A Chastised Man and a Widow

### Note to the reader. Every character is an adult. Only a few drops are slightly autobiographical (or from the real lives of my personal friends); the rest is fantasy. There is no such thing as an inescapable chastity cage; we could even label this narrative as "science fiction."

The entire story revolves around forced male chastity (often associated with the "Fetish" category): if this topic does not intrigue you, please stop reading.

English is not my native language, so please forgive my grammatical and lexical errors. ###

.

Chapter 1: I served.

.

I always served my wife like a queen.

It started as a small and short game in bed.

Small gestures. Unreciprocated oral sex.

A coffee made by me for her after she had her selfish female orgasm, without giving me anything in return.

Then it became a way of life.

At first, my wife denied me my orgasm, but my cock remained free, and I masturbated while she slept.

I masturbated often. Very often. More than you may guess. Double it.

Then she started saying she didn't want me to masturbate.

I tried to obey, but I couldn't. She mocked me, telling me that if I were a Real Man, I would be able to control my animalistic urges of lust. I was deeply humiliated by her words, because she was the most important person in my whole life.

But I can't help myself.

One night, after more than three hours of edging while surfing dozens of porn sites, I stumbled upon a story that included a male chastity cage.

There were no tags or warnings. It started out as a normal story with the usual stuff, then suddenly the author wrote that the male protagonist was wearing a locked chastity cage that imprisoned his penis, preventing him from getting an erection!

I couldn't believe my eyes. There really was something that would help me resist the urge to masturbate for four hours or more every night!

I fell deep into the White Rabbit hole. I spent the next few weeks reading stories and consulting advice blogs.

I realized that most male chastity cages were just... useless plastic toys. Small silicone objects that any pair of scissors could cut through. Metal trinkets that you could slip out of using olive oil as a lubricant. All silly nonsense.

Until I found a website that offered "100% inescapable forced male chastity." The name was promising: "InesKapableKages", and the logo guaranteed "anti-escape proof".

To my embarrassment, it was a site for gay men. The photos were unmistakable, and the posts were all signed by male couples: "Me and my husband Kevin," "Signed: Mike and Jack," "Kisses, Adam & Yves." And if there were a few female-sounding names, they were clearly men using women's names: "Big Chad and his submissive Angeline," "Jock & his devoted French maid Sissy."

But I did care about the other customers. I understand so many gay couples may purchase it, but an object is just an object; I don't need to be gay to like a pink tie.

For me, the only important message was that the site guaranteed that the cage was 100% inescapable: evasion-proof. The craftsmen behind the site offered to send me a plastic model first to check the measurements, with thin bars and large gaps where you could see the swollen, desperate flesh exposed to teasing. Then, if the measurements of the plastic model were perfect, the company promised to send me a metal cage that was perfectly secure against any escape attempt.

That was exactly what I needed. Without hesitation, I contacted them, and two weeks later, I was wearing my metal chastity cage, with no chance in the world of escaping. Only my Keyholder could open it with a secret numeric code, only when she wanted to. Only IF she wanted to, eventually.

Honey for my ears.

I will surrender all my future erection to my wife.

I was so happy and so pleased because of my huge sacrifice for her happiness and her control over the most precious part of my body and my life.

I feel like a White Knight, a devoted Paladin in a shining silver armour, ready to obey and to serve my Queen.

I feel my full happiness approaching through my devoted sacrifice.

.

###

.

But something unexpected happened.

My wife didn't want to open it.

It was my birthday. I was so used to her not organizing any parties for me. Funny, isn't it? Women take advantage of women's birthdays because they can expect to receive gifts even if they haven't done anything to DESERVE them: they can demand to be the center of attention (as if that doesn't happen every day!) and that for that day, she's in charge and everyone must obey... just like every other day.

Men, on the other hand, never celebrate birthdays. Boys are taught that they will be rewarded (sparingly) only after they have earned it. There are no gifts for boys: there are only rewards for hard work. And no celebrations: it is not acceptable for a boy to be the center of attention, and at least since 1776 or 1789, no boy can say "today I am in charge and you will all obey" without being ridiculed or insulted.

It was my birthday. My wife, as always, had ignored me all day, and now she was on the bed reading her long novels about vampire kings and werewolf chiefs who impaled with equine cocks or tentacles or trunks some boring ordinary female librarians with glasses and ponytails.

I walked into our bedroom with a towel around my hips and said, "Look, my love, I bought you a present."

She looked at me suspiciously. "You're not going to give me your weenie with a red ribbon tied around it, are you, Lance?"

"No, darling, what are you talking about! My gift is that I'll never masturbate again without your permission! I can't open this chastity cage, only you can do it!"

And I dropped my towel, revealing the steel jewel that imprisoned my family jewels.

She laughed.

.

###

.

It wasn't the reaction I expected after reading all those stories about Keyholders, but it was the reaction I got.

Some might say it was the reaction I deserved. I don't know.

My wife loudly laughed at me and my sacrifice.

In a moment of clarity, similar to Post-Nut Clarity, I understood so many things.

She had never loved me. She had never cared about anything I did for her. She didn't care how hard I worked to bring money home, how many hours of overtime I did at the office for her, how hard I worked to get a promotion to bring her more money.

