Oceans away

Belle took off to Europe for a week last night and my “emergency” key went with her. It was a spur of the moment kind of decision but there really isn’t much use for an “emergency” key in the Orion (emergencies are typically due to some discomfort/injury created by a device and the Orion, which has been on me for more than 62 days straight hasn’t given me a moment of issue) and, especially when she’s not around to keep an eye on me, the only thing better from my perspective than a secured tamper-proof key is no key at all. The more my free will is removed from the equation, the better. And right now, I couldn’t get the Orion off for any reason, so free will is out the window until she gets back.

I say the Orion has been on for 62 days straight. Of course, there have been some short periods here and there it’s had to come off (such as). I don’t have to take it off for travel, but when I’m with family or co-workers I do just in case. I’m going to end January having been out 4.5 hours which is almost spot on to my goal for the year and, January being a heavy travel month so far, makes me feel my stretch goal of only being out about 24 hours all year is really doable.

I keep coming back to the rest of those goals and Belle’s recent apparent confirmation that “no stroking, no fucking, no coming” aren’t just goals, but the law, and not just for the year, but forever. I think one of the reasons that’s exciting for me (even though stroking, fucking, and coming are all things I will miss badly) is that I feel accepting my total denial of those things is the ultimate act of submission on my part. It perfects my submission.

I’m not saying any sub that’s not similarly situated isn’t doing it right. Not at all. Every sub and Dom/me and relationship and dynamic is going to be unique. But I’m wired (for as long as I can remember) to want my partner’s sexual pleasure to always come before mine. Always. And chastity and denial have allowed me to learn not only to be a better, more focused and attentive lover, but to find ways to make her pleasure my pleasure. In a very real and physiological sense. By accepting permanent chastity and denial (though it was not and should not be my decision at all), I’m demonstrating to Belle and the world that my commitment to my form of submission is absolute.

I could never, ever do this on my own. Belle’s authority and whatever device I’m locked in are what allow me to be this version of myself. And the more I’m this version of myself, the more deeply I feel this is me. What I am supposed to be. Thumper-centric pleasure (stroking, fucking, coming) are all distracting, indulgent, and destructive to the level of submission Belle has helped me attain.

So her taking the keys over an ocean away seems very fitting. No matter how horny and frustrated and achy-balled I get, relief should feel impossibly distant. My focus shouldn’t be inward. Not on my needs. I live to serve hers. Even when she’s not here.

Kinky pancakes

There’s a special thrill that runs through me when my fingers find Belle’s wet pussy each time she lets me get her off. I’m not so old (or haven’t been locked up so long) that I can’t remember what it was like in the before-times, during moments of great passion, to climb between her legs and line the head up and push it home as her soft, wet, hot folds enveloped me. And every one of those memories come pounding back when my fingers part her wetness and feel her slick clit. I moan each time as if I’m feeling it with the contents because, in my mind, I am.

And there’s a way that it hits different when, by all appearances, my odds of the contents receiving that sensation seem to be dwindling to very low percentages each day. Instead of the impact of my memories of feeling that hitting me, I’m crushed by the weight of all the future chances that I won’t get. And haunted by the fact I can’t even remember the last time it happened (309 days ago, if you’re counting and I sure am). And if it ends up being the last time…and I have no memory of the occasion…unf.

I’ve been concerned that somehow the kink algebra would change if the variable of “will this be the time” got zeroed out. Pleased to say it hasn’t. But has it been zeroed out?

After she came and I thanked her for letting me be part of it and she commended me for how well I get her off, she asked if I wanted pancakes for breakfast. Because that’s exactly how kinky shit is around here. Of course, I said yes because pancakes are amazing. And kinky!

Then she said, “Making you pancakes is the least I can do if I’m never letting you out again.”

I squirmed and the Orion filled up and I tightened my grip on her before asking, meekly, “Are you?”

She laughed out loud. Not a sly giggle. Laughed at me.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she made me pancakes. Kinky motherfucking pancakes.

