Disclaimer: No slaves were harmed in the making of this blog post. I hurt a lot and I loved it, but I was not harmed. Consequently, I am closer and more enamored with my Master each day, if that is such a thing.

I’ve posted before about pain. Pain is subjective. What hurts to one pervert may be the most pleasurable experience to the next pervert in line. I guess what I’m getting at is pain isn’t anything special in and of itself, but how that pain is used and interpreted and taken or given can be a beautiful thing. If you have read my pain posts or seen my bright red ass on twitter, then you know I’m a fan, mostly. Well, even when I don’t like it, I like it, if I am being honest.

There are two sides to pain and both sides make the titanium that encases this owned dick attached to me stretch, or at least feel like the titanium is stretching. Part of pain is giving – Part of pain is taking. I like both. (though, admittedly, that part of me about giving it is locked away behind my collar until Sir lets me have my own boy). I like pushing my limits. It is supposed to hurt. Maybe I have a wire crossed or the brain wiring guy was hungover the day my brain was wired. I do know one thing that makes my cage strain is pain. Maybe that was why marathon training was like a drug to me. It hurt, but I fucking loved it.

This weekend, Drew wanted to hurt me (insert disclaimer about the difference between hurt and harm. I may hurt a lot and quite often, but I have never and will never be harmed by my Master). My nipples are quite sensitive, and he knows it. I had been pushed close to my limit and I wanted more. He looks at me and says something I don’t truly remember. The next thing I know, I am offering him my nipple to bite. As my Master’s teeth deliver the pain I had volunteered for, my nipple aches, my teeth clench, my sense receptors are telling my body to pull away from the pain. As he requires, I am silent except for a noticeable change in the force of my breathing.  All that noise people tend to make when they are in pain tends to kind of take away from the shared experience, at least in the world Drew and I share of pain.  That isn’t to say I never make a sound. Attempting to contain that sound just does something for me and it does for my Master, as well (I think the same wiring guy was on duty the day he was wired, as well).  At the same time, my titanium tube is as full as it ever gets and pointing like a street sign indicating there is a sharp left turn ahead.

The pain stops as my Master releases the grip his teeth have on my nipple.  My mind comes back closer to the present time and that fogginess clears some.  As Drew looks at me with those dreamy eyes he nods his head towards my left. Instinctively I offer my left nipple to his beautiful white teeth. GODDAMNIT! I just volunteered twice, basically begged for my Master’s pain. Something about volunteering to take his pain just…I can’t describe it. It brings us closer each time, but I just can’t seem to get close enough to him. Strange as it may be, I want to be closer and closer, but I don’t ever really think I want to be close enough. The truth is, I like trying to get close enough. It is fucking fun. Trying involves things like volunteering to take my Master’s pain and seeing the energy and pride in his demeanor, his eyes, his smile as he hurts me. Also of note, it makes me leak..historically, I have not been much of a leaker, so it excites me.

A few topics are on my mind as I write this. A punishment of sorts involving denial- more than the usual, car shopping, and the mind of my Master. Damn, his mind is so complex and so ahead of my game most times that it should be a post on its own. So I guess it will be. But, these three things are interlaced, but an extra dose of denial is what I have finally landed on here. In a way, denial is a cornerstone of our relationship.  It isn’t THE cornerstone, but my dick (technically it is his, but it is attached to me, which is his, you get the idea) locked in a cage represents a lot to perverts like us.

So, on to the double denial dose of discipline. 

Not long after I wrote a post on my uniform and what all it means to me and represents, I came in from work, stripped, and immediately took my place under Drew’s desk while he finished leading what was probably his 17th zoom meeting of the day. In my zeal to get to my place at my Master’s feet, I had forgotten an important part of my uniform. When his hands touched my neck, my heart sank. I had forgotten my collar. My chest tightened. My eyes even watered. It was not out of fear of punishment, but it was a feeling of disappointment in myself. There was no excuse for it, I just forgot. He saw all of that in my eyes and my demeanor and a swear he smirked.  We both knew there would be punishment and, dammit, my titanium attempted to stretch again.

