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Personal Jesus

Following some of my recent posts, a friend emailed me to caution against forgetting that there’s two people in my relationship. He was concerned that I might lose sight of the fact that Belle needs to get something out of all this, too. I have endeavored to always keep that in mind, but I appreciated the reminder and last night shared the email with Belle.

This very subject has come up in our most recent counseling session (yes, we’re still doing that). What I need and want now requires so much more proactive involvement from Belle and what she wants and needs has remained pretty much the same. So, what’s in it for her? I am prepared to do whatever it takes to satisfy any fantasies she has or wants to explore, even those that would fall outside the nascent D/s framework he have going. So far, she hasn’t asked for anything out of the ordinary. Absent a quid pro quo fantasy exchange, I asked Belle what she likes about what we’ve been doing. What does she get out of it? Here’s what she said:

  • The deeper intimacy we share now that all my kinks have been exposed
  • Our increased amount of communication
  • Reading this blog (sort of relates to the two above)
  • The turn-on she gets from watching me clean the kitchen for her (relatively new)
  • Pink, her little vibe
  • All the extra orgasms she’s been getting

I may have missed something, but it’s mostly right. It’s not a bad list. It is obviously a woman’s list, but that doesn’t make it bad and, since she’s a women, it’s unsurprising. I’m overjoyed that she’s actually getting something out of all this. Whether it’s worth the extra effort she needs to put in is only something she can answer, of course.

After she was done relating these things to me, she said the look on my face suggested I wasn’t satisfied. No, it’s not that I wasn’t satisfied, but there was one thing in particular I was hoping she’d say that she didn’t (though I never, ever want her to say it unless it’s true).

Having this conversation allowed me to frame up something that’s probably second nature to a lot of experienced submissives. Now that the words have formed in my head, it seems so obvious that I can’t believe I’ve never said it before in quite this way. Basically, I want to suffer for her and I want her to recognize and appreciate that suffering.

“Kinda like my own personal Jesus,” she said.

Depeche Mode? That was unexpected. “Yeah,” I sad, “Guess so.” What else should I expect from the Catholic school girl?

Nearly everything I want in our sexual relationship eventually gets back to this. The orgasm denial, the pain, the bondage – all of it. For me, that suffering is a demonstration of my love. The more she asks me to suffer, the more I’m able to show her how much she means to me. The other night with the ice was perfect in that she went beyond where I was comfortable (the “easy” pain) and really and truly pushed me. It hurt. And I was thrilled. Not having orgasms is the same kind of demonstration, though it’s a longer, slower burn. I don’t think until last night she really appreciated how hard not coming is. She said she could go months without orgasm and not really feel a difference, but for me, it’d be rough. Unlike her body, mine continues to produce hormones and fluids and is designed to expel them regularly. There are chemicals my brain will only make after an orgasm that help keep me in balance. Plus, I can feel actual pain from not releasing. I assumed she knew all these things, but I think she thought not coming just made me hornier. Yes, it does, but it’s so much more than that. And I want and am willing to experience these things for her.

She shot back, quite rightly, that I wanted to feel these things, right? They give me a perverse pleasure. I like the whole pain and suffering thing. So surely it’s not all about genuflecting for her. My response is, of course it isn’t. I do need to get something out of the relationship. Being submissive doesn’t mean I don’t want to experience gratification, it just means I get it from different places. This, I think, is the common denominator of all relationships. Mutual gratification.

Which, of course, gets us back to the beginning of this post. I’m not sure we resolved anything specific during the conversation, but we surely moved some heavy boxes around. I’m glad we talked and I’m glad my friend gave us the little shove we needed to get the ball rolling.

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Good news for Thumper from the NYTimes?

The NYTimes magazine had a fascinating article this weekend about female sexuality. Turns out, most sex researchers have historically been male so most of them have been focusing on men (shocking). Also, since men’s sex is hanging right there for all to see and seems to be uncomplicatedly and directly connected to his reptilian brain, it’s also fair to call such research “low-hanging fruit” (not to be confused with Jeff Stryker, of course). But now, there’s a new crop of female sex researchers and they’re doing a whole bunch of new stuff in the field of whatgetsherhotology.

