Tag: male chastity

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Riding the thermals

I like porn as much as the next guy. I probably look at it more than the next guy my age since I’m unable to get myself to the place where it loses its appeal temporarily. Orgasmically speaking, I’m like a bird catching thermals. Spiral spiral spiral UP…spiral spiral spiral UP…always on the move, never resting.

I pay a lot of attention to the stuff that gets me off turns me on. Different things at different times. Sure, there’s the gender thing. Some days women are more appealing than men. But also scenarios. Women dominating men. Women being serviced. Men dominantating men/being serviced. Some days it’s just boobs that really get me going. Some days it’s just penises. Or men fucking women. I mean, this is all pretty basic, but what I’m saying is since I never “complete” a session with porn and only stop looking at it when I run out of time, I can pick up on how the texture of what I react to changes. It’s interesting. Well, to me anyway.

Some days, like yesterday, it’s men having orgasms that gets me. Specifically, close ups of men jacking off and then spewing their loads, thick and ropy, right into the camera and/or all over themselves. And when I say “gets me” I mean “leaves me staring slack-jawed.” The way a reformed smoker probably watches someone in a bar light up. Mesmerizing.

And I could feel it. The way it was to come whenever I wanted. Whenever I had the barest inclination to do so. How a guy can almost pull one out anywhere there’s a bit of privacy. At work. At the gym. In an airplane. That sensation of gripping a hard cock and how it felt in my hand and how as I got closer to coming I’d get up on my toes (if I was standing), eyes half closed, and then that breathless, weightless moment right after the point of no return and before the ejaculate slams past the prosate. Gasping. Moaning. Warmth.

Usually, I don’t miss it. Or I enjoy missing it. But sometimes, rarely, I miss it. I want it. I need it. It leaves a hole in me.

But it’s been so long since I can do it whenever I want that I find what I think it feels like and what it actually does doesn’t match. I imagine the penis feeling more substantial in my hand (to match the porn, I guess). Thicker. Longer strokes. And I can’t jack it or come without a sincere wave of guilt. And even if I could, it doesn’t last. I can’t savor it. Like the cigarette, once lit, is totally consumed in the first drag.

So I watch the men with their nice dicks do their thing and shoot their loads like a former fat kid pressing his face against the donut case glass. Wanting. Salivating. Jealous. But that’s all. Nothing more. Because there’s nothing more for me to do. If I ever had that kind of access to my own body again — to my own pleasure — it would mean I’d have lost so much that it would probably leave me sad.

But, you know. I’d still do it.

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Evolution

Once upon a time, Belle would leave me locked in the Steelheart until Friday night. Then she’d let me out before she went to sleep so the penis would be right there for her the next morning. I’d stay out until Sunday night (or even Monday if I didn’t mention anything and she forgot). We’d have sex a few times over the weekend and I’d get to fuck her each time and she might even let me play with myself Friday night. Then she started leaving me in until Saturday morning, letting me out right before she wanted the penis. We’d still have sex and I’d get my pussy time, but no more jacking off. More recently, she’s been leaving me locked up until Sunday morning and wanting me back in that day. She doesn’t forget anymore. I get out Sunday morning (Saturday’s are just about her now), I’m back in by Sunday midday. I’d only get inside her once. 

Except today. Today, I didn’t get out at all. This is the start of my fourth week being locked up. 

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Metrics

I’m well past the stage of keeping track of how long Belle’s had me locked up or when my last orgasm was or anything like that. I used to, excessively. I knew what my record was and was always advocating for beating it or whatever, but ultimately I figured out (as I hope any guy will who wants to be in my kind of spot) that if you’re going to let someone else control you, they have to be the ones to make those decisions without your input or concern. This ends up being quite a bit hotter, to be honest.

I say that to preface the next bit. I’m keeping track of when I’m locked up and in what purely for the statistical data. I’ve often said things about how often I think I’m wearing a device or how many times I come in a year, but I don’t really know. I lose track. So I’m using a little time tracking app on my phone to quantify these things. I hope to create a log that covers the whole year. I started tracking at the end of December when we got back from Hawaii. For instance, I know I’ve been in the Steelheart 313 hours this month. That’s out of about 345 elapsed hours in 2016 as of the moment I’m writing this. That’s about 91% of the time. I’ve had one orgasm this year back on the 3rd. 

