Saturday, December 26, 2015

Tie Me Chicago II


It’s a three hour drive from the fair grounds back to Chicago. Lots of time for thought. And of course repeating in my mind are the afternoon events, the raucous laughter as the crowd of brawny males watched my 220 well muscled pounds succumb. The Matsumoto woman was agile, knowing and used her notable strength to counter mine, though no doubt inferior.

But my thoughts mostly focus on the somatic reaction below, her grazing hand seeming to know exactly what was to be found beneath my zipper. I try to convince myself that such penile tumescence is normal, every male responding to certain pressure and tension at points on the spine and perineum.

But then I reflect on her words... ‘You have enjoyed, Matt. Women of authority excite.’

So my stiffness... more then just taut rope judiciously applied?

I think back some 15 years, to days of adolescence... and an older sister. She was brash. But even more brash was her friend Eve, a girl of size, or so it seemed. At 13, my growth spurt had just begun, though sexual development was well under way. And at 17 Eve was not only fully grown but heavily into athletics. Though a handsome girl, her strength was a more impressive attribute and this gave rise to troubles in dating. I suppose no teenaged boy is comfortable with the notion that his date can physically overpower.

And so Eve had problems relating to the opposite sex at a time when hormones raged and drive countered reason.    

Matt the brat, as my sister teased, of course stepped into the situation, adding to Eve’s frustration with pert questions, asking about her latest Friday night date... which of course was at home with her mother. I otherwise taunted, a brat indeed, I suppose my own burgeoning hormones warping any sense of decorum.

Well after many weeks of my stupid remarks and questions, Eve had had enough. She and my sister were in the basement doing laundry. I called out from the top of the stairs, invoking the name of an idolized high school senior whom I knew Eve esteemed but had zero chance of ever dating, suggesting he was on the phone asking for her.

Well, Eve just looked at my sister who nodded concurrence, hinting at some kind of silent conspiracy.

‘Come down here Matt. Take the laundry upstairs,’ my sister wriggling her finger most authoritatively.
  
Why did I choose that moment to obey, I often ask myself. As a brat I usually ignored such sisterly requests. But I descended the stairs and should have been concerned when my sister passed by me quite quickly to leave me alone with the Amazon Eve.

To shorten the story, with sister abandoning the basement, Eve grabbed at my waist, lowered my trousers, shaking my slim youthfulness about like a rag doll. Moving to sit on a stool she gripped my frame with convincing force, lowering my underpants, and spanked... and spanked... and spanked... relieving herself of many weeks of pent up vitriol and me of any urge to again taunt.

Worse was her masterful grasp... the specifics. With the pain I lurched about most paroxysmally. After some half dozen smacks Eve found it more effective to enshroud my scrotum with her free hand, lessening her efforts to hold me in place and assuring that my futile attempts to free myself would result in more agony.

My little plums captured by a woman! Such ignominy!

The humiliation mounted. And when finally freed, adequate punishment applied, I was summarily pushed from her lap... with a hard on! 

So there I stood, dungarees and underpants at my ankles, buttocks smarting, erect penis, limited in size, pointing to a smirking Eve.

"Ha, ha, ha," the derisive laugh lingers so vividly in my memory, "you’ll not be dating much either with that useless little thing... Matt the brat."

I stood, stunned. Eve reached down, grabbing the bundle of loose clothing at my ankles. Stripping me more fully proved to be facile, my shoes parked as always by the front door. Yes, with her quick grasp and a powerful snap of her hand I was deprived of the ability to return myself to cover. And she pulled so vigorously I toppled to the floor.

I now looked up at the girl whom I so brazenly taunted.

“I know what boys your age like to do, Matt. Want to do it now? Want to make that tiny thing spurt for me? You little pervert!”

I was appalled. How was it she knew... how was she aware of my furtive late night penile manipulation? And most disconcerting, this imposing girl... really a woman in the mind of a 13 year old... knew I indeed wanted to make it spurt for her.

She quickly and aptly exposed my charade. Taunting, mocking, exposing her as undesired... sexually unwanted... and suddenly with her hands and words I melted. I indeed wanted to perform for her... amuse her... entertain her. My thoughts and emotions were many and conflicting.

My memories are put aside. Interstate 57 ends. I must guide the car into the urban traffic of Interstate 94. There are more recollections concerning Eve, curiously spurred by the provocative words of Midori Matsumoto. Such will need to wait.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Lulu Book Pricing

Just noticed that I have books/short stories available in Lulu priced such that I receive less than $1.00.

Beginning 1/1/16 I will be increasing those minimally priced stories.

'The Masturbatrix' and 'The Toy' will also be repriced and no longer free.

Such changes have already been made to books available on Smashwords.

Tie Me Chicago

Tie Me Chicago

Copyright 2015

by Chris Bellows

It’s an odd story, but one which I think will amuse, perhaps titillate as well.

Despite my many years of bachelorhood, humping with noted indiscrimination, I’ve never had an Asian girl... woman. Maybe that was the initial attraction. Or maybe it was just her manner, her understated yet alluring good looks, tight black slacks which highlighted firm thighs and a degree of athleticism, black leather boots suggesting authority, loose white blouse which teased... hinting at firm upstanding breasts beneath. Or maybe it was the exhibition... a demonstration of Shibari... Japanese rope bondage.

Rather kinky... rather risque... for a county fair. But I suppose country events have always had some such Bohemian attraction... something prurient... for the adult male attendees. 

So... my story...

******************************************************************************

The Macon County fair, for a city guy it’s an attraction. Lots of Games of chance, rides for the kids, blues bands, food for both young and old, bucolic exhibitions of farm equipment, a livestock contest... hogs. I tour, many things not before seen, only read about in books, seen on television. Then I come across this tent, a large sign drawing attention... ‘Tie Me Chicago’.

What’s this? I pause, learning more.

The Asian woman stands on a pedestal, fulfilling the role of circus barker.

“Come one, come all. I’ll tie up any man and have him restrained within five minutes. Ten dollars to the man who volunteers... the bigger the stronger the better.”

The woman in loose white blouse shouts to a crowd of strolling passersby, her announcement causing diversion, a gathering quickly assembling behind me. It’s Illinois, it’s farm country, a woman of Asian descent is considered exotic, I suppose. And as stated, she’s certainly attractive. Plus the air of machismo is evident, burly farm workers disbelieving that the woman, though evidencing strength in her fitness, could so constrain man... big or small.

So it’s no surprise when I glance behind me and note the assemblage is mostly male... their chauvinism aghast with the proffered challenge.