To wit: A researcher named Meredith Chivers showed women images of men having sex with men, men having sex with women, women doing other women, a single female working out, a hot guy ambling naked down the beach, and some monkey’s getting it on (just to fuck with their heads, I guess). Then, she had them indicate on a keypad how hot each image made them while at the same time sticking a little thingamajig up their vaginae to measure what was going on down south. Turns out, the women almost always indicated they were not turned on by images that made their pussies flush with blood.

[W]ith the women, especially the straight women, mind and genitals seemed scarcely to belong to the same person.

Tell me about it. Jesus, that explains so much. They could have stopped right there and over 20 years of vainly trying to understand women would have ended with vindication. But wait, it gets better.

Much later in the article, another researcher named Marta Meana used a Cirque du Soleil performance of “Zumanity” (which is apparently nothing more than athletically impressive live-action soft-core porn) to make this assessment:

For women, “being desired is the orgasm,” Meana said somewhat metaphorically — it is, in her vision, at once the thing craved and the spark of craving. About the dynamic at “Zumanity” between the audience and the acrobats, Meana said the women in the crowd gazed at the women onstage, excitedly imagining that their bodies were as desperately wanted as those of the performers.

And then a little later on:

The generally accepted therapeutic notion that, for women, incubating intimacy leads to better sex is, Meana told me, often misguided. “Really,” she said, “women’s desire is not relational, it’s narcissistic” — it is dominated by the yearnings of “self-love,” by the wish to be the object of erotic admiration and sexual need. Still on the subject of narcissism, she talked about research indicating that, in comparison with men, women’s erotic fantasies center less on giving pleasure and more on getting it. “When it comes to desire,” she added, “women may be far less relational than men.”

Excuse me while I do a little happy dance.

OK, back. Didja happen to notice the parts I bolded, underlined, and italicized? (What, too subtle?)

Obviously, that kind of thinking plays right into my plan for world domination. I am all about Belle Fille’s pleasure. She is the epicenter of my “erotic admiration and sexual need”. In fucking spades.

I’m not saying my Belle is the same as “women” in these studies. Each person is like a snowflake, etc. But it’s awfully encouraging to see a possible physiological connection between the way I am and wish to relate to her and the way she may be wired-up internally.

Oh, and as for the part about why the womens’ responses disagreed with their snatches? Read the article. It’s full of *ahem* juicy tidbits like that one.

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A good scene

Last night went a long way towards defrosting the prolonged funk I’ve been in. It started with Belle making a nice little orange roughy dinner (they’re ugly, but they taste good). After the kids ran off in all directions, she told me what was in store for me later if I did a good job cleaning up the kitchen and dishes.

I’ve mentioned previously that the whole domestic side of D/s hasn’t really manifested for us, but as she was sitting on the couch in front of the fire reading the paper and watching me clear the settings and wash the dishes, etc., she told me that she could see how some women get turned on by making their men work for sex. She also said that she was sure I’d rather she get turned on by making me do things in the bedroom, but really, I found that her getting turned on turned me on. She was relating how it got her going watching me work for the privilege of being sexually tortured by her and I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel the cock start to plump in my pants. Needless to say, with that as my encouragement, I took to my labors with greater vigor. Occasionally, I’d look up to see her watching me, a sly smile on her face. I remained plump while the kitchen looked better with every passing moment.

Laying in bed later, she instructed me to check to make sure the kids were out. They were, so she further instructed me to close the bedroom door and take off my clothes. Five milliseconds later, I was beside her, stripped, in our enclosed environment. She started to touch me and I whimpered. It was all very sweet and gentle, but it’s been ten days so a little was going a long way, if you know what I mean.

She then laid out the evening’s activities. First, I was to lay on my back. Then, she was going to affix plastic clothespins to my nipples (where they would remain for the duration or what would follow). Then, she was going to torture me with small baggies filled with ice cubes. After that, I was to give her a back and neck massage before bringing her to orgasm with my fingers. Finally, through it all, after I said my phrase of subservience, I would not be allowed to make any sounds whatsoever (except for those sounds made by breathing). I would not speak again until the next morning. That was the worst. Being quiet is really hard for me.