Fast forward to the punishment part. Drew never mentioned my collar but an hour or two later I was instructed to get my cuffs, the posture collar, and some locks. I had always noticed that he has a U-shaped piece of iron bolted to the floor on his side of the bed, but never gave it too much thought because I know that it is there to prevent a giant, 8’ tall heavy mirror that leans against the wall from sliding. Funny, I had never given that piece of iron much thought, however, that soon changed as I found the D-ring from the now locked posture collar locked directly to said iron piece, leaving my face planted against the hardwood floor. He then locked my hands behind my back and cuffed each of my ankles together. It was a stress position like I had never been in before and, frankly, it hurt as much as it made me hard. I had no choice other than to rest the weight of my body against my face on the floor while Drew reminded me why I was going to be there for an extended period of time. Then, he left me to think. I really didn’t know how long he meant, but I also knew that I had no choice as I did have a price to pay. I should clarify for the sake of safety,  I said he left me, but he’s always very aware of safe play and would actually never do that. Instead, he took a shower, climbed into bed, and watched some TV and did some writing while essentially ignoring me.

It. Felt. Like. Fucking. Forever (and I was so turned on by this new aspect of my slavery).

Finally, Drew got off the bed and went into the upstairs office where I soon heard the digital lock on the closet door opening. Then, I heard chain. I like chain. Drew came in, unlocked my collar from the floor and then promptly padlocked one end of about 4’ of chain to the floor bolt and the other end to the locked posture collar. My hands were still bound behind me and my ankles locked, but I had some freedom as I could walk on my knees as far as the chain would let me. 

As it turns out, Drew made sure that the chain would let me stretch to about 2 inches away from his hard, dripping dick. It was dripping like it does, but it was just out of reach of my mouth. I struggled and strained and stretched to taste my Master. This was fucking denial on steroids and I struggled to wonder whether the bondage or the denial were my punishment. That’s the thing about my Master, his mind knew I would be struggling to decide which I liked better and that is so hot to me. It reminded me that I love not only his mind, his body, his eyes, his smile, but also his taste. I WANTED to taste him, to taste his pre cum, his cock, his body.  I needed it and, god damn, I then fucking begged for it.

It was like a bad boxing match. Drew bobbed and weaved, move left, right, up and down and never once let me taste his dick but I continued to dance as if I could. I fought against the chain holding me in place, my cage protruded and pointed left, as it does, my tongue trying to extend a foot away from my body. Drew was loving this and probably for the first time that I really remember, being denied the taste of cock was a form of punishment I never expected. I just KNEW he would give in and let me taste and touch and then he stepped away and grabbed the key from the table where he laid it. I was seconds away from that taste I wanted. He unlocked my hands and ankles and, as I felt his heavy hand grab my neck and felt the key enter the lock, I almost vibrated off the floor with the anticipation of that dick. That taste. Fuck that taste.

Finally, finally, I felt and heard the lock click and, as he drew near me I felt the heat from his dick coming right at me. He was so close I could almost taste and was so ready when suddenly, I heard his deep, southern growl say “slave, put your toys away, take a shower, then meet us downstairs. You need to drive us to dinner.”

Fuck. I am a lucky slave.

People always talk about how good a man looks in uniform, but I’d be willing to guess the uniform they speak of pretty much consists of some sort of actual clothing.

But, I’ve got rules, you see. Those rules address my appearance – that is my state of dress or undress, in this case. I’ve had people ask about my uniform. So today I talk about my uniform and what it all means.  

My uniform has a few variations. It consists of a collar, my cage, and nothing else during the summer months and skin tight underarmour in the winter. So first, the collar or collars…I have three that identify me. I have a daily wear collar that most people would not notice. It is one of those Road ID bands that runners and other athletes wear. If you know how to decode the inscription it tells you that I belong to Drew. It also lists his contact information in the event I actually am in an emergency and need assistance. Not only does it mark me as owned, but it reminds me he is always with me and looking out for my best interest. It has not been off my wrist in a year. I do have a “going out collar.” It is made by Steelwerks and indicates that I am owned. It is bright and shiny like and I like to think it makes my eyes sparkle a little when I wear it. It is fancy looking and I love to wear it, but my those proprietary S screws make it less than ideal for taking on and off quickly, so it’s reserved for special times as I cannot wear it with most muggles.  The third collar I have has my name on it and contact information for my owner (it is also a Road ID product, a dog collar to be exact). It is the one I am in for most days that require my uniform. It is easy to put on when I walk through the door and take off my clothes. Of course, depending on what tasks we are doing that day, shoes may or may not be needed.

