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.

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.

Further elucidation

I said:

In short, I’m not in a place right now where I can submit to Drew. It’s as simple as that. My sexual relationship with him is founded on submission and if I can’t get myself there, I can’t do it.

So, why can’t I do it? And why does there have to be submission?

I’ll start when the second first. I am submissive. It’s not just a thing I do (though I get, for some people, it is that). Someone might say, “Gah! Why so complicated?” To which I would reply, are you new here? Which is a joke, but seriously, because it’s who I am now. With Drew, it was the very reason we had a relationship in the first place. So he could dominate and I could submit. When I said it was the foundation, that’s what I meant.

When you’re submissive, you sometimes need to find that angle that gets you into subspace. Sometimes, the Dom/me can do something to help you get there, but even so, a lot of it is internal and sometimes feels like you’re drawing a curtain in front of the things that might keep it from happening. It’s not hard with Belle since my submission and her control over my sex are deeply intertwined in our relationship now. But with Drew, I found it was getting harder and harder for me to find the submissive vector that pulled the curtain. Not because of anything mechanical or tactical he was doing wrong. I think it was because I came to know him too well.

If I had to find a starting point for when that started to be an issue, it was specing out and ordering him his Steelheart. I wear the Steelheart. I’m not with someone who does. But he was always very open about what was going on there and I had to try and just let those things roll over me and then get them out of my mind. Our recent trip to Montreal to order him his Steelwerks device was more of the same. Then there was the way he reached out to me when Axel found his set of boy toys and the emotions and conflict that brought up in him. I was really glad to be able to talk him through that and be his friend, but it finally put too much stuff on the side of the scale I needed to balance out to find my sub side with him.

Drew always wanted to be friends. I thought that was a good idea and was my instinct, as well. Turns out, if we did anything wrong, it was that we got too close. We became too intimate with one another’s private lives. The space in which I constructed my submission to him was filled with other things. Like his insecurities and hopes and issues and strengths and weaknesses and other sundry life drama.

That’s entirely unfair. I know it is. But it’s how it works with me. At least, how it works with me regarding Drew. Perhaps how it’ll work with any man. My feelings for men don’t follow the  same pathways as my feelings for women, after all. I can’t know that how it works with a guy on the side is how it’d work with a woman. It may be that anyone I enter into a D/s relationship with external to my marriage will need to maintain a certain distance to last.

To be clear, he did nothing wrong. I don’t think I did, either. It’s just where things have ended up, at least for the time being.

Starts with an I

As I was laying in bed the other night looking for some quiet corner in my mind where I could curl up and fall asleep, I instead found an idea that led to me considering how I’d write about it and, no, that’s not conducive to quiet corner finding. This is not unusual. I start copy editing in my head when I should be activating my subconscious. Weird.

Anyway, the idea that presented itself at that inopportune time was that, perhaps ironically, a decent piece of my self-confidence and satisfaction with regards to relationship and sexual matters is tied up in feeling inferior. I know, that’s on the surface an odd thing to say. Self-confidence, satisfaction and inferiority don’t typically go along. It’s the kind of notion someone who doesn’t live in a power exchange dynamic or who isn’t submissive themselves wouldn’t understand. Like how S/M is abuse when it’s really an expression of love. The more I thought about it, the more “inferior” started to sound really sexy to me in a way I never considered before.

And when I say “inferior” I don’t necessarily mean in the sense of lower quality. I am, I think (and have been told), an excellent lover. I can make my partners pretty happy when I’m in the right mood to do so. I think mostly I’m thinking of the definition of the word that deals with rank and position. I don’t feel at all comfortable being in a position of power in a relationship. I have never really liked being pursued or fawned over. I want to be the one fawning and pursuing. This has been how I’ve felt my whole life, even before understanding my sexuality as I do today.

The one glaring issue with that statement is Belle. In the beginning, she pursued me pretty hard. Eventually, I came around. Had she been like the girls who wanted a piece of me prior to that, it may never have worked out, but she wasn’t. She was much more self-confident and accomplished and had a sense of individual purpose that was greater than whoever she was with. She didn’t need me and wasn’t interested in playing the traditional subservient female role. I came to realize that it was me that needed her, not the other way around.

