Found and left behind

Belle has been in Paris for the better part of the past week. She went there with her best friend to celebrate a quarter century of their friendship. She’s in the air on her way home right now, actually, and normally I’d be pretty excited to see her, but I’m sitting in the G concourse SkyClub at MSP waiting to go to LA for a quick work trip. I leave at 9:20 and she lands at two something. So I won’t see her until Thursday evening, which is a bummer.

As I was getting ready to leave this morning/freaking the dogs out by putting things in a suitcase, I went into her nightstand drawer to get my passport since that’s where we keep them. And that’s when I found an apparently new lavender plusOne wand vibrator.

I can imagine how a normie husband might react upon making such a discovery. Probably not super well. So many men find women’s sex toys to be threatening. As if their magnificent cocks should be all their partners need for ultimate sexual satisfaction. Of course, I am not a normie husband, I do not have a magnificent cock (or anything close to it), and my reaction was pretty much the exact opposite.

I love that she has it. I love that she got it without telling me. I love thinking about her using it whenever she feels the need. I love that while I’m in LA locked up for my 1,341st consecutive day that she might take it out of the drawer and hammer her clit with it and scream when she comes. Because she always gets what she wants and I never get what the device makes me crave. Her sexual pleasure is paramount and mine is forever sublimated to that higher priority. She can get whatever she wants to help her come as often as she feels like while I have no choice in being denied for as long as she wants me to be.

The more I thought about the idea that she’d surely already used the wand and might use it again before I see her, the more turned on it made me. Being the thoughtful denied sub bunny I am, I took the wand out and plugged it in to make sure it was fully charged next time she felt the urge, with or without me.

In other news, I said a few posts back…

I’m also thinking of ways of never actually seeing [the contents] 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.

Since then, it’s become one of the things I’m tracking along with the last time she let me use the contents to fuck her (597 days ago) and how many consecutive days I’ve been locked up (as I said above, 1,341). It’s only been 34 days since I last saw the contents which isn’t any kind of record because I’m sure I’ve been locked up for way more than a month in some device (probably the Steelheart, though I’m too lazy to go figure it out). If I get to 60 days, that’s probably some kind of record and certainly if I get to 90 days.

One of the only issues I have with the Orion when compared to the Steelheart is that I can still see some of the contents while in it. The Steelheart completely envelops it while the Orion allows me to see the root of the shaft and a bit of the head around where the PA hook protrudes. This has led me to have to define what “see it” means. I’ve decided that “seeing it” would happen if I saw the complete head of the contents. That’s where the action happens, after all, and is the part that would need to be accessible to get me off via sex or masturbation. So, if I see that, I’ve seen it and the streak breaks. If I don’t, it doesn’t.

Not seeing it is part of accepting the post-penis, post-pussy stage of my life that Belle’s set forth for me. It’s about trying to reinforce the notion that I no longer have a penis. What I have is a device that contains a bit of non-consequential, irrelevant flesh. Thinking about it as a thing separate from its containment is a waste of energy.

Instead, I should (and am) thinking about that purple wand in Belle’s drawer and what she does with it. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.

Tracking

Over on Bluesky, I posted my October stats:

They show that I was locked 100% of October (of course) and have been locked 99.8% of 2023 to date. It’s the kind of post I often do at the end of a month.

In response, Tom asked, “Seriously, why do you even bother tracking this so closely? Or at all? I’ve really found it mentally freeing to not keep track.”

I replied, “I’ve been tracking using this app for 7+ years. It’s a habit I choose not to break. The data is something of a record of my commitment. It’s important to me.”

(Embedding Bluesky posts isn’t an option on WordPress yet.)

Which led Tom to analogizing tracking lockup time to tracking cycling miles. And that’s an apt comparison. But I’m a bit of a tracker anyway.

Like a lot of people, I track all my workouts and if something happens that messes them up it’s almost as if I didn’t do them. Which is nuts, because of course I did. I also track, using an app called Swarm, everywhere I’ve been since 2009 (which is surprisingly handy and useful). This year, I started tracking my caffeine consumption using an app called HiCoffee (ironically since I don’t drink coffee) because I thought it was messing with my ability to fall asleep. Now I know how much caffeine I can afford to have in my system at bedtime (30-40 mg) and still sleep well.

We track what’s important to us. Tracking can be motivating.

I started tracking when and in what I was locked using ATracker sevenish years ago. Like a lot of locked guys, I was really invested in knowing my longest streaks, etc., and I was device hopping all the time. And even in that first full year when I was in nine different devices and could be unlocked for 20-30% of the time, it wasn’t hard to do. Just had to remember to tap my screen a few times when going in or out.

Nowadays, of course, it’s much easier. I rarely tap out and have been in just the three devices all year. I expect next year to only be in one of the two Orions unless someone wants me to review theirs. So, to Tom’s point, why bother?

Well, as I said, it habit now. I’ve been doing it a long time so…I just keep doing it. Swarm is the same way. I’m just totally habitualized to pulling out my phone and checking in whenever I go somewhere. I think of the guys who record the weather at their house every day for decades (when, you know, there’s an entire government agency tasked with that) or birders who have their lifetime lists they keep adding to forever or people who track their running or cycling miles. It’s the same kind of thing, I guess.

