One and a dozen

Neither Belle nor I can remember the last time I had a real, full, man’s orgasm. Like when she lets me fuck her and, as soon as I enter her, she whispers in my ear, “I want you to come in me.”

She thinks it was around Christmastime but I’m almost positive that’s not the case. We were in St. John over the holidays (RIP the Before Times) and I was mostly locked up and while I can’t recall specifically coming, I have a pretty good sense that I did not. And there’s no mention of doing so in my posts from that period.

In fact, as I recall, I hadn’t in a while by then and wondered if she’d make me come since vacation trips are not unusual times for such things based on her previous behavior. And, as I recall, I was almost always locked up during that trip. I think it’s been or is about to be or has recently passed the one year mark.

Note, when she lets me fuck her, I do ejaculate. I don’t have an orgasm. The difference? Significant. After I come, I feel like I came. I feel that build up and explosion of sensation and the fluid jets out of the penis and slams into her cervix. There’s a detonation of chemical release in my brain and the penis gets incredibly sensitive and I get sleepy and my balls tingle as they contract. I mean, come on guys. We know what orgasms feel like. And what I have isn’t that.

What happens is almost as soon as the penis hits her warm, wet and inviting snatch, I feel like an orgasm is imminent. If I can hold off more than a minute, it’s an achievement. And of course I want to hold out since the feeling of being inside her is the only pleasurable sensation I’m allowed or capable of feeling from the penis. But, honestly more importantly, she likes how it feels to get fucked and I want her to feel that as long as possible. “As long as possible” is always less than three minutes, though.

We’ve spend the better part of the last dozen years controlling my orgasm and she’s been strictly determining my ability to come for about half that so I’ve become an expert in the minutiae of the orgasmic order of operations. I know precisely where my point of no return is. I know precisely when I need to stop thrusting to keep myself from going over the falls. I know precisely how much additional sensation I can bear to avoid the autonomic inevitability of coming. While I’ve never surfed a wave on a board, I feel like staying perched on the edge like this, milking (as it were) as much pleasure as possible without getting too much from the act, is not unlike surfing. Surfing the inevitable and dropping off at just the last moment.

And then I squirt. Not as forceful as real orgasm, but definite and distinct shots. And while it doesn’t feel like coming, the penis begins to soften immediately after. Back in the day, I was able to make my mess and then keep fucking her for as long as she could take it. But not anymore. The penis is trained to bail out once it coughs up its load, no matter how much I wish I could keep going.

One year (and counting) is a milestone I craved when we first started down this path of denial and chastity. And that path, it turns out, began twelve years ago today, at least based on the date of my first blog post.

The funny thing is, “one year” just sneaked up on us. She never made a decision, as far as I know, that I wouldn’t have an orgasm in a year. And she hasn’t made the decision, as far as I know, that I’ll come again any time soon. If ever. She seems perfectly happy with the status quo as am I. I don’t miss orgasm and feel what I get is more than I deserve already. And I suppose it’s a measure of maturity in the dynamic that the metrics and obsession with when and how I come have kind of melted away. I suppose it’s the real definition of the ideal that I feel is central to our dynamic that my orgasm isn’t considered or expected or really any active part of our sex except in its absence. So, in that way, it seems like twelve years in, we’re doing this exactly right.

Differences and choices

I have been in the Steelheart a lot lately. Since April 1 (an admittedly arbitrary stake in the ground) and through yesterday, I’ve been kept for a total of 3,192 hours and out of a device for only two hours and nine minutes (not counting the moments in between devices as one comes off for maintenance and the other goes on). That’s a total kept percentage of 99.94% of the time over about four and a half months. Of that, the Steelheart has made up nearly 80% of the time. Two thousand five-hundred and four hours.

But, in that period, I was in the Evotion 8 only 28 hours. And I’m in it now as the Steelheart required its twice-monthly vinegar soak and I had to be in something and that’s made me reflect on how the two devices are different. Even how my “top three” compare: Steelheart vs. Holy Trainer vs. Evotion 8.

