Category: Life with Belle

Stuff that really happened to Thumper and/or Belle Fille

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The other side of denial

Recently, Belle and I took the youngest offspring back to college. She’s a junior now which means she can have a car on campus so we drove the 1,500ish miles with her to get it and her settled in. While there, Belle booked massages for us after a date night on the town.

I’ll tell you right up front, this massage was nothing at all like the other one I talked about here. With regards to inadvertent displays of denial, it was fairly uneventful. Slight chubbing and nothing more. The reason I bring it up is because of what happened prior to the massage. It’s usually been the case when I get massaged that I’m expected to undress in the room where the massage is going happen. In this spa, we were sent to separate locker rooms for stripping down before we donned robes. It was fairly dead in there, but it wasn’t until I was standing there buck naked with her key in the Steelheart’s lock that I realized I was, you know, standing there buck naked in nothing but the Steelheart in a room where, theoretically, someone could just walk in. Luckily, nobody did. But, after I got the device off, a weird thing happened.

As I was putting on the robe, I saw the contents. Not in the perfunctory way I do when swapping devices or cleaning or whatever. It was like I was seeing it for the first time, somehow. And it…didn’t look like it was me. I’ve been thinking about how to say this and when I posted about it on the socials, I said it was something like when one of your arms falls asleep and when you touch it with the other and it feels like someone else’s body. It was like that, but it was all mental. I could see a penis and, since I’m a fan of penises generally, I thought how much I liked the look of it but, very weirdly, it didn’t really register to me as part of my body. It was like I was looking at someone else’s penis.

I was experiencing some kind of disassociation with this thing that used to be such an integral part of my physical experience. It’s been nearly a year and a half since I was given a chance to experience sexual pleasure with it and it’s been locked up essentially all the time for three and a half years (the last time I had a real, free erection was that massage in Mexico at the end of last year) and I know now for certain that it’ll never be used for sex again and it’s like my brain has sort of walled it off from what it considers me.

And that’s not the only thing that makes me think I’m evolving to some new penisless plateau.

Recently, and especially in the last few weeks, I’ve noticed that my urge to fuck Belle is fading away. Not that I don’t want to have sex with her, because I very much do. And not that I don’t want to get into her pussy, because YES, I do. The lingering urge to get into her with the contents, even though she’s told me that’s not happening anymore, has rather dramatically started to recede.

Now, when I initially get to touch her wet snatch with my fingers, I will often audibly moan. The feeling of her slick labia and swollen clit under my fingers feels nearly as intense to me as sliding my erection into her used to. Back then, before we brought enforced denial into our relationship, the erection I’d get while getting her off was anticipatory of an eventuality. Once she started locking me up, it became representative of a lost opportunity for me. The thing I wanted but would not get. Now, it’s nothing more than a sign of how turned on pleasuring her makes me. Mentally and emotionally, it’s the ultimate expression of my submission. But physically, it’s just tightness. And it feels like the door between those earlier representations and feelings and where I am now is closed.

I do still grind it into her as she comes. But not because I’m craving being inside her. I can still remember what that felt like and it still torments me if I let it, but those memories are separate from my current life. Feeling her excitement and pleasure and how her pussy spasms in orgasm. The noises she makes and how her ass writhes into the bed as I tease more and more of it out of her with my fingers or my tongue. That’s it. The goal.

And not just for me, obviously. It’s not uncommon for Belle to totally ignore the device and its contents when we have sex. I feel like she used to very intentionally hold or caress or squeeze my balls while I was getting her off. But now, it seems just as likely that she won’t touch me there at all. She opens herself to my touch and allows the pleasure to wash over her, totally absorbed by it. The contents are left to squeeze by itself in its confinement.

This has made me reevaluate what “denial” actually is. Can I be denied something I’ve been taught to stop expecting and almost stop craving? The thing I think about most — pleasuring her — is not denied me, though access to it is totally under her control. I do not want to orgasm. So if the normal, natural urges of a real man — to fuck, to shoot a load — have left me, can it still be said that I’m being denied those things? Her harder, more severe form of denial has somehow moved me to this post-denial phase.

My desire to be out and fuck and shoot and even my penis are all gone or going, but I’m not sad about it. I don’t mourn their loss. I have other cravings and urges and feelings to replace them. And they feel more natural and right to who I am than pretending I have a cock and am a normal man. My whole life, I was denied that. My true state. Because I had a freely accessible penis and was allowed to play with it and even fuck people and it felt good and I was indulged all that pleasure. Who I was was never allowed to emerge.

