Category: Life with Belle

Stuff that really happened to Thumper and/or Belle Fille

Posted on

Paws off, Rabbit

Traveling again. In an attempt to not repeat the weirdness of my last expedition, I chose to go through security unsecured. Since I was flying at 6:00PM, I was out all day. And, in an irrational burst of caution, I packed the Steelheart in my checked bag rather than carry it though the checkpoint as I’ve done in the past.

I should note that Belle is also traveling. She’s overseas and will be getting home the same day I do. She left traveling west and will return from the east, which is nifty, but it means I’ve been more or less self-locking for the past ten days or so. Having already figured out my game plan for the this trip, I let myself out prior to my shower to use the opportunity to properly clean everything and shave the bits the device conceals, etc.

It should not have been surprising, but nevertheless was, that even simple and utilitarian contact with the contents caused it to start to swell. The very concept of “penis” changes when it’s continuously locked away. It goes from being a (most of the time) low level nag of desire to something 100% real and pressing and actionable in seconds. While locked, even when I have the key, I know the penis is there and smoldering like Smaug under the Lonely Mountain, but like a dragon laying on a pile of gold, it’s an abstract threat. Once the cage comes off, the fire returns to its belly and it becomes fucking ready.

I was able to tend to its maintenance without doing anything untoward but the simple feeling of the water from the shower head striking the tip of the thing made my knees buckle and the shaft stiffen. It took every bit of will power to avoid going to a Bad Place. And knowing I’d be on my own recognizance for over 16 hours…

I decided that my own personal rule was going to be that if I was unlocked for some reason other than maintenance (cleaning, shaving, etc.) or when Belle was with me and also naked and she was expecting me to use it for her, I would not touch it. Not ever. Not even to pee. I bargained with myself about touching through clothing and had decided through my jeans was OK but not my underwear (which, if you follow me on Twitter or Instagram, you know is often skimpy and sheer) but then scolded myself for such a thought since there was no legitimate reason to touch it through my pants other than to make it hard and feel pleasure. So no touching at all. Side effect of that means I have to sit to pee, but guys like me are used to that already.

I’ve never done the device-less chastity thing. It was…interesting. As soon as I finished my internal debate and set this new limit, the exposed contents veritably loomed before me. Tempting. Yet radioactive. All of a sudden I became massively aware of it. Its every movement. How it moved when free, how its plumpness caused that to accentuate. At one point, the tip of it bumped the bathroom counter as I was getting ready and the contact caused a sharp intake of breath. I was relieved when it was stowed into underwear and then packed away in my jeans. And even then, the hypersensitivity that comes after being inside a steel tube for weeks was incredibly distracting.

I thought peeing would be pretty straightforward but in realty, absent steel pulling it down, it turns out the penis doesn’t naturally drop so that, untouched, its stream would go into the bowl and not spray over or against its edge. I eventually figured out if I spread my legs wider than usual and pushed down above the shaft I could get it in a usable position.

Hours later, I got into my hotel room, exhausted and ready for bed. Like most men do, I absently put my hand down my pants and BAM felt it. Fuck. Get that Steelheart, I said to myself. After turning the key, the steel weighed the newly secured penis down. The pull of the cold metal set me at ease.

I know, I know, I know, I’ve said this before, but it never ceases to amaze me how much more normal being locked makes me feel. To not feel cool air on the device contents and to not feel it move naturally and flop around. To instead feel the the tug of gravity or just the snug tidiness of compression. To be unable to touch any part of that part of myself except for what I can reach with my finger.

I’ve written before that I feel I was born for chastity. How I was pre-wired for it. Over the years, it’s been so firmly planted in my existence that the object involved is something my body and mind feel are an internal part of my body. I don’t feel comfortable or secure when it’s not on me. In it’s absence, I feel more exposed. Vulnerable. I am left with the assumption that, for some of us, being in chastity is 100% natural. For some of us, it is how we’re supposed to be. Which, by itself, is a comforting notion.

Posted on

Busted and exposed

Posted from somewhere over the Atlantic...

This morning on Twitter I put a photo of myself in the Holy Trainer Nano I’ll be wearing while in Paris on Spring Break for the next week. I was in the Steelheart before and asked Belle what she wanted: Me locked in something else or nothing at all.

