Of Male Chastity

Millicent Hayward-2

I retrieve the little box. Though the restaurant is crowded, the nearby table is open, for now. So I must proceed quickly.

“But it’s really for you as much as for me.”

Harold just looks at the black box of flimsy yet decorative cardboard.

“Go ahead, Harold. Open it. But don’t wave it about too much.”

His curiosity has him pulling open the top as I speak. As he peeks within, his look changes from wonderment to perplexity. Despite my warning, he lifts the plastic from its concealment.

“Something for you to wear while I’m in those terrible moods,” I explain.

Harold holds the assembled pieces of plastic under the candlelight. The fact that it is shaped in the silhouette of the male package quells further questions as to its function.

“You’ll wear it and we can better coordinate our needs.”

It’s a fabrication of, course. The new paradigm completely ignores his needs. This is all about me! What I want. There will be no more m**********g in my vagina... there will be no more m**********g, period! But first I have to get him into the thing...

“What’s it called?”

“It’s a CB2000. And as you can see, there’s a little key that keeps it locked in place. That’s for me. The rest is for you.”

The waiter approaches with dessert. Harold plunks the device back into the box. An elderly couple is led to the adjoining table. No further inspection is possible... but the message is received.

“How long?” is his simple question.

“Bought it yesterday.”

“No. How long will the moods last?”

I smile inwardly. This is simpler than I thought. The discussion is not whether he will wear it... but instead for how long. Well... when about to offer a dissatisfactory reply... quibble instead. This I have long postulated.

“Days. Maybe a week. But there are always alternatives. You seemed to enjoy the interlude in the kitchen.”

It becomes Harold’s turn to stifle a smile. Yes, he enjoyed indeed.

“So that suggests you’re in that particular mood... when you’re in the kitchen wearing no underwear.”

“That can be the signal... or a signal. But being in the mood means you’ll have lots of what you got. And I can flash you more if you’d like Harold. I don’t need to be shy with you.”

Of course not, silly boy. Once you’re locked up, I may walk about the house completely naked and listen to you groan with the frustration of lust. At thirty years of age I’ve kept trim. No excess fat and all the curves remain.

“And I’ll stay nicely bald for you. Matter of fact, in that capacity you can help.”

Yes, such delicious torment. Harold can labor to primp and preen my mons... that to which he will no longer have access... with his pecker that is.

The bill is paid. The car ride home is initially silent. I let Harold ruminate. That is best. I realize what I am demanding... to control the most basic element of the male existence. But I humorously think of the benefits. When I am in that mood, Harold is known to take excessively long showers, running up the gas bill. Since I know what part of the anatomy he ‘cleans’ so fervently, I suspect such will stop. With his joystick encased in plastic, shower time will shorten, saving a few shekels in energy.

“Not all women enjoy being penetrated, Harold. Besides, it’s demeaning. You respect me too much for that,” I resume the discussion as the car approaches the driveway, knowing that he expects to finalize his birthday ‘gift’.

But I remain in that mood... and I suspect I will for the duration of our marriage.

“It looks uncomfortable, Millie.”

“Well you’re probably best being shaved down there. That way hairs won’t entrap and the area will clean quicker. And of course there will be more thorough cleansings once a week. The CB2000 came with a special cleaning kit.”

“Cleaning kit?”

Now I have him intrigued. For weeks I have been online reading of male chastity and I’m convinced it is best for Harold... and for me. That tongue is close to usefulness. And in letting his hormones percolate for a while... like maybe a few months... he’ll become more attentive concerning my stimulation and arousal. His will only bring frustration and discomfort.

Yes, missing from the box are clever inserts that will further inhibit tumescence. Harold is going to become one chaste beast. Just thinking of using his locked up p***s will bring pain. Inside the c**k cage can be placed pointed inserts that will only impinge and aggravate his member when it swells. Thus he will learn quickly to bring himself under control. Otherwise, the slightest erection will impinge.

In my mind I hear my forthcoming words of advice... ‘stay flaccid Harold and avoid pain. Harden and feel the relentless pricks of the “points of intrigue’’ as the tiny implements are known.

Since Harold’s curiosity has focused on the cleaning kit, I maintain that aspect as center to the conversation. It’s really a simple set of nylon wrist cuffs and connecting chain that is to be adorned while free of the CB2000. Harold will either agree to wear such or remain locked up. Since all males are trainable, with proper reward and punishment of course, it’s just a matter of getting used to the new paradigm... that my libido is sacrosanct and his is... well his is no longer to be addressed.

It will be quashed!

I lead Harold into the bathroom where the ‘cleaning kit’ is stowed. It takes little cajoling to have him close his eyes and extend his hands. After all, it’s my birthday and he wants to please. When he feels me encircling his wrists he smiles thinking he’s going to be the recipient of kinky s*x. In his mind this is what I have been having him save his load for... to ensure there will be a pinnacle of desire when I decide to permit penetration.

But all penetration has ended... Harold just doesn’t know it yet.

I guide his arms behind his back and clip together the cuffs. Then as I work to release his belt buckle, I can safely take him further into the process.

He’ll be naively compliant. He expects s*x.

“Slip off your shoes, Harold,” I coo in my most alluring voice.