The best dynamic for me is one where my partner is aware of my needs and desires and is willing to indulge them but only insofar as they fit into their needs and desires. It’s my job to make them happy and, in doing so, I’m happy, too. Of course I will always want more. That’s my role. To want. Plus, to see that they never want. If they go out of their way to satisfy my needs, it’s because they want to give that to me, not because they’re obligated to do it. You know, inferior.

During my recent issues with depression and anxiety, my submissive drive (if that’s a thing) kind of went out the window. I’ve become so used to it that I felt untethered. Without purpose, even. Now it’s back and revved up pretty good and, as I said in my last post, being back in that mode makes me feel comforted. Of course, it wasn’t always that way. I have struggled with being submissive as, I think, most men do (perhaps more men in F/M relationships than gay men). There are no role models for us. No cultural archetype to see our reflections in. This can still rear its head from time to time. I felt a few pangs of guilt over the weekend because Belle never signed up for a submissive husband. Never raised her hand to say she wanted to take on the role of dominant wife. But those are past now.

Thing is, I’m feeling really fucking submissive. There’s so much energy there right now. I crave opportunities to show that to her, but she just left this morning for a 10-day trip, so I guess the best I can do is hope I still feel this strongly when she gets back.

So I said my attraction to being inferior was more about position, but there’s one way it’s definitely not about rank and is about something concrete. I was shopping in the fantastic Smitten Kitten with Drew during his recent visit and picked up a Vixskin “Ride On” penis extender. The old Big Blue we used to use kinda melted when it came in contact with something it didn’t agree with so we’re currently between big dicks that can be used absent a harness. “Ride On” is not a sexy name so instead we’re calling it Gym Boyfriend in honor of our personal trainer who Belle’s had the hots for for some time now.

Gym Boyfriend is perhaps a tad longer than Belle would like (she’s really more interested in girth, not length), but it’s not crazy big at 6.25″ in length. It may not be too long but it definitely hits places she’s not accustomed to feeling. The cavity into which the penis goes is really snug. Only 4″ deep and not more than 2/3 the thickness of the penis. It has ridges inside that suggest an enhanced experience for the fucker, but I didn’t feel much as the erection pushed it out and forward. That made the base of the shaft nice and thick, but the forward extension was pretty well kept to a minimum (though it was possibly a bit longer than 6.25″ as a result). It was not unlike the feeling of being in a chastity device while trying to get hard. Just a lot of pressure and no real sensation (at least, not the kind that would get a guy off). You’d have to have a pretty tiny penis to get a pleasurable experience from this, I think.

As if.
As if.

Like other items of this kind, the testicles go through a loop and that keeps the whole thing on. The material isn’t nearly as stretchy as Big Blue’s was and popping my nuts through was a more intense experience than I was expecting. My balls have gotten bigger over the years of not being involved in very many ejaculations and that was likely a contributing factor to my difficulties.

Typically, Belle would want to fuck me from up top while wearing an extender since then she gets to control depth and speed and all that, but recently she’s been wanting to be fucked as hard as I can (which isn’t very hard, both because the penis isn’t super big and my stamina is nearly non-existant when she’s making a lot of noise and getting off) so I was on top and in the driver’s seat. I was hesitant to really go to town, but I sensed she wanted to be fucked, so I just stuck it in and went at it (after the application of some high-quality water-based lube). I fucked her like someone who isn’t on a hair trigger would. Someone who was trying to really take a woman. I let her get used to the length, but after several thrusts I could feel my balls hitting her ass. That’s an extra inch of length compared to me and easily twice as thick and she loved it. Vocally.

It’s a difficult thing to describe, how that makes me feel. On the one hand, I wish that could be me. I wish the penis was that big and more in line with the dimensions she seems to enjoy so much. But it’s not and never will be. There is a bit of pain there. A bit of feeling inadequate. Inferior using the other definition. And somehow, the pain of such permanent inadequacy transmutes to a feeling of intense…I don’t know. Not happiness. Not pleasure. It does hurt, but I like how it hurts. I like hearing how much better she enjoys being plowed by a more impressive cock. It’s a kind of masochism that’s all in the head and heart.

And of course, there is nothing quite as hot as slipping the unsheathed penis into her afterward. Feeling how open she is. Feeling how parts of her pussy have been pushed out of reach for me. No matter how hard I fuck her or how deeply I try to penetrate, there’s no denying I can’t compete. And I can actually feel that all around me. And then I hear her say she can barely feel me back. Powerful stuff.

