Finding Lulu Stories

I posted a comment concerning 'Lulu' and explicit stories and thought I'd better reiterate in a general post. 

When searching for stories on Lulu you must inform the seller that you are of age in order to view 'explicit content'.

I have recently worked back and assured that all of my stuff is so designated, a recent capability with Lulu's new format. I have also placed the stories in the categories of fiction/erotica/BDSM which was not offered as a selection on the former Lulu publishing page ('Love & Relationships' was as close as I could categorize, not only somewhat ludicrous but leading to confusion and negative reviews).

If you go to 'search' on Lulu.com, click 'fiction', scroll down and at the extreme bottom left you will see a box to click, enabling you to see explicit stuff (putting in your birthday).

Thereafter searching for 'Chris Bellows' as author should give rise to a listing of my stuff.

'Surrendering Maleness', Segment Three

This will be the last posted segment. A good holiday and Happy New Year to all.

CB 

*****

It’s Saturday night. I am in the townhouse of my keyholder, Joan Gifford. I visit weekly in the hopes that some evening she will deign to unlock me, a reward for my fastidious oral servitude. Yet she has relinquished the key to Dr. Susan Fromm, release needed for the procedure which will terminate my masculinity, the ultimate in capitulation to the superior gender.

So why am I here?

I bare myself, strap in place the waiting blue nylon cuffs and encircle my neck with the matching blue prosthetic neck collar. Then I wait, kneeling in silence, staring at the latex hood, wads of cotton and leash which will guide me about. My mind occupies itself... how many tonight... will there be new tastes... will I sense stronger orgasmic clenches... struggle for life sustaining air as a woman of purpose chooses to deny me in order to maximize her pleasure?

Finally the shapely and athletically trim Miss Joan descends from above, the ubiquitous white robe flipping about to flash her charms, the straps of her cunnilingus harness dangling to beckon my collar.

I know to respectfully bow my head.   

“I’m surprised you’ve chosen to visit Robert. You know I no longer have the key. You’ll now only be freed when you submit to Dr. Fromm,” the words coming as she takes my arms and guides my hands to my back.

She clips together my wrist cuffs, the bondage more symbolic at this point. I am completely obedient to her... to all women of authority. I must suppose she knows it makes me feel better, so yielding to her dominion, the submissive male psyche finding joy.

“A treat tonight. Though it will only be me, I want you to sample my cunny.”

The words bring a brisance. For many, many Saturdays my tongue and lips have solely savored the rosebud openings of so many, the treasure of warm moist and succulent flesh denied me. 

”Just a little. And I want you to know after Susan puts you in the penis pod you’ll be feasting. I’ll have the girls in for a soiree... and just maybe... if you’re a good boy... I won’t have you hooded. You can taste, you can see, you can adore... all the feminine flesh you can have Robert. Won’t that be nice? After all, you’ll be closer to being one of us... your penis forever tucked away... your ridiculous blue scrotum hidden... those little testicles never again to be seen... and growing littler and littler each and every day.”   

The words both horrify and excite. I curse this paraphilia!

So a reward... an inducement. Visit Dr. Fromm, finalize the descent into submission, cede my maleness... and all is mine. Saturday evenings of unbridled debauchery... as long as I am vicariously able to find pleasure in that of domineering women.

Plus the stress of late... at work. Strip searched and anally penetrated on arrival, diapered and polishing boots under the thumb of the seemingly kindly harridan Miss Wanda. Sans steel, such would end.

I glance down as Miss Joan prepares the cotton, stuffing right ear then left. I glare at the cage of steel, locked in place for so long. I am mindful of Miss Monique Von Buren, my initial keyholder... of the training... to pose for her... to perform... to release the nasty male sludge at the snap of her fingers... she who conditioned me... initiating impotency.

Finally relieved of maleness, ending the urges, accepting the realization of my proclivity... my role to please... never to be pleased... and I would be free. Nothing to ever again be locked away.

The tight blue latex hood is slipped over my head, hands tugging mightily. As Miss Joan’s fingers work to align the large opening for my nose and mouth, I most obsequiously thrust forth my tongue and lick... her digits... her palm. I want all of her, sense her joy, her pleasure. In reward, her free hand diddles my nipples, hypersensitive with the months of denial. She then covers my mouth and pinches closed my nostrils, a demonstration of her mastery. I will breathe again when she decides, no motion in resisting, not a flinch to suggest concern. I am hers. She takes, I give... reveling in the exchange of power... as does she.     

'Surrendering Malesness', Segment Two

 I lie on the changing table in the vast office of CEO Ms. Mae Mallory. Having obediently removed my shirt... mandated to be completely exposed for the procedure... I raise my arms, hands to the back of my head then lift my legs, knees to my chest in the decubitus position... as assumed by infants. It is the matronly Miss Wanda who then changes me... when she deigns to release the huge prominent pin under my navel... proclaiming my status.

In waiting I feel the twinges begin, my somatic reaction consistent with the pending humiliation, my diaper absorbing more viscous fluid. I turn my head to see the women talking, looking at the computer screen behind Ms. Mae’s desk.

Finally Miss Wanda turns and approaches, fresh diaper and moist cleansing towel in hand. She unpins, folds away the soiled garment then pulls out from under my buttocks. I sense the cooling room air on warm moist skin... and the warped thrill of exposure, baring all to a fully clad woman. She smiles, somehow always sensing my quirky joy.

“Hairless as a new born, Robert. You tell us you do it for your keyholder. But I think otherwise,” one hand smoothing about, pinching here and there enjoying her dominion as I humbly lurch and twist about in response.

The free hand then palms the compressed blue flesh of my tattooed scrotum, using it to steady me as the moist towel begins cleansing. I hate it, the elderly woman’s strict maternal care...  but a part of me thrives in it. Also bringing distress is that the women know I thrive in it.  

My nipples are swabbed, an unnecessary element of the changing, but Miss Wanda knows in my advanced state of unending chastity the nubs have become hypersensitive, smiling anew in seeing the glands crinkle to her touch.

Ms. Mae rises from her computer to join us. Standing beside Miss Wanda she smiles radiantly, my complete subordination bringing an aura of calm confidence.

“Robert, are you expecting a date later? Your anus is gleaming... lubricated,” Ms. Mae mocks.

I cringe, knowing of the source yet not having an opportunity rectify.

“It’s security, Ma’am... you know... the morning search.”

Ms. Mae smiles as she sees me squirm with the disclosure. I am sure it is she who has advised a morning cavity search be included in passing through building security. After the steel of my cock cage sets off the metal detector, each morning I am escorted to a small side room off the building lobby and stripped naked, hands pawing everywhere as I am commanded to remain motionless and each garment is examined. My cock cage is closely inspected and a mammoth black woman... lubricant and gloves at the ready... has me bend and spread... sizable fingers deeply inserted for a thorough probe of my anus.   

The security began last week and each morning the woman seems to go deeper and spend more moments within me.

I don’t think I shall ever grow accustomed to it. 

“Well Robert, your Dr. Fromm sent me an email this morning. She says your keyholder has relented and that a penis pod has arrived... tiny and pink. I have a picture of it. It will make you nice and smooth down there. Completely end all frustrating masculine thoughts of pleasing a woman other than orally... and make you able to get through security without some nasty woman stripping you naked and penetrating you with her fingers.”

The words bring both concern... for what remains of my manly pride... and strange joy.

“No more lump of hideous steel. No more searches... but I’m sure the guard would accommodate if you feel the need to submit to her.”   

Drat the women know so much of my deviance!

“You are going to schedule an appointment... to see the doctor.”

Taking Ms. Mae’s hint, Miss Wanda begins swabbing my crevice, cleansing me of the abundant lubricant. Her touch feels disturbingly good.

“Well I need to give it thought... the procedure... and will need some time off.”

“My boots can go a few days without a good licking. Take some vacation days. It is best you do it, Robert. To have a woman of competence and authority finally end the urges... the absurd notion that you will ever please a woman with your penis.”

Miss Wanda places the towlet aside and lays a clean diaper on the table. I know to curl up, further lifting my buttocks as she slips the soft cloth beneath and deftly folds over and pins in place. I am chagrined as always how warm and comfortable it makes me feel... the governing women bringing a sense of safety and protection. It’s been only three weeks in my new role, and the drudgery is becoming oddly acceptable, the tutelage of both Ms. Mae and Miss Wanda welcomed.

Rising from the table I begin to grasp my shirt to dress. Ms. Mae’s hand gestures to stop then points to the floor. I know to lower myself. Yes, her boots need licking. I must wonder if the woman in charge senses complementary joy in being so served by a nearly naked subservient male.

I go to my knees, bend at the waist and begin what has become a daily task as Ms. Mae regally stands over me running her fingers through my hair.

“No more haircuts, Robert. I’ll want your hair long and nicely styled for me.”   

'Surrendering Maleness', Segment One

Sequel to Denial. Limited snippets to be posted.

Enjoy.

CB

*****

Surrendering Maleness

(Sequel to Denial)

Copyright 2020

by Chris Bellows

The harridan administrative assistant Wanda Worthington opens the door to my makeshift office.

“There’s a telephone call for you, Robert,” her kind and matronly voice belying the harshness of her supervision over me. “You my take it out here. I won’t give you your pants. No one is here to see you in your diaper.”

I put down the polishing rag and push away one of many black leather knee high boots, the favored footwear of employer Ms. Mae Mallory. It’s good to get out of the tiny windowless chamber... a closet next to Miss Wanda’s desk converted to my workplace... yes, I am closely supervised. But as always I am apprehensive of encountering a coworker visiting the executive suite. For I am indeed diapered, my advanced state of chastity bringing a near constant flow from reproductive glands denied any form of relief. Ms. Mallory insists it is best to labor naked without concern for soiling my slacks, from the waist down my only covering a fluffy cloth diaper... shoes and socks deemed silly looking.

I step out the door into the large reception area where Miss Wanda reigns, cautiously peering about for interlopers. Why the concern? I often ask myself. The letter of Dr. Fromm... detailing my condition, a submissive masochistic male who placed himself under the tutelage of a keyholder... first went to the Human Resource Department of Mallory Products. Who and how many read of my steel encased penis and resulting denial I have no clue. It may have been loosely passed about before arriving at the desk of Wanda Worthington and then Ms. Mae Mallory. So veiling myself may be futile... half the office may be aware.    

I see a blinking light on the phone on Miss Wanda’s desk, my call on hold. Seeing no one I step to the desk hoping to bypass the frequent embarrassment.

“I need to check you Robert. Be a good boy.”

