Of Male Chastity

Millicent Hayward-3

He inhales... reluctantly yet with subdued enthusiasm. One can judge the resigned thinking. Though he knows my scent will bring painful stimulation, he also must breathe.

The exercise helps with his self control... and also further ingrains one of his principle duties... to orally serve... to savor my feminine scent and taste.

“Prepare some wine and cheese for me... some grapes for yourself. Make sure they’re warm.”

I detect just a little engorgement within the c**k cage, judging from his squirming. That’s a good thing. Weeks ago, his lack of control would have him writhing as the points bit with abandon.

Having established a proper atmosphere, I depart. Harold will dutifully obey and I need to change. Something a little more provocative, something akin to the tight sweaters and short skirts he’s had to endure all day. Harold has developed newfound admiration for the female body. He no longer thinks of it as something to conquer but instead as something to adore... visually and orally.

The interlude for quick change gives pause for thought. Suppose the young girls in the office were indeed made aware of Harold’s penile confinement? Since I have the key,. there certainly wouldn’t be any hijinks. Any office dalliances would simply replicate the role for which I’ve been training Harold... to serve most obsequiously... to please with tongue and lips.

I put aside the thought and returned wearing the shortest and flimsiest skirt I have. Really more for modest covering should there be an unexpected visit from a neighbor than anything else. And a simple tube top makes my breasts quite accessible... the n*****s jutting into thin spandex will be found most inviting.

The wine is opened... one glass. Chunks of Parmesan fill one plate... grapes another. I sit on the straight backed chair knees parted, skirt raised. This is where each day begins in oral servitude for Harold and multiple orgasms for me.

“Now, let’s earn that release you so earnestly covet,” I encourage as I slip one grape after another into my quim.

Harold has placed the ripe juicy fruit in the microwave and the warm smooth spheres feel exquisite going in... and will feel even more divine in being extracted. Harold’s tongue will have to delve most deeply...

***

Harold and I work for the same firm. I am assistant director of personnel. Harold supervises production in one of the many plants. So though our paychecks have the same payor, we don’t interact during the day. And I have made it a point that few know of the relationship. Though not in violation of company policy, I do not believe that general knowledge of our betrothal can be advantageous.

But then I came to the attention of one of the high ranking executives, majority owner really. It was initially a rather embarrassing encounter yet one that proved fruitful, a human foible turning to affable camaraderie. And my relationship to Harold came to attention...

“Something you’d like for dessert?”

The tall muscular black man pauses at my table. Rarely does Douglas P. MacClellan, Mr. Douglas P. MacClellan, partake in the company cafeteria. I smile most demurely. He has cleverly postulated his question so that I precisely understand the reference, but others listening in do not. You see, Mr. MacClellan caught me staring at his crotch for his entire journey across the large dining area. While I was gawking at the huge bulge in the front of his trousers, he was looking at me... and I stupidly did not notice.

Well, he has me. One of the most powerful executives in the firm has caught me peeking. I make light of it. What else can I do?

“At home, we don’t have dessert. Guess that’s why I’m always thinking about it,” I coyly respond in continuing the verbal subterfuge.

He smiles and nods. It is a devilish smile.

“You’re in personnel? Mary something...”

“Millicent, Millie Hayward.”

He nods again as I gape like a pubescent school girl. He is quite an imposing man. Dark, even features. Dapper hair style. Quite trim. Rumored to have played football for Yale before attending some other Ivy League graduate school.

“Well, nice to see you, Ms. Hayward. But do try dessert at some time. You can handle it, I’m sure.”

Others would think he’s referring to the effect of calories on my rather finely toned figure. From the devilish smile, I know otherwise.

As stated, penetration has never been my thing in a s****l encounter. That’s why I finally locked Harold up. It is curious that I found myself staring at the same male organ that at home I’ve chosen to keep mostly hidden and encapsulated. Then later, I find the afternoon becomes challenging, trying to concentrate while continuing to envision just what that zipper of Douglas P. MacClellan’s withholds from view. He must be rather well endowed...

Nearing the end of the day, I cheat, my curiosity overcoming. Though I have ready access to all company personnel files, it is considered indecorous to just rifle and read. Still, I find the cascade of thoughts spurred by my encounter to be irresistible. I want to know more and open the file drawer marked ‘M’. There I review and learn that Douglas P. MacClellan is married, but there is paperwork to transfer half of his pension to his wife!

A divorce is either in process or has been recently consummated. One does not relinquish assets of such magnitude due to mere separation. And that explains the flirtatious exchange in the company cafeteria. He’s horny.

I am tucking the file away when my phone rings. Though about to leave for the day, it is the regimen of Personnel to respond during business hours. If we don’t adhere to the parameters of the work day then who will?

“Personnel, Ms. Hayward.”

“I have no dessert, but there is a secret bar behind the cabinet over my credenza where there are fine bottles of wine. This may be a violation of company policy.”

It is the stentorian voice of Mr. Douglas P. MacClellan and I flush, thinking that somehow he is aware of my foray into his file.

“The personnel department may need to inspect. It should be off limits during business hours,” I regain my composure in cleverly gathering his hint.

“It’s almost five. If there’s a violation occurring, someone from Personnel should be aware.”

I know to agree. After all, it is Douglas P. MacClellan.