This idea of being physically inferior in this one specific way while being so good at all the other things you want from a lover feels almost like my perfect state of being. Perhaps in that it’s a kind of inferiority that can’t be taken away from me. Dynamics can change. Penis size can’t. I try to explain this to Belle. That seeing and feeling and hearing how much she likes the big cock is exactly what I want because it’s what she wants. As much as it all goes counter to the prevailing cultural paradigm, it totally works. I don’t want her to hold back for fear of hurting my feelings. Yes, they will be hurt. But in the same way I like having my nipples hurt, I like this hurt, too.

I was able to fuck her for a long time with just the penis. I only got close to coming once or twice and never so much that I had to actually stop. But after a while, she told me I had to because the Gym Boyfriend’s big dick had really worked her over. That was hot, too, in its own way.

I’ve asked Belle that I be made to wait for my next orgasm. Of course, she’s in complete control of that and I will come if she tells me to at any time, so it was really nothing more than a request. I think it will be good for me to let that wait. To get to the point where it’s something I want. And hopefully, if it’s good for me, it’s good for her. Because what’s good for her is the most important thing. Always.

Demonstrations

Over on the Twitter, a friend asked me the following (slightly edited) via direct message:

In many posts you often describe Belle as sniggering or finding your struggle amusing (or trivial?) What I feel like I know of the relationship you have an incredibly loving bond. My question: is her resolve so clear that your whimpers just don’t faze her (kind of impressive?) or is there a sympathy or empathy there that we don’t hear much of? My hardwired vanilla sensitivities battle my “you know what the game is” sensibilities.

Belle has her own “hardwired vanilla sensibilities” and as much as I’ve grown in our dynamic and learned what it means to truly submit and let go of my control over our sexual relationship, she’s learned how to tailor her actions and attitude. Is she sympathetic? Empathetic? Probably. Does she find my struggles amusing? Definitely. I know there was a time when her conditioned “vanilla” response would kick in and she’d feel guilty about what I was going through. We’re way past that now. She doesn’t have a guilty fibre in her being over what she puts me through. If so, she does a good job hiding it.

Our dynamic is like that of a sadist and a masochist. To an outsider, the things the sadist does to their partner the masochist can seem truly awful. Abusive. But the masochist’s wiring is such that the pathways that carry pain and pleasure are mixed and crossover so what would be abuse in one setting is actually an expression of love. Of giving one partner what they need to feel fulfilled. If they’re a true sadist, they get the same kind of pleasure from inflicting the pain. So it’s a symbiotic kind of thing.

Belle’s no sadist. At least, not a physical one. She has developed a mean sadistic streak regarding my denial and chastity. Part of that is based in the knowledge that it feeds my masochistic needs. Part is that she knows there’s a tangible benefit to her by keeping me denied. A little part of her actually likes making me suffer.

So as much as this weekend hurt and caused me mental pain, inflicting it on me (and continuing to do so) is, in my estimation, a demonstration of her love for me. And enduring the pain is part of my demonstration of love for her. Yes, I desperately wanted to come. More than I have in a really long time. But after the moment was over, what I wanted and continue to want more is for her not to factor my desires into the algebra of her dominance over me. When I come again, I want it to be completely on her terms and only as a result of her needs and desires.

The longer I wait, the more it pains me and the desire gnaws at me, the more I’m demonstrating my love to her and, I know, by making me go through it, she’s demonstrating her’s back.

Sleepytown trolly

“I’m going to help you sleep tonight.”

I’ve been struggling with sleep for the past few days. A bought of denial-induced insomnia.

“How?”

“By letting you give me an orgasm.”

Unf. “I don’t think that’ll help me sleep.”

“What would?”

“You letting me come.”

Snort. “That’s not going to happen.”

Whimper.

“You don’t want to come anyway.”

Whine.

“Say it. ‘Belle Fille, I don’t want you to let me come.'”

Whimper again. Squirm.

“SAY IT.”

Quietly, “I don’t want to you to let me come, Belle Fille.” It was truth, but being forced to say it was like a high heel grinding my inner sub into a tight, hard corner. The kind of space where it’s most content.

“Of course you don’t. You want to get me off and then, because my orgasm is your orgasm, you’ll get sleepy after and fall asleep.”

