Life With My Cock In a Cage: Part 2 – Not Rocket Science, But Close

Maybe you’re reading this as a guy wanting to be caged yourself. Or maybe you’re already a caged male looking to see how my experience compares with yours. Perhaps you are a woman considering chastity for your own man. Whatever your reason for reading this, all I’m offering are my experiences and my reasons for being caged. Each man or couple who are involved in chastity do it for their own reasons.

I don’t wear my cage to prevent infidelity. I don’t have a problem with infidelity. I don’t wear it to prevent masturbation, either. Some guys wear a cage to see how long they can “survive” without having an orgasm. That’s not me. Others wear one because of the constant sense of arousal they get from it. My arousal comes at the hands of my Mistress, not my cage.

For me, the cage is the symbol of my love and devotion to Mistress Oasis. In fact, she refers to it as my wedding ring. My orgasms are hers, and she’s not stingy with me. In fact, she enjoys making me climax. It’s control. We don’t try for marathon stretches of orgasm denial. In fact, I care less about orgasms than I do about receiving pain and spending time in subspace. I can be tortured for hours with no orgasm – and be perfectly content. So, the idea of orgasm denial is kind of lost on me. But, she loves to see my body yield to her in that way. She enjoys watching me lose control at her hands, so I’m never orgasm deprived.

I can’t wear a collar 24/7. I don’t want a tattoo that says “property of” anyone – even though I do consider myself her property. My cage, locked and unlocked exclusively by her, is our chosen sign of my love, devotion, dedication, and servitude to Mistress Oasis. She loves how it looks. She loves the control it gives her. She loves the meaning and the symbolism it holds.

The bottom line of male chastity is this: for us men, the penis is a juggernaut. It defines our “maleness.” Masculine men fear losing it. Even “sissies” and cross dressers focus on their penises for the source of their pleasure. It makes us “men.” Look at the overwhelming array of treatments advertised today for erectile dysfunction, premature ejaculation, and “low testosterone.” Involuntarily losing the penis or its functionality is a fear most men share deep inside.

With that thought in mind, we can understand the profoundness of male chastity. Giving up free control of the penis evokes powerful emotions. The feeling of having our manhood encased in some rigid apparatus draws our attention to it. Having the choice of touching it or not touching it taken away evokes many primal feelings. Not being allowed the freedom to produce our own orgasms at will causes most men a fair bit of anxiety. Oh, yes, it’s always in the back of all our minds, at some level.

So, we invent devices that deny us access to that thing which makes us men – at least temporarily. Like other types of bondage, it allows us to feel that loss of control, that helplessness, even a sense of desperation. But, we do it in a safe environment. For those going it alone, they explore this mindscape with the reassurance that rescue is only as far away as the key or something that can cut away a plastic lock. For those of us with a keyholder, our safety net is the trust we hold in that person to release us if we ever declare that we truly cannot stand it anymore. That trust can evoke feelings and sentiments that become equally as strong as the anxieties awakened by surrendering free will over our manhood. In fact, the trust and love I have for Mistress Oasis is stronger than I’ve ever had for anyone else in my life.

However, the act of encasing one’s penis in metal or plastic creates its own plethora of challenges. Putting a cage on for awhile during a scene normally brings with it no ill effects or inconveniences. But, when the decision is made to wear one for extended periods, challenges arise.

Fit – If a cage is a little big or a little too small during play, it’s no big deal. But, an ill-fitting cage manifests itself as an uncomfortable burden within a few hours. And, getting a cage that fits “properly” is not easy. The penis doesn’t stay the same size all day long. It grows, it shrinks, and it even shrivels. Many cages rely on the balls and scrotum to keep them in place. But, those don’t even stay the same. They loosen and tighten throughout the day. This is why many men who pursue the practice of male chastity wind up going through multiple brands and styles of cages. And, just because one <i>appears<i> to be just what you are looking for online, you can never predict what flaws you’ll find in the design until you get it, and put it on. There are many things to consider – length, girth, curvature, construction material, gap between a base ring and the cage, locking method, assembly, pinch points, weight, oval verses round base ring, etc. The list goes on and on.

Hygiene– Have you ever had to wear a cast? How did it smell after a couple of weeks? Well, a man’s genitals sweat just like an arm or a leg does. Base rings collect dead skin and substances that emit through the skin’s pores throughout the day. The CB3000 type cages, made of plastic, are well known for building up a lot of humidity inside. It is possible to clean chastity cages without removing them, but it is time consuming and takes some effort.

Urination – Unfortunately, to entrap the source of your sexual arousal in a cage also means that you must entrap a very practical appendage in a cage. I’m going to discuss this a lot, because it is an everyday reality that you will have to deal with if you wear a cage long term. You urinate through your penis, which is now in a cage. Most manufacturers include some sort of opening or slot at the tip of their cages to allow for urination. However, pissing with a cage on is never, never anywhere similar to pissing without one. You can’t “shake” clean with a cage on. And, depending on the style of cage, there is never a clean, steady stream. You kind of spray in an unpredictable pattern. And often, some of it dribbles down along the bottom of the cage. If you have a PA piercing, it exacerbates this effect. A lot of cages have a downward curvature, making a straight-forward aim toward a stand-up urinal almost impossible. Often, sitting to urinate becomes your only option for making sure you don’t soak your pants.