There are rules regarding my uniform.  If I am to be at the house for more than 15 minutes, I am to be in uniform.  Just inside the door, is a rug.  I am to be in uniform if I come off of the rug. Basically my uniform is a collar and me naked, cage included as that is now “just me”. While I have been told that I look amazing by some, we are our own worst critics. There are things about my body that I like and things about my body that I do not like. Fortunately, my Master chooses my uniform, so I don’t have to worry about those things.

For me being naked serves several purposes.  It is pretty damned comfortable and not nearly as itchy as wearing clothes. It is also a signal to my submissive brain as soon as I walk in the door. As I shed my clothes for my proper uniform, I also shed my days stresses.  I can focus on what is important, and it helps me to be truly present with the man who means so much to me.  Being naked and in my collar has helped me to be a better man, slave, boy, boyfriend, and, well, even a dad. It helps me to accept me for me. It reminds me that I am owned. It is good for me, and it makes my Master happy. Being a man in uniform consisting of nothing but a collar and a permanent grin is a happy place for me. I’ve come to grow more and more comfortable being naked, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Now I have been asked a few questions and here are my responses:

Are there times you wish you had clothes on and couldn’t?

I’m pretty comfortable being without clothes. I have sunblock and blankets as needed.

Have others outside of Drew and Axel seen you naked and collared?  How was it? If not, what would you think about it if it did happen?

The answer is yes and no. There are plenty of pictures on my social media which show me naked and collared. So yes, people have seen me. Generally speaking, most of those people I don’t know. The ones that I do know, well they are in the know, you know? Again, I’m pretty comfortable with being naked. I don’t have a problem with others seeing me that way. So when it happens in real life, I don’t foresee it being an issue. That being said, the house is a fortress along with the back yard. If anybody sees me naked outside of Axel and Drew there, it isn’t an accident.

I see you are often plugged.  Is that part of your uniform?

The plug isn’t part of my uniform. However, I am plugged at some point each day.

Before being owned, were you naked much?

Before being owned, I was naked some. I mean everybody sleeps naked, don’t they? I wasn’t parading around the house naked for the most part, but there is always room for growth.

Pull out your diagrams and organizational charts. Axel is Drew’s number one. I’m number two to Drew. He’s my number two, and my teen is my number one. I suppose I’m not really anybody’s number one, though I hope I am my teen’s number one, but I am definitely a number two and a number three. It sounds much more confusing than it is but the whole summation of this is that I am quite okay with being the third in this relationship. In fact, I love it.

So there have been questions about what it is like being the person who is the third person in an already committed marriage. It’s different than any other relationship I’ve had before. Drew and Axel just celebrated 23 years together and, within days, it will have been year since I met a man for lunch. A man with a beautiful titanium encased dick and those eyes we have talked about. A man who, at the time, I had no idea I would call Master.

Shortly thereafter I met his husband. His handsome husband with the deep brown hair and equally deep brown eyes that look at you like you can tell him any secret without worry. While I did meet this man while naked and bound by Drew – a gift wrap of sorts for Axel – it felt right and soon I would call him Daddy, as he is just such a Daddy in all the right ways.

This past year, despite everything that is wrong with the world, has been personally been my best one yet. 

What these two have given me is acceptance beyond anything I have ever had before. What they have taught me is that it is okay to be me. I have not one, but two amazing men who are always there for me. As it just so happens, if one isn’t available the other usually is. They have shown me unconditional love. They have given me the gift of knowing that being me, truly me, is fucking amazing. I have two fucking amazing men to share that with.

See, it is perfectly imperfect and far from perfectly smooth.

There was one time I remember when I was deserving of a punishment and Axel was giving me a rubdown on the massage table because that is what Daddy does. Drew wasn’t thrilled.

