After my run the other morning, I was in the bathroom about to get ready for the day. I stripped off my running shorts and shirt and got my podcast playing and was thinking about whether I needed to shave or not (I decided to, in case you’re wondering) when I looked down and saw this.Continue reading “Deeper”
Today while sitting in our truck while Belle took a turn driving on our multi-state camper excursion, I looked down and saw this…
Not all that unusual, TBH, but since I was just sitting there, of course I took a picture of it and posted it to Twitter. Like you do. That’s not the interesting part or why I’m writing this post.
The interesting part is the hashtag. After pecking that out and posting it, I was stunned to see nobody had ever used it before. I mean, why should they? But I’m never not surprised when I have an original idea and #chastitybump was one.
Of course, I don’t really mind when my #chastitybump is that obvious. I literally just wrote…
I think all this is why 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. Notwearing 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.
And in that moment of hashtag inception, I was thinking about a) how hot I think a #chastitybump is (especially in new jeans I like a lot), and b) the defiant language I used yesterday, and c) how obsessed a lot of guys are about the devices locked onto them being seen through their clothing. And suddenly a movement was born. If only in my head. A way to help guys move past their #chastitybump worries and obsession. A way for them to be maybe even proud of it.
Because, when you boil it right down, what does a chastity device signify? Chastity is about devotion, sacrifice, and dedication. All noble and worthwhile things. The man who willingly accepts a chastity device is demonstrating attributes most people would value in their friends and partners. There really is nothing to be embarrassed about at all.
There is the issue of not wanting to involve others in your sex life without their consent. But the reality is (based on eleven years or so of catching people seeing my #chastitybump) nobody is going to ask. I mean, honestly, at this point the number of people I know and don’t who I’ve caught dick checking me has to be a hundred. Nobody has asked. Not a soul. And if they ever do, then they want to know and have therefore consented to get involved.
I think being less worried about one’s #chastitybump being visible is empowering. Being obsessed with stealth indicates that chastity is something to be ashamed of. In my opinion, that cheapens the commitment. I’m not going to go around with the shiny steel tube hanging out my fly, but I also will not go crazy trying to make it invisible.
Of course, creating a hashtag does not empower one with any kinds of special powers. But, if I was king of the hashtags, I’d ask that users of #chastitybump observe the following:
- #chastitybump is not for exposed chastity devices. We’ve already got plenty of tags for those. Therefore…
- #chastitybump should be used for devices that are covered with clothing. They should be at least minimally visible, but total obviousness is not required.
- Preferably, the #chastitybump should be under things like street clothing (shorts, jeans, slacks, swimsuits, etc.), but underwear is also acceptable (mostly because I didn’t think of this rule until after posting a few tagged underwear shots myself).
And that’s it, really. It’s time for us to own our #chastitybump. I really, truly hope this becomes a thing because the stigma of wearing chastity devices needs to be defeated. One little #chastitybump photo at a time.
Belle and I are about to leave on an 11-day road trip in our little camper. My social media accounts are about to swap over into “grandeur of nature” mode, fair warning.
It occurred to me as my hand was randomly down the front of my shorts feeling the smooth steel tube, warm with my body heat and slightly slickery from the lube I have to put under my balls, that I’d be really OK with Belle leaving the key at home. Being without the key while locked in the Steelheart is just about the hottest way to do the chastity and pretty much my optimal state.
It’s only happened a few times, and always when she says she’s forgot the key. I don’t recall it ever being intentional. I do recall, though, early on when I was still in the CB6K and we were going off on a weekend away for some reason or another that I was super fucking horny to get the thing off. I wanted to feel my hard-on and fuck the shit out of her. I was actually kind of angsty about it. She didn’t forget the key that time.
Chastity changes you. Not just hormonally and mentally and emotionally, though in all those ways, too. I was chatting with someone earlier about this. How not having a penis, the primary sex organ for a man, requires he become creative. Learning the other ways he can feel pleasure and that not all of them are from physical contact. It carves new pleasure pathways. Exposes hidden ones. He also has to learn how to pleasure his partner in ways that don’t involve penetration. For real, young men should be required to have sex with their partners for a full month without use of their penises to learn that critical life skill.