“Of course, you’ll be locked up. Wear the plastic one.” Like, duh.

So that was that. Plastic it would be. I put the Nano on and thought nothing else of it until that picture on Twitter. One of my followers asked if I had any trouble getting through security.

And I was like, ha! I laugh in the face of danger. HA HA! I assured my follower and all the others on Twitter that of course I’d be fine. I’ve travelled all over the world on dozens of flights in chastity and have never had a problem. Not once. Not ever.

HA, I say.

Welp.

We were connecting to Paris through O’Hare and for some reason I’ll chalk up to O’Hare being horrible and all part of my general dislike of Chicago, there was no way for us to get from our terminal to terminal five while staying on the secure side. We had to go out to get a bus and then go back in. And when we made it to the international terminal, there was no Pre-Check. No Clear. None of the comforts of bourgeois air travel to which I have grown accustomed. We had to slum it in regular security. Which meant the backscatter scanner rather than the simpler (and stealthier) metal detector.

I continued to think nothing of it. I’ve been through them before. No problem. So I did the thing. Put my hands over my head and my feet on the yellow marks. And the damn thing busted me.

It started with the little screen on the other side drawing a yellow box over my crotch.

Fucking hell, I thought. The fruit of my hubris.

The nice TSA man started to tell me how it was going to go down. The kind of touching involved. He offered to take me into the little room but I declined. Standing in the busy checkpoint, I hoped he’d skip right over it. The Nano has a low profile. Not as low as the Nub, but low. Maybe he’d miss it. Surely he would. He patted my ass (“I am now patting your buttocks.”) then turned me around. He started to pat my front. And stopped.

He felt it.

He looked at me quizzically. To the best of my recollection, the conversation went something like this.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, that. Plastic.”

“Plastic?”

“Yep.”

“…”

“Can you remove it?”

“Not here.”

“Not here?”

“Nope.”

“Can you…move it to the side?” He made a motion like he wanted me to rotate the odd lump to my hip.

“Nope.”

“…”

“…Medical device?”

“It is not.”

He cocked his eyebrow.

“OK…” Then he told me he and another guy would have to take me in the little room and see what it was. I knew it was going to happen from the second he gave me his first quizzical look.

“That’s fine.” I said. I felt pretty calm. I was about to show two total strangers the locked penis in my pants and I was really OK with it. Whatever. All in a day’s work. Life of the locked sub.

Belle and my daughter, by the way, had gone through the line. Belle gave me a look back. She knew what was up. My daughter didn’t know what the hold up was. In the end, I said it was just something weird that showed up on the scanner. No big deal. More or less the truth.

Anyway, eventually the other guy showed up. He was HUGE. At least 6’ 6”. Maybe more. They led me to the room, closed the door. They started to say what they needed in a way that presumed this was going to be an awkward moment for us all but I was way ahead of them. I unzipped and whipped it out. I remember noticing how the head of the penis was clearly visible through the gray plastic. I gave them a good look at it, but my balls stayed in my pants.

The big guy gave a laugh. Not in a mean way. The smaller (though honestly, still not small) guy asked, “What is that?”

“Chastity device.”

The big guy laughed again. I smirked at them.

“Chastity device? Can you get it off?”

“Nope.”

The big guy said, “I’m going to have to get this cleared.” And left the room smiling and shaking his head. Just me and the first guy left alone. I had put everything back in my pants, but they were still unzipped.

“Never seen anything like that before,” he told me.

“No?” I was honestly surprised. “I’d’ve thought you would have.”

“Nope.” he laughed a bit, “Not me.”

I think he wanted to ask me more about it, but didn’t. He may have felt awkward but didn’t show it. I didn’t feel akward at all.

The supervisor came in then. Older guy. Older than me. Also big. Were all these guys like on a football team or something? I whipped it out again. He had clearly seen one of these before. He wasn’t smiling and didn’t laugh.

“Is that it?” he asked, “No more of it? Nothing in back?”

“Nope, just that.” He must have had some experience with a full belt coming though the checkpoint.

He looked at the locked penis some more.

“How’s it held on?”

“A ring…” I shifted the package a bit to show him the base ring.

“I need to see.”

