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.



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.”