Conceal-ability – Almost all of the manufacturers out there will advertise that their cages will “disappear” under your clothing. Maybe so, if you wear combat fatigues. But, I know from personal experience that business clothes and jeans can easily outline the thing that you are trying to hide down there. And, if you’ve ever used a public men’s room, you know that usually those partitions between urinals don’t really prevent anyone from seeing what you’ve got down there. And, just how much fiddling and fumbling can you do while trying to get the apparatus back in your pants before someone starts to wonder just what you’re doing with your junk over there?

Comfort– Even after finding the “perfect” fit – the real test has not yet begun. A cage feels much different when you are naked than it does when it’s tucked into a pair of pants and you are sitting, squatting, kneeling down, or lying on your stomach if you are a handyman like me. Every different position with clothes on presses and shoves the cage in one direction or another. Skin can get pinched between the clothing and the cage. Sitting for long periods can press the edges of the cage into skin, causing discomfort over time. One thing I hated about wearing cages with base rings is how my balls continually got smashed up against the inside of my trousers whenever I sat.

All of these challenges, and still there are lots of us men who choose to do it anyway. None of what I’ve discussed above is to disparage male chastity itself, but only to shed light on the challenges we face once we start down that road. In my next installment of this series, I’ll begin to describe the various cages I’ve tried, along with the characteristics I found to be positive and negative.

<<< BACK TO PART 1                                         PART 3>>>

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Life With My Cock In a Cage: Trials and Lessons of Male Chastity- Part 1

Note: In this series, I’ve posted links to videos that Mistress Oasis and I made to demonstrate various cages. Due to WordPress’s limited reliability concerning video file hosting (slow/buffering), I had the videos uploaded to Porn Hub. If you do not wish to have your computer navigate to Porn Hub, please DO NOT click on any images that indicate a video file. Each such link is specifically identified in its caption.


This 8 part series of blog posts chronicles my experiences with male chastity within a Female Led Relationship. I wanted to share with my readers what I’ve learned after having tried various “cages,” and expound on the realities of wearing a cage long-term versus the fantasy images that many guys have concerning being “locked.” This will include reviewing several examples of how wearing a cage affects your everyday life in ways you may have never even thought of. And, let’s face it – this is a great excuse to post a bunch of pictures of my cock without them really qualifying as “dick pics!” Right??

So, let’s get started.

Brief History– For many years, I had no desire to have my cock “caged.” In fact, I’m not even sure I was overtly aware of the existence of cock cages until only about seven years ago. I remember a girlfriend bringing up the idea, and explaining the concept of putting something on my dick that would completely cover and “lock” it. I remember thinking – and saying – “What the fuck would I want to do that for?”

A couple of years later, I was in service to “Mistress X,” whom I talk about in Energy and BDSM.” She had me tidying up her toy closet one day. (Yes, besides a play room, she had an ENTIRE CLOSET just for toys!) I found a CB3000 cage amongst the toys. I showed it to her, and asked if she’d ever caged a sub for extended periods before. She said she had on a few occasions. We discussed the subject broadly, and my curiosity began to stir about what it would be like to wear one long term, which I communicated to her. (At that point, “long term” in my mind equated to about a week or so.) However, she didn’t jump at the opportunity. Instead, she explained that it was a big decision, and not a simple thing to be caged. She offered to discuss it later, depending on how I did showing my submission in other ways.

About a month later, after an evening of play, Mistress X asked if I’d like to try wearing the cage overnight as I slept. (I spent weekends with Mistress X, and slept in the guest room – our relationship was non-sexual.) I agreed to try it. I recall being somewhat apprehensive, somewhat excited, and somewhat curious. We put the cage on and she placed a lock in the retaining post, but did not secure it. It was entirely up to me that night whether the cage stayed on or came off.

It was an interesting evening, indeed. In one sense, there was nothing really special going on. There was a plastic ring around my balls and a plastic tube encasing my cock – that’s all. However, it still kept me keenly aware of and focused on my genitals. In a way, it felt kind of sexy. And, still there was a sense of loss of my free will. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if this thing was locked, and someone else was in charge of when it came off. That idea bothered my independent, Alpha male senses.  “But, what if I were in love and owned by that woman? ,” I thought to myself in the dark.  Ahhhhhhh….that thought sparked a little more understanding. And, with some vague images of myself in a collar, lying next to a Domme who’s heart was connected to mine, and my manhood securely locked up in a cage, I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I took the cage off before going to the restroom. I cleaned and dried it, and went to the kitchen to start my day’s chores. At breakfast, Mistress X and I talked about the experience. I admitted that, indeed, it invoked a lot of feelings. I did not wear the cage again at Mistress X’s.

Fast forward a couple of years. I’d met Mistress Oasis and we had begun playing. She had one of those inexpensive “one size fits all” cages in her toy collection. We began incorporating that in our play. And, somewhere along the way, we fell in love.

This is where my journey down the male chastity path began.

>>>>>>>>>>Go To PART 2 >>>>>>>>>>>>

 

 

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Is “Coming Out” Right For You – Think Before You Jump

“50 Shades” is a best-seller.
You can watch “Submission” on Showtime.
Rhianna sang “S&M” and it was a hit.
Dog collars and fuzzy cat tails are now considered acceptable fashion accessories in public.
“Pride” events are everywhere. In fact, cities even sponsor and support them.