I had my doubts. Especially when she started talking about her “boyfriend” and how he’d never say anything like that to her. That he and his big cock always came. All I could do was whimper into her nipple as she said these things and I fingered her clit and thought about this mythical alpha male who’d likely laugh at the locked penis and the way she kept me.

“I’m going to make you work for this one, Thumpie. I’m going to enjoy myself.”

URRRRRGH.

It did take a while. She got wetter and I kept sucking and fingering but I never felt her start to get close. Eventually, she took over her own tits and was tweaking and twisting her nipples while I watched and kept my finger on her snatch, rubbing and flicking and penetrating in all the ways I know, through hours and hours of practice like a musician knows his instrument, she liked best. Even that wasn’t enough for her and she got her vibrator and gave it to me but quickly took it back leaving me nothing more than a spectator to her self-pleasuring.

She came, slowly and deeply, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel her pussy clench against my fingers or her back arch or any of the waves of ecstasy that go with her orgasm. I didn’t share it. I heard it and saw it, but I didn’t know it like I usually do. It didn’t go through me. I was just the fluffler that got her into position.

Of course, I don’t begrudge her anything. We have sex so she can come, always, and however she wants. We never have sex so I can come. Whatever we do, if it’s what she wanted, is what we should have done and I don’t have a right to take issue with any of it. She’s right that even though I may crave my own orgasm I never want her to give it to me. I don’t need any orgasms. I only get them when she wants to feel me come in her. Even that can feel more about her than me.

She was left drained by her effort and its successful culmination and I was left pretty much as I was before. Tired but not sleepy and now that much more wired and trying to push images of her and another man out of my mind. She fell asleep quickly and I tried but couldn’t connect with it. I kept thinking and tossing and feeling separation angst (I have some trips coming up) all the while trying to keep sexual images and thoughts as far away as possible.

At about 11:30, I got up and took the last Tylenol PM in the house. I don’t like taking it but I could feel the kind of panic in me that usually unspools into zero hours of sleep. Then I went in the living room and read more of the book I’m getting through. By 12:30, the pill was taking over and I was yawning. I sent back to the bedroom, stripped, crawled in next to her, and tried to get on the road to Sleepytown.

Eventually, I did.

Why in the hell?

This post is written as a primer of sorts for those just discovering an interest in male chastity or for someone who’s just been introduced to the subject by their partner. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Please feel free to add your POV in the comments.

I suppose the vast majority of the uninitiated (ie, muggles) would have no idea why any man would want to subject himself to enforced male chastity (which I’ll call EMC for this post because that’s a lot of letters to keep typing out) or, conversely, why any woman would want to do it to her man. They might also wonder about all kinds of other kinks like D/s and masochism and bondage but I don’t think I’m qualified to try and suss out the motivations of those of us who are wired to enjoy those things. But, I think I can try and break chastity apart to help see the value of it in a relationship.

Of course, I’m a guy and I’m married to a woman who I’ve been with for more than 15 years and that’s the aperture through which I see chastity and can write most intimately about it. Additionally, I think chastity play comes in lots of variations and flavors and the way we do it and how it works for us isn’t necessarily the way that will work for everyone else. I’m not saying it is. But I am saying that my experience talking to others on the subject and reading other blogs, etc., has made me understand there is a broad similarity to our stories that suggests a common foundation for relationships like ours.

111004_getitVenn diagrams are those charts that have two or more overlapping circles that represent different things. Where the circles intersect show how these things, when combined, make a third thing. If I were smarter or more talented at such activities, I’m sure I could make one for EMC, but I’m not so I’ll hope you know the concept and just move on. In any event, EMC can combine several kinks and motivations together into one package: Dominance and submission (D/s), sadism and/or masochism (S/M), and bondage (put it all together — what’s that spell!? — BDSM). But, I don’t think the main practical, real-world benefit of EMC is necessarily kinky at all. And I don’t think it needs to be practiced that way or considered as kink.

At the very heart of EMC is the concept of orgasm control (OC because we’re making acronyms today). OC is what you get when you decide, as a man, to stop rubbing one out whenever you get a shadow of an urge to do so and let the energy and desire build until it can be put to a practical purpose. I think of OC as fundamentally an internal thing and not part of a D/s power exchange dynamic (in which case, it’d be orgasm denial, but I’ll get to that later).

