Gateway month

The days are getting shorter and the leaves have turned orange and yellow and are falling off the trees, so that can mean just one thing: Locktober is coming to an end.

There was a time when I was kind of excited about November 1 (or, more specifically, the first Saturday following November 1) since that’s when Belle would finally let me fuck her after a long month of being locked up. And yes, dear reader, there was a time when a solid month of being locked up was an achievement for me (and Belle). In fact, I’m pretty sure the first time she left me locked for an entire month was because of Locktober.

After a few years of that, they (whoever they are), invented NOvember. And then she left me locked for two whole months. And, because of how being locked up a long time works (the more you do it, the more you want to do it), I…was OK with it.

Speaking of NOvember, it seems to me (but what the hell do I know) that the Muggles appropriated it with that whole “No Nut November” thing and, honestly, it just seems evil to make a bunch of straight American boys not come at all for a month and then, when they’re nearly done, force them to hang out for a whole day with extended family and eat dry, garbage turkey meat (turkey is garbage and Thanksgiving would be infinitely better if we ate some other fattier animal, but I digress).

I can’t prove it, but I think Locktober was a pretty instrumental stepping-stone to becoming permanently denied. It allowed both Belle and I to really focus on the other ways I could pleasure her and showed (especially when coupled with NOvember) that I could go for longer and longer periods without release and be just fine. Once we got through NOvember, it seemed like she was more comfortable making me wait until our usual holiday trip at the end of December. And even if she did let me get off inside her around Christmas, the periods of extended lock up just got longer and longer.

But no, I am not excited now when Locktober closes out because, obviously, for me, all the months might as well start with “lock” (though I admit “Lockruary” doesn’t really have the same ring to it). Actually, it makes me kind of wistful — but not for me. Instead, I think about all those locked up penis-having people who are finding themselves dreading the end of October far more than the start of it.

Because you do get to the point where you just want to keep going. It builds on itself. You get used to the more vibrant existence that comes from being constantly low key horny. You realize that, instead of bringing relief, orgasm feels like it temporarily kills a part of who you are. And while you wait around for the frustration to build, life can feel flatter, emptier, less interesting, and just blah.

I’m not saying everyone with a locked penis feels that way. Not yet, anyway. But I am saying I think Locktober can and, at least in the case of Belle and I, has led to a lot more than just 31 days of enforced denial.

In other words, Lockternity.

Post-penis

So I feel like I should expand some more on that “new thing” I mentioned in the last post. I told you that I’ve started saying, out loud, that I don’t have a penis. I said:

[T]here’s something magical about it. Almost alchemic. Me making myself say it, me hearing me say it, makes it true and real in a way that’s difficult to convey…

The point of saying it is related to something I’ve been discussing in the last several posts. How I’ve discovered a kind of disassociation between me and the contents. A feeling that my sexuality has entered a kind of post-penis phase now that Belle has made our marriage post-penis.

For all intents and purposes, I don’t have a penis. It’s been locked up for 1,324 days straight and hasn’t been used for anything sexual for 580 days. And now I know, because she’s told me, I have no reason to believe it will happen again. So, I’ve decided to try and accelerate the disassociation of myself and the contents. To take a more proactive approach to becoming post-penis.

Saying something out loud makes you believe it more. It’s why monks chant and Catholics pray the rosary. Saying a thing is much more powerful than just thinking it. I have a lot of thoughts and almost all of them are more complex than “I don’t have a penis” and none of them make the kind of impact of hearing my own voice declare it.

What I want is to really and truly stop thinking about what’s locked inside the Orion. To stop thinking about its potential and what I could be doing with it were it not under Belle’s control and permanent denial. I do not want to stop feeling the consequences of it being that way, though. In short, I want to enjoy the byproducts of having a permanently locked penis while never wasting any time pining away for it.

I feel like this is an evolution of a path I’ve been on for 15 years. You can read it in the words I’ve used on the blog. At the beginning, I actually said I had a locked cock. Then I stopped calling it that and referred to it only as my penis. Then, the penis. And, finally, the contents. It’s been steadily downgraded from being associated with a word that connotes action and power to one that only defines it by its containment.