OK, you asked. I pulled the whole package out for the three of them to inspect. Hooked my thumb over my underwear (black Cocksox thong with blue trim, if you’re wondering) just like in the dirty pictures I post to Twitter. Balls and all. The air felt cool on my sack.

“All right, he’s cleared,” and the boss man left the room. The really big guy went with him.

“Sorry about that,” the first said, “We have to check.”

“Not a problem at all,” I said as I packed it all back in my pants and zipped up. “I totally understand.”

Then, half under his breath, “Nope, never seen anything like that before…” and we left the room.

I will admit that the very moment he touched the locked penis in my pants and I knew I’d have to show it to him or someone, there was a flash of heat in my face. Just a touch of panic. But it was fleeting. Then I found it kind of amusing. And then…oddly hot.

I’ve said lots of times here that I hate that how I am has to be a secret. I do want people to know, in a way. Not that I’d wear a shirt with a slogan on it or anything, but…still. And I’m not at all ashamed of what I am. I’m not embarrassed. So many times I’ve caught people checking out the odd bulge in my pants. Even had people make incidental and accidental contact with it. Never felt bad about myself. Never really regretted it.

I do strongly feel everyone has the right to be kept out of my kink and that’s one reason I don’t go out of my way to advertise, but there was no option here. And I truly did not expect to be caught like this. It’s never happened before. But once it became a fait accompli, I decided to enjoy the ride. Luckily, the people who went along with me weren’t dicks about it. I think part of what made it OK for all of us is that I wasn’t being anything but helpful and totally forthcoming. That kept things from getting too weird or tense or for them to become suspicious.

I left the little room, collected my belt and shoes and put them on, and rejoined Belle and the kid. I was feeling a weird kind of adrenaline-charged euphoria. I was amped. It was fun. I liked being forced to expose myself. I admit it. It was a blast.

Will I wear it through again? Probably not. Well, maybe not. I mean…I dunno. Usually I don’t go through those scanners so it’s no worry. But also usually I’m traveling for work with coworkers. So…I expect I won’t. Maybe I won’t. Question mark.

I haven’t had a chance to talk to Belle about it yet. There just wasn’t a moment. But, you know. It was what it was. No going back now. I’ve been exposed.

Posted on

Initiation

Regarding my 10 Rules For Locked Men post…

There were some comments on Twitter and even one on the post about Rule 5:

You are not to initiate sex other than to reinforce your availability to your keyholder to satisfy their needs and desires.

It was pointed out that sometimes people do like for their men — even their locked men — to initiate sex. That’s, of course, correct. Regardless of the state of the penis, one’s sex partner won’t always want to be the one to initiate, for a variety of reasons. The point I was making was based on my experience and probably mostly directed to men who are newly locked up.

I recall early on I was fucking horny (stars, asterisks, daggers) all the time. I wanted sex and a lot of it, even if the penis wasn’t coming out. I was all over Belle and left her feeling pressured to have sex. So, for a while and once I pulled my head out, the “never initiate sex” rule was one I put on myself. Now, I do initiate sex. But I only do it thoughtfully and based on an understanding of her rhythms and preferences. I don’t jump on her during the week. I will ask or suggest or offer. But it’s her call. Weekend mornings I know she’s receptive so I feel comfortable being more physically forward then. She can say no and I’ll back off immediately without complaint, but I know that’s less likely. She prefers sex in the morning and weekends are the days she’s most comfortable doing it. I shape my behavior around her preferences.

Like any good sub, I want a list of ALL THE RULES but I also know no two couples are exactly the same and my list was merely an attempt to document how we/I approach being nearly always locked up. The correct approach for anyone who finds value in them is to discuss them with their partner and amend, extend, or delete whatever doesn’t make sense.

The one thing I think is inviolable for submissive men who are locked up (oddly, not all men in chastity are subs or see their conditions as acts of submission) is that to allow one’s penis to be secured by another is to acknowledge a totally new, radical, and fundamentally different relationship to sex. Almost everything men are taught to think about it and how to approach it by culture has to be retrained. Reflexive responses need to be rewired. Behavior needs to be reconditioned. If you read the rules, they all basically point to the same basic set of ideas:

Sex does not belong to you. It’s not for you. It’s not about you.

