Tag: submission

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Fifteen

The other day, October 12, was the fifteenth anniversary of this blog. Had Belle not put it on her personal calendar, the day would have passed by without any fanfare. As it was, since I was busy trying to get ready to leave on a ten day camping trip (the last hurrah of the season for such things), the best I could do was fire off some social media posts linking to this site’s first ever entry.

Over on the hellsite, Tom jokingly asked how I still had anything to say after 15 years. And it’s true, I often feel like I’ve said it all. Like, three times over. I joked back that perhaps Belle decided to permanently deny me in order to give me something new to write about. 🤔

I was about to say that it’s hard to write about the absence of a thing for fifteen years, but I think that’s a backwards way of thinking. Actually, a perspective that I had thought I had moved past. Permanent enforced denial cannot be defined as living in the absence of orgasm. It is, rather, living with the presence of perpetual orgasmic continence. This is something of what I tried to define in my last post. We call it “denial” because we start out not knowing our true selves and the presence of orgasm is the default. Also, our biological imperative is to seek orgasm out. But for some of us, who we really are and what we really need is to live in this other state.

The best way for me to know this is right for me is how thinking about orgasm or doing the things that lead to orgasm don’t register in the device between my legs while writing about never being allowed to fuck or come like a normal man again — thinking about the service I provide without expectation of being entitled to reciprocation — causes the device to tighten and throb. The device tells me what I need to know about myself.

In any event, I’ve recently started a new thing. Every day, I say to myself, out loud so I can hear my voice say it, “I don’t have a penis.” Often, I’ll say it several times, intoning it differently each time. I said it just now, as a matter of fact. It’s a simple little thing to say, but when said while holding the device or looking at it in the mirror or while flexing the contents when they’re feeling tight (like right now), there’s something magical about it. Almost alchemic. Me making myself say it, me hearing me say it, makes it true and real in a way that’s difficult to convey, even after fifteen years.

So there you go, Tom. A new thing to write about!

This blog has been more than an accounting of learning how to live with the practicalities of enforced denial. It’s also, and maybe primarily, more like a travelogue of self-discovery. The fact that people continue to find it relevant in their lives is nice to think about. 🙂

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The other side of denial

Recently, Belle and I took the youngest offspring back to college. She’s a junior now which means she can have a car on campus so we drove the 1,500ish miles with her to get it and her settled in. While there, Belle booked massages for us after a date night on the town.

I’ll tell you right up front, this massage was nothing at all like the other one I talked about here. With regards to inadvertent displays of denial, it was fairly uneventful. Slight chubbing and nothing more. The reason I bring it up is because of what happened prior to the massage. It’s usually been the case when I get massaged that I’m expected to undress in the room where the massage is going happen. In this spa, we were sent to separate locker rooms for stripping down before we donned robes. It was fairly dead in there, but it wasn’t until I was standing there buck naked with her key in the Steelheart’s lock that I realized I was, you know, standing there buck naked in nothing but the Steelheart in a room where, theoretically, someone could just walk in. Luckily, nobody did. But, after I got the device off, a weird thing happened.

As I was putting on the robe, I saw the contents. Not in the perfunctory way I do when swapping devices or cleaning or whatever. It was like I was seeing it for the first time, somehow. And it…didn’t look like it was me. I’ve been thinking about how to say this and when I posted about it on the socials, I said it was something like when one of your arms falls asleep and when you touch it with the other and it feels like someone else’s body. It was like that, but it was all mental. I could see a penis and, since I’m a fan of penises generally, I thought how much I liked the look of it but, very weirdly, it didn’t really register to me as part of my body. It was like I was looking at someone else’s penis.

I was experiencing some kind of disassociation with this thing that used to be such an integral part of my physical experience. It’s been nearly a year and a half since I was given a chance to experience sexual pleasure with it and it’s been locked up essentially all the time for three and a half years (the last time I had a real, free erection was that massage in Mexico at the end of last year) and I know now for certain that it’ll never be used for sex again and it’s like my brain has sort of walled it off from what it considers me.

