Tag: submission

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March metrics while miles high (with timey-wimey update)

NOTE: The original version of this post used numbers reported by my tracking app at the moment March ended while we were still in the U.K. and in British Summer Time. That screwed things up since my month started in the U.S. in Central Daylight Time and the trip began under Greenwich Mean Time. In any event, I’ve re-run the numbers now that I’m back home and have updated the post accordingly. It wasn’t that big a difference, but it would have bugged me forever.

Interestingly, since they switched to BST while we were in the country, I seem to have lost an hour in March. Thirty-one 24-hours days should make March 744 hours long but I only tracked 743. I would get that hour back in the fall, but since I already lost an hour when the U.S. switched to Daylight Savings, I will never get that BST hour back unless I go back to the U.K. when they revert back to GMT. 

The end of March is also the end of the first quarter of the year, so we’ll be looking at both today. Currently, according to the screen in front of me, I’m crossing over the east coast of Greenland at an altitude of 34,997 feet at a speed of 490 MPH on my way back from a family vacation. Presumably, I’ll be somewhere closer to the other side of it once I’m done with this post. I feel so Drew-like.

I ended my last post on metrics like this…

This month, we’re travelling to Europe for Spring Break. This will mean some extra time out for TSA, etc., and there’s no telling how much of the time we’re vacationing she’ll want the penis locked up. It hasn’t seen more than 2% of free time in five months. Might it even get into double-digits in March!?

Belle read that and said, “Double digits? You think?” Well, no, I was just speculating. That’s all. Innocent speculation. Sweetie

Perhaps that encouraged her to crank things up a bit because up until the last day of the month my time tracking app reported 0% free time. It was rounding down since the actual percentage was about 0.45 before she let me out the night before we were to return home. At 11.5 hours, that’s the longest period I’ve been out of one device or another since 4-6 September last year when I was unlocked for nearly 48 hours. Of course, since I was let out on the evening of 3/31 some of those hours ended up in April, but also complicating the figuring is the time change from BST to my local CDT. In any event, the unlocked night bumped the percentage way up from just under half a percent to a titch over 1.5%.
I was in four different devices including the new one (whose review is nearly done but not quite), the lucite version of the Steelwerks Schandmaske. I wore the Holy Trainer for one evening I knew I was going to be wanded by a metal detector at a concert, the Halfshell for a few days, but otherwise it was Belle’s favorite the Steelheart. Rather than have me in the Schandmaske or Trainer for the TSA (both of which would have been fine), she had me go through free and relock on the other side. And that’s how I stayed until she gave me the key last night.

I took the Steelheart off before my shower. It was the first shower I’ve had outside a device in I can’t even remember how long. I don’t track that. Perhaps six months or more. First time this year for sure. Just being out and by myself in the bathroom with the prospect of soaping it up left it hard and insistent, but I was nearly all businesslike. I shaved it and my balls and cleaned it well and only gave it three extraneous squeezes with no stroking whatsoever. All in all, I’m fairly happy with how I handled suddenly having a penis again.

During cleaning, I found the head to be remarkably sensitive. The slightest touch made me shiver. That’s to be expected, I suppose, considering how infrequently it feels anything but the inside of a hard object, but had we been in a position to have sex and she let me put it in, I would have not lasted long. I considered wearing the A-ring to bed and, had it been the Halfshell’s, would have but the Steelheart’s A-ring is far too small to wear absent the tube to help keep erections in check. The best I could do was put it on when we were getting ready to go to the airport. It did, by the way, set off the metal detector but didn’t trigger a closer examination following a body scan.

It’s been more than three weeks now since Belle allowed me inside her. Partly this is due to me being away from her for a weekend, but there were plenty of opportunities before and after and even on our trip since the kids had their own rooms for all but the last night. She simply chose to leave me secured during sex. I will admit there’s a part of me that finds it difficult dealing with the lack of pussy access, but those feelings are a feature not a bug and they’re the most challenging in the minutes immediately after her orgasms when she’s basking and my fingers are still in her and the penis is filling the device tightly, stewing in the reality that it will be denied what it so badly craves. But I find these emotions transform and mellow into contentedly frustrated submission after a short while. This is, as she often points out, good for me. And as long as it’s what she wants me to feel, I can handle it.

Speaking of her orgasms, it was a bit of an off month for her in March. She came just six times. I gave her five of those and she took care of the sixth while I was away. She let me fuck her just twice and I ejaculated both times but had no orgasms in the month. My last orgasm was on February 18, forty-two days ago.