Now, if you get around the blogosphere, the preceding might sound familiar. In fact, Dev just posted about a similar scene between she and Jos. I recognized the similarities, but wasn’t complaining. This was exactly the kind of thing I wanted her to do, so who gives a shit where the idea came from? As Picasso once said, great artists steal. Yay for stealing! I said my phrase and laid on my back.

Emotionally, I felt myself descending into subspace. I realized I hadn’t been there much since my little freak-out and its warm envelopment was like salve for my psyche. I was placing myself under her control and it felt good.

She started by attaching the plastic clothespins. We’ve got a couple of nipple torture devices and these clothespins have the lowest level of intensity. I was somewhat disappointed that she was using these since, a minute after she put them on me, I stopped feeling them. It was like they weren’t there. After those were on, she started touching the cock and balls and stroking my inner thighs and stomach. It was all very soothing as I laid there, eyes partially closed, hands unsecured but holding onto the headboard above me.

Suddenly, she grabbed, squeezed, and pulled on my scrotum. Not allowed to make noise, all I could do was suck in my breath and hold it while she crushed my balls. She let go and let me lay there for a few moments before placing the first sack of ice on my scrotum. The shock of the feeling was intense. SO COLD. She just let it lay there and I could feel the cold sensation start to turn into a burning one as my balls tried to crawl up into my torso to escape the ice. I started to ache from the cold. Finally, she removed the ice and traced lines up and across my body with it. She let both of them rest on my nipples while she started to stroke the cock. Slowly at first, but with greater speed and intensity. Normally, it’s difficult to make me come this way, but I could feel semen start to boil in me. She backed off and removed the ice.

I laid there slowly writhing as the various sensations faded. My balls were still very cold and I closed my legs to help them warm. I shifted my closed legs away from Belle, but she grabbed the one closest and roughly pulled it back to her, forcing my legs back open. I wanted to moan, but bit my lip and tried to steady my breathing.

She started to run her hands over my legs and across the cock and balls again. It felt nice, but I was wary and knew the pain would be coming again. At one point, she made a motion with her hand that made me flinch and I realized I was scared of what was about to happen. I laughed at the thought. She didn’t really seem to have a plan, but I was nonetheless dangling at the end of her string. It was wonderful.

After a little while of this kind of treatment, she eventually ended up with both bags of ice on either side of the scrotum and the base of the still-hard cock as she treated it to long, insistent stroking. I again felt the orgasm building within me. I also felt the ring in the PA piercing start to hurt with the abuse, but I couldn’t talk. I moved my hand in to try to give her the message that it hurt, but she slapped it away. Now what? It hurt, but not so bad that I couldn’t take it. I felt that saying something would break the magic of the moment, but wasn’t I supposed to make any serious discomfort known? As I debated all this in my head, the growing realization of my impending orgasm loomed large. I was confused. Did she want me to come? She sure was putting her all into it and I was making it quite clear though body language of where we were heading. I started to actively fight the orgasm, bearing down on it and trying, through force of will, to keep it in me. The ice on my aching scrotum seared while the cock was hard and it took everything in me to keep from coming all over both of us.

Suddenly, she stopped. I was left panting, reeling from how close she took me. She took one bag of ice and placed it over the throbbing erection and ran the other all over my body before slapping it against my balls. Eventually, she removed the bags and ran her hands all over me in a soothing way. She was bringing me calmly back to earth. There was the matter of the clothespins to deal with, but they were so gentle I barely knew they were there. She brought her hand up to my right nipple and ripped the fucking pin off. Oh. My. God. Then she did the same to the left nipple. Holy fuck. That hurt. Then, as the blood rushed back in, they started to fucking throb. Maybe she didn’t know what she was doing, but that was bloody brilliant.