The nerd in me thinks it would be very interesting to have this quantified data about myself. I’m all about quantified data. I love that my watch quantifies a bunch of stuff and if I can’t run with some kind of tracking device that adds my mileage and performance stats to what’s come before I nearly feel like it doesn’t count. There are people who get this (like me) or people who don’t (like Belle, actually). In a perfect world, this record would reflect the way Belle managed my erections and orgasms when left to her own devices. I don’t lobby, I don’t comment, I don’t say what my desire is regarding orgasm one way or the other. The only input I have in her decisions is how I act and that’s not entirely under my control. 

Of course, there’s this thing called the Hawthorne Effect in which the act of observing a human behavior affects how the behavior occurs. It’s possible now that I’ve said I’m doing this that Belle will somehow change what she otherwise would have done, but if that happens I don’t think it’ll be by much. I wouldn’t want to keep this a secret for a whole year. That seems wrong. 

Over on the Tumblr, it was pointed out by someone that my previous post about scales and ranges and the different vectors that make up human sexuality was flawed because I used the Kinsey Scale to demonstrate innate gender preference as opposed to reported experiences which is what it was designed to describe. This is true and I knew when I wrote it I wasn’t being perfectly true to the scale’s intent. In my defense, it seems to me that how I used it is in keeping with how most people think about it nowadays. It’s become a shorthand for what we desire. Or even how we identify. In any event, what I’m really interested in when discussing human sexuality is the differences between innate desires versus expressed desires versus actual experience and then all that versus how we identify. I’m super interested in how we are as opposed to how we say we are or how we allow ourselves to think about our desires. 

Belle is off on one of her overseas trips which means the Steelheart (barring some kind of emergency) will be on for 100% of the time over the next two weeks. I hate it when she leaves. Bah. I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately and usually when she’s not around to regulate my cycle I tend to get worse sleep. Hopefully that’s not what happens. We’ll see.

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So I wait

Last weekend, I was out of town. The weekend before that, Belle was. She’s in Chicago today. It’s been a while since we had quality time together, let alone had sex, because it’s a busy time of year all the way around. It’s during periods like this when being locked up is it’s most difficult.

I mean, sure, being locked up when your face is buried in her pussy is hard, but it’s the kind of hard you want. This is the kind of hard you don’t want. The kind of hard that, for a normal man, would be lessened by a few jack off sessions to take the edge off and relieve the boredom. I’m not a normal man, though.

These extended periods where life gets in the way of the hotness and push the dynamic we’ve both worked to achieve into the background are so hard because it keeps me in a kind of limbo. I just sort of endure. In the past, I’d struggle with keeping my emotions under control in these times. I probably still do, but I’m at least more aware of myself now. My fuse tends to be short and my mood swings quickly but I just sort of keep my head down and push through knowing it’s temporary.

This is when the real dedication of releasing control over oneself kicks in. It’s not fun. It’s not exciting. It’s dreary and can seem pointless. Last night I was in the otherwise empty bed and my hand was on the Looker and feeling as much of the penis inside as I could and poking at the hard rod deep inside and my balls hanging down fat between my legs. That can be a deliciously frustrating situation but it can also make me feel like nothing much at all. Not a man. At least not like any other I know. I realize that in a way my sexuality is all about others. Like a reverse vampire, it’s only visible when reflected off someone else. I am still craving some kind of sexuality (not just sex, but the feeling of being sexual) but absent Belle as a focus, I don’t really exist. I mean, yeah, that’s a bit dramatic and probably not true, but it’s how that situation can feel.

I find I need to focus on the act of submitting. Just doing it is what matters. That the nothingness of being locked and unable to pleasure myself or give her pleasure is, in itself, valuable. In fact, if I can’t do it when it’s not fun, then it has no real value. I have ceded control over myself and accepted my submission even when it’s hard and it is my job to endure those times. It’s the deal I made and the commitment I signed up for and I know she wants me this way and appreciates my difficulty. Also that we’re both happier this way and it’s how things must be.

