Be ready

Belle let me come last weekend. She gave me the key Saturday night meaning I was to go though my routine the next morning while she slept so that I’d be ready when she woke up. I call it “my routine” but that post I just linked to might be the last time I did it so I’m not sure one can use the word “routine” for something that happens so infrequently.

I don’t think the date of that post is the last time she let me out to fuck/orgasm, but I don’t know for a fact that it wasn’t. I know I don’t have a distinct recollection of it happening after that event and know it hasn’t happened at all this year. So, perhaps, it was five months ago. Minimally more than three months ago.

I also don’t know if Belle has any specific idea about how long she makes me wait. I presume it’s dependent on when she wants to feel me inside her, but I also think she knows that can’t be too often while also keeping me in the headspace she likes me in. Since I don’t keep track (anymore) of when I get to come, I also can’t know if there’s a pattern, but my guess is she’s on pace for 3-6 times a year based on my faulty memory and limited evidence. I think about how I used to come that much in a week just before we started using chastity…

Anyway, thanks to the Viagra and Promescent (and my phone), I was laying there with a mostly numb, incredibly hard erection when she was ready to commence activities. It took a lot of effort on my part not to rush things while trying to get her to orgasm first, but she was also apparently impatient and told me to go inside her before I got her all the way off.

When I’m in the situation of the chemicals making me as hard and sensitive as a rock, all I can really feel well is the tightness and heat of her pussy. It leaves me feeling overconfident and, even while trying to distract myself with even breathing and thoughts of baseball, it isn’t long before I realize the end is nigh. I do last longer with the spray, but it probably still wasn’t more than a couple minutes.

It felt like orgasm wouldn’t end. Even after I had shot my load, I felt involuntary contractions trying to milk as much juice as possible. My whole body arched around the erection. My abs actually kinda cramped from the effort.

When will it happen again? Will it be five months? Five weeks? Five days? Tomorrow!? No idea. I don’t even bring it up. I’m not allowed to either 1) ask for an orgasm, or 2) advocate against one so I tend to just not talk about it at all with her for fear of it being misconstrued as one or the other. Of course, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to do it and I certainly don’t need to know if and when she wants it to happen again.

In a way, that total lack of control creates its own kind of peace. All I have to do is be ready for whatever she wants.

Embracing the vestigial state

Even though it was in the middle of Hashtag Locktober, Belle decided she wanted the contents. As is the custom now, she gave me the key the night before the morning she wanted to get fucked.

I need the key in advance so I can prepare the contents. Prep takes about an hour. I take three 20mg tablets of sildenafil citrate (aka, Viagra) and apply four or five sqirts of Promescent® Delay Spray for Men. This is all due to my being totally unable to 1) avoid orgasm 36 seconds after penetration, and 2) remain hard for longer than 36 seconds after that. I had hoped the Viagra would take care of that all by itself so I could at least feel myself fucking her, but even with the chemical erection support, it goes flat as soon as it squirts, orgasm or not. So the meds help me remain as hard as possible for her and the Delay Spray (basically lidocaine) keeps me from coming as quickly.

As an aside, the Delay Spray works well. Somehow, they’ve formulated it such that after a bit of time it has absorbed entirely into the penis and won’t transfer to Belle so only I am denied the sensation of penetration. The package says not to exceed three pumps of the spray but I find that four or so is better at deadening it and the Viagra keeps it hard even though it’s about 90% numb.

So I did my things and then waited for her to wake up. It’s my job to make sure everything is ready for her when she’s ready so that she neither has to wait around for things to take affect nor for there to have been too much time passed so that the precautions aren’t useful.

This particular morning, things lined up well and the contents were both good and hard but also almost totally without feeling so that after I got her off with my fingers, I was able to climb on top of her and provide a reasonable facsimile of having a normal male lover.

Unexpectedly, she told me she wanted me to come inside her. My routine isn’t designed for that. I specifically deaden the meat so that I won’t come but right after sliding it in, she told me she wanted me to. Of course, the precautions were working very well and I realized rather quickly that getting to a point where I was having a real, full orgasm wasn’t in the cards. On the plus side, I was able to fuck her for maybe the longest period of time in years.

Eventually, I could feel the rumblings of orgasm from somewhere behind my balls. I wasn’t going to come due to anything I felt on the shaft, but I was still going to do it. Some combination of feeling my hips grinding and her under me and the flex of the muscles necessary to do the act tricked my brain sufficiently that it was able to get there. But I didn’t get much of anything from the penis and the orgasm was typical of the ones I have now. Weird, somehow incomplete, and while productive from a volume of ejaculate POV, still less than entirely satisfying. I mean, she can make me come, but she can’t make what’s left of my ability to do it feel good.

