Saturday, October 3, 2015

A Man's Chastity IV

“It’s termed figging, Henry. It’s an old English custom... to prepare bad boys for caning.”

My wife explains as she releases the ‘D’ clamp and my hands are freed for the first time in hours.

“You’re cute with all those tears. Like a punished child. Think of what would flow if you were bent over a chair and suffered a few strokes as well.”

The vexing words come as my wife steps to the bathroom. Though bedded well before 11:00 p.m., she has arrived quite late and I have laid in wait for hours. Though normally my wrists are freed after being returned to the cock cage, Miss Denise decided to leave me bound, unable to remove the plug of ginger root she cruelly inserted into my anus.

Apparently well experienced in the matter, she carved up my ginger root, forming a de facto butt plug, the natural juiciness promoting easy insertion. The results were something I have never before endured. The spicy ginger burns to the point that one senses a lit match or candle applied to very sensitive pink skin. Plus there is an incredible somatic reaction within the loins, my penis further engorging to the point I thought it would explode.

Miss Denise permitted me to jump from the kitchen table and prance about, the pain stimulating a strange need to clench the buttocks and spasmodically move about in futility, the plug expertly shaped and not to be ejected.

She laughed, greatly entertained, but offered no relief.

‘I think it grew another inch, Henry. Be sure to purchase more ginger for my next visit.’

The baked potato was finally offered, Miss Denise tossing it into a bowl and placing it before me. Dry, skin in place, hands restrained the improvised butt plug distracting, eating as would a dog I could not finish it before it turned to coldness, despite the paucity of greens as my evening meal.

Finally I was iced, never before welcoming the shock of pending numbness, then returned to the cock cage to await my wife... as instructed... on the bed, no reading, no music, no television.

With celerity, I reach behind me, the ginger butt plug remaining in place, well shaped and well wedged. I press and pull. Some burning returns, I must assume in expelling there are unexposed areas newly subjected to the searing juices. Still I manage to eject but must suffer anew. The revised stimulation renews the need to harden, now impossible with my cock cage in place. I concentrate on limpness as I have so urgently learned. But it is difficult.

“Ben was amazing, Henry,” my wife calls out from the toilet as I hear the sound of urine heavily splashing. “He’s just the right age for a woman. Of good size, becomes erect with moderate stimulation... and stays hard. I orgasmed three times. Never get that with the undergraduates.”

My wife teaches... psychology... mainly at the undergraduate level, but on occasion will mentor a graduate student... a la Ben. She has long been of the belief that if you can’t have sex with the students, why teach?

Water runs. Teeth are brushed. From the bathroom steps my goddess, draped in a negligee that veils none of her amazing beauty.

“I’m glad you enjoyed your evening, Ma’am,” my tone so obsequious.

Curious calling one’s life long mate ‘ma’am’. Difficult when first discussed, if such adequately describes the exchange leading to the protocol, but now oddly accepted.

“Yes, I did. Think I got most of his discharge out, Henry. But Ben’s so long and he spent in me so deeply...”

The goddess moves to the bed, kneeling, turning, then lying back, arms extended in welcome. These are the times when concentration concerning flaccidity is challenging but demanded. I’d so much like to harden for her... enter her... please her.

As I step forth, my goddess spreads her thighs, bends at the knees then arranges her negligee in further welcome. I know to kneel, what is termed my fully functioning sex organ at the ready.

As her hands grasp my ears to guide as she desires, her words soften, a lover’s coo.

“Denise watch over you? She becomes a little playful, I know. Alpha males like Jack can please a woman... but there are urges they can’t fulfill.”

I cannot reply and my wife knows that, for her hands pull at the handles of my ears, pressing my face into a mons that remains steamy and moist with a long evening’s love making. My response is to lick... humbly... slowly... attentively.

“I trust you made her a good dinner. Did she shave you, clean your cock cage? You know how much it disappoints me in seeing your little thing when I must do it. It’s good of her to tend to you.”  

I murmur in response, assuming she accepts this as acknowledgment.

“Yes, seeing those tiny four inches, knowing it’s all you can achieve, is a downer for a woman.”

This psychological barrage concerning my physical inadequacy in the bedroom did not originate with my wife. It ironically began with our marriage counselor. 

“You’ve been working with your tennis ball, Henry, I can tell. So long and strong...” my wife uttering an initial sigh of delight as my tongue thrusts inward.

Yes, my tennis ball... more marriage counseling. I was given a tennis ball with a two inch slit cut into the circumference. Slipped within the hollowness is a marble of size, nearly impossible to retrieve with one’s tongue. But it is demanded that I try... and try... and try.

The counselor explained that the oral exercise would compensate for my deficiencies elsewhere. It seems it has, though on this evening the nightly exercise was impractical with wrists restrained.

“Where would you be without that prodigious tongue of yours, Henry?” my wife further chides.

I am greatly aroused in serving my wife, pleasing her. But the arousal is all mental, the physical so long stifled, first by the cock cage, later by me. So endorphins flow, as such would with normal intercourse. But there is no physical sensation to be enjoyed, other than my tongue swishing warm wetness. I cannot react in the manner of a man... an alpha male. The pain is too great. And my wife has her bull studs... young... strong... virile... with phalli of size and firmness.

My wife’s thighs squeeze with zeal. I know it to be only the first of many climaxes. Thus I continue my efforts. She will decide when I am through.  

“I think I’ll send you for another counseling session, Henry. Being and talking with an alpha male is good for you. I’ll make an appointment for next week. You can session while I’m tutoring one of my students.”

Saturday, September 26, 2015

A Man's Chastity III

“Oh, you beta males so much enjoy showing how inadequate you are!”

A jovial neighbor Denise, having finally used the key, laughs as my freed penis springs to life. The sensation of cool room air wafting over well worn super sensitive flesh cannot be described. The delight both overrides the intense humiliation of being put on display and the annoyance of Denise’s mocking words as I instantly harden... all four inches.