At this point, I think the penis is just too easy. It’s engineered by evolution to provide maximal pleasure as efficiently as possible. In general, they’re absolutely the easy way out, sexually. Most men and certainly men who would never consider being in chastity think this is exactly their point. But I have come to view it as a downside. For me, penises represent weakness. Temptation.
The other day, I was out all day because I was going to a sporting arena after work. I could have worn plastic, but didn’t because I also had a weird sore spot that a day out fixed right up. Every time I went to the bathroom I was presented with this weird little floppy meat thing instead of whatever rigid and usually shiny object I’m used to. Yeah, peeing was easier, but it was so…unimpressive.
That’s not a tiny penis kink thing. Well, not entirely. I mean, when it’s super flaccid it is really small. I said unimpressive because it’s so easy to use. That’s their raison d’être. The shortest possible line from desire to satisfaction. But a locked penis is hard. It’s about no line from one to the other. To be locked and denied for long periods is challenging in all the ways having access to a penis isn’t. And I need sex — my sex — to be hard. Challenging. In all the ways penises aren’t.
That’s how chastity has changed me. It’s bypassed my evolutionary wiring regarding “path of least resistance” pleasure. All my pleasure now needs to be maximally resistive. The more the better. Chastity, denial, bondage, bottoming, pain. It’s not that I don’t appreciate sweet sex. I get why it’s good and necessary. And my submissive, sexual service nature makes me willing to do that when it’s required of me (like when Belle unlocks me to fuck her). But hard sex. Resistive sex. That’s what I’m about.
Was I always like that or did chastity and denial make me that way? I dunno. My thinking is they tend to lower the water level of one’s sexuality exposing topography that’s usually hidden in the depths. And orgasmic satisfaction raises that water back up, turning the topography back into islands or submerging it altogether. But what do I know.
I think all this is why 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.
So yeah. Chastity changes you.
Traveling again. In an attempt to not repeat the weirdness of my last expedition, I chose to go through security unsecured. Since I was flying at 6:00PM, I was out all day. And, in an irrational burst of caution, I packed the Steelheart in my checked bag rather than carry it though the checkpoint as I’ve done in the past.
I should note that Belle is also traveling. She’s overseas and will be getting home the same day I do. She left traveling west and will return from the east, which is nifty, but it means I’ve been more or less self-locking for the past ten days or so. Having already figured out my game plan for the this trip, I let myself out prior to my shower to use the opportunity to properly clean everything and shave the bits the device conceals, etc.
It should not have been surprising, but nevertheless was, that even simple and utilitarian contact with the contents caused it to start to swell. The very concept of “penis” changes when it’s continuously locked away. It goes from being a (most of the time) low level nag of desire to something 100% real and pressing and actionable in seconds. While locked, even when I have the key, I know the penis is there and smoldering like Smaug under the Lonely Mountain, but like a dragon laying on a pile of gold, it’s an abstract threat. Once the cage comes off, the fire returns to its belly and it becomes fucking ready.
I was able to tend to its maintenance without doing anything untoward but the simple feeling of the water from the shower head striking the tip of the thing made my knees buckle and the shaft stiffen. It took every bit of will power to avoid going to a Bad Place. And knowing I’d be on my own recognizance for over 16 hours…
I decided that my own personal rule was going to be that if I was unlocked for some reason other than maintenance (cleaning, shaving, etc.) or when Belle was with me and also naked and she was expecting me to use it for her, I would not touch it. Not ever. Not even to pee. I bargained with myself about touching through clothing and had decided through my jeans was OK but not my underwear (which, if you follow me on Twitter or Instagram, you know is often skimpy and sheer) but then scolded myself for such a thought since there was no legitimate reason to touch it through my pants other than to make it hard and feel pleasure. So no touching at all. Side effect of that means I have to sit to pee, but guys like me are used to that already.
I’ve never done the device-less chastity thing. It was…interesting. As soon as I finished my internal debate and set this new limit, the exposed contents veritably loomed before me. Tempting. Yet radioactive. All of a sudden I became massively aware of it. Its every movement. How it moved when free, how its plumpness caused that to accentuate. At one point, the tip of it bumped the bathroom counter as I was getting ready and the contact caused a sharp intake of breath. I was relieved when it was stowed into underwear and then packed away in my jeans. And even then, the hypersensitivity that comes after being inside a steel tube for weeks was incredibly distracting.
