Tag: male chastity

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Mile marker

A reader calling themselves “Dev” said just over a month ago in a comment…

Thumper, I have a question for you, but I’m worried it will just piss you off. Hence I am leaving it in comments so that you don’t feel like you have to reply at all. But, have you considered that maybe you’re really not OK with the dent? I mean have you really given yourself space, allowed yourself to consider whether it’s OK for you? (I don’t mean medically, but personally.)

I think sometimes people don’t allow themselves to go down certain mental roads (like bisexuality, for some people) because they’ve assumed a priori that those roads are not OK or lead to bad places. Like a kid in college who might be too afraid to really ask themselves, do I really want to be a doctor or is it just my parents’ idea? Sometimes our persistent feelings are trying to tell us something that we should listen to.

I’m not saying that’s what’s going on here. I just want to nudge you to be sure you are giving your own thoughts and feelings proper respect and listening.

I never went back and answered that though I thought about it several times. Since I’m in the mood to write, I’ll do it now.

For those of you unfamiliar with “the dent,” I mean come on. Try and keep up, will you? The first mention of it is here. Then I whined about it when I was depressed, last time in the post linked to above in which Dev commented.

I will admit that there were times when I wasn’t OK with it. I mean, obviously, because I kept bringing it up and I didn’t need to. I could have totally never mentioned it to any of you people and who’d be the wiser? But I feel that people read my blog and perhaps even try and model some of their behavior on what I write about and it almost felt like if I didn’t say that wearing a chastity device can do something like that to a penis (even if you have to wear it for a really long time), I’d be breaking some kind of covenant. I said in my second post that I’d always tell the truth and that includes avoiding lies of omission.

There is something I’ve never said about the dent. It happens to be right at a point where the shaft of the penis had a bit of a natural bend in it to begin with. I recall when I was a teenager I though I bent it by jacking off too much with my right hand (which is hilarious — like it’s a Gumby penis or something). Even to this day, when I’m allowed to jack off (feh, right) I am conscious of which hand I’m using because of that natural bend. Then, at some point, I made a video of me putting on one of the devices I’ve made that kind of video for. I can’t recall which one at the moment and don’t feel like seeing which it was. In any event, I was just out of the shower and my skin wasn’t totally dry and had that kind of clingy thing going on that skin can have when it’s very slightly damp. As I pulled the penis through the ring, was a bit too forceful and I gave the shaft a bruise. I remember it being very slightly visible on the video and much more visible moments later. I actually watched the bruise form and darken. That bruise, as I recall, was about where the dent is today. Right about where the natural bend is. In fact, the bruise was on the right side and bend is on the left side.

I say all this because I think now that it’s entirely possible the dent isn’t from wearing a too tight A-ring all by itself. It could be because I wore a device when the penis was bruised and that didn’t allow it to heal properly. Honestly, I don’t know for sure. But it’s possible.

As my depression deepened, my issues with the dent started to become almost obsessive. My mind worried on it in those times when I was just starting to go to sleep or when the tight pressurized tube woke me up in the early morning. I imagined that it was getting worse and worse and would eventually impact my ability to use it. I can say without hesitation that there’s no sign the dent has changed at all, for better or worse. Whatever caused it, it appears to be stable.

All that being said, I’m not answering Dev’s question. She asked, “have you really given yourself space, allowed yourself to consider whether it’s OK for you?” I think now that yes, I have. And it is. Really.

As I said the other day, “being a locked man isn’t something I do, it’s what I am.” I feel that all the way down. At the very, very bottom, though, lives a tiny little serpent of doubt. And my depression and anxiety feeds that little snake until it becomes like Jafar at the end of Aladdin and then all it does it try and stoke my insecurities and issues and blow them up into things that keep me up at night.

I won’t go so far as to say I’m not a little insecure about the dent. Just a little. As crazy as it sounds, I worry about what someone might say someday if they see or feel it. Someone besides Belle who’s already said she likes it. That is crazy. Like it’ll ever happen. And even if it does somehow, like I said, being locked isn’t what I do, it’s what I am. In what universe is someone in the same room as the unlocked erection who isn’t aware of that? None.