But besides that, as I said to Tom, it’s the record. And when you’re into a thing that’s defined by the lack of being a certain way or not doing certain things, I’m not sure what else to record. When I was a teenager and was just starting to fuck (girls, anyway), I kept track with notches. Today, someone lives in an apartment in SoCal who wonders what all those little grooves cut into one of their bedroom closet walls mean. In that case, I was recording when the penis went into her and did a thing. Much more recently, I tracked when Belle let me come. But the contents don’t get used for anything anymore, and besides, it became harder to define what an orgasm was for me, but that’s another story.

So anyway, tracking now is about having that record of my commitment. Just like all the other kinds of tracking we tend to do. My denial defines my sexuality now and tracking how long that’s endured is, as I said to Tom, important. To me, anyway.

If I stopped tracking, nothing would change. I’d still be locked up 99.8% of the time and would still not be having orgasms and would still be getting Belle off whenever she let me. But something would be missing. So I keep doing it.

Active management

This morning, before she let me get her off, Belle and I were talking about how long it’s been since I was unlocked for more than a day (1,332 days).

“You wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself if you were out,” she said. “It would be a disaster.”

Putting aside the point that I would, in short order I believe, find a thing or two “to do with myself,” I can’t argue with the disaster prediction. One orgasm can have a tremendous impact on the headspace of someone who is denied them for extended periods of time.

But beyond the sort of functional appreciation she has for how that works, I find the idea that she basically doesn’t trust me to have one because it would upset the status quo she has created by keeping me permanently denied incredibly hot.

She’s used enforced denial to mold my personality and how I interact with her in our relationship into something she prefers over the version of me who not only has free access to the contents but also the version of me who was allowed to fuck her a couple times a year. In fact, it was just a few days ago that she said to me that being permanently locked made me the “ultimate version of Thumper.”

This is the thing that’s sometimes hard for others to see in a relationship like ours, I guess. And it’s why I believe permanence was always going to be the ultimate expression of our relationship dynamic. My sexuality is one primarily focused on sexual service. As such, there is no greater way to express that than what Belle has made a reality for me.

I am permanently denied because it’s what she wants me to be. Because it’s how she realizes the greatest satisfaction from me. She uses permanent enforced denial to actively manage and optimize my expression of submission to her. And I not only accept that decision on her part, I welcome it.

And after all that mental processing, yeah, I gave her a fucking great orgasm.

The socials

I fucking hate Twitter. I’ve said it before and I’ll probably say it again (and again and again). I even stopped using it for a bit hoping (it turned out, fruitlessly) that my fellow kinksters would migrate off the platform to Mastodon. However, Mastodon is complicated (please, this is not a invitation for anyone to defend how Mastodon is not complicated and if you do comment about how it’s not complicated, that’s cool, but I won’t engage on the subject because it’s exhausting — people perceive it to be complicated and that’s that) so some, but not a lot, set up accounts there. Not enough, tbh.

Then BlueSky came along and I was finally able to set up an account there and it’s been something of a mission for me to get as many other kinksters moved over as possible. But that’s also non-optimal since you need an invite from an existing BlueSky user to get in. There is a waitlist you can sign up for but I don’t know a soul who got on that way. It’s all invite based. Which is annoying.

Anyway, I’ve been cross-posting to all three for a little while now and have noticed some things. BlueSky users seem way more engaged. Mastodon users, not so much. And, considering my much larger following and years of established presence there, Twitter seems somewhere in between. I decided to look at some numbers to see if this was true and, turns out, they backed me up.

I picked four posts I made to each platform and then added all the interactions each had (comments, reposts, and likes) to determine the interaction rate (this is the marketing weasel in me coming out). One of the posts was a link to a blog post (the post immediately prior to this one), one was just text, and two were images.

The text post was: If you’re still worried about a chastity device making your dick shrink (it won’t), what you’re really saying is you haven’t been locked up long enough. (The BlueSky version was slightly different but substantially the same.)

The two images were these:

“Commando”
“Lockternity”

Here are the results:

Platform (followers)“Lockternity” image“Commando” imageText postBlog post
Twitter (7,947)2%11%1%0.2%
BlueSky (242)14%10%9%4%
Mastodon (474)0.8%3%0.6%0.6%

Relative to the number of followers I have, BlueSky is significantly more interactive than Twitter. Mastodon is rather sleepy, though I admit I’m not that active on that platform other than cross-posting and replying to comments. Twitter has more sheer numbers on its side, but I’d say anecdotally the interaction on my posts there has dropped quite a bit in the last year (even though my follow count continues to tick up).

I think the future of kinksters who feel a moral obligation to leave Twitter will be on BlueSky. I will continue to share as many invites as I get (and people will give me to share with my followers) to accelerate that eventuality. The time is coming, however, when I’ll again stop posting to Twitter and only come back to share more BlueSky codes because the place is honestly a cesspool and is owned and run by one of the worst people on the planet. It hurts my soul to open that app on a daily basis and the community on BlueSky, while small, is engaged and pleasant.

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.”