Why would a guy want that? To what end? Aren’t orgasms wonderful and best enjoyed like peanuts at a ballgame — frequently and in plentiful numbers? I have so many thoughts about this, but I’ll try and boil it down. First off, yes, orgasms are wonderful. We are literally designed to crave them. In a way, we’ve been created through evolutionary forces to become addicted to the hit of chemicals that flood our brains when we have them because in many cases that means we’ve spread our seed and satisfied life’s mandate to multiply. And when we’re young (teenage years through the twenties and thirties, depending), men can’t get enough of them. I recall jacking off so often at one point my dick became raw from the friction, but I kept doing it anyway because OH MY GOD I had to. On top of the evolutionary forces at work, our culture conditions men to value their sexual release over most other things and to revel in our ability to do so. There is a lot of pressure, both physical and social, behind frequent orgasms to be sure.

But, as we grow older our ability to squirt as often as we once did usually declines. The reserve of sexual energy we carry around with us starts to ebb and the time between feeling the need to come stretches out. I think of this energy (and I can’t think of anything else to call it) as a natural resource with a purpose and function in the confines of our relationships. Jacking off is great, but most guys want to follow their biological imperative to procreate and put that stuff into a warm, wet, living hole. But, as it happens for people in long-term monogamous relationships, there are a great deal of factors that work against a rewarding sex life as time goes along (repetition, kids, jobs, health issues, etc.). We develop grooves in our patterns that become the opposite of sexy and motivating and that leads men to follow the path of least resistance (i.e., jacking off to porn).

Note that I am not making any kind of argument or judgment against porn. I actually quite like it and think enjoying it is perfectly natural and not something we should be ashamed of. I also tend to reject most claims of “porn addiction.” If a guy ends up spilling over porn too much, then he’s wasting this energy I mentioned that would otherwise be used in his relationship. It’s self-perpetuating in that wasting his energy though an interest in fantasy can lead to a lack of interest in the reality of his partner causing her to become resentful or angry or hurt (or all of those things) which in turn only reinforce his porn consumption habit (and is therefore labeled “addiction” far more often than it should, IMO). In any event, as that energy resource becomes more scarce and life and familiarity conspire against a fun, sexy relationship, using it up on porn reduces his interest in trying to recapture the spark between he and his partner.

Of course, relationships (typically) contain two people and he alone is not responsible for maintaining it. Usually, there’s plenty of blame (if you want to use that word) to go around. The reason I fixate on him and his orgasm is I think it can, through OC, be used to bring a sexual relationship back into shape.

So, long way to go, but here we are at the doorstep of what OC can mean in its simplest and most direct form. If a man chooses to only have orgasms when he’s with his partner, then he’ll quickly learn to think of her again as the source of his sexual pleasure. It’s not an automatic thing and she needs to be fully invested in the idea and prepared to take on the responsibility of playing her part, but when done correctly they can both find themselves back into a state not too dissimilar from when they were first together. He’ll naturally become more interested in what she’s thinking and feeling and invested in her happiness and she’ll see and appreciate that. It can help knock a lot of frost off and get the gears turning again.

In no way is this kinky. Zero level kink. I’ve found in my marriage that Belle sees it as a demonstration of my commitment to her and our relationship. That’d I’d give up my “right” to come as often and wherever I like and save it all for her. Sure, for us there are a lot of kinky things layered on top, but at its core, this is what EMC is about.

Some people who grok this concept think it’s some kind of magical palliative that will fix whatever ails a relationship. That’s not at all true. All relationships need a foundation of communication and trust to succeed. Orgasm control (or orgasm denial — getting there) or chastity are stacked on top of those elemental aspects which must be present. But, if the basic necessities of a reasonably healthy relationship are working, then I’ve found focusing one’s orgasms on one’s partner can draw the two more closely together than perhaps they’ve ever been.

All that said, this is a post on my blog and therefore it cannot end at the simple control of orgasm. Truth is, a lot of men (most, perhaps) who are into this idea are also into wanting to take it further. From self-control of orgasms to no control over them. That’s when it turns into orgasm denial (OD). The “denial” part can be scary and confusing, but what it really means is the man isn’t able to come when he wants or feels like it, even during or after having sex. Women are often socialized in our culture to think this idea is massively cruel and will feel guilt at not letting him orgasm each and every time the opportunity presents itself, but for those men wired a certain way, this only amps up the impact of OC and is something they actually crave. There’s no rule as to how long he should be denied orgasm. Some women let their men come once a week or once a month. Some longer. Far longer. Some never. But realize, few if any start out that way.