I tend to think of it more now like a tattoo. Or perhaps the scar left over from a cesarean operation. It’s a mile marker on the journey that is my life. It’s not the same as it was but, honestly, had I known it was a possibility, I don’t think I would have changed anything about how it got there. Except maybe take my time pulling the stupid penis through the A-ring that day.

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Gymboree

I’m probably done going to the personal trainer I’ve been seeing for…man, almost four years. The reasons are several but can be boiled down thusly:

  • His motivation strategy basically involves a bunch of macho bullshit I can’t stand.
  • The routines have become repetitive and dull (mostly because it’s a decidedly average gym space).
  • I don’t feel like I’m being “trained.” More like I’m paying him to be my gym buddy (set up my weights, spot me, etc.).

Note that Belle sees him too and will continue to do so since while I’m over him she certainly isn’t and in fact would like him to be over her, literally (which is why he’s called her gym boyfriend at our house).

I’ve found another local gym with trainers and have an appointment with a younger hot one this afternoon to see how it works out. He’s a lot more expensive than the old guy, but there are more options at that gym like classes and what they call “supervised workouts” where someone just helps out with spotting and such so I might be able to craft a solution that is equal to or maybe even a little less than what I’m paying now.

The gym is only a year old and is really nice with all kinds of cool shit and no typical  bullshit gym machines. It also has a proper locker room with a few showers. Since I’ll likely have a much less regular gym schedule than I have now, it’s probable that I’ll be getting there from work or whatever and won’t always be able to come in my gym clothes like I do now. Which means changing in the locker room and perhaps even needing to shower, depending on the time, and, of course, I have this extra interesting shiny tube where a guy’s dick usually is. I brought that all up to Belle last night and she was like, “Yeah? So?”

I mean, of course. Just like when I started going to see a trainer in the first place. She doesn’t want me to be out of the device. Ever. Not unless it’s on her terms. Going to the gym is not on her terms so I will apparently have no clemency in that regard. On the one hand, little fluttery butterflies of nervousness, but on the other, a tube-filling sense of security in that this is not a game this is us and I need to deal with it.

So I’ll deal with it. I’ll look for times that mean I don’t need to shower or can arrive changed and if that’s not possible I’ll figure out a way to change that minimizes the chances another guy will see it. I don’t want to flaunt the Steelheart. I don’t believe in that. But I am conceptually OK with someone seeing it (or evidence of it) inadvertently through just living my live. I don’t advertise but I’m also not going to be ashamed.

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HNThumper LXX: Further faux clit action

In the shower this morning and, yet again, I found myself fingering the wet ‘n soapy penis in the Steelheart like it was a clit. Like last time, I was thoroughly enjoying myself when I realized I was breaking the “no playing with it” rule. Sigh. And after just saying how Belle can trust me.

In any event, I captured the following image of my hot, forbidden, faux clit action.

Continue reading “HNThumper LXX: Further faux clit action”

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Theater and artifice

I saw an image on Tumblr recently that was of some guy wearing a clear Holy Trainer 2 with one of those numbered tags like Belle uses to keep track of my emergency key though its lock. The little plastic tag was the only thing “locking” the device onto the guy. Someone had reposted the image and added a comment to the effect of put a real lock on there and then we’ll see how hard it is to wear.

Trust and enforced male chastity is a funny thing. Some men (myself included) go to great lengths to find themselves in a device from which they can’t escape. I had the penis pierced almost entirely because I wanted to be locked in a device that couldn’t possibly be removed. I advocated for Belle to get a steel device and I even designed and had manufactured a new way of fixing my PA inside the tube so that escape was impossible without the key. But then I get to carry around a key to the Steelheart secured only with a little plastic number tab that nobody but me keeps a record of (meaning I could swap out the number whenever I wanted since I know where Belle keeps them and no-one would be the wiser). Belle was even going to just leave her unsecured key here at the house when she went on the overseas trip she’s on now.