It has occurred to me previously that while she had read all the recent posts about her potentially making me pussy free and really truly permanently locked, she never confirmed or denied my assumptions of what she’s said. She’s commented, sort of cryptically, but never said if I was right or wrong. Presumably, she doesn’t want to be denied the opportunity to change her mind at some point in the future. That’s aligned with how she’s approached her role in the past.

So, no, that variable hasn’t been zeroed out. But the number of zeroes to the right of the decimal are growing. As are the days since I’ve been allowed to fuck her. This is the longest it’s ever been, by a large margin.

Back before the pancake conversation, when my fingers were still inside her and she was moaning under them, at that point when she starts to go over the falls and her hips take over and I know the best thing I can do is hold my hand in place as she finishes herself off grinding against me and I get to feel that amazing zinging pulsing of her pussy as she comes and comes…all those 309 days made the Orion as tight as it gets and the real psychic pain of being denied so long cut deep. I remember what her pussy felt like coming like that with the contents buried inside her — back when it could be called a cock. And I know that even if she does let me fuck her at some point, I’ll never feel that exact thing again. Because the contents, as a tool for getting her off, has been rendered useless. It can’t last nearly as long as it needs to to bring her to orgasm and any attempt to do so only leads to her frustration. There’s only downside to her letting me out for that. No chance for her to get all the way and only the potential of me being annoying or moody or something as a result of the inevitable ejaculation that happens when we try.

It’s the way this potentially pussy-free path we’re on seems so obvious, in retrospect. The more I was denied, the less useful the contents became, leading to more and longer denial, leading to a further erosion of my stamina and usefulness, etc. That feedback spiral gets tighter and tighter until we’re where we are now. Cock-less. Even penis-less. Just contents.

All I can say for sure is I need to assume I’m locked up forever and never getting pussy in that way with that part of me again. And I’ll keep doing that until and unless I’m not. Because with this, as in all things, she’s in charge.

#PussyFree

I have been thinking quite a lot about the prospect of never getting to fuck Belle again. I mean, I thought about it a lot before I knew I may never get to again, but that was when I thought I might get to every time we had sex. Maybe that would be the time she produced the key and let me out and I’d get to slip it in. I didn’t think about it so much in between those times because why should I? But lately, I’ve been thinking it about often, usually just as I’m going to sleep (or trying to).

On the socials, the way men in my situation refer to not being allowed to ever fuck their female keyholders is #pussyfree. I never really paid a lot of attention to it before because, of course, that wasn’t me. I may have been #pussyfree at that moment, but like rain in Death Valley, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Except now I’m led to believe sooner may be never and later may be forever. So suddenly #pussyfree has a whole new meaning. That hashtag is me.

And it’s more than just never being allowed to enjoy Belle’s pussy again. Some guys who are pussy free are cucks who, while not being allowed to fuck their wives, aren’t locked in chastity (at all or not permanently) and still get to jack off. But Belle doesn’t let me do that. Ever. So, not only will I never get to feel pussy with the contents again, unless something changes, I won’t be able to feel my own hand there again, either.

And if I don’t get to feel pussy or my own hand again, then…well, I won’t come again. So I’m not just #pussyfree, it’s becoming clear that I’m going to be #orgasmfree.

I have wanted this at certain points in the development of our chastity journey, but I never really thought we’d get here. I never thought she would get here. And I’m not going to lie and say I’m upset at the prospect of never coming again. Of never feeling a pleasurable sensation with the contents again. I’m not upset. I will miss it, surely. I have been missing it. But I understand why it has to be this way.

That said, it’s one thing to fantasize or imagine the eventuality and another to find one’s self living it. There’s a finality that I don’t think I had previously really appreciated. A finality but also a bit of a relief. Belle has lifted from me the need to concern myself with my own orgasm ever again. I don’t need to spend any time wondering if the next time I get her off if I’ll get a chance for myself, too. Because I won’t. Not that time, not the time after that, or the one after that. Not any time. No need to worry my pretty little head about it.