Q1 2017

img_3497Belle has allowed me to be unlocked just a hair under 1% of the time in the past three months. Last night made up nearly half of the time I’ve been out of chastity since the year stared. The penis has breathed the sweet air of freedom barely more than a day out of 90.

The Steelheart claimed just over half the time with the Halfshell picking up a more than a third. The Schandmaske got 9% and the Holy Trainer was on so little as to not even get a full percentage point.

During the quarter, I had one orgasm while she had twenty. She achieved one of those orgasms while riding the penis, four were self-administered, one I gave her with the vibrator, and all the rest were done with my fingers. None were oral. I was allowed inside her 10 times, including my one orgasm.

Comparing March to the quarter shows what a big deal a whole night unlocked was for me. Due to rounding, I was unlocked twice as much in March versus the quarter, but the actual difference is a fifty percent increase. One night equals about a third of the time I was unlocked all year so far.

Six month view

I tend to think of the way we do male chastity now as a kind of new chapter for us and that really started in September of last year. Therefore, it’s interesting to me to pull numbers for the past six months for comparison to the last three to see if there are any trends. Turns out, the past two quarters look very much alike.

img_3497-1Belle has let the penis out for a little more than two days worth of time in total over six months. It was locked in just four devices in that time, almost even split between her favorite (the Steelheart) and mine (the Halfshell). I’ve had two orgasms in that time and, while I wasn’t tracking hers last year, my gut tells me she’s not coming as often now as then, but there’s been a lot of travel and time apart.

Speaking of which, Belle is traveling again in April. She’ll be gone for about a week. And, as I write this sentence, I see we’re just about to cross over the west coast of Greenland. Seems an appropriate time to stop, then. Halfway home, now…

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And no, I will not be speculating about April. Not at all.

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The opposite of resent

I was away from Belle this weekend spending a little quality time in the woods. Since the last time I went there resulted in two unauthorized self-administered orgasms, I went this time secured in the Steelwerks Schandmaske (a device for which I am woefully late in writing a review). Not that this trip would afford me any real opportunity to cheat, but because I did last time, I am always locked now unless Belle wants to use the penis.

In any event, because of this trip and various other reasons, March is turning into month in which the penis has been locked up quite a lot. It’s been out only 1.2 hours so far, or not even three-tenths of one percent of the month. I mentioned this to Belle when I got home just as an aside as she was going to bed and she asked me, unexpectedly, if I resented that degree of lock-up.

I’m not going to say it isn’t frustrating sometimes. That the urge to have an unencumbered erection or to feel the hard penis in my hand doesn’t occasionally swell inside me. But resentful? Far from it. Just the opposite.

I love Belle for being someone who will expend the effort to control me that way. Who cares enough about me to see that I’m put into that position. I crave it and I appreciate it more than I can say. It helps me stay centered and focused on my submission. It makes me feel loved and comforted even when the device is tight or annoying or the urge to use the penis for my own pleasure becomes strong.

I find I’m in a interesting spot now that it’s been so many months in which I’ve been without access to the penis so consistently. The sensation that I don’t have a penis like other men and that I am somehow fundamentally not as other men are permeates me. In the past, there was something about how I was a man denied control over the thing that defined my manhood that radiated the energy that powered my submission but now I feel like I’ve pushed past that. Not having a penis defines me more than not having access to it does. Not ever masturbating and so infrequently orgasming and being able to satisfy my sex partners without the use of a penis has rewritten the base code of my sexuality in a way that, if I resent anything, it’s that the penis can’t be locked away forever. That it still radiates desires and urges powerful enough to require it stay secured. That it even needs to be a factor at all.

I understand why it does. Belle needs to feel it inside her. She craves that and the feeling of it ejacualting into her. That’s what she requires to be satisfied sometimes so that’s what I will give her since her satisfaction is my primary objective. I’m happy to have that penis to be able to bring her pleasure when she wants it, but also happy to not have it all the rest of the time since it would only lead me to indulgent and self-centered activity.

The energy that powers my submission now comes from the lack of the thing that I used to think defined my sexuality. That I feel very much as though I am not quite a man. I’m something in between. I only become man-like when Belle needs me to. Feeling that would have probably terrified me even after we started using chastity in our marriage. Definitely would have horrified me from 15 or 25 years ago. But now it feels absolutely natural. Perhaps more natural than I’ve ever felt before. As if I am now who I was meant to be.