Most men, it seems to me, who get their dicks locked up want it that way. They’re complicit in their chastity and, like me, even though they don’t need high security, they crave it anyway. I’d argue that if you let someone lock you up and then you cheat by backing out or stealing the key or whatever, that you really shouldn’t be locked up in the first place. Enforced chastity is a promise you make to your keyholder that supersedes whatever device they use on you. The device is a physical representation of that promise. A deterrent to protect you from weak moments, not the enforcer of your keyholder’s will. You, as the one being locked up, are the ultimate enforcer of their will. Your keyholder’s desire to keep you chaste resides within you, not the lock.

Of course, chastity doesn’t require a device. Perhaps it’s the case that unenforced chastity is the ultimate expression of submitting to one’s dominant parter, but that misses the appeal of a device. There’s something important in the physical talisman you carry with you. The one they put on you. There’s the sacrifice you make by putting up with the thing all day long, every day they choose to leave you in it. There’s the discomfort (sometimes greater than others depending on the device) you endure when aroused. Wearing the device, accepting its control, enduring it — those are also valuable acts of submission.

Belle totally trusts me regarding my chastity. She knows that even if I could, I would not cheat. Sometimes she leaves her key out in the open for days where I left it for her, even when she’s not around, because she knows I would never use it to let myself out without her permission. After all these years of wearing a device and all those possible orgasms and solo jack off sessions that will never be and the profound changes living like this has had on me, mentally and physically, being a locked man isn’t something I do, it’s what I am.

That do vs. am thing can be a source of comfort. Last night, I was really turned on and trying to sleep. My mind was trying to go through doors I wouldn’t let it because once past them, it’d be engaged all night long and I’d never get rest. After struggling with this for a while, I laid on my back and put my hand on the warm, hard steel between my legs and stroked the smooth surface of the unfeeling tube with my thumb. I told myself, This is who you are. And it helped. It calmed me down. It didn’t take the horniness away, but it put it in perspective. I’m not the way I am because of some external force. I am this way because it’s what I want to be. For her, for me, for us. Enforced chastity, orgasm denial, submission are fundamental to me. I can’t imagine anymore not being locked up. I can’t imagine having an orgasm whenever I want one. I am too far past all that now.

So if a little plastic tab is all you have between you and your dick, so be it. Enforced male chastity starts in your heart and your head, not your penis. A locked cock is a symptom of being a chaste, not the cause. Get that in your head — understand that anything beyond a simple plastic barrier is theater and artifice — and everything else follows.

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HNThumper LXIX: Rubbing day

I’m going to get a massage today. This is a Good Thing™ but, as usual, I’m carrying some steel between my legs and my masseuse is not privy to that info. As a result, I have to bust open my emergency key since Belle’s in Hong Kong until next week.

This is a perennial struggle for me. Right now, today, the last thing I want is to see the penis. I’m so grooving on being locked up I’d be more likely to break the key in the lock than use it to escape, but that’s what I have to do because I’m not an asshole. I woke up this morning gripping the hard, hot steel around the remnants of my morning wood and felt that electric craving for its contents buzzing in my chest wrapped in an insulation of submissive contentment. I know I have to get out for an hour this afternoon. I know it. But the spoiled little rabbit inside me does not want to! NO! DON’T WANNA!!

[insert adorable little fuzzy foot stomp]

FullSizeRender 27Bah. Whatever. To keep the chain of custody in order, here’s a picture of the key safe with its current numbered tag along with the tag Belle left me to resecure the key before I leave the massage room when I’m done being rubbed by the adorable hipster I pay to do it. I will not unlock myself until I’m getting undressed for the rubbing and I’ll immediately relock myself before getting dressed and leaving the room. Later, I’ll post a picture of the key with it’s new number.