And that’s not the only thing that makes me think I’m evolving to some new penisless plateau.

Recently, and especially in the last few weeks, I’ve noticed that my urge to fuck Belle is fading away. Not that I don’t want to have sex with her, because I very much do. And not that I don’t want to get into her pussy, because YES, I do. The lingering urge to get into her with the contents, even though she’s told me that’s not happening anymore, has rather dramatically started to recede.

Now, when I initially get to touch her wet snatch with my fingers, I will often audibly moan. The feeling of her slick labia and swollen clit under my fingers feels nearly as intense to me as sliding my erection into her used to. Back then, before we brought enforced denial into our relationship, the erection I’d get while getting her off was anticipatory of an eventuality. Once she started locking me up, it became representative of a lost opportunity for me. The thing I wanted but would not get. Now, it’s nothing more than a sign of how turned on pleasuring her makes me. Mentally and emotionally, it’s the ultimate expression of my submission. But physically, it’s just tightness. And it feels like the door between those earlier representations and feelings and where I am now is closed.

I do still grind it into her as she comes. But not because I’m craving being inside her. I can still remember what that felt like and it still torments me if I let it, but those memories are separate from my current life. Feeling her excitement and pleasure and how her pussy spasms in orgasm. The noises she makes and how her ass writhes into the bed as I tease more and more of it out of her with my fingers or my tongue. That’s it. The goal.

And not just for me, obviously. It’s not uncommon for Belle to totally ignore the device and its contents when we have sex. I feel like she used to very intentionally hold or caress or squeeze my balls while I was getting her off. But now, it seems just as likely that she won’t touch me there at all. She opens herself to my touch and allows the pleasure to wash over her, totally absorbed by it. The contents are left to squeeze by itself in its confinement.

This has made me reevaluate what “denial” actually is. Can I be denied something I’ve been taught to stop expecting and almost stop craving? The thing I think about most — pleasuring her — is not denied me, though access to it is totally under her control. I do not want to orgasm. So if the normal, natural urges of a real man — to fuck, to shoot a load — have left me, can it still be said that I’m being denied those things? Her harder, more severe form of denial has somehow moved me to this post-denial phase.

My desire to be out and fuck and shoot and even my penis are all gone or going, but I’m not sad about it. I don’t mourn their loss. I have other cravings and urges and feelings to replace them. And they feel more natural and right to who I am than pretending I have a cock and am a normal man. My whole life, I was denied that. My true state. Because I had a freely accessible penis and was allowed to play with it and even fuck people and it felt good and I was indulged all that pleasure. Who I was was never allowed to emerge.

I am not supposed to have a penis I can touch. I’m not supposed to fuck anyone. I live to bring pleasure to others. And I achieve my own pleasure through theirs. Orgasm for me now means a temporary death to all that. To who and what I am.

The only thing I’m being denied is an opportunity to lose, if only temporarily, myself in a brief moment of intense sensation that I will immediately know as it’s happening is wrong for me.

No great loss.

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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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What I asked for and need

Over on the hellsite owned by the misogynist, anti-LGBTQ, trans-hating, pro-fascist manbaby, where, unfortunately, the pro-sex/kinky crowd still hangs out, there’s been some concern by a few of my followers that Belle’s decision to no longer let me fuck her has left me feeling sad or something. I’m not trying to come off as remorseful, so I’m not sure where this is coming from.

I suppose some of it could be projection (or something like it, I’m no psychologist) in that, they would be sad if their spouse told them “You should have no reason to expect I’ll ever let you fuck me again,” so they read my reaction to the news in a sad light. I guess that’s natural since, for most people, being told they were done fucking would not be welcome news.