The ache in my balls. The gnawing craving. The fluttery urge I get when I touch her wet pussy. They’re not just the common companions I’ve grown accustomed to. They’re now permanent fixtures. Really and truly, not a thing I’m doing but what I am.

The finality of that is clarifying, now that I’ve worked it out. Any energy that might have been wasted thinking about the orgasm I might get and did I really want the thing I so badly craved and should I feel good or guilty for getting it if I got it because maybe probably I wouldn’t but maybe I would and then how would that feel and shouldn’t I just try and enjoy it even though maybe I didn’t want it after all? All out the window. How I am now — right now — is how I am. All I’ll ever be.

Got it. OK. Let’s go.

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.

Fourteen

Today is the 14th anniversary of the first time a chastity device was locked onto me (which means we’re also a little over a week past the fourteenth anniversary of the start of this blog).

It’s hard for me to really get my head back into the space I was in when I first felt what it was like walking around among muggles with a device in my pants, let alone what it felt like having my erection contained and constrained for the first time. But I do recall the first time Belle denied me an orgasm after she got one. It was such a rush. I felt high the whole next day. But being denied has changed so much over the years. From it making me annoying and selfish to…whatever I am now. I don’t think I’m nearly as much of either. I feel like my — ahem — head is in a better place.

I’ve said before, being kept in chastity no longer feels like a thing I do or is being done to me. It just is. It’s how I am. It only becomes a thing when I can’t be kept locked. If I have to come out for some stupid reason like travel or a doctor’s visit or one of those times the contents need to heal from something a device did to it. I was just off camping in the wilderness for a week and was in the BA-31P the whole time. Mostly because not being in it would feel weird and wrong and distracting. As if being so would be inauthentic and unnatural. Basically, “weird and distracting” went from being how it felt to be locked up to how it feels not to be. Also, Belle’s rules say I have to be locked up all the time and I have proven there’s no practical reason I can’t be even deep in the woods for a week.

Seeing the contents outside of a device has become off-putting. It looks pale and exposed. I don’t want Belle or anyone else to see me that way. It’s embarrassing. Somehow, it feels more naked than naked is. Like some inner part of me is exposed. I guess that’s what the contents literally are now. An inner part.

The milestone of being kept for 14 years has me wondering how much of that time was spent locked up. Of course, locked men tend to obsess over duration. Kinky people in general seem to over index as stats and metric obsessed folk. I don’t count the days like I used to (even between orgasms which happen so infrequently I can’t even remember them), but I still track what I’m locked in and for how long. I began using an app to track which device I was locked into back in January 2016 (actually December of 2015, but only for like two days), so a bit more than half way between the first day and today. I don’t have data for the first seven years or so. But here’s the breakdown of each year since then.

Hours LockedHours Unlocked
20166,800 (77%)1,984 (23%)
20178,579 (98%)181 (2%)
20187,194 (82%)1,566 (18%)
20196,661 (76%) 2,099 (24%)
20208,371 (95%)413 (5%)
20218,535 (97%)225 (3%)
2022 (YTD)6,966 (99%)90 (1%)
Total46,856 (88%) 6,558 (12%)

Two things jump out. One, 2016, 2018, and 2019 had a lot of unlocked time, relatively speaking, while the other years tracked were more in line with one another. Two, the trend for the past three years is curving towards zero. This is due to Belle wanting the contents out far less often than she used to and me being better at finding ways to avoid being out when in the past I might have thought I had to be. But, the question was how long have I been locked up over the past 14 years? I think the previous 7 would be more like 16′, 17′ and 19′, so let’s just say the average for all of them is 75-80% locked.

That’s something between 92,000 and 98,000 hours. Which means in this, my fifteenth year of enforced chastity, chances are I’ll cross the 100,000 hour mark. That’s more than eleven years.

Of course, this is meaningless. I am locked. By default and whenever I don’t have to come out due to circumstance or Belle’s (increasingly infrequent) demand. As far as I’m concerned, the number is basically ∞.