Not quick enough. I turn and obediently step to the aging woman of authority placing my hands to my head. A withered left hand slips to my lower back, gliding beneath the diaper to teasingly squeeze my right cheek and hold as the right hand likewise glides beneath at the front, smoothing down the steel mesh of the cock cage to of course find an abundance of moisture.

“You do secrete, Robert. It must be so frustrating for you,” smiling wickedly. “Just as you so much enjoy it all.”

The hands retract.

“Take the call. I’ll need to change you in a little while,” gloating in her sense superiority.

To her desk, I press the blinking button.

“Robert Partland.”

“Robert, it’s Nurse Mindy from Dr. Fromm’s office. Been licking your eyebrows?” she regularly jibes, referencing the medical procedure that brought to my tongue enhanced flexibility.

I have no snappy answer, but must wonder if the girl of some eighteen years of age is aware of just how my tongue’s recently gained strength and agility is utilized.

“Dr. Fromm wants me to advise you she has the key... to your chastity device. That your keyholder has concurred that your penis should be podded,” the plainly spoken words bringing me to bristle. “Would you like to set up an appointment... make arrangements.”

Stunned, learning the day will finally come, I search for a response. Keyholder Miss Joan Gifford has never unlocked me, deeming my manhood superfluous with the advanced oral training. And it’s been many months since I last saw my penis.

“Well... what will it involve?”

“You report here on a given morning. Dr. Fromm does the reverse orchidopexy, inserts the holding posts and performs a urethral reroute. You stay the night in our recovery room and the  next day, assuming the epidermis has not rejected the posts, the pod is set... permanently,” Nurse Mindy seeming to suppress glee in destining a male to a state of androgyny.

“I... well... I need to...”

“Come now, Mr. Partland... you know it’s best for you. You’ll be nice and smooth there... no more hideous mass of steel... no more blue sac... and we’ve ordered a pretty pink pod for you. No black. Don’t you want to look pretty?” her tone that of encouraging a child.  

“I’ll need to call back, arrange some time off work,” eager to end the annoying exchange.

“A Thursday is best, Mr. Partland. If all goes well we’ll release you on a Friday and you can spend the weekend recovering... or licking wherever it is you so much enjoy licking.”

The taunt suggests she knows of my Saturday nights, pleasing a bevy women who have no use for a male appendage... nor a male... but for a lively tongue.  

I bid adieu, placing the phone on the cradle. A smirking Miss Wanda steps before me, arms akimbo. I bow my head in shame, knowing what is to come. She points to the thick oak double doors of Ms. Mallory’s office where I endure the indignity of having my diaper changed twice per day.

'Surrendering Maleness' published

 I have published a sequel... following 'Keyholder' and 'Denial'

"Surrendering Maleness', 34,800 words. $4.88.

Female Dominant, male submissive

Enjoy

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/chris-bellows/surrendering-maleness/ebook/product-vw9m4y.html?page=1&pageSize=4

'Denial', Segment Three

This will be the last posted segment.

Enjoy.

*****

Days after my milking, with hormone levels restored, I need exercise, quelling the craving for climactic release that will never come.

To the gym, always attired in the tight pink shorts, I wave to my keyholder Miss Elizabeth and find an isolated treadmill machine, my attire always giving rise to mocking glances. As I begin my workout I think of the forthcoming Sunday. It will be the first of the month... a predawn workout with Miss Elizabeth restraining my wrists, unlocking my penis, pressing home the egg shaped anal insertion and supervising as I both exercise and pump away the nasty sludge.  

Feet pounding, I do the first mile as quickly as I can. Then as the program goes to cool down mode, the pace a little faster than a quick walk, Miss Elizabeth approaches.

“I’ll stretch you at 8:00 p.m. You’ll be nude for me of course. But we’ll need to talk. The Sunday morning thing... I’m tiring of it. It’s a pain getting up that early.”

Yes, as I have realized of late, Miss Elizabeth is losing the enthusiasm for presiding over me... me and my emancipated penis. Still I must protest.

“But how will I...”

“You won’t. You don’t need to shave there any more. And if you just lather up the steel cage while taking a shower it will be clean enough. So there’s no reason to unlock you.”

The callous words bring to mind Miss Monique’s analogy... her course of action akin to tearing the wings off an insect. No empathy!

“And the key? I can have it?”

“Of course not Mr. Partland, that would empower you... and Monique Von Buren advised that should never happen. I’ll give some thought about what to do with it,” a hand going to the blue lanyard about her neck and palming to jubilantly show the odd shaped key. 

Miss Elizabeth steps away, leaving me to my thoughts. I mull over the recent milking session with Miss Monique... and the offer to have me conditioned... the release of nasty sludge without hardening for her... and without the need for benumbing ice. Thus assuring there would be no reason to ever again be unlocked for purposes of hormonal release and prostate health. Yet why not have Miss Elizabeth return the key to my former keyholder... then there would be no reason to endure the conditioning.        

With the treadmill slowing, to an idle walk, I better focus... realization dawning. As much as I find perverted joy in submitting to a woman’s tutelage, hours of the day wondering if full ecstatic climax will ever again come, the women who control my libido have needs as well. Miss Monique makes a good living possessing so many keys, guiding the ultimate... if ever allowed... pleasure of so many males. But certainly there is a more mundane and perhaps more lucrative manner of making a living for a woman of her refinement. 

And Miss Elizabeth, so young but not so much allowing herself to enter the quirky world of feminine control, but instead eagerly immersing herself... to the point that even as ennui has crept into our rendevous of nude stretching, she’ll not consider relinquishing the key to he who is in most desire.

Yes, the women of governance have needs as well. With that notion there comes more realization... subconsciously I have been as eager to meet their needs as they meeting mine.   

Miss Elizabeth is to decide what to do with my key... not I... the submissive masochist who has so willingly surrendered.

The preprogrammed exercise routine ends. Knowing the wet pink spandex of my tight shorts... transformed to a bikini bottom in riding into the crack of my ass... now perfectly outlines the steel mesh of my cock cage, I grab my towel and wrap it about my waist.

Time for stretching... time to visit the aerobics room... time to disrobe... time to submit... time to pose... time to feel the burn of outlandish tension on tendons forced to accede to a woman’s bidding.   

*****

I sit, thighs well parted, feet well to the right and left, close to forming a straight line with my shoulders, back arched. Of late, adding to the stress, hands to the back of my head as always, but bent arms as high as possible, elbows back... “further, further, now hold...” Miss Elizabeth’s young authoritative voice directing.

She stands to my front, looking to see fluid already beginning to slither to the mat, satisfied that the challenging pose awakens the pubo coccygeus muscles and that the reproductive system of this chaste male humbly weeps under her auspices. Then she moves to gather my clothing, keeping my towel at the ready should there be an interloper.

I hear the room door behind me open and close and know that once again there is no covering should there be a sudden urge for modesty, only my towel... to be offered at her whim.

In returning, Miss Elizabeth stands behind, the flesh of her bare thighs enticingly pressed to my back.

“I’ve spoken to Monique,” her arms lowering over my shoulders, hands going to my chest, tightened pectoral muscles thrusting forth my male mammary glands. “Kept her apprized of your continued obedience and discipline.”

Fingers going to my nipples, the girl is inherently aware that the neglect of male organs leads to inordinate sensitivity. As she leans, the blue lanyard, color matching my tattooed scrotum, slips from about her neck, grazing my folded hands, the attached key temptingly hanging at my right ear.

Shall I grab it and dash away? The fear of never again being unlocked brings desperate thoughts. In further reflection I realize the return of my clothing would be in jeopardy... only a towel left for covering... should I be able to wrest it from her strong hands.          

“She told me she has offered to condition you... to achieve orgasm without the need for the key.”

Yes, I am wont to explain... a ruined orgasm... dribbling the nasty sludge from a penis untouched and remaining encased in steel... no ecstatic ejaculation. There would be no manly eruption!

Not being privy to the full relationship... all that was exchanged... I decide to remain silent and listen.

“Guess you’d essentially be impotent... soft and limp all the time,” Miss Elizabeth suppressing a girlish giggle... the wings coming off more insects. “So she wouldn’t need the key back... told me the best way to convince you of the need for conditioning would be to toss it away.”

Stunned, I lurch. With Miss Elizabeth’s proximity she feels my paroxysmal response, giggle now fully forthcoming.

Then comes more shocking cerebral input... I hear the room door open... a visitor enters unseen behind me.

“Stay,” Miss Elizabeth commands in feeling me begin to rise in panic.

“More stretching. He’s such a good boy.”

The pleasant voice is that of the aerobics instructor. Last week being a few minutes early and interrupting just at the end of our session, this week she is a full thirty minutes early. It cannot be happenstance.

“Good evening, Joan,” Miss Elizabeth equally pleasant, seemingly inviting the woman to join us.

Fortunately the towel is again tossed to my front, covering my pubes, my blue balls, my steel cock cage, and the small but rapidly growing puddle of viscous fluid. Still I close my eyes, my nakedness, my pose of submission bringing shame. In hearing soft footsteps on the exercise mat, I know the woman has moved to my front, no doubt visually inspecting much more leisurely than last week’s encounter, more composed in basically being aware that I awkwardly submit myself to such exposure.

“Don’t let me interrupt. Aerobics class doesn’t begin until nine... but I’m still to learn what the towel is covering. You don’t stretch him completely nude, do you Liz?”

“Well you’ve made Joan curious, Robert. Curious enough that she’s made a special visit to watch me work you... see you perform for me. Want to show her?”

I think of Miss Monique’s suggestion... more or less a command... that I expose myself... explain my predilection... my need... to cede control of my sexuality. ‘Share with her in detail the full extent of your quirky needs. Maybe her opinion of you as a creep will change.’

“You may lower your hands now Robert. You’ve stretched enough. Then you can decide if you want to show yourself to Joan.”

And explain in full detail the extend of my quirky needs? I ask myself as my arms lower and I grasp the terrycloth.

I look up into the handsome face. Gym attire somewhat detracts from natural beauty... make up impractical. But as one can expect, the Joan woman is in shape, tights clinging to well honed legs, buttocks sculpted, breasts of possible size compressed by a tight sports bra. Her dark brown hair is drawn back in a pony tail, offering a youthful appearance despite her thirty something age.

She is vibrant, as one would expect of a woman leading rigorous exercise classes. I cannot help thinking that the same perkiness which brought trainer Elizabeth Doyer to shrug off my depraved needs and find interest in feminine power and control may enure to aerobics instructor Joan as well. Thus there comes a gambit... will pulling away the towel give rise to shock and disdain... or will the woman find a similar level of interest... as with Miss Elizabeth stepping into my need for training and conditioning... eventually leading to the possession of my key... well... a controlling woman’s key. 