The Holy Trainer is basically a mass market consumer device. It’s like the Android phone of male chastity. It’s a solid choice for most people who otherwise have no idea what they’re doing and/or basically just want to lock up a penis as efficiently and with as little fuss as possible. And I say none of that to be any kind of knock on it. It’s a great device. It gets the job done. Simple to use, well made and thoughtfully designed. But ultimately, even in its plethora of available colors and the text “inserts,” it still kind of feels like the same phone the other guy has but in a spiffy case.

New to male chastity? Don’t want to spend a ton or care about it being made to personal specifications? The Holy Trainer is your go-to. Simple choice.

The Steelheart is totally different. It’s not mass produced and injection molded, it’s hand crafted. You can see the hand of its maker all over it. The machines he used to drill and polish and weld. And the way it works to contain its contents is ingenious but also…cobbled is the best word for it. Again, I don’t knock it for that. I love that it’s that way. And of all the devices I have worn, I (and Belle) still think it’s the dead sexiest. It does everything I feel a chastity device should do, even though it clanks like an assembly of spare parts from a chain link fence installation. The Steelheart is a device that could have been made in 1980 or 1969 or 1943. It’s totally analog.

Ultimately, the Steelheart is “home” for me. It’s my safe place. It makes me complete. Highly polished steel is just so fucking dreamy.

The Evotion 8 is a different beast from both of the others. Unlike the Holy Trainer, the Evo 8 is totally bespoke. It is made to my personal and exact specifications. And unlike the almost steampunk analog vibe of the Steelheart (even the name, upon consideration, is steam-punky), the Evo 8 feels incredibly digital and modern. It’s something that can only be from today: 3D printed and intentionally designed to keep as securely as possible a penis. Period.

And that’s the thing that strikes me every time I put it on. The contents of the HT are kept, but can always back out and I know it. It’s doing a good enough job but it requires I go along with its limitations. The Steelheart is amazingly secure, but its contents still move around in there and can feel very penis-y, if you get my meaning, and it makes noise and stuff. But the Evo 8 holds its contents perfectly. Zero movement. Absolutely secure. It’s so functionally what it is. Even the way it sits more forward, it seems almost proud of how well it does its job. It isn’t trying to be sexy, it’s just keeping a fucking penis from getting long and hard and being played with. And it does that with incredible experiential efficiency. You can tell when it’s doing what it was designed to do that that is exactly what it was designed to do. In that way, it can feel like the most severe of all of them.

Even the color of the particular one I wear leans into its Matrix-y sheen. Matte black and as much obviously made by a digitally exact machine as the Steelheart is made by a man’s imperfect hands.

So where am I going with this? Well…here. None of these devices are inherently better than the others. And none of them are perfect. They all have their own personalities and I feel the need for each of those at different times. Right now, I’m really getting off on the Evo 8’s cold efficiency. But I also know in a week or so I’ll be craving the warm steel again. And some day I’ll be in a situation where the Holy Trainer is called for.

Differences are good. It’s nice to have choices. Said the queer polyamorist.

Phantom handjob

Belle is away for the next week for the first time in months. She’s not jetting off to the other side of the world this time, obvs., but instead driving to see her bestie who has a place in upstate New York and who’s been sequestered there since the pandemic hit the east coast. She’s very excited and I’m very happy for her.

We will have two weekends in a row away from one another which means at least four separate opportunities for me to get her off. I guess she did this math, too, and last night told me I needed to do it right then before she went to sleep. A totally non-standard weeknight orgasm for her.

She was tired so it took way longer than usual but she was grooving to it the whole time and really enjoying it. At one point, she apologized for taking so long which is nuts because getting more time to suck her tits and finger her clit is not a thing I’m trying to avoid in the slightest. She likes to hold the Steelheart while I get her off and the harder she squeezes my balls the closer she’s getting. She had what I’d describe as a long, very sweet orgasm and was asleep minutes later. I…wasn’t. But I did eventually get there.

I woke up around 4:30 with a raging packed tube. Fucking throbbing. No surprise since I fell asleep pretty worked up. I laid there and tried to make it go away and eventually it did subside enough for me to fall back into a light sleep.