But it was an orgasm and it was enough of one to make me very reluctant to get back in to any device after. The Rules are very clear:

I must be wearing a chastity device at all times, unless she says otherwise.

Belle’s Rules for Thumper

But I eventually did go back in. Even though the device felt foreign and weird and uncomfortable. I hated it.

The next day we went to dinner for our anniversary (which, coincidentally, is very near the anniversary for this blog — happy lucky 13th anniversary to me!) and she took the opportunity to ask how I was doing. Not, like, how’s your day going? More like, is this still what you want?

It was a bad time to ask. Had she brought it up 48 hours before, I would have wholeheartedly said YES. Things are GREAT. But 36 hours after coming, I replied somewhere between a shrug and a “fine…things are…fine.” But I realized how my lack of enthusiasm was being perceived and explained that I was in a period of profound sub drop. So of course, I was very happy with our dynamic. But it was, as I said, a bad time to ask and expect enthusiasm.

A few days later, we flew on a plane together. I was still feeling the impact of the orgasm and took the opportunity to let myself out before we went to the airport. Even though we were flying alone with no kids or friends or family around and if I got pulled out of line it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I wanted out. So I basically made an excuse for myself.

Usually, I’ll go back in right after the TSA invades my privacy, but I didn’t this time. I just…didn’t. Could have. Didn’t. And I didn’t when we got to our destination. Or at any other point that day, even though I was very clearly aware I was unlocked from all the incidental friction inside my pants (which drives me CRAZY). As we got into bed, I told her I was out. I don’t think she knew. She didn’t seem too impressed. But that’s how I went to bed.

I mean, I knew I was being bad. And I knew it would feel bad later. But I wasn’t willing to abide by the rules. I wasn’t willing to accept my position.

The next morning, I woke up with a raging hard on. I was at least able to maintain some control over myself. I didn’t stroke it, but I did lay on my stomach and grind it into the firm mattress and revel in the pressure and friction. The head popped out from the side under my left hip and I rubbed the bit on the underneath and knew if I did just that for more than 30 seconds I’d come. So I stopped at about 20 seconds.

Belle turned over I spooned into her. I’m sure she could feel it. And it was a vacation morning when I should have expected some sex. But she wasn’t offering. But I wanted it. In fact, I did expect it. And that’s when I started to come back down to earth.

I should have ZERO expectations of sex. Sex is for her. For her to get pleasure and satisfaction. My satisfaction comes though giving her hers. Period. But here I was trying to fuck her. Because I wanted to fuck her. That’s not me. That’s not right.

I was locked back up within the hour.

The next morning, I was spooning into her again, but my entire demeanor changed. God, I absolutely fucking hate the version of me that was unlocked without permission and was trying to coax her into getting me off. She was much more receptive to the locked version of me and allowed me to eat her out. I could once again feel pressure and compression of the contents, but no friction. Nothing like that. Just the Evotion 8 doing its job while my tongue did its.

And when her hips bucked in my face and I could feel her pussy spasm in orgasm under my mouth and the contents strain in defeated futility, I felt so much more normal. So much more me.

And yeah, it was not lost on me she was far more willing to engage sexually with the locked me than she was the unlocked me.

Five days earlier when I was mounting her with my numb, chemically enhanced erection, I remember the thought flitting though my mind I really don’t need this. This is for her, not me. And, honestly, thinking back to her asking how I was doing, the only issue I have is that there are still reasons for me to be unlocked from time to time. I mean, that’s just how it is. It’s what she needs and, in the past, she needed it a lot more than now, so she’s already made a significant change to her expectations based on my limitations. I’m not asking that she stop letting me out for a fuck, even as infrequent as that is. It is entirely her prerogative and I accept that.

But we both know I’m better when the contents of the device are treated like some vestigial remnant of what I was prior to evolving into what I am now.

Speaking of which, my mom sent me a picture the other day of me in 2002. It was taken maybe two months before my daughter was born and I look like I’m 17. This was before Belle made me come, so the second thought that went through my head after being stunned a how young I looked was what a waste it was that it would be another six years before that guy’s dick was taken away from him. We’d already had our kids. The two we said we’d have. We didn’t need it anymore.

