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.

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Keyholder

Copyright 2020

by Chris Bellows

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“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?