I thought peeing would be pretty straightforward but in realty, absent steel pulling it down, it turns out the penis doesn’t naturally drop so that, untouched, its stream would go into the bowl and not spray over or against its edge. I eventually figured out if I spread my legs wider than usual and pushed down above the shaft I could get it in a usable position.
Hours later, I got into my hotel room, exhausted and ready for bed. Like most men do, I absently put my hand down my pants and BAM felt it. Fuck. Get that Steelheart, I said to myself. After turning the key, the steel weighed the newly secured penis down. The pull of the cold metal set me at ease.
I know, I know, I know, I’ve said this before, but it never ceases to amaze me how much more normal being locked makes me feel. To not feel cool air on the device contents and to not feel it move naturally and flop around. To instead feel the the tug of gravity or just the snug tidiness of compression. To be unable to touch any part of that part of myself except for what I can reach with my finger.
I’ve written before that I feel I was born for chastity. How I was pre-wired for it. Over the years, it’s been so firmly planted in my existence that the object involved is something my body and mind feel are an internal part of my body. I don’t feel comfortable or secure when it’s not on me. In it’s absence, I feel more exposed. Vulnerable. I am left with the assumption that, for some of us, being in chastity is 100% natural. For some of us, it is how we’re supposed to be. Which, by itself, is a comforting notion.
I was away from Belle this weekend spending a little quality time in the woods. Since the last time I went there resulted in two unauthorized self-administered orgasms, I went this time secured in the Steelwerks Schandmaske (a device for which I am woefully late in writing a review). Not that this trip would afford me any real opportunity to cheat, but because I did last time, I am always locked now unless Belle wants to use the penis.
In any event, because of this trip and various other reasons, March is turning into month in which the penis has been locked up quite a lot. It’s been out only 1.2 hours so far, or not even three-tenths of one percent of the month. I mentioned this to Belle when I got home just as an aside as she was going to bed and she asked me, unexpectedly, if I resented that degree of lock-up.
I’m not going to say it isn’t frustrating sometimes. That the urge to have an unencumbered erection or to feel the hard penis in my hand doesn’t occasionally swell inside me. But resentful? Far from it. Just the opposite.
I love Belle for being someone who will expend the effort to control me that way. Who cares enough about me to see that I’m put into that position. I crave it and I appreciate it more than I can say. It helps me stay centered and focused on my submission. It makes me feel loved and comforted even when the device is tight or annoying or the urge to use the penis for my own pleasure becomes strong.
I find I’m in a interesting spot now that it’s been so many months in which I’ve been without access to the penis so consistently. The sensation that I don’t have a penis like other men and that I am somehow fundamentally not as other men are permeates me. In the past, there was something about how I was a man denied control over the thing that defined my manhood that radiated the energy that powered my submission but now I feel like I’ve pushed past that. Not having a penis defines me more than not having access to it does. Not ever masturbating and so infrequently orgasming and being able to satisfy my sex partners without the use of a penis has rewritten the base code of my sexuality in a way that, if I resent anything, it’s that the penis can’t be locked away forever. That it still radiates desires and urges powerful enough to require it stay secured. That it even needs to be a factor at all.
I understand why it does. Belle needs to feel it inside her. She craves that and the feeling of it ejacualting into her. That’s what she requires to be satisfied sometimes so that’s what I will give her since her satisfaction is my primary objective. I’m happy to have that penis to be able to bring her pleasure when she wants it, but also happy to not have it all the rest of the time since it would only lead me to indulgent and self-centered activity.
The energy that powers my submission now comes from the lack of the thing that I used to think defined my sexuality. That I feel very much as though I am not quite a man. I’m something in between. I only become man-like when Belle needs me to. Feeling that would have probably terrified me even after we started using chastity in our marriage. Definitely would have horrified me from 15 or 25 years ago. But now it feels absolutely natural. Perhaps more natural than I’ve ever felt before. As if I am now who I was meant to be.
