Tag: femdom

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The many gifts

As it’s been explained to me by Belle, the reason she’s done with letting me fuck her is that I’m so much better at getting her off using other methods. And, of course, that’s true. But it’s been true for a really long time. Years, even.

I mean, it’s been so long since I could reliably get her off with PIV. I remember how frustrated she’d get with me when I’d come before her. She’d be riding me on top and I’d be sucking on her tits and thinking about baseball and I was lucky if I came just before her so that there would remain enough of an erection for her to get the rest of the way there. More often than not, I stopped being lucky and she’d be frustrated and I’d feel terrible.

Before enforced denial came along, this was Belle’s preferred method of getting off; riding my erection to orgasm. She rarely came any other way. I’m sure an exhaustive search of this blog would allow me to find about when I became unable to get her to orgasm with the contents, but it might be ten years ago.

After that, she made do with feeling me fuck her after I got her off with my fingers or mouth. Sometimes, she’d come from riding a strap on or an extender fit over the erection and, honestly, my very favorite time to fuck her was right after that. I have seared into my memory the time she said, “I can barely feel you,” to me as I slid into her and it might be the hottest thing she’s ever said to me.

But even then, I disappointed because the length of time I was able to fuck her got shorter and shorter. If she let me do it right now, I wouldn’t last two minutes. Maybe not even one. The length of time between opportunities to fuck her got longer as the shorter my stamina became.

I say all this because as I was laying here in bed waiting for Belle to wake up, I was reflecting on how much adaptation she’s had to make to her sexual preferences over the years. And since the primary dynamic in our relationship now is that sex is for her and her pleasure over mine, always, then the actual years of being allowed to fuck her after I was unable to bring her to orgasm that way were a gift. Especially all those times she let me do it when I shot my load just a few minutes after sliding in. Every one of those times were essentially charity on her part. They were her being exceedingly indulgent. And I knew it.

I should not spend a moment pining over my memories of fucking her now that she’s told me I never will again. Instead I should sit in gratitude of all the extra times she let me do it even after it had become clear that the useful life of the contents as a method of her pleasure had clearly passed.

Even if she was only letting me inside her every couple of months, each time she did and I came almost immediately were a gift. A gift. And, I suppose in looking back at it, it should have been clear that their number was finite.

So anyway, that’s how I think about being made pussy free now. I should be, and am, grateful for all she’s given me.

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Finger fuckin’ good

Something interesting happened yesterday morning. Well, two somethings. One was Belle let me get her off even though it was a weekday. I especially appreciated that since it was not entirely clear I was going to be able to get her off the next morning (spoiler: I did anyway) and each one of her orgasms is precious to me.

No, the weird thing was while I was getting her off. That was the first time she let me get to her pussy since finding out, definitively, that I wasn’t going to put the contents in there again. And knowing that, even though I was pretty turned on, I observed that I didn’t get very hard. It was…hmm. Plump. A bit of pressure. But a long ways from being tight. Also, I felt myself being very aware of my fingers. Of course, I always pay attention to what I’m doing while getting her off, but, again, I thought about how I’m not getting out anymore and that what I was doing right then was the only way I was ever going to be inside her again. My fingers, sliding in and around her clit, were the only part of my body that was going to “fuck” her from that point forward.

There was like an arch of energy going from my brain to the tips of my fingers similar to how I felt the last time I came inside her. Similar to how fucking with the contents felt. As if the finality of hearing, plainly and without prevarication, that that part of my life is done was causing certain pathways to be re-etched inside me. Brains are funny things, right? People talk of senses being heightened when others are lost. Limbs and appendages adapting to new purposes. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. No more pretending like maybe today, after 489 days, will be the one she lets me out to fuck. Every part of me knows it now and accepts it so maybe my lizard brain is making do with repurposing my fingers for what it would prefer the contents be used for. I have absolutely no idea, but it felt different to me.

I’m not saying I won’t every get super hard while pleasuring her again. I suppose I will at some point. But I noticed again this morning while going down on her that I was like yesterday. Plump, not packed.

In fact, I’m harder now writing about this than I was with my face in her pussy. 🤷🏼‍♂️

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Preferences

Belle had my balls in her hand while we were kissing this morning. Probably the Orion, too, but you know — all I can feel through the Orion is how tight it is on inside. She was squeezing them gently and rolling them around between her fingers while I was warming her up for her Sunday morning orgasm. But I had a question on my mind.

“Do you prefer me this way?”

“Yeah, of course I do. Why do you think I’ve left you like that for so long?”

A bit sheepishly, I replied, “I know. But sometimes it’s nice to hear.”

