Sunday, November 22, 2020

'Surrendering Maleness' published

 I have published a sequel... following 'Keyholder' and 'Denial'

"Surrendering Maleness', 34,800 words. $4.88.

Female Dominant, male submissive


Saturday, November 7, 2020

'Denial', Segment Three

This will be the last posted segment.



Days after my milking, with hormone levels restored, I need exercise, quelling the craving for climactic release that will never come.

To the gym, always attired in the tight pink shorts, I wave to my keyholder Miss Elizabeth and find an isolated treadmill machine, my attire always giving rise to mocking glances. As I begin my workout I think of the forthcoming Sunday. It will be the first of the month... a predawn workout with Miss Elizabeth restraining my wrists, unlocking my penis, pressing home the egg shaped anal insertion and supervising as I both exercise and pump away the nasty sludge.  

Feet pounding, I do the first mile as quickly as I can. Then as the program goes to cool down mode, the pace a little faster than a quick walk, Miss Elizabeth approaches.

“I’ll stretch you at 8:00 p.m. You’ll be nude for me of course. But we’ll need to talk. The Sunday morning thing... I’m tiring of it. It’s a pain getting up that early.”

Yes, as I have realized of late, Miss Elizabeth is losing the enthusiasm for presiding over me... me and my emancipated penis. Still I must protest.

“But how will I...”

“You won’t. You don’t need to shave there any more. And if you just lather up the steel cage while taking a shower it will be clean enough. So there’s no reason to unlock you.”

The callous words bring to mind Miss Monique’s analogy... her course of action akin to tearing the wings off an insect. No empathy!

“And the key? I can have it?”

“Of course not Mr. Partland, that would empower you... and Monique Von Buren advised that should never happen. I’ll give some thought about what to do with it,” a hand going to the blue lanyard about her neck and palming to jubilantly show the odd shaped key. 

Miss Elizabeth steps away, leaving me to my thoughts. I mull over the recent milking session with Miss Monique... and the offer to have me conditioned... the release of nasty sludge without hardening for her... and without the need for benumbing ice. Thus assuring there would be no reason to ever again be unlocked for purposes of hormonal release and prostate health. Yet why not have Miss Elizabeth return the key to my former keyholder... then there would be no reason to endure the conditioning.        

With the treadmill slowing, to an idle walk, I better focus... realization dawning. As much as I find perverted joy in submitting to a woman’s tutelage, hours of the day wondering if full ecstatic climax will ever again come, the women who control my libido have needs as well. Miss Monique makes a good living possessing so many keys, guiding the ultimate... if ever allowed... pleasure of so many males. But certainly there is a more mundane and perhaps more lucrative manner of making a living for a woman of her refinement. 

And Miss Elizabeth, so young but not so much allowing herself to enter the quirky world of feminine control, but instead eagerly immersing herself... to the point that even as ennui has crept into our rendevous of nude stretching, she’ll not consider relinquishing the key to he who is in most desire.

Yes, the women of governance have needs as well. With that notion there comes more realization... subconsciously I have been as eager to meet their needs as they meeting mine.   

Miss Elizabeth is to decide what to do with my key... not I... the submissive masochist who has so willingly surrendered.

The preprogrammed exercise routine ends. Knowing the wet pink spandex of my tight shorts... transformed to a bikini bottom in riding into the crack of my ass... now perfectly outlines the steel mesh of my cock cage, I grab my towel and wrap it about my waist.

Time for stretching... time to visit the aerobics room... time to disrobe... time to submit... time to pose... time to feel the burn of outlandish tension on tendons forced to accede to a woman’s bidding.   


I sit, thighs well parted, feet well to the right and left, close to forming a straight line with my shoulders, back arched. Of late, adding to the stress, hands to the back of my head as always, but bent arms as high as possible, elbows back... “further, further, now hold...” Miss Elizabeth’s young authoritative voice directing.

She stands to my front, looking to see fluid already beginning to slither to the mat, satisfied that the challenging pose awakens the pubo coccygeus muscles and that the reproductive system of this chaste male humbly weeps under her auspices. Then she moves to gather my clothing, keeping my towel at the ready should there be an interloper.

I hear the room door behind me open and close and know that once again there is no covering should there be a sudden urge for modesty, only my towel... to be offered at her whim.

In returning, Miss Elizabeth stands behind, the flesh of her bare thighs enticingly pressed to my back.

“I’ve spoken to Monique,” her arms lowering over my shoulders, hands going to my chest, tightened pectoral muscles thrusting forth my male mammary glands. “Kept her apprized of your continued obedience and discipline.”

Fingers going to my nipples, the girl is inherently aware that the neglect of male organs leads to inordinate sensitivity. As she leans, the blue lanyard, color matching my tattooed scrotum, slips from about her neck, grazing my folded hands, the attached key temptingly hanging at my right ear.

Shall I grab it and dash away? The fear of never again being unlocked brings desperate thoughts. In further reflection I realize the return of my clothing would be in jeopardy... only a towel left for covering... should I be able to wrest it from her strong hands.          

“She told me she has offered to condition you... to achieve orgasm without the need for the key.”

Yes, I am wont to explain... a ruined orgasm... dribbling the nasty sludge from a penis untouched and remaining encased in steel... no ecstatic ejaculation. There would be no manly eruption!

