Tag: denial

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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.

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Addicted

I continue to be extraordinarily horny. Really, ever since that massage.

The night of the massage I bet I didn’t sleep two hours. I did fall asleep, but pressure from the device woke me up and then kept me up. I just couldn’t get visions out of my head. And every time I almost did — BAM — another sexy thought. It was torture.

The next morning, I basically devoured Belle. I was on top of her and moaning as soon as my fingers touched her wet pussy and I cried out when she came. And that energy has been with me ever since. Night before last I also couldn’t sleep and maybe got 2-3 hours. It’s been crazy.

But the thing is, I want this. Not just because it’s my nature to be a horned up denied sub left to stew in his own juices by his Domme wife, but because I think there’s something to the idea that the chemistry at work in a denied man’s brain is literally addictive.

When I’m allowed to come, there’s a distinct vibe drop. If I’m allowed to come twice in a few days (lol), it’s a total wipeout. And I feel…nothing. A void. I hate it. The lack of whatever’s churning around in me while denied is miserable. It’s like the color drains away from the world. I’m ornerier and sadder and no fun to be around. It’s legitimately like withdrawals.

I’m not a physiologist or anything, but it really does feel like an addiction. Not to a sensation, like when I was a teenager and into my 20s and jacking off daily (sometimes more). It’s to the feeling of being turned on to distraction.

Belle knows this about me. She texted me after she read the last post and told me point blank that I was “a real pain in the ass” when she lets me out and I come. And, since I’m “pretty good at satisfying her” in other ways, she still doesn’t know when or if I’ll get out for that reason again.

I think about how guys who are introduced to chastity find they want more and longer lock-ups. About how they invariably start to hope and even lobby against coming. I was that guy. I guess I still am that guy. But, in my experience, nearly all locked-up guys get that way. And it’s not like, oh I dunno, mountain biking or something where there’s a thing they’re doing that’s fun and enjoyable to do again and again. Chastity and denial are about the things those who’re locked up aren’t doing. It’s how denial and being locked up feels that powers our craving for it.

Long term chastity and denial are some kind of bizarre emotional inverted Möbius strip. A self-referential loop. A thing M.C. Escher would draw. A condition that makes no logical sense and doesn’t seem to be physically possible, but it does and it is.

And I guess I’m just lucky as fuck that I’m married to a woman who understands that.

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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.

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May metrics, ups and downs

FullSizeRenderAnd there goes May! So many projects going on around here, house guests, graduation, not to mention planning and preparation for our imminent departure to Asia for a huge chunk of the summer. But there’s one thing that doesn’t change: I’m still locked up pretty much all the time.

Belle kept the penis locked 99.5% of May which is the highest percentage of the year (exceeding April by a tenth of a percent). It was kept staring at the inside of the Steelheart for about two-thirds of the time while the rest was spent studying the inside of the Halfshell.

It was let out for sex six times for a total of almost four hours which averages to about 40 minutes each time. That’s funny to me since the vast majority of that time is spent satisfying Belle or lounging around after. The time it spent actually fucking couldn’t have been in total more than ten or twelve minutes, tops. So if you count the time she will sometimes stroke it while I’m getting her off, we’re talking 30-45 minutes a month of pleasurable sensation.

Belle came nine times, three on her own, six from my prestidigitation. That’s down by three from April, but as I said, more stuff going on around here.

I came zero times in May, though as I said, I was allowed to fuck her six times. I ejaculated five of those times. As of this writing, it’s been 102 days since my last orgasm. Of course, I have no idea how long it will be until the next one and doubt she does, either.

There’s something I’ve been meaning to write about for the past few weeks but haven’t figured out how or what words exactly to use then I figured I could make it part of this post. It’s funny, but when writing like this sometimes the hardest part is figuring out how to start and, once that’s done, the rest takes care of itself.

Anyway, as hard as it is to quantify as precisely, the thing that goes along with how often I get to come or for how long I’m locked up is how I feel about it all. And lately, I haven’t felt all that great. It’s been about two and half weeks since I felt the bottom drop out and only now am I starting to feel the stirrings of a rally.

I think a common misperception about denial and enforced chastity is that the locked guy gets hornier and hornier and all that awesome frustration energy powers the whole dynamic to ever greater heights. That’s just totally wrong.

Most guys who feel like it get to come all the time. As soon as the slightest amount of sexual frustration builds, they either have sex or take care of themselves. If it were charted, it’d end up looking like with I think of as a hacksaw blade. When a guy is in his teens, his chart would like a fine-tooth saw — lots and lots of little spikes closely packed interspersed with shallow, short valleys. But when he get’s older, the “teeth” become less frequent with larger spaces between, but the basic pattern remains. There is only so horny a normal man will get before he relieves the pressure to come, one way or another.

