Day 68

The frustration is at its greatest in the afternoons.  I find that, after the initial waking straining erection, I can easily get through the morning as this is when I tend to perform all of my ‘chores’.  Most afternoons are spent in the garden which gives me time to think.  Thinking tends to focus on the cage.  This is generally caused by my constant movements.

This frustration, and the gardening make my mind wander onto sexual subjects which only increase the frustration.  I don’t remember it being so bad last time (I also have no idea how people can stay locked up for a year) but then I wasn’t writing about it every day either.  Of course, the simple act of writing about my day also increases the frustration.

I’m not saying this is a bad thing.  This feeling of hopelessness is, in itself, very sexual.  It feels a little bit like a very long period of foreplay.  Interestingly, when it comes time for release, the orgasm won’t be ‘amazing’ or ‘the best I’ve ever had’.  Actually, it will probably be a bit below par, given that it will happen quite quickly.  What will be great is the sense of relief.

After the 70 days, I masturbated every day for a while afterwards.  In fact, after coming in the afternoon, I went home and masturbated again.  This is very rare for me.  I think this sudden spate of frequency comes from the fact that I haven’t been able to for so long.  I rather feel for men who are locked up immediately afterwards for another prolonged period. 

At the same time, this is also an exciting thought.  It takes the pleasure away from the man and becomes a mere emptying or milking: a function of the body.  Particularly if it is the result of masturbation rather than penetration. 

I can understand how an orgasm achieved from penetration after a long period of chastity would be fantastic, particularly if the man is ordered to wait by the keyholder.  That unique feeling of being held inside another person, the heat, the pressure…it would be extremely difficult to hold on.

I have also noted that I seem to see more sexual things.  Not because they’re there or even because they’re overly sexual but because my mind is telling me they are.  I wonder if this is the sort of feeling Victorian men went through when they glimpsed an ankle or throat.

Today, for instance, I spent a long time staring at a woman walking in front of me.  She was wearing a flouncy white cotton skirt that was moving with the breeze.  The longer I stared the more convinced I became that I could see through it.  At one point the sun shone through and I realised she had a petticoat on underneath which made it impossible to see anything other than the petticoat!  What a sad old perv I’m becoming.