Not being privy to the full relationship... all that was exchanged... I decide to remain silent and listen.

“Guess you’d essentially be impotent... soft and limp all the time,” Miss Elizabeth suppressing a girlish giggle... the wings coming off more insects. “So she wouldn’t need the key back... told me the best way to convince you of the need for conditioning would be to toss it away.”

Stunned, I lurch. With Miss Elizabeth’s proximity she feels my paroxysmal response, giggle now fully forthcoming.

Then comes more shocking cerebral input... I hear the room door open... a visitor enters unseen behind me.

“Stay,” Miss Elizabeth commands in feeling me begin to rise in panic.

“More stretching. He’s such a good boy.”

The pleasant voice is that of the aerobics instructor. Last week being a few minutes early and interrupting just at the end of our session, this week she is a full thirty minutes early. It cannot be happenstance.

“Good evening, Joan,” Miss Elizabeth equally pleasant, seemingly inviting the woman to join us.

Fortunately the towel is again tossed to my front, covering my pubes, my blue balls, my steel cock cage, and the small but rapidly growing puddle of viscous fluid. Still I close my eyes, my nakedness, my pose of submission bringing shame. In hearing soft footsteps on the exercise mat, I know the woman has moved to my front, no doubt visually inspecting much more leisurely than last week’s encounter, more composed in basically being aware that I awkwardly submit myself to such exposure.

“Don’t let me interrupt. Aerobics class doesn’t begin until nine... but I’m still to learn what the towel is covering. You don’t stretch him completely nude, do you Liz?”

“Well you’ve made Joan curious, Robert. Curious enough that she’s made a special visit to watch me work you... see you perform for me. Want to show her?”

I think of Miss Monique’s suggestion... more or less a command... that I expose myself... explain my predilection... my need... to cede control of my sexuality. ‘Share with her in detail the full extent of your quirky needs. Maybe her opinion of you as a creep will change.’

“You may lower your hands now Robert. You’ve stretched enough. Then you can decide if you want to show yourself to Joan.”

And explain in full detail the extend of my quirky needs? I ask myself as my arms lower and I grasp the terrycloth.

I look up into the handsome face. Gym attire somewhat detracts from natural beauty... make up impractical. But as one can expect, the Joan woman is in shape, tights clinging to well honed legs, buttocks sculpted, breasts of possible size compressed by a tight sports bra. Her dark brown hair is drawn back in a pony tail, offering a youthful appearance despite her thirty something age.

She is vibrant, as one would expect of a woman leading rigorous exercise classes. I cannot help thinking that the same perkiness which brought trainer Elizabeth Doyer to shrug off my depraved needs and find interest in feminine power and control may enure to aerobics instructor Joan as well. Thus there comes a gambit... will pulling away the towel give rise to shock and disdain... or will the woman find a similar level of interest... as with Miss Elizabeth stepping into my need for training and conditioning... eventually leading to the possession of my key... well... a controlling woman’s key. 

Yet there’s a telling element about this second encounter. Instructor Joan holds cradled in her arms my clothing, gym shoes atop, which she gathered from the hall outside the room. There is a subtle message. On this evening I will not be dressing myself in the corner, the view of my naked hairless form... most importantly blue scrotum and steel cock cage... graciously shielded by Miss Elizabeth. 

“I... ah... well... it’s difficult to explain... ah... how Miss Elizabeth... ah... helps... with... certain needs.”

  “Just show her, Robert. It will explain itself.”

Obedience ingrained, I slip away the towel, quickly mopping up my puddle in so doing. Instructor Joan peers down as I focus on her expression. 

Shock?.. disgust?.. laughter? Perhaps I should be comforted in noting her look of amusement. She places down my clothing then quietly folds her arms, slipping forth her foot. The toe of her athletic shoe pushes aside the tip of my cock cage, better exposing the compressed blue ball sac beneath. Amusement transforms to a knowing grin as she looks up to Miss Elizabeth remaining standing over my shoulders. A hand moves past my face, grasping the blue lanyard, removing from about Miss Elizabeth’s neck. Then the key is dangled before me... before instructor Joan... silently responding to the unasked question.  

“Cute Liz,” instructor Joan’s hand reaching and taking the lanyard. “It matches his balls,” the light blue indeed identical to the shade of my tattooed scrotum. “A submissive... capitulating to a controlling woman. And here I thought Mr. Partland was just a creep.”

Saturday, October 31, 2020

'Denial', sequel to 'Keyholder', Segment Two

Tabled, I comply with the demanded protocol, feet well to the right and left, aligned with my shoulders as my legs part to the extreme, back arched, hands to the back of my head, elbows drawn back and held high as Miss Elizabeth has mandated of late. My encased male package dangles in the gap of the open table. Miss Monique stands before me, arms akimbo, gazing at my blue ball sac compressed by the control ring of my chastity device.

She has placed a bowl on the floor beneath me, knowing prostatic fluid will begin to slither from the tube inserted in my urethra. She simply watches for a few moments. For some reason I know to remain silent as she revels in the joy of feminine power.