But if you’re like me, that never happens. And since the pressure never gets relieved, an underlying pattern is exposed. I don’t know if this is the same for all men, but for me the build goes way higher than it would normally. Perhaps five times higher. Then it plateaus for a long time as I reach cruising altitude. After a certain period like that, it will explode higher for brief period then come crashing down. Lower than what it feels like after an orgasm. Like, a depth so low the fish have to make their own light or not bother to have eyes. I can’t say if the cratering is chemical or caused by external issues or if one is exacerbated by the other. All I know is it happens from time to time.

This used to be a real problem. It’s easy to get depressed. I still do, but the difference is I know it’s not permanent. Sooner or later, for reasons I can’t explain, things will start to build again. Right now, I’m still under water but not so deep that sunlight can’t get to me. It feels like I’m moving in the right direction, but I also know there are false glimmers. When I’ll start to feel more normal but then things’ll go south again. I can’t know yet where I am, but this feels like a real rebound.

When I’m in this place, it’s like the flavor is drained from everything. I’m easily angered and have little interest in anything sexual. I will usually be able to perform for Belle, but I’d not think to instigate anything. It has to be her to push the button. This is the time when, if I find a dirty selfie on my phone or computer, I’m most likely to delete them. I don’t look at my own blog, can’t imagine writing anything, and don’t even look at Tumblr. The toys I enjoy during normal times appall me. It’s not any fun at all.

The worst part is how it changes how I see myself. I’ve said before that being locked all the time alters my own perception of myself at a pretty basic sexual level. I feel less like a man and more like something else. That’s not a bad thing. It’s just what it is. But during a crater like I’ve been in I stop feeling like anything. Whichever steel is between my legs is just an inert mass I need to keep clean. I don’t want to be locked, I don’t want to be unlocked. I just don’t care. No energy means no self-perception of identity. And what are we without identity?

I don’t say all this to be a downer. We’ve been doing this long enough for me to know that in my case it’s a normal aspect of long term denial and lock-up. I will come back and will feel good again. If I go all the way back to why I started this blog, it was because at the time there was way more chastity fantasy bullshit being passed off as reality and little real-life experience being related to those who were just starting out. If I ignored this aspect of denial and chastity, I’d be doing a disservice to the sprit of the site. And, I guess, to you as its readers.

Long story short, most of the time I’m in a good place and feel as though the denial and submission are by far net benefits in my life. I can’t imagine really being “normal” again. Not ever. But it’s not all sunshine and unicorns, either. You know, like life.

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What’s at the bottom of the lake

Since the beginning of September when Belle changed the rules and clarified that my default state is to be locked in a device unless she specifically says I should not be, I’ve been in one about 97% of the time. That includes a couple of multi-week stints of uninterrupted chastity. And I don’t know, but I’ve been feeling different lately. Or maybe not different. That’s probably not right. “Different” suggests something new and how I’m feeling is not new. If anything, I feel the same, just…more.

I think I’ve used the analogy in the past that the longer I go locked up or without orgasm it’s like when a lake dries up and the terrain of the land underneath is exposed. It was always there, just hidden. That’s what it feels like to me lately.

If you’ve been visiting this site for more than 72 hours, you know I identify as bisexual, heteromantic, and submissive (plus, I’m a baseball fan according to Twitter). But even that isn’t enough for me. And I really think being locked and denied has given me more insight into all this. The same way hallucinogens are supposed to allow us to see truths we can’t normally, being under the influence of an easy ever-present sexual craving really allowed me to dig around in all the dark, hard to reach corners. To see the submerged terrain. 

I am willing to concede that how I’m feeling and what I think about myself now would be different if I was having a normal amount of sexual release. I know for a fact that if I had easy and persistent access to the penis, I wouldn’t have the same sense of self I have now. Which makes a lot of this kind of introspection interesting because, in a way, it’s built on shifting sands. Somehow, the things we do and do not combine to alter us or accentuate certain attributes. So what are we really? Could I, in a different relationship and with a different partner, be totally different myself? That’s some existential shit. 
All I can say is how it feels now. And now feels like the truth. It feels like how I’m supposed to be. When I’m bottoming, when I’m subbing, when I’m being used for their pleasure, I’m home. Like I said recently, being a bottom and a sub is not what I do, it’s who I am. So yes, if I were in a relationship or living a life that allowed frequent release and easy access to the penis, I wouldn’t feel this way. Maybe I wouldn’t feel as good about myself. Maybe I wouldn’t even know the difference. But this is who I am. I went down a tunnel not knowing where it led, following instincts, and it came out where I was supposed to be. And Belle went there with me, which I’ll forever be grateful for. 

Moral of the story is twofold. One, don’t live your life according to how someone told you it should go. To how culture tells you you’re supposed to be. Find your path and follow those tunnels. Two, don’t be afraid of the dark in that tunnel. Of the things that are “weird” or what would shock your mom. Because nothing’s weird and I’m sure what’s in your mom’s head would freak you the fuck out right back. We are essentially brains with genitals. Sex for us is by definition cerebral. If you’re not thinking about it, you’re just going through the motions. The point is emotional satisfaction, not just physical release.

So tease those threads. Scratch those itches. Drain those lakes. There’s no telling what you’ll find. I did and I found me.