After a brief transition period where I cupped my poor, abused nipples it was time for the massage. I straddled her ass and rubbed the oil into her neck and shoulders. The cock was hard again and nestled between her ass cheeks, pointing up her spine. I gyrated my hips and ground my balls into her. I desperately wanted to fuck her at that moment and had to stop and place my head on her back. After regaining my composure, I poured my desire into her neck with my hands. Eventually, I went too far and she used her safeword (“ouch”), so I backed down.

Her orgasm was of the manual variety, but I so badly wanted to bury my face in her pussy. She came as usual and then, after letting me lay my head on her stomach for a minute or two, she rolled over and went to sleep. I was mute through the entire event.

I laid there, hard and horny, yet also drowsy and satisfied. She had taken me very deeply into my subspace. Maybe deeper than ever before. She had really tortured me, made me truly uncomfortable, and pushed me to the edge of composure. It was a terrific experience. Yes, it would have been nice to have been bound and wearing my collar, but I loved all of it. This morning, I awoke and still felt the submissiveness lingering within me.

Yep, all in all, a good scene. A really, really good scene.

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Static charge

Dev posted this yesterday:

…I worry that when we don’t have sex, orgasm denial becomes more like orgasm neglect.  Since Jos only comes with me these days, I start to feel like a vanilla girlfriend who agrees to put her boyfriend in chastity and then forgets about it completely.  “You can’t have an orgasm” is sexy.  “I don’t care” is not.

This nicely ties back to what I last posted, so I thought I’d give it a shout-out here. The rest of her entry is great, so check it out.

So after I wrote my previous post, I mentioned to Belle that I needed to do some naked stuff with her and, thankfully, she was thinking the same thing. We stripped and rolled around and eventually she told me to use the cock on her. She was worried about how it’d feel since the issue with the piercing was so recent, but I can report that once in, I felt no pain whatsoever. This is interesting since I can get the occasional twinge from just walking around or sitting down, but actually thrusting it into an enclosed space was fine. Weird.

She’s settled into wanting me to fuck her from above. Earlier in our relationship, she couldn’t come this way, but for some reason she can now and favors it over riding me. That’s great for her, but it’s a whole lot harder controlling my orgasm when I’m doing the fucking. I had warmed her up a bit beforehand, so it didn’t take too long before she was getting close. I was feeling the oncoming storm as well, but felt she was a little ahead of me so wasn’t too worried. I just kept sucking her tits and thinking about baseball (no, seriously – baseball) while trying to read her signals.

It was all going great until she started talking. She was saying how great her cock felt and how good I was at using it on her. That kind of thing. Over and over. My brain, being the biggest and most sensitive erogenous zone on my body, soaked this talk up like a sponge and I quickly found all thoughts of green baseball diamonds leaving my head. Suddenly, I was about to come and had to stop. I froze and tried to bear down to keep myself from doing it . She was still talking, but I was entirely focused on keeping the Rube Goldberg-esque orgasm mechanism from kicking in. Just as I felt myself getting the upper hand, I realized what she was saying was, “FUCK ME” over and over. I had to keep going.

What came next was very strange. I started fucking her again and she quickly started to come. I felt myself squirt into her, but I’m not sure if it was what locked and loaded from skirting the previous orgasmic edge or if I was actually coming. There was some intensity to the leakage that seemed related to orgasm, but it wasn’t the same. A few moments after she came, I knew I hadn’t because of how I felt. I still wanted to fuck, badly. I wasn’t floating in that post-orgasmic lethargy. The urge to bite her was strong. No, I hadn’t had a real orgasm. But what was it? An abandoned orgasm? A ruined orgasm? No idea. But it wasn’t a real orgasm, and that’s all that counts since I did not have permission to have one.

Last night, Belle was out to dinner with a friend and I was left at home. I was in bed absentmindedly fingering the ring going through the cock and felt it start to respond. I wasn’t trying to play with myself, but that’s eventually what happened. I really like the sensation of the loose remainder of my foreskin sliding up and over the metal. It’s fucking great. Personally, that sensation is better for me than how it feels when fucking. In any event, I brought myself to the edge several times. Deliciously close. Not so close that I leaked, but pretty damned close. I tried to stay awake, but I couldn’t and fell asleep before Belle got home. Now, as I’m writing this, I’m feeling hornier than I have in many days. It’s good to have that current running through me again. If Belle’ll have me, I’ll zap her with it tonight.