“I want you locked up. Always.“

I know, it was a dumb question. She’s kept me locked up for more than year straight. But…like I said. It’s good to hear from her. That that’s how she wants me. That it’s how she prefers me. To hear that she doesn’t want the contents as much as she wants my fingers and mouth and hairy chest and strong legs and wide shoulders. She wants a man to get her off on her terms, not his. Her focus, not his. Her orgasm, not his.

And you, since this is probably not the first time you’ve read my blog, know that’s how I prefer it, too. For her to come first and last, always. For her pussy to be worshiped and elevated over all else. For it to spasm under my touch, her post-orgasmic glow punctuated by the gnawing of my unrequited craving. That’s how I’m wired.

And somehow, along the way, it’s how she got wired, too.

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One is enough

One of the many, many things I think about now that Belle’s apparently decided I’m done being let out of chastity for sex ever again is what it felt like sliding into her after she let me go down on her. It’s, like, super wet, obvs because of the spit, but also the texture is different. It’s a different viscosity. Not quite as slickery. Because, you know, spit. Also, for whatever reason, she feels a little looser somehow.

So, yeah, I was thinking about that again this morning after she came with my tongue pressed up against her clit, feeling the spasms of her pleasure and the tight grinding of the Orion into the mattress. And then as I was laying there, holding her, and the device pressed against her leg, full and straining. I remembered what it was like climbing between her legs and lining the head of the hard contents up against her hot wetness as it enveloped me in one thrust.

🎶Meeeeeeeemorieeeeeees…🎶

But, of course, I don’t get out. I don’t get to feel that. All I get are memories and I suppose I should be grateful I even have those. Because my POV on it, and the thing that lays like a weighted blanket over my lizard brain animal craving to fuck, is the knowledge that the one-sidedness of our sex represents a minimalist perfection that a bunch of thrusting and spurting and laying heavily on top of her would ruin. Just the one orgasm between us is just the right number.

To be clear, she chose this for us. It’s what she has determined is best. No matter what, I have to respect that. And I don’t think she made this decision because she doesn’t like to be fucked. I think she made the decision based on what was best for us. Not her, not me. Us. And I not only respect it, I love her for it.

All my life I’ve felt a deference to my partner’s pleasure during sex. From my earliest encounters, I remember being instinctually invested in them having as good if not a better time than I had. If I came first, things would feel…off. I never understood why. I never understood why I never wanted to be allowed to be the only one who came. I was trying to make my girlfriends come before I knew the first thing about how their pussies worked. That’s just who I am. How I’m wired. Their pleasure is mine.

And chastity and denial help me understand that better than I ever have in the past. Chastity because I can’t run off and furtively pleasure myself at a merest tickle of a shadow of horniness and denial because my arousal and desire are allowed to build to maximum levels. These things in combination create a condition inside me to be the most perfect version of my submissive, partner-pleasing self. And yeah, I so badly want to feel the sensation of sliding into her, but I know the value of feeling how I am when I’m not allowed. And I get to feel like that all the time, not just for a few fleeting moments.

The trade-off is worth it for me. And her, apparently. And I’m beyond grateful that she’s taken control that way.

I don’t usually talk about Frodo on this blog, but it feels much the same when I get to be with him. One cock, in those encounters, is the perfect number. Two would ruin it for me. It would create conflicting feelings inside me. It always has. And when I’m with Belle, the only cock that feels right between us is the one she keeps in her nightstand and I get to use on her during very special occasions.

I recently received the following feedback from a reader:

What is wrong with masturbation and cumming? Why is submission that important? What if she wants you castrated and a penectomy performed since you are now pussy free and never hard again? I just do not understand and guess I never will. I could not do what she is doing to someone I am supposed to love.

I didn’t start this post as a response to that, but I guess that’s what it is. You either get what I’m saying and where I’m coming from or…you don’t. And while, on the surface, it sounds like this person doesn’t, I believe they get it enough to have gone through the trouble of reading at least some of my posts, seeking out the feedback form, and firing off a note (and how do you even find this blog if you’re not looking for it or the stuff I talk about here?). I don’t think they want me to answer those questions about myself, they want me to answer them for them.

I’ve written about it before here. When presented with a novel sexual thing, your response is either going to be arousal, revulsion, or fear. The fear comes from guilt and shame powered by arousal conflicting with cultural norms. It’s the same fear I felt when I first realized how powerfully arousing the idea of being cuckolded was for me. So, I get it.

But, he wasn’t that honest with himself or me, so I’ll accept the feedback as-is. And if, after this post, he still doesn’t get why, then he never will.

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Addicted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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 the 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.