I am not supposed to have a penis I can touch. I’m not supposed to fuck anyone. I live to bring pleasure to others. And I achieve my own pleasure through theirs. Orgasm for me now means a temporary death to all that. To who and what I am.

The only thing I’m being denied is an opportunity to lose, if only temporarily, myself in a brief moment of intense sensation that I will immediately know as it’s happening is wrong for me.

No great loss.

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Billadong

Rivers and other flowing watercourses do this thing where they just kind of meander. Sometimes they follow straight, predictable paths while other times they twist and turn and make wide, sweeping curves and loops. In fact, those wide loopy shapes they make are called meanders. I didn’t know that before.

Source: Wikipedia

I think the flow of water like that is not unlike how human sexuality evolves over the course of someone’s life. You don’t always stay in the same channel you start in. I think I’ve always been kinky and believe I was literally born to be locked in an enforced denial device, but I didn’t always realize that. There are so many pieces of my sexuality I didn’t consciously know were down there and even the ones I knew about rarely showed up in how I expressed myself.

So anyway, yeah, rivers make these things called meanders. But sometimes, the river abandons its meander. The course of the river breaks through its bank and then finds itself again leaving that big, inefficient loop as kind of still, unnecessary backwater. Then, over time, the river flow creates new banks and leaves the backwater totally cut off. That’s called an oxbow lake, it turns out. In South Texas, they’re called resacas and, in Australia, they’re called billabongs. The more you know! 💫

Believe it or not, I was thinking about this recently whilst fingering my wife. As soon as I touched the outer folds of her pussy and the slick wetness of her excitement and as I pushed further to feel the hard nub of her clit, I moaned with a combination of craving but also satisfaction. Sure, the contents were pushing and my desire to fuck was running high, but I also recognized that, for a growing part of me, touching her pussy is what I crave. Getting her off that way. Feeling the spasms of orgasm pulsing under my fingertips as I press on her clit is my objective now. I know I’m not getting out to fuck so the path and flow of my sexuality is…cutting that urge off. I’m evolving in a direction away from that part of how I express myself sexually — how I used to express myself — to being something like that cut-off backwater. The urge is still there, like the oxbow lake, but it’s just…there. No longer connected. No longer part of the flow. Superfluous.

A billadong, if you will.

This evolution is one I’m a party to, of course. You can’t lock a guy up against his will outside hot denial porn. There’s a way to find zen in denial, even when it involves being made permanently pussy free. Belle knows it makes me a better sub and I want and crave that more than anything. Belle also knows that. Orgasm makes me selfish. It causes me to lose my centeredness on her. Her pleasure and her body. I should not be allowed to have my focus drift by feeling my own erection in my hand or, by extension, that erection in her pussy. So I appreciate the necessity of the new, redirected flow.

It’ll be interesting to see how I continue to evolve as I get further and further away from the last time I was allowed to be inside her. Five hundred thirteen days, as of today. And nearly three and a half years since I was unlocked for more than a few hours. Since I slept that way. Will urges keep emanating from the device? It’s getting to the point where I don’t know what I’d do if presented with the option of fucking her. I mean, right now today, I would take it. And, of course, if she told me I had to, I would. But I have to admit, I can feel the barrier between what sex is now building up between that previous part of my life and the reality of my current life.

And, yeah. I understand. The river’s gonna flow. I get it and accept it. My billadong.

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Asked and answered

Belle was letting me get her off this morning. We were kissing and just sort of snuggling and doing our foreplay when she took my balls and the tight Orion into her hand.

“I never thought we’d get to a place where you’d never let me out again,” I said. Because it’s true. I still have a hard time believing it.

“Well, here we are,” she replied. “Welcome.” Little ball squeeze.

We kissed some more before I hazarded a question.

“Do you miss it?”

“Nope!” Said with zero hesitation. “Not even a little.”

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The many gifts

As it’s been explained to me by Belle, the reason she’s done with letting me fuck her is that I’m so much better at getting her off using other methods. And, of course, that’s true. But it’s been true for a really long time. Years, even.

I mean, it’s been so long since I could reliably get her off with PIV. I remember how frustrated she’d get with me when I’d come before her. She’d be riding me on top and I’d be sucking on her tits and thinking about baseball and I was lucky if I came just before her so that there would remain enough of an erection for her to get the rest of the way there. More often than not, I stopped being lucky and she’d be frustrated and I’d feel terrible.

