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.

Techno dude I clearly am not.  I can’t embed this video, but it’s pretty amazing.  Cut and paste the link, and skip ahead to 5:40 you’ll see my favorite part.  She allows him to ejaculate, or “leak” as we put it, but not have an orgasm.  Sets my brain on fire.


I know I’ve been dilatory in posting, and I actually do have lots to write about, but just haven’t gotten around to it.  I will soon.

on the fly

I usually spend a lot of time fretting over what to post.  Tonight I didn’t.  My thoughts today, without editing: Be strong.  You’re not alone. You’re not wrong.  You’re right.

I read your comments and what you email me:  I’m with you.  I know this stuff ain’t easy, at least until you get it all out in the open. It’s hard to feel all alone within yourself, and this stuff is hard to talk about.    BUT LISTEN: it’s OKAY to let it out to the person you love.  Visualize yourself saying the words.  Let it go.  Your life is a one shot deal.  In retrospect, it’s actually much easier than you think.  It’s only about love, after all.

You know what?  You, reading this, you, afraid and ashamed:  I was/am you.

Listen: this isn’t not about form:  it’s not about outfits, or roles, or dungeons, or scripts, it’s not about let’s pretend. It’s the opposite.  It’s about let’s not pretend. It’s about substance, it’s about truth, it’s about who you are when you go to bed.  Going to bed is about two people, two human beings together in the quiet and the dark, sheltering each other from the indifference that’s crouched right outside the bedroom door.  If who you are in bed is about pretending or make-believe, something’s really wrong.

Now can be the time to acknowledge how much else in your sense of self is really just make-believe or pretend.  And let it go.  Say it.

I can let that go.

GOOD.  Try to give yourself over to who you are.

You’ll be HAPPY.

All off the cuff.   You dig? Everybody okay?

impulse control

Days off — they are like days in.   There are days when for a variety of reasons he is cricketed only in his mind.

It seems I’m more human in his eyes when it’s off.  I watch myself teeter on the edge of annoying.  My scent seems no longer enough to completely 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’s good to pursue chastity uncricketed at times.

The various levels of intensity are all interesting and interwoven.  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.

— J

For several weeks since I’ve last posted I’ve been cricketed sans cricket; that is: kept in chastity without the use of a chastity device.  The great world continued to spin.  Nevertheless, here, now, from the vantage point of being recently re-cricketed, I wholeheartedly reaffirm the core principles of this buh-log:  the implementation of male chastity into an intimate relationship doesn’t have to be merely “a sex game.”  A male chastity device doesn’t have to be just another sex toy.  I offer myself up to your scrutiny for the proposition that orgasm control and male chastity in a relationship can be founded upon natural, logical principles, with the end result being not only mindblowing sexual fulfillment, but a life-altering, philosophically and spiritually satisfying relationship with your partner.

I feel better in the cricket, I’m closer to her with it on.  The cricket is a wedding ring that’s just not for show (yet).  It has real significance and meaning for both of us.  It’s an acceptance, an admission, a confession, a declaration of love, a tangible statement of purpose and a proof of identity.  To those who claim, loudly and with a price tag attached, that male chastity is simply a game or a put-on, I respectfully disagree.  My workaday world is where I pretend.  This isn’t a game to me.  I think it’s a viable path to happiness for a lot of people.

The Look.

J has begun giving me a reminding look every now and then.   She doesn’t speak when she gives me this look.  The look says “I love you, but don’t forget who you are.  You’re my submissive husband, and your place is to attend to me in every way, all the time.”  The reminding look runs through me like a comb.  It cuckolds me, sissifies me, humiliates me, and warms me with J’s love.  The reminding look makes the cricket glow.

And as the cricket glows, so glows the world.

from each of us

J has been away on business for a couple of weeks, but here’s a post she sent me via email for you.

“Interesting Cricket Facts

My husband asked me when we first got a chastity device what we were going to call it.  We figured we would have to talk about it incessantly to each other, occasionally in front of others.  From the beginning our huge affection for what was then a CB600 absolutely required that we name it.

I suggested that we call it the cricket.  This name came out of nowhere really.  I did always love the sound of crickets and a certain James Agee description of early evening that is full of them.   Recently I had seen the word on my ipod and it amused me.

My husband agreed.  I think because it made no reference to what it really was.  No cage or lock or penis references.

It seems the name was more appropriate than we imagined.  Here are some interesting cricket facts.

Crickets (only males) have four types of chirps.   The calling chirp is loud and is meant to attract females.   A courting and softer chirp indicates a female is close.  The aggressive chirp is to frighten away competitor males.  The copulatory chirp is made upon ejaculating into a female.  Our name refers coincidentally to an insect that makes noise purely for sexual motivation.

Caged crickets in many societies are symbols of good luck.  We would certainly agree.

In popular culture the cricket usually represents good.   Jimminy Cricket as Pinochio’s conscience is an example.  In fact the cricket seems to encourage all types of goodness, cheerful patience, kindness and generosity.

