Of Male Chastity

Millicent Hayward Over the years, I have found that keeping the male beast deprived of s****l satisfaction... lets term it physical s****l satisfaction... can give rise to a form of satisfaction of its own... for me, that is. My name is Millicent Hayward, my mother had a thing for old fashioned names, and my husband of some ten years is Harold Hayward. We dated vanilla... married vanilla... lived vanilla for the first few years of our marriage. And then came Harold’s big day... his last as... let’s call it fully functioning... yes, his last day as a fully functioning male... April 5, 2001. He was in the mood... I wasn’t. Instead I was in that mood. And the intervals of being in that mood had been becoming longer and longer. At first when I was in that mood, I would berate myself and feel a little sorry for Harold. But then I began to analyze... if we planned not to have children, and that was agreed to upon our betrothal, why should I continually have to lie in the prosaic missionary position and press my ankles to the ceiling?.. and do so at his whim? Why was it always about him? His needs? When in that mood, I would think up excuses but even Harold knew that the menstrual cycle does not come that often and last that long. So I would just enunciate a clear and firm ‘No’ and move elsewhere in the house... cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, feigning indifference. But it was feigned, for as Harold pouted, my own circumspection led to ongoing analysis, giving the situation deep thought. You see, though I never admitted it, nor even discussed it with pimply teenaged girl friends in my youth, I did need... well, let’s call it attention... but never really liked being penetrated. Deep within, I guess that I knew I was different. But I never brought the thought to the front of my mind until I had ensnared Harold in marriage. Thereafter there developed years of understanding the male needs... his needs... but not fully understanding mine. And this formulated a sense of frustration on one hand but also empowerment... he needed my warm and wet tightness more than I needed to lie beneath his sweaty pudgy form obsequiously searching with my spread legs for the best angle to receive his manhood. I could do without... he couldn’t. I read where some leader in the women’s rights movement referred to most copulation as m**********g in the v****a. And that stuck in my mind during the infrequent times I consented... as I stared at the ceiling with disdain, Harold was indeed m**********g in me! And it became embarrassing. Yes, the sense of embarrassment grew. I was never comfortable and would let my mind wander as Harold frantically pumped away. During one carnal Saturday matinee, I recalled visits to the zoo as a child, watching the various mammals mate. The female always appeared so indifferent to the male’s zealous lust... her being mounted appearing to be such an act of condescension... afterwards nonchalantly stepping away while the male collapsed in exhaustion. But I did note amongst the beasts an activity more participative... the constant foreplay... the female scent seeming to drive the males into s****l frenzy resulting in frantic tongues. And there was the tasting. I many times recalled, as a pubescent girl, feeling a curious tremor between my thighs in watching an evidently randy lion thoroughly lick the genitalia of his prospective mate. As I lay beneath Harold, awaiting his masturbatory offering, I often thought that though procreation demanded the lion eventually consummate the coupling, the lioness seemed much more sanguine receiving broad applications of a rather assiduous tongue then the gruff penetration that followed. And so it finally dawned on me. In the years of adolescent dating and adult s****l exploration, the most explosive orgasms I ever had were while receiving oral gratification! And Harold was so bad at it and offered it so rarely! So I finally just learned to say ‘no’. No more. Why should my needs be so subordinate to his? Enough of lying on my back while he pokes and prods away, futilely attempting to develop friction within an organ designed to accommodate a baby’s head... and with that pusillanimous pecker! Yes, April 5, 2001. My 30th birthday. He thought it would be a great gift, to pound away and once again let me watch as he m*********d within me. I thought differently. And so the story begins... “Happy Birthday,” Harold slobbers, configuring his lips in offering some juvenile wet kiss, his arms extending as if to embrace a polar bear. I know what he anticipates. In typical male delusional thinking, he expects that the best birthday present I can have is a quick kiss and a roll in bed. Since I’ve been in that mood for many days, he’s hoping that I will lighten up on my birthday and let him drag me into the bedroom. It’s early on a Friday night. He thinks that I will tire during s*x and therefore he will escape the expensive dinner he always promises. Well, as stated, there’s been a lot of contemplation in reaching age thirty. Many interludes of lying staring at the ceiling while that inadequate male appendage plunges away in forays of self satisfaction. “No!” I reply to his unspoken offer. I enjoy being succinct. It empowers. And the pout resulting from my expression of denial can be amusing, as he has learned that no is no and that even on my birthday, I can abstain. “No nookie?” he inquires in lugubriously accentuating my refusal. “It’s my birthday... not yours,” I sternly remind. “Well... it’s been awhile... I just thought...” “You thought wrong. Besides, I’ve just done my hair.” Yes, the monthly cycle thing has been strained as an excuse. So I switch to the hair... planning that pretext to serve for a few days of reprieve... whereupon nails, then mascara, then make-up will have to suffice until, indeed, the monthly curse arrives. But