If I don’t have a penis (and I don’t), then all my efforts and sexual imagination and attention can be focused outside the device where they belong. And if it’s never, ever coming off (effectively) and what’s in it will never be used again, that seems the most logical and productive course of action. So, whenever I feel really horny or feel especially tight I will cut off any unwanted thoughts by reminding myself “I don’t have a penis.” I’ve been saying it a lot the past week.

And I feel like it’s already making a difference. But the only way I could make you understand how would be exposing my entire internal monologue and that seems outside the remit or capability of even this blog. I’ve already said that my urges to fuck Belle when we have sex are naturally waning since she stopped letting me do it. I also can’t remember the last time I thought about how great it would be jack off. And, of course, it’s literally been years since I had any kind of fantasy involving fucking anyone at all.

I think another thing that’s helped to become post-penis is only being in one type of device. I have been in either the plastic Orion or the titanium one 87% of the year. If not for moving to the Steelheart while the titanium one (and the all-important PA pin) was sent back for adjustments, I would have been in one Orion or the other about 95% of the year so far. Turns out, thinking about jumping from one device to another is, in a way, thinking about the contents of the device. Being very consistent with devices means less thinking about them (and it).

Also, obviously, being locked up pretty much all the time also helps with the disassociation. I will end the year having been out about 18-20 hours meaning a total locked percentage of 99.8%. I really, really want that percentage to be higher. A 99.9% locked time would mean being out less than nine hours over 365 days. Since the overwhelming majority of the times I’ve been out have been for air travel, I have to decide if I will risk another up close and personal inspection by my friends at the TSA. All the inside-the-pants friction experienced from walking from my truck through the parking garage and terminal straight to the nearest post-security bathroom is entirely too distracting and destructive to my efforts of disassociation.

I’m also thinking of ways of never actually seeing it anymore. I feel like never laying eyes on it outside a device would be a huge boost to becoming post-penis. I could easily change devices with my eyes closed (and have many times done it in the dark or under covers and only by touch). Piece of cake. I could probably even do the little bit of shaft-shaving I tend to when I have the chance without actually having to see it. That’s really the only part of the thing I can’t keep tidy while locked up.

So anyway, that’s the deal with the whole “I don’t have a penis” thing. It’s about really and truly making the contents just a little piece of meat whose only purpose is filling out the insides of the Orion and making it tight. It’s about being post-penis physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Fifteen

The other day, October 12, was the fifteenth anniversary of this blog. Had Belle not put it on her personal calendar, the day would have passed by without any fanfare. As it was, since I was busy trying to get ready to leave on a ten day camping trip (the last hurrah of the season for such things), the best I could do was fire off some social media posts linking to this site’s first ever entry.

Over on the hellsite, Tom jokingly asked how I still had anything to say after 15 years. And it’s true, I often feel like I’ve said it all. Like, three times over. I joked back that perhaps Belle decided to permanently deny me in order to give me something new to write about. 🤔

I was about to say that it’s hard to write about the absence of a thing for fifteen years, but I think that’s a backwards way of thinking. Actually, a perspective that I had thought I had moved past. Permanent enforced denial cannot be defined as living in the absence of orgasm. It is, rather, living with the presence of perpetual orgasmic continence. This is something of what I tried to define in my last post. We call it “denial” because we start out not knowing our true selves and the presence of orgasm is the default. Also, our biological imperative is to seek orgasm out. But for some of us, who we really are and what we really need is to live in this other state.

The best way for me to know this is right for me is how thinking about orgasm or doing the things that lead to orgasm don’t register in the device between my legs while writing about never being allowed to fuck or come like a normal man again — thinking about the service I provide without expectation of being entitled to reciprocation — causes the device to tighten and throb. The device tells me what I need to know about myself.

In any event, I’ve recently started a new thing. Every day, I say to myself, out loud so I can hear my voice say it, “I don’t have a penis.” Often, I’ll say it several times, intoning it differently each time. I said it just now, as a matter of fact. It’s a simple little thing to say, but when said while holding the device or looking at it in the mirror or while flexing the contents when they’re feeling tight (like right now), there’s something magical about it. Almost alchemic. Me making myself say it, me hearing me say it, makes it true and real in a way that’s difficult to convey, even after fifteen years.

So there you go, Tom. A new thing to write about!

This blog has been more than an accounting of learning how to live with the practicalities of enforced denial. It’s also, and maybe primarily, more like a travelogue of self-discovery. The fact that people continue to find it relevant in their lives is nice to think about. 🙂

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.