How could I resent that? How could I resent the woman who helped me become this? Of course I don’t. More that I cherish her for allowing me to be who I am. That she appreciates me for being that way and, even though it’s not what she thought she was marrying, loves me all the same.

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Hapa’s comment

Hapa left the following comment on my 2016 metrics post:

Love how you’re always pushing boundaries and publishing results. For real. As I read this blog entry I started wondering about the big picture. My guess for arguments sake, is you and Belle are in your late forties. A lot of couples naturally start seeing a slow decay in sexual frequency as they age,.

Do you think about trading the natural ability of your most active sexual years for lifestyle?

Clearly you and Belle have a great thing going and and your blog is both inspirational and entertaining but thought that chastity could potentially fit a time when yours or your partners appetite for physical sex is lower (especially when you’re at 16 orgasms/ year) than trading your more vital years.

Maybe the consideration is entirely backwards and the hotness of the trade off is everthing regardless.

In a comical parallel, I used to buzz my hair for many reasons, mostly that I liked it, then, one day I realized I’d be better off enjoying my natural ability to grow and style my hair leaving the buzzing for a time when styling isn’t possible. Chances are I’ll go back to buzzing sooner than that but it made sense enough to stop buzzing my hair for now.😉

Thank you for continuing to write so authentically about your life and sexuality.

Happy New Year,
Hapa

I started to respond but it got all long-winded so I’ve promoted to a whole post. I do not want this to be read as some kind of personal take-down of what Hapa asked or said. Quite the opposite. I want him to understand my perspective. There was a time when I would have asked and said the very same things he did.

Your guess is right that Belle and I are in our late forties. We were in our early forties when we started all this. And while I do agree in general that denial and chastity is one way to combat a slackening libedo, that’s not exactly what happened for us.

Prior to the denial dynamic overlay to our relationship, we had endured years of essentially sexless marriage. Then I cheated and then we came back together and started having sex again. For a while, we had quite a lot of pretty standard sex. Then I discovered what chastity was and we were off to the races. So, for us, it wasn’t a way to enhance a declining sex drive. It was a way to enhance our relationship. Also, for what it’s worth, Belle’s sex drive has increased pretty dramatically in the past year or so.

For a while (like, more than a year), I bought into that “trading my more vital years” thing because I was not yet getting my head around the fact that the point of being locked up is not for me to have sex or for me to have more sex or for me to have better sex or for me to have hotter fantasies or for me at all. It’s not about me. I was terrifically turned on all the time and the chastity was hot as fuck and I’d lay there all mad at Belle for not wanting to take advantage of me in my turned on state and let me make her come, etc. etc. I was being selfish and not accepting that she held the key and owned what it secured. I wanted the female to lead my relationship but only if she led it where I wanted it to go. I was one of those poor bastards who wants to be locked up and talks his wife into it and then becomes a pain in the ass horned-up idiot. Chasity and denial are acts of submission and submission means sacrifice at some level.

It’s from sacrifice that submissives draw their energy. It’s the very definition of being submissive. Giving up control of some kind. Giving it to them, for them. And then living with the consequences. And knowing that living like that is how we as submissives were meant to be.

In a lot of ways, when I talk about my mantra — This is who I am, not what I do — it’s an attempt to draw strength from the reality of the previous paragraph. Giving things up is what makes me as a submissive happy. Seeing her enjoy what I can do for her, as well.

That’s a heavy way of saying I don’t see the exchange of being able to come when and as often as I want for her control over those things and as a trade-off. It’s the entire point. I don’t know how it would be different if I was 30 or 20 or 70, but I do know I wish we had started this as soon as we met. I don’t care if I’m having 1% or 10% or 90% of the orgasms someone my age would normally be having. I care that she owns any I have from this point forward and that she takes that seriously. I’m a fucking sub. I want to be dominated. It makes me happy to be controlled. Being controlled makes me happier than having orgasms. My responsibility isn’t to think about what might be, it’s to focus on making her happy and all the ways I can repay her attention to the responsibility she’s accepted.

You do get there in your comment (“Maybe the consideration is entirely backwards…”), but your hair analogy is off. Even if I couldn’t come as often as I could when I was 20 (i.e., grow as much hair as you can now and not when you can’t), I’d still want her to control it. It makes no difference if I have the natural urge to come three times a day or three times a month. In fact, if I’m unable or have no urge to do something, what value is there in giving it to someone else? It’s potency is its value. Because I have the urge to come (however often) but do not in deference to her control is why this works. That’s where the energy comes from.