And yeah, I know it’s not Thursday, but if you can stand yet another fucking picture of me in the Steelheart, I have one waiting for you after the jump…

Continue reading “HNThumper LXIX: Rubbing day”

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The settled unsettled

I recently read a news item about a guy with no penis giving great sex advice on Reddit. It may or may not be true because, you know, the internet but what he’s saying sounds real to me, a person who still has a penis but rarely if ever uses it to pleasure his partners.

Belle used to prefer achieving orgasm from being fucked. She needed to be on top controlling angle of penetration, depth, speed, etc., while I concentrated on her nipples. Most women, from what I understand, actually can’t come this way. They need clitoral stimulation instead of or in addition to penetration, but it was how Belle got off. That was then. Now, thanks to the fact that I often have a difficult time keeping my own orgasm at bay long enough for her to get there and, more often than not, I’m locked up, we’ve resorted to fingers and lips and tongues to get the job done. The other day, we tried the old way and she just couldn’t get off. My denial and chastity has retrained her pussy to like it better when the penis isn’t inside her.

This weekend was a good example of how things work now. Saturday she asked if I’d go down on her which I always find funny because, YES, I am always down to go down if that’s what she wants. I’d do it fucking daily if she’d let me. I like nothing more than when she sits on my face and grinds away on my mouth to her heart’s (or whatever’s) delight. It’s been a while since I was able to really tuck in so, once she was sated, I nuzzled into her pussy and savored everything about it. She let me fuck her after and she was incredibly wet and open, almost as though she had already fucked someone else.

The next morning, she was taking a while to get off from my fingers and then the vibrator. She tends to get self-conscious when this happens though I told her I didn’t care how long it took. Getting her off is my sex. I crave it. Her moaning and squirming and the feel of her wet pussy and her hard nipples in my mouth. I’m wired to enjoy her enjoyment. So as long she’s liking what I’m doing, I’m happy to do it forever. After a bit, she did come and it was one of those orgasms that starts low and slow and builds to explosion.

So yeah, you can have amazing sex without a penis. I’ve had the best sex of my life keeping the one I was born with locked in a steel tube. Penises may be designed for one thing, but that thing can be had in so many other ways if you’re willing to try and find them.

So you might think this is all well and good and boy haven’t Thumper and Belle found the Promised Land. At times, I think that’s right, but the issues I’ve been having with my stupid brain lately have left me feeling not so confident. As I’ve written about recently, the darned dent has, at times, become a very large issue for me. Depression and anxiety are not logical things so there’s no need to unravel the illogic of how this has left me feeling at times, but something what is at worst a cosmetic issue has sort of driven a spike down into the heart of what I consider a key element of my sexuality. It makes me question the last seven years of my life and the kind of sex I like and who I think I am. That’s scary stuff.

To be clear, there is nothing functionally wrong with me. The penis works exactly as it always has, it just feels and looks a little different. Why, if denial and chastity have given me such real contentment, should this be a problem? When I’m feeling good I convince myself it’s not a problem. But I’m not always feeling good.

I thought this was settled for me.

Chastity and denial are just as much a commitment to Belle as my marriage vows were so it’s fitting that the two pieces of metal I wear as a result of both should leave me similarly marked. I feel just as weird when either of them are absent. I can’t imagine what life would be like without them and have no intention of finding out.

The dent on my finger doesn’t matter since the ring that made it is nearly always covering it up. The dent on the penis is only apparent when Belle wants it to be. And in those times, it’s a reminder to us both of how my commitment to her has left me altered, inside and out.

I am surprised to find myself bothered by the dent at all. I used to think I had moved on from being so centered on the penis. To really accepting that I am not the kind of man who measures his worth by the length of thing between his legs. In fact, I’m not really the kind of man who thinks his penis is all that important. It is not central to my sexuality. If anything, its absence is. It’s not critical to my sexual pleasure. Or Belle’s. I’ve become so used to it being a deadened, weighty, shiny steel tube that only feels pressure when I get turned on or the occasional pinch from inside. The Steelheart is a really significant part of who I am. Of who I imagine myself to be. I am it and it is me. I suppose it’s no surprise that to have all that challenged would freak me out. It’s why I didn’t want to be locked up when Belle was gone a few weeks ago. It’s why I was not enthusiastic in putting it back on yesterday morning.