For us, it was pretty much that I’d come every other time we had sex. Then it got longer. Once a week or so. I found the longer I was made to wait, the longer I wanted to go. I started to crave the crave, so to speak. I would rather want to come and feel that desire build inside me than actually do it. And once Belle let go of any socialized guilt and became more confident in the control I happily transferred to her and, most importantly, learned that I was a better partner to her when I wasn’t coming, my denial became second nature. I now have no expectation of orgasm when we have sex. She usually makes me wait many weeks, even months. When I do get to, it’s because she wants to feel me do it inside her much more than she actually wants me to come. As crazy as this might sound to someone just starting out, we’re both much happier this way.

And yeah, technically, OD is kinky. It’s a form of D/s. Power exchange. I get off on not having control as I’m a natural submissive and Belle gets off on having that control over me, though she’s far from a Domme and would never describe herself that way. A lot of couples end up like this. Women who never fantasized about dominating their partner even once find a way to do it that works for them. They back into a dominating position as they see the benefits of investing the time and effort into it has on their partner and their relationship. Because of this, Tom Allen has described OD/EMC as a “gateway kink.” That’s entirely true, in my experience.

Beyond denial is the practice of enforced male chastity. That is, using a locked physical device to maintain control over not only a man’s orgasm but also his ability to access his body as he has his whole life and even his ability to achieve an erection. Not every couple gets to this stage. Some women are simply squicked out by the whole thing. Some men can’t handle the physical demands of being locked up, even for a little while. Some woman think he’s not truly being denied unless he’s also demonstrating sufficient willpower to keep his hands off himself unless she says it’s OK. All that is valid.

On the other hand, some men get off on the added layer of control the device represents. They get off on how they need to modify their lives to accommodate it and how it’s always with them and always, in every scenario and situation, reminding them of the control their partner has over them. It ticks the bondage box really well and can even be made to fill a need for masochism. Finally, I think penis restriction is, in itself, a distinct fetish that EMC uniquely satisfies. For whatever reason, there are a lot of men that get off on being locked up. More, it seems, all the time. The profusion of devices at pretty much any price point in recent years has either fuelled that interest or is a direct result of it. Probably a bit of both.

The desire for a device by either the man being locked up or the partner holding his key can also be practical. In our relationship, Belle doesn’t even allow me to play with myself. I want to abide by that rule and try very hard to do so when I’m not locked up (which isn’t that often), but it’s hard. She knows I won’t come without permission and thinks I’ll avoid self-stimulation most of the time, but if I’m locked up, she can know for a fact I’m following her rules. Chastity devices allow an additional layer of deterrence to be added to a couple’s dynamic and some of us (like me) need that.

In summary, the one thing I want to leave with someone newly exposed to the idea of EMC is that it should not be viewed as weird. There should be no shame felt for wanting it. Human sexuality is ridiculously and wonderfully complicated and manifests in many ways. I believe there to be millions of men interested in some aspect of what I’ve described here with a sizable chunk actually practicing it in some way with their partners (or alone). The more you get into the subject, the more you realize that “kinky” is a highly subjective term. Most people are interested in something they or someone else would think is kinky. The sooner you let go of any fear of exploring sex beyond the traditional way it’s portrayed in a lot of media, let go of concern of judgement, and realize we’re all sexual beings of some kind with needs and desires as unique as we are, the sooner you’ll find satisfaction and happiness. Sometimes, in ways you never, ever expected.

Altered

As I said in my last post, I’ve been out of the Steelheart due to a chemically burned penis. I’m back in now with nary a complaint from the healing wound so things are pretty much back to normal. 

But, being out this morning allowed me to make an observation as I got out of bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress with a stiffy between my legs I noticed that the dent in the erectile tissue put there by the Steelheart is both apparently permanent and quite obvious. I mean, if a week’s worth of unrestricted erections didn’t do anything to lessen the dent, it will apparently need more out time than it’s likely to get to go away. Also, as I said, it’s pretty obvious. It’s like the penis is wearing a tiny little invisible belt around its middle. 

Sitting there looking at it I realized I have complicated feelings about being dented. Even when I’m unlocked, even if I’m ever “set free,” my denied and controlled state will always be there. I may carry a physical reminder of chastity for the rest of my life. Every time I look at it, every time I or anyone else holds the hard shaft, it will be seen or felt. No getting around it. I’m marked as well as if I’d been tattooed. 