I don’t think your POV is uncommon. I do think it’s wrong. Orgasm denial, in a weird way, isn’t about orgasms. It’s about denial. Denial is the thing. Sacrifice. Handing over control. Submission. Yeah, baby. That’s the stuff.

/end sermon

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Cops n’ robbers

On episode 527 of the Savage Lovecast, Dan related a story in the context of a caller asking if a 24/7 master-slave relationship was possible about how he was once taken to task for describing BDSM as “cops and robbers for adults with your pants off.” He was at a conference and someone came up to him and said it was much more than that and, oh by the way, not being able to literally own another human being was a form of sexual repression. Or something like that.

Not that I would know anything about 24/7 master-slave things (though I do know something of the end of slavery in this country), but the more I’ve experienced and lived the less comfortable I’ve become with the “cops and robbers” analogy. It seems too flippant to me now.

Sure, for some, BDSM is something that’s simply scene-based. They buy their 50 Shades “My First Bondage Set” they found on the endcap at Target, feel very naughty indeed, and then get along with their lives. Maybe they never do it again because they feel incredibly stupid and self-conscious or maybe it spirals into a full-fledged Thing for them, but for most, it’s just a playful aside. In these cases, I totally buy Dan’s analogy. But it can be (and is) so much more for some.

My theme around here lately is “it’s what I am, not what I do” and the cops and robbers thing is all about the opposite. Belle and I don’t live in a scene. When I’m really submitting, I’m not pretending or acting. Bottoming, being hurt by a sadist, really giving of myself and being denied create a deep emotional resonance inside me. Drew and I were talking about this when he visited recently. Knowing what I know about myself now and if I were in a position where I wasn’t married to Belle, finding someone who was capable of accepting my need for domination would be a high priority. Perhaps higher than any other single attribute. That’s not playing.

I suspect Dan knows these things. That an inclination to some aspect of BDSM, like all things, exists on a spectrum. But for those of us on one of the far ends of that spectrum, his description is severely lacking.

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Further and deeper

The way things were around here for a while was Belle would let me out on Saturday morning (or sometimes Friday night) for sex and I’d stay out until Sunday night (or sometimes Monday morning or even later if she never told me to go back in). I could count on it like clockwork. Sure, Belle wanted the fuck, but she also maybe felt a little sorry for me or something. Indulging.

But it’s a new regime now. I did get out yesterday, but right after I was getting a little too excited about it which led to this exchange…

It was the first time I was out for sex in weeks and the prospect of getting the penis wet went from fuzzy abstract to potent reality with the turn of its key. Belle needed me to remember why it was being let out. Namely, because she wanted to feel it inside her. Not because of what it or I wanted. I got her off in the usual way, then she let me inside her but I didn’t last long before I had to stop. I squirted, but did not come, then it was over. And then I was locked back up.

You might read that and think that it’s mean. Not a nice way for a wife to treat her husband. Because of how we’re all socialized, love and sex are supposed to be this reciprocal exchange of pleasure and pleasure is defined a specific way and looks more or less the same for everyone. That’s because people like me don’t exist in the popular narrative.

In another nature vs. nurture kind of puzzle I’ve been working over lately, I feel more and more like my role as a sexual being is to bring pleasure to my partner in whatever form that means (within some reason, of course). As much as the penis might strain for release, she’ll never make me happier than when she thinks only of herself when we’re having sex. It’s taken a long time for her to get past the socialization of reciprocity (or outright deference) and be sexually selfish. But when she does, I feel closer to my natural state.

Same kind of thing happened with Frodo last weekend in New York. Aside from a quick rolling around last year in which my pants never came off (since I wasn’t locked up), we haven’t had sex since we were in our early twenties. And when the idea of having sex with me first became a possibility, his reaction was not positive. I come with baggage, after all, including a steel thing locked to the part of me a gay man would normally be very interested in. And his experience with kink at the level of male chastity was zero. The prospect of being with me was offputing to him then.

Compounding that was his tendency towards being a bottom rather than a top (a real shame in my book since, as I’ve said, he has a glorious cock). But even with Frodo, who I’ve known forever and Belle has known for half that time, I wasn’t going to be a whole man. Not even for a second. Belle’s rule is absolute.

