Rubbing one out

It started innocently enough. Belle and I were watching some TV before she had to get on a conference call. Her job requires her to get on work calls at odd hours. Sometimes very early, sometimes at night. All part of being on a global team, I’m told.

So yeah, we’re there on the couch and I have my hand on her leg and was sort of absently rubbing it when a sudden urgency sprang up from the dispersed cloud of general horniness I’ve been feeling lately. I gripped her inner thigh and made an involuntary grunty sound and was really aware of wanting to bury my face in her snatch.

“Oh, that’s how it is,” she said (or something like it).

“That’s how it is,” I replied. “Maybe later you can sit on my face.”

I mean, it was a weeknight. Lol. She doesn’t usually want that stuff on weeknights and especially not on a Monday night after getting off twice over the weekend. So she went off to take her call and I watched a bit more TV before heading off to bed to read.

You see, I’ve been up late lately watching the worst most wonderful sport known to mankind; baseball. Games start at 7:00 and don’t end until about 11:00. They’re not just any baseball games. They’re World Series games and my team is in it. So I was thinking I’d read about the Revolutionary War for a bit, get sleepy, then catch up on my zzz.

But, as I said, I’ve been like 17% hornier than usual lately. I wasn’t asleep yet when Belle got off her call and came to bed. She told me I could sleep naked (which is a thing I’m not supposed to do without explicit permission). So then I was naked and horny. But I was tired and almost got there. But not quite. Belle had had an annoying call and was grumpy and was struggling to sleep herself and I picked up on that. Usually, she drops off to sleep almost immediately but she was tossing and turning and then sidled up next to me and put her hand on my naked ass.

BOING.

*shuddering breath*

“You know, if you’re having a hard time falling asleep, I can get you off. That…could help.”

She made an amused little sound which I assumed could be translated as, “Nice try, rabbit.” But no. She ran her hand over my ass and down between my legs. And then back up…and back down again.

My back arched like the slut I am. Ooooooh did that feel good. Her finger teased my perineum and then traced my crack back up to the small of my back. Instant pressurization of the Steelheart. I could have laid there like that for a week, but a little voice told me, You’re supposed to be getting her off, not letting her stroke your ass.

I rolled over to face her. Her hand went right to my balls and gave them an aggressive crunch. I winced with pain but it didn’t stop me from kissing her. Sometimes, she decides to hurt me more than others. It seemed to me her frustration with that call was going to be channeled into my testicles. And I would have to take it.

She can hurt me, but I can’t hurt her back. So while she was squeezing my balls against one another and the steel between them, digging in her nails and pulling hard on them, I had to maintain gentle kissing. When I pulled up her top, I needed to lick and suck her nipples gently. As much as I wanted to bite them, that is entirely forbidden. I absorb pain, I do not create it.

I worked my left arm up behind her head to get access to her other nipple from behind and moved back and forth from her mouth to her tit, licking and sucking one hardened nub while very gently rolling the other between my thumb and forefinger. My right hand ran up and down her inner thigh and flicked over the point on her bottom when I could feel the humid heat of her desire respond to me.

Her bottoms came off and my middle finger quickly found the slit below her clit, already seeping and wet. Then I moaned. Jesus god, I love pussy. I love her pussy. Had it been up to me, I would have buried my face in it. I would have eaten that pussy like a last meal to a starved man. But that’s what I wanted. What I inferred she wanted was to just get off as simply and efficiently as possible. So I didn’t even ask. Didn’t even consider making a move on my own. So my middle finger traced and flicked and encircled her clit and rubbed it in and out while I suckled the nipple in my mouth.

Attempting to get her off on a third consecutive day can sometimes simply not work. But I could tell this was working. I can read her hips and how she breathes. Her little moans. I know her orgasm as well as my own. This was going to work.

The contents of the Steelheart painfully pushed at the inside of the tube. As if it was there for the first time and assumed with enough effort it could break free. Her hand kept its grip on my balls and her crushing grew stronger the closer she got to orgasm.

Then she came. And it was beautiful. And painful. But still beautiful. As always.

Then her hand let go and the blood rushed back into my scrotum. She basked and I thrummed with unspendable energy. As she came down from her climax, the contents of the Steelheart flexed and surged in defiance. A useless waste of effort.

Shortly afterward, she was asleep. Breathing regularly, my mission accomplished. But I was…not asleep. Then I was not asleep some more. Then some more.