So why shouldn’t we kinky folks all just start “coming out” and showing the world our “pride” without shame or regret? I mean, isn’t this the modern world?

Something I’ve run into time and time again (especially with younger newbies) is an intense desire to share with the world their newfound discovery of a “community” that thinks and acts like they do. I can still remember how refreshed and relieved I felt when I finally found a group of people I could speak openly and honestly to about these things that I’d kept secret from the rest of the world my entire life. It was amazing! I finally didn’t feel “dirty,” or “sick.” I didn’t feel like a “pervert.” I actually knew men and women who did the exact things I secretly did (and wanted to do), who loved each other, and led very “normal” lives (to the vanilla world.) I’d found a home.

I’ve listened to literally dozens of people express this same feeling of validation and relief when they finally decided to show up at munches and join the community. Some have even broken down in tears while explaining how they felt there was something “wrong” with them for so many years before they came looking. So, I understand how moving it can be to finally find one’s place among like-minded people.

So why should we hide? After all, there are so many of us. Modern pop culture is generously sprinkled with a decadent coating of “kinky” overatures. You can disagree with me if you like. But in my experience, the vanilla world is not ready to embrace us in the open. Nor should they be.

My personal experience in “coming out” began innocently enough. I had a “leather pride” sticker on my car window. Nothing major. Just a blue, black and white strip across the back window. A friend at work asked me about it. I made several attempts at saying it meant nothing, but he did not relent. I I finally explained what the colors meant. He was a good friend, so I trusted him. Plus, I worked in a government job where discrimination was forbidden. We had several openly homosexual employees who were never bothered. So I figured I was safe. Besides, he wouldn’t tell anyone, right?

Well, he didn’t tell anyone maliciously. It was more like he nudged a buddy of his later in the office and said, “Hey, did you know Dragos (of course, he used my real name) is, like, into bondage and stuff? And his wife is his sex slave!! It didn’t take long for the wildfire to spread, and I found myself confronted by guys asking me breathlessly, “Do you really get to do all that stuff to your wife?” (See how vanillas immediately zero in on the sexual and physical part of all this?)

I started thinking I’d made a mistake, but re-assured myself that my bosses couldn’t fuck with me. That would be discrimination. It’s the modern world, and tolerance is the name of the game, right?

They never say, “We’ve found out that you are in an alternative relationship that we don’t approve of, so we are going to start working on firing you.” That would be discrimination. No, instead, my “performance” began to suddenly and drastically fall short of the “standards.” After five years of stellar employee reviews and a promotion, I somehow suddenly couldn’t do anything right! My employee file began to fill up with one disciplinary action after another. I didn’t fill out this form right. I missed a widget over here. I failed to document such and such correctly. First came the written warnings, then the suspensions. One day, three days, five days! Each time they presented me with yet another complaint, I would respond with the same refrain – “I’m doing all the same things I’ve done for five years. Everyone makes minor errors like these, but no one else gets written up and suspended for them.”

Their reply? Not only was my performance failing to improve, but I was “refusing to accept responsibility” for my actions. It took about a year, but they finally had stacked my file full enough to start issuing “final warnings.” I knew it was my queue to leave on my own if I didn’t want to get fired and never find decent work again.

That was the last time I ever “came out” to fellow employees. (Thank God I now work full time for Mistress Oasis!!)

But that’s just my story. And all I lost was a job.

Vanilla society (and I’m talking about right here in the USA where the First Amendment gives us “free expression”) does not understand what we do, and is quick to judge when anyone cries “foul.” Take a look at these criminal actions, all involving “domestic abuse” that included “slave contracts” – all from THIS YEAR!

Ex Romney Staffer Had Woman Sign Sex Slave Contract
DA seeks more victims of Hellertown man who allegedly forced women into ‘a sex slave contract’
Man pleads no contest to making woman sign ‘slave contract’
Prominent Silicon Valley investor denies he kept a sex slave for 13 years
Man who made wife sign “slave contract” is sentenced

Now, before you judge me, let me make clear that I DO NOT condone domestic violence at all, in any form whatsoever. And I feel any person who genuinely abuses another needs to be put down like a rabid dog … but prison will do just fine.

However, regardless of what you and I may think of each one of these cases, one fact remains indisputable: None of us can ever know what actually transpired in each of them Do all of these men really “force” these women to sign contracts? Why bother, if their violence was enough to terrorize their girlfriends and wives, resulting in the women’s’ repeated compliance. Or were any of these actually cases of a woman who was consensually participating in a D/s relationship, got pissed at the guy for whatever reason, and went to authorities with the “sex slave” story?

And it’s always “sex slave.” Vanillas never refer to what we have as a “relationship,” or our “dynamic.” The word “submissive” is never used. It’s always “sex slave.”