Before enforced denial came along, this was Belle’s preferred method of getting off; riding my erection to orgasm. She rarely came any other way. I’m sure an exhaustive search of this blog would allow me to find about when I became unable to get her to orgasm with the contents, but it might be ten years ago.

After that, she made do with feeling me fuck her after I got her off with my fingers or mouth. Sometimes, she’d come from riding a strap on or an extender fit over the erection and, honestly, my very favorite time to fuck her was right after that. I have seared into my memory the time she said, “I can barely feel you,” to me as I slid into her and it might be the hottest thing she’s ever said to me.

But even then, I disappointed because the length of time I was able to fuck her got shorter and shorter. If she let me do it right now, I wouldn’t last two minutes. Maybe not even one. The length of time between opportunities to fuck her got longer as the shorter my stamina became.

I say all this because as I was laying here in bed waiting for Belle to wake up, I was reflecting on how much adaptation she’s had to make to her sexual preferences over the years. And since the primary dynamic in our relationship now is that sex is for her and her pleasure over mine, always, then the actual years of being allowed to fuck her after I was unable to bring her to orgasm that way were a gift. Especially all those times she let me do it when I shot my load just a few minutes after sliding in. Every one of those times were essentially charity on her part. They were her being exceedingly indulgent. And I knew it.

I should not spend a moment pining over my memories of fucking her now that she’s told me I never will again. Instead I should sit in gratitude of all the extra times she let me do it even after it had become clear that the useful life of the contents as a method of her pleasure had clearly passed.

Even if she was only letting me inside her every couple of months, each time she did and I came almost immediately were a gift. A gift. And, I suppose in looking back at it, it should have been clear that their number was finite.

So anyway, that’s how I think about being made pussy free now. I should be, and am, grateful for all she’s given me.

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Skinny dip

Belle and I have been using her pool lately. That’s not a euphemism or anything. We have a pool in our backyard and I refer to it as hers because she wanted it and I really wasn’t too enthused but she paid for it so there it is. Her pool.

Anyway, it’s been hot as fuck for the past few days and we’ve been jumping in after workouts and runs and such. Sometimes together, but not always. I’m in it alone as I write this post, actually.

A couple of days ago we were in it and, since the fence is high and we’re living without offspring at the moment, we were naked. We came together and I had my arms around her and she had hers around my neck and her legs around my hips. The Orion started to feel tight as my thoughts turned to how her snatch was hovering, open and inviting, just over it.

The remembrance of being in similar situations before entered my mind. Of shifting my hips up and pushing her down and sliding into her under the water. Even as the Orion grew tighter at the thought, it almost felt like I had a proper erection extending away from my body and that the only thing keeping me from being inside her was a few inches of warm pool water. I shifted my hips up futilely, craving the contact that couldn’t happen, as the notion and the concept rather than the actual word never fell over my urges like a heavy wet blanket.

There’s a difference in being locked up and forcibly denied in that situation when instead of “never” you think “not now.” Her pussy was right there. Available, warm and inviting. And I’m told I will never feel what’s it’s like to be there again.

I don’t deserve it. I have no reason to feel entitled to it. It’s a gift from her to me that she has all the power between us to grant or withhold. I ceded that to her when I asked her to lock me up. This was always a potential outcome and one I had fantasized about many times before.

So as hard as it is to accept never, I don’t have a choice. And I have to admit that even now, as I sit on the ledge in the deep end of the pool with the sun warm on my shoulders and the current from the jet caressing my thigh and exposed balls, I’m incredibly tight from acknowledging having been put in this situation.

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Hellsite convo

Over on the Hellsite, I posted this image with the caption “Fuuuucking horny this morning.” Because I was and I’m a nasty exhibitionist.

Normally, I’d just embed the tweet in my post but the idiot fuckwad that owns the Hellsite now (and thinks there’s a chance in hell people are going to start calling it a letter of the alphabet) keeps breaking it in ways that have included in the past making embedded tweets — which are, like, everywhere on the internet — just stop working so I’m not going to do that anymore. I’m barely able to bring myself to link to them since it’s possible/likely that’ll stop working any day now, too. Note, I also posted it to Mastodon if that’s more your thing.

Aaaaaanyway…

This tweet elicited a question from a follower named Jack.

“Wondering, if milking would be a way to solve this?”

Which is cute because his assumption is me being super horny is a problem needing solving rather than the whole point of the exercise. Like, it’s a feature not a bug, Jack.

I replied, “Milking can help but can also leave me even more horny than I was.” Which is true. Milking can lead to a bit of relief but it’s not the same as orgasm and, since I’m not a good milker generally, can lead me to feeling way more frustrated after the fact than before.