Not so light, though, that I didn’t have some kind of dream. A woman, not Belle, was holding the penis. It wasn’t locked and it wasn’t erect. She cupped my balls with her other hand and cooed at me some dirty nothings I couldn’t comprehend. She started to stroke me slowly and roll my nuts around. Each stroke caused the penis to grow larger. Larger and larger, but also each stroke hurt. This weird bigger-with-every-stroke thing made the penis massive and downright cock-like in size but the pain was growing exponentially every time the cock head came up out of her hand. I pulled up my legs and arched my back and felt like I was so, so close to coming but the pain was getting to be too much for me. She smiled at me in a slutty, porn-star way. That kind of, “What, am I doing that?” thing they do sometimes. I felt the rush of orgasm plowing through the wall of pain and then…

Woke up. Thump thump thump went my pulse in the tube that was hotter and harder than any cock in my hand. The pressure was pulling on and crushing my balls cruelly.

There was no stroking going on. No impending orgasm. Just the pounding of my heart trying to bust though unrelenting steel.

It’s what I get for getting her off before bedtime. And totally worth it.

Burning man

I first felt the burning on Friday. I think it was Friday. But anyway, I was sitting in our snug with Belle watching YouTube videos about RVers (jealous?) and way down deep in the end of the cage there was burning.

Of course, I’m no noob. I knew what it was. Sometimes, and for reasons I can’t explain, conditions will exist that allow the acid content of my urine to spike and burn a bit of the device contents. It’s almost always on the head of the thing and, I think, is due to the PA fixing rubbing it so that it becomes irritated and then the extra-acidic urine hits it and boom. Why does it run that way? No idea. What causes the urine to be so extra? No idea.

I left Belle and went into the bathroom and irrigated the tube with water. The burning stopped. But then, later that night, I could feel it again right after I peed. So more water. And again the next morning, but this time I used soapy water. Then rinsed. Felt good. But…no. Not enough. The damage was done and I knew it.

I asked Belle for the key and took the tube off the base ring and found exactly what I knew was going to be there. A slashing angry red blotch that followed the line of the PA fixing.

In the past, this would lead to the device coming off. Probably for days. Logically, the device should have come off. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just…couldn’t. And why?

Well, read this post by Doc. I quoth liberally…

People ask me how I can stay locked for so long. It’s not an easy answer, because there are many factors, but one reason is that I don’t feel locked. I have a titanium dick and it’s my normal state. I don’t like taking it off. It feels wrong. I like denial, as you know, but when I do get an orgasm; they are some of the best orgasm I have ever had. Chastity changes you. It changes your perception of yourself. Removing my cage is like removing an arm. Something is missing when it’s off. These feelings have only grown with time, and I think that’s why those of us fortunate to be locked long term find it so pleasurable and easy to deal with, because we become something new. We are, as Thumper has said, rewired. Without my titianium shell, I feel different, somehow incomplete, and wrong.

I mean, aside from the talk of nasty orgasmses and the part where he name drops me, that’s all perfect and all I can do is nod and nod. It feels so good sometimes to read exactly what’s in your head and how it feels, especially when those things are basically absent from our culture.

So no, I didn’t want to take it off. But I also didn’t want to get to a place where it would get so bad that I’d have no choice and would need to wait through a prolonged recovery. So I kind of compromised.

The issue was started by the PA fixing. So I just took that part out. Inside the tube was only the normal contents, no other metal. I hoped that would let the irritated part of the meat settle down. And, spoilers, it did. All fixed up now. No issues at all. But along the way, something weird happened.

When the contents are in the Steelheart without the fixing (which very rarely happens, but has been the case a handful of times), it’s…well, unfixed. Meaning it can come out the back. Which can be helpful if you need to take a (very) quick looksee at its condition, but also it means it’s just kind of bouncing around in there. The tube of the Steelheart was sized to be just smaller than the diameter of the erection it was designed to contain, but when not in that condition, the contents can be much less filling. Think clapper in a bell.