A few years back, while researching one of these cases where a woman was suing a former boyfriend and presenting a “slave contract” as proof of abuse, I followed some links to a feminist website where several women were ranting and raving about this case – discussing “men” (not “some men”… but “men”) and our violent, domineering sexual tendencies. I jumped in on the chat and pointed out that I was an active sadomasochist who actually let women do violent things to me, and explained that there are lots of men out there who gladly obey every command and whim of the women they love. I figured a bunch of feminists could appreciate that. WRONG!! I was excoriated for being a disgusting pervert, and was lectured on how “submissive” men simply force women to perform these disgusting acts on them for their (the men’s) own despicable, deviant pleasures. So much for tolerance and understanding.

To vanillas, what we do is sex. Just weird, kinky sex. We are no different than swingers, flashers, and peeping toms. We all have a screw loose and just think about sex all the time. They don’t see the deep love of a submissive, reaching out to her Dom from the swirly fog of sub space. They don’t picture the Mistress who’s heart melts watching her slave busying himself with house chores for her happiness. They don’t envision the loving connection between sadist and masochist during aftercare. This is another reason I preach the loving / relationship side of BDSM in my books and blog.

Also, once you’ve announced yourself to vanillas, it’s a bell that cannot be “un-rung.” From then on, you are that “kinky” person.

Oh, sure. There are scores of kinksters out there extolling the virtues of openly displaying their dynamic by walking a sub on a leash in public, or having them lick boots in front of vanillas, or any number of other things. It’s all about shock value in my opinion, and it doesn’t do our community any good. And think about it – by openly displaying our kinky sides to the public, we are denying vanillas the right of consent.

Vanillas will never understand us. And for that reason, I see no need to be “in their face” about what I do privately with Mistress Oasis. No one needs to know that we are anything other than a loving couple. Employers will never tell you that they are forcing you out because of your kink. Judges and juries don’t seem to believe in “consensual” slavery. And, to be honest, I like BDSM to have some “mystique” about it don’t you?

Coming out is a personal choice. And it’s entirely your call whether to keep your kinks under wraps, or to dress up like a freak and proclaim your “diversity” to the world. But it’s important to keep in mind that you’ll never know where an attack may come from, or how devastating it may wind up being.

 

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Roosters, Drunks, and the Key West Creeping Crud

Nibblin’ on sponge cake, Watchin’ the sun bake; All of those tourists covered with oil. Strummin’ my six string on my front porch swing. Smell those shrimp- They’re beginnin’ to boil”

Jimmy Buffett drew us all such an iconic picture of peace, tranquility and leisure when he wrote these lyrics 40 years ago, that Americans instantly attribute to Key West in southern Florida. But then again, that was 1977.

 

Mistress Oasis and I flew down to Key West to visit some friends of ours for a few days. We looked forward to sunset strolls, hanging out with our friends, and taking in some of the local way of life. We’d also brought along some toys as well to have a little of our own style of fun. We specifically booked a suite in a bed and breakfast with a high vaulted ceiling, large cross beams and some wide open central space. Pretty much anywhere I am, if I have roll of para-cord, I can design bondage points onto just about anything that is stable. Bring along some decent cuffs for wrists and ankles (We’re not big rope bondage people), and a few simple toys – and we can have as good a scene as we would in any well stocked dungeon.

But, our vacation began taking a turn just about the time he airplane’s wheels came up. Mistress Oasis started experiencing a little cough and a sore throat. By the time we’d landed, she’d gotten worse and was complaining of body aches. I’ve had the flu enough times to know what was coming. Once we got to the gorgeous room, I put her to bed and transformed from slave dragos to nurse dragos. Her fever was 102. I felt so bad for her. But once those symptoms have hit, there’s little you can do but ride it out. So I did my best to keep her comfortable.

Our room was just half a block off of Duval Street – the main party strip in Key West. Just below our window was a parking lot. Ohhh, boy!

The first thing Jimmy Buffet never told us was that Key West is full of chickens. Chickens run free in the streets. They are protected by ordinance as a historical part of the city. They roam through restaurants and stores without worry. Where there are chickens, there are roosters. Forget what you’ve heard about roosters crowing at sunrise. Not in Key West. Roosters crow all night, all day. It is constant – and it seemed that every night there was a rooster or two just outside our windows. I’m guessing the all night crowing is not natural for roosters. I’m certain the all-night lifestyle of Key West has something to do with the birds’ biological clocks being off.

Chicken with babies in a restaurant
Roosters in the street.

The first night, my poor Mistress did not sleep at all. She was coughing, feverish, had body aches, and kept cycling through being super cold and burning hot all night. I did my best to comfort her. But when someone has a fever, it’s hard to keep them comfortable.

The next day, I got some breakfast for us and brought it back to the room. Mistress was still suffering from body aches, fever, coughing and all of the sinus problems that come with the flu. I contacted our friends to let them know we wouldn’t be able to see them right away. They understood.

Our room was every bit as gorgeous as we’d hoped. It had beautiful wooden floors, high ceilings, a gigantic bed, lots of open space, and giant rafters about 12 feet high crossing the entire length of the common area. I’d spent part of the night calculating where I’d locate tie points once Mistress Oasis was over this malady. I’d run a pair of lines over the high rafters so she could string me up in the middle of the room with my arms up-stretched wide above me. There were a couple of nice, heavy wooden chairs in the room. I would have a set of adjustable lengths of cord ready for however she’d like to attach me to one. Each chair was also perfect for her to sit and relax in while I rubbed her feet or acted as her human ottoman. And, of course, I’d run lengths along all the edges of the bed so she could tie me in any number of ways and use me to her heart’s content.