Of course, I’m not sad. I’m not…happy about it either. It’s complicated. But I’m 100% not sad. No remorse. No resentment. No regrets. I’m not mad, worried, depressed, or in any way perturbed by her decision. It’s her decision and she’s made it.

Thing is, I’m a sub. I crave her control over me sexually. I prioritize her pleasure over mine. I have always wanted her to make the decision for me as to when and how I’d be part of her pleasure. So, in no uncertain terms, she is giving me everything I’ve asked for.

Over fourteen years ago I wrote:

I like the inequity! I get off on the unfairness! Being arbitrary and capricious in the doling out of sexual experiences is exactly what I want. She should come ten times more often than me. She should tell me every day for a week when I’m going to get sex and then, on a whim, decide against it. I want her to leave me straining and hard and constantly yearning for release. (God, just writing this sends waves of excitement through me.) Of course, simply saying this can’t stop her from feeling guilt, but I can only continue to say it in hopes that eventually she’ll see that keeping me frustrated and in a state “normal” society would define as terrible and unfair is one of the ways I can find happiness and some sort of satisfaction.

https://denyingthumper.com/2008/12/09/unpainting-corners/

The only thing that’s changed since then is that she doesn’t need to be capricious. She has perfectly logical reasons why I won’t fuck her again and I understand them. Kind of the opposite of capricious, actually. Of course, I wrote that when I still had a functioning “cock” and she was wired to prefer being penetrated by it.

So no, not sad. What I crave more than orgasm and getting the contents wet is being used for the pleasure of someone else without regard to mine. She’s given me that.

I may be indulging in some lingering mourning for that part of my life being over. I mean, it was over before I even realized it was over, but now I know so it’s, like, final. It’s perfectly natural for me to enjoy the sensations that come from sliding into a warm, wet pussy and even I crave orgasm when denied it long enough. Those feelings are never going away. And I don’t want them to. I need to feel that gnawing craving desire to keep me motivated. But I don’t want them more than I need to be controlled.

I told Twitter today that I woke up horny. I sure did! Don’t always, but there was something about how the contents felt packed into the Orion that hit different than most days and horny I was. Someone replied with something along the lines of, “Some days it’s hard to remember why we do this.” Well, no not actually. Again, I wasn’t saying that in a negative way. Being denied is what I want more than anything because it’s the outcome of being controlled and deprioritized. It’s the byproduct of being able to live in a truly sexually submissive state. It’s what it feels like to be me.

I guess in the same way some people can’t imagine living as I do, I am honestly totally unable to imagine living like a normal boy. Having a penis I can see and play with at will? Leaving my load on the shower tiles whenever I felt like it? What? God, it sounds bleak to me. I feel like if I came regularly and when I decided to a piece of me would die. The piece that was born nearly 15 years ago when the first device was locked onto me and Belle and I started fumbling though establishing the dynamic that brought us to today. I never, ever want to go back to those before times.

The last fifteen years have been a process of finding myself. I’m beyond lucky that my life partner is OK with who and what I am at this point in my life. Of course, I’m so grateful to her that she has taken the lead with our sex and learned to adapt and evolve as I have. There’s nothing in that that should be interpreted as a bad thing by anyone.

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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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365

Today is the one year anniversary of the last time Belle let me fuck her. The last time she let the contents out for anything other than fact of life-type necessities. When I did the sleuthing to figure out how long it had been, after I realized it had been a long time, I said I didn’t have a memory of that fuck. Luckily I have a blog and I (less often than I used to) write about the sex we have and, as a matter of fact, I wrote about that time.

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.

I mean, if that is the last time, it sounds like the kind of one I’d want as the last one. And after reading my account of it, I do remember it. It was nice. I also wrote…

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.

My reticence to ask about being let out makes it very hard for me to even ask if it’ll ever happen again when it seems like it won’t. But the other day, I screwed up the courage (since that’s all I can screw lol) and asked. She laughed and kind of scoffed at the question. But, in fact, she can’t say. She likes me locked up. She wants me that way more than not. Has wanted me that way for at least a year now. As much as I want closure on the matter — certainty — she doesn’t want to be boxed in. And I don’t have the right to ask her to be.