But since we’re at this moment of recognition and reflection, I can say I never want to be any other way than kept in chastity. The changes that have come over me for being so are indelible. Sure, I could not be locked up and be touching myself sexually and having regular orgasms like a real boy at some point in the future. Theoretically. But it would never feel right. It would never be right. I would always know that being that way wasn’t my authentic self.

I’ve been locked in chastity for fourteen years today. Hopefully, I will never not be ever again.

Stiffening the stifling

I spent a lot of time thinking about this, from my last post, last night instead of sleeping:

In fact, she related, she does want me locked up. More now than before. Meaning she doesn’t want me not locked up. … She 100% prefers locked up and denied Thumper to the other kind. She’s never been more committed to my essentially permanent enforced chastity.

And then this snippet I neglected to include that I mentioned on Twitter:

And what I couldn’t stop thinking about and was making the Evotion 8 tight was the idea of suggesting she make how she’s feeling now official. As in, I will never be allowed out except for absolutely necessary situations and never be allowed to fuck her again.

I mean, even pecking those words out on my iPhone makes the device thump in time with my heartbeat and tighten uncomfortably.

But I can’t suggest that. It violates the spirit if not the plain language of one of my rules: I am not to volunteer how I feel about having an orgasm

And I said something that follows that logic in my last post.

My denial and chastity need to be in service of what she wants, not just because I want to be locked up and denied. And actually, what I want shouldn’t even be a consideration. That, truly, is what I want. For the concept of my sexual satisfaction to be completely irrelevant to how she decides I’ll be in service of her needs and desires. In fact, to hear her say she wants me always locked up and denied because it makes me the more perfect version of the partner she wants is…perfection. To me.

So I can’t ask her to tell me the things that turn me on so much. I mean, I’m so far beyond trying to figure out why the prospect of never again feeling sexual pleasure through the contents is so hot, but I’m not so far gone as to know if and when I ever hear those words, it 100% cannot be at my suggestion.

And yeah yeah yeah I know writing a post about it which she will read could be construed as some kind of passive bottom topping bullshit, but read on…

What my higher brain understands is that just because she wants me locked up more now than ever before does not mean she wants to preclude from her available options what it feels likes to be fucked by a real cock (even if it’s just the one on me) and then feel me come inside her. I get why she would like that. And it’s absolutely not up to me to decide or, really, have input regarding what she does (or does not do) with the contents.

And if my higher brain is honest with itself, it also understands that maybe one of the reasons being denied is so hot is the hint of the barest whisper of a chance that I may not be denied. And if suddenly I know I will always be, would that take something off of it?

Honestly, I have no idea.

If I take my recollection of her words to heart — I don’t ever want you out — well, then, I have what I was fantasizing about. But it’s also the case she may have been exercising a bit of hyperbole and really meant hardly ever and so very rarely but I reserve the right, etc.

Hilariously, I know I ended my previous post talking about open, frequent communication but I also feel, as mentioned above, that open communication on this topic (outside, perhaps, these pages) is not an option for me.

What I feel I can do with a clear conscience is suggest some addendums to my rules that will make her more in control of when and how I’m in chastity.

  • She will retain sole possession of her key in a manner such that I cannot ethically obtain it without her knowledge. Meaning, it should no longer be kept in the little silken pouch in her nightstand along with her vibrator and should be someplace like her purse where I don’t normally go. It doesn’t have to be secret, but it should require a larger effort on my part to get to it.
  • “My” key will be once again secured in a manner that makes unauthorized access impossible. Like in the little Steelworxx key safe thing with a numbered lock. Right now, I keep it unprotected in the little box I put my earrings and PA jewelry in.
  • I will only be allowed to be outside a device for regular maintenance or other standard reasons (such as swapping from one to another) in her presence. Currently, I will change devices as I please and when I need to take one off for deep cleaning, hygiene, and/or hair removal, I do it behind a closed bathroom door. This behavior is technically a violation of the “I must be wearing a chastity device at all times, unless she says otherwise” rule and, clearly, I need it to be more robust. She knows I do these things, but I need her to really know I’m being good and following the rules at all times.
  • Finally, I’d like to have to answer to her every day that I’ve followed her rules to the letter. This is the one thing that’s slightly bottom-toppy, but I do crave some required regular demonstration of my fealty to her control and having her ask me, “Have you obeyed all my rules today?” and being required to answer would be 100% hot and 100% soothing to my submissive soul all at once. And I’d like this to happen even when we’re apart and whenever we have the ability to communicate with one another.