The penis has been put in the middle of our cultural understanding of sex through thousands of years of conditioning. Mostly led by men. Mostly in cultures where men were trying to cement their central role of being in control. But for a guy in chastity, sex may not include his penis. Not often or maybe not ever. And he has to be OK with that. Has to really believe and feel it. Has to be willing to only have sex that’s in service to his keyholder’s pleasure and satisfaction. That’s what Rule 5 was about. It’s what they’re all about. It’s what chastity, in my opinion, is about.

I didn’t get that at the beginning. Didn’t get it for a while. But I get it now.

Posted on

Thumper’s top ten rules for locked men

We’re in Mexico for Christmas. Ten days away from cold and snow and sunsets that seem to begin right after lunch in exchange for warmth and walks on the beach and sunsets that happen at reasonable times.

It’s not all sombreros and sunshine, though. I came down here with a nasty cold and it got worse on the way. Kept me from diving one day and is threatening to do it again (you can’t scuba dive if your head is so congested that you can’t equalize the pressure outside your head with the pressure inside your head). I’m feeling better, though now my mother-in-law and daughter have the cold (which seems to have infiltrated the family through Belle).

Anyway, once I was starting to feel better, Belle allowed me to get her off two days in a row. The first day, I stayed in the Steelheart and the second she wanted the penis so I was out. She got carried away and decided to get on top and ride it which lasted about 48 seconds but she paused long enough for me to avoid orgasm (though it was a messy near miss). This morning, I was awake well before she was and the Steelheart was heavy and full along with my balls which felt huge and seemed to hang down far lower than usual between my legs. She started to wake up and I spooned into her, nuzzling the crowded steel tube into her ass.

“Not today,” she told me while wiggling her butt a little.

A complicated cocktail of emotions followed. Sure, I was horny. But I was also content. Because there are rules that dictate our dynamic and specifically sex. And I’ll share them with you now.

These aren’t the same as Belle’s rules for me. I think of these rules as how men locked in chastity should behave, in general. Of course, there’s no One True Way™ and everyone gets to figure this out as they go, but these are the rules I’ve made in my head and applied to my relationship and they work for me (and us, I suppose). If I taught a class on male chastity as a lifestyle, this is how I’d tell the men they should approach their new lives. As a man who’s given up control over the thing that defines his manhood. You give that up, you give up a lot of other things, too.

Thumper’s top 10 rules for the well-behaved and happy locked man

  1. Sex is a service for your keyholder.
  2. You don’t decide when and how or how often sex happens.
  3. You are not entitled to sex.
  4. You are not to have any expectation of sex.
  5. You are not to initiate sex other then to reinforce your availability to your keyholder to satisfy their needs and desires.
  6. You are not to demonstrate any emotions that indicate dissatisfaction with their decisions regarding sex.
    • It is acceptable to show sexual frustration, within reason, assuming your keyholder is OK with that.
  7. Pleasure you experience while servicing your keyholder is secondary to theirs always.
  8. When your keyholder allows you to service them sexually, it is a gift.
  9. Always do your best, but don’t expect perfection from yourself.
  10. Your keyholder can situationally alter these or any rules based on their needs and desires. In other words, don’t be pedantic.

Most of these go against everything culture tells men they’re entitled to. Accepting and embracing these realities are among the hardest things I’ve ever done. But now they’re so deeply embedded in my core code, I don’t think I’d ever be capable of acting like a “normal” man again.

So, when Belle told me not today, I felt frustration and regret…but also acceptance. And contentment because I know what I am.

Whatever she wants. Always.

Posted on

Holiday confinement

This Christmas, we’re going on vacation. This is something we did for the first time a few years ago. Everyone (Belle, the kids, her parents, her sister’s family — everyone) went to Hawaii. Which was, of course, super fun since it was friggin’ Hawaii. Big island. Good times. 

This year, we’re going to Mexico for ten days. Specifically, Cabo San Lucas. Just our family of four and Belle’s parents. Even though I grew up in SoCal, I’ve only been to Mexico once before. Long-time readers might remember since I wrote a post about it (so long ago, the penis was still being called a cock lol). That trip was to Puerto Vallarta which reminded me a lot of the Caribbean islands we’ve been to. Cabo is way dryer and deserty. There will be lounging poolside, sun, scuba, Christmas palm trees. You know, the usual. 