Yes, she has measured, initially noting that husband Jack was more than twice the size.

Still I revel, sitting in the kitchen chair, thighs widely spread to assure the cage could be slipped off with minimal abrasions from the internal spikes.

A smiling Miss Denise moves to the dishwasher. This brings a sigh. The relief will be extended, lasting the length of the dishwasher cycle at a minimum. With only the control ring and steel mesh cage to be cleansed, a modicum of soap is required. A dial is turned. A button is pressed and the hellish device will be sanitized.   

“You cook well Henry. And I must assume it is by your hand that the house is kept spotless,” Miss Denies notes stepping to where I sit in an odd combination of joy and ignominy. “But I suppose that’s about all that a woman can expect from a man of such physical limitations.”

I am helpless to intercede when a knowing finger reaches to teasingly tweak my right nipple. Wrists secured behind my back, I am under her control. But I must reflect, deep within, do I want to intercede, want to end her humiliating supervision?

The thought brings a sense of shame and such broadens when I glance down and see prostatic fluid oozing from my standing penis. It has been many weeks since my last permitted ruined orgasm. Miss Denise also notes.

“Your wife said no brushing, Henry. Perhaps she’ll take care of that messiness later.”

For my wife, the process of letting me dribble into my masturbation cup is looked upon akin to doing the laundry... which in actuality is my task of course. For her a chore of drudgery.

Amazing the contrast in perception. What I so much cherish as male ecstasy... I suppose more aptly termed potential male ecstasy... is considered the equivalent of a trip to the dentist for my wife. But what does enthuse her is my look of awe transforming to disappointment as the tantalizing brush is withdrawn just as sensual touching is most desired. Awe in enduring the power of a supervising woman... disappointment as the expected sensation, a brisance of pleasure, quickly fading into something as mundane as that felt while urinating. 
Miss Denise is aware of the brush, my wife learning that having me fill my masturbation cup in the presence of other women brings refreshing amusement to an otherwise annoying ritual. Thus Miss Denise has gleefully watched past ruined orgasms.

“Perhaps you could touch it for me, Miss Denise.”

I loath myself in so beseeching. The woman is overbearing and brusque. Still I must maximize moments freed of the cock cage. It’s instinctual male behavior, to rid oneself of the build up of seed. And in seeing Miss Denise shake her head no, wry smile evidencing her enjoyment, I must postulate as to whether it is instinctual behavior on the part of the governing woman to deny.  

“Touch? That? Why would I bother? Jack could be out of town for a year and I would not find the urge, ha, ha, ha.” 

“Well... there’s stubble. It’s best removed.”

A gruff feminine hand lowers, thumb and forefinger pinching then rolling a tuft of scrotal flesh. It both irritates and frustrates, the skin chafed from chastity, the need to feel more attention intense.

“Well, I suppose I can relieve your wife of the burden. I do Jack regularly. Makes fellatio a little neater,” Miss Denise quips.

Her observation brings a twinge of envy. While vaginal penetration is unthought of, oral gratification for me is beyond comprehension.

“Get on the table... on your back... knees to your chest,” the words a command.

I arise from the kitchen chair. I suppose the Formica table top and tiled floor offer easy cleaning should the deed become unexpectedly sloppy. As I so position, Miss Denise disappears, I assume rummaging about in the master bath for razor, lotion and towels.

Something about being handled, commanded by a woman of authority that excites. After draping my restrained arms over the front edge, I cautiously lie back, noting my erection is firmer than ever.

Why do I so react?

When I hear Miss Denise return, I obediently lift my legs, thighs to my chest as if in need of diapering.

“Such a good boy,” Miss Denise coos, extending my analogous thoughts of infant care.

At one time it would have been bizarre to think of such clinical care as sensuous. But held in extreme chastity, normal climatic relief constantly denied, being handled, submitting my raw and chafed genitals to feminine care, brings delight.

A bowl of warm water is placed just below my upturned buttocks. Knowing hands smooth shaving lotion all about. I look to see the deviant look of enjoyment for the woman in charge. She knows how much I would relish the simple dab of a finger... her warm flesh palpating mine. And thus she is most careful to withhold any touch... only the feel of soft white cream tantalizing.

Next comes the razor. It scrapes... mildly... but I am so sensitive there. Still there is noted aplomb, similar care for husband Jack evident.

But I can dichotomously sense the oral gratification offered thereafter, her tongue and lips coaxing husband Jack’s ten inches to full blossom.

The razor glides. I close my eyes, imagining the deed to be a precursor to fellatio... fellatio I know will never come.

Finally there comes the need for her fingers, stretching out the scrotal sac up, down, left then right, the razor quickly smoothing and defoliating.

Yes, it is quick... too quick... and mechanical. She knows her fingers bring evanescent joy... and such is to be minimized.

Finally comes a warm wet towel, the chore ending as I hear the dishwater end its cleaning cycle, a loud click suggesting my steel cock cage and control ring are being heated to dryness.

“All done,” the tone pridefully matronly.

I open my eyes to see my four inches remain standing in an embarrassing display. Yet it feels good, the freedom. I want more but know the cock cage awaits.  

“Smooth and clean... plus a sanitized cage ready for this little thing,” Miss Denise pointing to my erection.

“May I stay free a little longer please, Miss Denise?” I beseech.

“Why? Look at your penis Henry. It’s the size of my pinky and best kept under lock and key.”

“But it feels good.”

“And your wife feels better when it’s in chastity. And you do want her to feel good... to please her.”

I do. But how is it she will know the interval of my limited emancipation?

“I’ll get some ice.”

I hear the refrigerator door open. Hands work, pushing things about. Then there comes a pause. In a moment Miss Denise returns.

“Let’s wait on the ice and address your need, Henry. See just how much you want to stay out of your cage.”