I retrieve the small bottle of perfume from my desk drawer and dab away. That bulge again comes to mind, eroding any reservation about fraternizing on company property. Mr. Douglas P. MacClellan is the company.

The elevator takes me to the top floor of the building. Alone in his office, I turn on the charm. He turns off the deceptive verbiage.

“So nothing like what you spotted in the cafeteria is available at home?” he renews the discussion while pouring a fine Italian red.

“Not in such sizable portions and not served as most would suspect,” I counter.

“You’re bold, Ms. Hayward. I like boldness in women.”

“And you’re well endowed. I’m not sure I like that in men,” I boldly retort.

“My wife liked it. But didn’t like sharing. I’m not as discriminating as most men.”

He hands me the glass of wine. The bouquet attracts and he inhales, sips and then clinks my glass. I gaze at his handsome face, analyzing his remarks. Just how does the powerful Douglas P. MacClellan manifest his indiscriminate dalliances?

I join him in sipping. Away from the crowd of fellow employees, it is now my chance to put aside what would be perceived as insubordination. Now I can smile devilishly. He’s made the initial advances, I can choose how to react. With Harold arriving home to cook dinner and humbly wait to provide assiduous oral pleasure, I cannot lose in playing out the hand. One way or the other my lust will be quenched... here or at home.

So... the woman that Mr. Douglas P. MacClellan considers to be bold again acts boldly.

“Just how well endowed, Mr. MacClellan? And just who benefits if not your wife?”

He strolls to sit in his large swivel chair. Though I know he has locked his office door he is cautious, sliding down his zipper such that his desk would block the view of an unexpected visitor.

“You smell good. Does anything look as good?”

I can take the hint. He needs a catalyst. As with most males, he’s eidetic.

I unbutton my blouse as the p***s of Douglas P. MacClellan exits his trousers. It is mammoth. It is the color of chocolate. It is uncut. And I am amazed at the size of the bulbous tip when he skins back the frenum.

Meanwhile I turn down my blouse, pulling it off my shoulders to hang at my elbows. Then I slip out my breasts and simultaneously glide a hand under my skirt. My many months of frustrating Harold have taught me to tantalize more than just visually. Two fingers gather a sampling of my feminine essence. The scent is strong, my sheath cleansed only by Harold’s fervent tongue.

I step forward, standing beside the desk as the eyes of Douglas P. MacClellan bulge in viewing the display of my charms.

“Just how big can that get?” I coo in the sexy alluring voice normally reserved for Harold’s degradation.

My powerful employer strokes. I am always amazed at how acclimated the male beast is in so casually commencing such a sordid undertaking. Still I smile and extend my moist fingers.

“Something to augment the bouquet of the wine,” I suggest with libidinous wickedness.

I lean and coat his upper lip. He inhales. With a grateful smile he continues to stroke. I am tempted to retrieve a ruler from his desk drawer. Douglas P. MacClellan is the most well endowed male I have ever encountered. I feel like a fisherman with a prize catch. How should I reel it in?

“Haven’t gotten out much of late. The wife... the ex wife... turned loose a posse of detectives,” he bashfully explains as the rigid manhood finally appears to cease growing. “But it’s done with... many dollars later.”

So Douglas P. MacClellan is indeed divorced.

I lean back and watch, careful not to exhibit any concern. There is a control factor in having a man masturbate for you... a strange but welcome acclamation in knowing that it is your charms that stimulate. So I roll my shoulders to jiggle my mammaries and feel the room air waft about my crinkling n*****s. There is an unspoken exchange of power in having the powerful stroke himself. Such a demeaning and humbling response to viewing feminine anatomical features, I think to myself. Those glands that adorn half the world’s population are treated like a find of rare treasure. The irony and the fervent hand both amuse. Then this lady of boldness becomes more bold. After all, it’s not like I can be fired.

“That’s quite the grip, Mr.. MacClellan,” I mockingly declare. “Stop for a moment and put your hands to the side.”

Yes, it is bold. But I believe this will become a lasting relationship and the ground rules must be established.

I right myself and move closer. He instinctively parts his feet, inviting me to move adjacent the front edge of his chair. I do and bend at the waist, my left hand cupping his meaty testicles.

“My goodness, Mr. MacClellan you have indeed not been out, as you put it. I suspect these little rocks haven’t gotten off in quite some time.”

The sardonic wit is accepted. The plums of Douglas P. MacClellan are twice the size of Harold’s, approaching the circumference of peaches. Then when I reach for the incredible erection with my right hand, I am amazed to find that I cannot wrap it entirely about the girth of the shaft.

Still I am able to gently stroke... teasing strokes... replicating those applied by an apprehensive teen in first encountering the angry male phallus.

“You have great power, Mr. MacClellan, with your position here at the company. But it is evident you don’t get enough attention.”

He moans with my pleasing touch and nods in agreement.

“Meanwhile I get all the attention I need... but could use more power.”

“You indicated you didn’t get enough at home... remember dessert...” he interjects.

“Not this... not what you term dessert... but what I term appetizers. I get all the appetizers I want from poor hubby Harold.”

As I slowly and tantalizingly stroke, demanding that he keep his hands at his side, I inform that Harold works for the company. I also provide a verbal snapshot of the manner in which my husband is forced to provide pleasure. How Harold has come to feast on that which adorns the upper lip of Mr. Douglas P. MacClellen.