That’s very distracting. And totally ruins the feeling of the Steelheart and its contents being one inseparable unit. Doc talks about the merging that happens in our brains which is how I’m usually feeling but that extra bit of movement removing the fixing allows shreds that. So I was locked and felt good about that, but did not like all the extra bobbing about.

What I also found weird were the sounds that came from the Steelheart. At one point yesterday, I was reading something that made me tight and I heard a very strange long, drawn out kind of…I dunno. Squelching sound. I can’t describe it. I looked around me to find the source and realized it was the fucking Steelheart filling up. I have no clue what was going on there. And another issue was the little button of meat that would pop through the hole in the end of the tube when it was filled. I hate that.

But whatever. Things are all back to normal now. The fixing is back in, the burned bit is healed (enough), the sounds and little button of pink are gone. And nothing can be removed from the device without a key.


Pride of penis

So I have these (relatively) new workout shorts and was wearing them today at the gym (yes, I’m going to the gym, but I’m wearing a mask and so’s my trainer and it’s not a very busy gym and I’m doing my best to distance from others and infection rates are low in Minnesota right now) and I noticed while I was walking toward one of the large mirrors that their white material and somewhat snug fit were combining to make the Steelheart look like a fairly impressive package.

And my first thought, was damn, that looks good. And my second thought was…wtf, who are you trying to fool? It’s interesting to me how on the one hand I’m totally invested in not having a penis as much as I have a locked steel device in its place as my default existence and even identity and on the other hand being pleased at how impressively masculine the device makes me look (assuming penises are a defining aspect of masculinity which is up for debate).

Then I was browsing Bodyaware’s website and saw this guy.

And it struck me again. As much as I like to post images of me in the Steelheart and how it looks in underwear because it makes such a sexy, impressive-looking package, I, me, the penis I was born with, will never be able to fill out underwear as well as this guy or the Steelheart. The nice pouchy stuff I get from Cocksox, in the infrequent times I’m wearing them without being locked, are baggy and unfilled. Totally inappropriate to my anatomy because, really, it’s not especially impressive. But the penis in the Steelheart is. And I like that. But…should I?

It’s a complicated question. Part of me says this is vestigial pride of penis and unbecoming of someone like me. A man who has spent so much time trying to define an existence apart from his genitalia but, of course, still a man. I have to admit I like thinking someone seeing the silhouette the Steelheart creates might make an incorrect assumption about the penis. Like, if I was really invested in being a denied, kept man wouldn’t I want to show no package? Present as flat and featureless so as to remove direction from that part of me that I have so studiously attempted to disassociate?

Truth is, at this point in my life, I don’t identify as a man with a penis. I’m a man. But with…a thing. An inert object. A container filled with meat. But still. I like showing a #chastitybump. So how I identify and how I present are…in conflict?

Well, perhaps they’re not. I like some of the really minimizing devices I can wear and think they’re super hot on other kept guys, but I always come back to the Steelheart. Not only because it’s Belle’s favorite but because the Steelheart is me. It’s more me than what it contains. So when I’m showing an impressive bulge, no, it’s not the penis. But it is me. And I have to admit, I want to be seen as who and what I am.

This all gets back to the whole point of the #chastitybump thing. Of being proud of it. As is often the case, it turns out I may have already had the insight that helps explain this potential incongruity. As I wrote last June:

I’m not nearly as worried as I used to be about my device being detectable by Muggles. I was running two days ago (and this morning) outside in light blue shorts and discovered as I was moving that I was sporting a fairly obvious bump that moved in a weirdly heavy way. And…I didn’t care. See it if you want. I dare you to ask me about it. I won’t take it off for you. Not wearing it is easy. It’s not special. But wearing it. That’s a thing I’m proud of. The dedication and the difficulty. It is special. It’s my super power. 

The presence of this thing on my body makes me more me than I am without it. I feel lesser without out. And it made me like this.