Then, there was once an issue about where I sit to eat my dinner or how I was dressed (or not) for dinner, once or twice (Axel doesn’t love naked dining).

I still wonder how to introduce them to people. Most wouldn’t understand that this is my Master and my Daddy. Friends, is the word I use for the boring world- which in some way pisses me off these two are so much more than friends. Drew calls me his best friend. I do the same. Luckily in a locked down world we don’t see many people. Ha.

On the other hand, I spent the day with them today. We did some necessary things around the house. Drew and I made the weekend Target and Costco runs. I spent part of the day between the two of them. Spanked, paddled, flogged by both. A mixture of pain and pleasure and the three of us just being who we truly are. That’s a freedom that most people will never experience. It’s incredible sex without actual sex.

My attempt at a more traditional relationship was probably the most miserable I’ve ever been. I got my teen from it, but that’s about all. I think if you knew me before this past year you’d notice the difference these two have made in my life. People have, It is more than just a shiny metal dick and amazing sex. It is the weekend Target runs and discussions about the merits of different toilet tissues. It is the knowing that I am never alone in anything. Ever.

So being the third seems like the best place for me. Drew is the number two best thing that has ever happened to me. Turns out being his number two is way better than being anybody’s number one, in my opinion. 

Being number three is in no way being third place. Trust me.

(Drew has indicated that he is going to post from his side of this soon – so stay tuned).

The discussion started with something like, “I think I need to unlock.”  I felt like I had been kicked in the balls (well, my left ball to be exact), and something just didn’t feel right.  I had dad duties to take care of this afternoon that I was not particularly looking forward to handling, and I tend to handle those situations better, I think, with a locked dick.  Regardless, the last thing I wanted to do was unlock.

I don’t like being unlocked.

After discussion, I was ordered to unlock to check things out, handle the things I needed to handle, and lock back up later that evening- assuming all was well.  I just wanted to take a quick look and see if things were okay.  Honestly, I was a bit disappointed that I was told to wait until later to lock back up.  However, my left nut is a little bit sore, so I know that my Master was right in telling me to do so….not that I questioned it.  I also know that he has my best interest in mind.

So some thoughts about an unlocked dick that I don’t own….

Part of why I like having my cock locked is because that Steelwerks looks so fucking amazing.  I love looking in my pants and seeing that beautiful chunk of shiny titanium.  A boy gets used to that.  In comparison, the dick attached to me seems a bit mediocre and not nearly as shiny.  Even with a shiny barbell protruding from it, it is still quite lackluster.  

Mentally, I don’t like being unlocked without my Master physically close to me. You see, that shiny titanium represents a lot of things to me.  (If you haven’t figured out I’m a bit of a sap, you are about to). Every time I look down and see that shiny metal encasing my dick I’m reminded that I’m unconditionally loved. I’m reminded that I’m owned. I’m reminded that I’m someone’s number two.  I’m reminded how much I love Drew and Axel and how they make me a better man, a better father and just so much better at all aspects of my life. God damn.. I love everything it represents.  I think about those things every single time I see it, feel it, feel this dick pressing against the inside of that tube. In some weird sense, I feel a little like I might be forgotten if there isn’t a cage in my pants and around my dick. Today has been a busy work day for both of us, and I do miss our random throughout the day chats, but those didn’t happen as much today and I know it only has to do with the fact that we both have to actually work and all day everyday can’t possibly a kinky BDSM fest (sorry if that let you down…Santa isn’t real, either). I know that being forgotten because there is no metal around this slave’s dick is the farthest thing from the truth, but it does’t mean that thought didn’t cross my mind.  If he could reach me where I am sitting now, I’m sure I’d get one of the NCIS Gibbs style slaps across the back of my head.

Physically, I don’t know if my dick has always been this sensitive or not. However, I notice every move I make as the liner in my shorts touches my dick or my barbell moves. I mean, it has been a LONG time since I have actually experienced an orgasm (9 months ago today in fact – Dec 25, 2020). The thought crosses my mind, but it quickly dissipated as I laughed, “It isn’t Christmas, duh.  I wouldn’t disappoint my Master like that (part of me wonders what the punishment might entail, but I don’t want to find out).  He knows he can trust me not to break that bond.  More than that, the fact that I can be trusted is better than any possible not allowed orgasm I might ever imagine. Of that, I am absolutely certain. I will be locked back up shortly and my world will be right again. I have a feeling all of those sappy feelings and the shininess of the metal will no doubt make it difficult to shove myself back into that tube, and that makes this pervert smile.  