A few days ago while getting ready to go to work, I took my wedding ring off while applying lotion or hair product or whatever. I left it in an unusual place and totally forgot to put it back on. I went to work without it and didn’t realize until I looked down and saw the dent in my finger where the ring usually goes. 

Same kind of dent. Same reasons for being there. 

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. 

High anxiety

I was supposed to be driving right now. The plan was for me to be leaving on a week long trip into the wilderness (literally — no plumbing, phone, roads, etc.), but I’m not going. The reasons are complicated.

Purportedly, and for all the world knows, it’s a work thing that’s held me back. That is arguably the truth. I can even convince myself that’s what happened too, though I know it’s not the whole truth. To be sure, sticking around would make things better at work (mostly for other people, not me), but had I wanted to go badly enough, I could have made it work. But I didn’t. I mean, part of me really did. But…complicated.

For the past several years, I’ve noticed the idea of leaving Belle and home has made me feel very unsettled. I’d even use the word anxious. Angsty. Nervous. Emotional. All of the above. Nothing about it feels healthy and there’s nothing she’s been able to say to make me feel any better about it. This does not happen the other way around. I don’t like it when she goes away, but if I’m left home, it’s all good. I can handle it. It’s only when I leave, for any reason and for any amount of time (though the longer the time, the worse the anxiety). I’ve been able to recognize the issue but have been clueless about the cause. And, as I said, it’s been getting progressively worse.

So, even though there were people counting on me and the plans for this trip have been set for months and months, I have been really itching to not go. I’d say my mood has been affected for three weeks thinking about it. It just loomed out there sucking in all my energy. When the work issue came up, my mind immediately latched onto it as a plausible reason to cancel. It is plausible, but it’s not insurmountable. But I took it anyway. And now, while I’m greatly relieved to not be going, I feel really bad about letting my friends down and even disappointed that I won’t be there. Nope, nothing healthy about any of this.

It occurred to me the other day that this may be caused by the denial of my orgasms. The brain chemistry behind sex and mating and desire is fucking potent and one of the main reasons to practice denial, I think, is how it motivates one to be so attached and attracted and focused on one’s partner. Belle is more than the controller of my orgasms, she becomes the proxy for most of my real-life erotic urges (not counting the few days each month I see Drew which are simultaneously different but the same in ways I can’t explain). I don’t want to orgasm, but I desperately want to feel the desire to and that desire is totally focused on her (that part is very different with Drew — I never want to come in, on, or around him). Beyond that, she’s the sole arbiter of when I even get to feel pleasure from the penis which is such a basic and foundationally wired thing for a guy. We play with our penises from nearly the time we’re born. But now it’s not there and I’m not allowed and my higher brain does everything it can to control my base urges and live up to that expectation because all that, every bit, is focused on her.

On these trips, which I take maybe three times a year when I’m able, I sometimes stay locked up the whole time, but more often I don’t. I’ve written recently about how I resent external forces making me come out of a device. Anything that, for whatever reason, supersedes Belle’s wishes. That’s at least part of the deal here, but not the whole thing.

So what I’m left wondering is can this go too far? Can all the good forces of denial become so powerful they become problems? An even more interesting question is, do I care? Or, more precisely, at what point does it become such an issue that I have to care?

What I mean by, “Do I care?” is essentially an extension of the risk/reward thing I wrote about yesterday. Everything has consequences, real or imagined or potential. If one of the consequences of being otherwise very happily denied orgasm means I have this ostensibly unhealthy attachment to my wife, is that an acceptable negative for all the good we both feel comes from me not coming? This is the first time I’ve ever felt like I was close to wherever that line is.

Of course, I don’t know the denial has anything to do with my anxiety. One way to find out would be for Belle to let me come like crazy for a few days and see if the anxiety goes away. But I can’t bring myself to propose that (though, in the meta path that leads through blogging about one’s spouse where she can read it, in a way, I just did). Why? Because I don’t come. I don’t ask if I can come. I don’t want to come. I like myself better when my own orgasm is distant, both in memory and potential. Every single bit of me is so invested in this dynamic that I don’t know I’d ever be able to climb over it on my own. And now, by letting my work issues intercede, I don’t need to.