“You sir, you’re a man of size. Come into the tent and earn a quick ten dollars. One hundred if I don’t have you immobilized and under control within five minutes,” directing her words at me.

Well, at six foot two and some 220 pounds, twice weekly gym visits assuring shape, I suppose I appear to be a challenging enough candidate. And though I need not ten dollars, I am intrigued. Then there is also my own machismo. She challenges, her words provocative... and she does so before a sizable growing crowd.

I smile, I nod, the crowd roars with excitement. Her index finger beckons, come hither, as she grins and steps from the pedestal.

I follow, into the tent, as does the assembled crowd, the murmurs growing to a dull roar.

Within there is a stage, three feet high, constructed between the two tent poles. As one would expect, hanging from hooks is a collection of rope, many loops.

“I am Midori Matsumoto, master of the Japanese art of Shibari... the term translated into English as ‘to tie’,” the tone stentorian as she summons me to join her on the stage. “And you sir are?”

“Matt,” for some reason my voice no where near as firm and commanding.

The Midori Matsumoto woman stoops. From a large glass jar labeled ‘tips’ she draws a bill.

“Well, Matt, here is your ten dollars,” extending her hand.

In turn I extend my hand and am shocked. The loose blouse, sleeves long for the heat of summer, proves to be veiling and practical. For as I reach for the ten dollar bill in her right hand, her left instantly loops a length of rope over my wrist. Next her left boot kicks behind my knees, firmly, not enough to damage, but certainly hard enough such that I collapse to the stage floor. As I go down, I am amazed when the hands work with celerity, looping more rope which evidently unravels from beneath her blouse.

The crowd roars approval. Before I can gather my wits, my wrists are not only encircled with hemp, but secured together.

Midori stands over, holding the loose end of the rope, grinning triumphantly. When I attempt to right myself I find that though her end of the rope is slack, her full weight presses it below against the stage floor, booted foot holding me down.   

“Shibari with a little judo,” she smilingly announces to the crowd.

The assemblage laughs boisterously, the noise covering her words as she leans and speaks to me sotto voce.

“No, no Matt, we’re not done,” admonishing my attempt to stand. “Be a good boy for me. Earn your ten dollars.”

I blush. Then I find the woman is indeed athletic, tugging, the rope becoming a defacto leash, forcing me to crawl to where there hang the many loops of hemp, her right boot kicking with authority with each attempt to rise from my knees.

As I am to later read, the art of Shibari began with Japanese warriors placing their captives in bondage for triumphant display. Indeed I am captured... and indeed Midori Matsumoto displays in triumph. For the next five minutes, her hands are busied as I am enshrouded, neck to thighs in rope knotted most artistically. When finished, arms entrapped about my torso, Midori grips a sizable loop at the back of my neck, almost like a handle. She whispers before lifting...

“If you’d like to lick my boots, there will be another five dollars,” mocking wickedly.

I shake my head. She feigns disappointment as an amazingly strong arm brings me to stand upright, the crowd both laughing and cheering.

In humility, I bow my head, I don’t know why. A conquering Midori waves to the mass of impressed onlookers. I note below that the large tip jar begins to fill. Farm folks appreciate entertainment, bold and avant guard. And as the woman formally declared, I am tied up and convincingly restrained... well within five minutes. With her hand remaining gripping the loop, I feel like a puppy, scruff of the neck held within the jaws of a mother hound. And it is then that I realize how comfortable is the labyrinthine web in which I am bound. There is tightness but no pinching, no pain. With my breathing slightly labored, there is no doubt I am indeed under the auspices of this firm exotic woman.

It oddly thrills.

Crowd quieting, Midori shifts to stand facing me. Her hand lowers, ostensibly to loosen a knot. But it brushes against my pubes, prominently outlined by strands of rope strung between my thighs. With her touch I become cognizant that I am hardening. And she is as well. Oddly, Midori does not seem to be daunted, almost expecting what her fingers briefly discover.

“You have enjoyed, Matt,” her tone one of calm authority as she loosens. “Women of authority excite.”

I am shocked when the assembled coils of rope instantly fall to the stage floor, both freeing me and enhancing the mystique of her mastery.

“Do stop into my studio in the city. Tie Me Chicago. It’s an art, Matt. And I can be much more intricate given the time. Yes, you’ll even more enjoy the feel of firm binding hemp,” her invitation coming as the rope about my wrists is unwound, “on bare skin,” her pause serving to emphasize the latter words.

I am grateful her voice is once again low, the inducement only for my ears.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

A Man's Chastity XIV

This will be the last posting from 'A Man's Chastity'. As a reminder, the remainder of this segment, plus the two other parts of the trilogy ('Continuing a Man's Chastity', 'Ending a Man's Chastity') are available from Lulu as well as a compendium.

There is also an Epilogue 'The Harlot of Bowers Enterprises'.

Next week... 'Tie Me Chicago'.

Enjoy,

CB

*********************************************************************************** 

I earned another week in chastity for that brazen erection. My wife explained that her relative leniency resulted due to the extenuating circumstances. Normally such opprobrious comportment would result in an additional month. 

With the encounter came another rule. I am now to immediately disclose the slightest feeling... those twinges... to the woman in charge... whether or not my penis is under lock and key.

It’s degrading, but deemed a requirement for behavioral control and modification.

Workdays become smoother, learning to subordinate myself to Miss Madeleine at the office. Curious that I have not been yet caught in the lady’s room, Miss Madeleine prescient in choosing the timing for the cock cage implementation and day’s end release. 

Interacting with security guard Pam brings a daily morning challenge. The young woman, working part time while attending college, is fascinated with my collar and wrist bands, verbally expressing her observation that, though decorative, the encircling nylon could also serve to bind.

‘Have you been leashed lately?’ she brusquely inquired this morning while waving the electric wand over the wire stitches.

I think my silent wane smile gave me away.

For the ride home, my wife still not able to lock me up in the parking lot, I must still sit with wrists bands clipped together. But now she opens my zipper and pulls out my four inches, assuring that I remain flaccid during the drive, an ice bag at the ready should I harden... which, under the threat of extended chastity, I try my best not to do.

So now I sit in the waiting area of marriage counselor Dr. Zeke Bronski. My wife wants to assure that my male psyche... once male psyche... is appropriately decimated. My words not hers.

Her words are to describe the therapy as cathartic... and mandatory. 

“Come in Henry. You know where I want you to sit,” Dr. Zeke popping his head through a partially opened office door.

I do, responding like a well trained puppy.