Short of wearing a pin that says “I’m locked in steel, ask me how you can be too” I will just have to accept people will make assumptions. And their assumptions will almost always be in the opposite direction of who I really am. But…no, I can’t help that. But they will see it. And I do like how it looks. I like it much more than how I look without it.

And maybe those are the only things that matter.

The one about the p-word in which I don’t use the p-word

Belle chose not to let the contents of the Steelheart out yesterday even though it was Father’s Day here in the United States and it’s kinda sorta how I became eligible to celebrate (or be celebrated) on that day. It’s fine, though, since she let me eat her out (culminating in one of those wiggly legs orgasms on her part and an assurance that I was “very good” at it — purr).

Based on my experience over the last several months, the contents get out and in her once every six weeks. Otherwise, it’s locked up. That means in May I didn’t get out at all and in June so far, I was only out for about 50 minutes. Not that it takes me 50 minutes by any stretch of the imagination (lolz). Actual hot and wet thrusting time is likely not even five minutes. The rest of that time is me servicing her and then post-coital snuggling.

Looking back, this is what I craved for so many years. To be like this without consideration or comment on her part. For being locked to be the default and being unlocked the rare exception. This is what “kept” really means. And now here we are.

Even though this was what I craved, it took a long time for me to get over needing her to recognize the state of the contents. I would ask if she could tell if the device was packed and the contents straining and sought some comment on her part. Because it takes a long time to let go of it being the center of attention.

Of course, that’s to be expected. Boys and men have such easy access to it, its method of stimulation is so obvious, there’s so much embedded understanding of how it works in our culture, and there’s still a cultural assumption that it and what it does is the central point of sex. As men, we’re conditioned to equate our worthiness to its size and ability and stamina. So when she started keeping me locked, I wanted her to keep paying attention to it and acknowledge the sacrifice I was making. To keep it centered on the experience instead of her. I expected us to continue to pay it service even though it was unavailable, unseen, and basically unnecessary.

It’s one of those weird chastity and denial paradoxes. The practice of keeping a man like that is to demote the element that defines his maleness but its importance and prominence never goes away. It is always there. Even when it’s not.

And while I can’t deny that because it is always there, I think the point of being kept as I am — nearly all the time and without making any fuss about it because it’s just how things are — is to get to a point where I simply can’t think about it in its “natural” state and only think about it in its kept state. That takes time and runs counter to both nurture and nature. But it’s where I feel the most comfortable.

And in the same way being kept is to appreciate the journey, not the destination, getting to that space mentally is something I will always be working towards.

For example, I don’t get “hard” anymore. I get tight. I never want it out. To be out and without constraint feels wrong and exposed. I’d rather be seen by Belle or Frodo or whoever with a device between my legs than not. I feel more self-conscious of that exposure than I do sporting steel (or plastic). I try to avoid any unnecessary contact with it keeping all touching to the minimum required for its maintenance. I’ve even found that lately, when I’ve seen what I think of as incredibly sexy women out and about (usually walking or running around my neighborhood in spandex), my immediate and overpowering thought isn’t about penetration. It’s about what it would be like for them to sit on my face. To be used by her for her pleasure. And that’s always been the default for me when it comes to men, even before being kept by Belle.

To be kept as I am is to recognize the whole rest of my body is my primary sex organ, especially my mind. And that organ is for the use of my sex partners first and me only secondarily. The contents are not the point of the experience. And what they’re going through and feeling is not a topic worthy of mention during sex unless my partner wants to bring it up.

I think to get to this place I’m describing (which, as I said, is a journey and process I think I’ll be working on the rest of my life) is not just the point of being kept but the point of who I am as a sexual being. I’m very fortunate to have a partner who allows me to evolve in this way.

You are not me

Someone on Twitter asked me a simple question with a complicated answer. I answered them there (via DM) but wanted to expand (as I am wont to do). If only I had a blog or something…

They asked, “How do you commit to chastity so well? I want to but it’s so hard.”

YES it is hard. It really is. But while I do try and maintain a certain sense of modesty, comparing yourself as someone who “wants” to commit to chastity to someone who has for more than a decade seems unfair.