But first, I had to help her get well.

Rafters above the room
(sigh) It would have been so fun to play here…
Beautiful suite with wooden floors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next night, I discovered what else Jimmy didn’t tell us. Duval street and just about every street three blocks in any direction from it is full of drunks! And there is no closing time. At about 3AM I was awakened by what I thought was a domestic fight in a room next to ours. A guy was yelling, a woman was screaming back at him. I opened a window and looked around, but couldn’t pinpoint a location. I could tell by the voices that no one was throwing punches. They were just both venting – very loudly – about what the other was currently doing that pissed them off. So I didn’t call the cops, and eventually things got quiet again … except for the roosters. We didn’t sleep well that night either.

The next day, Mistress was feeling just a little better. Her fever was coming down, but would spike again occasionally. However, I began to feel under the weather and cursed my luck. I knew what was coming. This is where one person gets sick and then, once they start to recover – their caregiver falls ill from catching what the first person had. Up till now I hadn’t caught her bug. And I’d been drinking water and taking Vitamin C like I was an addict of some sort. I’d hoped to escape this thing so that once she was well, we could have some real fun. But playing when you’re sick is never fun and makes everything unpredictable. When I’m sick, it usually fucks up my pain tolerance, my equilibrium, and my overall mood. But I couldn’t help being sad that we had such a perfect play space and couldn’t use it.

I laid around all day with Mistress Oasis and did work on my computer. Outside, roosters crowed, tourists wandered about. Somewhere a cop or somebody was constantly blowing a whistle in short, quick bursts. And the music from the various bars and restaurants filled the air throughout the day. We’d opened some windows to get some fresh air circulating. I kept waiting for the inevitable fever to hit me. I got smart and took a walk to a drug store and picked up some ear plugs so I could sleep well that night. When we went to bed, I fully expected to wake up with a full blown case of the flu myself with all of the symptoms. The ear plugs helped dampen the roosters, the music and the drunks outside.

However, I was still awakened by yelling again in the wee hours of the morning. Key West also has homeless bums wandering around. And this evening there were three hanging out in the parking lot just outside and below our room having a very drunken and very loud argument. After about 15 minutes one of them grabbed his backpack and wandered away telling the other two to fuck off and calling them assholes. The other two boldly began yelling that they’d kick his ass if he came back – as if the opportunity hadn’t been there for the last 15 minutes.

Things got relatively quiet again. I still wasn’t feverish, but my head felt full and my muscles had aches in them. I laid in bed stroking Mistress’s back gently as she slept. Looking at those huge beams high overhead, my mind began to wander through all of the dreamy things we’d both hoped to happen on this trip. When unpacking our bags, I’d noticed Mistress Oasis had packed one of my favorite 3 foot signal whips made by David Morgan in Australia. It’s a single-tail that, depending on the type of cracker I attach, can either deliver anything from a medium bite to an actual cut. I imagined myself in the middle of that floor, naked, arms stretched high above me and secured to the lines attached to those beams overhead. I thought of what the sting of that beautiful whip would feel like all over me. The searing pain…the gasp of air…the muscles contracting in unison…the heat radiating from the newest stripe as the pain slowly softens from a sharp, biting sting to a warm throb…the fear, excitement and anticipation of waiting for the next one – all enveloped within an invisible cocoon of heart-warming love, devotion, pride. Pride in knowing that all of my suffering draws my beloved tormentor into me, making her fall in love with me all over again with each and every mark she delivers. My entire being was craving it. If only we hadn’t gotten sick.

I marveled at  was how I could feel so physically miserable, but still experience such strong masochistic cravings. Even if presented with the opportunity, I would have declined out of an abundance of caution. (Yes, I have veto power when it comes to play. Mistress Oasis understands that forcing myself to play when my body and mind aren’t up to it is not good for either of us.) But my body wanted it so badly. I think only another masochist could understand this hunger. I never really experienced it myself until I’d given up topping completely, devoted myself to being fully a submissive, then pushing myself beyond things I’d previously thought I couldn’t  do. But here I was, feeling like shit – and still my body was craving those experiences. However, I’d already realized that neither of us was going to be well enough for play before our vacation was over.

That next morning, I still hadn’t plunged into the full-blown flu. But I felt, well, yucky. I had a slight headache, fatigue, and my voice was cracking. But I still didn’t have a fever or the accompanying symptoms. Mistress Oasis was feeling better, but would still get very tired after just minor exertion. She was also suffering from her own regret that we couldn’t play as we’d hoped. But like me, she realized that the best thing for both of us was rest. Otherwise, we’d have to travel back home sick.

This went on for the entire vacation. And although we did get out a few times for walks and lunch, we mostly stayed in our gorgeous suite, lamenting at all the missed opportunities it presented us with. We did manage to have dinner with our friends, who clarified that what I had was something that had been going around Key West recently. They called it the Key West Creeping Crud, and said it feels like a flu but with no fever. Plus, unlike the flu which hits quickly, (Mistress was down for the count within a couple of hours) this thing creeps up on you slowly – making you feel worse and worse gradually over a couple of weeks.