Such a look of wickedness as Miss Denise holds up a root of ginger, purchased days ago for a zesty Japanese salad dressing I’ve been planning to try. My imagination leaps, aware from cooking class that ginger juice can burn and sting, hands to be kept from the eyes when preparing the root for consumption.      

“Stay just like that, Henry. I’ll need access to your rectum.”

Saturday, September 19, 2015

A Man's Chastity II

The full story, some 18,200 words is now available on Lulu. $2.75

More segments will be posted on the blog. 




On my drive home from work, I calm myself. Denise irritates... but has my key. It would be nice to let the mass of pink skin breathe a little... slip my cock cage into the dishwasher. The thought of shaving down there, removing stubble which tends to become prickly and catch in the steel, comforts.

So I swing by the grocery store, my mind recalling some of Denise’s favorite fare. I need to please her but must be mindful not to go overboard. Preparing a more elaborate meal for the woman temporarily in charge than I do for my wife will bring trouble.

So no prime steak, instead I purchase a succulent double lamb chop. Large enough for a meal and perhaps, if am deemed obedient, a morsel for me. I also stop by in the produce section. The wife insists on much greenery for me. I slip in a potato as a treat though knowing it will be eaten without butter and never with sour cream.

Arriving at home, there’s a note from my wife, instructing me to be waiting in bed for her... probably near 11:00 p.m. There’s a post script reminding that there is to be no reading, no music, no television after Denise departs and that she is to select any program while in charge.

So no baseball for me. Just thoughts of nothingness. And my tennis ball.

To the bedroom, I disrobe, putting aside the confining suit, tie and starched shirt. It’s been a hot day, the car’s air conditioning barely cooling after a short stay in the store’s sunbaked parking lot. So I shower... not hot...not cold... but tepid. It feels good. Warm water laving a ball sac partially entrapped by what is termed the control ring of my cock age, encircling from the top of my penis to the perineum, brings soothing delight. I soap myself there, teasingly imagining a penis free from feminine governance, free to be stroked.

I have read where with some chastity devices, the male given enough time, lubrication and effort can pull out his penis. Unfortunately, my wife seems to have read the same thing. For in addition to internal spikes nudging the super sensitive underside of my penis tip, others guard at the top of the cock cage where it connects to the control ring.

Drat the internet! Just attempting to slip a finger within brings a threatening prick... a warning that any further effort will bring agony.

So I truncate that futile effort, turn off the water and step from the shower, hearing neighbor Denise call out. She’s a large husky woman, not pretty, not repulsive, but plain with a booming voice. One could picture her in uniform, though I know she never served in the military.   

“Showering. Be down in a minute,” I call out in response.

I towel down, about to powder up the cock cage, when Denise steps into the large bathroom of the master bedroom. 

“Don’t bother with that, Henry. It’s warm, but you know I can’t stand a lot of air conditioning. I’ve already turned up the thermostat so you’ll be more comfortable just like that.”

So there will be no clothing... for me.

Denise has given herself quite the education concerning chastity and beta males over the past year or so. She understands that powder cuts down on the friction of underwear brought to tightness by the steel... serves to somewhat lubricate and minimize pinching and caught hair stubble.  

So... no clothing... no powder needed. Such a gracious woman.

Understanding that this will be a CFNM evening, I spy the slim necklace normally worn by my wife... kept in plain sight as a reminder of a woman’s control. Dangling at the end is the key to my cock cage... the key to my virility.

“If I recall you like lamb chops, Miss Denise,” diverting my thoughts.

“Oh yes, Henry. That would be nice. Jack’s away on business again and eating alone is depressing. And it’s nice having someone cook for me for a change.”

Jack is an imposing man of size, strength and what I have been told is admirable sexual prowess. My wife terms him an alpha male. Denise just calls him big, at one time extending her open hands, palms several inches apart, to demarcate for my wife the size of his manhood.

My wife giggled but her envy was apparent. 

“You can serve me in the kitchen, Henry. Don’t need anything fancy.”

I nod and step forth stark naked. Denise lets me lead, patting my buttocks as I pass by. Her touch adds to the strange sensation, presenting myself naked to another woman. And in turn, normally a woman would sense some degree of intimidation in the presence of a naked man. But I am controlled... by she who has the key... and that is now neighbor Denise. And she does not really think of me as a man.

To the kitchen, I am disappointed that neighbor Denise does not inquire about the decorative double ‘D’ clamp for the blue nylon wrists bands, my only covering other then the expensive cylinder of steel. For as stated, it is only with wrists encumbered that the cage is unlocked. I have left it on the bedroom dresser.

Wine for Denise. Water for me. My existence is ascetic, my wife explaining that I will have what I need, but rarely what I want. And what I want is good wine, insalubrious food, and to once again withstand the heady sensation of manly ejaculation, my stiffness once again ensheathed in warm, wet feminine tightness.

Alas, it will not happen.

So I prepare a salad as Denise imbibes. She talks of girl stuff... shopping, her favorite TV show. There was a time I would scream in being subjected to such meaningless dialogue. But now there is no objection. I am all ears.

Denise gets a rich creamy blue chesse dressing, stopping me with a cluck of her tongue before I utilize such on my salad. I therefore know to reach for the oil and vinegar instead... and not a tastily seasoned vinegar... douse my salad, then remember to put the potato into the oven.

“Eat your cucumbers,” her tone one of command.

I don’t like cucumbers. It is therefore a ritual with my wife that I eat such in abundance. My distaste has apparently been communicated. I stab a plump slice with my fork, wishing the bland vinegar would better veil the taste. I eat with a reluctance I hope is cloaked. Otherwise there will be more cucumbers I am sure.

“You need to be obedient, Henry. You wife has explained it to me... about beta males. I have my Jack. 100% alpha with 10 inches of good stiffness where a woman most needs it... but no cooking, no cleaning... and little special attention... as your wife receives.”

Ah, special attention. A euphemism for cunnilingus.