Yet there’s a telling element about this second encounter. Instructor Joan holds cradled in her arms my clothing, gym shoes atop, which she gathered from the hall outside the room. There is a subtle message. On this evening I will not be dressing myself in the corner, the view of my naked hairless form... most importantly blue scrotum and steel cock cage... graciously shielded by Miss Elizabeth. 

“I... ah... well... it’s difficult to explain... ah... how Miss Elizabeth... ah... helps... with... certain needs.”

  “Just show her, Robert. It will explain itself.”

Obedience ingrained, I slip away the towel, quickly mopping up my puddle in so doing. Instructor Joan peers down as I focus on her expression. 

Shock?.. disgust?.. laughter? Perhaps I should be comforted in noting her look of amusement. She places down my clothing then quietly folds her arms, slipping forth her foot. The toe of her athletic shoe pushes aside the tip of my cock cage, better exposing the compressed blue ball sac beneath. Amusement transforms to a knowing grin as she looks up to Miss Elizabeth remaining standing over my shoulders. A hand moves past my face, grasping the blue lanyard, removing from about Miss Elizabeth’s neck. Then the key is dangled before me... before instructor Joan... silently responding to the unasked question.  

“Cute Liz,” instructor Joan’s hand reaching and taking the lanyard. “It matches his balls,” the light blue indeed identical to the shade of my tattooed scrotum. “A submissive... capitulating to a controlling woman. And here I thought Mr. Partland was just a creep.”

'Denial', sequel to 'Keyholder', Segment Two

Tabled, I comply with the demanded protocol, feet well to the right and left, aligned with my shoulders as my legs part to the extreme, back arched, hands to the back of my head, elbows drawn back and held high as Miss Elizabeth has mandated of late. My encased male package dangles in the gap of the open table. Miss Monique stands before me, arms akimbo, gazing at my blue ball sac compressed by the control ring of my chastity device.

She has placed a bowl on the floor beneath me, knowing prostatic fluid will begin to slither from the tube inserted in my urethra. She simply watches for a few moments. For some reason I know to remain silent as she revels in the joy of feminine power.

“So... the first Sunday of the month... when your anus is stuffed and you drain yourself on the treadmill. That was three weeks ago.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”   

“You struggled when I put you on a ten day cycle. Monthly must be very hard for you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“But your ability to pose for me is much enhanced. Your trainer has been strict.”

“Yes, ma’am,” glancing down to see that I am indeed beginning to ooze.

Noting the same, Miss Monique steps forth, an arm extending, a finger going to my cock cage, gathering a dollop of viscous fluid. She rolls it about on her thumb and forefinger as if to proclaim ownership, then raises her hand to my mouth. I know to lick clean her digits.

“I can milk you, Robert.... massage that neglected prostate. But you’ll need to stay flaccid... or bear quite a bit of pain. Attempts at erection mean sensitive penile flesh fighting tempered stainless steel.”

Yes, I realize that, wondering if I can indeed make the sacrifice in order to rid myself of the build up... calm the jitters. Then I also realize how my expectations have so drastically transformed... at one time hoping to feel the ecstasy of full orgasm in being relieved... now I hope not to feel anything at all.    

“I have needs, Miss Monique,” my tone pleading.

“Yes... physical needs... but emotional as well. In ceding to being milked you’re surrendering what the male... the alpha male... expels with pride and vigor. You will meekly dribble in my bowl. It’s meaningful to you... degradingly parting with your precious essence,” Miss Monique’s words coming as she strolls to the refrigerator.

There she extracts ice, returning with a plate full and a pump bottle of unguent... a glorious bottle of unguent.  

“So here’s what we’ll do. Your bladder is full, augmenting your need to harden for me. I will penetrate your rectum and massage your prostate... bring even more need to tumefy. You will thus need to concentrate and stay soft... or pay the consequences. And you can beg for some ice. Your semen will be expunged in numbness, Robert... even more unmanly.

“But there is no key. There can be no climactic release. That is not to happen.” 

Miss Monique makes a show of lubricating her hands, pumping a fragrant lotion, reaching to playfully smear some on my upper lip, my nostrils filling with the scent of peaches.

She begins, stepping forth, one hand palming my blue ball sac, lifting, fingers kneading my perineum. The other hand slips further under, finding my anus, swirling about to bring a brisance of joy, then wriggling inward.

“After you’ve discharged, hormones better balanced, we’ll talk... about more conditioning. You’ll need to learn to become impotent, Robert... no erections. You may as well once and for all cede that... the ability to perform penetrative sex. It will never again happen... and you may seriously injure yourself in trying... fighting the steel. Such futility. End it Robert... stay nice and soft for the woman in charge. It will be better for you.” 

I close my eyes, reveling in the faint joy of prostate massage, but indeed feeling myself engorge, swelling penis challenging the cage... and of course bringing discomfort which for sure will turn to agony. 

Yet the solution... to condition myself to stay soft... limp... flaccid... no masculine exhibitions of virility... potential virility. Can that happen?.. do I want that to happen? But then my masochistic psyche clicks in... does my keyholder want that to happen?  

*****

I drive home in deep thought, physically quiescent but mentally in a funk.

As Miss Monique... many years as a professional keyholder... predicted, it required little of her deft prostate massage to have me begging for benumbing ice. My penis fought... and of course lost... blossoming... trying to blossom... to full bloom within the confines of precision made German steel.  

Iced, I maintained my pose, looking to see the flow of prostatic fluid turn creamy white, fingers relieving me of my sperm... my nasty sludge. Perhaps more horrifying than the initial pain was the lack thereof... nothing felt at all... as my gland and vessels were expertly milked... and milked... and milked... a thick stream exiting the catheterizing urethral tube. 

Thereafter, bladder brimming, Miss Monique completed the humiliation, encouraging me to empty myself into a waiting bucket as the fingers of one hand toyed with my right nipple. Her touch was joyous, my sensory system undergoing a form of transference in being so numbed below. I opened, but then in mid stream her free hand lowered, returning to my perineum to playfully press, knowingly curtailing the flow, her rare smile evidencing feminine delight in controlling such an intimate process. Then she released my flow and after a moment once again pressed to bring havoc and demonstrate her power. 

The funk? Her suggestion... akin to a command... that I am to request a more thorough introduction to the aerobics instructor in completing my next stretching and exercise session with Miss Elizabeth.

‘You’ve piqued her curiosity, Robert. Share with her in detail the full extent of your quirky needs. Maybe her opinion of you as a creep will change. Tell your trainer you want to exhibit yourself. You know you do.’

Do I?

More funk in Miss Monique’s suggested conditioning... the ability to stay flaccid... sans icing... as my prostate is manipulated. 

‘I can train you to take delight in achieving a ruined orgasm while caged, Robert. You’ll be as limp as noodle... no discomfort... just the distant nirvana that boys like you come to crave... must learn to crave... in that nothing more is ever granted.’

Basically, the conditioning will quash any normal sex life. My blue testicles will be difficult enough to explain, but the inability to harden? Even released from my cock cage there would be no dating. I will be impotent... conditioned to stay soft... so why bother?

I am assured I will feel the twinges... and such will come with simple prompts... the sight of lubricated massaging hands and fingers... the sound of an authoritative woman’s voice... the lotion smelling of peaches... but there will come no erection. Miss Monique guarantees it. 

So much to think about... but to consider without the frustration of hormonal overflow and the resulting jitters... at least for the next two or three days.

I truly am spent, Miss Monique fastidious in her finger work. Gratefully I will sleep tonight, no nocturnal penile tumescence.

'Denial', sequel to 'Keyholder', Segment One

The sequel to 'Keyholder', available from Lulu, 29,600 words, $4.88.

There will be limited snippets.

Enjoy.

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*****

Denial

(sequel to Keyholder)

Copyright 2020

by Chris Bellows

*****

"She’s very cruel, Miss Monique, you know for a girl so...”

“So young. Yes, sort of like when children tear the wings off insects. Not much empathy... it seems to come as one matures.”

“Yes, well... you know... maybe I could... ah... visit...”

“I have no key, Robert. You know there are no duplicates and the arrangement is for your trainer to hold it. Elizabeth is now in charge of your penis,” the word for the male appendage enunciated with disdain.

Yes, and assuring my nasty sludge is expelled, as Miss Monique is given to term the seed of life.

I pause in thought. In not being aware of the terms of the agreement by which the eighteen year old physical therapist Elizabeth... now nineteen... acquired that which controls my libido, a scheme to intercede, change, end the arrangement is impossible to promulgate.

“But you may stop in... if it will make you feel better,” the words heartening. “And you know what to bring with you. Tomorrow evening. Meanwhile don’t bother attempting to pick the lock. It’s German engineering.”

Miss Monique hangs up. My spirits are lifted. Curious, looking forward with such glee in once again submitting myself to the auspices of professional keyholder Miss Monique Von Buren. She is strict and exacting. But for a man... boy in her forty something mind... of my ilk such brings odd comfort.   

 So the next day I drive to the unassuming suburban home of my former keyholder. She comes to the door promptly. In allowing entry I note as always she is primly attired, white blouse of silk or satin, pencil skirt of dark blue. She gestures to a chair and I sit, knowing to wordlessly place her stipend of one hundred dollars on a nearby armoire.

Miss Monique momentarily disappears into the kitchen and returns, glass of wine for her, tall glass of water for me.

During the many weeks under her tutelage, her protocol demanded that my bladder be filled, augmenting erection when finally unlocked. I have not the wherewithal to inquire why I am to imbibe when penile emancipation is not possible.

“So I understand you have concerns, Robert. But such is the life of a masochist held in strict chastity. Deep within, having concerns is what makes you happy... keeps your mind properly subordinated. Drink up and talk to me.”

I take a long draw... and I do... talk to professional keyholder Miss Monique Von Buren...

Trainer Elizabeth Doyer, in initially bargaining for my key with enthusiasm, has become aloof over the many months... nearly a year... of holding that which both physically and emotionally controls the male.

I explain how I have undergone laser hair removal about my groin, obviating the weekly need for release and shaving. 

I explain that the stretching, enabling me to assume the ungainly pose of a split, has continued... in the nude... and that a horrifying incursion occurred of late with the aerobics instructor learning of my training when she ‘unexpectedly’ arrived early for the 9:00 p.m. class. She was amused in viewing my humble nakedness as I obediently stretched. 