However, time marches on and Frodo has been feeling more toppy lately. That, combined with some time to get used to the idea of being with a penisless man, made our weekend trip possible. Even though, he carried the same notions of reciprocity everyone else seems to have. It was hard for him, at first, to know how to deal with that. To be as selfish as I needed him to be with me. By that last morning, though, I think he was getting the hang of it. Of seeing me as means to his ends. Without getting too explicit (sorry), I could sense that he let himself focus less and less on me as his friend and more and more on me as his to use. Not unlike how it happened with Belle, that the benefits of having a partner like me were becoming more apparent.

There’s an aspect of all this that’s been quite difficult for me to wrap my head around. Not difficult to do. I revel in my role. But it’s a thing that’s been bubbling around inside me and that was accentuated when I was with Frodo. It’s something to do with gender. I don’t really feel like a man anymore. That’s an odd thing to see myself writing and I don’t mean it be read as if I think of myself as a female. That’s the problem, really. I don’t have the words to describe it. Less of a man and more of something else. A man-shaped person who doesn’t feel or act or do typical man things. Frodo showed zero interest in the penis. Made only incidental contact with any part of it or my balls. I was a mouth and a hole for him with a hairy chest, strong legs, and nice broad shoulders.

And except those times when Belle wants the penis in order to feel it inside her, she doesn’t give it a lot of attention. More than zero, to be sure, but sometimes we have sex and she doesn’t touch it at all. Other times, more. But even so, if it’s locked up, I can’t feel anything where the metal is. For more than three months now, I’ve been locked up essentially all of the time. I can’t stroke or squeeze or even have an erection. Since the Halfshell came along, I can’t even stand to pee.

All this has led to a profound change in how I feel about my manhood. Not in a bad way, mind you. Not at all. Like everything else that’s been happening with me lately, it feels perfectly natural. As if I’m only becoming more of who I really am. It’s very comforting. And in those moments when I’m naked and having sex (with Belle or whoever), I feel only a profound gratitude. A emotional satisfaction at least as potent as the physical satisfaction that comes with orgasm.

It feels wrong now for me to fuck for my own pleasure alone. To think of taking over a sexual encounter to satisfy myself physically. To crave my own orgasm more than I crave theirs. I never fantasize about fucking anyone other than Belle and even then only when I can feel or taste or smell her pussy. I never think of using the penis for anything anymore. I rarely think about jacking off lately.

I guess that’s part of what being submissive is. I don’t really know. It seems like more than that to me. Like the extreme edge of submissiveness. Belle could tell me tomorrow that she didn’t need me to fuck her anymore. That she had found something or someone else she preferred to the penis and that I’d never get out except to clean the device. As long as I still participated in some way with her pleasure, I’d be more than OK with that. That’s what I need more than my own release. To feel her pleasure. Or Frodo’s or Drew’s or whoever’s.

By itself, this doesn’t scare me. I do worry how Belle will read all this and what she’ll think of me, but in practice nothing has to change between us. As long as she’s doing what she wants and is getting satisfaction from it, I’m happy. I also admit that I’m somewhat concerned about what happens next time she has me come. I don’t know what the sudden change in brain chemistry will do to me. To my current perception of me. Belle mentioned today after hearing it had been more than three months since I last came (she thought it had been more recent) that she used to think I needed to come for health reasons, but decided my orgamsless ejacualition and the other ways I express seminal fluid was probably good enough for that. She knows I don’t need orgasm. That not having them is good for me.

I’ve never felt more connected to her than now. More cared for by her. More connected to myself. I’d like very much for how I feel right now to not go away. I know I’m not a static thing. That I won’t feel this way forever no matter what happens. But right here, right now is really good.

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What’s at the bottom of the lake

Since the beginning of September when Belle changed the rules and clarified that my default state is to be locked in a device unless she specifically says I should not be, I’ve been in one about 97% of the time. That includes a couple of multi-week stints of uninterrupted chastity. And I don’t know, but I’ve been feeling different lately. Or maybe not different. That’s probably not right. “Different” suggests something new and how I’m feeling is not new. If anything, I feel the same, just…more.

I think I’ve used the analogy in the past that the longer I go locked up or without orgasm it’s like when a lake dries up and the terrain of the land underneath is exposed. It was always there, just hidden. That’s what it feels like to me lately.

If you’ve been visiting this site for more than 72 hours, you know I identify as bisexual, heteromantic, and submissive (plus, I’m a baseball fan according to Twitter). But even that isn’t enough for me. And I really think being locked and denied has given me more insight into all this. The same way hallucinogens are supposed to allow us to see truths we can’t normally, being under the influence of an easy ever-present sexual craving really allowed me to dig around in all the dark, hard to reach corners. To see the submerged terrain. 

