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GGG

After we got back from Hawaii, Belle and I headed to the store to restock the fridge we emptied out before we left. Along the way, we listened to episode 478 of Dan Savage’s Savage Love Cast (Magnum edition, natch). In it, the term “GGG” was mentioned. Belle had forgotten what that meant.

GGG stands for good, giving, and game. As in, good in bed (or striving to be as good as you can), giving “equal time to equal pleasure” (i.e., give as good as you take, give your partner as much pleasure as they give you), and game for anything your partner wants to do (within reason). If you’re GGG, you’re doing it right. If you’re not, you’re not.

Belle said she didn’t think she was very GGG with me. No, seriously. She said that. And apparently not in jest.

I think Belle’s the exemplar of GGG. She knew when she married me that I wasn’t like the average bear, sex-wise. But she had no idea where we’d end up. She couldn’t have since I really didn’t, either. But she’s more than rolled with it. At the start, she seemed as though she was humoring my kinks more than actually participating, but she’s evolved right along side me in her own way and has interegrated the expression of her sexuality into how I need to express mine. Rarely has she ever made me feel anything but loved and accepted.

Beyond that, she’s allowed our relationship to open up in a way that lets me seek out the kind of sex I can’t get from her, both with a man and sex that includes the kind of optional add-ons I like and she’s not really into, even if that’s with another woman. I mean, come on. GGG to the max.

But in her mind, since she’s not into some stuff and doesn’t indulge my desires (like being tied up and beaten, for example), she’s not GGG. She even said something to that effect. “There’s things you want that I won’t give you.” But that’s not GGG.

Being GGG does not mean doing any and every thing your partner desires. It means being willing to do those things they’re into, even if you’re not especially, because they’re into them. That’s the third G. Game. But it may be the case that you can’t be enough into them to do them correctly or with the proper technique. In my estimation, Belle is all the Gs rolled up in one package even if she doesn’t tie me up and slap me around, etc.

I said that to her. I also said there were maybe a couple thousand guys on the internet who would love to have a wife as non-GGG as mine. Which is to say, I’m a lucky bitch and I know it and so should she.

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Pussy first

Belle and I are in Hawaii for Christmas. I’ve never been here before since previously I was a Caribbean snob (and might still be; jury’s out). We’re staying in a redonculous house sitting on a lava rock-encrusted beach. Crashing waves, lively tide pools, and sizzling sunsets galore. Oh, and the occasional gecko slinking by.

When we travel together, Belle’s less stringent with the device. I’ve been free since we left home Sunday morning and remain that way today. I brought the Steelheart in case she wants me in it, but so far no. I find it a challenge to stay focused on my position when I’m not locked up. To not act needily neglected because there’s nothing locked on me. The feeling of the penis moving around in my board shorts or the PA jewelry sliding through the piercing can be quite distracting and that leads to me letting my eye off the proverbial ball. In turn, that can lead to unexpected moodiness and me being too pushy in bed.

To help remind me I don’t control the penis (or feeling like she’s somehow forgotten that), I’m wearing the aluminum cock ring whenever I’m not locked. It’s light and comfy and, when the penis isn’t surging, it’s hardly there but, when the penis is, it’s just tight enough to be very there. In a way, it’s more maddening than the Steelheart because it makes the penis harder and fatter and more sensitive when it’s turgid but that enhanced state is also an effective reminder of possession and control. Even though it ratchets up the feelings of stimulation when the penis is hard, it also keeps me centered.

There’s the old trope that men are simple and woman are complicated. Seems to me this mirrors our respective anatomy. Penises are all outward and obvious. When they’re hard, you know what’s going on. Pussies, though, are less obvious. To take their barometer (without sticking your finger in) one usually needs to gather a variety of inputs from a woman’s body and then divine what she’s thinking or wants. Our culture places an urgent priority on hard cocks. Once one appears, it needs to be attended to until it’s no longer that way.

But for me and our dynamic, that’s not the case at all. The penis, when it’s out, will often be hard when we’re close and intimate. Belle’s not nearly as likely to fall into the cultural bias trap that it needs attention when it’s like that, but it still occasionally happens. I’m totally invested in the idea that a hard penis between us means nothing more than when it’s a hard steel tube between us. Still, it’s all too easy for my reptile brain to overpower my rabbity sensibilities and make me pushy in those situations which, in turn, can lead her to letting me do things she may not really feel like doing.