Jack replied, “Just zero orgasms…seems overwhelming to me.” That’s totally fair. Not every guy who’s into enforced denial is into it in the same way. And, I think, age plays a large part. I used to jack off most days 20 years ago. Sometimes twice in a day. I do wonder how I’d adapt to permanent enforced denial if I was, say, thirty-five rather than fifty-five.

His reply caused another follower named Devin’s Latex Gimp to chime in.

“Yeah. In session is one thing, but other than that, I’ve been pretty clear it’s not something I could commit to. Couldn’t follow through with it, even if locked.”

Jack answered back, “I mean, I have done a few weeks. But without orgasm, I go bananas and get too focused kink/sex/release. But I like to wear it and find alternative ways to come. Admittedly, I really enjoy anal play now…a lot.”

When I said the other day, “I think about those guys who are locked up for a week or two or a month at time and who then get out and aren’t expected or told to rush back in. I wonder how many of them will keep living that way. And also how many will eventually end up like me,” I was talking about guys like Jack and not, apparently, DLG. If you’re setting as a limit being locked for longer than a single play session, it seems unlikely you’d end up permanently denied. But Jack’s predicament sounds very familiar to me. I was like that for years while being locked up. Getting to where I am now was a long road.

I’m not saying Jack will end up permanently denied. I don’t know him aside from his cute profile pic and our limited interactions on the Hellsite, but I find his situation illustrative of what I wrote about.

But getting back to me for a second, I have previously worried that knowing I wasn’t getting out and wasn’t going to be allowed to come ever again would somehow change how I thought about enforced denial. It hasn’t. I think I’m still kind of getting used to the idea that I’m just done with penile pleasure, orgasm, etc. The idea (and typing those words) make me very tight so it still works for me, obvs, but it’s also hard for me to really believe this is where we are. That that’s it with shooting loads. I have no idea how or why I’ll ever feel that again. And that’s something.

I do love that it came from her. That it wasn’t a decision based on a conversation or whatever. We didn’t decide. She did. And she didn’t tell me that that was my fate. I had to figure it out for myself. As a sub, feeling the heavy hand of my Domme’s will in that way is satisfyingly profound.

Anyway, I don’t know what else to say to Jack or the Gimp. I guess all I can do is keep sharing my experiences and thoughts as I have been and people can see themselves or not in what I say.

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Virtu-cuck

Belle and I were in the pool yesterday, naked and having a chat. I was sitting on the underwater ledge in the deep end and looking down at how the titanium Orion was glinting in the refracted sunlight. She referred to me as “Permanently Denied Thumper” when she noticed what I was doing. Then she said that she really liked our newest device.

“You’re not going to miss ever seeing the contents again?” I asked.

“Nope,” she replied. Mostly, she explained, because I was very good at all the other ways of pleasuring her. But also, she said it had something to do with her British boyfriend. Long time readers may remember this guy, but for the newbies, he’s someone she’s had a pretty long term virtual relationship with. They actually met about a year ago, though nothing physical happened. But something is still happening, clearly, because she mentioned him in reference to me never being let out of my device for sex again.

I try not to pry. It’s her thing, not mine. I don’t go into lots of gory details about me and Frodo and I want to give her space for…whatever it is she’s up to with this guy. Though I expect I’d be way more into hearing about him than Belle would be about Frodo and me. All I know about him really is he’s from the UK and has a big cock. Way bigger than me.

In any event, she mentioned to me that while it may not be in the way I’d like, she is cuckolding me with him after a fashion. That piqued my interest so I probed a bit.

“Does he know I’m not allowed to fuck you anymore?”

“Yes.”

‼️

I felt that particular form of cuck squirmyness. The thing that’s embarrassing and emasculating but also hot and tube-tightening. I probed a bit more.

“Does he know you keep me locked up?” Last time I asked her this (and it was a long while back, shortly after they met), she said no, it hadn’t come up.

“Yes.”

‼️‼️

OK, now this is something else entirely. She’s not just having some kind of naughty sexting thing with him. She’s let him into our dynamic. He’s an actual real person in our lives (not that you all aren’t actual real people, but you know what I mean) and he knows I don’t have a cock and my wife has no use for what I do have. Also, that his presence in our lives factors somehow into her algebra to deny me permanently.

It will remain enigmatic for me, though, unless she decides to tell me more. That’s her life, not mine, and she gets to have it without me.