Random pornographic images pushed into my head and I tried to stiff-arm them to the side. But it was a losing battle. Eventually, something formed in my imagination with enough clarity to cause the tube to pressurize. And then I was done.

I find it a highly addictive feeling. I like how it feels for the contents to squeeze and throb with my heartbeat. It’s my earliest kink. And once I feel it, I want to feel it again. I want to feel it harder. I want the base ring of the Steelheart to bite into the straining contents. There’s never a time when the contents are driving the bus more than those times. Late at night. When I can’t stop my filthy imagination from running rampant. And with every shift and turn in bed, the weight of the steel and the captive meat and blood pull and tug and flop around making them and their situation more obvious.

Sometimes, I can recite a kind of mantra. Telling myself I am supposed to be like that. I was born to be that way. To suffer the frustration and urges. Often, that acts as a kind of soothing balm and I can catch a few hours of sleep.

But not last night. The contents woke me up again and again, like a petulant brat, just as I neared the edge of sleep. Swelling and subsiding over and over. Like a slow cadence of waves on a beach.

So I got zero sleep last night. And the game starts tonight at 7:00. Game six. Potentially the last game of the series and the first championship for my team since 1988.

Ugh.

Semantics

The inimitable Mrs. Fever commented on my last post:

“the contents” — I like this terminology; the penis being the contents of the package rather than being the package. It’s a subtle bit of semantic separation, but it carries weight.

Regular readers will know that quite a long time ago I stopped referring to the contents as a “cock” because the connotation that noun evokes is of action and intent and it seemed to be counter to what’s promised on the label of this site and in the spirit of our dynamic. I demoted the organ to “penis” because it was the most descriptive word and telegraphed no intent or overt purpose. I also stopped referring to it as “mine” since it’s not. I gave it to Belle and now it’s just attached to my body. More recently (though it may have been two years ago because lol time) I’ve tried to stop using the word “penis” and have gone with “the contents” for a few reasons.

One, as the Mrs. points out, semantically I’m trying to elevate the total package over what it contains. If, as I’ve said a million times, the Steelheart (or whichever device is standing in for it) is me (and it is), then I should walk that talk. When the Steelheart is off me, it’s a thing. A tool. When it’s on me, I am complete. It makes that part of my body whole in the same way my wedding ring finishes out its finger on my left hand. But I do, from time to time, need to refer to what’s inside the Steelheart since they are two parts of a whole and the new best word I can think of is “the contents.”

Two, in the same way the contents push on the steel, the natural urges I was born with put a strain on my state as a kept man. I like being kept and never want to not be this way, but hormones and deep reptile urges are powerful and I feel it’s important to use all the resources of the higher rabbit brain to maintain the careful equilibrium within me. Words, which are the exclusive domain of the higher brain, have power.

I mean, sure, ultimately this is a game of semantics. But I think it’s also finding ways to go from “having a locked cock” to “being kept.” There’s a spectrum there. One I’ve travelled. Part of my never-ending quest to move chastity from something I do to what I am. Never-ending in that being this way does go against a couple million years of evolutionary programming and, like a lot of devotions, needs to be practiced and looked after until it’s truly second nature.

Even that term — second nature — says it is not the first nature. And that’s what I ultimately want. To deepen and strengthen my commitment to what I feel is my conscious nature, perhaps. The nature of my higher brain — my mind — that is separate and distinct from my primal nature. The nature that is all urge and instinct-driven.

We are complicated beings. More than the sum of our programming. More than the impulses that all living things share. All our experiences and feelings are refracted by what goes on in our big brains. And what goes on in mine is reinforced by simple words. Using them and really accepting them to be true.

Our primal natures and our conscious natures are not always going to be in alignment. But we live up here in our consciousness. So…words matter.

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.

The one about the p-word in which I don’t use the p-word

Belle chose not to let the contents of the Steelheart out yesterday even though it was Father’s Day here in the United States and it’s kinda sorta how I became eligible to celebrate (or be celebrated) on that day. It’s fine, though, since she let me eat her out (culminating in one of those wiggly legs orgasms on her part and an assurance that I was “very good” at it — purr).

Based on my experience over the last several months, the contents get out and in her once every six weeks. Otherwise, it’s locked up. That means in May I didn’t get out at all and in June so far, I was only out for about 50 minutes. Not that it takes me 50 minutes by any stretch of the imagination (lolz). Actual hot and wet thrusting time is likely not even five minutes. The rest of that time is me servicing her and then post-coital snuggling.