“So... the first Sunday of the month... when your anus is stuffed and you drain yourself on the treadmill. That was three weeks ago.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”   

“You struggled when I put you on a ten day cycle. Monthly must be very hard for you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“But your ability to pose for me is much enhanced. Your trainer has been strict.”

“Yes, ma’am,” glancing down to see that I am indeed beginning to ooze.

Noting the same, Miss Monique steps forth, an arm extending, a finger going to my cock cage, gathering a dollop of viscous fluid. She rolls it about on her thumb and forefinger as if to proclaim ownership, then raises her hand to my mouth. I know to lick clean her digits.

“I can milk you, Robert.... massage that neglected prostate. But you’ll need to stay flaccid... or bear quite a bit of pain. Attempts at erection mean sensitive penile flesh fighting tempered stainless steel.”

Yes, I realize that, wondering if I can indeed make the sacrifice in order to rid myself of the build up... calm the jitters. Then I also realize how my expectations have so drastically transformed... at one time hoping to feel the ecstasy of full orgasm in being relieved... now I hope not to feel anything at all.    

“I have needs, Miss Monique,” my tone pleading.

“Yes... physical needs... but emotional as well. In ceding to being milked you’re surrendering what the male... the alpha male... expels with pride and vigor. You will meekly dribble in my bowl. It’s meaningful to you... degradingly parting with your precious essence,” Miss Monique’s words coming as she strolls to the refrigerator.

There she extracts ice, returning with a plate full and a pump bottle of unguent... a glorious bottle of unguent.  

“So here’s what we’ll do. Your bladder is full, augmenting your need to harden for me. I will penetrate your rectum and massage your prostate... bring even more need to tumefy. You will thus need to concentrate and stay soft... or pay the consequences. And you can beg for some ice. Your semen will be expunged in numbness, Robert... even more unmanly.

“But there is no key. There can be no climactic release. That is not to happen.” 

Miss Monique makes a show of lubricating her hands, pumping a fragrant lotion, reaching to playfully smear some on my upper lip, my nostrils filling with the scent of peaches.

She begins, stepping forth, one hand palming my blue ball sac, lifting, fingers kneading my perineum. The other hand slips further under, finding my anus, swirling about to bring a brisance of joy, then wriggling inward.

“After you’ve discharged, hormones better balanced, we’ll talk... about more conditioning. You’ll need to learn to become impotent, Robert... no erections. You may as well once and for all cede that... the ability to perform penetrative sex. It will never again happen... and you may seriously injure yourself in trying... fighting the steel. Such futility. End it Robert... stay nice and soft for the woman in charge. It will be better for you.” 

I close my eyes, reveling in the faint joy of prostate massage, but indeed feeling myself engorge, swelling penis challenging the cage... and of course bringing discomfort which for sure will turn to agony. 

Yet the solution... to condition myself to stay soft... limp... flaccid... no masculine exhibitions of virility... potential virility. Can that happen?.. do I want that to happen? But then my masochistic psyche clicks in... does my keyholder want that to happen?  


I drive home in deep thought, physically quiescent but mentally in a funk.

As Miss Monique... many years as a professional keyholder... predicted, it required little of her deft prostate massage to have me begging for benumbing ice. My penis fought... and of course lost... blossoming... trying to blossom... to full bloom within the confines of precision made German steel.  

Iced, I maintained my pose, looking to see the flow of prostatic fluid turn creamy white, fingers relieving me of my sperm... my nasty sludge. Perhaps more horrifying than the initial pain was the lack thereof... nothing felt at all... as my gland and vessels were expertly milked... and milked... and milked... a thick stream exiting the catheterizing urethral tube. 

Thereafter, bladder brimming, Miss Monique completed the humiliation, encouraging me to empty myself into a waiting bucket as the fingers of one hand toyed with my right nipple. Her touch was joyous, my sensory system undergoing a form of transference in being so numbed below. I opened, but then in mid stream her free hand lowered, returning to my perineum to playfully press, knowingly curtailing the flow, her rare smile evidencing feminine delight in controlling such an intimate process. Then she released my flow and after a moment once again pressed to bring havoc and demonstrate her power. 

The funk? Her suggestion... akin to a command... that I am to request a more thorough introduction to the aerobics instructor in completing my next stretching and exercise session with Miss Elizabeth.

‘You’ve piqued her curiosity, Robert. Share with her in detail the full extent of your quirky needs. Maybe her opinion of you as a creep will change. Tell your trainer you want to exhibit yourself. You know you do.’

Do I?

More funk in Miss Monique’s suggested conditioning... the ability to stay flaccid... sans icing... as my prostate is manipulated. 

‘I can train you to take delight in achieving a ruined orgasm while caged, Robert. You’ll be as limp as noodle... no discomfort... just the distant nirvana that boys like you come to crave... must learn to crave... in that nothing more is ever granted.’

Basically, the conditioning will quash any normal sex life. My blue testicles will be difficult enough to explain, but the inability to harden? Even released from my cock cage there would be no dating. I will be impotent... conditioned to stay soft... so why bother?

I am assured I will feel the twinges... and such will come with simple prompts... the sight of lubricated massaging hands and fingers... the sound of an authoritative woman’s voice... the lotion smelling of peaches... but there will come no erection. Miss Monique guarantees it. 

So much to think about... but to consider without the frustration of hormonal overflow and the resulting jitters... at least for the next two or three days.