On of the things I remember reading about before I was a slave and when, at that time, I could never even see myself submitting to a man, was that a slave should never make eye contact with his superior. I always thought that sounded weird but it did make sense, I think. However, as you know, Drew doesn’t think of me as “less than” so, for us, eye contact is actually very important. Let me explain…

As cliché as it may sound, it is said that a person’s eyes are the windows to the soul.  A long time friend has always told me that my eyes are such a dark brown that they are almost black.  Basically, he interpreted that as meaning I was full of shit or maybe demonic.  I’d like to think that if eyes truly are the windows to the soul, my eyes tell a deeper story than that.

On my mental list of super intense swoon-inducing intimate things, looking into someone’s eyes is near the top as one of the most intimate things that a person can do, especially when it comes to Drew.  Yesterday was a very normal day, well as normal as it gets for slave with a locked dick and a plugged hole. My Master and I took care of some around the house repairs while Daddy worked at his office with Saturday patients.  We got the shutters hung back up, the light fixture in the hallway bathroom repaired and a few other miscellaneous items checked off of the weekend chore list.  We washed his car. We planted some things and, then, we trimmed some trees in the back. I was later instructed to choose one of the switches to be used on my unusually not red nor sore ass. I was thrilled. Choosing a switch is something I always remembered from movies when I was growing up or books I read. However, yesterday,  in retrospect, I realize that I knew the the switch I chose would be painful but my eager, straining titanium dick overrode sound logic.  However, it made my Master happy, and I have the still stinging marks to show for what I have decided was either an excellent choice or quite a poor choice.  The jury is still out on that one.

As the day continued and Daddy arrived home from work, we settled in for a little down time.  Usually on days like this, after a spanking, Axel likes to be tender and  nice and usually lets me up on the couch with him so he can help soothe my ass or relax my muscles. Normally, Drew looks somewhat discussed about me being comforted (I am kidding) and sits on the other side of the room with his Master, aka his work Macbook, and just glances at us with a smirk that says the equivalent of “get a room”. Yesterday was different as Drew came and sat with us and the two of them held me while discussing, as if I wasn’t even there, about whether or not having pain and pleasure at the same time was a mindfuck for me. As I spent time with Drew and Axel, my gaze kept returning to my Master’s eyes. This happens often, even in conversation about the most mundane things in our lives. They are beautiful…why any man wouldn’t want to just gaze dreamily into them, I don’t know.  For us, in particular, eye contact conveys many things and serves multiple purposes.  For one, it lets my Master know I am focused on him. At times I can feel a tangible contact when we look into each other’s eyes.  I really fucking feel it.  I see his wheels turning.  They have a certain look to them when he is proud of me, happy with me, impressed by me, or even irritated by me, or, fucking pissed with me, all without saying a single word. I would even go as far as often his expression doesn’t change, but something about his eyes conveys these things. Oh, btw, when he’s hurting me (not harming me), they have a look, too. I know why he is so good with his job because apparently his audiences just watch only his eyes. 

Actually, our eye contact was never part of our rules or requirements, it just became part of all of this that we are and has evolved slightly to have some rules. As a slave, my only rule concerning eye contact is that I must never break eye contact first. I can only think of one time that happened, and I honestly didn’t realize it…my eyes may have been unconsciously rolling into the back of my head – but I paid later. So, our eye contact conveys a range of emotions and feelings.  It holds some sort of tangible feeling across a room at times.  It can even put me into a submissive headspace without even a word.