Looking back, this is what I craved for so many years. To be like this without consideration or comment on her part. For being locked to be the default and being unlocked the rare exception. This is what “kept” really means. And now here we are.

Even though this was what I craved, it took a long time for me to get over needing her to recognize the state of the contents. I would ask if she could tell if the device was packed and the contents straining and sought some comment on her part. Because it takes a long time to let go of it being the center of attention.

Of course, that’s to be expected. Boys and men have such easy access to it, its method of stimulation is so obvious, there’s so much embedded understanding of how it works in our culture, and there’s still a cultural assumption that it and what it does is the central point of sex. As men, we’re conditioned to equate our worthiness to its size and ability and stamina. So when she started keeping me locked, I wanted her to keep paying attention to it and acknowledge the sacrifice I was making. To keep it centered on the experience instead of her. I expected us to continue to pay it service even though it was unavailable, unseen, and basically unnecessary.

It’s one of those weird chastity and denial paradoxes. The practice of keeping a man like that is to demote the element that defines his maleness but its importance and prominence never goes away. It is always there. Even when it’s not.

And while I can’t deny that because it is always there, I think the point of being kept as I am — nearly all the time and without making any fuss about it because it’s just how things are — is to get to a point where I simply can’t think about it in its “natural” state and only think about it in its kept state. That takes time and runs counter to both nurture and nature. But it’s where I feel the most comfortable.

And in the same way being kept is to appreciate the journey, not the destination, getting to that space mentally is something I will always be working towards.

For example, I don’t get “hard” anymore. I get tight. I never want it out. To be out and without constraint feels wrong and exposed. I’d rather be seen by Belle or Frodo or whoever with a device between my legs than not. I feel more self-conscious of that exposure than I do sporting steel (or plastic). I try to avoid any unnecessary contact with it keeping all touching to the minimum required for its maintenance. I’ve even found that lately, when I’ve seen what I think of as incredibly sexy women out and about (usually walking or running around my neighborhood in spandex), my immediate and overpowering thought isn’t about penetration. It’s about what it would be like for them to sit on my face. To be used by her for her pleasure. And that’s always been the default for me when it comes to men, even before being kept by Belle.

To be kept as I am is to recognize the whole rest of my body is my primary sex organ, especially my mind. And that organ is for the use of my sex partners first and me only secondarily. The contents are not the point of the experience. And what they’re going through and feeling is not a topic worthy of mention during sex unless my partner wants to bring it up.

I think to get to this place I’m describing (which, as I said, is a journey and process I think I’ll be working on the rest of my life) is not just the point of being kept but the point of who I am as a sexual being. I’m very fortunate to have a partner who allows me to evolve in this way.

You are not me

Someone on Twitter asked me a simple question with a complicated answer. I answered them there (via DM) but wanted to expand (as I am wont to do). If only I had a blog or something…

They asked, “How do you commit to chastity so well? I want to but it’s so hard.”

YES it is hard. It really is. But while I do try and maintain a certain sense of modesty, comparing yourself as someone who “wants” to commit to chastity to someone who has for more than a decade seems unfair.

So, yes, it’s hard. But let’s break down the things that I think have been critical to whatever success I’ve had adapting to living the kept life.

First off, I don’t do it for myself. I do it for Belle. I do it with Belle. When I become blindingly horny or claw at the device locked on me in frustrated anguish, I always have the backstop of my commitment to Belle to support me. That commitment keeps me accountable. It keeps me centered and focused. I have zero experience self-locking and don’t really have any advice as to how that can work. And while I do totally consider being kept as central to who and what I am as a person, I don’t think I could do it alone. I don’t have nearly enough self-control for that.

So, right off the bat, if you’re on your own your expectations should probably not be that you’ll be locked 24/7/365 for infinity and beyond. I guess you could epoxy the key into the lock and break it off, but that seems…extreme. In the extreme.

Second, I have (numerous) well-fitting devices that can be locked onto me. I am fortunate to have the size and shape of penis that plays well with the off-the-shelf options one can find on the internet. I’m not exceptionally well-endowed (lmao) or very thick or even too much smaller than average. Also, the device I’m in most of the time was made to my specifications and works really well with and on me. Those guys with bigger dicks especially can find being locked up a challenge without a custom device.