I explain that ultimate release is now monthly... the first Sunday... meeting Miss Elizabeth at the gym before dawn... stripping naked... wrists restrained to the treadmill... fervently going through the paces of a brisk workout as, cock cage removed, a vibrating anal insertion drains me... nasty sludge slowly oozing. 

I explain that Miss Elizabeth has mandated that nothing ever touch my penis other than the steel mesh of the cock cage. And that prostate manipulation only comes with the insertion of the remote controlled device.

“And how it is you’re cleaned... after expelling your effluent?” Miss Monique interrupts.

“Spray bottles and a hair dryer,” I succinctly respond. “In the gym locker room, wrists remaining cuffed, she sprays warm soapy water to clean, ice cold water to rinse and assure I am limp, then uses the hair dryer. Nothing touches me... there.”

My words bring me to recall the ritual milkings at Miss Monique’s behest. After expelling, my softening penis became a cow’s udder, her fingers attentively pinching and pulling downward to assure the ‘nasty sludge’ was well rid. I never thought I would miss such frustrating handling... now I so much do. 

“That is rather extreme, Robert. I can see why you’re fidgeting. But perhaps it is best for you.”

What is it I can say? I need release more often... and certainly more sensuously... something touching me there other than tantalizing sprays of warm water!

“I’d like to... well... have my key.”

“That won’t happen Robert. It is not your key. It belongs to a supervising woman. The agreement is for Elizabeth to return it to another keyholder if she tires of you. There’s a sort of pact... among women who enjoy denial... the key is never to fall into the hands of the weak. You need a strong woman, Robert. It is best for you.”

With that Miss Monique takes my empty glass. To the kitchen she returns with it again filled.      

“So many gym visits... cold showers. Going a month must be very difficult for you,” her hand signaling to drink up.   

I drink in thought. It’s not difficult... it’s impossible. I explain that I am losing sleep, the nocturnal penile tumescence bringing nightly agony.

“Have you tried anal stimulation, Robert? Perhaps acquire your own vibrating egg... and discharge to settle your hormones.”

“But I’m caged. To harden is to suffer. Why can’t I just be allowed to masturbate!” my voice trembling in need.  

“A woman controls that... just as you need to submit... just as deep within that demented psyche of yours presses you to so desire. Remember it is you who requested to have your scrotum tattooed... in deference to a woman’s caprice. No other reason to have it done other than to announce to all your need for feminine authority. What did the aerobics instructor have to say about that... when you were stretching for your trainer?”

I think about the encounter, obediently stretching on the mat for Miss Elizabeth... making a puddle for her as my prostatic fluid flowed, the gland awakened by the mandated pose... thighs parted, feet well to the right and left, back arched in stressing the pubo coccygeus muscles. The instructor entering unexpectedly... supposedly unexpectedly... Miss Elizabeth tossed the towel over my exposed male package, veiling the shiny steel of my cock cage. Then began the fun and games...

‘Goodness. Liz, I can see why you don’t stretch him in the weight room,’ shirtless, the crack of my butt left uncovered as I was being stretched.

‘Mr. Partland prefers to show off for me... don’t you Mr. Partland?’ Miss Elizabeth’s tone pleasantly naive.

‘What’s he wearing under that towel... a ‘G’ string?’ the instructor giggling.

‘Mr. Partland has special needs,’ talking about me as if I was an object.

I maintained the pose, feeling only a slight burn with my tendons conditioned over the many months... the gracilis and abductor longus tendons. Added to the grueling stretch, hands behind my head as always but with elbows well back and pointed high... and higher under Miss Elizabeth’s exacting direction... bringing a separate burn.

In so doing, the pectoral muscles are stressed, my nipples becoming tempting targets for playful fingers. So while talking about me... about my special needs... Miss Elizabeth casually steps behind my sitting form, bare thighs grazing my back, reaches about and does indeed gently pinch and knead the pink nubs, the sensitivity heightened by way of many days of hormonal build up. This brought a cascade of twinges... down below... and I know for certain the puddle beneath the towel grew and grew. I closed my eyes in shame... in fear of discovery... such depravity!

‘Well the class starts in ten minutes,’ the instructor advised. ‘You’d better dress him,’ again objectifying.

Yes, the instructor apparently spotted my clothing and shoes which Miss Elizabeth as always placed outside the room door in symbolically manifesting her control... that I be naked for her... and remain naked until she deigns to have me cover myself.      

‘Well, Mr. Partland, you’d better go get your clothing. Though exposing yourself to an entire class of dancing women may excite you,’ Miss Elizabeth chortling.

I finally spoke... pleading... to arise would bring such shame. Naked, hairless, penis caged... and there’s the tattooed scrotum.

So a smiling Miss Elizabeth stepped away, leaving me with nothing more than a towel at my pubes and this aerobics instructor looking at me with disgust... an amused disgust.

‘You’re a creepy man, Mr. Partland. Least you’re not erect with these games you play. Want to show me what’s under that towel?’

I did not... but then again... I did.

I finish the second glass of water, beginning to feel the expected urge. Of course I do not ask to use the facilities. Why bother when Miss Monique takes my glass to refill?

“So you were exposed to the aerobics instructor,” Miss Monique inquires in handing me a third glass.

“Well I was... and I wasn’t. Miss Elizabeth returned with my clothing and permitted me to lower my hands, quickly wipe up my puddle and wrap the towel around me as I got up. Then she led me to a corner of the aerobics room standing in front of me to shield me from the instructor as I dressed.”

“So your keyholder protected you.”

“Yes... in a way.”

“So the instructor does not know your penis is under lock and key... that you’ve ceded your sexuality to a supervising woman.”

“I don’t think so.”

“And your blue balls... the self proclamation of your subordination to feminine governance.”

“Probably not.”

“Does that disappoint you... cheated out of a thrill?”    

I pause, downing the third glass of water. It comes to mind that all the discussion has diverted my thoughts from my needs... the hormonal abundance... the fidgeting... the jitters. Curious how just being in the woman’s presence brings a degree of calm. Yet then comes another thought... what will Miss Monique be doing with me, for me, to me this evening?

“Come Robert. I’m going to table you,” the words bringing my heart to leap. “To the kitchen, strip naked, mount the table and pose for me like a good boy.”

I jump from my chair. It’s been over a year since I was last tabled... so ignominiously yet gratifyingly unlocked, shaven, cleansed and permitted a ruined orgasm.

Curious how in being defoliated I miss the graze of a razor... the threatening yet tender grooming hand of a controlling woman.   

'Keyholder' Segment VI

 This is the last snippet for 'Keyholder'. Hope you all enjoyed. Working to finish up a sequel.

*****

It’s Sunday. My mind is addled... reflecting on Wednesday’s exercise and stretching at Willie’s Workouts... then jumping to thoughts about my forthcoming ‘matinee’ with Miss Monique. I am to meet a friend. The apprehension certainly does nothing to quell the jitters of my ten days in chastity. The friend... what gender, what is the relationship, and how is it I am to perform?

Driving to Miss Monique’s, oddly I take my mind off the concerns by thinking of my trainer Liz... Miss Elizabeth Doyer... and how she has so gleefully joined in what I have described as a game.

At age eighteen there is a certain naivety over matters sexual. She knows anatomy with her training in physical therapy but in returning to the aerobics room with my attire after many stultifying minutes in the nude, she found the growing puddle of prostatic fluid on the floor mat to be curious.

‘It results from the game,’ I explained taking back my towel and sheepishly mopping up my effluent.

Will there be a time when she is made aware... that the demanded pose of Miss Monique brings stimulation to the various glands and muscles of the male reproductive system? And that her prank of having me strip naked and threatening exposure to the unknown aerobics instructor brought excitement to this warped psyche? 

As I dressed, the growing enthusiasm of Miss Elizabeth... for the game... became more apparent.

‘You look kind of silly, Mr. Partland... shaved around your pubes like that. Why not shave everywhere?’     

I meekly nodded. But then as we departed to the main exercise area, she must have had more thoughts.

‘If you want to be stretched next week, you’ll be hairless for me... neck down,’ her tone once again firming after being childishly playful in returning my garb.

I park the car, exit and walk to the front door of Miss Monique’s unassuming home. In a quiet suburban neighborhood, I must wonder if the local residents are aware of how their neighbor makes her living... tending to submissive males locked in chastity.

It’s a quiet profession. Very little investment required. No sexual contact... she doesn’t bare herself. And for a woman of Miss Monique’s ilk, the exhilaration of complete control must bring a thrill... reserved, but a thrill all the same.

A shaky hand rings the doorbell. Within moments entrance is granted and I step into the parlor of my keyholder. I note she is dressed neatly and primly as always, white satin blouse, pencil skirt of maroon. Further observation ends when I am introduced to a stunning blonde woman, sitting in a comfortable chair sipping a Mimosa.

“Robert, this is Mrs. Marion Dresser. Sit, I will get you some water.”

Yes, the water... to be piss proud.      

“So you’re locked in chastity, Robert,” the Dresser woman more informs than inquires. “At your age it must be a challenge. And Monique says you have problems performing for her.”

I am embarrassed... the woman seems to know much. My face reddens... she notices.

“You just be a good, obedient boy and Monique will take care of your needs. My husband now spurts for her like a fountain.”    

Husband? Spurting for Miss Monique?

Miss Monique exits the kitchen tumbler of water in hand. I am both worried and chagrined... will I be posed, shaved and milked in her presence? Baring myself to two imposing women? 

“Drink up, Robert. Nice full bladder for me. Tell me how you’re faring with your trainer... stretching progressing?”

Miss Monique sits gesturing for me to take a chair opposite the Dresser woman. I take the glass hoping my ogling isn’t noticed. She is gorgeous.

“Ah... well it’s getting easier... the split I guess you’d call it.”

“Good. And your trainer... knowing of your proclivity... she’s in acceptance... that you enjoy yielding to a woman? As  sexual need?”

“She seems to be. I have described it as a game... sort taking away the initial shock.”

My statement brings Marion Dresser to laugh. 

“I’ll have to ask husband George if he considers it a game. He’s not touched his cock in years.”

With that, the Marion woman downs her Mimosa and rises from her chair.

“Got to go, Monique. Brunch with a well hung stud... big and black. You’ll finish off George?”

“Eventually, Marion. He suffers for me divinely... no point in rushing.”

Husband George... well hung stud... big and black? 

“I'm sure you’re going to perform nicely today, Robert. Maybe someday for me,” reaching to blatantly tug at my ear as would a mother tease a toddler.

Her touch begins the cascade... twinges below. It’s that simple after ten days of forced chastity.

Miss Monique sees the woman to the door. I drink, sort of relieved that it will be only me and my keyholder... but missing the view. The woman is beautiful... knows of her good looks and flashes it... not the understated elegance of Miss Monique Von Buren.