So I leave my hand on the warm hard metal and feel my heavy balls with my fingers and rub the little bit of remaining foreskin that sticks out between the bars with my thumb and I draw strength from the steel. Its contents have never felt less like something I control or own. Referring to it as “my” penis has never felt more wrong.

No, I’m not a man. Not a normal one. But that’s not my fault. We just don’t have enough words to describe the variations of manliness. But I am me. I am nothing else but. And I am for her and she is for me.

So I wait.

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Stupid penis-having person

I posted a picture of me in the Looker 02 this morning and said there was a story behind it. It’s not a good story. It’s a story of me being a stupid penis-having person.

It starts last week. I was in the Steelheart and Belle was out of town over the weekend so I was locked up for a total of two straight weeks. Not that I got a lot of time out since I was locked up the previous two weeks, too, and she only let me out Sunday morning to fuck and told me I had to be back in by noon (which I was — made it with five minutes to spare). So, something like a month with about four hours of freedom, AKA the usual. By the time Belle got home I had been dealing with some burning inside the tube after I peed. It started out being mild and occasional and got worse and more frequent. Had she not been on the verge of coming home, I would have popped the emergency key and dealt with the issue, but since she was about to get home, I simply muscled though and amped up my hygiene by rinsing the tube each time I peed (it didn’t hurt at all in between). Turns out, there were two spots of red irritation that more or less lined up with the PA fixing bar.

That’s the second time in about six weeks that I was driven out of the tube for similar reasons, though this time was worse. Not sure exactly why this is suddenly an issue, but I suspect it’s because I’ve been very active lately and running a lot. It could be that it was just too much bouncing around. The area where this latest issue developed was in the excess skin under the penis’ head that is the remnants of my foreskin. I find I have a bit more there than the other guys I’ve been with, so it could be that it got caught between the ring and tube wall a little too often until it was rubbed raw. Or perhaps the increased activity should have been combined with an increased focus on hygiene. Don’t really know.

So she let me out. Luckily, that skin heals amazingly quickly and two days later things were in vastly better condition, though probably not healed enough to go back in. By Wednesday, it was in good enough shape that it wasn’t even sore to the touch anymore. Which is where the problem starts.

I was at home in the afternoon with only the dog as my company. I let him out the back door to do his business and, while waiting for him to find the perfect spot, found my hand in my pants. This is a thing a lot of guys do, of course, though I probably do it more than most when I’m unlocked if only for the novelty of feeling a squishy meat tube and not a locked hot metal one.

As god as my witness (and no, I don’t believe in him, but I’m trying to accentuate my conviction on this point), I did not decide to do what came next. But, as I looked out the back door at the dog, my hand started squishing and kneading the penis. The penis, being a penis (and a needy desperate one at that) started to do what penises do. My hand, being a guy’s hand (and being equally desperate and needy and apparently conspiring with the penis) did what hands do when they find hard penises in them. Next thing I knew, my pants were open and sagged down around my butt, my underwear was pushed down under my balls, my left arm was propping me up against the door to help me stay standing while the waves of pleasure coming from my jacking right hand washed over me. I was rushing headlong into an orgasm before my frontal cortex snapped out of its trance and noticed the dog standing outside the door watching me and wanting to know why I was making him stand around in the cold.

I felt terrible. Like I said, I never decided to jack off. I never decided not to, either. It just happened. As the kind of chaste man whose condition is enforced by steel, whatever muscles one uses to resist that kind of incident are flabby and atrophied. It’s not that I showed no will power. I showed nothing but animal instinct.

So I went upstairs and tried to do some work. That didn’t last long. I opened the Tumblr app and flipped through and the penis, which never really went all the way soft anyway, was back in force. I rubbed it though my jeans and felt the ejaculate my previous stroking pulled up had leaked all over inside my underwear and was starting to soak through the denim in a large dark patch. I flipped over to Literotica and found a hot enough story when my hand started pulling the buttons of my fly open and I finally found a way to stop the madness. It was incredibly hard (pun intended). My head was swimming in the hormonal cloud of intense frustration. My face felt flushed and I was even a little light-headed, but I knew I was heading into very dangerous waters. Yes, I had broken Belle’s rule about playing with it, but that’s perhaps a veinal sin compared to actually making myself come. This whole incident lasted maybe ten minutes, but I went from a simple, unsuspecting rabbit released on his own recognizance minding his own business to rabid drunken scofflaw Gila monster shooting up the town from the window of his ’73 Pontiac GTO.