So I don’t know you, random Twitter follower, and haven’t seen your penis outside a device. But one that fits well is critical to being able to stay locked for long periods. As someone who suffered through the CB6K and a handful of poorly made devices from China, believe me. Fit matters.

Third, as I mentioned above, I’ve been at this for kind of a really long time. Coming up on a dozen years. It wasn’t always easy. It hasn’t been a straight line to where I am now. There have been starts and stops. But the long arch of my submission has been toward a more defined and committed life in chastity. Eventually, it stopped being a thing I was doing and become what I am. Who I am. It’s changed almost every aspect of my sexuality. But, over time. Not in a year. Not in three. Longer.

Which, I suppose, is advocating for consistency. For keeping at it. For not giving up because you can’t achieve some arbitrary goal based on someone else’s experience. If you really want to be kept as opposed to just doing it, you have to do it for a long time. Those pathways in your brain circuitry are stubborn things.

Fourth, I do not believe chastity is for all men. Not even all submissively inclined men. I believe I was born for it. And others may be born close enough. But not everyone is. No matter how long you keep your junk in a trunk, it may never feel how you want or expect it to. And that’s OK. Maybe you’re one of those guys who only plays with it during a scene. There is no One True Way and my way doesn’t need to be yours.

Fifth, I’m fifty-fucking-two. (Man, really!?) Which I mention for two reasons. One, as I said, this has been a part of my life for more than a decade, yes, but also that’s just just over 20% of my life. Way, way more of my sexual life was with a normal, unkept penis (I even thought it was a cock). I do wish we had found chastity before we did, but I honestly can’t tell you it would have worked for me when I was in my 20s. The libido of a guy more than twice that age is different. It’s a slower burn. So, for a younger guy, being kept might look very different than for a 30, 40, or 50-year-old. Or even older. I’ve spoken to guys in their 70s who are locked up. And yeah, I expect that will be me, too.

Lastly, don’t be mean to yourself. Don’t fret that you can’t be like me. Or the next guy. Be like yourself. Push your boundaries, if that’s what gets you off, but don’t set unrealistic expectations of who or what you are. Let it develop naturally. Life’s a journey, man, and being kept is the epitome of that mentality. We don’t celebrate the destination. We celebrate the path that gets us there. We aren’t about destinations, after all. We’re not about culmination.

Don’t let your perceived failures get you down. Just be you. Enjoy the ride. Learn who you are.

What I want. Really, really want.

I used to write here several times a week and that meant Belle would read this several times a week. But as I’ve found myself having said most everything I needed to say (several times over, it feels like), the frequency of my posting has dwindled. And Belle’s checking to see what I’ve written has, too. That’s just natural.

So it was a week or so ago when we were sitting in the snug (a wonderfully British word for the TV room off the side of your house) and she was on her phone and found herself here and read something that made her go, “Huh.”

And I was like, “Huh?” A dozen years of blogging and she found something that made her go “Huh!?”

The huh-inducing passage was this from a post expounding on the use of Joe, her strap-on dildo:

I also get off on being denied a me-centric sexual experience and release. Keeping the penis in the Steelheart while she’s fucked cross-eyed is a massive turn on for me (and that, in turn, is basically cuckolding’s next door neighbor). Feeling the penis strain while fucking a dildo in and out of her while she squirms in pleasure is absolute perfection.

“Guess I never knew that,” she said. And then my head exploded.

It’s just the central thesis of the whole blog that’s all. The core to my sexual identity. The very definition of who I am as a sexual being no big deal! I thought but said, “Really?”

Which is to say, the single most important aspect of successful D/s (and kink in general and for that matter life in general) is communication. And while I assumed this blog with its hundreds of thousands of words and lord knows how many posts would count as some pretty elite-level communication, it’s always possible that we’re being misinterpreted. Or perhaps not taken perfectly seriously. Or whatever.

Of course, it’s not Belle’s fault she never picked up what I was putting down. Even though I was putting it down as thick as the Exxon Valdez put oil down on sea birds. Here we are all these years later and whatever needed to click (or the exact right sequence of words to be typed out) clicked (or clacked).