To help alleviate that, our new rule is when we’re in bed and being close, rather than me intimating her desires through a filter of perception that’s biased towards pushing parts of me into her or waiting for her to say, “Thumper, get me off,” I’ll know she wants to take things further if she touches the penis. Until she gives it a touch (in a way that’s more than obviously incitental or accidental contact), I’ll assume she’s content with hugging and kissing and my hand caressing her ass or whatever. This morning, she never touched it so we never moved beyond simple affectionate snuggling and petting even though the penis was achingly hard and eventually leaking. She felt no pressure from me and I knew exactly where she was and what she wanted.

Because penises are obvious and pussies are secretive, penises tend to get top billing in sexual situations. Our entire dynamic is about reversing that paradigm in the extreme. The pussy is all powerful and penis is not. I’d say the pussy is first and penis second, but it may not even be second. Even if she wants me to get her off, that doesn’t mean anything involving it will follow. In a way, FLR femdom-type dynamics are all about reversing the concept of penis entitlement. The pussy is entitled to whatever it wants. The penis is entitled to nothing more than the pussy is willing to give it.

Anyway, this “no sex until I touch the penis” rule made this morning exactly what she wanted. Intimate and sweet and warm and tender with no pressure other than the hard grip of the metal ring around the straining erection. But that’s not her concern in any way. She snuggled in and was very happy. And so was I.

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So I wait

Last weekend, I was out of town. The weekend before that, Belle was. She’s in Chicago today. It’s been a while since we had quality time together, let alone had sex, because it’s a busy time of year all the way around. It’s during periods like this when being locked up is it’s most difficult.

I mean, sure, being locked up when your face is buried in her pussy is hard, but it’s the kind of hard you want. This is the kind of hard you don’t want. The kind of hard that, for a normal man, would be lessened by a few jack off sessions to take the edge off and relieve the boredom. I’m not a normal man, though.

These extended periods where life gets in the way of the hotness and push the dynamic we’ve both worked to achieve into the background are so hard because it keeps me in a kind of limbo. I just sort of endure. In the past, I’d struggle with keeping my emotions under control in these times. I probably still do, but I’m at least more aware of myself now. My fuse tends to be short and my mood swings quickly but I just sort of keep my head down and push through knowing it’s temporary.

This is when the real dedication of releasing control over oneself kicks in. It’s not fun. It’s not exciting. It’s dreary and can seem pointless. Last night I was in the otherwise empty bed and my hand was on the Looker and feeling as much of the penis inside as I could and poking at the hard rod deep inside and my balls hanging down fat between my legs. That can be a deliciously frustrating situation but it can also make me feel like nothing much at all. Not a man. At least not like any other I know. I realize that in a way my sexuality is all about others. Like a reverse vampire, it’s only visible when reflected off someone else. I am still craving some kind of sexuality (not just sex, but the feeling of being sexual) but absent Belle as a focus, I don’t really exist. I mean, yeah, that’s a bit dramatic and probably not true, but it’s how that situation can feel.

I find I need to focus on the act of submitting. Just doing it is what matters. That the nothingness of being locked and unable to pleasure myself or give her pleasure is, in itself, valuable. In fact, if I can’t do it when it’s not fun, then it has no real value. I have ceded control over myself and accepted my submission even when it’s hard and it is my job to endure those times. It’s the deal I made and the commitment I signed up for and I know she wants me this way and appreciates my difficulty. Also that we’re both happier this way and it’s how things must be.

So I leave my hand on the warm hard metal and feel my heavy balls with my fingers and rub the little bit of remaining foreskin that sticks out between the bars with my thumb and I draw strength from the steel. Its contents have never felt less like something I control or own. Referring to it as “my” penis has never felt more wrong.

No, I’m not a man. Not a normal one. But that’s not my fault. We just don’t have enough words to describe the variations of manliness. But I am me. I am nothing else but. And I am for her and she is for me.

So I wait.