I am willing to concede that how I’m feeling and what I think about myself now would be different if I was having a normal amount of sexual release. I know for a fact that if I had easy and persistent access to the penis, I wouldn’t have the same sense of self I have now. Which makes a lot of this kind of introspection interesting because, in a way, it’s built on shifting sands. Somehow, the things we do and do not combine to alter us or accentuate certain attributes. So what are we really? Could I, in a different relationship and with a different partner, be totally different myself? That’s some existential shit. 
All I can say is how it feels now. And now feels like the truth. It feels like how I’m supposed to be. When I’m bottoming, when I’m subbing, when I’m being used for their pleasure, I’m home. Like I said recently, being a bottom and a sub is not what I do, it’s who I am. So yes, if I were in a relationship or living a life that allowed frequent release and easy access to the penis, I wouldn’t feel this way. Maybe I wouldn’t feel as good about myself. Maybe I wouldn’t even know the difference. But this is who I am. I went down a tunnel not knowing where it led, following instincts, and it came out where I was supposed to be. And Belle went there with me, which I’ll forever be grateful for. 

Moral of the story is twofold. One, don’t live your life according to how someone told you it should go. To how culture tells you you’re supposed to be. Find your path and follow those tunnels. Two, don’t be afraid of the dark in that tunnel. Of the things that are “weird” or what would shock your mom. Because nothing’s weird and I’m sure what’s in your mom’s head would freak you the fuck out right back. We are essentially brains with genitals. Sex for us is by definition cerebral. If you’re not thinking about it, you’re just going through the motions. The point is emotional satisfaction, not just physical release.

So tease those threads. Scratch those itches. Drain those lakes. There’s no telling what you’ll find. I did and I found me.

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The pure and simple truth

The other night saw the return of denial insomnia. It’s my own fault. I can neither drink a Diet Coke or look at porn after 3:00 PM and expect to get any sleep. I didn’t drink the Coke, but did look at the porn at about 5:00 and it stuck with me.

The way it usually works, I get to about 80% asleep before a jolt of nervous energy wakes me up. Then I kind of drift knowingly awake before totally surfacing. As soon as that happened, there were scenarios in my head. A long-standing pornographic story that’s so far mostly only lived in my imagination spun up. Certain chapters of the story played out slightly differently but over and over. I judged how each permutation worked by what was happening in the tube. Hard, soft, hard, soft, harder, soft. Next thing I knew, it’d had been three hours.

Recently, I’ve made a bit of discovery when this happens. In the past, if my angst had words, it’d be something along the line of, “FUCKING HELL, I’m horny and locked up and JESUS I want to come or fuck or get fucked or eat her snatch or…or…or…” This is a kind of indulgence that feeds upon itself. I can’t get over being locked up and horny and thinking about what would happen if I wasn’t.

But if I twist that a bit. If I don’t think of the chastity and denial as things I’m doing (or even having done to me) and instead think of being locked up and denied orgasm as what I am. Who I am. Let go of the external force and accept the internal truth of being submissive and requiring Belle’s domination. It becomes a kind of mantra I go over and over in my head.

This is not what I do. It’s what I am. 

Sure, I’m still horny, but when I focus on this reality it changes how the energy buzzes inside me. It’s not something to be overcome. It’s not something bad. It’s a feature, not a bug. I can run my finger over the steel ring encircling the penis and feel as certain as it is hard and inescapable, I was meant to be locked up. I was meant to be denied orgasm. I was meant to struggle with the frustration in the night. It is what I am.

And then, somehow, I fall asleep. It worked the other night once I got there. It worked last night. Even with the nervous buzzing pressure I feel between my legs, filling my head with an acceptance of my true nature crowds out the anxiety and the worry. Even if I end up being awake all night, it’s just an occasional byproduct of my true nature.

Friday night, though, was harder. Belle unlocked the device as she was going to bed and let the penis go free all night and let me sleep naked. Presumably, this was to make things that much simpler on Saturday morning when she’d want to use it. Usually, I get woken up by the Steelheart between 3:00 AM and 4:00 AM at least for a little bit, but that night I felt like I was waking up every half hour with a raging hard-on made all the more distracting thanks to it being the kind of sensitive that only comes from being locked in a steel tube for nineteen and a half days. By about 5:00, I was having impure thoughts about my wife and wondering if burying my face between her legs as she slept would be demonstrating an insufficient level of submissive respect.