So, yes, it’s hard. But let’s break down the things that I think have been critical to whatever success I’ve had adapting to living the kept life.

First off, I don’t do it for myself. I do it for Belle. I do it with Belle. When I become blindingly horny or claw at the device locked on me in frustrated anguish, I always have the backstop of my commitment to Belle to support me. That commitment keeps me accountable. It keeps me centered and focused. I have zero experience self-locking and don’t really have any advice as to how that can work. And while I do totally consider being kept as central to who and what I am as a person, I don’t think I could do it alone. I don’t have nearly enough self-control for that.

So, right off the bat, if you’re on your own your expectations should probably not be that you’ll be locked 24/7/365 for infinity and beyond. I guess you could epoxy the key into the lock and break it off, but that seems…extreme. In the extreme.

Second, I have (numerous) well-fitting devices that can be locked onto me. I am fortunate to have the size and shape of penis that plays well with the off-the-shelf options one can find on the internet. I’m not exceptionally well-endowed (lmao) or very thick or even too much smaller than average. Also, the device I’m in most of the time was made to my specifications and works really well with and on me. Those guys with bigger dicks especially can find being locked up a challenge without a custom device.

So I don’t know you, random Twitter follower, and haven’t seen your penis outside a device. But one that fits well is critical to being able to stay locked for long periods. As someone who suffered through the CB6K and a handful of poorly made devices from China, believe me. Fit matters.

Third, as I mentioned above, I’ve been at this for kind of a really long time. Coming up on a dozen years. It wasn’t always easy. It hasn’t been a straight line to where I am now. There have been starts and stops. But the long arch of my submission has been toward a more defined and committed life in chastity. Eventually, it stopped being a thing I was doing and become what I am. Who I am. It’s changed almost every aspect of my sexuality. But, over time. Not in a year. Not in three. Longer.

Which, I suppose, is advocating for consistency. For keeping at it. For not giving up because you can’t achieve some arbitrary goal based on someone else’s experience. If you really want to be kept as opposed to just doing it, you have to do it for a long time. Those pathways in your brain circuitry are stubborn things.

Fourth, I do not believe chastity is for all men. Not even all submissively inclined men. I believe I was born for it. And others may be born close enough. But not everyone is. No matter how long you keep your junk in a trunk, it may never feel how you want or expect it to. And that’s OK. Maybe you’re one of those guys who only plays with it during a scene. There is no One True Way and my way doesn’t need to be yours.

Fifth, I’m fifty-fucking-two. (Man, really!?) Which I mention for two reasons. One, as I said, this has been a part of my life for more than a decade, yes, but also that’s just just over 20% of my life. Way, way more of my sexual life was with a normal, unkept penis (I even thought it was a cock). I do wish we had found chastity before we did, but I honestly can’t tell you it would have worked for me when I was in my 20s. The libido of a guy more than twice that age is different. It’s a slower burn. So, for a younger guy, being kept might look very different than for a 30, 40, or 50-year-old. Or even older. I’ve spoken to guys in their 70s who are locked up. And yeah, I expect that will be me, too.

Lastly, don’t be mean to yourself. Don’t fret that you can’t be like me. Or the next guy. Be like yourself. Push your boundaries, if that’s what gets you off, but don’t set unrealistic expectations of who or what you are. Let it develop naturally. Life’s a journey, man, and being kept is the epitome of that mentality. We don’t celebrate the destination. We celebrate the path that gets us there. We aren’t about destinations, after all. We’re not about culmination.

Don’t let your perceived failures get you down. Just be you. Enjoy the ride. Learn who you are.

Inside edging

I had this idea to track my relative horniness from day to day. It’s a myth that being in chastity long term and disallowed orgasm for weeks and months (honestly, not sure when I had a real orgasm last) causes one to be ever more horny every day. If that were true, eventually the kept among us would combust in sudden flares of superheated hormonal energy brighter and hotter than the surface of the sun.

More truthfully, being kept in an unreleased state doesn’t make one infinitely horny. I have found it does make one instantly ready. Always willing. My 0-60 time can be as close to the least amount of time that can be measured by modern instrumentation. But no, I’m not always distractingly, cravingly, achingly horny.