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Too long

I was looking though the little notebook I keep on my nightstand in which I have recorded each time Belle or I have achieved orgasm this year and was struck by something. No, it wasn’t that I’m an obsessive compulsive weirdo for keeping a log of when either of us comes (though you could argue that). It was that it has been a whole week since we’ve had a serious sexual encounter with one another.

I’ve posted about this before, but it bears remembering that prolonged denial of orgasm can be very detrimental to a male’s state of mind. I’ve been grumpy and a little depressed and, I think, a contributing factor is this week of no sex. It’s perfectly normal for couples to occasionally go a week without fooling around, but I don’t think it’s normal for a male in my condition to completely abstain from any sexual release over that time. I find the need to come transforms into a need to have her come. Denial of both makes me kinda nuts. To stay sane, I need to give Belle some bunny lovin’, and soon.

What I find interesting is that I’m now able to go a whole week without feeling the jagged hormonal edge of denial. When we first started doing this, 48 hours would leave me a tangled ball of sexual yarn, but I’m only now starting to feel the frantic little moments in my chest telling me I’m starting to build pressure. I’m curious if the period before I feel this way will continue to lengthen as my body adjusts to its new release rhythm or if I’ll eventually find the outer wall of my capacity to be denied before experiencing side-effects. Lately, a week seems to be about when I first feel the return of the carnivorous butterflies. If she denied me for a month at a time, would that move out to ten days? Two weeks?

I admit that a big part of why I like to be denied orgasms is how it makes me feel. The emotional and phsycological aspects aside, I like the hormonal high I get from a build-up of sexual need. It would be kind of a bummer if I found that I essentially developed a resistance to the hormones and needed a longer and longer denial period each time to get high from them. Because, I really do like to come. Really. I swear.

I think this need for a higher high is part of why I really want to try new things with Belle. As I’ve posted before, the idea of being locked-up while fucking her with a strap-on really lights up my board (as does turning the tables and having her fuck me). I can only imagine the effect being that turned-on would have on my high. I’m like some kind of bizarre sexual cliff diver always looking for the next, bigger rush. This is especially true since Belle had me write down all my interests during her trip. All those ideas churning around in my brain looking for a way out…

This line of thought eventually brings me to wondering what we do if I eventually find orgasm denial no longer flips my switch. What will the next drug be? And is it even as simple as an all-or-nothing state? I suspect the successful strategy would be to weave together my interests in bondage, pain, sexual submission, and denial into something that never relies too much on any one aspect of my perversion. The even bigger trick will be to find a combination that also lights Belle’s fire since her interests are not my own. As I’ve recently been reminded, this isn’t all about me. She’s both the focus and instrument of my pleasure. If, in the end, what makes me happy doesn’t make her happy, then it’s not going to fly.

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Piercing problem, part 2

So I had thought, since I was going to be in a room with a piercer and my pants were going to be down and all, that it might be a good time to stretch up to 6g from my original 8g. Um, no. Not only am I not wearing 6g now, I’m actually down a size to 10g.

Turns out in 24 hours my little hole got even littler. The piercer (a dude, not Jesika this time) tried to put a 8g taper in the hole and it hurt. I mean, really hurt. Not, “Ouch, that hurts!” More like a OHMYFUCKINGGODTHATHURTSGETITOUTOFME!! kind of hurt. I laid there, the 8g taper only half in, feeling the most excruciating, burning pain from the underside of my dick for 10 seconds…30 seconds…a minute. It never got any better. I tried to tell myself I like pain, especially attached to the dick, but no go. I couldn’t take it. So he put me in a 10g captive ball hoop which I will need to wear for about a month before trying to get back to 8g. Looks like 6g is a distant goal.

Oh, and my dick still hurts. Fuck.

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Piercing problem

And then, as if I wasn’t in a bad enough mood, this happens.