It has been not uncommon when we’ve been on vacations for Belle to leave the penis out of its confinement. Presumably, this is because we’re on vacation so maybe she was thinking the penis could be on supervised release, too. A little vacation for the little guy. 

And that’s been on my mind for the past few days now that we’re officially in same month as our trip because the prospect of being out for any period of time kind of makes me angsty (see previous post). So while we were on the couch tonight kissing and waiting for the Flynn sentencing memo to drop (like most romantics), I asked her to leave me in even when we’re away, regardless of activities, unless (of course) she wanted to use the contents. 

Belle assured me that that would indeed be the case. She may have once felt she was being nice by letting me out on trips and vacations, but we’re past that now. Contained and secure is what I am and should be. So, Holy Trainer on the plane and Steelheart once we’re there. 

There is no holiday from confinement.

Posted on

Butterfly effect

The other day on Twitter I was asked, in response to this piece of random smut I posted, if I preferred open or closed chastity. As in, something like the Looker or Jail Bird as opposed to the Steelheart. I replied…

I thought I had expressed that preference here before, but I can’t assume every person on Twitter has read what’s basically a defunct blog at this point. But yeah, closed. Because then it’s easier to forget that the thing inside is in there and a separate thing.

I remember very early on listening to a podcast that talked about male chastity. Early on for podcasts and early on for Thumper chastity. In it, the hosts said something about not being into chastity for “behavior modification” and I was like, whoa. What? What does that mean? It’s funny that I haven’t thought about that for such a long time.

Thing is, I can’t conceive of chastity as not modifying behavior. And not just the obvious tactical changes it enforces (no masturbating), but the big picture stuff, too. I suppose if you’re the kind of person who uses chastity situationally for an evening or weekend or something, then maybe. But I suspect if that’s you you’re not reading this blog. I, of course, am not in chastity for a night or a weekend. I’m in it days and weeks and months at a time. If you excuse the odd time out for cleaning or swapping devices or because Belle wants to get fucked, I’m locked up all the time. And it’s modified a lot more than just my behavior.

For example, that tweet up there. The Thumper who started this blog might be quite taken aback reading someone say what I did. There was a time that I was a pretty big fan of the penis and the chastity experience was driven by the electric frisson of having it contained and controlled. And I suppose it’s still the power of having it kept and out of hand that’s what flips whatever switch gets flipped in guys like me, but honestly, I’m really kind of over the penis. At least as a separate and distinct thing from the totality of being in chastity.

It’s…hard to explain. I’ve tried to before, in bits and pieces. I feel like this post from June and this one from two years ago and even this one from before that were all about this same thing. I’m not just behaviorally changed. I’ve been totally fucking rewired. I am not the same person. When I look at images of men masturbating or fucking or shooting their loads on the Tumblr, it’s like I’m looking at a different species of animal from myself. That is not me. That is not what I do.

I mean, I do do it when Belle wants and tells me to. But if she stopped telling me to? It might make my life easier, to be honest. Yes, of course, fucking feels good. Coming feels good. I want to fuck her when I’m getting her off, in or out of a device, but there’s this nagging voice in my head that tells me that while I can do those things, I really shouldn’t. If she tells me to, it’s almost like play acting. A kind of role play.

And this makes me wonder about a nature versus nurture thing. Had chastity never entered our lives, would I have become this? I can’t imagine so. But it feels so right to me. It feels like the real me. And it makes me wonder back to those podcast hosts from years ago. What’s wrong with behavior modification if it’s actually more a journey of self-discovery than a transformation into an altered state? As if any man would end up like this if you locked him up long enough.

I don’t believe that. I think the pathways need to be present for the signals to be routed on them. For a man to become what I am today requires the nature to be present in order for it to be nurtured out of him.

Like some kind of weird, kinky butterfly.

Posted on

Let it be

I was just having an email exchange with someone who has been struggling recently with the level of frustration and horniness he’s dealing with as a result of having been self-locked for a few months.

I, of course, understand those difficulties. While I’m not continuously and distractingly horny like in the old days, I still have periods of intense feelings. Sometimes they last for days but other times they come on in a great crashing wave from seemingly nowhere before receding into the background again.