I truly am spent, Miss Monique fastidious in her finger work. Gratefully I will sleep tonight, no nocturnal penile tumescence.

Saturday, October 24, 2020

'Denial', sequel to 'Keyholder', Segment One

The sequel to 'Keyholder', available from Lulu, 29,600 words, $4.88.

There will be limited snippets.




(sequel to Keyholder)

Copyright 2020

by Chris Bellows


"She’s very cruel, Miss Monique, you know for a girl so...”

“So young. Yes, sort of like when children tear the wings off insects. Not much empathy... it seems to come as one matures.”

“Yes, well... you know... maybe I could... ah... visit...”

“I have no key, Robert. You know there are no duplicates and the arrangement is for your trainer to hold it. Elizabeth is now in charge of your penis,” the word for the male appendage enunciated with disdain.

Yes, and assuring my nasty sludge is expelled, as Miss Monique is given to term the seed of life.

I pause in thought. In not being aware of the terms of the agreement by which the eighteen year old physical therapist Elizabeth... now nineteen... acquired that which controls my libido, a scheme to intercede, change, end the arrangement is impossible to promulgate.

“But you may stop in... if it will make you feel better,” the words heartening. “And you know what to bring with you. Tomorrow evening. Meanwhile don’t bother attempting to pick the lock. It’s German engineering.”

Miss Monique hangs up. My spirits are lifted. Curious, looking forward with such glee in once again submitting myself to the auspices of professional keyholder Miss Monique Von Buren. She is strict and exacting. But for a man... boy in her forty something mind... of my ilk such brings odd comfort.   

 So the next day I drive to the unassuming suburban home of my former keyholder. She comes to the door promptly. In allowing entry I note as always she is primly attired, white blouse of silk or satin, pencil skirt of dark blue. She gestures to a chair and I sit, knowing to wordlessly place her stipend of one hundred dollars on a nearby armoire.

Miss Monique momentarily disappears into the kitchen and returns, glass of wine for her, tall glass of water for me.

During the many weeks under her tutelage, her protocol demanded that my bladder be filled, augmenting erection when finally unlocked. I have not the wherewithal to inquire why I am to imbibe when penile emancipation is not possible.

“So I understand you have concerns, Robert. But such is the life of a masochist held in strict chastity. Deep within, having concerns is what makes you happy... keeps your mind properly subordinated. Drink up and talk to me.”

I take a long draw... and I do... talk to professional keyholder Miss Monique Von Buren...

Trainer Elizabeth Doyer, in initially bargaining for my key with enthusiasm, has become aloof over the many months... nearly a year... of holding that which both physically and emotionally controls the male.

I explain how I have undergone laser hair removal about my groin, obviating the weekly need for release and shaving. 

I explain that the stretching, enabling me to assume the ungainly pose of a split, has continued... in the nude... and that a horrifying incursion occurred of late with the aerobics instructor learning of my training when she ‘unexpectedly’ arrived early for the 9:00 p.m. class. She was amused in viewing my humble nakedness as I obediently stretched. 

I explain that ultimate release is now monthly... the first Sunday... meeting Miss Elizabeth at the gym before dawn... stripping naked... wrists restrained to the treadmill... fervently going through the paces of a brisk workout as, cock cage removed, a vibrating anal insertion drains me... nasty sludge slowly oozing. 

I explain that Miss Elizabeth has mandated that nothing ever touch my penis other than the steel mesh of the cock cage. And that prostate manipulation only comes with the insertion of the remote controlled device.

“And how it is you’re cleaned... after expelling your effluent?” Miss Monique interrupts.

“Spray bottles and a hair dryer,” I succinctly respond. “In the gym locker room, wrists remaining cuffed, she sprays warm soapy water to clean, ice cold water to rinse and assure I am limp, then uses the hair dryer. Nothing touches me... there.”

My words bring me to recall the ritual milkings at Miss Monique’s behest. After expelling, my softening penis became a cow’s udder, her fingers attentively pinching and pulling downward to assure the ‘nasty sludge’ was well rid. I never thought I would miss such frustrating handling... now I so much do. 

“That is rather extreme, Robert. I can see why you’re fidgeting. But perhaps it is best for you.”

What is it I can say? I need release more often... and certainly more sensuously... something touching me there other than tantalizing sprays of warm water!

“I’d like to... well... have my key.”

“That won’t happen Robert. It is not your key. It belongs to a supervising woman. The agreement is for Elizabeth to return it to another keyholder if she tires of you. There’s a sort of pact... among women who enjoy denial... the key is never to fall into the hands of the weak. You need a strong woman, Robert. It is best for you.”

With that Miss Monique takes my empty glass. To the kitchen she returns with it again filled.      

“So many gym visits... cold showers. Going a month must be very difficult for you,” her hand signaling to drink up.   

I drink in thought. It’s not difficult... it’s impossible. I explain that I am losing sleep, the nocturnal penile tumescence bringing nightly agony.

“Have you tried anal stimulation, Robert? Perhaps acquire your own vibrating egg... and discharge to settle your hormones.”

“But I’m caged. To harden is to suffer. Why can’t I just be allowed to masturbate!” my voice trembling in need.  