“Your wife says you’ve taken well to the collar. She’s been keeping you leashed?” Dr. Zeke’s forthright tone immediately going to counseling phase with his question.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what, Henry? Your wife wants you to show respect for alpha males.”

“Yes sir,” repressing the urge to stamp out and leave.

“That’s better. About the house? She leashes you in the house?”

“Yes.... sir,” trying not to choke on the simple but disheartening two words.

“How do you feel, kept restrained on a leash?”

“I... I... well it’s really a chain... a long chain.”

“Locked in place.”

“Yes... ah yes sir.”

“So you cannot free yourself. And...” he prompts.

“And... well... I guess it’s okay. I can work in the kitchen... and reach the den.”

“Any feelings of arousal? Does your penis swell?”

“That’s not permitted... not possible.”

“Yes, of course. You’re kept in a very tight cock cage. But do urges come, being under the auspices of an authoritative woman?”

They do. But must I tell Dr. Zeke Bronski? It’s bad enough that under the revised protocol I must inform my wife... or the woman in charge... about the twinges... urges in Dr. Zeke’s nomenclature.

“Sometimes... sir.”

“Interesting. So perhaps you’d like more... more restraint. Suppose your wife were to walk you about on a leash... outdoors? Would that excite you? Bring urges?”

With that, Dr. Zeke leans back in his chair. The change in position causes the male appendage that my wife so often covetously glares at to become clearly outlined by his trousers. It’s massive. I feel my penis shrink in its cage.

“I... I... don’t know... sir.”

Dr. Zeke smiles. I suppose some would deem it to be a wry smile.

“I think she should try it. It will be a nice challenge for you... and a woman of your wife’s ilk enjoys demonstrating... perhaps announcing... her tutelage... of beta males.”

This does not bode well. What Dr. Zeke suggests is almost always instituted.

“Feel any urges now?”

I do, cursing myself, my innate masochism dragging me into a pit, gnawing at me, bringing visions of further subjugation. I squirm on the hardwood chair. My chagrined silence answers for me. Dr. Zeke smiles knowingly. 

Thursday, December 10, 2015

Tie Me Chicago

I have published a novella, 'Tie Me Chicago'.

Female dominate, male submissive. Bondage, exhibitionism and of course intense humiliation.

$4.50. 18,350 words.

Teaser segments will be posted here beginning 12/19/15.

Enjoy

CB

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/tie-me-chicago/18036036


 

Saturday, December 5, 2015

A Man's Chastity XIII


“So you were obedient to Miss Madeleine?”

My wife drives. I sit most uncomfortably with wrist bands clipped together behind me. I am freed of the cock cage, my wife deeming it too awkward to replace in the building parking lot. Still, she feels it is necessary that I feel a woman’s control and with the double ‘D’ clamp such is quick and easy to implement. For some reason, I suppose the novelty of being driven about in bondage, there come those twinges. I slowly harden, hopefully my slacks veiling my priapic reaction.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Having your penis free to harden is not good for you, Henry. It’s nice of Miss Madeleine to assist.”

With that, in pausing at a traffic light, my wife looks my way and notices the bulge at my zipper. Nothing similar to that which she lustfully views while visiting the marriage counselor Zeke Bronski... or talks about late into the night after one of her so termed tutoring sessions. But there is a bulge, rarely permitted.

“Henry, I let you have a few moments out of the cock cage and you harden... without permission!”

I am chagrined. My release and masturbation date is in a little over a week and I fear extension.

“I’m... I’m... sorry. I can’t help it.”

“Well, now you know why the cage is also spiked, Henry. You need to learn control. Hard on’s are not good for beta males.”

The traffic light turns green. My wife accelerates, a MacDonald’s in view.

“Male pride... no, no, no. Not for beta males... and therefore not for you, Henry. Get you some ice.”

Into the drive through, my wife orders one of those huge sugary drinks, extra ice. While waiting she reaches over and unzips me, assuring that my stiff four inches pops into view. I am helpless to stop her and dare not protest. My forthcoming supervised orgasm is at risk. Though surely to be ruined, it remains most desired. How much longer can I wait... must I wait?

Can the little MacDonald’s girl see me... my inadequate four inches?

“Spread your thighs Henry,” the command coming as change is handed over along with a large drink, extra ice, sealed top firmly in place.

Before departing the drive through, my wife affords more attention. Leaning from the driver’s seat, her hand assures that along with my penis, my scrotal sac is pulled through the zipper. It is then that the freezing cold drink is wedged in place, nestling against my genitals, the pending numbness to return me to flaccidity.

“I’ll need to give thought to your next release date, Henry. Only when I or the woman in charge releases you are you to stiffen. You know that. You’ll become erect only under the tutelage of a woman.”

Gratefully, my wife’s attention returns to driving and she pulls out of the parking lot. I remain silent for the remainder of the ride home. It is best.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

A Man's Chastity XII


“But why the lady’s room?”

If I am protesting, my wavering voice is not effective.

“Quiet Henry. You wouldn’t want me to be seen in the men’s room would you?”

Miss Madeleine leads me by the hand like a child. In her free hand is my cock cage, control ring and small padlock. She brazenly carries the components of my chastity in the open, some how knowing the hallways will be empty... just as she surmises the lady’s room will be unoccupied.

This will be embarrassing. Yet worse is that security guard Pam, her stern demeanor, her firm tugging hand, proves to be a catalyst towards tumescence. And being under the tutelage of Miss Madeleine does not help.

Into the lady’s room I am led into the handicapped stall, sizeable in width. I can feel myself further stiffen. It is unfamiliar to me, being hard without my wrists burdened.

Miss Madeleine puts down the seat cover and sits, pulling me towards her. She reaches to my belt and uncouples the buckle.

“Hands on head, Henry. Been a while since I placed a boy in chastity. I noticed your wife has you in a spiked cage. She’s a determined woman.”  

As she speaks, my slacks are summarily lowered, crumpled at my ankles. Within seconds my underpants are likewise slid to the bathroom floor. The woman has before stripped men, there is not doubt. In my bashfulness I turn my head to the ceiling, knowing my erection will make an impression.

“And look at this. Shaven... hairless like a little boy. And your little penis is celebrating. How cute! I can see why the wife has you locked up, Henry. This can’t offer a woman much satisfaction... only for you. And that’s not good for a man of your ilk. Beta males need to learn to offer pleasure not labor to bring forth their own.”

An index finger presses the top of my standing four inches and pushes downward. It both hurts and thrills.

“Lots of masturbation in the past no doubt. But not now. You’re a good boy.”