So, to be as clear and pedantic about my thoughts on PIV-style sex with Belle as possible, here is my ranked order preference of the three available options:

  1. Joe the dildo in the harness
    Besides the reasons explained in the above quoted text, Joe is the preferred way to fuck Belle because it takes a great deal of stress off me. It can’t come too quickly. It will always perform. I can think only of pleasuring her without distraction. Without the possibility of feeling the guilt of poor performance or stamina.
  2. Joe the dildo in the harness then me
    There is nothing better than feeling her pussy after it’s been fucked by a tool more of the size she prefers. To feel it opened and stretched in ways I can’t. To be unable to feel the places it reached. It’s maybe the most intensely erotic experience I can imagine. This would be number one except for the fact that I like it so much and think it’s indulgent to allow me that much pleasure.
  3. The penis
    If she hasn’t come and is wanting the penis for pleasure, this is by far the least preferred option. Number three out of three but really like a hundred slots down from the top two.

It’s a complicated thing, to be sure. This morning I got Belle off with my fingers and stayed as I usually am, locked in the Steelheart. The urge to fuck her was intense. Deeply primal, the tube was biting hard when she came. But urges are not the same as what I want. I want to be denied. I want to feel the urge unfulfilled. It’s a form of psychological masochism. Allowing me to give in to the urge would ultimately make me feel guilty. Just because I desire a thing does not mean I should get it. I don’t deserve that. It’s not my place.

Bottom line is, I will always crave more than I get. And in the manual of the care and feeding of Thumper, there’s a part that says (or should say) one is better off, on balance, and can never lose by not giving me what I crave rather than letting me have it.

Ultimately, Belle decides. Always. If she wants to feel me inside her, I should be inside her. If she wants to feel me come in her, I should come in her. I will always do (or try to do) what she wants. But if she’s wondering what I want up high in my logical mind and not down deep in my lizard brain…well, here it is.

Jack and Rose and the base code

I was thinking last night after one or another of the dogs decided that 1:04 AM was exactly the right time to get up and take a piss in the back yard that at some point my natural reaction to being incredibly horny went away. Well, perhaps not went away, but…transformed. I’d like to imagine that it was like a switch getting flipped but that’s not how being kept changes one’s base code. It’s less a sudden transformation and more a slow and gradual thing. Like when Titanic pulled away from the dock in Southampton and got ever so smaller the longer one looked at it until it disappeared, a small black dot on the horizon. Poof.

I’ve spent many a night struggling with the affects of being kept (remember, that’s the word we’re using now). Very early on, I wasn’t always even locked up. Belle would let me lay there in bed next to her while she slept and edge myself over and over leaking copious amounts of oozing ejaculate. Then, when we progressed to me being locked more often than not, I’d feel the tube of the Steelheart fill and tighten, then loosen, only to repeat again and again like the waves on a beach driven by the tidal force of my erotic imagination. And I can recall how my lizard brain would poke and prod.

*poke* You should jack off.

No.

*poke poke* Really, jacking off would make you feel better.

…no.

*poke poke* Look at the time. You know where the key is. You need to sleep. Jack off and you will.

…whimper.

*POKEPOKEPOKE* JACK THE FUCK OFF *POKE* ASSHOLE *POKE* WE BOTH NEED THIS. *POKEPOKEPOKE*

I mean, that’s natural. It’s how things are supposed to work in a penis-having person. You get horny and, absent a willing sex partner, you beat it. And to be fair, before being kept I would only get maybe 5% as turned on before taking matters into my own hands. Absolute tops, 10-15% and that was when I was looking at porn and trying to get all hot and bothered. I didn’t know anything about what being truly, deeply, profoundly horny was really like. Not the neither-of-us-is-even-sure-I’ve-come-this-year-yet kind of fucking goddamned horny. The kind that makes its own gravity well and light can’t escape it.

Of course, I’m not always like that. It comes and goes. Like the moon cycles or something. But when it comes, hoo boy.

And honestly, it’s the hardest part about being kept. I’ve more or less come to accept it now and know what it’ll be like the next day and know the absolute minimum amount of sleep I need to be marginally functional after. But it’s still hard. It’s the loneliest part of what’s hard about being kept. The occasional sleeplessness.

But this isn’t about that. It’s about how I deal with it. And, as I said, in the past an overwhelming desire to jack off was the most frustrating part. My body knew how to eliminate the feelings I was having and couldn’t figure out why my brain was refusing to accept its advice. There was a day when that urge to masturbate was like Rose on the prow of the great ship, held up by Jack, arms out, music swelling in the background. Then one day she was in the icy water, kicking Jack off (get it? Jack…off?) the bit of jetsam clearly large enough for both of them. Rejected, he drowned. Sunk to the bottom of the sea.

Whoa, this metaphor. (And yeah, I know, Jack left her, but my metaphor works better the other way around.)