I am tiring of the games. So tired that I bought myself a birthday present knowing that Harold’s contemplated ‘gift’ pleases him more than me. “Dinner?” he squeaks. Well, at least he’s trying. He plans to ply me with wine then resume his mission... the never ending male pursuit of getting off the rocks. Well when I’m in that mood, I also need to get off. But hiding in the bathroom with the shower running to disguise the sound of energetic batteries vibrating a girl’s best friend has become both boring and demeaning. “Thought you’d like an hors d’oeuvre. I can sit without messing up my hair,” I imply in suggesting a form of sustenance that can stave both appetites. Now I smile coyly, contriving that look, which in our younger days, served as a precursor to s*x. Only I cannot mess up my hair... yet I can sit... therefore... Harold has always been the horse that not only needs to be led to water but also have his snout immersed up to the ears. So I plunk my butt onto the edge of this straight-backed kitchen chair and draw my feet to the side and then back. The motion both parts my knees and causes my loose skirt to hike well up my thighs. Harold smiles devilishly. He gets it! “Right here in the kitchen?” he gushes. I pull my hands and forearms to the back of the chair in a casual motion to stretch and then yawn. The position arches the small of my back and thrusts forth my breasts. Mammaries of which I am quite proud press forward against a tightened bodice and the skirt rides further up my thighs to flash just a hint of pink. Harold gawks. I am pantyless. ‘Drink you dumb beast,’ I think to myself. “It’s not like we have little children running about, Harold. No one will see. We don’t even have a dog for goodness sake!” I finally bring forward my hands and lift the hem of my skirt figuratively immersing the equine’s head. In being sans undergarments, Harold finally figures out what his gift will be. He falls to his knees, little realizing it is only the beginning. I slide forward so that my crevice abuts the front edge of the chair. A randy Harold... yes I know how long it has been... crawls forth to worship at my long neglected temple... neglected orally that is to say. “As I said... just a little hors d’oeuvre.” I am shaven but undouched. I know the scent attracts. I think the taste will both thrill and fulfill. In my plan, Harold’s appetizer will become a feast over time. With time comes training... with training comes obedience... with obedience comes gratification... mine. Harold’s oral efforts are attentive but gruff. He unfortunately offers his tongue and lips like he tries to hump... assaulting more than idolizing. Still, since my own efforts have been limited... by design... his warm wetness feels good. There are definitely possibilities, I think to myself. I grasp his head and guide, assuring that my outer labia are well laved and the circulation stimulated before encouraging deeper efforts. And I must discourage tongue work on my rapidly stiffening bud. In typical male fashion, he wants to go right for the treasure. That will have to wait. “See Harold. My hair doesn’t get messed up and afterwards we can go right to dinner,” I justify in tossing off a mild orgasm. Meanwhile he squirms a bit below the waist. Hmm. Could it be that Harold is becoming hard? It’s difficult to determine with specificity but I surmise that even his small p***s is feeling the confines of his undershorts as it stiffens in response to the overwhelming effect of my fine pink charms... the sight, smell, taste and feel of steamy hot feminine flesh. Despite the many years, he has had little practice. Harold still needs instruction as to best perform c*********s. Why don’t they teach this in s*x education classes? You’d think he was trying to devour a cactus the way he attacks... as if my moist softness will bite back. Well, he does manage to sop up the abundant flow of juices, obviating any need to change my skirt before going to dinner. So I let him feast, managing on occasion to pry open my eyes to watch his hands. I know he’s dying to get himself off and that as a male, he has no compunction about playing with himself right in front of me. Yes, he reaches to his zipper, once again preferencing his pleasure over mine. That won’t do. The new paradigm has begun. Though I have the physical capacity to toss off a couple more thigh clenchers, when Harold goes for his crotch, I abruptly push away his face and stand. “Time for my dinner,” I firmly announce, smoothing down my skirt, strongly suggesting the appetizer is finished. He groans, fully expecting some degree of reciprocity. Does he really think my lips would ever touch that useless thing of his? I just step away, pick up a special little package on the way to the door and exit to the car. This one last time I can trust Harold to follow and not instead wack off in the bathroom. After all, he gallantly expects to ‘please’ me with a quick hump for my birthday and therefore will ‘save’ himself for later. He’s wrong about later, but it’s just as well that he keep himself in heat until I explain the new paradigm. We drive to the restaurant and I must confess that at least Harold has good taste in food. Dinner is exquisite. The wine superb. The attentive waiter even noting that we, as a couple, prefer to talk without disruption, our sotto voce murmurings hinting at intimacy. “Wondering what’s in the package?” I inquire as the waiter departs with our dessert order. “You’ve bought yourself something to wear for your birthday. Jewelry, I suspect. But the box is larger than for a ring. It must be a necklace.” I smile coyly. The same smile that I use to precipitate sex... back when I was not so often in that mood.. “Kinky underwear?” Harold revises his guess. “Well... it can be worn... and it can be described as kinky... and it is for my birthday. So you are very close.”