The hand withdraws, my erection snaps upwards and Miss Madeleine presents the control ring. This solid circle of steel is precisely measured such that when slipped over the penis and scrotum, it cannot be pulled off once the steel mesh cock cage is locked to it. It’s limited size is such that only one testicle at a time can be drawn through. Then the penis, flaccidity mandatory, is pulled down and likewise slipped into the confines of the smooth heavily gauged circumference. It requires practice, my wife quite accomplished over the many months since the device was procured. When properly set, the metal rests on the pubic bone, circling from perineum to the base of the penis at the top. Though heavy it’s surprising comfortable... and the girth sends the bearer a constant message... that one is under control.

I am surprised with both the speed and enthusiasm that Miss Madeleine’s fingers work my testicles into the ring. She has no compunction in handling male genitals.

“Yes, it’s been a while. In my younger days I owned a two family house, rented the top floor to two gay college boys. What a ruckus those boys would make, Lord only knows the hijinks. Quite frisky. Friday nights were loud, lots of thumping... later found to be humping.

“Whatever are we going to do with this little rascal, Henry? Can’t get it through the control ring like that,” Miss Madeleine interrupts herself.

The humiliation is intense, leading to more stiffness. These are the times when my wife most abruptly ices me down, shriveling my limited size to next to nothing in order to return me to chastity. Alas, no ice in the lady’s room.

With a wicked grin, the imposing woman raises her hand and with a snap of her wrist smacks the very tip of my penis. It deflates... instantly... Miss Madeleine’s knowledge and control of the male phallus impressive.

“There,” fingers resuming to pull my limp penis through the ring. “So after a few weeks, I threatened to raise the rent... doubling it. Told them that if I am to be awakened with all the noise I wanted more money...  knowing college guys could barely afford the current amount. It was a ruse to get them out.”

Miss Madeleine reaches for the mesh cock cage, peering to the inside and smiling with the sharp precision placed spikes.

“Hold still,” she commands, knowing that no matter the heed, the spikes will announce themselves when set in place.

“Well they begged, insisting that quiet would ensue, no rent increase required. And of course with hormones raging the thumping continued. So I sent a formal notice of rent increase. There was no lease, just a month to month thing. Upon receipt I got a visit... a very humble visit.”

The cock cage slides into place. I am surprised with the level of care, barely a grimace in response. As the small padlock is aligned and snapped closed, the story continues.

“Told them I was suspicious about the source of the noise. Played the role of prudish spinster. Told them abstention was best... and if they agreed to be abstemious, no rent increase. Pull up your underpants for me like a good boy.”

I bend and obey.

“They agreed. But I told them I wanted assurances... asked if they were pierced. One said yes, a standard Prince Albert ring, the other demurred. So his friend finally answered for him. A matching Prince Albert. Seems they played with each others rings, some form of mutual masturbation. I feigned shock of course. Demanding that would end... and that I would be sure to end it.”

Miss Madeleine reaches down and grasps my slacks at the belt left and right. Something about dressing me, arranging my attire about the hips, buckling the belt, zipping the zipper, that adds an element of control for her.  

“Well to make a long story short, I sent both each for one more piercing... a guiche... at the perineum... near the anus. They had no choice... get pierced or go homeless before mid semester. Thereafter, it was a small step to place them in chastity, tiny lock attaching the Prince Albert ring to the guiche. Friday nights were quiet after that. But I mercifully had them perform for me on Saturday afternoons. Watching two hormone laden gay boys go at it can be very entertaining, Henry.”  

With that Miss Madeleine tenderly pats the outline of the steel cock cage and arises from the toilet lid.

“See you back here at 5:30 when your wife will pick you up. I’ll release you and keep the cock cage in my desk overnight. Have a good day, Henry. And do have deference for the woman who holds your key.”

I certainly will. Obedience to a file clerk. Ah, the power of the key.
 

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Paper book offerings

For readers who prefer hard copy, I have made available the following old books...

'Power of Money/A Dog's Life' $10.00  

http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/the-power-of-moneya-dogs-life/hardcover/product-21861247.html

'The Girl' $ 7.50   (The series is published in five parts in ebook format)

http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/the-girl/paperback/product-21447852.html

'A Woman in Control' $5.07

http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/a-woman-in-control/paperback/product-21584164.html

These were formerly offered exclusively through QSM, a website which has closed.

I have also fabricated a paper edition of the triology 'A Man's Chastity', including epilogue. $10.00

 http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/a-mans-chastity-compendium-with-epilogue/17876264

If interest is shown, I will offer more in paperback format. Experience has shown this not to be the case.

Enjoy

CB

Saturday, November 21, 2015

'The Harlot of Bowers Enterprises'

Enjoying the characters, I have written an epilogue to the trilogy 'A Man's Chastity'. 

7,800 words. $2.10

 It may stand on its own, but reading the trilogy first will probably bring more enjoyment.

 http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-harlot-of-bowers-enterprises/17818782

A Man's Chastity XI

As I step from the car, I cannot help wondering if any of my colleagues will notice how far into the lot my wife has parked, well away from other cars. For obvious reasons, seclusion is needed, zipper lowered, wife finding the tiny padlock and with noted alacrity releasing and sliding away the spiked cock cage.

Normally this is done slowly and carefully, the penile flesh understandably sensitive. But not in the building parking lot, the morning sun glaring. Opportunity for observation must be minimized, the quickness painful but appreciated.

I zip up, step from the car and begin my journey, my wife honking the horn in bidding adieu, but also pausing at the exit to the street to assure I enter the lobby. 

I wave and step through the revolving door.

The large lobby, glowing in the morning sun, now appears congested, the metal detectors transforming the space into an airline terminal. The waiting line is short and I step to the conveyor, empty my pockets of keys and coinage and drop my brief bag.

I spy a smirking Madeleine Hawkins, standing in wait near the elevators. She wriggles her finger in a ‘come hither’ gesture, a stern mother beckoning a child. I nod glumly to acknowledge then move through the archway of the detector.

It buzzes, a red light flashing.

“Sir, can you check your pockets please?” a woman security guard, young yet authoritative, politely blocking further entrance.

I do. There is nothing metallic. I shrug trying to appear innocuous. 

Ah, here comes the wand, the antenna announcing its purpose. The woman moves her arms from her sides in a signal for me to assume a similar pose. I obey. Though not much older than a teenager, my reaction is ingrained. She is polite yet firm and I respond obsequiously to firmness.