But I sure have been the last several days. It goes like that. Bumping along being more or less what passes for normal when you never orgasm then BOOM, horny as all fucking get out. Like, I am going to make bad choices kind of horny. It’s like and I guess literally is being under the influence. But not of a drug or man-made chemical. All hormonal. And it’s been like that pretty much all this week, culminating yesterday.

And the thing is, I have no idea why it’s like that. Why aren’t I always super horny? Or why aren’t I just always super ready? What causes the fluctuation? And if there is a cycle (as there is with so many natural things), what is it? Is this like some weird kept male version of a period?

So yeah, I was thinking maybe a tracker or something. Because if there’s one thing kinky people seem to love more than the Muggles, it’s tracking and quantification. And rules. And categorization. And process. Geeze, we’re like a bunch of management consultants.

Anyway, had I been tracking yesterday, I would have been at 11. The effects of which I wrote about on the other blog (for some reason, could/should have been here). But the tale of yesterday didn’t end with what I wrote there. Oh, no. Not even close.

The thing about the type of horny I was yesterday (ooo, sub-categories! hot!!) was that I was horny for everything. And since Belle was working and we’re all trapped at home and we still have a kid here with us, that meant whatever actions I took as a result of being in that state had to be on my own.

So, as the previous post relates, that meant some dildo and plug play. But it wasn’t enough. One thing led to craving the next. I had five different things in my ass by the end of the day and it left me with a fat and juicy prostate. The kind of swollen I can feel. Had I been the kind of person to have orgasms when he wanted them, I would have had a massive one. Explosive. But I’m not. So it was just in there burning and bugging me. Quite distracting.

Then I remembered. I have a thing specifically designed to deal with situations like this. I even wrote a review about it! The njoy Pure wand.

So I secreted myself away with it in the bathroom. I popped the big end (naturally) inside and let the natural curve of the wand find my nagging bits. Once it found them…uuuuunnnnfff.

The round metal bulb at the end of the wand ran up and down over my prostate and, through it, I could feel how swollen it was. I found I could angle the wand like a handle to control the level of intensity of the stimulation. For a while, I was worried I was only making things worse. It felt so fucking good, but was ultimately just more more. I didn’t need more. I needed less.

Then…things started to evolve. The sensations grew even more intense. I got on all fours like a dog in heat and grasped the wand like a joystick (which, literally, it was) and worked that fucking prostate hard. I started to feel like I was going come.

OH. Oh, god, Oh, fuck. I’m going to come. I’m…unf, I’m going to come…URGH…I’m…I’m coming…I’m…I’m…coming…I’m…ARGH…

I didn’t come. But I was right there. So goddamned close. Two things occurred to me. One, getting a person into the condition I was in and then strapping them down and using the njoy Pure wand on them the way I was using it on myself for hours would be an excellent way to torture some poor son of a bitch. And two, all that being the same but also having access to the penis and jacking off to completion while feeling that could, actually and literally, cause my head to explode at orgasm.

I can’t tell you how long I was on the edge like that. Edging myself from inside. Could have been 30 seconds, could have been an hour. Hard to tell time when your brain is liquified. But eventually the sensation began to change. I had an odd feeling of pressure and something like needing to pee. Instinctively, I felt that if I flexed as if I was coming, I would…express the built-up ejaculate. So I did.

Oh my god, there was so much. It just kept coming. Over and over. A little push, a little flex, and GOOSH. I was well and truly milked.

And after, I could feel the relief. I felt empty in a way I didn’t before I started with the wand. And, yes, relief, but not satisfaction. Not like I had come. Nothing like that. 100% as turned on and horny as I had been, but without the physical component of having an overly-juiced prostate. Frustration without the discomfort.