And that’s why I ended up locking on to the concept of vestigial. My phone defines it “forming a very small remnant of something that was once much larger or more notable. Or, pertaining to an organ or part of the body, degenerate, rudimentary, or atrophied, having become functionless in the course of evolution.”

I have evolved. Away from the needy, selfish, willful asshole who thought mostly of himself and his pleasure and into the full flower of the sub I always was deep inside. The sub that was trapped under the weight of the will of the penis. But here we are on the other side of all that. The penis is vestigial to who and what I am now. “Degenerate, atrophied, and functionless.” It’s not even a penis anymore. It’s just contents. Nothing more than a remnant of my former self. I always, always, always need to think of it that way. Because that is what it is.

And thank god we got here. I honestly can’t imagine what we’d be like right now if I still had a cock. I don’t want to imagine it. I am incredibly lucky Belle keeps me locked up. That she expects me to be. And prefers me that way. I can never, ever let my hormones make me forget that. Not for a day. Not even an hour. Not for a moment.

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.

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.

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.

The reason for the season

Belle and I found ourselves alone in the house Saturday night which, as the parents of two, is not the usual situation. We watched some random TV for a while then it occurred to her that she could make noise. Which means, she could scream her head off while coming which is her favorite way to come.

So the TV went off and to the bedroom we went. We started with some light making out then heavy petting then she told me to strip. She took my balls in her hands and roughly massaged them before moving to straight up squeezing and abuse. Of course, she knows I’m a masochist, but she also seemed to be enjoying this. I don’t think it was just for me.

“How can I make you come?” There are many options, even with no available penis between us. I could use my fingers. I could use a vibrator. She could use a vibrator. There’s her glass dildo. But what I really wanted, what I hoped she wanted, was for me to eat her out.


This whole interaction between us is, I think, indicative of what Locktober is all about. We’re about halfway through at this point and what I see a lot on Twitter from guys in similar predicaments is stuff about how long we’ve been locked up and how horny we all are and pictures to prove both (and, of course, I am totally guilty of all these things), but really, that’s not what we should be focusing on. Our denial is not what denial is about.

I think the purpose of enforced chastity and orgasm denial is to teach us that…

  1. The point of sex is pleasure and satisfaction for our partners, not us.
  2. The pent up energy of denial frustration should be redirected to maximizing their pleasure and satisfaction.
  3. We need to recognize and accept that the frustration and craving is our version of pleasure. Their orgasm is our satisfaction.

Every cell in my body tells me these things are true. But every cell in my body has been trained by a decade of being locked up and I am 100% submissive. There are probably a lot of guys (and their keyholders) out there who are just starting out who may not yet get that chastity and denial aren’t about being as horny as possible prior to eventual release and explosive orgasm. Of course, everyone gets to do this their own way and ultimately our keyholders are the ones who decide, but penis-centric thinking is the antithesis of what chastity and denial represent.

As the Ancient One told Doctor Strange, “It’s not about you.” It’s about them, our keyholders. If you think of chastity and denial as a thing you endure until they let you come again, you’re still thinking with your penis. If you talk to your keyholder about how long you will be locked up — either asking for that time to be extended or reduced — you’re thinking with your penis. Worse, you’re making them think about your penis.

Guess what? Once you hand over the key, it’s not your penis anymore. It’s theirs. And what happens or doesn’t happen to it is up to them, not you. Which is why your best bet is to only think about their pleasure. Their orgasm. Their satisfaction.

Locktober isn’t about you being locked. It’s about why they lock you.


Belle did want me to go down on her. I could barely contain myself as I moved down her body, kissing her nipples and her stomach and her pelvis before placing my face before the heat of her sex. Humid and potent, I pushed my tongue into her wetness and lapped at her clit. Hands on her hips, I could feel her gyrate against my mouth. Pressing her pussy into my face to make sure I hit all the right spots.

The Evotion 8 locked on my body became painfully tight and I was unable to lay flat on my stomach. I had to angle my hip up to relieve the pressure on the throbbing, desperate contents of the device.

The volume of her ecstasy grew as her hands moved from her breasts to the hair on my head. As she got closer to orgasm, she grabbed fistfuls of it, almost using it to steer my attention. Her pussy juice was flowing freely down my chin and coated my nose and face. The discomfort between my legs distracted from focusing all my senses on the tip of my tongue and how it was flicking over her and the reactions that elicited in her movements and exclamations.