Anyway, yeah, that desire to slink off and abuse myself for relief of late night horniness is dead and gone. I still want to jack off just sort of generally. But I don’t consider it as an option when pressed. The desire doesn’t consume me. It feels like the part of me that used to poke at my brain and push that option is just a stump. Unable to make contact.

So I just lay there and try my hardest not to let my imagination run crazy. Which is pointless and when it inevitably does it’s important to point out not a single of my fantasies involves me getting off. Quite the opposite. They’re all about further frustration. Being further tormented without release. I never, ever have any sexual fantasies about penetrating another person. About enjoying them sexually. They’re all about the exact opposite. That’s…significant. That’s what being kept can do to rewrite the base code of a penis-having person. The package locked away burns with desire of release, my balls aching and heavy, but those inputs have lost their receptors in my brain.

I’ve learned the only way to deal with being kept and surreally horny is to simply let the reality of the situation be there with me. I need to accept it. Not fight it. Not stress about it. Not worry. It just is. How I asked for things to be. How I want them to be. Obviously, how they’re meant to be.

Kept

Time really has lost all meaning. I was about to start this post with “the other day, Tom blogged…” and then, when I went to get the link, I realized “the other day” was like more than four months ago. That’s either cabin fever or old age or a combo plate of both. Anyway.

The other month, Tom made this great post about definition and terms related to chastity and denial. Like, what does “permanent” mean? And then, in further discussion, what’s a good term to use for the whole practice of what we do? I’ve often resorted to saying things like “chastity and denial” because they don’t always go together. And if the practice (which Tom suggested should be called “erotic orgasm denial”) is called whatever it is, what word should guys who are locked and denied use to describe themselves? What’s the right adjective? The right verb?

“Chaste” is often thrown around but the obvious problem with that is those of us who are locked and denied, usually, are not chaste. Belle and I have had more and better sex since the penis was locked up than before. “Chaste” means to abstain from sex and that’s the fucking opposite thing that happens while in chastity.

Of course, chastity is the root of the problem because it conflates access to genitals and ability to have sex. It has a very PIV bias. Chaste comes from chastity (or maybe the other way around) so the mess is predictable.

But what I want and have wanted for years and years (this blog and my chastity are now solidly into their thirteenth year) is a single, different word to encapsulate what Belle and I and, apparently, millions of others are doing by locking up one or the other penises in a relationship. One word that isn’t literally wrong or totally made up or just dumb sounding. And then, a word that I really like came to me.

Kept. Belle keeps the penis from me. She keeps me from masturbation. She keeps me from orgasm when I want to. She keeps me at a heightened state of sexual arousal. She keeps the key. She keeps total control over the penis and how I get to enjoy sex. I am kept.

I just…like it. I like how it feels. I like how it sounds. I like the protective nature it implies. The connotation of care. Of benevolent control and discipline. I am kept in this place, mentally and physically and emotionally, because it makes me a better lover and partner and person. Because it is what I need.

When the folks at Holy Trainer reached out to me and offered the new fourth version of their device for me to try out and review, they also offered to customize its “cartridge” (the part of the base ring that receives the lock). I wasn’t aware of this as a thing they did, but you can have image or words put on the device. The first and only thing that sprang to mind was “kept.”

And at first, I was like whatever. I did it because they offered and presumably wanted people to know it was an option when I reviewed it and posted the inevitable multitude of pictures of it locked on me I am apparently unable to stop doing. But I have to say, every time I look down and see KEPT looking back up at me…it’s a soothing, comforting thing. It centers me. It’s powerful.

So yeah. Kept. That’s me. Maybe it’s you. But I like it and will be using it from now on to describe who and what I am. I am kept. By Belle.

Priorities

Reader Mysticlez218 left a comment to my last post and when I started to think of a reply it became clear it was going to need a bit more room.

I love how you don’t let your pride or self-esteem play a role when it comes to wanting her to be completely pleased. That is rare with some people. Some people get so caught up with self-esteem and pride they forget their submission altogether.

Mysticlez218

I don’t want to give the impression I don’t have pride. I do. Just not…there. I have pride in being as good a sub as I can be and Joe is a new and important part of that.

The road to where I am today regarding the disconnection between the penis and my self-esteem has been a long one. It’s not where I was at the beginning of my locked existence and it didn’t come naturally before then.