We’re home now, where it’s cold, cloudy and windy. I’m still coping with the little piece of Margaritaville I absorbed during my visit. I still feel like shit. My head hurts, I’m fatigued. My muscles ache. But I have no fever.

We’re going to go back to Key West again. And we’re going to reserve that room again. But this time I’ll include some ear plugs. I think we’ll go in the summer or spring to make sure we don’t get sick. Hopefully we can do a few photo shoots from there as well so I can share some of the experience.

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Why I Chose Submission

Over the last several years of my life, I’ve had several friends both inside and outside of the BDSM community tell me that I’ve never seemed happier than I do now.

As I’ve written in my book – “Energy and BDSM,” I’ve been “kinky” as far back as I remember. Seriously. Long before I learned why little boys and little girls had different body parts and how babies were made, my young, innocent little mind swirled with macabre images of bondage and torment. Sometimes, I was the tormentor. Other times, I was the one shackled to a wall with an evil woman doing painful and lewd things to me while laughing viciously, and enjoying herself the entire time.

My little, pre-pubescent psyche was, as of yet, unencumbered by sexual understanding, pornography, or masturbatory urges. However, in those strange fantasies of torture and sadism, the consenting victim was consistently naked, emotionally hopeless, and spiritually broken – even though I was too young to have described those psychological states the way I can now. And, the villain would always take some time to focus on the most private and vulnerable parts of their prey, adding to the horror of the suffering captive.

I was also, by nature, the little kid who wanted to help everyone. Doing things for other people simply made me feel good. But, what also made me feel good was adventure and taking chances. Getting myself into situations that frightened me, and then overcoming them, gave me a strong sense of satisfaction – and probably took an extra 10 years off my parents’ lives.

That desire for helping others has followed me throughout my life, evidenced by my career choices and work ethic. I’ve always chosen work that 1) was based on self sacrifice in the interest of protecting or caring for others and 2) had an element of serious risk if mistakes were made. Interestingly enough, those jobs also came with the requirement of being able to control circumstances, other people, and myself.

So, it only seemed natural when I found the first outlet for my unique tastes in my late teens (my girlfriend suggested I tie her up and “have my way” with her) that I took the “Dominant” role. And, I enjoyed it. Having a willing “victim” to ravage was everything I’d imagined it to be. I was quick to understand the responsibility that came with that privilege as well. Entering into the “public” realm of practicing BDSM groups reinforced and enhanced my understanding with concepts like “SSC,” safety techniques, and detailed communication.

It wasn’t long, however, before I asked that she reverse the roles and treat me to some bondage and pain. She reluctantly agreed, and I can say that I understood right away that masochism and being restrained held a far different satisfaction for me that easily rivaled what I got from my sadistic endeavors. I tried to be careful, however, not to push too far because my girlfriend (who later became my wife) was clearly not an enthusiastic sadist. Looking back now, I realize she wasn’t really a sadist at all. Unfortunately, as cautious as I was, I was not always successful in not pushing too far for her – and it did cause some waves in the marriage. We divorced after several years. Not because of the kinky stuff, but due to other factors in daily life.

I spent several years switching. But, it was always with someone who was either primarily a submissive or a switch. And, honestly, I never really “submitted” to anyone. I “bottomed” as a masochist. I still enjoyed topping, and primarily lived that role. A good friend once told me that, having watched me in several scenes and in both roles, that I was the only person she knew whom she would call a “true” switch. She said that it was obvious that I was equally passionate, regardless of which role I was in.

It wasn’t until much later, when I first played with a good friend who was strictly a Domme, that I found something “deeper.” I can honestly say I was nervous going in, because I had convinced myself over the years that I was not a submissive. I enjoyed bottoming and masochism, but the one thing that frightened me the most was letting go of all control, and fully giving into someone else’s desires, with no expectations of what I would get out of the venture. I describe this experience in great detail in my book. But, for brevity here, let me just say that entering into the situation I feared the most is exactly where the magic happened for me.

Yes, we negotiated first. We talked extensively. She had me clearly define my limits, my fantasies, and my fears. Then, once the time and place was set, she made perfectly clear to me that – although she was going to respect my limits and keep me safe – I was going to be there to serve her needs. Any rewards or pleasure I would receive would be fully within her discretion.

Sex and orgasm were off the table. This would be a 100% service, submission, and pain experience for me. When the appointed evening began, I was scared, excited, and determined all at the same time. Once the evening was over and I was curled up at her feet, massaging her calves and marveling at the new universe my head was floating around in – I realized I’d found that utopia I’d daydreamed about so many years ago as a young, innocent, untouched soul. After a few more experiences like that, I realized that surrender and loss of control is what I wanted – and I wanted to experience it as deeply as possible.

After a few years of doing this on a strictly platonic level with sadistic Domme friends, I met Mistress Oasis. It was she that introduced a new ingredient to the mix – love and adoration. I can now say I’m officially addicted. I’m in love with her. I love serving her. I love showing her my appreciation in as many ways as I can each day. But, for me, nothing quite compares to the all-enveloping experience of being bound, stripped of all defenses and rights of protest (except for a safe-word), and hurt … all the time knowing that behind the maniacal, deviant smile of my sadistic tormentor lies a heart that melts a little more with every mark she makes, and every squirming moan she draws out of me.