Miss Monique returns and takes my empty glass. To the kitchen she refills and returns. I drink more.

“So tell me about your training and stretching session... details... about the youthful Elizabeth Doyer. Should I send her more pictures?”

Speaking to the superior and confident Miss Monique seems to calm the fidgeting. Plus, the anxiety of meeting the unknown friend has proven to be unfounded. So I sort of relax, talk and drink, telling myself that ten days of denial will soon be ending.

The words flow, and I tell of Miss Elizabeth Doyer, Miss Monique smiling when I use the word ‘Miss’ in relating my trainer’s name. She finds fascination with the girl leaving me in the nude... only for a few minutes... but Miss Monique points out a very meaningful few minutes.

“Do you think she was testing you, Robert? Seeing how deep is your need to submit to a woman?”

“I... ah... don’t know.”

“But you do enjoy it... did enjoy your exposure... at her behest... in the aerobics room. You left a nice puddle for her, you said.”

“It’s the... you know... denial...”

“Which you’ve brought upon yourself.”

I complete relating the events, seeming to err in explaining Miss Elizabeth’s quest to completely defoliate myself.

“Yes, I think you’d look cute for her. Do that... make the girl feel empowered... that a grown man would make himself look childishly foolish for her.”

Yes, an error.

“It’s... ah... a lot of shaving.”

“You have time... you will make time. And I’ll give you some special lotion I use on some of my effeminate clients... my girly boys. That will initially limit the growth... and eventually kill the follicles.”

Miss Monique stands, again taking my empty glass. 

“If you show hair on your next visit, that penis of yours will be locked up for a long time. Do it Robert... I want you hairless for her. Consider it to be part of the game... as you explained it.”

She steps to the kitchen. Miss Elizabeth’s playful quest has become Miss Monique’s command.

Returning with a third glass, I feel bloated. Filled bladder, thoughts of making myself hairless on a woman’s whim, knowing that I am close to penile freedom... the twinges progress. Miss Monique’s experienced eye knows.

“Shall we get you soaped and shaven, Robert? A little different protocol this afternoon. You’ll be sharing the table with George. I want you to see close up how a good boy performs for me.” 

 

'Keyholder' Segment V

To the gym... in my tight pink spandex shorts. It’s Wednesday, my nasty sludge drained from me... prostate milked... six days ago. It may be my imagination but the hormones seem to build faster now... like some systemic reaction defying me. Just when I need to calm myself, being locked in chastity, the need for sexual release seems to build faster and strengthen each day. 

I enter, trainer Elizabeth Doyer pleasantly smiles and waves to me, not a hint as to her firm instructing words which ended our phone call. I wave back and head to the treadmills, again finding an isolated machine in the back row, my partially exposed buttocks soon to be almost fully exposed as I churn out miles of leg work.

Yes, many miles, the exhaustion seems to help. But then come thoughts of the stretching. Elizabeth’s words seem to haunt... that ‘special stretching I have you do for me’.

Is there eagerness to so subject myself... and do so under the duress of near nakedness?

She’s young... Miss Elizabeth Doyer... and demanding... as her calling dictates in mandating performance from gym members aspiring to physical improvement. Why I am mentally transforming her aura to give rise sexual attraction? 

Shapely and pretty yes. But being a half generation younger, the girl is far from being the maternal governess that is Miss Monique Von Buren.

I complete my treadmill work, drenched, the pink spandex darkened and clingy. I grab a towel, holding at my waist to cloak the outline of my caged cock, and pull at the spandex behind to better cover my butt. I head to the empty aerobics room. Trainer Elizabeth sees me, strolling to join.

“Kind of cool... you wearing what I told you to wear. Is that part of the game?”

With her quest she grabs my towel, pulling away with surprising strength... which in fact should not surprise at all.

My caged status in jeopardy, in facing away from most of the other gym members there is limited concern. But her brazenness... being so assertive... is telling. She knows not of what I have termed a game... but seems so willing to join in. 

Into the aerobics room, Liz sits not as she usually does in welcoming me to the stretching mat. Instead she stands arms akimbo and my demented psyche clicks in, going to obedience and adoration mode for the authoritative female. Her look is one of expectation... transforming to... have you forgotten, Mr. Partland?

I have not. As stated I just want to adore. But then trainer Elizabeth presses the point, stepping forth, hands reaching to my hips, fingers grasping my pink garb, pulling and arranging such that the material bunches into my cleft, the lower hem rides up over my hips. The garment again becomes a bikini bottom. Then she points to the floor and I know to meekly sink to the mat, untying my running shoes and removing my socks.

“Shirt?” finally speaking. “Your choice remember?”

I nod. I remove. I toss away. And before this aspiring woman of dominance I present myself nearly nude. Twinges come. Despite the heavy work out, sitting nearly naked before the fully clothed minx awakes what I am trying to quell.  

“Telling, Mr. Partland. Very telling. Your willingness to expand your game.”

It is. I need to divert my thoughts, hands going to the back of my head, legs straight in front of me, feet slowly parting to assume the demanded pose of Miss Monique. Liz does not join me. She is in thought. Then she steps between my thighs, her right foot sliding forth, the toe greeting the spandex where it remains covering the steel mesh. 

“Would you like to show that to me?”

The words are more of a directive than a question. And I can’t help thinking the girl is placing great reliance on the aerobics room remaining unoccupied. But perhaps that is more of my concern at this point.

Still my right hand lowers and I pull to the side the pink covering, my steel cage... Miss Monique’s steel cage... glinting in the lights.

Trainer Elizabeth now more fully inspects... unabashedly. As she peers, her arm reaches forth, fingers going to my left nipple. It instantly crinkles to her touch. Below there come more twinges.

“You could not have taken that photo you sent me... both hands on the back of your head as they are now. It was not a selfie. You posed for someone. A woman? The text said this thing only comes off at a woman’s behest,” toe pressing more firmly.  

“Yes, ma’am,” immediately regretting the meekness of my response.

“I like that... ma’am... makes me feel older... but like I am in charge.”

I am wont to say she is... in charge. But instead choose silence. I decide the burn of special stretching will counter the unwanted arousal. But I am in no position to make demands. I have more or less relinquished any authority I may have had as a gym member and client.

Finally my trainer lowers herself, legs parting widely... and with ease... sitting such that her feet are touching mine and we are breathing on one another. Her hands lower... but not to my legs and thighs. Instead, her left hand strongly pulls the spandex at my crotch and her right reaches beneath to palm my ball sac, warm, smooth and made hairless.

It feels so good. My penis begins to fight its steel enclosure in earnest. Her fingers slip under the encircling control ring as best they can. I am subjected to much more examination than on my last visit to the aerobics room. 

“You’re well shaved again... a little stubble... but certainly less then when I felt you up before. Though locked up, someone cares for you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” there I go again.... ‘ma’am. “It’s... well... hair can get caught and bring lots of pain when in chastity.”    

“So that’s what you call this... this game... chastity.”

I nod, wishing she’d remove her hand and fingers... yet not wishing. My desire more toward being unlocked and letting her have her way with me. Alas it will not happen... it cannot happen.

“Suppose I just have you remove these silly shorts... stretch you completely in the nude... except for this metal thing. You seemed to enjoy stretching on that table in the photo... least your penis seemed to enjoy.”

I nod.

“Yes, I know your reply, Mr. Partland... part of the game. Well I have something to add to the game. Stand, take off your shorts... bare yourself for me like a good boy. And we’ll play.”

Yes, a minx. Must I obey? The room is empty. Though remaining shy with women outside the genre... women such as Miss Monique... Miss Elizabeth... did I really mentally refer to her as Miss?.. has astutely pointed out there’s not much remaining about which to be shy.

I stand, pulling down the pink spandex. Miss Elizabeth rises, gathering shirt, shoes, socks... and then pausing... knowing I will relinquish the sole garment of pink that is left to me.

She takes and merrily strolls for the exit door.

“Sit and stretch for me, like a good boy. I’ll be back with your clothes in a while... or would you prefer I send in the aerobics instructor with your covering. You can explain the game to her as well.”

' Keyholder' Segment IV

Within days, the fidgeting returns, the hormonal build up bringing distraction at work. There is only so much time one can spend in a cold shower. Plus there is the psychological side of long term denial... and more than a few days is long term for a male of my age. It’s like I need to talk about my condition... counseling... and such is not included in the arrangement with Miss Monique.

‘I do not do silly phone stuff, Robert. Come to your appointment on time or wait another week. Text if you must cancel.’

So by Tuesday, a visit to Willie’s Workouts is much in order... many miles on the treadmill to calm the jitters. Should I stretch as well?

After the many weeks, I suppose I can do so on my own, no trainer. The so termed burn demanded by Liz may not be as proficiently achieved, her compact yet powerful arms pressing at my thighs, assuring the gracilis and abductor longus tendons are stressed to the point of anguish. But will doing without suffice... continue my progress in being able to properly pose for Miss Monique?

She has already found disappointment in my inability to ‘perform’. And after this stressful ten day interval concludes, dare I show regression when I am tabled? 

No I must stretch and do so properly... continue my journey.

I reach for my cell phone. Before calling I click to the photo gallery finding the libidinous depiction of me being tabled, legs splayed, feet well parted, hands to the back of my head, balls dangling, penis standing.

I stare. Prostatic fluid oozing, my quirky enjoyment is evident. And trainer Elizabeth Doyer has the photo... presumably... in her gallery as well. And the coy invitation... the cage only comes off at a woman’s behest.

What is it I am to say in trying to make an appointment to stretch? 

Then comes to mind Miss Monique’s observation... the look on Elizabeth Doyer’s face when posing in the aerobics room... her hand lowering to mischievously push aside the spandex covering my steel cock cage and momentarily palm my shaven compressed scrotal sac.

I move to that photo in my gallery. Miss Monique is a good study. The look on the face of Elizabeth Doyer sends a message. The act could be interpreted as one of childish playfulness in so exposing me... and my secretive forced chastity... but she appears ascendant... as would a big game hunter posing with his latest challenging kill... that being my steel encapsulated male package. Telling!

I thus decide to call... feeling out the young girl’s reaction. It may be she sees my number pop up and simply cares not to answer, relegating me as a creep. That would certainly resolve any indecision concerning an appointment.

The phone rings, she answers. Now I’ll need to find words for sure.

“Mr. Partland... hello,” the greeting coming with a giggle.

“Liz, I... ah... wanted to explain...”