That eye contact communicates so much without a word.  It encourages me. It tells me I am cared for, and so much more. It helps me to endure some painful times that I wouldn’t otherwise feel I could handle- physically, mentally, and emotionally. I can feel the contact in my body when our eyes meet.  So without any physical touch, I can feel him, communicate with him, and know so much about him.  Our eye contact allows us to be who we truly are unconditionally even out in the boring day to day world.  There may be so much going on around us, but when our eyes meet, the world tends to stop for me.  I can slow things down, process things, be vulnerable to him, and know that I am loved.  

All that, but the absolute most important thing our eye contact tells me is that I am valued, appreciated, and absolutely respected as the slave I have become. I have zero shame in my slavery and, if I every did, there is a pair of bright blue/green eyes to remind me that slavery makes me a special man in the eyes of my Master.

(And did I mention he’s got fucking beautiful eyes?)

Note from Drew: Another post by boy Jack. Stay tuned for some design changes which should eliminate the need for this note.

Who’s a Good Boy? Spoiler alert – it’s me.

I’m sitting here during my supervised (via text, pictures and FaceTime) deep clean and soak of my titanium dick….  I mean, it has to be done for hygienic purposes, unfortunately… my mind wanders a bit.  I forget how how sensitive this flesh dick attached to my body actually is, and I wonder if it always felt this way or not.  Anyway, that is another topic that might require revisiting around Christmas some year.

Back to the supervision during my cleaning.  Is it the supervision really necessary?  Yes and no is the complicated answer to that.  The supervision itself isn’t necessary.  As much as I’d love to have an orgasm that I’m actually conscious of, it isn’t allowed without permission. That is permission that I have not been granted.  You see there is something you might not know about me, but I am a good boy.  My Master tells me that on a regular basis, so I know it to be true.  Regardless of my status of being good or not, the supervision is required because the dick attached to me doesn’t really belong to me.  I mean you wouldn’t let somebody else just do what they pleased with your exotic, one of a kind, sports car would you?  Of course not. This other person just couldn’t possibly treat it the way you would treat it because it doesn’t belong to them.  You might let them take if for a test drive, but I know damn well that you’d be in the passenger seat supervising said test drive, even if you know them to be a “good” person.

There is a connection to being a Good Boy in there somewhere.  Just go with it.  That term, Good Boy, carries a lot of meaning behind it.  I hear that term often when my Master is pleased with me.  I am sure that is no different from any other dom/sub or other such type of arrangement elsewhere.  It is not anything that is necessarily extremely unique or new.  All three of us have a mutual friend who is a slave and  he hears that term from me when he deserves it, and I am sure he hears it from Axel and Drew, too.  It is a common term, but when my Master says it to me, it means so much more.  When you are owned by someone like I am, it isn’t just a term of endearment.  

You’re thinking, “Okay, you’re a good boy…..get to the fucking point.”  When he tells me I’m a good boy (in addition to the swooning and attempted titanium stretching) I know several things to be true.  In no particular order, I know that he is happy with me.  I know he loves me.  Inside the lock that he had made for my collar is an inscription that only one other person has seen besides Drew, Axel, and myself (and he made it).  When he calls me good boy, he may as well be calling me by that name.  It makes my knees a little weak, to be quite honest.

So here I am, with a Master who is happy with me and loves me, swooning, attempting to stretch titanium, and weak kneed, and I know just what I mean to him when he tells me again that I am a Good Boy and rubs my head.  If I were a dog, you would hear my tail thumping the ground at that very moment (and maybe a bark of excitement.  Given the timing of the term’s use, it ALWAYS helps to flip that submissive switch just a little bit more.  It never fails to help get me in that headspace.  In some way, it lets me be the owned pervert that I am and be accepting of myself, truly me- maybe for the first time ever.  It also means that I am unconditionally accepted by him.  Drew knows me unlike any other person on this planet.  There is a lot to be unpackaged here, and yet he still unconditionally accepts ALL of me <insert swoons, titanium stretching, etc, etc).

The point of all of this?  I am a Good Boy.  I love it when he tells me so.  It means so much more than I did a good job.  I means that I am cherished by my owner.  It means that am free to be truly myself.  It means that I am unconditionally loved , cared for, and accepted.  It means that I unconditionally love, care for, and accept my Master and my Daddy.  It reminds me of the bond Drew, Axel, and I have.  It means, well, it means the fucking world to me.