Yeah, I was a good Top, and a good switch. But, it was in letting go and submitting that I finally found my true fulfillment. I haven’t topped in years and, to be quite honest, I’ve never been happier.

 

Find my books at Amazon.com (Click on the images to go to the book page)

“No Limits”

How much of a “slave” can one be in a consensual relationship?

As I’m bouncing around the internet to market my book, I’m on all the big social sites. I like to browse around looking at other kinky people’s profiles and postings for ideas. Sometimes, I run into someone’s blog and, again, I’ll read through it to get ideas for my own here.

I’m amazed that I keep finding people who pontificate over the concept of total ownership, complete control, absolute and unmitigated submission – and “no safe words.” (No, this will not be a finger-wagging post about safety…read on.)

In the interest of full-disclosure, I chose to call myself “Slave Dragos” because it sounds really cool – a lot better than “Submissive Dragos.” I even start my  book “ENERGY and BDSM” with a very intriguing introduction:
“I lead a life that most only read or hear about in sordid novels or risque movies – I am a male slave.”
In fact, within a few sentences, I clarify that I’m a “submissive” for those who wish to debate such things.

Mistress Oasis refers to me as her “slave.” However, I do have and can use safe-words. My rights, feelings and needs are respected. We even have this dreaded discussion from time-to-time:
“What would you like for lunch, Miss?”
“I don’t know…what are you in the mood for?”
“Makes no difference to me, Miss. Would you like some of that roast beef in the fridge?”
“Why don’t we just order something for delivery.”
“I’d be happy to, Miss…who should I call?”
“I don’t know – what do you what?”

Now, does THAT sound like slavery to you??

But, I still find these musings online by people claiming to be “slaves” and having no rights or say in anything, or by Dominants, “Masters” and “Mistresses” discussing the differences and nuances between a
“submissive” and a “slave.”

I noticed a blog last week by a woman in which the introduction said that this was a blog about her journey as a slave, who had given up everything – family, possessions, her very will to be completely owned by her Mistress. No rights, no limits, and NO SAFE WORDS!

My question would be this: Would anyone of sound mind consciously agree to such an arrangement if they didn’t believe to some extent that this person they are going to give up “everything” for is, indeed, going to respect their physical and mental needs. I mean, seriously, one makes a conscious decision to serve this person for certain <i>reasons<i>. Something about that person is attracting the “slave” to this arrangement. Would anyone truly agree to “give up their will” if they did not expect some psychological reward from the act? Is that “slavery.”

Examining the “No Safe Words” claim of such arrangements, I find even more fantasy rather than rationality. I think most people associate safe words with sadistic activity, the basic rule of thumb being, “If it’s bad pain and not good pain, use your safe word.” However, I can use a safe word (or explanation in plain terms) even to stop non-sadistic activity. One of my staunch hard limits is humiliation in front of others. I absolutely do not wish to be the butt of everyone’s humor, especially when already in the vulnerable state of submission, nudity…everything that comes from being the sub in a scene. In the safety of private play, I truly let myself go and there is little that Mistress Oasis could say or do to me that I wouldn’t embrace if I knew it pleased her. But, that primal part of me is hers, and hers alone to witness and exploit for her
pleasure. So, it is possible for me to safe-word if we were in a public scene and I felt that things were moving toward a humiliation aspect. But, she knows me well enough to never humiliate me in public.  Nor would she want to.

I can see where, if I were a “real slave,” I might not be permitted to change the direction of a scene if it became humiliating. But, why would I be there and endure it if that were the case? Well, I can imagine that, for some, the very notion of enduring something that they genuinely don’t enjoy for the sake of their owner’s pleasure is – in itself – a rewarding experience. Indeed, I think every real submissive has a level of martyrdom in him/her. (By “real” submissive, I refer to the difference between one who submits because
they derive pleasure from pleasing their Dominant versus those who act in submissive ways for their own sexual satisfaction.)

With that established, let’s look at “No Limits” and “No Safe Words” through the prism of physical sadistic activity. Since giving up being a switch, and embracing submission fully, I’ve pushed myself way beyond what I ever thought I could take pain-wise on several occasions. I’ve personally been in that place where the pain is no longer “good,” I’m no longer turned on by it, and it hurts like hell – and yet I consciously and rationally choose not to call a safe word to stop or de-escalate the activity.

WHY?? The answer lies in that connection I have with Mistress Oasis and my love for her. I may be miserable at that time. But, I know that this is the moment where her heart melts and she falls in love with me all over again. Something about seeing me cringing, shivering and quaking – clearly in “endurance” mode – allowing her to strike with all her might, really pushes her buttons, and brings us to a place of deep love and adoration. I want that. So, who am I really a slave to? I believe at that moment I’m a slave to myself, as I’m the one denying myself the rescue that could easily be invoked with a safe-word.

What about the “slave” with no safe word? Are they not in the same head space as I’m in? But now, what happens if the “no safe word” slave realizes that an actual injury has occurred? Are we to believe that these slaves’ expectation is that their owners have the absolute right to continue on with a scene in such a case? And, to say, “Well, my Master would stop if he knew I was injured…” doesn’t really jibe with the whole “no safe-word” theme, does it? Wouldn’t saying ,”Oh SHIT! I think my kidney just ruptured!” or “OW! My right nut just suddenly got really, really painful!” count as “SAFE-WORDS?”