I had to go back in. I had to. But I still wasn’t in the right condition to be in the Steelheart, so I rooted around until I found the Looker 02. I shoved it up the penis, turned the key in the lock, and put the key in the usual spot for Belle to find. She didn’t find it though and, when she noticed I was in it, she didn’t ask why. I never had the courage to bring it up. Good thing she doesn’t know about this blog…oh, wait.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up the Looker 02.

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New rule

Belle doesn’t have than many rules for me, if you think about it.

  1. I can only come when she tells me to and if she tells me to I have to.
  2. I must to wear a chastity device whenever she says.
  3. I must never play with the penis without permission.
  4. If I have sex with someone else, I have to be locked up.

That’s about it, really. Everything I do and how I act flows from those. But today I asked that there be a new rule.

  1. I’m not allowed to tell her how I feel about coming (whether I want it or not) while we’re having sex unless she asks me.

This is a follow on from my previous post on talking about it while fucking her. As I said then, there’s no reason for me to say anything about it (really ever, but especially when the penis is inside her) other than for the part of my reptile brain that’s never accepted her control over my orgasm to try and manipulate her. I’ve been telling myself this new rule was a rule I was imposing on myself all week but this morning, in the passion of feeling her pussy and hearing her moan, I realized that a rule I never say to anyone is a rule I can’t be held accountable for.

On the surface, and when compared to the others, this new rule may seem like a little thing but I think it’s really huge. If I say what I want with regard to coming (either for or against), especially in the heat of the moment, then how committed am I to rule number one? You’d think, what with me being the big shot chastity blogger and all, that I wouldn’t need this rule, but in reality I’m always playing an angle with her. I guess that’s human nature, but when I can play an angle that means I have some modicum of flexibility and leverage and, truly, when it comes to my orgasm I don’t want any. I say that in the face of never letting go of that tenuous little thread.

The reptile part of my brain thinks she’ll always assume I want to come. That it will be obvious by my actions and how turned on I am and that I’ll be able to communicate my desire physically. The higher part of my brain (the bunny) clutches it’s little furry paws in hope that she doesn’t really think about it. That it doesn’t really matter.

So I asked this be a new rule this morning after I got her off. I was still locked up because she said she’s thankful for my chastity and this is Thanksgiving, after all. And I’m thankful for it, too. And her. Especially her. Once I proposed it and she quickly acceded to it, I could actually feel the control she has over that aspect of me ratchet down. That tiny wiggle space closed tight. The tenuous thread was cut. And it left me feeling warm and loved.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Pieces on the board

Chaste Cyclist (of the great eponymous blog) said in response to my last post:

Even though it has only been about 9 months for us, I feel myself drifting ever closer to these same feelings. The other evening when she called me upstairs I found myself wanting to be out of the Steelheart but knew better to ask. I simply wanted to pleasure her…and that is what I got. I have stopped asking to get out.

And it made me have a thought about one of the primary differences between enforced chastity (in which a device is used) and the other kind (in which the man is restricted in how he enjoys his penis but is not in a device). This is just sort of a random thought that started out as a comment in reply to his but I decided to make a post out of.

I don’t claim that one way of doing chastity is better than the other. I’ve seen device-less types claim theirs is superior because being able to employ willpower over a physical restraint shows greater submission blah blah bullshit bullshit. They can think what they want. I simply prefer to say we all get to do things as we like to do them and there’s no one right way to approach anything of a sexual nature. As long as everyone’s on board and happy, you win.

But, it may be the case that those of us in enforced chastity are ending up (or may end up) in a very different place than our device-less comrades. For me over the time I’ve been locked up, I’ve learned to progressively demote the penis as a central actor in our sex. In doing so, I’ve been able to be more completely focused on her pleasure. If the penis is not a factor in our sex (and truly we can have amazing sex without the key ever showing up) then the focus of the sex and its outcome is purely about her getting off as spectacularly as possible. The further out of mind the penis is, the better to have sex that is as partner-centric as possible.