In any event, we were finally both awake and I wasted no time at all moving in. When her hand found the penis, its state surprised her but the poor thing had been waiting for a long time. Before long, I was working her snatch and sucking her tits and grinding the desperate meat into her and moaning myself as her pussy rhythmically gripped my probing fingers while she came.

And she didn’t waste any time letting me mount her. She wanted the penis as much as it wanted her and I rather quickly found myself stopping to avoid coming.

“Remember,” she whispered into my ear, “It’s NO-vember.”

Right. I know. But the penis is trained now. Really and truly. Even a near fly-by of orgasm is enough of a fright to knock the erection right out of it. But I wasn’t done. I wanted more and so did she. So I rolled off, we kissed some more, I fingered her again and sucked her tits. The distraction worked and the penis came back. At least enough to stick it back in.

This is all the pleasure the penis is allowed. The feeling of her pussy as it slides in and out. Every neuron in my brain turns its attention to the millions of nerve endings along its shaft and it almost feels like I could read her pussy the way a blind man reads Braille. I was doing well. I was holding my own. I could sense the urge to come slithering around in my brainstem though it wasn’t close to forcing itself down my back and into the hard shaft, but then she did something. Just a subtle tilt of her hips. And…I was done. Finished. Wiped out.

No, I didn’t come. But I flooded her snatch with seed. Had I moved a millimeter forward or back, it would have blossomed into a full explosive orgasm. But I didn’t move. I felt the jets of three weeks’ denial shoot out of me but the tingly punch of hormones that come with orgasm were held tight by a steely will I wouldn’t have recognized when she started to deny me years ago.

This is not what I do. It’s what I am. 

I don’t come when I want. I don’t come because I feel like it. I don’t feel sorry for myself or wish it to be any other way. She controls that part of me, exclusively and completely.

And, of course, she put me back in before breakfast. And, of course, that made me happy.

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Tent logic

Exquisitedragon commented on my post about being an idiot in a tent. Part of what he said was…

These days, since we’re in the middle of some very long term denial (200+days) I’m not going to fall off the end of that without her pushing all the buttons to do so! It’s been so long and it’s her prize to take. I’m not crazy enough to go and change that.

And it occurred to me that if Belle was operating under a similar model (as in, denying me for a specific amount of time or to a specific date) there’s no way I would have cheated like that. I just know it. But why?

This may be due to some lingering attachment I have to my orgasm. Like, if there’s a hard goal, then I cannot do anything but respect it. But when if and how I come is seemingly random (from my point of view), respecting my lack of control over that event is more difficult. It doesn’t happen or not according to any observable process so what does it matter if I squirt a little on the side? What harm is that?

The flip side of this, and I think one of the main reasons Belle denies me as she does, is because in the past if she decided to move the date up because that’s what suited her or if I accidentally came too soon, I’d get all mental about it. Plus, of course, she’s come to the realization that denying me orgasm when she really wants to feel me come is also denying herself which is a bit of a paradox.

Bottom line, I need to fully own and respect that I don’t EVER come without permission, no exceptions, no wiggle room, no doubt. That the timing is not mine to decide EVER. That the method in which it happens is not up to me EVER. That I will ALWAYS get caught if I try.

This is my pledge to her: Forever and always, my orgasm belongs to you completely.

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Tent me

While away from Belle during a week in the deep woods camping at the end of July, I jacked off twice to completion in my tent.

Why? I can claim the first time was due to me not being able to relax and sleep, but that doesn’t explain the second time. There’s really no excuse. I wore the locking cock ring as a reminder of things but had to take it off due to it rubbing me badly and I didn’t have any lube with me to fix it. I masturbated once it was off. So I don’t know. I’m weak. I’m stupid. I was away from Belle and and far outside my day-to-day rhythms. And I was unlocked.

I am not the same person when I’m locked up. I would never think of taking Belle’s key or opening mine and using it to let the penis out for a quick one. I totally could do that, but I would never. Even if I wasn’t locked up, the chances of me jacking off while at home are pretty distant. I will sometimes fiddle with the penis and get it hard, give it a squeeze and a pull. But to furiously wank on it? So much so that I shoot? No.

But in the tent. Far away from Belle and the sphere of normal life. Without the impediment of a physical device. I changed. That’s all there is to say.

I’m not happy about it. I wish I hadn’t done it. I almost feel like that person was a different version of me. I guess, in a way, it was. It’s also a reminder of how deeply the need to find sexual release is built into us. All of us. How quickly we can regress to the mean. The first time, maybe I had a reason. The second time, I did it because I felt like it.