Or, would the “No Limits” slave actually be fine with their owner replying with “Hey, this is what you signed up for. I’m having fun…deal with it.” ??

I’ve also heard the argument, “I obey fully and have no say in anything my Master does, but I know he wouldn’t do anything to really hurt or damage me.” Okay, well that means the “slave” has given up their rights and choices under certain agreed conditions – mainly that Master won’t cross certain lines nor
breach certain limits. OOPS, there’s that pesky “L-word” again! And, if Master does decide to ignore those conditions, what is the “slave’s” recourse. Well, here in the USA, that person ultimately has the right to pack their shit and say “ADIOS.” At that point, if Master endeavors to restrain that person, or prevent their departure, then we have criminal laws to deal with that. Hey, look at how many news stories have surfaced in the last 10 years about women who signed “slave contracts,” and later sued or filed criminal charges against their Master.

I have no problem with anyone who calls themselves “slave,” “submissive,” “bottom,” “kajira,” – whatever. Again, Mistress Oasis and I use “Slave” and “Submissive” interchangably. But, when I see someone figuratively beating their chest as they pontificate on how they are a total slave, with no rights, no safe words, and no will of their own, I cannot help but wonder if they know just how unrealistic their claims are.

My Switch Perspective

One little confession I make in my book “Energy and BDSM” is that I haven’t always been a submissive. I was previously a switch – deriving almost equal pleasure from topping and bottoming, delivering pain and receiving pain. My daydreams and secret thoughts when I was a very young boy revolved around subduing girls, and being subdued myself… hurting girls and seeing their distress, and being tortured by a woman taking gleeful pride in making me cry out in my own pain. I remember reading a passage in a book a long time ago of a woman whom the author knew who said she couldn’t even make love anymore unless someone was being hurt. I knew exactly what that felt like.

When I first stepped into the “community” in my early twenties, I immediately identified as a “Dom.”

But of course! I was a young man, full of testosterone and attitude. I was just a year out of the military, very Alpha male – I had a lot to prove to the world. Certainly, I wasn’t going to be a sub!

I diligently studied safety, aftercare, technique, and mental aspects of being a Dominant. I loved securing my (then) wife to the bed or to eyehooks we had up in the ceiling, and doing all of the deliciously devious things to her I had only fantasized about all through my boyhood.

But all that didn’t quench the masochist in me. The fact was that I always felt a screaming need to be hurt as well. Sometimes, I could convince her to do some of the things to me that I wanted to experience. But it never quite felt “right” having these things done by someone who needed convincing.

Our divorce some four years later opened up new opportunities for me to explore the BDSM world. I spent many years identifying as a “Dom,” then later a switch – but I continued to date submissive women.

I’ve always been self-sufficient. Early on, I’d learned to cook for myself, do my own laundry, and clean an apartment for myself. Hell, I even know how sew in case something gets ripped. Perhaps it’s OCD but I’ve always preferred to do things for myself rather than depend on anyone else to do them for me because, after all, I know exactly how I want it done.

Later, as these submissive women would try to do things around the house for me, I wouldn’t let them, mainly out of feeling as if I was putting them out. I never wanted to be that slob on the couch telling his girlfriend “go get me this” and “go make me that.” If I needed something from the fridge, I was perfectly capable of standing up, and getting it myself. I ironed my own work clothes, and folded laundry. I helped with house cleaning because, hell, why should she be made to do all that?

The fact was, I wasn’t a “Dominant.”

I was a great “TOP.” My play was creative, energetic, even spiritual. I was great at taking control once the scene started, and maintaining it well into the aftercare. But, I was just never any good at sitting back, and letting anyone “do” for me – especially anything I could easily do for myself.

I remember dating a sub who had once been an owned slave – very highly protocoled. The first time she had me over, and made dinner for me, she set the table, and put all the food down, then waited for me to give her permission to sit. She then waited again for permission to eat! I quickly saw this as way too much nonsense, and explained (after about the third time this happened) that I wasn’t “that” kind of Dom and that she was free to sit and eat whenever it suited her.

It wasn’t until later, when I chose to pursue submission (over just being a bottom) that I really understood the “need” for service – actually doing things on a constant basis to reinforce the adoration I have for the one who controls me. What a revelation!

While I have to admit that there is some guilt for not understanding this need in the subs that I dated in the past, I think my experiences as a Top makes me a better submissive in the end. Knowing the kinds of behaviors that I used to enjoy seeing from a sub when I was in charge of things allows me to be less inhibited in front of Mistress Oasis. I’ve also realized the deep satisfaction of letting go of all control – even if just for a few hours – and doing only what I’m commanded and directed. In day to day life, Mistress Oasis prefers that I be somewhat autonomous. Because we run a business, she cannot be harnessed with the responsibility of telling me what to do from one moment to the next. But, when we do take a little time to be fully in our roles, availing myself completely to her whims and desires is like a mini-vacation.

So, yes – through all those years I suppressed the submissive man deep inside of me, I missed out on a lot. But, is was not all in vain. I’m able to apply much of what I learned and experienced as a Top to my submissive life now, and make it absolutely phenomenal.