I don’t have a neat conclusion to this and I can’t know the answers to my question. I know that since making the decision to bail, I have felt more than a little depressed because there was no good choice and none that would make me feel better. And I have no idea if any of this is wired into my kinks or not.

Three weeks, three squirts

I mentioned a few posts back that Belle was going to keep me locked up for three weeks straight. This was more an accident of timing than anything else, but it was also a result of her just not feeling the need for a hard penis when my chance came along and therefore seeing no purpose in letting the one on me out of its confinement. Then she was out of town for a weekend and, even though we had sex after she got back, it was a quickie and was more about my tongue and her clit than anything else. Finally, yesterday, she let me out. And it felt so fucking good to have a real, unrestrained erection.

Too good, actually. She had to warn me to settle down. I get a little rambunctious when she lets me out. Kind of like a dog who sees his leash. It only happens for one reason, really, so when it does I start jumping up on her and wagging my tail and panting and such. I think she likes it when I get excited like that, but also needs me to focus on the task at hand: her.

Feeling your wife’s hot, wet pussy when you’re locked up is a certain kind of torture, but feeling it when you’re not but also not allowed to just fuck the shit out her is altogether another feeling. So much promise and potential and anticipation, made all the more intense by three fucking weeks of being under lock and key. I was rock hard and 12 seconds from coming and only my middle finger was wet. Then she told me to get inside her.

She hadn’t come yet. I think she wasn’t too far off (I am keenly attuned to her orgasmic processes) but she wanted to be fucked so fuck her I did. And she liked it. Vocally. And that expression of pleasure was too much for me. As she liked it more and more, I lost any pretense of stamina. I got far too close to coming before I stopped and the leakage inside her was every bit three weeks’ worth of pent-up frustration. After that, we needed the vibrator to finish her off. It came away from her covered in my juices more than hers.

Early this morning, I was woken up by the sensation of my nocturnal hard-on rubbing against the sheets. The opposite of what normally wakes me up at that time, except this morning I got to grind it into the bed in order to feel more. I’m not allowed to stroke it, but I so wanted to. All I could get was the contact friction against the mattress. I suppose even that was breaking the spirit of the “no playing with it” rule, so I (eventually) stopped fucking the bed.

When Belle woke up, I jumped her and again went too fast for her. She didn’t make me fuck her first this time, so when she was done and allowed me access, I found an unwilling partner in the penis. Even if I’m out and she’s wet and inviting, if she already came, it will often go soft. That’s how well trained it is now.

Luckily, my Belle knows me and gave my (still kinda rough and sore from earlier in the week) nipples a healthy twisting. The direct line from them to the penis electrified and the erection was back in a flash. I got lost in the fucking to the point that I was about a stroke and half away from coming when I finally stopped myself from going over the edge.

That’s when I realized I was expecting her to tell me to come. For whatever reason, my interpretation of how Belle keeps me left me assuming that today was going to be the day and so I didn’t do anything to stop myself from going right up to the orgasm. With that notion still in my head and nearly an entire orgasm’s worth of spunk in her pussy, I started to fuck again. I find my aversion to ejaculate is so complete at this point that the feeling of fucking through my own has become a turn-off, but I was counting on that orgasm so I pressed on. So much so, that I added whatever was left inside me to what came before, but the word was never given. I never came.

I asked her about it after. Told her it felt like today was going to be the day. She laughed. Not unlike two weeks ago when she never let me out, the idea that I would come now never entered her mind. I honestly have no idea how long it’s been since I last came (which she likes very much), but it’s apparently been long enough that I feel like doing it again. Or, at least, I want to feel like I want to again.

As we laid there in (her) post-orgasmic snuggle session, I started to drift off. She thought it was funny that I acted like I had come even though I hadn’t. I could feel in my balls the tightness and weight of being very much denied release, but the rest of me really did feel like I had come. Snoozy, warm, fuzzy. Except in my crotch where this afternoon’s blue balls were brewing. Back in the day, denial like this would leave me wired and bouncing around, but not anymore. Further indications of conditioning.

Right after breakfast, I asked when she wanted me back in. Often, this is a vague kind of thing. It would be understood that I’d need to be locked up sometime before bed. Occasionally, I can stretch that to Monday morning. But she said, “Right now,” and I was like, Oh…OK. So I marched myself into the bathroom, showered off the morning’s fucking and running, trimmed the hair I usually can’t get to, and locked the Steelheart back in place.