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Molecule by molecule

As of this morning, and according to my time tracking app, it has been 1,234 days since I was outside some kind of enforced denial device for a period longer than an a handful of hours. I was unlocked at about 10:00 PM on March 4, 2020, and went back in at about 7:00 PM on March 6th. I don’t even remember what that was about but I assume it was due to some kind of irritation from the Evotion 8 I was wearing at the time. Since March 6, 2020, I have been in one device or another for 99% of the time.

That’s for context.

I am not, of course, the only guy who’s locked up like that. While still a minority of all locked men (based on my unscientific surveil of followers and followees on the Hellsite), there are guys out there who’ve been locked up even longer than me. I’m not claiming some kind of record. But I also know that while it seems second nature to me, most guys who are locked up aren’t locked up like I am. And I think about those guys who are locked up for a week or two or a month at time and who then get out and aren’t expected or told to rush back in. I wonder how many of them will keep living that way. And also how many will eventually end up like me. I know two things. One, the person holding the key has a lot to do with deciding that (obvs), but also, two, the gravitational pull of being locked up is very strong.

I have heard these stories from others. I have lived that story. You lock up for a few days. Then it’s on Sunday through Friday. Then it’s over a weekend too and it’s been two weeks. Then it turns into a month. Then two, three, a year, 1,234 days. We locked penis-havers are complicit in this. The longer we’re locked the longer we want to be locked. The longer we’re denied, the longer we want to be denied. As if our pre-locked sexuality is slowly replaced, molecule by molecule, like a piece of wood being petrified, until it’s transformed into something else entirely. Something that our previous selves would have never understood.

I’ve written before about this change of mindset. (I mean, duh. Is there anything I write about that I haven’t written about before?) The way we stop associating and identifying with what’s inside the device. We become separate from it. Not literally. It’s still on us. It’s still in there. Physically attached, but emotionally separate. Emotionally detached. Alienated. Removed.

I think this is why when I see other guys on places like the Hellsite jacking off and shooting their loads that I have a hard time thinking of myself as the same species as them. The guys with the cocks using them on the holes of others for their own pleasure. I used to aspire to be one of them. I might even have assumed I was. But now I know otherwise. What I am now is what I always was meant to be. What Belle has helped me become.

I used to celebrate the contents. It defined me. Now I feel derision towards it. It’s simple urges and ridiculous preening.

Our transformations have been simultaneous. It has no job now. No purpose. It’s not fit for the thing it was designed to do. It’s useless. It’s needy. I feel like I share my body with this other being with its own motivations and desires and all I can do is feel sorry for it. Because it’s never going to get what it wants. Not anymore. Those days are behind both of us. It’s become pathetic and deserves nothing more than it gets now which is nothing.

Yeah, so WOW, huh? I don’t think all locked up guys feel this way. Not by a long shot. But I know some do. Are all locked up guys capable of ending up here? Or no? If they’re left that way forever, will they find themselves transformed like I’ve been? I suspect a lot of guys who are locked up less than me might recoil at what I’m describing. But there are others who read what I’ve said and find themselves hard (or tight) as fuck. And maybe that scares them a little. I dunno. Embrace it.

This post didn’t end up where I thought it would, though I can’t say I really had a plan. Sometimes, the words just fall out of the my fingertips in the order they do and even I’m surprised. Just call me ThumperGPT, I guess. But don’t call the contents anything else than what it is: contents. Packed away and stored with the other bric-a-brac and souvenirs.

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Finger fuckin’ good

Something interesting happened yesterday morning. Well, two somethings. One was Belle let me get her off even though it was a weekday. I especially appreciated that since it was not entirely clear I was going to be able to get her off the next morning (spoiler: I did anyway) and each one of her orgasms is precious to me.

No, the weird thing was while I was getting her off. That was the first time she let me get to her pussy since finding out, definitively, that I wasn’t going to put the contents in there again. And knowing that, even though I was pretty turned on, I observed that I didn’t get very hard. It was…hmm. Plump. A bit of pressure. But a long ways from being tight. Also, I felt myself being very aware of my fingers. Of course, I always pay attention to what I’m doing while getting her off, but, again, I thought about how I’m not getting out anymore and that what I was doing right then was the only way I was ever going to be inside her again. My fingers, sliding in and around her clit, were the only part of my body that was going to “fuck” her from that point forward.