My advice for guys who are like me and find themselves in places like that is to do what they can to focus not on the what and how but on the why. Being horny and locked up is what and how but the why is because we need to be that way. We need to have our penises taken away and feel the tool of that denial in their place. We need to experience the frustration of inaccessibility and the build up of unsatisfied sexual release. It’s how we’re meant to be. I can’t tell you why. That’s above my pay grade. But it just is.

We can’t stop the horniness from building and, really, we don’t want to. Once we feel it and live with it we know it’s supposed to be there and if it weren’t — if we did what needed to be done to make it go away — we’d mourn its absence. We’d be less happy than we were before. And all we need to do is to feel a hard penis in our hands or an unlocked one in our pants to know that’s the case. It feels wrong. It feels like cheating. Especially in the seconds after orgasm.

The horniness we live with, even when it’s distracting, is not the problem. It’s the point. It’s our natural condition. We can’t fight it. We can’t obsess over it. We need to accept it into ourselves and let it be present. To feel it as an affirmation rather than a distraction. Because when it’s gone, its absence will leave a sucking void inside.

Do not endure. Accept.

Posted on

Something to show

When we marry or commit our lives to one another, we can wear a ring on our finger to show that. But when we submit to another, there are few socially acceptable ways to demonstrate it publicly. Which is interesting since submission often has a physical component to it, whether it be a collar or a chastity device or what have you. But those components typically don’t leave the private realm. Regardless, I know I have often wanted to have some kind of way to show my status that could pass through Muggle life without creating too much of a ruffle.

Of course, there’s little way I can publicly communicate my chastity, though I feel about it much like someone feels about marriage. The device has a potent emotional weight for me. And sure, sometimes someone might see it through my clothes and I don’t go to extreme lengths to hide it, but that’s not like wearing a wedding ring. I got a triskal tattoo on my wrist which is kind of an inside nod to those who recognize what it means but I think of that as communicating what I am, not my status. The best way I’ve been able to make that statement in a way that feels authentic to me is a stainless steel locking cuff.

More steel!

I got the first one about seven years ago from a site called House of Collars. It locks with a little headless screw that requires a hex key to get on and off and is hinged and cost $67 shipped. I so appreciate its rough and naked utilitarianism. I think it looks almost like jewelry but really, if you look hard enough, not since it’s got hinges and no visible means of closure. It’s heavy and, after all these years, had a nicely beaten up patina. It’s only drawback, really, is that the little screw has become loose and can work its way out after a few days (which is nothing some Loctite from the hardware store couldn’t fix). Its other issue is the hinges. They can tear at my skin and leave it open and raw. On the one hand, that kind of thing can be kind of hot, but on the other more practical hand, it’s also a pain. I wore it for over a week recently when we were away for the 4th and it left me with a nice little wound.

That got me thinking about a more civilized lockable cuff someone pointed me to in the post I wrote about the first one seven years ago. It’s from Träume aus Edelstahl in Germany (of course) and cost $185 shipped. It’s the first cuff’s spiritual opposite. It doesn’t have a sharp or uncivilized edge on it and is machined with exquisite skill. It locks with a hidden, internal screw mechanism and a special little tool with an oddly-shaped head. It came with just one special little tool with an oddly-shaped head, by the way. So best not to lose it. An extra one is $30.

They’re about the same thickness and weight. The older cuff is slightly taller than the new one, but they don’t feel that different on the wrist except for the missing sharp bits. The new cuff gleams while the older one is dulled by wear. While that dull patina kind of works for the tougher, more serious and less caring demeanor of it, I can’t imagine I’ll want the new cuff to end up that way. I’ll probably want to keep it polished and beautiful.

I thought I’d like the new one hands-down over the old, but in reality I can’t tell. Sure, I like not having a wound on my wrist, but I do appreciate the different vibe of the older cuff. It doesn’t fuck around or play hide and seek with its purpose. It looks like an implement of bondage. The new cuff is more demure. Deceptive. It wants to be be able to pass as something more than it is, and it does that beautifully. It’s very comfortable, very sleek, and very locked.