I am chagrined when, with a swift continuous wave, the wand beeps, first at my right wrist, then at my neck, then the left wrist. It’s the piano wire used to secure the seams of my nylon wrist bands and collar. She ignores the warning at the wrists, presumably assuming anything there to be small and harmless. But at the neck she has concerns.

“If you’re wearing a necklace sir, you’ll need to remove it and place it on the conveyor.”

I begin to blush.

“And any wrist jewelry as well,” the woman’s tone, her pose suggesting authority.

Well, such is not to be removed, not without cutting and obviating replacement, and earning the wrath of my wife. What am to say?

“I... I...” my stammering does not impress.

Madeleine Hawkins notes my dilemma, marching to my aid.

“He wears a collar, Pam... from his wife.”

The guard turns and nods at Miss Madeleine, a wry smile suggesting both understanding and a degree of enjoyment with my discomfort.

“I see. One of those.”

She turns back, the smile fading.

“I won’t make you show it, sir. We don’t embarrass here. But I will need to feel it. There’s metal and that must be checked.”

For some reason I find myself stepping toward her. A curious reaction. And more curiously I bend at the waist, in a way bowing to she in uniform.

“It’s the seam,” I offer, pointing to the right side where I know the piano wire to reside.

The guard, some six inches shorter than me, reaches, feeling the otherwise covered strip of thick nylon. Her fingers find the wire stitches, working to slip under through the thin cloth of my dress shirt. I am shocked when she hooks her fingers and tugs... quite firmly.

I must assume she is assuring that the collar is indeed permanent and cannot be removed. Or is she replicating the action of a leash, about to lead me to the elevator, a controlling hand celebrating in feminine dominion.

“Quite sturdy. Won’t slip off. And can probably withstand lots of tension... like that of a leash.”   

Her comment magnifies my blushing. But for some reason there also comes that twinge. And with cock cage removed, flaccidity is no longer physically mandated. The guard glares intently, seeming to be aware of my plight.

“I’ll take him upstairs if there are no further security issues,” Miss Madeleine breaking the silent stand off.

“Yes, he is one of them, Madeleine. Look at those puppy dog eyes... the way he reacts to a woman tugging at his collar...”

Gratefully, Pam the guard finally steps aside, letting me retrieve brief bag and pocket items from the conveyor. It is the start of a long day. 

Saturday, November 14, 2015

A Man's Chastity X

“But she’s nothing more than a file clerk!”

My words are direct and meant to be uttered in adamance. But whenever there is an exchange of dialogue with my wife, I sound like a squeaking mouse.

“Madeleine Hawkins, Miss Madeleine to you, is one of us. You will respect her and obey her. Is that clear Henry?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the words of a sullen mouse.

With the arrival of the second cock cage and control ring, I stand naked, wrists secured behind my back as my wife tests to assure a proper fit. As with most things Teutonic, it proves to be precise, an exact duplicate, spikes included.

“Okay, take the old one and mail it priority to your office, addressed to Madeleine Hawkins. It should arrive on Monday.”

The rush shipment from Germany, air express, added over $100 to the cost of the finely fabricated cage and ring. But it is timely received. On Monday, the new security protocol begins. To some degree I am excited, to be relieved of the cock cage. But upon arrival in the office, having cleared security and the new metal detectors, Madeleine Hawkins.... Miss Madeleine Hawkins... will return me to chastity with the duplicate cock cage. This brings apprehension, subordinating myself to a subordinate.

The woman is annoying. Bad enough she knows of my collaring. Now she will be caging my penis.

There comes the click of the tiny pad lock, assuring my return to chastity. I know to turn and my wife releases the double ‘D’ clamp from my wrist bands.

So the new regimen is that I will be driven to work, temporarily released from my new cock cage in the parking lot, amble through security and report to Madeleine Hawkins... Miss Madeleine Hawkins... who will return me to chastity with the old cock cage. At the end of the day, the process is to be reversed.

I suppose I could somehow play with myself, possibly even masturbate, during the interval from parking lot to office. Yes, I fantasize, divert my route to a stall in the men’s room for some quick strokes and ejaculation... fully spurting... and not into a cup.

I think about it. I have to. I’m a guy. A very frustrated guy.

“Madeleine will greet you in the building lobby, Henry. If she’s not there you will wait for her... obediently wait for her.”

Well, there goes that fantasy.

Friday, November 13, 2015

'A Man's Chastity, the Compendium;

As some have noticed, I have published a compendium of the three segments for ease of reading and slight cost savings.

Some 67,000 words. Price $8.50.

'A Man's Chastity', 'Continuing a Man's Chastity', 'Ending a Man's Chastity'

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/a-mans-chastity-the-compendium/17720887

Enjoy,

CB

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Final segment of the trilogy 'Ending a Man's Chastity'

Now available on Lulu is the final segment of the chastity series, 'Ending a Man's Chastity'.

27,000 + words. $4.50.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/ending-a-mans-chastity/17717675

Preceding are the segments 'A Man's Chastity' and 'Continuing a Man's Chastity'

Enjoy.

CB

Saturday, November 7, 2015

A Man's Chastity IX


“Calm down, Henry. There’s a simple solution. Perhaps more than one.”

I hear the honking of a horn, a car brazenly pulling into our driveway.

“Ah, there’s David to pick me up. The undergrads love showing off their cars. Insisted on driving me to the restaurant. Shall I have him come in to meet? You’d be able to place a face with a taste,” the sardonic words offered with an innocent smile.

I shake my head. Yes, I will most likely be tasting David later, my wife not always able to completely expel the effluent of a night’s tryst before demanding my oral servitude. But I need not see him, particularly as I am once again naked, my wife having spent the last thirty minutes leading me about the house, testing the new dog leash.

I could sense the rush brought her by the expression of unbridled feminine power.

“Get the invoice for your cock cage. Then go on line to the website and request that a duplicate be made... to be express shipped.”

With that, my wife snaps closed the tiny padlock making my collar one with the long chain she procured. After some thought, she bought both... leash and lengthy chain. In locking the latter in place, I cannot release myself even with hands free. And I cannot reach the bathroom. There is a bucket for emergencies. If used, another week will be added to my chastity.

“Being tethered will make you feel better, Henry. It’s the only reason I do this. Dr. Bronski suggests bondage is appropriate for you... that you need to feel a woman’s dominion... and I agree.”

I get a kiss on my forehead and a pat to my buttocks. With that, my wife leaves for her tutoring session... at an expensive French restaurant... paid for with my credit card. I cannot help gazing in awe and wonder as she strolls to the front door, dressed not for tutoring but for a lavish evening on the town. She is ravishing, cocktail dress of glowing red, raven hair, blue eyes. Beneath the mesh of steel, I feel the twinge I must so often suppress.