“A woman controls that... just as you need to submit... just as deep within that demented psyche of yours presses you to so desire. Remember it is you who requested to have your scrotum tattooed... in deference to a woman’s caprice. No other reason to have it done other than to announce to all your need for feminine authority. What did the aerobics instructor have to say about that... when you were stretching for your trainer?”

I think about the encounter, obediently stretching on the mat for Miss Elizabeth... making a puddle for her as my prostatic fluid flowed, the gland awakened by the mandated pose... thighs parted, feet well to the right and left, back arched in stressing the pubo coccygeus muscles. The instructor entering unexpectedly... supposedly unexpectedly... Miss Elizabeth tossed the towel over my exposed male package, veiling the shiny steel of my cock cage. Then began the fun and games...

‘Goodness. Liz, I can see why you don’t stretch him in the weight room,’ shirtless, the crack of my butt left uncovered as I was being stretched.

‘Mr. Partland prefers to show off for me... don’t you Mr. Partland?’ Miss Elizabeth’s tone pleasantly naive.

‘What’s he wearing under that towel... a ‘G’ string?’ the instructor giggling.

‘Mr. Partland has special needs,’ talking about me as if I was an object.

I maintained the pose, feeling only a slight burn with my tendons conditioned over the many months... the gracilis and abductor longus tendons. Added to the grueling stretch, hands behind my head as always but with elbows well back and pointed high... and higher under Miss Elizabeth’s exacting direction... bringing a separate burn.

In so doing, the pectoral muscles are stressed, my nipples becoming tempting targets for playful fingers. So while talking about me... about my special needs... Miss Elizabeth casually steps behind my sitting form, bare thighs grazing my back, reaches about and does indeed gently pinch and knead the pink nubs, the sensitivity heightened by way of many days of hormonal build up. This brought a cascade of twinges... down below... and I know for certain the puddle beneath the towel grew and grew. I closed my eyes in shame... in fear of discovery... such depravity!

‘Well the class starts in ten minutes,’ the instructor advised. ‘You’d better dress him,’ again objectifying.

Yes, the instructor apparently spotted my clothing and shoes which Miss Elizabeth as always placed outside the room door in symbolically manifesting her control... that I be naked for her... and remain naked until she deigns to have me cover myself.      

‘Well, Mr. Partland, you’d better go get your clothing. Though exposing yourself to an entire class of dancing women may excite you,’ Miss Elizabeth chortling.

I finally spoke... pleading... to arise would bring such shame. Naked, hairless, penis caged... and there’s the tattooed scrotum.

So a smiling Miss Elizabeth stepped away, leaving me with nothing more than a towel at my pubes and this aerobics instructor looking at me with disgust... an amused disgust.

‘You’re a creepy man, Mr. Partland. Least you’re not erect with these games you play. Want to show me what’s under that towel?’

I did not... but then again... I did.

I finish the second glass of water, beginning to feel the expected urge. Of course I do not ask to use the facilities. Why bother when Miss Monique takes my glass to refill?

“So you were exposed to the aerobics instructor,” Miss Monique inquires in handing me a third glass.

“Well I was... and I wasn’t. Miss Elizabeth returned with my clothing and permitted me to lower my hands, quickly wipe up my puddle and wrap the towel around me as I got up. Then she led me to a corner of the aerobics room standing in front of me to shield me from the instructor as I dressed.”

“So your keyholder protected you.”

“Yes... in a way.”

“So the instructor does not know your penis is under lock and key... that you’ve ceded your sexuality to a supervising woman.”

“I don’t think so.”

“And your blue balls... the self proclamation of your subordination to feminine governance.”

“Probably not.”

“Does that disappoint you... cheated out of a thrill?”    

I pause, downing the third glass of water. It comes to mind that all the discussion has diverted my thoughts from my needs... the hormonal abundance... the fidgeting... the jitters. Curious how just being in the woman’s presence brings a degree of calm. Yet then comes another thought... what will Miss Monique be doing with me, for me, to me this evening?

“Come Robert. I’m going to table you,” the words bringing my heart to leap. “To the kitchen, strip naked, mount the table and pose for me like a good boy.”

I jump from my chair. It’s been over a year since I was last tabled... so ignominiously yet gratifyingly unlocked, shaven, cleansed and permitted a ruined orgasm.

Curious how in being defoliated I miss the graze of a razor... the threatening yet tender grooming hand of a controlling woman.   

Saturday, October 10, 2020

'Keyholder' Segment VI

 This is the last snippet for 'Keyholder'. Hope you all enjoyed. Working to finish up a sequel.


It’s Sunday. My mind is addled... reflecting on Wednesday’s exercise and stretching at Willie’s Workouts... then jumping to thoughts about my forthcoming ‘matinee’ with Miss Monique. I am to meet a friend. The apprehension certainly does nothing to quell the jitters of my ten days in chastity. The friend... what gender, what is the relationship, and how is it I am to perform?

Driving to Miss Monique’s, oddly I take my mind off the concerns by thinking of my trainer Liz... Miss Elizabeth Doyer... and how she has so gleefully joined in what I have described as a game.

At age eighteen there is a certain naivety over matters sexual. She knows anatomy with her training in physical therapy but in returning to the aerobics room with my attire after many stultifying minutes in the nude, she found the growing puddle of prostatic fluid on the floor mat to be curious.

