not have even conceived before we started down this path.

I am supposed to want to feel myself inside her — badly — but rarely, if ever, get to. And my dream revealed that my subconscious knows that maybe better than I do.

While I’ve been writing this, my flight’s been delayed at least a half dozen times, but boarding has begun. Whew!

Looking forward to getting Belle off in paradise for a week!

Leaving the nest

I’ve decided to leave Twitter.

Elon Musk has made the site more hostile to queer and trans people, women, and people of color by amplifying the messages of those hostile to diversity and reinstating homophobic, transphobic, antisemetic, misogynistic, and white supremacist accounts. While the content moderation practices of pre-Elon Twitter were far from perfect, they at least represented an effort to do what was right and consistent. Elon is a troll looking to empower and encourage those like him, period full stop. He is actively destroying a thing I love.

As a content creator who has used Twitter, at least in part, to promote my content, I am providing a very small molecule of value to the platform by putting there the stuff some people are using it to find. By participating on that platform, I’m giving people a reason to use it. Any value I create for Twitter is now value I’m creating for Elon Musk directly. I cannot, in good conscience, do that.

I was hoping a clear Twitter alternative would emerge prior to coming to this conclusion which, it has been growing increasingly clear, was reaching the point of inevitability. I’m on Mastodon and Hive but I don’t really think either of these seem like a good solution at present. Hive is a nice little app with (apparently) pretty reasonable rules regarding NSFW content, but it doesn’t seem to be getting a lot of adoption from the Twitterati and, even so, its performance has been suffering and it’s run by two people (literally). Mastodon is giving me strong mid-2000s web forum vibes with each instance being run by one or a handful of moderators. In essence, each Mastodon server is tiny little version of Elon’s Twitter with each being run by someone who sees themselves as a benevolent dictator.

I will be posting new blog links on Mastodon and Hive going forward and even Tumblr (where they’ve always been going). I was considering using Twitter only for links back to posts here but, again, that creates value for Elon Musk, if even just an infinitesimal amount. So I’m going to stop doing that, too. This will be the last link I send there.

I will miss engaging with the community I’ve found on Twitter. A lot. I hope if you’re there and reading this you’ll either engage with me here or on one of those other platforms.