None of these things are the hawt chastity fantasy I described above, but together they represent a (ahem) stiffening of her control and that’s not nothing. Truth is, after nearly 14 years of being this way, we’ve both let enforced chastity become a normalized feature of our relationship. And that’s led to some lackadaisical behavior on my part. I want to show her I’m more committed to being locked up today than ever before. For it to be as obvious as possible as often as possible.

It would be like recommitting my dedication to the dynamic as we sneak up on the 14th anniversary of the first time I was locked up. I don’t want her to think I ever take for granted how she keeps me in chastity. It’s a mutual gift we give each other every day.

Subsidence

My entire life, I can remember nothing but being attracted to all genders. Never, ever can I recall not finding just about anyone attractive. Even before I knew what sex was, I knew that sometimes there was another kid that made me feel funny inside. And they were always, always, always both boys and girls.

That said, it’s also always been the case that my relative attraction to one pole of the gender spectrum or the other ebbs and flows. If you imagine the Kinsey Scale and its zero to ten range where five is equally attracted to both ends, then I vacillate between three and seven. Thus has it always been. Which is to say, I’m never not attracted to either end of the gender spectrum (or, really, anything in between), but sometimes I lean more heavily one way or the other.

This was especially problematic when I was a teenager and I barely knew that “bisexual” was an option for me. All I saw around me was straight people and gay people and David Bowie. And whenever I thought, “Well, what am I going to be for the rest of my life?” (because that was the frame through which I understood sexuality), the fact that the foundation of my sexual preferences kept slipping and sliding around like Bambi on a frozen pond made me constantly struggle to know “what I was.”

You could say that that aspect of my sexuality is defined by constant, permanent flux. The variability of it is the only thing I have come to count on my entire life. So it’s really interesting to me how little variation there is in the other axis of my sexuality. I have no interest in being a sexual dominant. Zero. I am so close to being 100% submissive that if there was a Dom/sub version of the Kinsey Scale I’d identify as a zero (where, of course, the subs are the little numbers and the Doms are the bigger ones).

But, that sub energy is latent absent denial and chastity. That’s not to say I’m not a sub when I’m not denied. I have always had sex like a sub. I tend to want to bottom and I have always been focused on getting my partner off before me. I have always tended to serve, if not explicitly. But being denied the ability to have regular orgasms is like spraying lighter fluid into a campfire (not that I have ever done that nor would I encourage you to, either, if you like having things like eyebrows). If I’m not denied, I don’t become less submissive, I become more selfish. My D/s Kinsey number doesn’t go up, but my interest in expressing it wanes.

And it’s kinda weird to me how that works. My bisexuality doesn’t really change at all due to being denied. I’m way more horny all the time and find some things to be more of a turn-on when I’m denied, but my baseline preference for either end of the gender spectrum doesn’t really get impacted. My needle still bounces around on the gender gauge while it only pegs harder and harder to the left of the D/s gauge.

Heh. Pegs.

I recall when I first found chastity and the online community of people who practiced it that “you shouldn’t have to be locked up to be a good sub” was a thing that was often said. Hearing that made me feel like not a good sub since I knew I was way more into being that way the longer it had been since I last came. But, just like my variable kind of bisexuality, that’s just how I am. Since it was a topic of conversation then, in the mediaeval period of enforced male chastity, I can’t be that unusual.