I’ve been writing this blog for seven years yesterday. Seven years discovering and learning about who I am. About how I’m different. I hate that these feelings have put that on a shaky table. I will never be normal again, but I wasn’t ever normal before. Not for a single day of my life. I am how I should be, dent and all.

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Moody

I admit up front I’m not a fan of the type of blog posts I’m about to write. It’s not that I have a problem with them per se, nor do I think they shouldn’t be written by others, but it must be my mother’s stoic Nebraskan upbringing that makes me wince at the thought of writing one myself. I come from the kind of people who don’t talk about their problems and just suck whatever it is bothering them up.

Even now, having just coughed up that first paragraph, I can feel a weight come down on me and an overriding urge to click into another tab to find a distraction so I can stop doing this. I can say (and show) a lot about myself, but some things are more of a challenge than others.

I’ve mentioned before my issues with anxiety. I think I have problems of a larger significance than just that. I think I’m also depressed. But it doesn’t feel like what I think depression is. My image of depression is sad but I don’t always feel sad. When it’s bad, I don’t feel much at all. Or the anxiety shows up and I feel freaked the fuck out. Freaked out about what? Anything. Everything. Usually it’s something I have to do which, when looked at from outside, would appear to be a minor thing. A thing that will take me three minutes to accomplish. But it looms over me and I avoid it and the longer that goes on the more freaked out about it I am.

I found a comic online. It perfectly illustrates (literally) what I feel except it ends on a positive note and I don’t feel positive at all. If anything, this is getting worse. And I can’t keep going on without making some kind of change.

I searched the American Association of Sexuality Educators, Counselors and Therapists website (AASECT for short) for someone to talk to. Not because I think this is a sexual issue. Not because I have any issues whatsoever with my sexuality or how it manifests in my life. If anything, I’m more comfortable about who I am and what I do now than I’ve ever been. But I recall when Belle and I were seeing a therapist during our troubles and the issue of my kinky predilections was raised (not in a bad way or in much specificity, just in passing) and I didn’t get a good vibe from the therapist about it. Not that she was too negative, just that the first thing she thought of when the word “kink” was used was erotic asphyxiation and she seemed otherwise pretty clueless to my kind of sexuality. When I meet this new person, and assuming who I am sexually comes up, I don’t want to have to spend a lot of time fighting a headwind of sex negativity or ignorance. I don’t necessarily expect this guy to have a deep understanding of my specific proclivities, but I also don’t want to have to deal with any sex negative bullshit.

In my previous writing about this, I speculated that the denial might play a part. I don’t think that now. Belle let me come several times in a week recently and nothing changed. Some days are good, some days OK, some really bad. Even though I was, for that short time, on a normal kind of release pattern, I still woke up one night in a near panic about nothing in particular.

Belle’s on a trip at the moment and I can’t even say how long it’s been since she let me stay unlocked while away like this, but I’m out now. I asked to be because I didn’t want to go in. Not for the typical reasons. Not because I want to play with myself or whatever. I have little interest in that. I little interest in being out or locked up but being locked up when I feel like this is way more demoralizing than being unlocked.

—

So, it’s taken me like a week to write as much as this. Then I ignored it. It’s like sludging uphill in heavy boots through knee-deep mud to push these words out. I’m not quite as morose as I was when I started but I’m not in the clear, either.

Another reason this is hard to write is because I’m preconditioned to think I’m just being whiny and not trying hard enough. Somehow. It’s the development of the weird panicky anxiety issues that have driven me to finally see a professional. They don’t feel normal. I can’t easily rationalize them away.