Salad consumed, I arise and begin to rub the double lamb chop, feeling Denise reach to fondle my right cheek. Her sensuous touch arouses. That is not good. I have learned to stay flaccid in the tight spiked cock cage. The wife wants me flaccid... thinking about her and her pleasure not mine... to become erect only when she permits. And the perfectly placed shards of sharp steel certainly abet the effort.

But now Denise inveigles, seeming to want to coax tumescence. She notices that I grimace as the undesired reaction commences.

“Medium rare on my lamb chop, Henry. Do a good job and we’ll put your ‘D’ clamp to use. Where is it?”

“Upstairs on the dresser.”

“Good. You can get it after you serve me.”

I broil, giddy in anticipation. Though Denise is not glamourous, there is something about her assertive demeanor which adds to the thrill of presenting my self naked... and unlocked. Will she shave me?

Medium rare, cooking has come to be a moderate talent, my wife sending me to school on weekends. I present with eagerness, proud when Denise slices open the middle and warm tender pinkness evidences an effort well done.

“Get your clamp,” her command succinct.

“I... I... I have not been shaven... there,” my stammering pleaful.

“So the Misses has been a little neglectful, ha, ha, ha. We’ll see. You feel better completely exposed... I realize that.”

I dash upstairs and grasp the small yet meaningful piece of otherwise innocuous hardware. Should I return with razor and lotion as well?

I decide otherwise, further hints deemed too presumptuous.

When I return, most of the lamb chop has been consumed by my famished neighbor. The salad won’t do it for me. I need more. It is then I recall the potato baking in the oven.

“I forgot about the potato, Miss Denise.”

“Well, it’s yours,” her proclamation coming as the last edible piece of lamb disappears. “And you can finish the lamb chop,” her words coming as I note nothing remaining other than bone and gristle.

When I present the ‘D’ clamp, there is offered access to my front, a hideously reddened scrotum constantly pressed forward by the control ring. Denise reaches forth and palms, her thumb smoothing over the fine steel mesh of the cock cage.

“Tsk, tsk. This always looks so chafed and raw.”

It is, my underwear constantly abrading the thin skin, the morning application of powder never enough for a long day at the office. That is why the removal of the ring and cock cage is a ceremony of great celebration.


And Denise knows too well how my system well celebrate.

“You need to go potty, Henry? I suspect you’ll need to go know before I unlock you.”

I do. And Miss Denise is correct. Once I stiffen it will be quite an interlude before I can urinate. So I nod... humbly.

Miss Denise smiles, it is not a becoming smile. When she picks up the double ‘D’ clamp, by rote I pull back my arms, my hands pressing together behind my back. She reaches behind and I hear the click, click, always amazed at how quickly and easily I can be made to yield to an authoritative woman.


She stands from her chair, grasping the cock cage as a leash. She knows I must squat to pee... and she enjoys watching... the comeuppance of the chastised beta male.  

To the half bath near the back door, she leads into the small room. She releases. I know to sit, thighs widely parted as my neighbor reaches down and aligns my cage, assuring that my excretions will neatly find the bowl. 

Embarrassed, I cannot summon a flow despite my need. Miss Denise patiently waits, then reaches to rub my right ear, sibilant sounds fostering an urge.

I pee, sensing a frisson, my masochism glowing in performing for her.

“Good boy.”

Saturday, September 12, 2015

A Man's Chastity I

Soft but cerebral. Enjoy 


A Man’s Chastity

Copyright 2015

by Chris Bellows

I am kidded often about my wrist bands. Many men wear such these days. But it’s rare to have matching bands on both wrists I suppose. Mine are blue... said to match my wife’s eyes. The women in the office find that fact to be cutely romantic when I explain the coloring. The guys sort of roll their eyes, one burly office mate intimating I may as well wear a nose ring too.

Little do they know the wrist bands are more functional than decorative. For in my pocket, always to be offered upon demand, is a double ‘D’ clamp. It’s shiny... not industrial... almost appearing as a piece of jewelry. And I carry it constantly and always have it ready. For it is only when I present the clamp, pull my wrists behind my back, and the bands are clipped together that I am offered relief.

Yes, the thick blue nylon is stronger than it appears. Once clipped together, no amount of pulling, yanking or other form of exertion will bring freedom. I am thus bound until the woman of authority decides to unclip the unassuming bondage jewelry and return functionality to my hands. Normally the referenced woman of authority is my wife. But there are others she has made aware of my condition... my need... and most perversely they offer their attention.

There are times, sitting in my office, that I stare at the large set of scissors in the desk set, ironically given as a gift by my wife. It’s a message... a teasing the message... cloaked by a matching letter opener, expensive pen and pencil, paper clip receptacle, etc. For I realize with some effort... not very much... I could cut through the thick nylon, the loops sewn closed for permanency by a seamstress friend of my wife.   

Yes, those symbols of my wife’s authority could be removed and trashed in minutes, I am sure the rash action to be cheered by the burly guy making the nose ring reference.

But the real symbol is never to be removed and trashed... that which resides beneath my zipper. And it is only by way of the securing of the wrist bands that I am to attain true freedom... male freedom.

You see, whereas I always carry the shiny double ‘D’ clamp, my wife... sometimes sharing with one of her cohorts... always carries an equally shiny key... its limited size greatly contrasting its significance. For it unlocks a very intricate, hardened steel cage encasing my penis. Some outfit in Germany made it... certain refinements added to a stock item... under very detailed instructions from my wife.

How naive could I be in assisting in its evil design?

Very. For many, many consecutive nights, wife toyed with me down there, pointedly asking again and again about precisely where I felt the most joy when she ever so gently touched and fondled my erect penis. In hindsight, she was making mental measurements. For when the expensive cage was first slipped into place, its very few spikes, at first appearing as incidental additions, pricked me precisely where I attain the most pleasure. And did so upon the slightest swelling... obviating any thoughts of ever achieving even partial tumescence much full.

