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.