I am back in the Steelheart, for those who are interested. I didn’t put it back on because I really wanted to but I thought Belle would want me to and I was starting to feel little urges to play with myself. It’s a testament to how ingrained this denial and chastity dynamic is in our relationship that even in the face of these issues I’m having, it remains. Perhaps we won’t put it aside because to do so would mean something was seriously wrong so we keep doing it. But I don’t think so. It’s not superficial. It’s not a thing we’re just doing. It’s more how we are.

I’ve mentioned before about my dent. My current mood has left me feeling bad about that. Like I’m broken or ruined or…I dunno. I am not broken. Everything is still functional. But I’m not the same. And my anxiousness is very happy to attach itself to that. In a different state, I’d have no issue with it at all. I might even embrace it as I did when I wrote the post I linked to at the start of this paragraph. But now it’s all about worry and fear. It’s far worse in my mind than it really is and I know this but I still think it until I feel it again. But I won’t allow myself to be rational about it.

In any event, I know I may be moderating because I don’t feel as negatively about it as often as I have. I can nearly accept my logical arguments and kind of feel the tendrils of what I used to feel about it. But I’m still not there 100%. Not even 50%. I’m even getting things done at work all by myself. It’s a challenge and much harder than it should be and I’m still nervous more than seems healthy, but it’s progress.

So I’m back in the Steelheart. Not because I crave it. More because it’s a kind of security blanket. A reminder of better feelings and thoughts. And because Belle prefers me in it.

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I come when she wants me to

Belle doesn’t like it when I think about how long it’s been since I last came. She doesn’t care for record keeping or counting days or recognizing feats of endurance or anything like that. I come when she wants me to, period. When did I last come? When she wanted me to.

But I have it bad today. Real bad. She let me fuck her this morning after she came and it felt incredible and I really enjoyed it and once again totally psyched myself into thinking she was going to let me go all the way. I got close and slowed down and thought, sure, she’s just dragging it out. Enjoying it. So I let the orgasm retreat and I shifted position and kept my breathing steady before picking up the pace again. Oh my GOD it was wonderful and I was very grateful she was making me wait because it was so much better and I felt myself closing in on it again but she wasn’t saying anything so I again did what I had to do to let it fall back. When I resumed, it was at a pace that would culminate with orgasm. This time she’d let me and it would be amazing and my head would explode and I’d shoot a ton so she’d overflow with it and FUCK it was going to be the best thing ever and wow it wasn’t taking long before I felt like I was getting close again.

I looked at her as I fucked her. She looked back.

“What?” she asked.

Oh, FUCKING HELL.

“OK, time to stop, Thumpie.”

A palpable sense of loss flooded up. I wasn’t going to come and it pained me to know it. I was seriously on the verge of tears. I wanted it so badly. It was right there. So close, but still behind her iron gate. Not going to happen. If she had said I could, it would only take two and half thrusts to get there. But she wasn’t going to say it and all I could do was collapse into her neck and feel the lizard coil up hard inside me, bitter with disappointment that flowered after being planted in a fertile expectation to which it had no right.

I made a small, defeated noise. She thought it was funny. She sniggered. I whimpered.

And now I’m sitting here typing and still wishing I could come. I still feel the need and it’s distracting and consuming and driving me crazy. I read back on the blog and found the last real orgasm I had even though she doesn’t like me to think about it. July 7th. So we’re just over two months. Record is nine. She wouldn’t think two is that much. That I could do more. Also, stop counting. Stop thinking about it. You come when I want you to. That last time you came was when I wanted you to and the next time will be when I want you to. When will that be? Stop thinking about it.

If I was locked up right now, I don’t think I’d be worrying about it as much. The physical presence of the steel restrains me physically as well as psychically. If I were locked up, it’d free me to think about other things. Oh, I’d still think about wanting to come, but it’d allow room for other things to sneak in. But being free means I’m consumed by my desire. It pushes everything else out.

I need to be locked up. Right now. But Belle’s not here and I’m not feeling like I have the willpower to do it myself. God, I want to come so bad. I crave it like nothing else. But I don’t need to come. It’s probably best if I don’t. And I clearly don’t deserve it.