‘It’s too confining,’ I protested at the first wearing. ‘It’ll wake me... you know the NPT thing,’ my voice sounding disappointingly humble.

My wife, fully aware of the nocturnal penile tumescence thing, just laughed.

‘So you’ll no longer be waking me in the middle of the night with that unctuous smile of yours,’ she shrugged.

Adding to the irony, the thing was so expensive that she withdrew money from my retirement account to pay for it. Said that it was an appropriate use of funds... I was being partially retired.
So there’s a simple routine in the house. I hand my wife... or whomever is supervising me... the ‘D’ clamp, press my wrists together behind my back, my heart leaping with the sound of the two clicks. For it is only then that there will come the sound of a third click... a most welcomed sound. My chastity cage is unlocked and I am allowed to become erect.

Unfortunately, most times that is all.

But with the strict and intensive chastity, just seeing it harden, to feel the room air gently wafting over irritated flesh, to comfort myself in knowing it still functions... has become incredibly satisfying.

Then there are the very rare times when the wife offers the brush. Expensive, intended for use by artists drawing fine paintings, the few strands of soft horse hair, when applied to the spots constantly threatened by sharp spikes of steel, bring an undescribable frisson of ecstasy.  

If I am good, that’s a once a month thing. Such tantalization can drive a man mad... and my wife knows that. But even more maddening is the so termed ‘ruined orgasm’. The brush is ever so gently applied, her voice teasing, until I must announce I am about to come. It is then that she withdraws her hand and she watches, often times with one of her cohorts, as my penis meekly discharges itself, for lack of a better description. Semen just oozes forth... and in a very unmanly manner... into a waiting cup... my masturbation cup. Such meekness... such docility... such a tranquil end to the many weeks of building virility... such ignominy when a man should instead explode... the stiff penis thought of as a cannon ready to be fired in sexual conquest.

So why do I announce... obediently announce... and abet the ruined orgasm?

Ah, that is the wickedness of it. If I do not submit... do not assist in having the offered pleasure so cruelly terminated, instead soak up the soft brush strokes until I explode as would a real man... then the interval of lock up lengthens. A regular orgasm, pleasured until ejaculating, has a cost... extended chastity. The wife tucking away the key of significance for many more weeks.

She has done so in the past... will do so in the future. There is no detriment for her in my denial. For she dates regularly. It is only I who remains chaste for such noted intervals.

My cell phone beeps. I know it to be a message from my wife. It is only she who texts me.

Date tonight with Ben. Denise has your key. If you want to show off for her you’ll need to make her dinner. Husband is out of town. b/t/w she won’t use the brush so don’t ask.’

Denise! Such a termagant for a neighbor.

I am perfectly able to care for myself, make my own dinner while my wife cuckolds me. But my wife feels my sense of constant denial is enhanced when another woman is empowered with my key... and one who takes sardonic joy in continuing the denial.

While I seethe, I respond in the manner expected of me.

Yes, Ma’am.’

Expected of a chastised beta male, I should add.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

A Cuckolded Gimp II

This will be the last segment from this story. Don't know what is next.


A rinsing spray sends away the odorous excretions, the warmth soothing the irritation. And I further meliorate by reminding myself the cuckolding began with my own indiscretions, foolishly telling my wife after discovery that she in turn could be free to indulge.

She did... is doing... and will continue to do.

The custom made latex suit is pulled from under me, gratefully sprayed to rinse away the build up of sweat then hung to dry. It was expensive, the wife having my body computer scanned so that it perfectly conforms... and is snug... the constant tightness sending a message of Feminine control.

I am then soaped and Nurse Elsa demonstrates her handiwork with a straight edged razor and a complete body shave. I look up to see the red light of the video camera blinking, cognizant that either wife Mrs. Charles is watching with one of her lovers, or the demeaning cleansing session is recorded for later amusement.

“You’ll need to be milked, Mr. Charles. That prostate, it got to be worked. And Mrs. Charles says no ice this time. She quite the sadist, Mr. Charles. It gonna really hurt, that little thing of yours locked up with no room to harden for me.”
Though the procedure, performed most clinically, extends my time out of bondage, I moan. I have no other manner of expressing my disquiet. There is chagrin is being so intimately handled, opened and explored by a woman. And beyond the odd discomfort/pleasure of anal penetration and digital manipulation is that a second video camera will be positioned such that my wife and/or whomever is satiating her of late will watch in close high definition color as this daunting woman of color drains me... most slowly... of male essence.  Humiliating... degrading... and when my penis fights its enclosure... agonizing.

Lying prostrate, Nurse Elsa finishes the first segment of her quick shave, gliding the straight edged razor everywhere accessible. Over the many months I have learned to remain perfectly still, bound wrists and ankles aside... learned to submissively let the accomplished woman have her way with me. Knicks and cuts detract.

And now my bindings are loosened, just enough so I can rise and kneel on all fours. This offers further access for the razor. And of course affords an inspection of the mass of steel mesh trammeling my penis. Nurse Elsa finds fascination there... that a woman thousands of miles away controls the male libido. She has no key, and the combination of deeply inserted penis tube, a connecting post thrust through a Prince Albert piercing, and a tiny padlock holding such in place along with a small most constricting cage over a penis kept forcibly flaccid, intrigues.

“Mrs. Charles, she come home... some day. Then maybe I see what little thing is in here,” the words coming as she playfully jostles the entire collection of hardened metal.   

This stirs... and such is not good. For the slightest engorging brings discomfort leading to incredible pain.

Yes, the interior of the devilish cockcage is spiked, my wife pridefully announcing the extra cost is worth every penny.  

The shaving resumes. I am always amazed in feeling Nurse Elsa glide the razor about the exposed portion of my scrotum. The so termed control ring, that which holds the constricting cockcage in place, encircles high, leaving a strained sac and the testicles within vulnerable to a woman’s inspecting hands and fingers.