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Stupid penis-having person

I posted a picture of me in the Looker 02 this morning and said there was a story behind it. It’s not a good story. It’s a story of me being a stupid penis-having person.

It starts last week. I was in the Steelheart and Belle was out of town over the weekend so I was locked up for a total of two straight weeks. Not that I got a lot of time out since I was locked up the previous two weeks, too, and she only let me out Sunday morning to fuck and told me I had to be back in by noon (which I was — made it with five minutes to spare). So, something like a month with about four hours of freedom, AKA the usual. By the time Belle got home I had been dealing with some burning inside the tube after I peed. It started out being mild and occasional and got worse and more frequent. Had she not been on the verge of coming home, I would have popped the emergency key and dealt with the issue, but since she was about to get home, I simply muscled though and amped up my hygiene by rinsing the tube each time I peed (it didn’t hurt at all in between). Turns out, there were two spots of red irritation that more or less lined up with the PA fixing bar.

That’s the second time in about six weeks that I was driven out of the tube for similar reasons, though this time was worse. Not sure exactly why this is suddenly an issue, but I suspect it’s because I’ve been very active lately and running a lot. It could be that it was just too much bouncing around. The area where this latest issue developed was in the excess skin under the penis’ head that is the remnants of my foreskin. I find I have a bit more there than the other guys I’ve been with, so it could be that it got caught between the ring and tube wall a little too often until it was rubbed raw. Or perhaps the increased activity should have been combined with an increased focus on hygiene. Don’t really know.

So she let me out. Luckily, that skin heals amazingly quickly and two days later things were in vastly better condition, though probably not healed enough to go back in. By Wednesday, it was in good enough shape that it wasn’t even sore to the touch anymore. Which is where the problem starts.

I was at home in the afternoon with only the dog as my company. I let him out the back door to do his business and, while waiting for him to find the perfect spot, found my hand in my pants. This is a thing a lot of guys do, of course, though I probably do it more than most when I’m unlocked if only for the novelty of feeling a squishy meat tube and not a locked hot metal one.

As god as my witness (and no, I don’t believe in him, but I’m trying to accentuate my conviction on this point), I did not decide to do what came next. But, as I looked out the back door at the dog, my hand started squishing and kneading the penis. The penis, being a penis (and a needy desperate one at that) started to do what penises do. My hand, being a guy’s hand (and being equally desperate and needy and apparently conspiring with the penis) did what hands do when they find hard penises in them. Next thing I knew, my pants were open and sagged down around my butt, my underwear was pushed down under my balls, my left arm was propping me up against the door to help me stay standing while the waves of pleasure coming from my jacking right hand washed over me. I was rushing headlong into an orgasm before my frontal cortex snapped out of its trance and noticed the dog standing outside the door watching me and wanting to know why I was making him stand around in the cold.

I felt terrible. Like I said, I never decided to jack off. I never decided not to, either. It just happened. As the kind of chaste man whose condition is enforced by steel, whatever muscles one uses to resist that kind of incident are flabby and atrophied. It’s not that I showed no will power. I showed nothing but animal instinct.

So I went upstairs and tried to do some work. That didn’t last long. I opened the Tumblr app and flipped through and the penis, which never really went all the way soft anyway, was back in force. I rubbed it though my jeans and felt the ejaculate my previous stroking pulled up had leaked all over inside my underwear and was starting to soak through the denim in a large dark patch. I flipped over to Literotica and found a hot enough story when my hand started pulling the buttons of my fly open and I finally found a way to stop the madness. It was incredibly hard (pun intended). My head was swimming in the hormonal cloud of intense frustration. My face felt flushed and I was even a little light-headed, but I knew I was heading into very dangerous waters. Yes, I had broken Belle’s rule about playing with it, but that’s perhaps a veinal sin compared to actually making myself come. This whole incident lasted maybe ten minutes, but I went from a simple, unsuspecting rabbit released on his own recognizance minding his own business to rabid drunken scofflaw Gila monster shooting up the town from the window of his ’73 Pontiac GTO.

I had to go back in. I had to. But I still wasn’t in the right condition to be in the Steelheart, so I rooted around until I found the Looker 02. I shoved it up the penis, turned the key in the lock, and put the key in the usual spot for Belle to find. She didn’t find it though and, when she noticed I was in it, she didn’t ask why. I never had the courage to bring it up. Good thing she doesn’t know about this blog…oh, wait.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up the Looker 02.