Since I was having sexcapades with others from a relatively young age, I knew that the penis on me developed more quickly than it did with the other boys. Therefore, I had the opinion as I entered my teenage and young adult years that it was bigger than usual. I held on to this misperception for some time.

Then, when I met Belle, she related to me that her previous husband had been really big. Like, porn star dildo sized big. And that…caused a pang, I will admit. Perhaps she picked up on that because after telling me a few times, she never brought it up again. But he was so big she had a hard time enjoying sex when he was on top. He was, I’d guess, bigger than Joe.

Not only did she stop bringing it up, but she also seemed to go out of her way to tell me how enjoyable the penis was. And that felt good, tbh, back when it played a more significant role in our relationship. But over the past decade or so while experimenting with various toys and such it’s become obvious that while the ex-husband might have been too big, the current husband was not big enough. Which is not to say she was lying when she said she enjoyed the penis. But it wasn’t the preferred size.

Luckily, by the time that news broke, I had changed in a few ways. First, I have more or less disassociated my own sexual pleasure from the penis. Which is not to say I don’t enjoy when it’s out and getting stimulated. All the nerve endings still work. But my idea of a super-satisfying sexual encounter and all my fantasies have nothing at all to do with it. It’s all external to me. It’s all wrapped up in whatever person I’m having sex with, and in the case of Belle, it’s all about her body and her pleasure. Exclusively.

Point being, if you’re like me and don’t think at all about sex with your penis and are so totally focused on the pleasure of your partner, it seems like an easy jump to say finding a dildo sized to her preference and being able to use it for as long as she wants it used is one-hundred-and-fifty-fucking-percent the ideal situation.

But that’s not all of it. I also get off on being denied a me-centric sexual experience and release. Keeping the penis in the Steelheart while she’s fucked cross-eyed is a massive turn on for me (and that, in turn, is basically cuckolding’s next door neighbor). Feeling the penis strain while fucking a dildo in and out of her while she squirms in pleasure is absolute perfection.

Also related, I somehow and additionally get off on knowing the penis isn’t enough. Not just that it’s denied. But that if it was out, it still wouldn’t be enough. That knowledge is like pouring jet fuel on all of the above. I need to know that. I want to know that. It’s important to me.

And so, all together, no, the penis has nothing at all to do with my confidence in how I can pleasure and satisfy Belle. And Joe’s presence, assuming she likes it and it gets her off, actually enhances my confidence. It increases my satisfaction since my satisfaction is entirely invested in hers. The happier she is with sex, the happier I am.

When she lets me fuck her with the penis, I know it’s not as big as she’d like. I also know it doesn’t last as long as she’d like. Not remotely close. That puts a lot of pressure and guilt on me because I simply can’t do what I want to do for her. In this construct — and after everything written above is considered — I’d rather always stay locked up and never fuck her with anything but Joe for the rest of our lives.

Because, in all the ways that are meaningful, the contents of the Steelheart simply don’t matter.

She calls him Joe

Belle has been keeping me locked up more lately. Used to be, she’d let the contents out once a week or so so she could enjoy a hard penis but then that started to go to every other week. And now recently it’s been weeks, maybe once a month. Longer, even.

Last weekend, she let it out for her enjoyment. Of course, I lasted barely any time at all. I tried so hard but I have next to no ability to resist at this point. Not so much premature ejaculation as much as near instantaneous. And then, after the feeling passes, the penis loses all firmness. It’s been beaten down and just gives up. Which makes me feel bad. Not only do I think she’s leaving me in longer than her pleasure would dictate (that is, she may want to get fucked but she’s not letting me out because it’s what I want rather than what she wants), but then when she does let it out, it barely works. She can’t get a good fuck and I get a majority of the pleasurable feelings from the brief encounter (because it feels amazing), even without orgasm.

I’m just not wired to think that’s OK. I want her to have maximal pleasure. I want her to have everything she wants from sex. Always and every time. And I know, because we’ve been having sex for a long time now, that she really, really likes getting fucked. I mean, I totally get that. So obviously, being unable to give her that is a challenge for my sub nature.

In the past, we had experimented with strap-ons. She wasn’t happy with how the dildos felt since they didn’t feel real. Also, she generally likes our sex to be as low effort as possible and waiting for me to get the harness on and such wasn’t of interest to her. But it was apparent to me that she was not getting what she wanted with the current arrangement so I suggested we try again. To my surprise, she was open to the idea.

Continue reading “She calls him Joe”