Mrs. Charles finds the accessibility amusing... at least before she left to tour the world in a quest for the perfect lay.   

The razor works my thighs and belly. Caution equal to my scrotum comes at the chest, those pink nipples amazingly sensitive with the long interlude of forced chastity. Yet Nurse Elsa deftly works to avoid mishap. Then finally comes my head. Yes, I am kept bald, and have come to realize that glabrousness when confined 24/7 in tight latex is merciful. Hair and sweat coated rubber can bring itching never to be scratched and near insanity in futilely attempting.

Standing directly before me, the handsome woman of size and strength... and remarkable feminine resolve... offers an opportunity to adore. I love and revere my wife, but with the constant bondage and chastity, I now find myself in awe of all women.

Perhaps she will walk me a little. When being first acclimated to long term bondage, I was leashed and walked about the dungeon room during these short respites. Yes, Nurse Elsa likes having a naked man on a leash. So I inquire, the words indiscernible with molt gag in place.

“No point in talking, Mr. Charles. Can’t understand a thing you’re saying. If you’re eager to be put back into bondage I’ll make the milking as quick as possible. But you know it’s best that you be thoroughly drained.”

How can my pleas be so miserably misinterpreted?

I put aside attempts at verbal communication and whine... like a puppy. Such always elicits words of sympathy... but nothing else. I have come to realize that Nurse Elsa, though pleasant and professional, enjoys her governance, finds amusement in controlling the naked and bound Caucasian male... and being well paid for it.

I know, for heightening the irony is that it is my money which funds her... and the extravagant travels of Mrs. Charles... and her dalliances... and all the gigolos she hires.

The money flows rapidly... fortunately in both directions. Yet I must often ponder... fortunate for whom?

Nurse Elsa steps away and returns with the spray hose. Such soothing warmth, the remnants of bath and shaving methodically rinsed away, the marble slab serving as my cleansing table well drained. Then she rinses my drool cup, the vessel now to collect that which long, knowing fingers will milk from my prostate.

“You try to be quiet, Mr. Charles. Keep in mind this is for the best,” the words coming as a block of wood is wedged between my knees, further encouraging proper presentation for anal penetration. “Can you keep your head down for me... or do you need a collar and strap?”

My reply comes when I lower chin and molt gag to the marble surface then obediently arch my back. Resistance to Feminine power has long been driven from me... my psyche depleted of notions of masculine retaliation. As I see Nurse Elsa move in place the portable video camera, I instead realize my role is to entertain Feminine power... not contest it.

The ritual of milking begins. A firm left hand grasps an inviting scrotum, obviating that initial squirm that comes with anal assault. A right hand, fingers coated in unguent, splays my gluteal cleft and liberally lubricates. Though about to face the agony of a raging penis forcibly entrapped, I tell myself that the moments of release from unending bondage should be enjoyed.

But how I can do so?

Looking back between well spread thighs, I note the drool cup positioned for drool of a different nature, a brown left hand that seems to celebrate its championing hold on the male reproductive organs, and busy fingers making a sphincter more pliant for penetration.

Where does a woman learn such stultifying control over intimate male organs... the function of ejaculation? My penis should be firming, turning to stone, my ejaculatory muscles primed and ready to launch the mighty male seed. There should be glory, a conquest about to come, a surrendering vagina warm and wet, reluctant yet eager to feel the virility of male tumescence.

Instead there are tantalizing fingers, fear, concern, and the need to remain as flaccid as possible, lest I hurt myself.

I hope I do not whimper for the camera. For my supersensitive hearing will detect my wife, thousands of miles away, in the arms of a well endowed lover, laughing as my seed meekly oozes into a waiting cup.

It is so unmanly, to be milked... by a woman. She takes, reversing a process in which the vaunted male should give... vigorously. But that is what my wife has decreed... that I am not an alpha male and will not live as one.

“And in we go!” Nurse Elsa proclaims with zeal as I sense one finger then two thrust inward.

I lurch like a scared puppy, the number of times I have felt her steadfast digital entry notwithstanding. She finds my gland with aplomb, fingers beginning a steady circular motion. A soft voice comforts, the tone as if tending a child. Yet the cooed words admonish, reminding not to harden, to remain flaccid, my penis not to fight its steel enclosure... not to challenge the dozens of sharp spikes within.

This of course begins the cascade... toward stiffness. The humiliation, the pressure of her fingers, the psychological duress... as when someone suggests you not focus on some obscure object. And of course your eyes thereafter remain riveted upon it.

So I begin to harden. Nurse Elsa knows this... finds amusement... my labored moans and guttural gasps of pain greeted by low laughter. Forehead pressed to the cool marble, I look to see the flow begin. Yes, the Prince’s Wand, length and shape designed to internally abrade the gland which Nurse Elsa palpates, becomes a small drainage pipe. Clear viscous fluid oozes, pausing at the tip then drooling in a long strand to the waiting cup. Occasionally Nurse Elsa shifts to assess her progress, patiently kneading, awaiting the whiteness, the indication of semen, my sperm ducts joining in the slow degradation.      
I try to beg... for ice... fully aware that milkings are mandatory and no beseeching will ever interrupt that task. But numbing cold would greatly alleviate the self induced pain of attempted erection. And of course the molt gag causes my words of entreaty to turn to a comical burble, spurring more laughter.

“Oh Mr. Charles, you needn’t thank me,” Nurse Elsa adding to the comedy in conveniently misinterpreting my futile communication. “Mrs. Charles, she pay me quite well.”

With her benefactor, my wife, both listening and watching on the video, her condescending reply will be noted I am sure.

So I continue to grimace. The daunting Nurse Elsa continues her deft manipulation. My intubated penis continues to give up what my governess forces from it. And I console myself knowing that when the long slow interlude of torment ends, I will sense the glow of post coitus eruption... without erupting.

Saturday, August 29, 2015

A Cuckolded Gimp

New Story. The complete manuscript is available on Lulu. $3.50, 16,400 words.

'Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys' continues to be under construction and when completed will also be made available. 

A Cuckolded Gimp

Copyright 2015

by Chris Bellows

I suppose it’s natural to wonder whether anyone is with me. And I do. But not as often as when first placed in extreme bondage. For over time I’ve come to the realization that it is of no matter. It is of a little consequence if some observer peers at me in curiosity... or in pity... or perhaps in sadistic delight. For there is nothing I can do to discourage or encourage... nothing to be gained... certainly nothing to be lost. There is nothing more to lose. Nothing to offer... nothing to sacrifice... for I have nothing... at least nothing of which I can avail myself.

There were times... months ago... years ago... when I preoccupied myself by trying to move. Quite the effort... yet I found certain fingers could be wriggled, toes curled. But to what end... other than to heighten the damning frustration? So now, other than my thoughts, I just hang, drool and listen.

Oh yes, little does my nurse realize that despite the thick stuffing placed over my ears and the heavy layering of latex encompassing my head, there comes discernible sound. With the many hours of silent isolation the sense of hearing becomes amazingly acute. And so I listen. And incredibly I can hear the voice of my wife, my idol, despite the fact she’s thousands of miles away.

Yes, I hear her moans, her cries of ecstasy as the deep penetration she craves brings her to orgasm after orgasm. I know the name of her latest lover, for she calls it out, emptying her lungs in a rush of climactic triumph. It’s Robert... at least it is for this week.

I’d stiffen with the sounds, knowing she’s enduring carnal nirvana... a fifth climax... a sixth? But I cannot. Erections are of the past. Erections are for men, my wife has decreed. Therefore erections are not for me. And my dear Nurse Elsa most attentively assures that I will never ever stiffen.     

Something about engendering male pride, the sight and feel of a good engorged standing penis. And that notion annoys... and therefore it is not to be.

Still I imagine erections... large. But never mine. Mine is small and relatively limp. Those imagined are of size, virile and about to thrust... about to explode Yes thrust into the divine portal of my wife... to inseminate... as would the man I am not.

I so often worshiped her there... and mentally still do in the induced stupor of constant sensory deprivation and strict bondage.

Ah, my thoughts interrupt. I do believe another droplet is about to slither to my chin. There to pause until the force of gravity randomly dispatches it to my drool cup. It’s my only other diversion... drooling. That and a sporadic spray of water, presumably dispensed by Nurse Elsa. I must assume it is Nurse Elsa. Who else would offer such kindness? Hydrating me. But not too much hydration please. That brings a need... an unwanted call from nature which only heightens the unending torment. Skin abrading urine soaked rubber is such slow aggravation. 

Yes, in being sightless, the only opening for the latex hood being at my nose and mouth, I know not who is tending to me. And I cannot inquire, my molt gag cruelly obviating speech, forcing open my mouth at all times, readying my throat and stomach for the induction of anything and everything... and for the discharge of saliva... drop after drop after drop.

Still I am confident of the attentive care which strict bondage and sensory deprivation require. For there are comments, passed along during the brief intervals of my daily cleansing... I assume it is daily... and apparently stemming from the overhead camera, its red blinking light evidencing constant function. The care is evidenced by the mercy of light ephemeral massage. Though clinical, it is welcomed. I like to think the knowing hands intend to offer the gift of joy. Yet I realize it solely for medical purposes... Nurse Elsa at one time using the term orthostatic syncope... fainting due to hypotension.

That would not do... fainting. That would offer relief, the nothingness of unconsciousness. That would end the torment... at least for an undesired moment. So my circulation is stimulated, pressure applied to known anatomical regions. So quick, so evanescent, really augmenting the torment more than relieving it.

There was a time when I could sense myself moving. I envisioned twisting. It makes sense that I would, the sole supporting chain certainly furnishing the capability. But now I am not sure at all. For there is no way of determining. With my entire body encased in latex, I cannot feel the room air, have no sensory input from that standpoint, the wafting brought about by motion. And if I do indeed twist, it’s slowly... quite slowly... my vestibular system not detecting change. Yet if I were to twist, what of my drool cup, that collecting the unending flow of saliva?

No, slobbering on the cleansing table beneath me would involve an unnecessary task for Nurse Elsa. She would not want that. And there would be messiness, those watching on camera, I assume someone is watching on camera, put off by the spewing viscous effluent. 

So I don’t twist. I guess I don’t twist.

Wait! I feel motion. My supporting chain oscillates! Is it cleansing time already?

Amazing how I have learned to withhold my excretions. Pooping in my suit of black latex is smelly and unsightly, but urinating is what can bring the most frustration and aggravation. The acidity brings self torment, the skin chafing to the point of blistering. And so I have learned discipline... just what the wife envisioned... to hold .. and hold... and hold. Until the chain moves, lowering me a distance so short yet so meaningful... the six inches to the smooth marble, well drained table. There to be unzipped... momentarily relieved... to feel air... to go potty... to listen to the Jamaican patois of Nurse Elsa as she supervises my toilet then bathes and feeds.

Ah yes, the suspension is ending... how many hours I know not... will never know. My belly touches the table top, then my thighs. I am released from the hog tie, my encased feet secured to the back of my hood. My muscles celebrate, the circulation rushing.

‘Thank you, thank you, Nurse Elsa,’ I so much wish to express my sincere gratitude. But the molt gag remains in place as I know to straighten my legs and feel the vibrations of the long zipper, neck to ankles, being released.

I am peeled open, like a ripe banana, as Nurse Elsa once explained, the fruit of her native tropics coming to mind.  

Before the hood is unbuckled, I begin working my bowels. Cleansing time is quick... deliberately quick, my wife dictating that the joy of freedom be minimal. If I do not relieve myself now, I will either need to hold until the next cleansing or poop within the latex encasement... both options not desirable.

So I work, comparing my efforts to being walked like a dog, learning to empty myself when Master offers the opportunity... not before... not after.