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New rule

Belle doesn’t have than many rules for me, if you think about it.

  1. I can only come when she tells me to and if she tells me to I have to.
  2. I must to wear a chastity device whenever she says.
  3. I must never play with the penis without permission.
  4. If I have sex with someone else, I have to be locked up.

That’s about it, really. Everything I do and how I act flows from those. But today I asked that there be a new rule.

  1. I’m not allowed to tell her how I feel about coming (whether I want it or not) while we’re having sex unless she asks me.

This is a follow on from my previous post on talking about it while fucking her. As I said then, there’s no reason for me to say anything about it (really ever, but especially when the penis is inside her) other than for the part of my reptile brain that’s never accepted her control over my orgasm to try and manipulate her. I’ve been telling myself this new rule was a rule I was imposing on myself all week but this morning, in the passion of feeling her pussy and hearing her moan, I realized that a rule I never say to anyone is a rule I can’t be held accountable for.

On the surface, and when compared to the others, this new rule may seem like a little thing but I think it’s really huge. If I say what I want with regard to coming (either for or against), especially in the heat of the moment, then how committed am I to rule number one? You’d think, what with me being the big shot chastity blogger and all, that I wouldn’t need this rule, but in reality I’m always playing an angle with her. I guess that’s human nature, but when I can play an angle that means I have some modicum of flexibility and leverage and, truly, when it comes to my orgasm I don’t want any. I say that in the face of never letting go of that tenuous little thread.

The reptile part of my brain thinks she’ll always assume I want to come. That it will be obvious by my actions and how turned on I am and that I’ll be able to communicate my desire physically. The higher part of my brain (the bunny) clutches it’s little furry paws in hope that she doesn’t really think about it. That it doesn’t really matter.

So I asked this be a new rule this morning after I got her off. I was still locked up because she said she’s thankful for my chastity and this is Thanksgiving, after all. And I’m thankful for it, too. And her. Especially her. Once I proposed it and she quickly acceded to it, I could actually feel the control she has over that aspect of me ratchet down. That tiny wiggle space closed tight. The tenuous thread was cut. And it left me feeling warm and loved.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Pieces on the board

Chaste Cyclist (of the great eponymous blog) said in response to my last post:

Even though it has only been about 9 months for us, I feel myself drifting ever closer to these same feelings. The other evening when she called me upstairs I found myself wanting to be out of the Steelheart but knew better to ask. I simply wanted to pleasure her…and that is what I got. I have stopped asking to get out.

And it made me have a thought about one of the primary differences between enforced chastity (in which a device is used) and the other kind (in which the man is restricted in how he enjoys his penis but is not in a device). This is just sort of a random thought that started out as a comment in reply to his but I decided to make a post out of.

I don’t claim that one way of doing chastity is better than the other. I’ve seen device-less types claim theirs is superior because being able to employ willpower over a physical restraint shows greater submission blah blah bullshit bullshit. They can think what they want. I simply prefer to say we all get to do things as we like to do them and there’s no one right way to approach anything of a sexual nature. As long as everyone’s on board and happy, you win.

But, it may be the case that those of us in enforced chastity are ending up (or may end up) in a very different place than our device-less comrades. For me over the time I’ve been locked up, I’ve learned to progressively demote the penis as a central actor in our sex. In doing so, I’ve been able to be more completely focused on her pleasure. If the penis is not a factor in our sex (and truly we can have amazing sex without the key ever showing up) then the focus of the sex and its outcome is purely about her getting off as spectacularly as possible. The further out of mind the penis is, the better to have sex that is as partner-centric as possible.

I know for myself, when the penis is out, everything changes. It’s an entirely different act for me, even if most of it is functionally the same. Emotionally and hormonally, my focus is divided. Belle let me out this morning and the entire time I had my fingers in her snatch and was kissing her mouth and nipples, I was thinking about what came after. I was imagining the penis in her. I was resisting the urge to climb up and take her before she was done. After she came, I basically did just that. She never told me I could, but I slowly moved in that direction until she guided the penis in with her hand. It was an amazing fuck for both of us, don’t get me wrong, and of course I didn’t come (URRRRGH) but since I was free and hard and she was naked and writhing the drive to be inside her was crowding away in my mind.