The difference between a wedding ring and one of these cuffs is that the wedding ring can come off. It’s a thing that represents a willing and equal partnership. But a thing that locks onto your body doesn’t. There is an inherent unequalness that resonates in the soul of a sub. Being able to put that condition on display is very satisfying, even if to the untrained Muggle eye it’s just another shiny bauble.

Posted on

Wandering the vacant rooms

I was out of chastity for thirty-nine days. By far and quite easily the longest time I’ve gone without that restriction since Belle first locked me up over nine years ago. I came ten times during that period, each by my own hand. That’s twice as many orgasms in just over a month than I had all year in 2017.

Whilst I was away from home (Americans need to start saying “whilst” more, don’t you think? And maybe “betwixt,” too.), Belle sent me a text saying I needed to go back in the minute I got home. Hearing her express a preference and give me the direction was a step in the right direction for me and us. We still have things to work on, but that’s a start.

I wanted out of chastity because I was sad and feeling like an afterthought. I felt like our relationship had been given a spot at the back of the bus. And that left me feeling empty and lonely. But once I was out, I felt…more empty. More alone. But I also lost the sense of who I was.

I’ve been denied normal orgasmic release for coming up on ten years. The penis has been locked away, off and on, for the same amount of time (more on than off lately, recent issues notwithstanding). I think I’ve always told myself that I could go back to “normal” if I wasn’t locked up and was coming on a regular basis. Not letting the denial energy build up. Just squeezing one out whenever I had the barest urge. I told myself that, but had I really been listening, I would have known that wasn’t the case. That when I went back to “normal” I was just as miserable as I was before. Because I’m not normal. I’m not supposed to come whenever I want. I’m not supposed to be able to reach in my pants at any given moment and feel the penis, squishy or otherwise.

Whatever I was before chastity and denial and submission and bottoming is gone. Jacking off in the shower was like wandering my boyhood home after the last family had moved out. Vacant rooms, bare walls. Cold. “Normal” me — which was never really me, just the facade I put up for forty-some years to satisfy cultural expectations — is dead and irretrievable. I never want to live like that again. I can’t.

I had already decided to stop jacking off before I left on my trip. I needed to restart my pilot light and feel those denied urges again. Not that I would have been able to resist forever using nothing but will power. I was even toying with the idea of putting myself back in lock-up, but felt the only way I would in reality was if Belle told me to. And she did.

What’s been absolutely confirmed to me by this experience is how little I think of my own orgasm. Three to five seconds of bliss in exchange for all the energy and dynamism and emotion that comes from not experiencing it? To never feel the drop after coming. To maintain myself in a stable, denied, horny and headspacey state of being. It’s so much better for me. It’s so perfectly clear that it’s exactly who I am supposed to be and how I’m supposed to be.

IMG_0307So I was going on about ten days without orgasm when I was in the woods and got Belle’s text. I was already feeling a bit horny, but seeing her wishes spelled out and knowing I was going to go back in kicked it up a notch. That led to a night of less than two hours sleep as my imagination kept playing bespoke dirty movies inside my head. The penis was hard most of the time but I was sharing a little one-room cabin with another guy (and a mouse). I realized at some point in the night my underwear had a large patch of precum soaked through.

The next day, I spent time trying to nap in my hammock. Just me and my tented underwear. Again, the imagination and the penis conspired. Everything was firing now and I felt much more in my element. Horny and desirous. Only lacking the friendly confines.

I will admit to losing my will in my hammock. Inside the bug netting and under the rain tarp, it was the only place I could get some privacy and I did edge myself for some time. I didn’t come, but I did leak quite a bit into my hand and, having nowhere else to put it, I had to eat it. The fact that I could was the, eh…”proof in the pudding” as it were that I didn’t orgasm. The drive home was long but I didn’t whip it out on the highway. I did rub it quite a bit though my pants.

Literally within ten minutes of being home, I was putting the Steelheart back. And it all just clicked into place. It was a bit odd feeling the heft and the bulk of the tube again, but I got used to it quickly. It is, after all, more me than what it contains.

Of course, Belle left the next morning. She’s gone until Thursday. But the whole week after that we’re up at the northern compound enjoying Independence Day. We have some stuff to figure out, but the corner has been turned. Sanity is returning.