I hear the screech of tires, this David student enthused by fast cars. Though well endowed and popular with the girls, my wife has informed that she has been teaching him a few things... academics aside.

She likes to ride firm young cock... of size. In late night pillow talk, this has been explained to me ad infinitum, her shockingly explicit words coming to me while I sense the warm embers of her multiple orgasms... rekindled by my oral servitude.

Left alone in my thoughts, I pull my chain to the den. The invoice for my cock cage is located and I boot up the computer, typing in the address for the German website.

More of my retirement funds to be expended when the credit card bill arrives.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

A Man's Chastity VIII


An emboldened Madeleine Hawkins again visits my office, those powerful arms empty. I look up quizzically. If she is not either picking up or delivering files there is no reason for her presence.

I find I am wrong.

“Henry, hope there’s not much metal in your collar. Building security will be utilizing a metal detector starting Monday. With the federal government offices on the sixth floor, things need to be tightened up.”

So she has a reason to visit, to provoke. She pauses standing arms akimbo, her grin suggesting she gloats over my collaring.

“It’s... it’s nylon,” I explain, hoping that the piano wire utilized for suturing won’t set off alarms.

My reply does not quell her curiosity.

“Well, I understand they will have the machine’s sensitivity turned up. Not much metal will get through without first being examined... closely examined.”

Her eyes divert lower as if attempting to peer through my desk at my crotch, her grin broadening.

Ah, it finally dawns. Some half pound of steel cage and control ring encase my genitals. The annoying Madeleine Hawkins seems to be aware... and if she is merely surmising, I imagine that my look of apoplexy confirms her suspicions.

I am speechless in concern. She laughs.

“Well, I’m sure the security guards have encountered it all. Lots of intimate body piercings and jewelry with the kids these days.”

Madeleine Hawkins departs. Where does she acquire her knowledge?

Confused, not knowing what to do, these are the times when I question the mental/emotional effect of the abundance of male hormones held in check. Or perhaps it is the brainwashing of Dr. Zeke and my wife’s constant reiteration of such that brings the need for guidance. Is that why I feel a need for her counsel?

I text my wife and mentor, keeping my message short in knowing it annoys her when I speak or in any manner initiate communication.

‘Metal detector at work, beginning Monday’

After pressing send, I lean back in my chair, close my eyes and try to calm myself. At first envisioning some security guard, female for some reason, exploring my mid section with an electric wand which shrills at the area of my pubes, my thoughts become more rational.

My wife can’t possibly make me come to work knowing I will be stopped in the building lobby, frisked and possibly strip searched because of the mesh of metal entrapping my penis. Instead she will have to offer release... glorious release... and with my wrists freed, hands mobile for work.

So despite the devilish look of Madeleine Hawkins, heightened building security will bring emancipation!

A new concern arises when I receive no text in return. Have I irritated she who rules?

Saturday, October 24, 2015

A Man's Chastity VII

Arriving home, it’s one of those rare evenings when my wife does not have a date... rather a tutoring session. I am thus bestowed with the privilege of making dinner for her. I greet with deference as always, knowing not to mention her extension of my chastity and certainly not uttering the words ‘brush’, ‘brushing’ or ‘unlock’ or anything which could be interpreted as a quest for freedom.

As a psychologist, the woman of strength and certitude is straightforward in her discipline... straightforward, calm and quiet. She does. She does not threaten... does not talk... does not lecture... she simply does.

So there is no further discussion, certainly no appeal concerning her succinct message and relatively moderate punishment. I must endure another four weeks. Period.

“How is your collar? Keep you thinking of me... of your subservience?”

“Yes, Ma’am. It’s... it’s... surprisingly comfortable. Yet I know it is there.”

And yes, I know why it is there and whom I am to serve... and all the other stuff drilled into my psyche by marriage counselor Dr. Zeke. Not to mention my wife’s thorough follow up through reiteration.

“Porterhouse?” I inquire, dinner plans typically postulated with few words.

My wife is not enthusiastic and never has been in hearing me speak.

“Medium rare... and just a salad. After you’ve cleaned up, remain naked. I want to see you move about serving me in your new collar.”

The commands come with my wife lounging on the living room couch, the latest edition of ‘Psychology Today’ offering enlightening reading I am sure.

Always hopeful, I remove the double ‘D’ clamp, the precursor to penile freedom, from my pocket and leave it in a convenient place in the dining room should my wife have the urge to secure my wrists and unlock me. Such would be unusual... and certainly would not lead to drooling into my masturbation cup. But there are occasions after a glass of wine or two that she finds the stiffening of my inadequate phallus to be amusing.

Yet as stated, such is rare. And she knows I don’t need to be shaved. Miss Denise offered her talents just days ago.

I strip. A quick shower. I dry. To the kitchen, remaining unclothed as commanded. A porterhouse of good size is marinated. I also take from the refrigerator a slice of calve’s liver. That is for me. My wife knows how much I disdain liver... which is why I must consume such twice per week.

‘Good sustenance... for both your body and your soul,’ my psychologist wife explained in forcing the capitulation on me... to eat what she selects as nutritious... never what I want or desire. Succumbing is deemed good for my soul.

And of course that is why the salad must be heaped with cucumbers.

I find that moving about naked enhances the sense of being collared, no other covering to be felt other than the wrist restraints and cock cage. I must wonder if my wife is aware of this. And I conclude that she is, particularly when I feel that twinge... down there... and must suppress the need to stiffen as I announce the salad’s readiness and march it to the dining room table. I serve, offering her favorite Caesar cheese dressing. As I open a bottle of fine Merlo, she tries a morsel then nods. This is the gesture for me to pour then sit and join her. As always there is bland vinegar and oil for me and a glass of water.  

“Would you feel better leashed as well, Henry?” the question posed most casually.

I munch in contemplation. If she wanted me leashed I would indeed be leashed, the power of the key supreme. Yet she wants my thoughts on the matter. Ah these psychological games...

“I don’t know,” failing to otherwise conclude as to the desired answer.

“There are beta males who feel better... under constant control. Brings comfort... a sense of ownership.”

I look to see my wife repressing a sly smile. As always she is way ahead of me on matters concerning the so termed ‘beta male’ and my paraphilia.

“I’m not sure how that would work,” I prevaricate, by masochistic psyche fomenting with images... obsequious and servile images. 