Her orgasm exploded in a great, deep bellowing of pleasure. She was screaming her satisfaction and her pussy was spasming under my mouth. Her whole body tensed then released, one thing after another. First her hips, then her fistfuls of hair, then her back, then her legs.

I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to stop tasting her. To leave the center of the power she has over me. I was in the throne room and couldn’t bring myself to back out. So while she basked I lingered, breathing deeply her pheromones. Letting her pussy saturate my senses. The black plastic locked on my body refused to relent in its grasp.

I stayed as long as I dared. She’d be wanting me to snuggle and embrace her. She’d want the covers back up over her body. I wanted…what I wanted wasn’t the point. Of course, I wanted out. To fuck her. To slip into her fantastically wet pussy and pound it until I came. But that was fantasy.

And thinking too hard on that was unproductive. So I moved up and covered her and held her and kissed her and thanked her for everything she does for me. Including keeping me locked for all of Locktober and every other month.

The Rules (updated)

The rules under which our dynamic operates have evolved over time, but the last time they were updated was almost three years ago. My previous post discussed a rule I put in place for myself about not touching the penis, but rules I put on myself are easily waived or bent. Rules Belle puts in place carry much more weight. So this morning…

Therefore, here is the updated list of Rules that I follow.

  • I can only come when Belle tells me to and, if she tells me to, I have to.
  • I must be wearing a chastity device at all times, unless she says otherwise.
  • When unlocked, I cannot touch the penis except for maintenance purposes or to swap devices. Never for pleasure, unless she has released it for sex.
  • I am not to volunteer how I feel about having an orgasm and must never ask for one.
  • If I have sex with someone else, the penis must always be locked. No exceptions.

The revised “no touching” rule replaces one that said I wasn’t allowed to play with it. Touching leads to playing so, in reality, this is better. The definition of “playing” isn’t as definite as “touching.”

These are the rules she expects me to follow. I vow to do so. Of course, it’s hard. If submission were easy, it wouldn’t be worth much.

Sick makes six

Belle left this morning for Mexico where she’ll be with a friend until late next week. No, not that kind of friend. A female friend.

We had one whole weekend together between the three weeks we didn’t see each other and this trip and she’s still getting over the lingering remnants of her bout with the flu while I was more or less in the midst of mine. Regardless, she let me get her off twice but made no move towards nor comment on the key or my locked state. Especially the second time, that led to incredibly tight and painful erections.

At some point during the previous few weeks or so, I pointed out that in the past she’d let me out of chasity when I was feeling really sick. She just sort of laughed and commented on how that was true but also how much stronger I was now than then. It’s a fact that she just doesn’t think about me being locked all the time and there’s really nothing in her mind that should keep me from being that way, short of the TSA or a doctor visit (and even then, only one that might involve the penis).

Those who think it’s a form of cheating when Belle lets me out to fuck and subsequently leak ejaculate into her (without orgasm) should be pleased to hear I’ve been locked up without any kind of relief for five weeks. Based on schedules, the next opportunity to get out will make it six weeks. I have been in and out of different devices during that time since I have been and will be traveling, but it’s been the Steelheart for the bulk of that period and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the penis in weeks.

She was gone pretty early for her flight so I woke up alone clutching at and stroking a very full tube. I rarely suffer from blue balls anymore, even when I haven’t been out for a while, but six weeks is going to be some kind of record. I can’t recall being locked up without access to her pussy for that long since I started tracking such things. In any event, I’m really starting to feel it. There’s the regular old enforced chastity and orgasm denial she practices and then there’s this. My balls feel especially swollen and I can tell there’s a built up load inside me craving to get out. A short trip on a big dildo would undoubtedly work a lot of that out.

It’s at times like this that knowing where the key is starts to gnaw at me.

As hard as this is, there’s a part of me that appreciates it. The part that knows this is exactly what I need and want. That this is what’s best for the kind of man I am. That part does get into debates with the part of me that feels guilt about her not getting fucked when I know she likes to feel that, but the trump card the first part plays in those situations is she decides what we do and I go along with it so shut up.

So…I’m going along. Either she didn’t think I was well enough to fuck (not true) or didn’t want to fuck me when I was sick or simply didn’t want to be fucked or not as much as she wanted me to stay locked up while she got off, I can’t say. And it’s not my job to figure it out. I’ll stay locked up for exactly as long as she wants me to be and will be grateful for both being locked up and being let out.

