More exercise, I drive to the gym in thought. Miss Monique nicely expunged my building hormones days ago, thereafter admonishing that the demanded pose... while being tabled... was less than sufficient.
‘Legs straight out... back arched... hands to your head... toes pointed... that’s how I want you while I shave and drain you. The posture is important... discipline Robert... boys like you need discipline... to properly present yourself to a woman in charge.’
So in arriving, I stand in front of my gym, take my cell phone from my bag and prepare to take a selfie. I must snap four shots before I have what I need... a photo with the sign ‘Willie’s Workouts’ behind me as I stand attired in the shorts Miss Monique purchased and had sent to me.
Deed accomplished, I scroll to my text messages, find her instructions, and send the snapshot... proof that I am wearing the skimpy gaily colored spandex... and that I am wearing such at one of my twice weekly workouts.
Miss Monique’s dour persona surprisingly yields to such mischief. After quizzing me about my gym attire... if adequately covering my ‘condition’... cold hard steel encapsulating my maleness... she purchased gym shorts not only more brief but tight in that the spandex clings and outlines all I have from the waist to the crease of my thighs and hips. More embarrassing is that half my butt cheeks are fully displayed. And I know such will ride higher when I utilize the treadmill!
Augmenting the exposure... the color... gaudy pink... the shade saying ‘look at me’.
Why would a clothing manufacturer make such ridiculous garb for a guy? Well, in opening the package, I found the shorts are women’s... more aptly for a girl.
I feel I am wearing a bikini bottom!
I enter the gym, comforting myself that I know few of the members personally. Why I just don’t slink back to my car and spare the trauma? Well Miss Monique wants more selfie’s inside... one with the cute trainer Elizabeth... Liz... she young and cute... she who assures I exhaust myself and stretch... she who is perplexed that a guy would want to work to so inordinately tension what she terms the gracilis and abductor longus tendons in the thighs... tight on a guy... naturally pliable on the female.
I also persuade myself that the tightness of the spandex will in fact aid in cloaking my condition. Though the bulge is prominent, making me look like some well endowed stud, the stainless steel is well covered and as opposed to loose shorts will not flash... the metal not to glint in the gym’s bright halogen lights.
I begin my workout, waving to Liz as I move to the treadmill. I get looks from guys. I ignore, finding an unused row of machines in the back, remove jacket and begin.
Twenty minutes, pacing myself initially for a six minute mile then slowing in stages. In my state of forced chastity I have found that exercise keeps the hormone levels in line, inhibiting the excruciating nocturnal penile tumescence which mandates a weekly visit with Miss Monique to more adequately meliorate.
Yes, I work up a good sweat and in completing decide that my soaked body will offer more evidence that while working out at Willie’s I am obediently wearing Miss Monique’s garb. So I dismount, go to my bag, extract the cell phone and now more proficiently snap two selfies.
In checking to assure such portray my image, I am stunned. The bright pink spandex has darkened... and become more clingy... too clingy. Drenched in sweat the lock is perfectly outlined. I no longer appear to be some well endowed stud... I appear to be what I am... under lock and key!
I must depart, returning to my bag to find a towel.
“Mr. Partland,” the melodious voice of trainer Elizabeth calls out, “you’re warmed up and ready to be stretched,” humorously referring to her rigorous sessions as some form of medieval torture.
Wow! I am trapped! I am indeed warmed up. And stretching with a trainer is done by appointment... mine at 8:00 p.m. And it is 8:00 p.m. Cancelling would aggravate things with the gym management. I would pay for the session... but what of the photo for Miss Monique? And what is the price of disobedience? How many added days before visiting her kitchen and being tabled?
Liz approaches. Her amused look suggests that my pink bikini bottom has not gone unnoticed. What of the lock now so prominently outlined?
My question is answered when her bright youthful smile transforms to a look of concern.
“Oh, Mr. Partland... let’s use one of the empty aerobics rooms. The next class will not be until nine.”
Saved... I think. The stretching mats normally used are just about centered amongst the busy free weight area. The pink tight spandex will draw eyes... the outline of steel beneath? What will that draw?
Liz leads away. I follow, gym bag in one hand, towel in the other, letting the terry cloth casually drape over my waist at the front. Into the aerobics room, I sigh in relief... unoccupied. But then Liz goes to the floor, sits upright, legs straight and slides her feet well to the right and left. She seems to taunt, patting the soft rubber to her front, suggesting I join her in endeavoring to replicate.
She is aware of my need... to be able to assume the awkward pose. But should she know why? To show discipline before a commanding woman who holds my key?
Sweaty, I smooth out my towel on the mat then sit. Upright, legs out in front of me, trainer Elizabeth, supple and graceful leans forth, extending her arms to grasp my ankles.
“Okay Mr. Partland, nice and slow for me... show me how much you can split,” her hands pushing left and right to assist while I struggle to pull apart my feet.
Her voice is young but stern, a trainer’s firmness, challenging my resolve. For some reason I find myself placing my hands to the back of my head... as Miss Monique demands, back arched. Then it dawns that the further my legs separate, the further she must lean, head and shoulders lowering as her arms part in pushing. As my tight shorts hike up, I realize that in shaving me... hair and steel cock cages being incompatible as Miss Monique is fully aware... my upper thighs evidence an obvious line where my keyholder curtailed her efforts with the blade of the straight edged razor.