The dumb beast obeys. I open his zipper and pull down his pants, followed by his underwear. That p***s which I’ve so often had to endure is partially swollen, anticipating some form of caress.

“He really doesn’t think I’m going to give him a blow job,” I humorously think to myself.

Well things move smoothly and quickly now that I have him cuffed. Shears do away with most of the pubic hair. Shaving lotion and a sharp razor dispense the rest. Hubby becomes as bald as a new born down there. It’s a comical look... humbly comical. His denuded genitals appear even smaller.

“Come,” I firmly but pleasantly command, cradling his hairless balls.

He steps out of his pants, crumpled about his ankles. I tug and he follows me like a punished puppy on a leash... a testicle leash. The CB2000 has been left on the kitchen counter and awaits its new wearer. Also, in my pocketbook are the points of intrigue.

“Something I forgot to mention, Harold. You’ll be squatting to pee. The c**k cage makes standing at the urinal a little sloppy.”

I slip the large ring around the base of Harold’s scrotum. It’s the controlling feature and must be made quite snug and secure in encircling both the p***s and balls. Then to the post where the c**k cage locks, I slide into place the nastiest set of points. Harold gawks. The points ever so slightly abrade the top of the p***s shaft.

“Just a little added feature to ensure your thoughts are properly aligned with mine,” I explain as I guide his firming p***s into the c**k cage.

“No arousing thoughts. You’re going to have to learn self control.”

I click closed the small padlock which can forever hold in place the chastity device... if I so choose. The key is elsewhere... hidden where he will never find it. Harold’s life of denial begins... April 5, 2001.

As a demonstration of my new found control my right hand slips under his partially expose scrotal sac and kneads the perineum. Harold remains a bit horny after the late matinee of c*********s and I feel the twitch of the male anatomy that signifies the spawning of an erection.

“Going to become a big boy for me?” I again coo in my sexy, alluring voice, slipping my left hand into his shirt where I tweak his n*****s while continuing to work the perineum.

Within moments, the points begin their unrelenting task...to permanently assure that hubby Harold’s days of thinking like a virile male have ended. Henceforth he will only enjoy an erection when I permit. And then, I suspect I will enjoy it more than him.

“Arf,” he deliciously groans.

I mercifully withdraw my hands. Harold’s forthcoming existence will be challenging enough without physical stimulation.

I release his wrist cuffs and resume sitting on the straight back chair. This will be where every day begins, I decide. Toast, coffee and c*********s.

“Now Harold, just a little more birthday gift as I explain your new life...”

***

I arrive home after a late day shopping spree to find the ‘cleaning kit’ resting on the kitchen counter. It’s Friday and husband Harold has rushed home, knowing that weekends offer respite... of a sort. I smile in seeing the unwritten message. Harold’s hormonal imbalance has brought tumescence, which in turn has brought pain. His swollen p***s has once again greeted the unrelenting points of intrigue and he’s probably had a rough day controlling himself.

That’s a good thing. He’ll be most attentive in attempting to earn a reprieve.

I stow the groceries and Harold saunters into the kitchen like the family dog expecting to be fed.

“Clothing?” I simply inquire.

He dashes away as I finish. Then I slip down my panties and step away. Since I remain undouched, feminine hygiene has become the responsibility of Harold’s tongue and lips, the frilly garment reeks of my scent.

“Had a good day?” I pleasantly inquire as Harold reappears.

He is naked, knowing that the complete absence of clothing humbles... and I want him humble.

“It’s the girls in the office. I think they know about it.”

‘It’ being the CB2000, I surmise.

“How so?”

I don’t really care if the girls know. But I do want to elicit from Harold a description of the unwavering frustration he encounters each and every day. It is deliciously arousing for me... knowing that his peaked hormone balance no longer serves as a means to self pleasure... but instead has become a source of daily anguish.

“Well, they tease. Short skirts... tight sweaters. They wanted me to join them for drinks after work.”

These are situations where the CB2000 can be a girl’s best investment. Where normally a woman would have reservations, even protest a husband’s wandering eye, I can encourage it. Such behavior will only lead to more frustration, which leads to more obedience.

“Well you should have gone with them. Dinner can always wait. I enjoy watching you cook for me, but it’s Friday night. Could always eat late, sleep in...”

I know he’d rather be home with me. That’s the new paradigm... servile companionship... attention to my needs... and if appropriate, just a little favor in return for Harold... maybe. That’s why he’s so eager. For him, release from the CB2000 is as anticipated as a starving dog hungrily salivates at supper time.

“I was thinking that it needs to be released... just for a little while,” he so obsequiously adds, giving credence to my thoughts.

This time ‘it’ is his p***s. With the many weeks of chastity, Harold references his phallus as if it is no longer part of his anatomy... no longer belonging to him. And his thinking is most on point. I hold the key. I control ‘it’.

“You know that’s for me to decide. The weekly chores were OK, Harold. But there’s always that missing something, that little extra special thing that would suggest you’re enjoying your new role. And it’s rather presumptuous to put out your cleaning kit.”

I dangle my panties in front of him. He gulps.

“Down,” I command with my evil smile.

He kneels and I press the odoriferous garment to his nose, assuring that the crotch, remaining a little moist from the exertion of shopping, abuts his nose. With my free hand,. I pat his head as would an owner offering affection to a loyal family pet.