“About the house, Henry. Obviously not at work, though I am sure that would titillate that demented mind of yours as well. I’d have you on a leash. Tied off, in the kitchen while you prepare food, in the bedroom to assure you aren’t watching some sports program that would provoke your diminishing male disposition. Perhaps in the backyard where I would sun you.”

Sun me!.. like a cherished potted plant.

“Physically you’d be free to untie yourself... unless of course you want me to bind your wrists as well.”

I nod. Hopefully the incidental motion of my head is interpreted as understanding and not concurrence.  

I finish my salad in silence, concerned that any more words or gestures would some how further inflame the notion... a conflagration of degrading feminine thoughts... degrading for the hapless male.

Back to the kitchen, I begin broiling the steak, adding a Portobelo mushroom so coveted by my wife, care taken, nakedness and the splatter of hot grease bringing caution.

The moments alone offer time for thought. I sense another session with the marriage counselor may be demanded. Yes, sitting on the hardwood straight back chair while alpha male Dr. Zeke Bronski lectures on the proper marital role of the beta male husband... brainwashes on the proper marital role of the beta male husband. I will learn I am sure that being leashed is an expression of affection, pleasing my spouse in my submission... her contrasting predilections to be celebrated and nurtured.

I don’t like visiting Dr. Zeke. I have come to also gaze at that notable bulge at his zipper as did my wife... hers in lust... mine in envy. I don’t like being envious... but perhaps my psychologist wife would take issue with that... the beta male always in want.

I sear the liver and toss it on my plate. In being lightly cooked, its appears slimy and is in fact repugnant to the tongue. That is how the wife wants me to eat it.

I return to the dining room, serve and sit.

“Would you like it to be decorative or Gothically functional?”

My silent look suggests a need to better understand.

“Your leash, Henry.”

Guess I’m going to be leashed.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well I can visit the pet store, purchase something very fashionable for you as do the women who own show dogs. Or the hardware store... a nice long chain so you can move about in the kitchen... and the back yard.”

Plates are cleared. My wife declines coffee, her hand signaling for more wine. In pouring, my heart leaps when my wife spies the double ‘D’ clamp, deliberately left as a wordless clue. She reaches for it on the armoire. Freedom for my entrapped four inches?

“Go get your ball.”

More dejection. It is time for cunnilingus practice. She will present the slit ball to my mouth. With wrists secured I will orally work to extricate the marble as her love pouch slowly smolders, the act of male submission bringing her arousal. In watching and supervising, vicariously sensing the intrusion of my tongue where a woman most needs attention, her need will build. It will become a fire to later be extinguished.

Saturday, October 17, 2015

A Man's Chastity VI

The seamstress friend of my wife sews with deliberation. My collar... for I am indeed collared like a dog... fits perfectly and is comfortable... physically. Mentally... emotionally... I will need to acclimate.

The curved needle, formidable in its gauge, stabs through the nylon one last time, the woman pulling tautly. It’s piano wire, the deed performed with care such that the metal does not abrade my skin. A soldering iron, heated in wait, completes the task in joining the loose ends, her work never to unravel.

“There, there. It’s quite becoming. And strong,” her observation coming as she manages to slip two fingers beneath the snug fit and pull quite vigorously, years of working with her hands imbuing inordinate strength.

And then it happens, that masochistic twinge so often felt when wife and her cohorts clip together my wrists. I have learned to quell the physical reaction, a swelling penis facing the daunting spikes. But remaining is the psyche... the odd deviance... that never to be sensed by the alpha male. I sense fear... but also excitement... a quirky arousal.

Does the seamstress woman have a leash?

The strange rush dissipates quickly as her hand withdraws. Still I humbly thank her, finding it curious that I express gratitude for extending the potential of my wife’s bondage and power.

“You can choose to wear collared shirts, or explain your wife’s predilection... along with your own needs of course,” the advice coming by rote, such apparently offered before.

I stand from the large sewing table where I have been sitting shirtless. The woman extends her right hand, tweaks a nipple to bring another twinge. She smiles in seeing the pink nub crinkle to the touch of an assertive woman then hands me my shirt.

“It’s for the best,” she declares. “You’ll feel better sensing your wife’s control.”

I find myself nodding.    

******************************************************************************

On my wall at work I have an erasable calendar board, a standard office fitting showing appointments and meetings some 6 weeks out. The dates roll forward, 6 rows of seven day weeks, the numbering erased and updated with the passage of time. Marked thereon are a scattering of business notations, conference dates, reporting deadlines, etc. Such is basically camouflage.

For no one has noted and therefore no one has ever inquired about a given Saturday date inconspicuously circled with a blue marker, the shade matching my collar and wrist bands. It is when my penis will next be released then brushed, my masturbation cup to be filled... at least  in my hormone addled mind I envision filling it.

Yes, I fantasize the quantity of male effluent my system generates to be vast and therefore in dire need to be purged.    

Under the dictate of my wife, my next brushing will be on the eighteenth, five days hence. I thus daydream, envisioning the dainty strokes, hearing the teasing words... those of a mother coaxing a child... and of course sensing the amazing smoothness as penile flesh long denied is incited to stiffness.

As divulged, the ritual involves disclosing when I am about to ejaculate, the brush summarily withdrawn, the demanded ruined orgasm commencing the filling of the cup. Frustrating, yet there is a need to be fulfilled and I calm as my hormones rebalance. Therefore I have been effectively trained to announce any approaching eruption.

Confounding my otherwise pleasant daydream is envisioning who will be in attendance, witness the ultimate male comeuppance... beta male comeuppance. Yes, of late my permitted masturbation has become entertainment for a coffee klatsch of women of my wife’s ilk... Miss Denise bringing biscuits for the tea.  

My thoughts concerning the blue circle are interrupted as my cell phone beeps... no doubt my wife.

Next brushing will be next month on the 15th. Give thought to your words before speaking.’

I am both perplexed and disheartened. She has added four weeks. Time being caged and denied has been frequently extended to correct behavior, especially in the early days of penile confinement when I would fail to proclaim pending ejaculation. For that a month would be added. This punishment is about the same, and will be mentally hellish. I am ready for the brush. I need the brush.

So what was the transgression? Apparently words... something I said.

I think back to morning coffee, serving my wife finely prepared eggs benedict... dry toast for me. I mentally review the conversation and it dawns. In inquiring about the number of guests expected for the 18th, needing to assure refreshments for all, I referenced the date as my next brushing.

‘How many will be attending my next brushing?’ If I properly recall.

