' 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?