This is something I’m thinking about because Belle let me fuck her for real about a week ago. And I “suffered” a massive sub drop because it’s pretty much impossible for me to put it in her anymore without blowing a load. And…I don’t know how to describe it. The pressure of denial inflates my sub persona and when one is gone the other goes and then I’m left feeling…different. It’s as if losing my sub energy is like losing access to a latent cone in my eye and suddenly a certain wavelength of color goes away for me. Until I build back a level of horniness that resurfaces my submission. It’s a part of me that’s become so familiar and dependable that its absence is keenly felt.

Luckily, all it takes to get it back is time. And a lock.

Back in my place

I’ve been back in the Steelheart for the past 21 days after briefly trying out a new device (the Cherry Keeper which was a bit of a disaster but I have another one coming so there’s no review yet). All through our summer vacation and up to this moment. I had it off briefly when we got home so I could give it a vinegar cleaning and shave my bits.

On the year, I’ve primarily been wearing the BA-31P and getting back into the venerable Steelheart has been interesting. It’s noticeably bigger and heavier than the BA-31P and, since I’ve spent the equivalent of 1,261 days in the Steelheart since I’ve been tracking time locked up, a very palpable sense of familiarity with it. Of all the devices, and even as much as I like the BA-31P, the Steelheart is and always will be home.

There was a moment during our trip before Belle let me get her off when I was feeling somewhat on edge and a bit despondent at the length of time that had passed since I was able to get to her pussy. The weight and bulk of the Steelheart made me super aware and even self-conscious about wearing it in front of her. Which is quite odd for me. It’s much more usually the case that I feel self-conscious when the contents are exposed but, in that moment of unhappiness I was struggling with, why was I locked up? What is the purpose of being locked in that steel when nothing at all is happening?

It’s been said by me and other chastity bloggers that enforced male chastity is not a “set it and forget it” kind of thing. Being separated from the contents absent any external stimulation is psychologically challenging. The lack of stimulative sexual energy that comes from being denied during sex allows the device to transform back from an integrated part of my body into a hunk of metal. And there was a specific moment when I was naked and climbing over Belle to get out of bed when my legs were spread wide and the Steelheart was dangling and swaying and pulling on me where I was suddenly very conscious of its foreign metalness. It made me wonder to myself What is the fucking point of this thing?

I write that from my current frame of mind which is horny as fuck and it’s hard to really appreciate where I was then. Now, I see the Steelheart as a fundamental aspect of my body. I wear some kind of device more than almost anything else that comes into contact with my body. Only my wedding ring and earrings are on more and maybe not even my wedding ring which I take off a couple times a week for things like the application of skin lotion. Right now I cannot consider myself complete with unlocked and exposed contents. But back then, it felt very foreign.

So, to answer the question from past me, the point of the thing is actually pretty simple. And it’s one I need to work on never forgetting. Fact is, I do not deserve to be any other way. I. Do. Not. Deserve to have a penis that is free and can grow during erection or be played with. Not now. Not before I figured that out, and not after. Not ever. That reality is fundamental to who I am. Since getting back into my normal headspace, reminding myself of that truth is something I’ve been doing daily, usually as I’m going to bed and trying to fall asleep.

I do not deserved to be unlocked.

I don’t pretend to know how this works. Why some men should never be locked and others can take it or leave it while those like me should never be any other way. But that’s how it is. And that’s how I am.

But beyond that, the device (whichever device I’m in) is a perpetual demonstration of my commitment to Belle. I’ve agreed to The Rules and by being locked up regardless of whether or not I’m horny or she’s horny or we’re having sex or not, the physical barrier between me and the contents are a simple fact of my status like the ring on my left hand. This one doesn’t project that status to the world (unfortunately, outside the readers of this blog and my Twitter followers), but it’s important for her to see.

And in a lot of ways, the device I’m in is part of my identity. Alpha studs have their cocks they swing around and chastity subs have whatever is locked on them. If I’m not locked up I feel like there’s a loss of something internal to me. It makes me feel imbalanced and inauthentic.