Not that it matters. I come when she wants me to.

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Voyage aux terres du nord

I have an interesting hobby. One that, due to its esoteric and personal nature, is difficult to share with others (in real life), let alone find someone who’s as into it and well-versed in its idiosyncracies as I am let alone have real, face-to-face conversations about it with them. So imagine the enthusiasm with which I spent my day yesterday hanging out with Christopher Miers, the man behind Steelwerks Extreme. Drew was there to talk about the device he and Axel are buying. I was just there to geek out and bask in the coolness of it all.

Middle shelf, far right in the front: The first Steelwerks device ever made

Since he was in the middle of moving to new space, I didn’t get to see any of the heavy machinery he uses to coax beautiful and sexy shapes from ingots of raw metal, but I did get to peruse a case of samples, prototypes, early endeavors, and a small collection of his clients’ old devices (to which I will be adding a few carefully chosen specimens). One was a very early Steelworxx device, one a fantastically small Mature Metal Jail Bird, and another was the first Lori’s tube I’ve ever seen in real life. It was like the beginnings of a penis predicament museum.

Chris was ridiculously generous with his time. He spent essentially the whole day just talking shop, eating lunch, walking around his Montréal neighborhood, and introducing us to his pals at Polymorphe, a manufacturer of latex fetishwear. We discussed and debated at length the merits of all the various device manufacturers (they all have strong suits and potential downsides) and then he fitted Drew in a device to help determine the size necessary for he and Axel’s new device. I was able to try on Chris’ personal device which was a big deal since he said I was the only other person to wear it (if I wasn’t worried about how much of a fanboy it’d make me sound like, I’d tell you exactly how that felt) and, as you’d expect, it was gorgeous. So, you know, just another bunch of guys hanging around locking metal to their dicks. Though, to be truthful, Chris didn’t partake (and I’m not embarrassed to say, I wish he had, because fucking yum) but based on the fit of his device on me, I have a pretty good idea of the basic dimensions of his dick (blush).

The thing I appreciate about Chris is the intersection of craft, commerce, and even art he represents. Of course, it’s his business to sell these creations and he has the same concerns as any other small businessman (regulations, rent, payroll, etc.) but the meticulous care he puts into their construction and (especially recently) the level to which he’s advanced artistic expression in the field of male chastity is truly exciting. We talked about how the merging of a few of his most recent creations would be possibly the most beautiful male chastity device ever made. It’s a device I’d like to see him make and, even better, be locked on me. But who knows. Maybe that’ll happen someday.

It’s also become really clear to me that the marketplace of fetish and kink products is divided into two camps. There’s the small manufacturers who make their wares carefully and with passion and whose livelihoods can often depend on their work and then there’s those who literally connive to steal that innovation and creativity and knock it off overseas to sell at the lowest possible price. This has happened to Chris just as it’s happened to several others like him. It’s unfortunate and, I suppose, inevitable. I get that not everyone (actually, hardly anyone) can afford the very top of the market for any of these kinds of products, but I also think it’s important that as consumers we frequent retailers who respect their suppliers. At the end of the day, someone who takes one of Chris’ creations and knocks it off in cast metal from China simply doesn’t care about you or your penis. They just want your money. If you drop a couple hundred on their crap and it never leaves your drawer following the first time you tried it on, they consider themselves successful. Chris and other makers like him represent the antithesis of this way of doing business.

My only regret from yesterday is that I wasn’t able to spend more time in Montréal. It’s such a great city and has a vibe unlike any other in North America. In the same way Miami feels like it’s in South America, Montréal feels like it’s in Europe. Belle and I have been there together a few times and have also spent time in Québec City which is even harder to imagine is North American. If you want a European-like experience for a fraction of the prices (especially with the currently favorable American exchange rate), head north.

For those interested in what I looked like in Chris’ cage, it’s after the jump. I’d call it maybe 20% longer than I’d want, but the ring and tube diameter were just about perfect.

Continue reading “Voyage aux terres du nord”