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

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

There will be limited snippets.

Enjoy.

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/chris-bellows/denial-sequel-to-keyholder/ebook/product-kjzv84.html

*****

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.