Finally (at least for this post) there’s the fact that the device’s contents just aren’t that worthy of freedom in the first place. Belle has left it locked up for longer and longer lengths of time and, when I ask about that, she says she just prefers me that way. Prefers me to get her off with my fingers or mouth. Probably can’t come that easily from my penetration anymore, especially since when she does let it out, it doesn’t provide her with much pleasure and barely barely lasts but a few minutes at best. I’m sure I get more pleasure than she does from it and, as such, if she can’t be bothered to let me out, then what right do I have to be any other way? Sex is not for my pleasure. My pleasure is reflected from hers and whatever she allows me to have directly is a gift that needs to be cherished.

I should probably bookmark this post and remember it for the next time I’m in a funk about being locked up. I need to remember that I don’t decide when we have sex, she does. And it’s not about me. And that she cares about me and what I’m feeling even when what I want isn’t possible.

Essentially, I need to bookmark this post when I need to be put back in my place.

Dog blocked

Belle and I are on our mid-Summer RV road trip. I say “mid-Summer” because it’s technically true (the days are getting shorter now) but we’ve found in the Rockies (both Canadian and where we are now in West Glacier, MT) the local version of mid-Summer is still 2-4 weeks away.

In any event, part of my issue with this trip has been one of our dogs. She’s adorable and I love her but she’s a rescue and emotionally needy to such an extent that, if we had her right after we got married, I’m pretty sure we never would have had kids. Her M.O. is to maintain a position directly between us every morning no matter what we do. When we’re at home and can distract her with breakfast and close doors, that’s fine. But in our trailer there is no door between the bed and the rest of the space and she’s…persistent. Her pointy little nose works its way into the most tight embrace.

That led to me not being able to get Belle off for longer than I would have to go otherwise. Sure, I’ve gone longer, but usually because we’re apart. In this case, she’s right there but our canine cock-blocker (if you can even say someone in my position is being blocked that way) can’t be sequestered anywhere long enough to allow me to attend to business.

Except for yesterday morning. Our dog was in bed with us, but off to the side(!!) and didn’t make her usual move to get between us. So we took advantage of the opportunity.

At that point where Belle was juuust about to hit the point of no return, I found myself sympathetically moaning in an almost whining kind of way. I was tensed up like I was about to come instead of her. I needed it that badly. For days I had been short tempered and generally grumpy and this was why. Not that I needed to come. Of course not. Because I’m me, I needed to feel her come. I needed to feel her pussy spasm in orgasm under my finger while the tube of the Steelheart pounded between my legs. I needed to feel the animal desire to stick myself into her wet warmth. To feel that craving gnaw at me. And it did.

It was several minutes of anguish and pain. Even more than usual. Much more than usual. She could see on my face something was up and asked if I was OK. Then I was presented with the kept and denied man’s dilemma. I could say, “GODDAMN IT I WANT TO FUCK AND COME,” but my rules say I can’t ask for that and I really, really, really only want to get to do it when she wants, not when I want, and by even saying I’m that desperate I could sway her into giving it to me out of pity but I know — I know — I am not deserving of that pity. So I’m sitting there roiling inside, unable to say what I want because it’s not supposed to matter (and I do not believe it does) and, besides, do I really want it anyway?

So after a few seconds, I simply said, “I’m fine.”

Minutes later, the worst of it was past. My balls felt enormous and tender and the tube was still full and I could tell it was sticky inside, but the weight of not getting her off, which is all that matters, was lifted. I felt better the whole rest of the day. And yeah, I want to do it again, but I’m able to better process that I don’t decide when it happens. I’m better able to deal with the wait.

Later that day, we were on an open-top bus tour of Glacier National Park and she was sitting next to me and had her hand alternatingly on my thigh or forearm and absentmindedly was moving her fingers over my skin. It was like fire. Perhaps unknowingly, she was silently tormenting me with that simple touch because I was so on edge and so needy and so desperate. The tube kept pressurizing and my mind kept racing and I was all frantic sexual energy on the inside. But managed to maintain my cool on the outside.

That one orgasm — her orgasm, not mine — allowed me to center myself. To feel more like me. And it happened even with the damned dog laying there next to us.