‘It results from the game,’ I explained taking back my towel and sheepishly mopping up my effluent.

Will there be a time when she is made aware... that the demanded pose of Miss Monique brings stimulation to the various glands and muscles of the male reproductive system? And that her prank of having me strip naked and threatening exposure to the unknown aerobics instructor brought excitement to this warped psyche? 

As I dressed, the growing enthusiasm of Miss Elizabeth... for the game... became more apparent.

‘You look kind of silly, Mr. Partland... shaved around your pubes like that. Why not shave everywhere?’     

I meekly nodded. But then as we departed to the main exercise area, she must have had more thoughts.

‘If you want to be stretched next week, you’ll be hairless for me... neck down,’ her tone once again firming after being childishly playful in returning my garb.

I park the car, exit and walk to the front door of Miss Monique’s unassuming home. In a quiet suburban neighborhood, I must wonder if the local residents are aware of how their neighbor makes her living... tending to submissive males locked in chastity.

It’s a quiet profession. Very little investment required. No sexual contact... she doesn’t bare herself. And for a woman of Miss Monique’s ilk, the exhilaration of complete control must bring a thrill... reserved, but a thrill all the same.

A shaky hand rings the doorbell. Within moments entrance is granted and I step into the parlor of my keyholder. I note she is dressed neatly and primly as always, white satin blouse, pencil skirt of maroon. Further observation ends when I am introduced to a stunning blonde woman, sitting in a comfortable chair sipping a Mimosa.

“Robert, this is Mrs. Marion Dresser. Sit, I will get you some water.”

Yes, the water... to be piss proud.      

“So you’re locked in chastity, Robert,” the Dresser woman more informs than inquires. “At your age it must be a challenge. And Monique says you have problems performing for her.”

I am embarrassed... the woman seems to know much. My face reddens... she notices.

“You just be a good, obedient boy and Monique will take care of your needs. My husband now spurts for her like a fountain.”    

Husband? Spurting for Miss Monique?

Miss Monique exits the kitchen tumbler of water in hand. I am both worried and chagrined... will I be posed, shaved and milked in her presence? Baring myself to two imposing women? 

“Drink up, Robert. Nice full bladder for me. Tell me how you’re faring with your trainer... stretching progressing?”

Miss Monique sits gesturing for me to take a chair opposite the Dresser woman. I take the glass hoping my ogling isn’t noticed. She is gorgeous.

“Ah... well it’s getting easier... the split I guess you’d call it.”

“Good. And your trainer... knowing of your proclivity... she’s in acceptance... that you enjoy yielding to a woman? As  sexual need?”

“She seems to be. I have described it as a game... sort taking away the initial shock.”

My statement brings Marion Dresser to laugh. 

“I’ll have to ask husband George if he considers it a game. He’s not touched his cock in years.”

With that, the Marion woman downs her Mimosa and rises from her chair.

“Got to go, Monique. Brunch with a well hung stud... big and black. You’ll finish off George?”

“Eventually, Marion. He suffers for me divinely... no point in rushing.”

Husband George... well hung stud... big and black? 

“I'm sure you’re going to perform nicely today, Robert. Maybe someday for me,” reaching to blatantly tug at my ear as would a mother tease a toddler.

Her touch begins the cascade... twinges below. It’s that simple after ten days of forced chastity.

Miss Monique sees the woman to the door. I drink, sort of relieved that it will be only me and my keyholder... but missing the view. The woman is beautiful... knows of her good looks and flashes it... not the understated elegance of Miss Monique Von Buren.

Miss Monique returns and takes my empty glass. To the kitchen she refills and returns. I drink more.

“So tell me about your training and stretching session... details... about the youthful Elizabeth Doyer. Should I send her more pictures?”

Speaking to the superior and confident Miss Monique seems to calm the fidgeting. Plus, the anxiety of meeting the unknown friend has proven to be unfounded. So I sort of relax, talk and drink, telling myself that ten days of denial will soon be ending.

The words flow, and I tell of Miss Elizabeth Doyer, Miss Monique smiling when I use the word ‘Miss’ in relating my trainer’s name. She finds fascination with the girl leaving me in the nude... only for a few minutes... but Miss Monique points out a very meaningful few minutes.

“Do you think she was testing you, Robert? Seeing how deep is your need to submit to a woman?”

“I... ah... don’t know.”

“But you do enjoy it... did enjoy your exposure... at her behest... in the aerobics room. You left a nice puddle for her, you said.”

“It’s the... you know... denial...”

“Which you’ve brought upon yourself.”

I complete relating the events, seeming to err in explaining Miss Elizabeth’s quest to completely defoliate myself.

“Yes, I think you’d look cute for her. Do that... make the girl feel empowered... that a grown man would make himself look childishly foolish for her.”

Yes, an error.

“It’s... ah... a lot of shaving.”

“You have time... you will make time. And I’ll give you some special lotion I use on some of my effeminate clients... my girly boys. That will initially limit the growth... and eventually kill the follicles.”

Miss Monique stands, again taking my empty glass. 

“If you show hair on your next visit, that penis of yours will be locked up for a long time. Do it Robert... I want you hairless for her. Consider it to be part of the game... as you explained it.”