So, I suppose, nothing has changed. That’s been her basic POV on the issue for just about forever. But we’ve never gone this long without the contents getting wet so, to me, it kinda feels like we’ve turned a corner. Nothing has changed and everything has changed. But she won’t commit. She doesn’t have to. That’s the deal. It’s what I signed up for. It’s what I begged for.

I ended my post from a year ago the same way I could end this one.

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.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.

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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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Kinky pancakes

There’s a special thrill that runs through me when my fingers find Belle’s wet pussy each time she lets me get her off. I’m not so old (or haven’t been locked up so long) that I can’t remember what it was like in the before-times, during moments of great passion, to climb between her legs and line the head up and push it home as her soft, wet, hot folds enveloped me. And every one of those memories come pounding back when my fingers part her wetness and feel her slick clit. I moan each time as if I’m feeling it with the contents because, in my mind, I am.

And there’s a way that it hits different when, by all appearances, my odds of the contents receiving that sensation seem to be dwindling to very low percentages each day. Instead of the impact of my memories of feeling that hitting me, I’m crushed by the weight of all the future chances that I won’t get. And haunted by the fact I can’t even remember the last time it happened (309 days ago, if you’re counting and I sure am). And if it ends up being the last time…and I have no memory of the occasion…unf.

I’ve been concerned that somehow the kink algebra would change if the variable of “will this be the time” got zeroed out. Pleased to say it hasn’t. But has it been zeroed out?

After she came and I thanked her for letting me be part of it and she commended me for how well I get her off, she asked if I wanted pancakes for breakfast. Because that’s exactly how kinky shit is around here. Of course, I said yes because pancakes are amazing. And kinky!

Then she said, “Making you pancakes is the least I can do if I’m never letting you out again.”

I squirmed and the Orion filled up and I tightened my grip on her before asking, meekly, “Are you?”

She laughed out loud. Not a sly giggle. Laughed at me.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she made me pancakes. Kinky motherfucking pancakes.

It has occurred to me previously that while she had read all the recent posts about her potentially making me pussy free and really truly permanently locked, she never confirmed or denied my assumptions of what she’s said. She’s commented, sort of cryptically, but never said if I was right or wrong. Presumably, she doesn’t want to be denied the opportunity to change her mind at some point in the future. That’s aligned with how she’s approached her role in the past.

So, no, that variable hasn’t been zeroed out. But the number of zeroes to the right of the decimal are growing. As are the days since I’ve been allowed to fuck her. This is the longest it’s ever been, by a large margin.

Back before the pancake conversation, when my fingers were still inside her and she was moaning under them, at that point when she starts to go over the falls and her hips take over and I know the best thing I can do is hold my hand in place as she finishes herself off grinding against me and I get to feel that amazing zinging pulsing of her pussy as she comes and comes…all those 309 days made the Orion as tight as it gets and the real psychic pain of being denied so long cut deep. I remember what her pussy felt like coming like that with the contents buried inside her — back when it could be called a cock. And I know that even if she does let me fuck her at some point, I’ll never feel that exact thing again. Because the contents, as a tool for getting her off, has been rendered useless. It can’t last nearly as long as it needs to to bring her to orgasm and any attempt to do so only leads to her frustration. There’s only downside to her letting me out for that. No chance for her to get all the way and only the potential of me being annoying or moody or something as a result of the inevitable ejaculation that happens when we try.

It’s the way this potentially pussy-free path we’re on seems so obvious, in retrospect. The more I was denied, the less useful the contents became, leading to more and longer denial, leading to a further erosion of my stamina and usefulness, etc. That feedback spiral gets tighter and tighter until we’re where we are now. Cock-less. Even penis-less. Just contents.