How could I resent that? How could I resent the woman who helped me become this? Of course I don’t. More that I cherish her for allowing me to be who I am. That she appreciates me for being that way and, even though it’s not what she thought she was marrying, loves me all the same.
Hapa left the following comment on my 2016 metrics post:
Love how you’re always pushing boundaries and publishing results. For real. As I read this blog entry I started wondering about the big picture. My guess for arguments sake, is you and Belle are in your late forties. A lot of couples naturally start seeing a slow decay in sexual frequency as they age,.
Do you think about trading the natural ability of your most active sexual years for lifestyle?
Clearly you and Belle have a great thing going and and your blog is both inspirational and entertaining but thought that chastity could potentially fit a time when yours or your partners appetite for physical sex is lower (especially when you’re at 16 orgasms/ year) than trading your more vital years.
Maybe the consideration is entirely backwards and the hotness of the trade off is everthing regardless.
In a comical parallel, I used to buzz my hair for many reasons, mostly that I liked it, then, one day I realized I’d be better off enjoying my natural ability to grow and style my hair leaving the buzzing for a time when styling isn’t possible. Chances are I’ll go back to buzzing sooner than that but it made sense enough to stop buzzing my hair for now.😉
Thank you for continuing to write so authentically about your life and sexuality.
Happy New Year,
I started to respond but it got all long-winded so I’ve promoted to a whole post. I do not want this to be read as some kind of personal take-down of what Hapa asked or said. Quite the opposite. I want him to understand my perspective. There was a time when I would have asked and said the very same things he did.
Your guess is right that Belle and I are in our late forties. We were in our early forties when we started all this. And while I do agree in general that denial and chastity is one way to combat a slackening libedo, that’s not exactly what happened for us.
Prior to the denial dynamic overlay to our relationship, we had endured years of essentially sexless marriage. Then I cheated and then we came back together and started having sex again. For a while, we had quite a lot of pretty standard sex. Then I discovered what chastity was and we were off to the races. So, for us, it wasn’t a way to enhance a declining sex drive. It was a way to enhance our relationship. Also, for what it’s worth, Belle’s sex drive has increased pretty dramatically in the past year or so.
For a while (like, more than a year), I bought into that “trading my more vital years” thing because I was not yet getting my head around the fact that the point of being locked up is not for me to have sex or for me to have more sex or for me to have better sex or for me to have hotter fantasies or for me at all. It’s not about me. I was terrifically turned on all the time and the chastity was hot as fuck and I’d lay there all mad at Belle for not wanting to take advantage of me in my turned on state and let me make her come, etc. etc. I was being selfish and not accepting that she held the key and owned what it secured. I wanted the female to lead my relationship but only if she led it where I wanted it to go. I was one of those poor bastards who wants to be locked up and talks his wife into it and then becomes a pain in the ass horned-up idiot. Chasity and denial are acts of submission and submission means sacrifice at some level.
It’s from sacrifice that submissives draw their energy. It’s the very definition of being submissive. Giving up control of some kind. Giving it to them, for them. And then living with the consequences. And knowing that living like that is how we as submissives were meant to be.
In a lot of ways, when I talk about my mantra — This is who I am, not what I do — it’s an attempt to draw strength from the reality of the previous paragraph. Giving things up is what makes me as a submissive happy. Seeing her enjoy what I can do for her, as well.
That’s a heavy way of saying I don’t see the exchange of being able to come when and as often as I want for her control over those things and as a trade-off. It’s the entire point. I don’t know how it would be different if I was 30 or 20 or 70, but I do know I wish we had started this as soon as we met. I don’t care if I’m having 1% or 10% or 90% of the orgasms someone my age would normally be having. I care that she owns any I have from this point forward and that she takes that seriously. I’m a fucking sub. I want to be dominated. It makes me happy to be controlled. Being controlled makes me happier than having orgasms. My responsibility isn’t to think about what might be, it’s to focus on making her happy and all the ways I can repay her attention to the responsibility she’s accepted.