She steps to the kitchen. Miss Elizabeth’s playful quest has become Miss Monique’s command.

Returning with a third glass, I feel bloated. Filled bladder, thoughts of making myself hairless on a woman’s whim, knowing that I am close to penile freedom... the twinges progress. Miss Monique’s experienced eye knows.

“Shall we get you soaped and shaven, Robert? A little different protocol this afternoon. You’ll be sharing the table with George. I want you to see close up how a good boy performs for me.” 


Saturday, October 3, 2020

'Keyholder' Segment V

To the gym... in my tight pink spandex shorts. It’s Wednesday, my nasty sludge drained from me... prostate milked... six days ago. It may be my imagination but the hormones seem to build faster now... like some systemic reaction defying me. Just when I need to calm myself, being locked in chastity, the need for sexual release seems to build faster and strengthen each day. 

I enter, trainer Elizabeth Doyer pleasantly smiles and waves to me, not a hint as to her firm instructing words which ended our phone call. I wave back and head to the treadmills, again finding an isolated machine in the back row, my partially exposed buttocks soon to be almost fully exposed as I churn out miles of leg work.

Yes, many miles, the exhaustion seems to help. But then come thoughts of the stretching. Elizabeth’s words seem to haunt... that ‘special stretching I have you do for me’.

Is there eagerness to so subject myself... and do so under the duress of near nakedness?

She’s young... Miss Elizabeth Doyer... and demanding... as her calling dictates in mandating performance from gym members aspiring to physical improvement. Why I am mentally transforming her aura to give rise sexual attraction? 

Shapely and pretty yes. But being a half generation younger, the girl is far from being the maternal governess that is Miss Monique Von Buren.

I complete my treadmill work, drenched, the pink spandex darkened and clingy. I grab a towel, holding at my waist to cloak the outline of my caged cock, and pull at the spandex behind to better cover my butt. I head to the empty aerobics room. Trainer Elizabeth sees me, strolling to join.

“Kind of cool... you wearing what I told you to wear. Is that part of the game?”

With her quest she grabs my towel, pulling away with surprising strength... which in fact should not surprise at all.

My caged status in jeopardy, in facing away from most of the other gym members there is limited concern. But her brazenness... being so assertive... is telling. She knows not of what I have termed a game... but seems so willing to join in. 

Into the aerobics room, Liz sits not as she usually does in welcoming me to the stretching mat. Instead she stands arms akimbo and my demented psyche clicks in, going to obedience and adoration mode for the authoritative female. Her look is one of expectation... transforming to... have you forgotten, Mr. Partland?

I have not. As stated I just want to adore. But then trainer Elizabeth presses the point, stepping forth, hands reaching to my hips, fingers grasping my pink garb, pulling and arranging such that the material bunches into my cleft, the lower hem rides up over my hips. The garment again becomes a bikini bottom. Then she points to the floor and I know to meekly sink to the mat, untying my running shoes and removing my socks.

“Shirt?” finally speaking. “Your choice remember?”

I nod. I remove. I toss away. And before this aspiring woman of dominance I present myself nearly nude. Twinges come. Despite the heavy work out, sitting nearly naked before the fully clothed minx awakes what I am trying to quell.  

“Telling, Mr. Partland. Very telling. Your willingness to expand your game.”

It is. I need to divert my thoughts, hands going to the back of my head, legs straight in front of me, feet slowly parting to assume the demanded pose of Miss Monique. Liz does not join me. She is in thought. Then she steps between my thighs, her right foot sliding forth, the toe greeting the spandex where it remains covering the steel mesh. 

“Would you like to show that to me?”

The words are more of a directive than a question. And I can’t help thinking the girl is placing great reliance on the aerobics room remaining unoccupied. But perhaps that is more of my concern at this point.

Still my right hand lowers and I pull to the side the pink covering, my steel cage... Miss Monique’s steel cage... glinting in the lights.

Trainer Elizabeth now more fully inspects... unabashedly. As she peers, her arm reaches forth, fingers going to my left nipple. It instantly crinkles to her touch. Below there come more twinges.

“You could not have taken that photo you sent me... both hands on the back of your head as they are now. It was not a selfie. You posed for someone. A woman? The text said this thing only comes off at a woman’s behest,” toe pressing more firmly.  

“Yes, ma’am,” immediately regretting the meekness of my response.

“I like that... ma’am... makes me feel older... but like I am in charge.”

I am wont to say she is... in charge. But instead choose silence. I decide the burn of special stretching will counter the unwanted arousal. But I am in no position to make demands. I have more or less relinquished any authority I may have had as a gym member and client.

Finally my trainer lowers herself, legs parting widely... and with ease... sitting such that her feet are touching mine and we are breathing on one another. Her hands lower... but not to my legs and thighs. Instead, her left hand strongly pulls the spandex at my crotch and her right reaches beneath to palm my ball sac, warm, smooth and made hairless.

It feels so good. My penis begins to fight its steel enclosure in earnest. Her fingers slip under the encircling control ring as best they can. I am subjected to much more examination than on my last visit to the aerobics room. 