“Oh, Mr. Partland, the sexting thing went out years ago... kind of a craze when smart phones came in. Kids aren’t doing that any more. Cute picture though... nice of you to show me the progress you’re making... you know... that special stretching I have you do for me.”.

Curious choice of words... ‘I have you do for me’... as in performing for her... as I do for Miss Monique.

“And that steel thing... gone. I saw the lock, Mr. Partland. Someone has the key. It’s called a cage. And the message said it only comes off for a woman.”

“Yes, as I said... it’s sort of a game. I’d like to see you, Liz... ah... make an appointment for stretching... at the gym,” changing the subject matter in desperation.

There is a pause... unexpected.

“Well... I... ah... it’s kind of weird... you sending me that photo. Yes, you said before it’s a game. It’s kind of like you want me to play as well.” 

How do I explain... it was not I sending it. 

Guess I can just end the call... back off... suggest another time. But there is this desperation. I need to not only work out and quell the fidgeting... but talk to someone as well.

“Let’s talk about it at the gym,” words uttered in hope.

Another pause, then comes a telling reply, the words firm for an eighteen year old girl. It is a directive.

“8:00 p.m. The aerobics room. Wear your tight pink shorts again. You’ll take off your shoes and socks for me. You decide whether to keep your shirt on as well.”

“But... but...” I sputter, “I’ll be practically naked!”

“So you will do it. That’s interesting. And, Mr. Partland... why so shy? I’ve already seen you naked.”

'Keyholder' Segment III

 “So there are now three of us who know your penis is under lock and key... your sexual needs under a woman’s control.”

My weekly visit with Miss Monique. As always I am fidgeting in need, trying to calm myself in drinking another glass of water, gazing at my divine and majestic keyholder.

Miss Monique goads, knowing of trainer Elizabeth’s awareness. I did not inform her, such became apparent as the stultifying session of stretching in the aerobics room came to an end. As part of the game, I needed a photo, I explained... me and my trainer together. I did not suggest it was needed to evidence the mandate of exercising in brief pink shorts. But my trainer concurred and I retrieved my cell phone. As we stood together and posed, my right arm about her shoulders, left arm extended in aligning the camera, there came a well timed motion. Elizabeth’s right arm crossed over, going to my crotch, a hand pushing aside the spandex to bring fully into view the shiny steel of my cock cage... just as I clicked.

In shock, I reached down and righted my garment, pleasantly insisting that I needed another photo... one not displaying the idiosyncrasy of a chastity device. But trainer Elizabeth simply smiled and strolled away.

I had nothing else... no other evidence... to show Miss Monique that I had complied with her directives. With the room beginning to fill with the 9:00 p.m. class, my evening ended. When I rejoined Elizabeth in the large weight room, she casually smiled.

‘Guess you’re not going to shower here,’ she flippantly remarked as I then decided to humbly head for the door.

“How did you... how do you feel knowing that some naive teenaged girl is aware of your condition... knows of your depravity?”

“It was... frightening. She just... well... in doing the stretching thing... I suppose she suspected something... you know... before the tight shorts. Guess the spandex... ah... sort of confirmed it.”

“You became excited... exposing your condition?”

I sheepishly nod, recalling closing my eyes during the stretch. Was I giving permission... almost inviting? Dear Elizabeth... look closely... perhaps touch... confirm your suspicions. I am a man under a woman’s control.

Miss Monique sips her wine. I finish a fourth glass of water. I will be proud tonight... quite piss proud. I can feel her directing fingers holding my penis as I humbly fill a bowl for her... eventually... her command to commence always withheld... and withheld.     

She stands. Taking my glass, to the kitchen. I wait... always to wait. Fidgeting in my obedience.

“Come, come Robert... to be shaved... to be drained. Let’s see if you can properly perform for me tonight.”

I dash to the kitchen, stripping naked, eagerly adjusting the table.

“Get your cell phone, Robert,” her tone pleasant but I know her words to be a command.

I have not the temerity nor the inclination to delay things by questioning. I return to my slacks, pull from the pocket and place the phone on the table, mounting and assuring my steel encased package drapes over the gap. My hands go to the back of my head, legs parting to the point of discomfort, toes pointing. I can feel twinges. I need to urinate of course, but as my hormones surge in expectation such need dissipates, transforming to the need to climax.

Will it happen? 

“Light blue,” reminding in my eagerness of the key color.

Miss Monique steps to the table, nodding, placing down the sudsy bowl and razor.

“Remember, Robert. Long term subjugants get tattooed... right here,” a hand lowering, the tip of her index finger grazing over the exposed front of my scrotum. “Requires a special artist... with the thin skin of your ball sac care must be taken. And hygienics... you’d not want an infection here.”

I nod, hoping that my gesture is not perceived as one of concurrence... that I will have my privates so permanently colored and marked. It’s a game, I remind myself. And all games end. Though it would seem not for all of Miss Monique’s clients.

The key, the click, I close my eyes knowing of the penile suffering as the bulbous tip of the urethral tube is slipped away. Though gently done, there is suffering.

“Perhaps a longer tube for you, Robert... with a bigger bulb... keep your prostate stimulated. And you’ll better feel me... more aware of what you’ve given away.”

Despite the terrifying notion, my penis springs to life. I subtly shake my head... refusing but hopefully not annoying she who is about to bring such relief. Then I open my eyes peering down to see am I fully engorged... and so quickly. And I also see Miss Monique pick up my cell phone.

She steps back and clicks... a photo. It is apparent she captures my entire subjugated form... naked... so obediently posed... balls hanging low... purple penis tip standing high.

I am about to protest the invasion of privacy... but choose to remain silent. I do not wish to aggravate... and it is my phone... the photo to be simply deleted... curtailing more of Miss Monique’s hijinks.  

“Your trainer... her name?”

“Elizabeth Doyer.”

“I think that will become Miss Elizabeth Doyer to you, Robert.”

I am horrified to see her scroll through my contact list. In an instant, her finger presses.

“And now you and Elizabeth will have something to talk about... what is under my mass of steel... what it is you have chosen to subject to a woman’s caprice.”

Shocked... I search for words. Miss Monique simply gazes at me, her smile wickedly mirthful.

“Look again at the photo you sent me... you and your trainer at the gym. Study the look on her face. Not where her hand is... not what it is doing as you snapped the picture. Don’t look at your cock cage... see her look of calm confidence in handling you. A rather precocious girl, Robert, no reservations in touching you there. And it’s telling that you did not delete the photo. No, you sent it to me as instructed... but then you kept it.” 

“I don’t know what to do... what to say to her now,” finally finding words of objection.

“I think in standing before her you will be humbly silent... and she will speak. And Robert... look at you... you protest but your penis is firmer than ever.”

I look down. The incident has indeed seemed to bring more strange delight, pre ejaculatory fluid oozing.

“Now let’s get you shaven and cleaned... and then see if you can properly perform for me. We may have to extend your intervals of lock up time, Robert... if you don’t ejaculate for me like a good boy.”

*****

I depart Miss Monique’s with conflicting thoughts and feelings. To the good, I have been once again drained. I am physically becalmed. To the bad, I simply and meekly oozed my essence... my nasty sludge as Miss Monique so termed... my keyholder slowly milking my prostate... methodically, clinically, mechanically.

She cooed encouraging words... for me to concentrate... to pull on my ejaculatory muscles and erupt... to perform for her. I failed... fluid turning to thick white... streaming down my untouched erection to my dangling scrotal sac. 

More distress comes in checking my cell phone before starting the car. Indeed trainer Elizabeth Doyer was texted my image... my posed, naked and erect image. And worse there was added a message... the cage only comes off at a woman’s behest.

To the recipient such would seem to be a subtle invitation. Will trainer Elizabeth Doyer understand the words are not mine?

And the another distressing thought... Miss Monique has changed my weekly Thursday night appointment.

‘You’re not randy enough, Robert. Between the ears you’re eager to spurt for me but physically not primed. I’ll see you a week from Sunday. See if a ten day interval is sufficient. Come in the afternoon. We can have a leisurely matinee session with a friend. Perhaps then you will perform for us’.

With a friend?

I am apprehensive... fearful. A man friend?.. or a woman friend? Aware of my kink... the exchange of power? Or to be introduced... by way of me posing... being tabled?

For the first time since our arrangement began months ago... being measured by knowing hands in ordering the custom made device, I want out... to end it. This thing... abdicating my libido to a firm woman of resolve... was supposed to be private. Bringing outsiders into the relationship... trainer Elizabeth, now a friend unknown... was not discussed. Who else is to be made aware or my proclivity... my kink?

But then comes realization... what was discussed... that I would be subordinating more than just my sexual urges. Yes, Miss Monique was specific... I would be surrendering more than my need to get off. The intense desire for climatic relief would lead further... to total capitulation.

It shall not happen! I will resist. Yet did I resist wearing tight and revealing effeminately colored shorts in public? The capitulation has begun!

More realization... reading of the precision made German cage now encapsulating what a man holds most dear. The warnings... do not lose the key... attempts to remove without may bring injury.

I have no key. And the arrangement to retrieve such from my keyholder and end the arrangement... two thousand dollars. Miss Monique Von Buren was specific about that as well. And a woman with the determination and resolve to hold over a dozen males in denial for long periods... apparently some unending... will hold fast. After all, for her it is a business... enjoyable for her, yes... her knowing smirks as she rids my glands of build up... the nasty sludge... evidencing her subdued joy... but a business. One hundred dollars per visit.

That alone is depleting my funds, the cock cage not yet even fully paid for.

No, in pulling into my apartment parking lot it dawns that I am trapped... and more than just physically.  

'Keyholder' Segment II

More exercise, I drive to the gym in thought. Miss Monique nicely expunged my building hormones days ago, thereafter admonishing that the demanded pose... while being tabled... was less than sufficient.

‘Legs straight out... back arched... hands to your head... toes pointed... that’s how I want you while I shave and drain you. The posture is important... discipline Robert... boys like you need discipline... to properly present yourself to a woman in charge.’

So in arriving, I stand in front of my gym, take my cell phone from my bag and prepare to take a selfie. I must snap four shots before I have what I need... a photo with the sign ‘Willie’s Workouts’ behind me as I stand attired in the shorts Miss Monique purchased and had sent to me.

Deed accomplished, I scroll to my text messages, find her instructions, and send the snapshot... proof that I am wearing the skimpy gaily colored spandex... and that I am wearing such at one of my twice weekly workouts. 

Miss Monique’s dour persona surprisingly yields to such mischief. After quizzing me about my gym attire... if adequately covering my ‘condition’... cold hard steel encapsulating my maleness... she purchased gym shorts not only more brief but tight in that the spandex clings and outlines all I have from the waist to the crease of my thighs and hips. More embarrassing is that half my butt cheeks are fully displayed. And I know such will ride higher when I utilize the treadmill!