You do get there in your comment (“Maybe the consideration is entirely backwards…”), but your hair analogy is off. Even if I couldn’t come as often as I could when I was 20 (i.e., grow as much hair as you can now and not when you can’t), I’d still want her to control it. It makes no difference if I have the natural urge to come three times a day or three times a month. In fact, if I’m unable or have no urge to do something, what value is there in giving it to someone else? It’s potency is its value. Because I have the urge to come (however often) but do not in deference to her control is why this works. That’s where the energy comes from.
I don’t think your POV is uncommon. I do think it’s wrong. Orgasm denial, in a weird way, isn’t about orgasms. It’s about denial. Denial is the thing. Sacrifice. Handing over control. Submission. Yeah, baby. That’s the stuff.
Belle asked me this weekend how I was doing. We were in bed up at the cabin and being lazy because it’s the holidays and at first I made some non-commital grunting-type sounds but she pressed.
“I really want to jack off.”
The rules are such that usually any admission of that kind of desire would be kept to myself since it could be construed as me trying to get her to allow me to do something she might otherwise not be considering, but she asked and it was true so I said it.
After a bit more conversation (her reply to me saying what I said was something like, “Do you,” and then we moved on), she said that she was thinking she needed me to come pretty soon so I’d be able to fuck her for more than 20 seconds.
“I’m afraid of coming,” I said.
“But you just said you wanted to jack off!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t say I wanted to come at the end.”
For the longest time, I’ve blogged about how denial and chastity is a struggle between the higher brain and the lizard brain. Sometimes I’ve said it’s the higher brain versus the penis. But I’ve changed my thinking on that. It’s all of the above. I think to truly understand how the dynamic of denial works we need to steal a concept from Christianity. Namely, the Trinity.
In Christianity, we’re expected to believe that God is a consubstantial being encompassing the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Three that are one. I think of a man’s sexuality to be similarly structured. (And yeah, I get the sacrilegious nature of comparing my sex to the Holy Trinity, especially on Christmas, but that’s just a freak bonus of timing.)
A man’s sexuality apears to be a single element. It acts as one and, because no part of the trinity is usually denied what it wants, it appears to be one. The need to fuck or come drives actions until relief is achived. But I now perceive three things working together. The higher mind, the lizard brain, and the desire for pleasurable sensation from the penis. One of the three of these drag the other two around, depending on the situation, or they conspire in some combination. Getting the hang of chastity and denial, especially when doing it with a partner, is finding the seams between those three elements and knowing they’re not always connected and coordinated, nor do they need to be.
- My higher mind gives me the basic wiring of what gets me off (i.e., makes me bisexual, a masochist, heteromantic). It drives the potent stimulant that is my imagination. But it’s also the fundamental element of control. Of reason. Of knowing the difference between what I crave and what I really want.
- The lizard brain is all impulse and instinct. It’s what constantly whispers to my higher brain while fucking to stop resisting so much. It’s what makes the tube fill when I see just the right image on Tumblr. It’s the part of me that makes me petulant and short-tempered from denial.
- The third part is the penis itself. It’s all sensation. Zillions of nerve endings and the feeling of achingly hard erections. All it does is demand and crave attention.
When I said to Belle I wanted to jack off, what I really meant is I wanted to feel the penis hard and in my hand. I wanted to feel my fingers gripped under the head and slide back and forth. Of course, that would lead to the lizard trying to make my higher brain push it too far, but really neither of them were the motivating factor in my saying it to her. It wanted out and wanted to be stroked. Hence my also being afraid of orgasm. Of how the balance between all three of those parts of me get knocked after I come. The higher brain saw the danger jacking off poses to its equilibrium. But when she told me she was also thinking of letting me come, the lizard pipped up to say how wonderful it would feel to come while jacking off. To edge myself a few times and then really let go. The lizard told me to ask for that for Christmas and the higher brain immedialty tisked and shook its head.
I dunno if any of this is real. I know it feels real in me and keeping all this in mind helps me deal with the various emotions that come from denial. I think this model has helped me make a lot of progress lately in understanding myself. Maybe it’s hormonal dementia. Maybe it’s the typical kinky person overthinking. Whatever, I totally think that if she let me come twice in two days the whole thing would go back under the sea and disappear.
Not that that’s going to happen, of course.