I know for myself, when the penis is out, everything changes. It’s an entirely different act for me, even if most of it is functionally the same. Emotionally and hormonally, my focus is divided. Belle let me out this morning and the entire time I had my fingers in her snatch and was kissing her mouth and nipples, I was thinking about what came after. I was imagining the penis in her. I was resisting the urge to climb up and take her before she was done. After she came, I basically did just that. She never told me I could, but I slowly moved in that direction until she guided the penis in with her hand. It was an amazing fuck for both of us, don’t get me wrong, and of course I didn’t come (URRRRGH) but since I was free and hard and she was naked and writhing the drive to be inside her was crowding away in my mind.

Again, I’m not making a judgement call. I’m making an observation. Having a locked up penis makes a man much more focused as a lover. Personally, that’s a satisfying state of being for me. If the goal of chastity is to create in the locked parter a state of focus, an effective way of doing that is to demote his penis to a secondary or even tertiary player. Take the piece off the board, so to speak. Nothing does that better than a tight tube keeping his hard-on in check.

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Counting the stages and keeping my mouth shut

About a week ago, I tweeted…

Which pretty much sums up how it works most of the time. I can get to the point where I want to come so badly that I start at the second stage and only find my way to stage three about four hours later, but most days not. We can call them the three stages of denial.

But maybe there’s a fourth. See, Stage 1 there, “I hope she doesn’t let me come,” doesn’t even activate until she hands me the key to the Steelheart. It’s like the penis is a tiny Dr. Evil frozen away in its orbiting Bob’s Big Boy. Out of sight, out of mind. So really, the first question is whether the penis even gets out.

This morning, Belle didn’t let it out. It’s usually the case that the little Dr. Evil defrosts on Saturday mornings we’re not doing anything in particular. It gets let out, I get her off, then I stick it in, but she decided to leave it be today. On the one hand, I like getting out. A lot. More than I crave orgasm at any given moment, I crave sensation from the penis. Feeling her hand on it, feeling it hard and free, pressed against her, rubbing against her skin, sliding into her hot wetness. Just feeling. The Steelheart provides both no sensation in that when I touch it and grab it and claw at it all my hand feels is perfectly smooth, numb hardness that never changes but then, on the inside, it’s high pressure. Intense, consistent, unyielding resistance to my excitement. So yeah, having an erection that can be touched and feels good is something I look forward to.

But I also don’t think I deserve to be unlocked. Being locked is the default. Being unlocked is the exception. Not a treat or a reward or whatever. I hate it when I expect to be unlocked. I’d rather assume it’s not going to happen and be pleasantly surprised when it does than the opposite. Of course, when she wants it out, it should come out. It’s entirely up to her. I just don’t want her considering me and my cravings in that decision. I don’t want her to be nice to me just because.

So when I wrote that tweet last week, it was after we fucked and I didn’t get to come. Which, being solidly in Stage 3, was a relief. But when I was in her and sliding the penis in and out and losing myself to the amazing feeling of that the intensity of Stage 2 made me say to her how badly I wanted to come. I immediately felt bad for saying it. After, I apologized.

The thing is, there’s no reason for me to tell her. None. Because it doesn’t fucking matter. If I say anything about coming, one way or the other, I’m trying to influence her and that’s bullshit. Especially when the fucking penis is inside her at the time. If she wants me to, she’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Maybe I want to, maybe I don’t. Who cares. That’s the deal. I don’t come until I do and I don’t whine.

Maybe a part of me just wants her to know, “OMG, I’m so being denied right now!” but, of course, she knows that. But another part of me, the part that sits way down my brain stem and acts more than it thinks, is trying to put its finger on the scale of her decision. Maybe she’s considering it and by saying something it’ll cause her to lean towards letting it happen. I hate that part of me. That I can’t always keep it stifled. I’ve spent a long time learning how to keep it as far away as possible from the button that makes me come. Now I just need to learn to keep it from my mouth.

Orgasm denial and enforced chastity all boils down to managing conflicting urges and desires. I want to fuck you but don’t let me out, GAH coming would be awesome, I better not tell her. WHY DID YOU TELL HER!? Lock me back up, no keep me out, be nice to me, BE MEAN TO ME. Seriously, it’s stuff like this that makes me think being a top would be exhausting work. Subs are annoyingly complicated. We’re lucky anyone puts up with us.