“You’re well shaved again... a little stubble... but certainly less then when I felt you up before. Though locked up, someone cares for you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” there I go again.... ‘ma’am. “It’s... well... hair can get caught and bring lots of pain when in chastity.”    

“So that’s what you call this... this game... chastity.”

I nod, wishing she’d remove her hand and fingers... yet not wishing. My desire more toward being unlocked and letting her have her way with me. Alas it will not happen... it cannot happen.

“Suppose I just have you remove these silly shorts... stretch you completely in the nude... except for this metal thing. You seemed to enjoy stretching on that table in the photo... least your penis seemed to enjoy.”

I nod.

“Yes, I know your reply, Mr. Partland... part of the game. Well I have something to add to the game. Stand, take off your shorts... bare yourself for me like a good boy. And we’ll play.”

Yes, a minx. Must I obey? The room is empty. Though remaining shy with women outside the genre... women such as Miss Monique... Miss Elizabeth... did I really mentally refer to her as Miss?.. has astutely pointed out there’s not much remaining about which to be shy.

I stand, pulling down the pink spandex. Miss Elizabeth rises, gathering shirt, shoes, socks... and then pausing... knowing I will relinquish the sole garment of pink that is left to me.

She takes and merrily strolls for the exit door.

“Sit and stretch for me, like a good boy. I’ll be back with your clothes in a while... or would you prefer I send in the aerobics instructor with your covering. You can explain the game to her as well.”

Saturday, September 26, 2020

' Keyholder' Segment IV

Within days, the fidgeting returns, the hormonal build up bringing distraction at work. There is only so much time one can spend in a cold shower. Plus there is the psychological side of long term denial... and more than a few days is long term for a male of my age. It’s like I need to talk about my condition... counseling... and such is not included in the arrangement with Miss Monique.

‘I do not do silly phone stuff, Robert. Come to your appointment on time or wait another week. Text if you must cancel.’

So by Tuesday, a visit to Willie’s Workouts is much in order... many miles on the treadmill to calm the jitters. Should I stretch as well?

After the many weeks, I suppose I can do so on my own, no trainer. The so termed burn demanded by Liz may not be as proficiently achieved, her compact yet powerful arms pressing at my thighs, assuring the gracilis and abductor longus tendons are stressed to the point of anguish. But will doing without suffice... continue my progress in being able to properly pose for Miss Monique?

She has already found disappointment in my inability to ‘perform’. And after this stressful ten day interval concludes, dare I show regression when I am tabled? 

No I must stretch and do so properly... continue my journey.

I reach for my cell phone. Before calling I click to the photo gallery finding the libidinous depiction of me being tabled, legs splayed, feet well parted, hands to the back of my head, balls dangling, penis standing.

I stare. Prostatic fluid oozing, my quirky enjoyment is evident. And trainer Elizabeth Doyer has the photo... presumably... in her gallery as well. And the coy invitation... the cage only comes off at a woman’s behest.

What is it I am to say in trying to make an appointment to stretch? 

Then comes to mind Miss Monique’s observation... the look on Elizabeth Doyer’s face when posing in the aerobics room... her hand lowering to mischievously push aside the spandex covering my steel cock cage and momentarily palm my shaven compressed scrotal sac.

I move to that photo in my gallery. Miss Monique is a good study. The look on the face of Elizabeth Doyer sends a message. The act could be interpreted as one of childish playfulness in so exposing me... and my secretive forced chastity... but she appears ascendant... as would a big game hunter posing with his latest challenging kill... that being my steel encapsulated male package. Telling!

I thus decide to call... feeling out the young girl’s reaction. It may be she sees my number pop up and simply cares not to answer, relegating me as a creep. That would certainly resolve any indecision concerning an appointment.

The phone rings, she answers. Now I’ll need to find words for sure.

“Mr. Partland... hello,” the greeting coming with a giggle.

“Liz, I... ah... wanted to explain...”

“Oh, Mr. Partland, the sexting thing went out years ago... kind of a craze when smart phones came in. Kids aren’t doing that any more. Cute picture though... nice of you to show me the progress you’re making... you know... that special stretching I have you do for me.”.

Curious choice of words... ‘I have you do for me’... as in performing for her... as I do for Miss Monique.

“And that steel thing... gone. I saw the lock, Mr. Partland. Someone has the key. It’s called a cage. And the message said it only comes off for a woman.”

“Yes, as I said... it’s sort of a game. I’d like to see you, Liz... ah... make an appointment for stretching... at the gym,” changing the subject matter in desperation.

There is a pause... unexpected.

“Well... I... ah... it’s kind of weird... you sending me that photo. Yes, you said before it’s a game. It’s kind of like you want me to play as well.” 

How do I explain... it was not I sending it. 

Guess I can just end the call... back off... suggest another time. But there is this desperation. I need to not only work out and quell the fidgeting... but talk to someone as well.

“Let’s talk about it at the gym,” words uttered in hope.

Another pause, then comes a telling reply, the words firm for an eighteen year old girl. It is a directive.

“8:00 p.m. The aerobics room. Wear your tight pink shorts again. You’ll take off your shoes and socks for me. You decide whether to keep your shirt on as well.”

“But... but...” I sputter, “I’ll be practically naked!”

“So you will do it. That’s interesting. And, Mr. Partland... why so shy? I’ve already seen you naked.”