There was like an arch of energy going from my brain to the tips of my fingers similar to how I felt the last time I came inside her. Similar to how fucking with the contents felt. As if the finality of hearing, plainly and without prevarication, that that part of my life is done was causing certain pathways to be re-etched inside me. Brains are funny things, right? People talk of senses being heightened when others are lost. Limbs and appendages adapting to new purposes. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. No more pretending like maybe today, after 489 days, will be the one she lets me out to fuck. Every part of me knows it now and accepts it so maybe my lizard brain is making do with repurposing my fingers for what it would prefer the contents be used for. I have absolutely no idea, but it felt different to me.

I’m not saying I won’t every get super hard while pleasuring her again. I suppose I will at some point. But I noticed again this morning while going down on her that I was like yesterday. Plump, not packed.

In fact, I’m harder now writing about this than I was with my face in her pussy. 🤷🏼‍♂️

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What I asked for and need

Over on the hellsite owned by the misogynist, anti-LGBTQ, trans-hating, pro-fascist manbaby, where, unfortunately, the pro-sex/kinky crowd still hangs out, there’s been some concern by a few of my followers that Belle’s decision to no longer let me fuck her has left me feeling sad or something. I’m not trying to come off as remorseful, so I’m not sure where this is coming from.

I suppose some of it could be projection (or something like it, I’m no psychologist) in that, they would be sad if their spouse told them “You should have no reason to expect I’ll ever let you fuck me again,” so they read my reaction to the news in a sad light. I guess that’s natural since, for most people, being told they were done fucking would not be welcome news.

Of course, I’m not sad. I’m not…happy about it either. It’s complicated. But I’m 100% not sad. No remorse. No resentment. No regrets. I’m not mad, worried, depressed, or in any way perturbed by her decision. It’s her decision and she’s made it.

Thing is, I’m a sub. I crave her control over me sexually. I prioritize her pleasure over mine. I have always wanted her to make the decision for me as to when and how I’d be part of her pleasure. So, in no uncertain terms, she is giving me everything I’ve asked for.

Over fourteen years ago I wrote:

I like the inequity! I get off on the unfairness! Being arbitrary and capricious in the doling out of sexual experiences is exactly what I want. She should come ten times more often than me. She should tell me every day for a week when I’m going to get sex and then, on a whim, decide against it. I want her to leave me straining and hard and constantly yearning for release. (God, just writing this sends waves of excitement through me.) Of course, simply saying this can’t stop her from feeling guilt, but I can only continue to say it in hopes that eventually she’ll see that keeping me frustrated and in a state “normal” society would define as terrible and unfair is one of the ways I can find happiness and some sort of satisfaction.

https://denyingthumper.com/2008/12/09/unpainting-corners/

The only thing that’s changed since then is that she doesn’t need to be capricious. She has perfectly logical reasons why I won’t fuck her again and I understand them. Kind of the opposite of capricious, actually. Of course, I wrote that when I still had a functioning “cock” and she was wired to prefer being penetrated by it.

So no, not sad. What I crave more than orgasm and getting the contents wet is being used for the pleasure of someone else without regard to mine. She’s given me that.

I may be indulging in some lingering mourning for that part of my life being over. I mean, it was over before I even realized it was over, but now I know so it’s, like, final. It’s perfectly natural for me to enjoy the sensations that come from sliding into a warm, wet pussy and even I crave orgasm when denied it long enough. Those feelings are never going away. And I don’t want them to. I need to feel that gnawing craving desire to keep me motivated. But I don’t want them more than I need to be controlled.

I told Twitter today that I woke up horny. I sure did! Don’t always, but there was something about how the contents felt packed into the Orion that hit different than most days and horny I was. Someone replied with something along the lines of, “Some days it’s hard to remember why we do this.” Well, no not actually. Again, I wasn’t saying that in a negative way. Being denied is what I want more than anything because it’s the outcome of being controlled and deprioritized. It’s the byproduct of being able to live in a truly sexually submissive state. It’s what it feels like to be me.

I guess in the same way some people can’t imagine living as I do, I am honestly totally unable to imagine living like a normal boy. Having a penis I can see and play with at will? Leaving my load on the shower tiles whenever I felt like it? What? God, it sounds bleak to me. I feel like if I came regularly and when I decided to a piece of me would die. The piece that was born nearly 15 years ago when the first device was locked onto me and Belle and I started fumbling though establishing the dynamic that brought us to today. I never, ever want to go back to those before times.

The last fifteen years have been a process of finding myself. I’m beyond lucky that my life partner is OK with who and what I am at this point in my life. Of course, I’m so grateful to her that she has taken the lead with our sex and learned to adapt and evolve as I have. There’s nothing in that that should be interpreted as a bad thing by anyone.