Augmenting the exposure... the color... gaudy pink... the shade saying ‘look at me’.

Why would a clothing manufacturer make such ridiculous garb for a guy? Well, in opening the package, I found the shorts are women’s... more aptly for a girl.

I feel I am wearing a bikini bottom!         

I enter the gym, comforting myself that I know few of the members personally. Why I just don’t slink back to my car and spare the trauma? Well Miss Monique wants more selfie’s inside... one with the cute trainer Elizabeth... Liz... she young and cute... she who assures I exhaust myself and stretch... she who is perplexed that a guy would want to work to so inordinately tension what she terms the gracilis and abductor longus tendons in the thighs... tight on a guy... naturally pliable on the female.    

I also persuade myself that the tightness of the spandex will in fact aid in cloaking my condition. Though the bulge is prominent, making me look like some well endowed stud, the stainless steel is well covered and as opposed to loose shorts will not flash... the metal not to glint in the gym’s bright halogen lights.

I begin my workout, waving to Liz as I move to the treadmill. I get looks from guys. I ignore, finding an unused row of machines in the back, remove jacket and begin.

Twenty minutes, pacing myself initially for a six minute mile then slowing in stages. In my state of forced chastity I have found that exercise keeps the hormone levels in line, inhibiting the excruciating nocturnal penile tumescence which mandates a weekly visit with Miss Monique to more adequately meliorate.

Yes, I work up a good sweat and in completing decide that my soaked body will offer more evidence that while working out at Willie’s I am obediently wearing Miss Monique’s garb. So I dismount, go to my bag, extract the cell phone and now more proficiently snap two selfies.

In checking to assure such portray my image, I am stunned. The bright pink spandex has darkened... and become more clingy... too clingy. Drenched in sweat the lock is perfectly outlined. I no longer appear to be some well endowed stud... I appear to be what I am... under lock and key!        

I must depart, returning to my bag to find a towel.

“Mr. Partland,” the melodious voice of trainer Elizabeth calls out, “you’re warmed up and ready to be stretched,” humorously referring to her rigorous sessions as some form of medieval torture.   

Wow! I am trapped! I am indeed warmed up. And stretching with a trainer is done by appointment... mine at 8:00 p.m. And it is 8:00 p.m. Cancelling would aggravate things with the gym management. I would pay for the session... but what of the photo for Miss Monique? And what is the price of disobedience? How many added days before visiting her kitchen and being tabled?  

Liz approaches. Her amused look suggests that my pink bikini bottom has not gone unnoticed. What of the lock now so prominently outlined?

My question is answered when her bright youthful smile transforms to a look of concern.

“Oh, Mr. Partland... let’s use one of the empty aerobics rooms. The next class will not be until nine.”

Saved... I think. The stretching mats normally used are just about centered amongst the busy free weight area. The pink tight spandex will draw eyes... the outline of steel beneath? What will that draw?

Liz leads away. I follow, gym bag in one hand, towel in the other, letting the terry cloth casually drape over my waist at the front. Into the aerobics room, I sigh in relief... unoccupied. But then Liz goes to the floor, sits upright, legs straight and slides her feet well to the right and left. She seems to taunt, patting the soft rubber to her front, suggesting I join her in endeavoring to replicate.

She is aware of my need... to be able to assume the awkward pose. But should she know why? To show discipline before a commanding woman who holds my key?

Sweaty, I smooth out my towel on the mat then sit. Upright, legs out in front of me, trainer Elizabeth, supple and graceful leans forth, extending her arms to grasp my ankles.

“Okay Mr. Partland, nice and slow for me... show me how much you can split,” her hands pushing left and right to assist while I struggle to pull apart my feet.

Her voice is young but stern, a trainer’s firmness, challenging my resolve. For some reason I find myself placing my hands to the back of my head... as Miss Monique demands, back arched. Then it dawns that the further my legs separate, the further she must lean, head and shoulders lowering as her arms part in pushing. As my tight shorts hike up, I realize that in shaving me... hair and steel cock cages being incompatible as Miss Monique is fully aware... my upper thighs evidence an obvious line where my keyholder curtailed her efforts with the blade of the straight edged razor.

I feel twinges beneath the steel. Why does discovery... potential discovery... excite?

As my legs part, feet well out to the sides, I grimace in discomfort. My trainer giggles as she must lower herself to push. Then, feet out of reach, she moves her assisting hands to my knees. Her face is within inches of my pubes, the spandex is greatly strained and stretched, and it must be apparent to the young girl that I have been shaven there. Bringing further distress, will the now moist pink covering move such that the steel mesh of my penis cage will show? 

The room is so brightly lit!

Recalling the lecture on discipline, fearing that Miss Monique will withhold the key if I fail to progress, I divert my thoughts, closing my eyes and endeavoring to point my toes... like a ballerina... as my keyholder demands. This brings certain muscles to cramp. A groan comes, the male anatomy just not designed for such stress... what the lithe and supple legs of a young girl can so facilely do is slow torment for the male.

“Steady... hold... feel the burn, Mr. Partland,” feeling my trainer’s hands slide along my thighs, continuing to push but nearing my pubes.   

Dare I open my eyes? Trainer Elizabeth’s hands so close to the steel covered in pink... worse as she leans her face is proximate as well.

Will she know... learn of my proclivity... inadvertently graze the hard steel with her fingers... catch a glimpse of a glimmer of metal if the spandex betrays me?

I think of Miss Monique’s advice... divulge my penchant for ceding control... of having a woman of resolve deny me ultimate male gratification... to be permitted such solely at her whim... ‘just place her hand on your crotch... she’ll feel the steel’.

Yes, there’s the burn of the stressed tendons... the cramping of muscles... and the torment of possible disclosure... ‘trainer Elizabeth, your client Robert Partland is creepy... a warped libido... one which is under the auspices for a firm woman... one who dresses him in tight girl’s spandex shorts!’

Is it to happen? She’ll have questions... or she will dash away to the manager and have me escorted out... any number of brawny gym members tossing me to the parking lot. 

Yet trainer Elizabeth is insistent. Proper stretching requires determination... her role to assure the client accept and withstand pain... the burn... one full minute of excruciation for each tendon desired to be toned... made supple. And she does... barking, cajoling, taunting. Though barely out of high school she is focused... assertive.

Could she be a youthful Miss Monique Von Buren?

The hands leave my inner thighs. I feel fingers... at my crotch. I open my eyes in shock. Stunned, my hands remain at the back of my head.

“The minute is up Mr. Partland, just relax for me,” the words coming as I see my trainer has completely pushed aside the pink spandex to fully uncover the stainless steel of my cock cage, her young eyes merrily glaring at the special lock.

“Stay,” the forceful command coming as I begin to lower my hands, feeling her fingers move below to graze along my compressed ball sac. “What’s not covered in steel is well shaved, Mr. Partland. Feel okay when you exercise?”    

I slowly relax as directed, slightly pulling my legs together to indeed end the burn. Yet I keep my hands away, letting the girl explore.

Why?

Miss Monique suggested that exposing... revealing... to a young girl my quirky need for feminine supervision... ceding control of my libido... would bring a thrill. And indeed my heart pounds as trainer Liz explores. I let her do it... no objection... silent as she begins toy.

Why?

And conversely, she seems to assume I will be compliant, a finger tip smoothing over the egress tube where my bladder drains.

“You should wear looser shorts... and longer... Mr. Partland,” finally finding words herself. “if you want to keep this a secret.”

A finger curls about the narrow pink spandex running between my thighs. She tugs... and tugs... causing the material to bunch up. I can feel that what once covered my buttocks... partially covered... gathers in my crevice, truly transforming the shorts into the appearance of a bikini bottom.         

“Feel good?” she giggles anew.

How can I explain... being manipulated by a woman... submitting to her caprice... brings such singular joy?

Then it occurs... in being handled... the demanded third photo... evidencing that I have presented myself in pink gym shorts to my trainer. It seems I must not only explain myself, but inveigle the trainer into letting me take a photo... avoid the wrath of keyholder Miss Monique.          

My thoughts run wildly as trainer Elizabeth finally draws in her extended feet, tucks her legs under her and stands over me, arms akimbo much like Miss Monique.

“It locks... your thing. No reason to do that to yourself.”

“I... ah... well... it’s sort of a game,” at last finding some words.

I remain sitting, legs somewhat splayed, hands on head. Why is it I do not reach down and rearrange the spandex? Get the bunched up strand out of the crack in my ass and smooth to once again cover the device of steel. Instead I look up in adoration... much as I do with Miss Monique.

Trainer Elizabeth Doyer is a perky teen, short in stature but sinewy, arms and legs packed with power... probably much training in gymnastics. Blue eyes, dark blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail to facilitate energetic motion and exercise, years of athletics have brought vibrance, self confidence and maturity beyond her years. Still, her subdued reaction to discovering a guy locked in chastity is telling.

Something to be expected?  

I decide to refrain from further explanation. My condition speaks for itself and there seems to be curious acceptance by the sparkly trainer. She makes no demands... certainly no indication that I will be banned from the gym.

“Would you... ah... mind... a photo... I need a picture. Sort of a part of the game...”

New story 'Keyholder' Segment I

New story, Female Dominant, male submissive. Light for a Chris Bellows story, but believe it will serve to entertain.

Enjoy.

*****

Keyholder

Copyright 2020

by Chris Bellows

*****

“Skin okay? Any chafing?”

“A little, Miss Monique... with the exercise.”

“Yes, that’s by your choice,” more or less shrugging, her sigh suggesting a ‘boys will be boys’ reaction. “Drink more of your water.” 

I raise my glass and imbibe, hoping both my puppy dog look of awe and admiration and my internal jitters are not overly evident.

I sit with my keyholder in her finely furnished livingroom. Monique Von Buren sits opposite sipping a glass of fine white wine. Legs of perfection are crossed, straining the cloth of an elegant dark blue skirt. At some forty five years of age, she’s attractive, shapely, though her professional attire... that of a banker or corporate attorney... veils any overt sexiness.

A white silk blouse somewhat yields to firm breasts, her flat stomach and thin waist line making such prominent. At age twenty six, our conversations are one sided... the ambiance of her maternal persona making me feel even younger... like a young school boy in peril of being spanked should I improperly respond to her questions and directives. Dark hair pulled back in a bun, it almost seems she desires to detract from her natural beauty, presenting on aura of sternness.

She is indeed stern.