Yesterday, in the early afternoon, I was sitting down to pee (don’t get me started) and one of the little metal balls from my PA’s curved barbell dropped into the toilet. Luckily, the bowl was fresh so I reached in to the very cold water and fished it out. Unfortunately, since I was locked up, there was no way for me to get the ball back on, so I fiddled around a bit and was able to get the jewelry off. I figured I’d get let out by Belle that evening and I’d replace it.

BUT, by the time I got around to it (less than eight hours later) I found the hole and shrunk such that there was no way I could get the 8g bar into it. I tried and tried. I mean, I really tried and eventually gave up for fear of hurting myself. I’m about to head off to Saint Sabrina’s to see if they can help me out. I know the hole isn’t closed entirely because it still drips when I pee.

So I’m laying there with Belle last night and the entire thing started to play on my newly enhanced insecurities. If I hadn’t been wearing the stupid fucking chastity device in the first place, I could have gotten the ball back on. If I hadn’t pierced my stupid fucking dick, I wouldn’t even have this problem. Why, oh why, does it all have to be so complicated? Why can’t I just have a nice, unpierced dick like all the other boys? And why do I want her to lock my cock up in the ugly plastic thing?

Please, don’t inturrupt my pity party. It’s almost time for cake.

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Emotional vomit

It’s been too long since my last post. One reason for this is that we were up at the cabin for the long weekend and, as I’ve said before, there’s no internet up there. The other reason is that I’ve been kind of in a funk and didn’t really know what to write, even if I could.

It started over week ago. Belle and I were laying on the bed and she said something that caused me to ask her why I was locked up. Funny that I can’t remember how I came to be asking her that, but it’s been so long that the details are getting kind of fuzzy. In any event, she said it was because I wanted to be denied. Yes, that’s technically true, but in fact, I would have rather heard it was because she wanted me to be locked up. The moment passed, but it kind of gnawed at me for the rest of the evening until later that night when she said, innocently enough, that she didn’t want all this stuff about denial and chastity and yada yada to be all that we ever talked about. She wanted some balance.

A couple of things. One, I was trying to give her balance before she said that. I know that I think about it and want to talk about it more than she does. I think that’s natural. For one, I’m a male and think about sex, like, all the time. For another, being a sexually frustrated and an “orgasmically challenged” male makes me think about it all the fucking time. But really, what most struck me about her comment wasn’t that. It was that this whole new twist to our sex life isn’t really about us as much as it was about me. That is, I feel as though I’m “coming out” to both her and myself regarding this side of my sexuality that’s been bottled up for so long. Yes, it’s also about us and our relationship, but not entirely. So, when she said she wanted balance and not to have to talk to me about all this sex stuff so much, it sounded like she didn’t want to deal with me and everything I was discovering and exploring about myself. No, that’s not what she meant, but it’s what I heard. It played perfectly into my own self-doubts. I lost it.

For a couple of days, I was a total disaster. Every time we talked about it, I cried. Not just a little. I fucking sobbed. Inconsolable. I really don’t know where all that was coming from, but I can still feel it within me. It’s as if all my insecurities fused together to form some kind of emotional shark that never stops swimming just beneath the surface of my psyche. It’s unnerving enough to be unearthing all kinds of new urges and desires, but to do it along side your wife of eleven years who, it turns out, doesn’t have any of the same proclivities is really, really hard. At least it is for me. Nothing she said was meant to reject or marginalize me or my feelings, but it all felt that way. As someone who is typically quite confident and who approaches life accordingly, this has been a difficult set of feelings to come to terms with.

At the end of our conversations, we decided that maybe limiting me to three orgasms this year was way, way too aggressive. Not only would that make it very hard for me to give her the balance she was looking for, it would also place a lot of responsibility on her shoulders in dealing with me and my constantly needy and sexually charged state. To be able to successfully take that on would require that she actually enjoy it and I just don’t think she does. Not enough, anyway. I’ve asked that we target ten more orgasms and see how that goes. If, as we go along, we want to take that number down, I’m all for it, but to jump right to three seems crazy for both of us.