With the muscle action, bladder relief also begins. Yes, somewhere under the steel mesh of my chastity device, catheterized by a wicked Prince’s wand, my penis will finally function... but only to drain my bladder... certainly not for pleasure.

The chastity device is superfluous of course. With the sleeveless latex suit holding my arms at my side, I cannot touch myself. But my wife describes the added abject cruelty of the steel mesh as a message... ‘don’t even think about ever again using it’.

Docility ingrained, I resist not as I feel the firm grip of Nurse Elsa take each limb and secure it. The brief cleansing requires four point restraint. Bondage... bondage... bondage... my adored wife dictating it is best for the beta male.

And so wrists and ankles are encircled in soft yet strong foam padded strips of nylon, in turn secured to the corners of the table.

It is only then that the hood is unlocked, unbuckled and whisked away, sight and real sound returned. As my eyes acclimate, I look down to see my drool cup.

“Mrs. Charles... she be watching you, Mr. Charles. Sent another email. Says her latest lover also enjoys seeing you latexed and hanging hogtied. He’s quite the cocksmith... her description not mine,” Nurse Elsa chides, her Jamaican accent adding frivolity to the dalliances of my cuckolding wife.

I cannot verbally reply. I am kept muted at all times. Words, expressions of feeling have long been denied. At times a laptop computer is presented, pictures of my wife being fucked by her latest bull offered, a humble reply to be awkwardly typed by a restrained right wrist sometimes permitted. 

I feel the warm wet of my urine, relieved that the cleansing table is well drained and that a comforting spray hose will chase away excretions, bowel movement included. So I let it all out, quickly, sloppily, eagerly, so performing for Nurse Elsa humiliating but required... more wifely dictates.

“Get you shaved, cleaned up, fed then let you read her message. Something about money. Not my business but she certainly takes care of her bulls. Making a lot of big dicked island boys rich. Word gets around, Mr. Charles. Your Misses, she likes ‘em big and stiff... and often... ha, ha, ha. So they take good care of her as well. Just as well your little thing is under lock and key, Mr. Charles. A woman stretches down there you know. She’d probably not feel you... if you were ever again allowed.”

This is when the molt gag frustrates the most, listening to Nurse Elsa, her tendance otherwise welcomed, chide me, the cuckold husband, with no ability to retort.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys X

“Yes, you’re a good boy... a good white boy,” inmate Julie jeers, standing at the bars of his cell. “Miss Amanda, she likes obedient white boys. You’ll do well to lick her boots too. Lots and lots of licking for you, ha, ha, ha,” the tone sarcastic.

“You’ll be licking as well... my ass,” Luke snarls.

Nurse Simms having completed her rounds, the inmates of the super max cell block are left to their own. Six dangerous criminals... all ready to create danger... given the opportunity.

“You be polite white boy. I won’t be licking your ass, but Miss Amanda, if she gets in one of her playful moods, your ass just may get some attention. Little Julie here... ten inches. Ten rock hard inches where you’ll not be too appreciative... ha, ha, ha.”

Leg Breaker Luke glares through the bars. He knows not of the full relationship... guard and inmate. Would she condone anal sodomy? Promote anal sodomy? It would not require much effort should she so desire to entertain herself. Luke decides not to press the issue. Guard Amanda certainly has the power. Nothing that happens in super max is seen or heard by the outside world. And in being yoked and naked, Luke’s vulnerability is more than apparent.

He decides to return to silence... not to further taunt.

“You’ve killed... but so have I white boy. Not as many, but you needed a gun. I only needed my hands. More fun that way. You know when you break a neck, there’s this strange muscle reaction. Things kind of spasm... gets all tight... specially your little ass hole. Nice way for a guy to get off. Makes your cock feel really good. Yeah, there’s tightness that gets even tighter when you snap the neck. Did a few girls... but found guys to be tighter... and they put up a better fight. Kind of like fishing... you want something that gives you a little fight. Got myself off a lot that way. But they got this thing now... DNA. It’s unique. They use that to identify now. And that’s how they got me... lots and lots of DNA pumped into lots of ass holes. Guess they had to dig pretty deep to get samples, ha, ha, ha. Little Julie here, he explodes like a cannon. Crack the neck... little Julie goes boom! Ha, ha, ha.”    

For the first time, Luke takes comfort in the yoke... particularly that of inmate Julie.

“Miss Amanda, she says if I’m really good, she’s going to have me do Jami. Won’t snap his neck, but he’ll be tight. Oh yes, a nice tight little white boy for Little Julie. Love it.”

It dawns that Guard Amanda could easily make it happen and Luke shudders with the thought.

“But young Molly, I heard her say you strangled. Just once... and a woman. Not much fight there. But it would be slow. And the asshole... think it would dilate instead of tighten. Probably get messy. Is that right white boy? No oxygen, the muscles go all soft. Piss and shit all over the place, I imagine. Kind of sloppy. Is that right? Is that how you like it?”

“Shut and take a nap, Julie,” Luke firm in wishing to curtail further talk.

“Can’t do that tell nap time. You know that.”

It is true. For several hours a day, Guard Amanda takes the time to shorten the nostril string of each inmate, retying high to the bars to assure the bunks are beyond range and the prisoners must stand. Not as stressful as Luke’s first day, forced to his toes. But limited slack is offered... only enough to forestall cramping muscles... and little else. The daily process is thought to replace the need for normal exercise.  

So in silence inmates Luke the Leg Breaker and Julie the Neck Snapper are forced to stand and stare at each other. And Luke’s reticence is with purpose. He has no knowledge of the macabre aftereffects of strangulation... for he has not strangled.

The sound of tapping boots comes. A brown hand free to move one by one pulls on the thin strings, untying the simple knots which force even mammoth inmates like Julie into a state of slow exhaustion.

“You boys have talked enough. Nap time,” the voice assertive, a finger pointing to the bunks.