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He recently wrote about a friend picking a book about male chastity out of our bookcase. To date this aspect of our life has been private, except for this blog, which is obviously anonymous.

I’ve never mentioned the cricket to anyone, not even my shrink, who happens to keep a large replica of a cricket (the insect) in his office.  Even though my cricket completely transformed my life during the time I ‘ve been talking with him, I’ve always kept it out of our conversation.  I didn’t want to share this  information with him.  I couldn’t bear to hear him chuckle dismissively.  For all I knew, there was a chapter somewhere on the false and superficial relationship created by the cricket.  He might have suggested it was a crutch or a mere a sex toy.

I never wanted anyone to call the cricket into question.  It’s been too magical, too dirty, too definitive of true love to ever risk redefining it as a weakness, or a substitution, or a psychosis.

So the cricket stays with me.  At least for now, it’s going to remain a secret.

— J

The cricket reveals its mysteries to me especially now, while she’s away for a few weeks on business. There’s an emergency key and I know where it is, but I don’t use it, other than when a random day will lead me through a metal detector.  Those days, I take it off in the morning — after I’ve showered and shaved and put on my suit, through the fly — and I go about my day until I can put it on again, usually as soon as I get home, before the day’s unwinding has any effect on me.  I’m no fool: in a battle of wills between me and the night, the night will always win.  But it’s  funny, the longer I’m in chastity, the more I hurry on those occasions to get the cricket back on.
Sexual frustration evolves into sexual clarity.  My orgasm deprives me of the ability to maintain concentration and focus where it belongs: on J, and her orgasm, and her happiness.  What appears at first glance to be denial and deprivation is an illusion, created by eons of a cultural indoctrination rooted in brute force, insecurity and ignorance.  The truth is right there waiting to be seen.  The truth is I’ve never been more sexually satisfied in my life.  Everything is nothing; nothing is everything.  Each night as I lay my head between her beautiful legs and lick her off to sleep, I swoon far more than I ache; her smooth, silky sweetness on my lips, her fingers through my hair, the grunts of her crescendo, all shoot jagged bolts of lightning through my veins and brain and soul that meth can only aspire to.
I haven’t masturbated out of her presence in years. I can’t tell you when the last time I came was.  What I can tell you is how beautiful my penis looks in its cricket, and how almost indescribably happy the two of us are.

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This is currently driving me insane.

I love this life with J so much.  Being kept locked in chastity, and all that has flowed from it, has made all the difference.  For real.

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tease and denial

I’ve written a post about tease and denial that will blow your mind.  One sec.

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Click through this gawker blurb to a long article that makes an excellent (implied) argument that we’d all be better off if more men were cricketed by women as soon as possible.

AT LEAST THAT’S HOW I READ IT.

🙂

The revolution will be cricketized! Say aye if you’re with me.  Good night, lovers.

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During the past several months of my relatively inactive bloglife, J has occasionally sent me proposed posts relating her point of view.  For a variety of reasons, all unrelated to the nature of our relationship, I never got around to putting them up until now.  Here they are.

from December:

Days Off

They are like days in.   At this point we are mentally cricketed.

I do notice that he sees me as more human when it is off.  I teeter on the edge of annoying.  My mere scent is no longer enough to intoxicate.  I am simply loved, quietly craved and always included.  I am no longer a cat scratch, a goddess, an oracle.  With the cricket off, I can be wrong.  It is very good to pursue chastity uncricketed at times.

The various levels of intensity are all interesting and related.  The common thread is that through all we see ourselves in terms of each other.

He is my mirror, my axis, my smile, my sleep.

from mid January:

Cool as a Cucumber

My husband has been cricketed for quite awhile.   I assume you get the metaphor.  I am cool.  He is the cucumber, rubbing and kissing and humping and licking and begging and loving every moment of his torture.  For the meanwhile, I need him loving me like a mad man, so I see no orgasm in sight.  We did have a lovely milking a few nights ago, but no orgasm.  We are good this way.

from last week:

Release

For the past few months I needed my husband to just be quiet and with me without any orgasm.   Last week I made love to him.  I looked down at his face as I allowed him to come.  He appeared other worldly, uninhibited, convulsive, demented, uncontrollably happy and released.

Last night taking my shower in a hotel room thousands of miles away from him, I thought that he is my husband, but truly my husband.  He is completely connected and enamored and absolutely mine.  There is not a millimeter of wiggle room.  He is mine and it releases me to be a better person, more a part of the world, happy.

I think it does the same for him.

After my shower, I watched the news, the Egyptian people celebrating their freedom, tears streaming down my face.  A man said, “Now I love my country.  I am part of my country.”  A woman said, “This is the first time I am comfortable among the people in my country.”  I think these are all expressions of the same experience:  belonging and release.  The cricket is freedom.

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Happy Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day, Beloved.  I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted here.

I, like you, have frequent if not constant epiphanies about this process of discovery.  My most recent was this morning, and apropos to the day.  A husband kept in chastity by his wife shares a path with her to a purer, deeper love for each other. It’s really as simple as that.

I decorate this blog with photographs because I believe in the power of illustrative art to convey what words cannot.  In the search for those photographs I can’t escape that vast majority of harsh, vulgar images, garishly lit, costumed and clearly staged, most often associated with this subject.  I suppose those images are created by those who seek to merely exploit the women (and men) depicted in them for the masturbatory relief of those who flirt with the idea of male chastity for entertainment.

That’s not who I am, and that’s not who we are. If you’re jerking off here, god bless you and have fun, but that’s not my intention.

In this new year, the third since our breakthrough, we’ve renounced the calendar.  Neither of us know today when I should come again, if ever.  The idea of set dates for a husband’s orgasm creates an attainable goal, with the period of chastity being something to simply endure, something to be counted down.  The husband who knows when relief is on the way, that relief is in fact on the way, regardless of how far off it seems, simply has to buckle down and get through.  He can “go along to get along.”

The husband kept in the dark about when relief will come, if ever, must necessarily become more submissive, more focused, more desirous of being guided and trained by his wife, which is, after all, what this is all about.

So J, allow me to renew my love for you this St. Valentine’s day to the world, to you, to myself. It doesn’t matter when the last time I came was.  It doesn’t matter when I’ll come again.  I never want to come again.  I want to love you perfectly, like a laser, like a diamond, like the tides.

Please take my submissiveness as a symbol of my undying love and devotion to you, and as a plea for you to train me, to guide me, and to humble me until the truth that runs through my veins tonight can be announced to the world:  that it’s as your submissive, your cuckold, your lover held in perpetual chastity, that I’m the husband I always wanted to be and was always meant to be.

I love you.

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