My penis is locked in a steel chastity device... custom made... one of precision... and ineluctable. I remain paying down my credit card in purchasing. In making the arrangement with this woman of authority, she directed that the device be shipped here, to her home. Accomplished as a keyholder, the woman is well aware of the subterfuge of a duplicate key. I have none... no opportunity to fabricate.

“You’re able to properly urinate?”

The design of the device is to partially catheterize, a tube connected to the steel mesh of the penis cage inserted some three inches into my urethra... the tip ending in a small sphere. Such assures I am at all times aware of my condition... abject denial.

“Yes, ma’am, I must sit to pee... and you know... there’s the thing inside...”

“Of course. It’s designed so you can at all times sense a woman’s control... as you so much desire. And to have to sit... a just reminder of your status. You must revel in it.”

I nod... most humbly, wanting to beg to get on with it.

Miss Monique Van Buren is a woman of rituals. I learned that on my first visit after a week under lock and key. Jittery, no hormonal release, needs piquing, I brazenly greeted Miss Monique at her front door, quickly but politely, and moved to her kitchen and began to disrobe, expecting the key and quick release.

I was admonished and sent home. A week later, after many cold showers, I returned and learned the protocol. Obedience, a debriefing, downloading my thoughts, my feelings... relating more than the physical duress of having my prized manhood tucked away under formidable stainless steel.

“So you’ve been exercising... keeping things in balance. And your stretching?”

“Yes, Ma’am. There’s a trainer... at the gym. She’s amused... doesn’t understand the need for what I’m asking... but I’m improving.”

“Good. Gym attire adequately covering your condition?”

I pause in thought... a relevant question with the mass of metal beneath brief gym shorts. The stretching involves sitting upright on the floor, back straight, and pressing my legs as far apart as possible to the right and left... a split in the parlance of girl cheerleaders. And there are those who can push their legs well out, almost aligning their feet with their shoulders. Such are female, the male anatomy making such a pose ungainly.

“Well, my trainer... I think she notices... my... ah... package. You know, when she presses at my thighs to help.”

“Yes, it does tend to bulge. Perhaps you should tell her... that you’ve ceded your masculinity to a woman. Would that not bring you a thrill?”

Damn if Monique Von Buren does not fully understand the quirky joy of submission... the virile male surrendering what matters most... to a woman of purpose and determination.                  

“I’m... ah... not sure she would...”

“Do it. Enjoy yourself. If she does not understand, explain it to her in detail.”

I am in so much need of release, I merely nod in agreement, hoping to withdraw to the kitchen... to remove my clothing... to be tabled. Instead, Miss Monique stands, gesturing for me to stay as she takes my empty water glass. I am disappointed when she returns with a refill, cross examination to continue.

“Just place her hand on your crotch. She’ll feel the steel. Then you can tell her why you are in need of such inordinate stretching. I suspect she may become more eager in helping you achieve your goal.”

I note a wane smile as I take the glass.

“The humiliation... boys like you so much cherish it. Why deny yourself? You can share your sick proclivity. I take it she’s young?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“All the more excitement for you. She’ll have many questions... or shame you and have you removed from the premises,” Miss Monique cloaking another smile in sipping more wine. 

“You’re trembling, Robert. So excited to see me?”

It’s a tease. She knows very well of my needs, pausing in deliberation.

“Such a nice chat. Suppose I just send you home for a cold shower instead. I told you I can be whimsical.”

“Please no Miss Monique,” my voice quavering.

But she is correct. The arrangement is monetary... a guaranteed sum from me. But no return guarantee in obliging my needs... for the key... and hopefully more.  

She watches me finish a third tumbler of water. Then she stands, taking the glass. I hope not for a fourth. My bladder is full and there will be no permission to use her bathroom. I hope and hope as she disappears into the kitchen. My heart leaps when she calls out.

“The table is cleared for you, Robert. Come, come,” her voice changing to a pleasant sing song.

The ritual... it begins.

Jumping from my chair, I enter the kitchen. I disrobe, noting Miss Monique works at the sink. I am heartened, spying a straight edged razor as she fills a bowl of warm sudsy water. I can feel twinges below... completely naked before a clothed female... a primly dressed woman. My penis fights its steel enclosure... futilely of course.

Naked, I work the kitchen table. Pulling at one end, it opens in the middle ostensibly to accommodate an extension. The four inch gap I create will instead accommodate my encased male package. I push away the chairs and mount. Then I further adhere to the ritual.

Yes, I sit, back straight, hands to the back of my neck, pressing my legs well out to the right and left just as I practice two nights weekly at the gym. I feel my compressed scrotum fall into the gap, my steel encased penis drooping above. I know not to touch to better align. From the moment I take off my clothing, handling my maleness is the prerogative of Miss Monique. My penis and testicles become hers.

To stray from the protocol is to be sent home. I need to stay... place myself in the exacting care of my keyholder.

So I strain, tendons at my thighs taut as possible, somewhat pleased that I am able to part my feet further than ever. And then I remember another aspect of the demanded pose... to arch my back, tensioning there as well. And in doing so I feel my locked up phallus begin to stir even more. 

Yes, Miss Monique is so much aware of the male anatomy, the pose tensioning the pubo coccygeus muscles, enhancing the need to tumefy.

I become a statue... and I wait... and my need for penile emancipation grows... and grows.

Finally Miss Monique turns, bowl in one hand razor in the other. She steps to my front, freeing her hands, bowl and razor to the table top right and left. Arms akimbo she simply assesses, her commanding eyes glowing with the image of male submission.

“Are you going to perform for me Robert? It’s been four weeks since I put you under my lock and key.”

I want to cry out... demand that I be unlocked. But I know the result of disobedience... more time in my cage of steel.

“I will try Miss Monique... I will try my best.”

“Your best does not make it. The first week I had to send you away. The last two your little thing got nicely firm... but no discharge.”

“Well... if... you know... you touched it... or let me...” 

“That’s not what I do... and being a submissive boy locked in a woman’s chastity... that is not what you’ll be doing either. Remember Robert... control. You cede it... I take it.” 

I again want to shout... beg... plead... but I am helpless. The device is truly part of me... I must be a good boy and rely on Miss Monique for relief. I so much need it... climactic relief.

Mercifully, I see a hand go to her throat. A necklace comes from beneath her blouse, clinking with numerous keys.

“Do remind me Robert, what is your color?”

“Light blue Ma’am.”

Yes, Miss Monique uses a color system for identifying the keys to the many locks. I cannot count but there are at least a dozen, her keyholding assued to be lucrative.

“I have some of my long term clients tattooed. Just a little patch of color at the base of the scrotum... where only the two of us know of its significance... matching their key. Over time, I demand silence for the boys who go so deep into subjugation. They just step in the door, I water them, and point to the kitchen. No further counseling needed. They’re addicted, submitting in silence. Nothing more need be said when one is so immersed in subservience.”

Yes, to be watered. More evidence of Miss Monique’s awareness... that a full bladder greatly augments erection... a piss proud penis standing most firmly and without relent.    

I close my eyes in joy as she steps forth, key marked in light blue at the ready. She palms my scrotum, lifts, key pushing forth. It twists, it clicks, and though the cage is gently pulled away, as the catheterizing tube slips down my urethra, I grimace in discomfort... but I also instantly harden... the spontaneity almost comical... my freed sac falling away to dangle within the gap of the table top. 

“Good boy,” a free hand going to my chest, a single digit diddling my right nipple to bring a brisance of delight.

Cage placed aside, more brisance comes as a hand grazes about my pubes, assessing for stubble. Her masterful touch feels so good. I want to join in the examination, not having touched myself there in four weeks. But if a hand moves from my head, there is a price to be paid.

“Should I collar and cuff you, Robert? Need to sense more governance?” noting a slight inadvertent motion of my right arm.

“No Ma’am, I’ll be good.”

There comes lathering of my pubes, her hand and the warmth exquisite. As the razor effortlessly glides about, one is given to ask how many, how often has she so engaged in subtle domination, the most private male anatomy effectively becoming hers... the frightening sharp razor able to instantly bring chastity of a more permanent nature. As she whisks about, Miss Monique smiles in noting my priapic reaction. My stiffness seems to become more and more rigid.

“Your trainer. Perhaps she would like to accommodate your needs sometime... see the results of all the stretching I mandate. You’re making progress, Robert, even properly keeping your toes pointed like a good ballerina. I think she’d like to know how her efforts benefit you.” 

The image of the cute young athletic and shapely girl comes to mind. In enduring her workout program, there is an element of subtle dominance of her own, barking commands and encouragement. Fantasies flash, the vibrant trainer joining us here as Miss Monique lectures on the foibles of the masochistic male... so readily ceding to female authority. The girl is years younger than me... adding to my warped rapture?

Defoliation completed, Miss Monique steps away and returns with a towel. I am patted dry as one would tend to an infant. My keyholder clucks her tongue in noting the flow of prostatic flow, quite prevalent after the towel removes all soap and water.

“My, my Robert, you need attention. Your glands have been neglected... your prostate... and I am sure your seminal ducts are full of nasty effluent... and your bulbospongiosus is dying to contract and explode. Would you like to ejaculate for me... add to your humiliation?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I will masturbate for you,” my voice pleading.

“Oh Robert, that would be so demeaning. Just keep your hands on your head... and let Miss Monique help,” holding up a tube of unguent.

Normally a naked and erect male would expect a nice hand job... slow sensuous stroking. But in this my fourth visit, I know that is not to come.

Instead, Miss Monique lubricates her hands. I know my penis will not be touched. She will coo soothing words, encouraging me to perform... but my erection will simply waggle about as the left hand grips my scrotal sac, gently and rhythmically squeezing about, using it for leverage as her right slips down between well spread thighs, finding my opening, one finger then two plunging into my rectum.

Prostate massage. She will find my gland and work it, smiling in confidence as the stream of clear fluid turns to a cloudy white... filled with an abundance of spermatozoa... much frustrating build up.

“Spurt for me Robert. Show me you’re more a man than just a woman’s toy.”

And I cannot. My penis needs to be gripped, stroked, a firm hand twisting with fervor. An explosion... not to meekly ooze. 

Yes, the woman bleeds me... so slowly... so clinically... so methodically.   

Masterful indeed, she knows me too well... knows of my warped needs... that virile males of normal psyche erupt in triumph. And boys of my ilk humbly leak for the presiding woman.

Emptied, it will be she who triumphs, finally holding a limp penis as she directs the flow of a brimming bladder into a waiting bowl.

The steel cage will return. The catheter tube slipped in place, the lock will click and I will return next week.

Trainer in tow?