Again, I’m not making a judgement call. I’m making an observation. Having a locked up penis makes a man much more focused as a lover. Personally, that’s a satisfying state of being for me. If the goal of chastity is to create in the locked parter a state of focus, an effective way of doing that is to demote his penis to a secondary or even tertiary player. Take the piece off the board, so to speak. Nothing does that better than a tight tube keeping his hard-on in check.

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Counting the stages and keeping my mouth shut

About a week ago, I tweeted…

Which pretty much sums up how it works most of the time. I can get to the point where I want to come so badly that I start at the second stage and only find my way to stage three about four hours later, but most days not. We can call them the three stages of denial.

But maybe there’s a fourth. See, Stage 1 there, “I hope she doesn’t let me come,” doesn’t even activate until she hands me the key to the Steelheart. It’s like the penis is a tiny Dr. Evil frozen away in its orbiting Bob’s Big Boy. Out of sight, out of mind. So really, the first question is whether the penis even gets out.

This morning, Belle didn’t let it out. It’s usually the case that the little Dr. Evil defrosts on Saturday mornings we’re not doing anything in particular. It gets let out, I get her off, then I stick it in, but she decided to leave it be today. On the one hand, I like getting out. A lot. More than I crave orgasm at any given moment, I crave sensation from the penis. Feeling her hand on it, feeling it hard and free, pressed against her, rubbing against her skin, sliding into her hot wetness. Just feeling. The Steelheart provides both no sensation in that when I touch it and grab it and claw at it all my hand feels is perfectly smooth, numb hardness that never changes but then, on the inside, it’s high pressure. Intense, consistent, unyielding resistance to my excitement. So yeah, having an erection that can be touched and feels good is something I look forward to.

But I also don’t think I deserve to be unlocked. Being locked is the default. Being unlocked is the exception. Not a treat or a reward or whatever. I hate it when I expect to be unlocked. I’d rather assume it’s not going to happen and be pleasantly surprised when it does than the opposite. Of course, when she wants it out, it should come out. It’s entirely up to her. I just don’t want her considering me and my cravings in that decision. I don’t want her to be nice to me just because.

So when I wrote that tweet last week, it was after we fucked and I didn’t get to come. Which, being solidly in Stage 3, was a relief. But when I was in her and sliding the penis in and out and losing myself to the amazing feeling of that the intensity of Stage 2 made me say to her how badly I wanted to come. I immediately felt bad for saying it. After, I apologized.

The thing is, there’s no reason for me to tell her. None. Because it doesn’t fucking matter. If I say anything about coming, one way or the other, I’m trying to influence her and that’s bullshit. Especially when the fucking penis is inside her at the time. If she wants me to, she’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Maybe I want to, maybe I don’t. Who cares. That’s the deal. I don’t come until I do and I don’t whine.

Maybe a part of me just wants her to know, “OMG, I’m so being denied right now!” but, of course, she knows that. But another part of me, the part that sits way down my brain stem and acts more than it thinks, is trying to put its finger on the scale of her decision. Maybe she’s considering it and by saying something it’ll cause her to lean towards letting it happen. I hate that part of me. That I can’t always keep it stifled. I’ve spent a long time learning how to keep it as far away as possible from the button that makes me come. Now I just need to learn to keep it from my mouth.

Orgasm denial and enforced chastity all boils down to managing conflicting urges and desires. I want to fuck you but don’t let me out, GAH coming would be awesome, I better not tell her. WHY DID YOU TELL HER!? Lock me back up, no keep me out, be nice to me, BE MEAN TO ME. Seriously, it’s stuff like this that makes me think being a top would be exhausting work. Subs are annoyingly complicated. We’re lucky anyone puts up with us.

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Mile marker

A reader calling themselves “Dev” said just over a month ago in a comment…

Thumper, I have a question for you, but I’m worried it will just piss you off. Hence I am leaving it in comments so that you don’t feel like you have to reply at all. But, have you considered that maybe you’re really not OK with the dent? I mean have you really given yourself space, allowed yourself to consider whether it’s OK for you? (I don’t mean medically, but personally.)

