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.    

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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.