All I can say for sure is I need to assume I’m locked up forever and never getting pussy in that way with that part of me again. And I’ll keep doing that until and unless I’m not. Because with this, as in all things, she’s in charge.

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Dreaming of paradise

I’m sitting at gate G10 at MSP waiting for my thrice-delayed, once gate reassigned holiday flight out of the frozen wastes of Minnesota in the middle of what’s being described as an historic, category 3 hurricane-equivalent winter storm. In order keep my mind off the fact that I absolutely, positively must get out of here today, I’m writing this post.

Since we’re approaching the end of a month that coincides with the end of a year, I’m thinking about numbers. Specifically, the numbers that count the hours I’ve been locked in any of the various devices Belle uses to restrict my access to erections. It looks like 2022 will end with about 95 hours of unlocked time for me. That’s a 57% decrease from 2021 which was itself a 46% decrease from 2020 and the first time I’ve been under 100 hours in that unprotected state.

The other morning Belle and I were in bed naked and I was enjoying feeling her warm softness next to me when she reached down and cupped her hand over the Evotion Orion I’ve been wearing since it showed up. I cupped my hand over hers. My hand, her hand, the Orion, the contents. I’m not sure there’s a more intimate embrace a denied man can have with his keyholder. It’s, of course, frustrating, but also leaves me with a profound sense of being cared for. And about.

“How do you like this one?” She asked me.

“It’s fine,” I said, “Comfortable. Does what it’s supposed to do. What do you think of it?”

“I like it. It’s so…small.” Ball squeeze.

I moved my leg in between hers and just the suggestion of what lay between them started to make the contents swell and press against its confinement.

“Are…you ever going to want what’s inside again?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She replied casually. “That’s not really your concern, is it?”

“No…no it’s not.”

I have absolutely no memory of the last time she wanted to use the contents. I’ve been thinking hard about it and have no clue. It wasn’t when we were on our anniversary trip back in October or after that. Wasn’t around my birthday in September. Wasn’t when we were on our summer road trip. Events like that used to be when she’d want it, but I recall specifically that she did not. It seems like it had to have been sometime since about midyear, but it’s been so long I can’t tell you. And I have no reason to believe that our annual year-end trip to warmer climes won’t be equally pussy-free for parts of me.

The other night I had a dream the details of which I cannot remember except that at one point I was naked, about to have sex with Belle, and not in a device. But the penis I had was…useless. It was hard as a rock but its shaft was nonexistent. Just a head. Basically, my dream cock was a micropenis. Totally unsuited to any kind of penetrative purpose. Not even enough to get a thumb and forefinger around to jack it off. But Belle was fine with that. I remember she smiled at me. Expected it. I was surprised but she was not.

My identity has so totally evolved into a non-penetrative male that even my dreams have been edited to reflect that fact. That hasn’t happened by accident. My inclination to want to be kept locked has led Belle to do so more and more and even adjust how she prefers me to pleasure her. We’ve both been transformed by essentially permanent chastity.

I have been thinking a lot about the micropenis in my dream. The idea of being physically incapable of the kind of pleasure most men enjoy is powerfully evocative to me. Even though, when I’m running my fingers over Belle’s wet clit and feeling it pulse with her orgasm, I never want more to be balls-deep inside her. But living a reality where “balls-deep” is like an inch and it’s not even possible for me to feel insertion (as opposed to simply being denied the right) is…woof. Makes me really tight.

And, if you think about it, that’s fucking crazy. Chastity and denial have totally rewired and resculpted what being sexual and male are for me in ways I could not have even conceived before we started down this path.

I am supposed to want to feel myself inside her — badly — but rarely, if ever, get to. And my dream revealed that my subconscious knows that maybe better than I do.

While I’ve been writing this, my flight’s been delayed at least a half dozen times, but boarding has begun. Whew!

Looking forward to getting Belle off in paradise for a week!