I think sometimes people don’t allow themselves to go down certain mental roads (like bisexuality, for some people) because they’ve assumed a priori that those roads are not OK or lead to bad places. Like a kid in college who might be too afraid to really ask themselves, do I really want to be a doctor or is it just my parents’ idea? Sometimes our persistent feelings are trying to tell us something that we should listen to.

I’m not saying that’s what’s going on here. I just want to nudge you to be sure you are giving your own thoughts and feelings proper respect and listening.

I never went back and answered that though I thought about it several times. Since I’m in the mood to write, I’ll do it now.

For those of you unfamiliar with “the dent,” I mean come on. Try and keep up, will you? The first mention of it is here. Then I whined about it when I was depressed, last time in the post linked to above in which Dev commented.

I will admit that there were times when I wasn’t OK with it. I mean, obviously, because I kept bringing it up and I didn’t need to. I could have totally never mentioned it to any of you people and who’d be the wiser? But I feel that people read my blog and perhaps even try and model some of their behavior on what I write about and it almost felt like if I didn’t say that wearing a chastity device can do something like that to a penis (even if you have to wear it for a really long time), I’d be breaking some kind of covenant. I said in my second post that I’d always tell the truth and that includes avoiding lies of omission.

There is something I’ve never said about the dent. It happens to be right at a point where the shaft of the penis had a bit of a natural bend in it to begin with. I recall when I was a teenager I though I bent it by jacking off too much with my right hand (which is hilarious — like it’s a Gumby penis or something). Even to this day, when I’m allowed to jack off (feh, right) I am conscious of which hand I’m using because of that natural bend. Then, at some point, I made a video of me putting on one of the devices I’ve made that kind of video for. I can’t recall which one at the moment and don’t feel like seeing which it was. In any event, I was just out of the shower and my skin wasn’t totally dry and had that kind of clingy thing going on that skin can have when it’s very slightly damp. As I pulled the penis through the ring, was a bit too forceful and I gave the shaft a bruise. I remember it being very slightly visible on the video and much more visible moments later. I actually watched the bruise form and darken. That bruise, as I recall, was about where the dent is today. Right about where the natural bend is. In fact, the bruise was on the right side and bend is on the left side.

I say all this because I think now that it’s entirely possible the dent isn’t from wearing a too tight A-ring all by itself. It could be because I wore a device when the penis was bruised and that didn’t allow it to heal properly. Honestly, I don’t know for sure. But it’s possible.

As my depression deepened, my issues with the dent started to become almost obsessive. My mind worried on it in those times when I was just starting to go to sleep or when the tight pressurized tube woke me up in the early morning. I imagined that it was getting worse and worse and would eventually impact my ability to use it. I can say without hesitation that there’s no sign the dent has changed at all, for better or worse. Whatever caused it, it appears to be stable.

All that being said, I’m not answering Dev’s question. She asked, “have you really given yourself space, allowed yourself to consider whether it’s OK for you?” I think now that yes, I have. And it is. Really.

As I said the other day, “being a locked man isn’t something I do, it’s what I am.” I feel that all the way down. At the very, very bottom, though, lives a tiny little serpent of doubt. And my depression and anxiety feeds that little snake until it becomes like Jafar at the end of Aladdin and then all it does it try and stoke my insecurities and issues and blow them up into things that keep me up at night.

I won’t go so far as to say I’m not a little insecure about the dent. Just a little. As crazy as it sounds, I worry about what someone might say someday if they see or feel it. Someone besides Belle who’s already said she likes it. That is crazy. Like it’ll ever happen. And even if it does somehow, like I said, being locked isn’t what I do, it’s what I am. In what universe is someone in the same room as the unlocked erection who isn’t aware of that? None.

I tend to think of it more now like a tattoo. Or perhaps the scar left over from a cesarean operation. It’s a mile marker on the journey that is my life. It’s not the same as it was but, honestly, had I known it was a possibility, I don’t think I would have changed anything about how it got there. Except maybe take my time pulling the stupid penis through the A-ring that day.