Belle, of course, knew. Before I had a chance to tell her (and I was going to tell her) she told me. I can’t say what it was exactly that tipped her off, but she could tell. Then, while fucking her the weekend I got home, I accidentally came again.

Maybe because of all the coming, my predilection towards being locked up was at a low ebb and my mom came to town and Belle forgot to tell me to go back in. So on top of everything else, I wasn’t secured for a week while Belle assumed I was. But since she never actually told me to go back in, I rationalized.

So yeah, I’ve been a bad rabbit.

I share all this not because it’s especially hot or makes good reading but to highlight how hard I think being a denied man is. In that tent in those woods, I failed. I did what I wanted and disregarded my previous pledges to the contrary.

It affected my mood. Besides the chemical hits that accompany orgasm, there was the reality of not living as I was supposed to. Not living up to her expectations and even my own. Plus there’s other things compounding that that aren’t for this blog. But I haven’t felt myself, really, since then.

Belle’s recent clarifications regarding her expectations of when I’ll be locked in a device (as in, all the time unless she says otherwise) has helped. I’ve been in the Steelheart nearly continuously expect for a day or so she let me out because I was sick and the two 30-minute periods this weekend when she wanted to fuck. She’d get up and leave the room when she was finished with me and I had to put the device back over the still-turgid and wet penis, shoving and pushing until the lock turned. She didn’t tell me to, she expected it. Living like this has made me feel more myself. Less like tent me and more like locked me. I like that me. Belle does, too.

In reality, it’s a relief to know I am expected to always be in a device. That absent specific direction on the matter, I should always every time be locked. I resent not being in one, anyway. I don’t think of myself as complete anymore if I can see and feel the penis. I would rather step out of the shower and see shiny steel than a fleshy tube. I’d rather feel the comforting discomfort of a constrained erection in the morning than not. I want to feel the heft of the thing swing when I turn over in bed. I want to feel it pressing up against me as I lay on my stomach. I want to feel the hardness of the tube pushing into my balls when driving and wearing my jeans. I want to be able to put my hands down my pants and feel the lock. That’s who I aspire to be. Because it makes me feel more like the me she prefers. Because that me can’t fuck up and come because he feels like it.

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Funny little thing

“It’s a funny little thing, isn’t it?” Belle remarked.

The lights were out and we were going to sleep (I thought). It was a weeknight and she was tired, but she told me I could sleep naked so I was. She had her hand down on the penis which was at its most flaccid state. Not much more than a tiny worm of a thing even as she fiddled with it.

“Hurph,” I replied. I was halfway tired and halfway wanting to catch up on some news and unsure which way I’d go but I wasn’t at all thinking anything would happen between us.

“Do you ever think about that? How funny they are?”

“Yes, I actually think about them quite a lot.”

Her fiddling became more focused. More like stroking with fingers on either side. I squirmed a bit and shifted to give her a better angle at it. It was plumping up into a not so pathetic state.

Once it got to about 80% full, she was actively pleasuring it and causing my breathing to catch in my throat. The heavy 4 gauge circular barbell in the PA flopped hither and yon and my fingers sought out her nipples through her bedclothes.

“You’re going to give me an orgasm,” she stated plainly and moved to take off her clothes. I took the opportunity to grab and squeeze the hard-on between my legs. She’s right. They are funny little things. One moment barely an inch long, just a little nubbin of a thing, and the next almost six times longer and hard and much bigger around. Ridiculous, really.

Once she was naked and I was on her nipples with my mouth, she stopped paying attention to the penis. I tried to find a spot where I could grind it into her hip while pleasuring her, but my focus was on her breasts and her snatch and the sounds she was making and the way she was breathing and moving and using all those inputs to expertly gauge how successful I was being at getting her off and where she was in the process. I know her orgasm as well as my own since I’ve been party to it many times more often over the past several years.

Since we were alone in the house, she was able to come loudly. Since it was hot out and the A/C was on, the neighbors weren’t alerted to the event. I felt her pussy clamp and spasm around my fingers as I pressed into her clit the way she likes. Then is was over. She was coming down. Purring and breathing more deeply.

And I laid there. Waiting. Expecting. Not moving. The penis was still hard against her. I didn’t even move it. I wanted in her. I wanted to feel her pussy around me. I hoped she might let me come so I could fall asleep more easily, though there was no way of knowing about that.

And I waited. She breathed.

And I waited. She sighed.

And I waited.

“Good night, Thumpie.” And she rolled over.