I feel twinges beneath the steel. Why does discovery... potential discovery... excite?
As my legs part, feet well out to the sides, I grimace in discomfort. My trainer giggles as she must lower herself to push. Then, feet out of reach, she moves her assisting hands to my knees. Her face is within inches of my pubes, the spandex is greatly strained and stretched, and it must be apparent to the young girl that I have been shaven there. Bringing further distress, will the now moist pink covering move such that the steel mesh of my penis cage will show?
The room is so brightly lit!
Recalling the lecture on discipline, fearing that Miss Monique will withhold the key if I fail to progress, I divert my thoughts, closing my eyes and endeavoring to point my toes... like a ballerina... as my keyholder demands. This brings certain muscles to cramp. A groan comes, the male anatomy just not designed for such stress... what the lithe and supple legs of a young girl can so facilely do is slow torment for the male.
“Steady... hold... feel the burn, Mr. Partland,” feeling my trainer’s hands slide along my thighs, continuing to push but nearing my pubes.
Dare I open my eyes? Trainer Elizabeth’s hands so close to the steel covered in pink... worse as she leans her face is proximate as well.
Will she know... learn of my proclivity... inadvertently graze the hard steel with her fingers... catch a glimpse of a glimmer of metal if the spandex betrays me?
I think of Miss Monique’s advice... divulge my penchant for ceding control... of having a woman of resolve deny me ultimate male gratification... to be permitted such solely at her whim... ‘just place her hand on your crotch... she’ll feel the steel’.
Yes, there’s the burn of the stressed tendons... the cramping of muscles... and the torment of possible disclosure... ‘trainer Elizabeth, your client Robert Partland is creepy... a warped libido... one which is under the auspices for a firm woman... one who dresses him in tight girl’s spandex shorts!’
Is it to happen? She’ll have questions... or she will dash away to the manager and have me escorted out... any number of brawny gym members tossing me to the parking lot.
Yet trainer Elizabeth is insistent. Proper stretching requires determination... her role to assure the client accept and withstand pain... the burn... one full minute of excruciation for each tendon desired to be toned... made supple. And she does... barking, cajoling, taunting. Though barely out of high school she is focused... assertive.
Could she be a youthful Miss Monique Von Buren?
The hands leave my inner thighs. I feel fingers... at my crotch. I open my eyes in shock. Stunned, my hands remain at the back of my head.
“The minute is up Mr. Partland, just relax for me,” the words coming as I see my trainer has completely pushed aside the pink spandex to fully uncover the stainless steel of my cock cage, her young eyes merrily glaring at the special lock.
“Stay,” the forceful command coming as I begin to lower my hands, feeling her fingers move below to graze along my compressed ball sac. “What’s not covered in steel is well shaved, Mr. Partland. Feel okay when you exercise?”
I slowly relax as directed, slightly pulling my legs together to indeed end the burn. Yet I keep my hands away, letting the girl explore.
Miss Monique suggested that exposing... revealing... to a young girl my quirky need for feminine supervision... ceding control of my libido... would bring a thrill. And indeed my heart pounds as trainer Liz explores. I let her do it... no objection... silent as she begins toy.
And conversely, she seems to assume I will be compliant, a finger tip smoothing over the egress tube where my bladder drains.
“You should wear looser shorts... and longer... Mr. Partland,” finally finding words herself. “if you want to keep this a secret.”
A finger curls about the narrow pink spandex running between my thighs. She tugs... and tugs... causing the material to bunch up. I can feel that what once covered my buttocks... partially covered... gathers in my crevice, truly transforming the shorts into the appearance of a bikini bottom.
“Feel good?” she giggles anew.
How can I explain... being manipulated by a woman... submitting to her caprice... brings such singular joy?
Then it occurs... in being handled... the demanded third photo... evidencing that I have presented myself in pink gym shorts to my trainer. It seems I must not only explain myself, but inveigle the trainer into letting me take a photo... avoid the wrath of keyholder Miss Monique.
My thoughts run wildly as trainer Elizabeth finally draws in her extended feet, tucks her legs under her and stands over me, arms akimbo much like Miss Monique.
“It locks... your thing. No reason to do that to yourself.”
“I... ah... well... it’s sort of a game,” at last finding some words.
I remain sitting, legs somewhat splayed, hands on head. Why is it I do not reach down and rearrange the spandex? Get the bunched up strand out of the crack in my ass and smooth to once again cover the device of steel. Instead I look up in adoration... much as I do with Miss Monique.
Trainer Elizabeth Doyer is a perky teen, short in stature but sinewy, arms and legs packed with power... probably much training in gymnastics. Blue eyes, dark blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail to facilitate energetic motion and exercise, years of athletics have brought vibrance, self confidence and maturity beyond her years. Still, her subdued reaction to discovering a guy locked in chastity is telling.
Something to be expected?
I decide to refrain from further explanation. My condition speaks for itself and there seems to be curious acceptance by the sparkly trainer. She makes no demands... certainly no indication that I will be banned from the gym.
“Would you... ah... mind... a photo... I need a picture. Sort of a part of the game...”