It is a rule, I am never to inquire, suggest, beg about the prospective treatment of my penis. And now I suppose the word ‘brushing’ is not to be mentioned as well.  

In dejection, I text a ‘yes, Ma’am,’ and reach to the center drawer, blue marker lying in wait. I arise and while erasing the notation of the 18th, into my office steps Madeleine Hawkins, long time employee of limited rank within the organization. Matronly in demeanor, I always have the impression I am tolerated despite my level of responsibility and pay grade being well above hers. At times she gives me the impression of being a prison guard, night stick at the ready should any guest of the office/penitentiary offer belligerence. Yes, she would for sure quell any truculence with a quick swing of what appears to be a rather forceful arm.   

We exchange greetings, succinctly, and Madeleine fulfills her role as head file clerk, depositing a pile of folders on my desk as my hand lowers four rows to circle in blue Saturday the 15th. She notes my look of gloom and smiles.

“Yes, I just got the text from your wife,” her tone sardonic. “And you’ll need to wear looser shirts. Your new collar shows.”

With that she brazenly reaches and smooths her fingers over the contour of the snug nylon addition. Unbeknownst to me, outlined beneath my shirt more prominently than suspected is the newly acquired symbol of my wife’s authority. 

Before I can formulate any words of response, Madeleine Hawkins, some twenty years my senior, steps from my office giggling like a school girl.

How is it she knows my wife? Yet more pressing is the question how is it she so astutely noticed my collar. And then there’s the deciphering of my calendar marking... apparently not as inconspicuous as thought.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

New Novella published

I have published on Lulu a sequel to 'A Man's Chastity' entitled 'Continuing a Man's Chastity'.

22,000 words. $3.00.  

More of Henry.  Bondage, Chastity, Humiliation, Sissification.

Enjoy,

CB

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/continuing-a-mans-chastity/17494642

Saturday, October 10, 2015

A Man's Chastity V

“Your wife is pleased with your progress. Says you’ve adapted well to chastity.”

I sit on a rock hard wooden chair. Our marriage counselor, Dr. Zeke Bronski, leans back in his well padded desk chair of size and comfort. He notes my nod and smiles.

Zeke Bronski, one time noted college football player, is a man of great size. And not only in stature. During our first marriage counseling session, my wife gazed at the bulge about his zipper for the entire session, Dr. Zeke brazenly doing nothing to cloak the apparent length and girth of his appendage.

“And you want to please your wife, Henry. That’s what it’s all about for men of your ilk... pleasing.”

I’ve heard this before, many times. The first when I was presented with the slit open tennis ball, the loose marble rattling about within like some toy for a cat or dog. Cunnilingus training. It became a mandate.

Then came the chastity device. My initial reluctance, turning to protests after day three, brought the demand that I be counseled again... and the lecture on pleasing came again.

“Women such as your wife are happiest with many lovers... and being loved in many different ways.”

Here it comes again. Is this counseling or brainwashing?

“She is very appreciative of your efforts, Henry. The cooking, the cleaning... gives her time to... well... to experiment. Some women like to explore... like men in variety... alpha men I should add.”

Dr. Zeke leans forward, the gesture adding to the gravitas.

“Beta males... well... time is best spent at home... sheltered... life’s challenges minimized... competition limited in a world which idolizes alpha males. Your thoughts?”

I pause, my role mainly to listen, to let my brain be laundered and laundered.

“Yes... I guess I do spend most of my time at home... when not working.” 

It is because my wife insists, but that is information I rarely offer. Whenever the guys at the office congregate for drinks after work, or plan a football party to watch an important game, I find excuses. And such are not that I must cook or clean the house because my wife insists. I usually suggest instead that I will be engaging in some other masculine endeavor.

“Any comments or concerns over your wrist bands? Your wife gave them much thought. They look good on you.”

I shake my head no, Dr. Zeke probably the only male knowing of the circular blue nylon’s true function.

“There are women who like control, Henry. Your wife is one of them. And it pleases her to place you under control. It’s an important aspect of your marriage... your happy marriage. She is free... feels free... because you are not.”

More pleasing. Where is this going? I constantly please. Why am I here?

“I think you need to better express your status, Henry. You’ll feel better... as will your wife.”

“My status?” my  trembling voice bringing self disgust.

“Yes, that of beta male, capitulating your wife’s sexual gratification to others... to alpha males.”

“I... I... please her every night,” more vocal trembling.

“Orally,” Dr. Zeke’s tone firm, not posing the word as a question but as a fact.

“Well... that’s expected of me... with the... the cage and all.”

He smiles, perhaps envisioning my head wedged between the soft but firm thighs of my wife, tongue fervently lapping.

“But you realize that will never be the ultimate form of gratification for her. She needs much more... and regularly.”

Wash, wash, wash... on this visit the machine seems to be on an unending fast spin cycle. Since my wife dates sometimes four to five times per week... ostensibly as tutoring sessions... I am well aware of her concupiscence. So I nod again.

“So, your status... being reminded of it... your wife being reminded of it... would enhance the relationship, keep her in the frame of mind which so much enthuses a woman with her propensities. And of course yourself.”

Dr. Zeke opens the top right drawer of his desk. From it he withdraws a strip of blue. It matches my wrists bands, but is longer and thicker.

“Your wife had this made. Don’t know if you remember being measured. But it should fit very comfortably. As you can see it matches your wrist bands.”

“What is it?” the stress in my voice apparent.

“It’s for your neck. To be sewn in place and never removed... just as with your wrist bands.”

“No, I’ll not wear it,” my response surprisingly brash.

“Oh but you will, Henry” the tone paternal. “Your wife expected this negative reaction. That is why she had me present it... with words I hoped would sooth. But do keep in mind, she has the key. And she mentioned something about a brush. That you’d want to tell me about that.”

Ah, the brush, that fostering my only sexual release... the ruined orgasms... both satisfying and frustrating... the latter sensed most strongly with the end of every teasing application. And she’s wrong, and knows she’s wrong. I do not want to talk about it... not with alpha male and counselor Dr. Zeke Bronski. Still, her gambit is effective.

“How will I explain it?” my instance of boldness crumbling rapidly as I choose to ignore more talk about the small soft brush which so humiliates but offers the only joy attainable.  

Dr. Zeke shrugs.

“Tell anyone who asks that your wife insists that you wear it.... and that you are obedient to your wife. And it is functional by the way, Henry. Once in place, it will sustain the stress of a leash.”

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

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/a-mans-chastity/17315818

More segments will be posted on the blog. 

Enjoy

CB

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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.

Relief!

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.

“Come.”

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 

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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.