So then, since I was such an emotional wreck, she took me out of the CB-6000. Not only that, she allowed me to have sex with her and I came. The actual orgasm was intense – almost too intense to be pleasurable. I found afterward that I wasn’t very happy about having come. I almost felt a sense of mourning for the period of denial I had achieved and let slip by. As if the coming was just a punctuation on my failure and bizarre fetishes.

ARGH. I hate this post. I hate how it shows how much doubt and insecurity I carry around and how uncertain I am about who I am and how to make that work in my marriage. I have a wonderful, supportive wife and yet I’m still kind of a wreck about all this. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Not for the first or last time, I wish I could just be fucking normal. Whatever normal is.

I should not even post this. I should delete it. But I feel like I need to emotionally vomit before I can start blogging again and I guess that’s what this post is: my projectile vomiting of all my inner demons upon you, my unknown reader. God, I fucking hate feeling like I’m not even sure I am what I think I am. I’ve been here before. Back when I was struggling with my bisexuality and not thinking you could be such a thing. But that was primarily a private struggle. Now I’m married with kids and a house and a dog and an expensive car and everything. Back in the day, I could withdraw. But not now. Now, I have to deal with it.

Someone please slap me across my face and tell me to snap the fuck out of it.

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The most effective chastity device

Over on Tom’s site, Miss Tease (the author of yesterday’s super-hot link) said this in a thread about the CB-6000:

…[T]he CBx000 series provide almost zero protection against masturbation. The vast majority of males seems to be able to pull out their penis of the device even when additional accessories such as points of intrigue are applied. Getting back into the device also does not seem to be a problem using a certain technique incorporating a nylon stocking or pantyhose. A potential solution could be a piercing, but this always bears the risk of migration or being ripped out of the wearer’s skin during physical activity.

Altogther, I would not call a device that can cause significant health problems while not fulfilling its intended purpose adequate. I agree that as a sex toy for beginners, the CBx000 devices make for a hot fantasy, I am just a little disappointed that they are so inadequate as real chastity devices.

While I greatly enjoy Miss Tease’s prose, I have a fundamental issue with her POV regarding chastity devices. What she seems to be looking for is the mythical undefeatable belt (you know, the one those guys are locked into against their will for years and years in all the hawt chastity p0rn). One that will never allow her man access to his wee-wee without her knowledge and frustrate his every attempt get it. I suppose an actual metal belt-type model would do this, but I’ve never seen one that didn’t cost north of $500 (and usually, well north).

For me, there seems to be two ways to cheat at “enforced” chastity. One is slipping out for a quick wank and then slipping back in with hopes no one noticed. The CB-X000’s, unmodified, certainly allow this, as, I suspect, do most of the other “trapped ball” devices out there. The other way to cheat is to physically defeat the device (cutting the lock, etc.). Regardless of the caliber of your device, there is a tool that will break it (and a lot of guys probably already own it). As far as I’m concerned, there’s not a huge difference in either scenario because the commitment to chastity isn’t made at the moment the device is placed on you. You have to bring that with you beforehand.

My best advice for Miss Tease (or anyone else, be they the keyholder or the locked) is to depend on the chastised male’s brain as the ultimate chastity device. The physical representation of the keyholder’s control hangs off your dick. The actual control exists between your ears. All any CB can be is a deterrent. It’s there to help you through moments of weakness or extreme arousal (or maybe even create moments of arousal), but none ever devised can absolutely guarantee denied access.

So, that said, where do I come down on the whole “the best chastised male is the one who doesn’t need a device” argument? Well, as usual, Tom’s got it covered pretty well. As he says, “Some of us just happen to kink on the physical restraint. It’s okay. Really.” That’s why I’m in it. Not because I can’t control myself, but because I like carrying her control around with me. It turns me on.

Which brings me back to Miss Tease (or, more specifically, her boyfriend). He shouldn’t wear it if it’s because he needs it. If he needs it, she’s already lost her control. If he wants it or likes it, bingo. If that’s the case, then she’s already got a lock on his mind and, as everyone knows, that’s the most dangerous sex organ of them all.