Some facts are ones I have noticed myself about our own experience with the cricket.  For instance, one would anticipate that submission to another would make one feel weak, erode one’s feelings of confidence.  In fact it seems to have the opposite effect.  My husband’s recognition and acceptance of his submissiveness has made him more sure of himself, more likely to state his strengths and more likely to reassure me of my own.

Crickets by nature are heard and not seen.  My husband sometimes clanks and I sometimes jingle.  We find these noises sweet and humorous and completely unembarassing.   These sounds are the only outward indication that there is a cricket between us.   I know that each of us has wondered if other cricket wearers notice and know.

We both look forward to learning more about crickets and the newly coined verb.  Being cricketed promotes a learning process and we are entirely open to it.


Here was my reply.  In case it isn’t obvious, I’ve been locked for several weeks.

“I wake up straining against cricket, aching for you,

aching for your control, aching for your kiss,

your slap, your grip.

When you assert the superiority of women, as you do in every aspect of your being, I feel a happy sustaining glow inside me.

A life as your fucktoy slave is all I’ve ever wanted.

Please hurt me whenever you want to, please spread my legs and fuck me, please never let me come,

please own me.

I love you.”

71 and out

Of all human failings, hubris exacts the most poetic revenge.  Within days of writing that “100 days is within my grasp,” I was reminded, however pleasurably, who’s really in charge.  How long I remain in chastity is not up to me.

This past Tuesday night, as we cuddled in bed, things inevitably heated up with her satisfying her cock hunger with my obedient penis.  After 71 days, my ability to withstand full-on, pedal to the metal cocksucking and intercourse was significantly compromised.  To say I was a loaded pistol is putting it mildly.  Her face and body were painted with moonlight.  I trembled with worship of her.

For the past several days, she’d been noticing that I’ve been dealing with a lot of stressful issues, completely unrelated to our relationship.  On this particular night, with my throbbing cock nestled deep inside her, she whispered into my ear that she thought I should come. Right now.

I didn’t need any further encouragement, and within three seconds the world inside my brain lit up with the light of ten thousand suns.  My entire body spasmed with almost indescribable ecstasy for several minutes, long after I’d emptied what must have been an ocean of come into her.

I’ve read that Navajo women intentionally put a flaw into the rugs they painstakingly weave, because perfection is supposed to be reserved exclusively to God.  One hundred is, after all, as arbitrary a number as any other, and this new phase of my life is not about accomplishing feats of endurance; the accomplishment is in our day-to-day acceptance of the truths associated with a husband’s natural place as submissive to his wife.  When she tells me not to come, I don’t.  When she wants me to, I do.  It’s as simple as that.  The journey is the destination.

End of day 3


let love rule

MSNBC legal eagle Dan Abrams is making the case for women, literally. He’s inked a six-figure deal with Abrams Books (no relation) to chronicle ways women are superior to men. In “Man Down,” he’ll present studies, polls and other “evidence” to prove that women actually best the boys in typically male areas like gambling and enduring pain, and even make better hedge-fund managers and cops.

I love the title of the article where this quote is found:

Dan Abrams, Man, to Write Book About the Superiority of the Female Gender

Haha!  Here‘s the link to the article.

In other media related news, here‘s a very campy old time radio sci-fi show that portrays a futuristic earth run by women.  There are obligatory cultural cop-outs to the basic premise, but it’s very interesting nonetheless.

Now, to current events.

Today marks 69 days since my last orgasm. I never would have thought it possible.  One hundred days is within my grasp, ahem.

And I love J with a clarity I can’t explain, but I know it isn’t simply something that was born out of chastity. It was born out of the honesty between us that resulted in the chastity.

I can’t even imagine masturbating anymore.  The idea of it strikes me as ridiculous, to tell the truth.  In the normalcy of our lives, my purpose is to please her in bed in whatever way she wants.  Most often, after a hard day’s work, she likes to suck some cock, then spread my legs, mount and fuck me with me inside her.  Her feminization of me in moments like these is implied, yet unmistakeable.

After she’s had enough cock to play with, I usually have to beg to lick her.  And when I say beg, I mean beg.  Licking her, kissing her, sucking her, fingering her, with passion and dedication and purpose, is where my solace lies, where who I am culminates, and I’m so happy to do it, always, every night, as often as I can.

These are the moments when I feel my submissiveness most intensely, when I feel most comfortable in my own skin.  She doesn’t verbalize her feelings about it often, but when she does, it hits me with the emotional wallop of a mack truck.  “You’ll always be submissive to me.”  “Your cock is only allowed to stand up for me.”  “I may never let you come again.”  These remarks sear themselves like a brand onto the hide of my identity, and I replay them in my mind for days afterward.

The truth is, sometimes I want to make her come more than she wants to come.  She pushes me away every now and then, and I understand.  It’s sometimes a struggle not to appear desperate.  I’m not desperate.  I’m happy.

I know I don’t post very often, or as often as I’d like to.  But I see how many of you visit here, and I’m grateful.  I’m happy to be able to express these things to you, however ineptly.  Please know we’re happy to respond to any questions or comments, either here or privately.  Be well!