If yesterday was an 11 on the Horn-O-Meter, today is about an 8. I feel like I’m past the peak. Took about three or four days to get there and, I expect, it’ll take about the same to come back down. Part of feeling less horny today is thanks to Belle letting me get her off this morning before she started work. Feeling her come releases pressure for me, emotionally and psychologically. Pressing my body into hers while she writhes and convulses with orgasm, with my legs clenched around hers and my finger pressed against her clit and both our heavy breathing mixing. That time when her pleasure and desire flow out of her. A little bit of mine flows out, too. The reflected satisfaction of sexual service. Of her pleasure always being paramount.

Fuck, now I’m back up to 9.

What I want. Really, really want.

I used to write here several times a week and that meant Belle would read this several times a week. But as I’ve found myself having said most everything I needed to say (several times over, it feels like), the frequency of my posting has dwindled. And Belle’s checking to see what I’ve written has, too. That’s just natural.

So it was a week or so ago when we were sitting in the snug (a wonderfully British word for the TV room off the side of your house) and she was on her phone and found herself here and read something that made her go, “Huh.”

And I was like, “Huh?” A dozen years of blogging and she found something that made her go “Huh!?”

The huh-inducing passage was this from a post expounding on the use of Joe, her strap-on dildo:

I also get off on being denied a me-centric sexual experience and release. Keeping the penis in the Steelheart while she’s fucked cross-eyed is a massive turn on for me (and that, in turn, is basically cuckolding’s next door neighbor). Feeling the penis strain while fucking a dildo in and out of her while she squirms in pleasure is absolute perfection.

“Guess I never knew that,” she said. And then my head exploded.

It’s just the central thesis of the whole blog that’s all. The core to my sexual identity. The very definition of who I am as a sexual being no big deal! I thought but said, “Really?”

Which is to say, the single most important aspect of successful D/s (and kink in general and for that matter life in general) is communication. And while I assumed this blog with its hundreds of thousands of words and lord knows how many posts would count as some pretty elite-level communication, it’s always possible that we’re being misinterpreted. Or perhaps not taken perfectly seriously. Or whatever.

Of course, it’s not Belle’s fault she never picked up what I was putting down. Even though I was putting it down as thick as the Exxon Valdez put oil down on sea birds. Here we are all these years later and whatever needed to click (or the exact right sequence of words to be typed out) clicked (or clacked).

So, to be as clear and pedantic about my thoughts on PIV-style sex with Belle as possible, here is my ranked order preference of the three available options:

  1. Joe the dildo in the harness
    Besides the reasons explained in the above quoted text, Joe is the preferred way to fuck Belle because it takes a great deal of stress off me. It can’t come too quickly. It will always perform. I can think only of pleasuring her without distraction. Without the possibility of feeling the guilt of poor performance or stamina.
  2. Joe the dildo in the harness then me
    There is nothing better than feeling her pussy after it’s been fucked by a tool more of the size she prefers. To feel it opened and stretched in ways I can’t. To be unable to feel the places it reached. It’s maybe the most intensely erotic experience I can imagine. This would be number one except for the fact that I like it so much and think it’s indulgent to allow me that much pleasure.
  3. The penis
    If she hasn’t come and is wanting the penis for pleasure, this is by far the least preferred option. Number three out of three but really like a hundred slots down from the top two.

It’s a complicated thing, to be sure. This morning I got Belle off with my fingers and stayed as I usually am, locked in the Steelheart. The urge to fuck her was intense. Deeply primal, the tube was biting hard when she came. But urges are not the same as what I want. I want to be denied. I want to feel the urge unfulfilled. It’s a form of psychological masochism. Allowing me to give in to the urge would ultimately make me feel guilty. Just because I desire a thing does not mean I should get it. I don’t deserve that. It’s not my place.

Bottom line is, I will always crave more than I get. And in the manual of the care and feeding of Thumper, there’s a part that says (or should say) one is better off, on balance, and can never lose by not giving me what I crave rather than letting me have it.

Ultimately, Belle decides. Always. If she wants to feel me inside her, I should be inside her. If she wants to feel me come in her, I should come in her. I will always do (or try to do) what she wants. But if she’s wondering what I want up high in my logical mind and not down deep in my lizard brain…well, here it is.