Orgasm extinction

One of the things that I think surprises people who read this blog is that while Belle denies me orgasm, she does like it when I ejaculate inside her. There is a difference and I wrote a post about it early last year. My recent badminton-esque exchange with Schnoff led me to re-read that post and tap out this addendum.

First off, though, it’s interesting to me that Bear and Schnoff define “orgasm” as any expression of seminal fluid. I think of orgasm as the surging explosive release of that fluid and the concomitant flooding of one’s brain with all the loopy orgasm hormones and chemistry (serotonin, oxytocin, prolactin, etc.). It’s a feeling more than a physical action. I can tell when I’ve come because of what happens in my head, not what comes out of the penis. And that was the point of my post (and why it’s called “You know it when you feel it”).

To be clear, Bear and Schnoff (well, mostly Bear) are free to define orgasm however they like. It’s just interesting to me to see how others do their thing. Back during Locktober, I was given some grief for not being locked in the exact same device continuously all month long (I was in a couple devices, though never out longer than the 36 seconds it takes to remove one and replace it with another). Others think Belle allowing me to ejaculate isn’t real denial. My position is, I don’t make the rules she does and if she wants me to put a load in her but also doesn’t want me to come, then I need to figure out how to do it. Luckily, I have. Repeat after me: There is no One True Way™ to do orgasm denial.

Anywho, what I find is that the actual mechanical and hormonal process of orgasm in me has totally changed over the years. And for the past year to year and a half, I might even describe it as totally broken.

Note, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

When we first started the denial dynamic, Belle would allow me to jack off when I wasn’t locked up. I think that experience helped me map out exactly how my orgasm worked. Finding the very moment I started to fall off the plateau of arousal into an unstoppable orgasm. I could get myself to shoot several loads a night without any release of orgasmic chemistry.

And for a long time, I found that if I stopped fucking her at that moment, I’d shoot a little load, and then I’d be able to keep fucking her. Sometimes, for a really long time. Almost indefinitely. As if going up to the point of release and pulling back made the release itself impossible. Some kind of hot-wiring of the refractory period. Those were the days. But then something changed.

First, I became (and remain) a premature ejaculator. If I fuck for three minutes without having to stop, it’s an achievement. Usually, it’s not even that long. Second, even if I “leak” inside her without coming, the penis starts to deflate as if I’ve come. That was the first sign that my natural process has evolved. I couldn’t keep fucking even if I wanted to (and I always wanted to). I’d lose the erection. Immediately.

Last year, Belle let me come five times. Not one of those was how I used to describe orgasm after a period of denial. No explosion, no kick in the back of the head, no intensity. The orgasms I have now are not too dissimilar from the non-orgasmic ejaculations. Some weak spurting along with a shot of the hormones, but no jolt. No BANG. More like an ocean swell than a crashing wave. I feel a less pronounced post-orgasmic experience (sleepiness, etc.). Even the sub-drop that used to be a hallmark of orgasm has diminished substantially. They’ve become non-events that don’t drain me (literally or figuratively). As I recall, this wasn’t just the five from last year. I was also feeling a version of this the year before that.

Basically, the orgasm I literally grew up with is gone. A pale shadow of the real thing.

There was a time when the prospect of losing my ability to have a truly enjoyable, fireworks-filled orgasm would’ve scared the shit out of me. That was both before I was denied orgasms at all and also for several years after we started this dynamic. But once I was being denied, even when I could still come normally, I knew I didn’t really want to. All I wanted was to always feel like I wanted to come. Craving the thing, not having the thing. So now that my ability to come seems to be waning, I don’t feel any particular loss.

I don’t know if this is something all men who are denied for a long time feel or if it’s unique to me. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I remember very early on someone said to me online that if I got to the point where orgasms weren’t enjoyable that I had done it wrong. The point was to always enjoy and want them. Obviously, I don’t think that’s true. I think denial has made me more of what I already was and am. I feel like living like this is my natural and correct state. In general, I believe men especially put way, way too much emphasis on having orgasms. But, you know. What else do you expect me to say?

I doubt this condition is permanent. If I were able to freely masturbate to completion or even come every time I fucked, I expect things would go back to “normal.” But I don’t really care if they do. How much can I miss something that, on average, only happens every three months anyway? Why should I miss a thing that knocked me out of the headspace in which I so much enjoy living?

Saying my orgasm is “broken” is the wrong adjective. Makes it sound like it was an accident. This wasn’t accidental at all. It was intentional. Maybe even inevitable.