What's more, she didn't care about all the errands and chores. I always did all the chores, chastened because she wouldn't let me fuck her. I cleaned, ironed, cooked, and every time she found an excuse to attack me, scolding me because I was never up to the standard of perfection she demanded of me. A narcissistic wife? I don't know.

She loudly laughed at me for a long time. Then she said, "I'll never be your keyholder, idiot.

That male fantasy of being the center of a woman's attention... yeah, because you all imagine that a woman would devote time to tease and denial... It's a full idiocy, Lance.

A woman's priority is her own pleasure, her second priority is her own relaxed laziness, and her third priority is something silly or preposterous, yet it still comes before her husband.

Even the most wonderful husband in the world will be somewhere between 21st and 22nd in a woman's list of priorities. And, guess what? You are not handsome, fat, bald, or stupid. No, no.

And furthermore... A woman craves the risks, the danger. A female desires a Bad Guy, a toxic abuser, a thief, a rogue.

You're predictable, Lance. I don't need to do anything to seduce you: you're already completely my slave. And it's useless to promise me anything. You simply can't give me what I deserve."

She spread her thighs and showed me her hairy pussy, glistening with vaginal juices.

"Lick my pussy. Loser. If you were a real man, you would impale me against my will, forcing me to wet myself to prevent your domineering cock from tearing my pussy walls apart.

But instead, you were born a loser, and the only thing you know how to do is lick, like a lesbian without a cock. That's right: you're a lesbian without a cock. And I despise you. Now kneel down and lick me."

I moved my hands closer to her spread knees, but she snapped, "Hands off! Don't touch me with those hairy gorilla hands! You disgust me!"

Always double standards. If something concerns you, the wife who never does anything wrong, she must be praised and forgiven: if her laziness allows hair to grow on her mons pubis, I must forgive and praise her, even though I have told her a thousand times that I prefer her shaved.

On the other hand, if something perfectly natural like a few hairs on a man's wrist or knuckles happens, THE WIFE arrogates to herself the right to insult me, scold me, denigrate me, and emasculate me. And I put up with everything out of love for her, with my patience and resilience, waiting for her to become more affectionate, but instead, month after month, my wife becomes increasingly aggressive and contemptuous.

Angry with me for forcing her to get up and interrupting her laziness, my wife jumped out of bed, grabbed a pair of stockings from the drawer, and tied my wrists behind my back.

Then she lay down on top of her without even looking at me, her eyes on her smartphone, and ordered me:

"Now lick my pussy, idiot. I have to finish reading at least one chapter, maybe two, I don't know... and you'll lick my pussy the whole time. Loser!"

.

Chapter 2. Disappointed.

.

Many narratives about forced male chastity focus on avoiding disappointing the Keyholder.

Almost no one writes about the opposite effect: that the caged husband is disappointed.

All my life, my wife had disappointed me.

She always promised things she didn't keep.

She promised to take care of the dog, and then I had to take care of it.

She promised she would take care of our first child and our second child, but instead, I always had to take care of them (I'm still friends with all the moms at school, who considered me a woman like them).

She promised she would support me in my career, but instead, she dumped all the chores and errands on me, so in the end, her career was better than mine. Now she was the main breadwinner in our household, and she constantly reminded me of it, humiliating me in front of my family and friends. She didn't remember the years when I had literally supported her, paying her college tuition and letting her live rent-free in the apartment where I paid the rent. Nor did she ever remember that I had paid off her college debt. I worked and she studied: I was stuck in a job with no career prospects, just so she could get that particular degree that would open up endless opportunities... just for her. I had sacrificed my career to further hers, and I had even paid off her debts. But now all my sacrifices seemed to have vanished when she bragged to her friends that she now earns twice as much as I.

###

Long story short.

My wife never opened my chastity cage.

I haven't had an erection since. Years have gone by.

I sacrificed my manhood for nothing but ridicule and contempt.

On my birthday, my wife summoned me to her bedroom.

Yes, because a few years ago she had decided that I snored too loudly and that I had no right to disturb her while she was resting.

By that point, our children had flown the nest, and we were a couple of empty nesters. If we had been a normal couple full of joy and happiness, we would have used that phase of life to have sex every day, but I was married to a lazy, selfish, narcissistic wife, and she didn't want me to have any moments of joy.

In particular, she had decided that I would sleep in another room, but always with the cage on. She had said, "You will not sleep on the bed, but on the floor: only a Real Man deserves a bed, but you are just a beast driven by Animalistic Lust, and you deserve only the cold floor."

.

For weeks, months. Almost a year.

.

But that evening was my birthday.

She summoned me to HER bedroom, near HER lavish and soft king-size bed, with soft silk sheets scented with both eau de toilette and the smell of her selfish orgasms as she often masturbated herself, laughing at me.

I admired her body.

She was wearing a severe black silk nightrobe, tied at the waist with a silk belt. I had never seen that outfit before, nor most of the sex toys that were lined up on the large bedside table: I wasn't allowed to enter HER bedroom even for chores like changing the sheets, I could only enter if I was summoned. I realized that she had bought dildos and vibrators, and nipple suckers to satisfy her body without needing me. My cock twitched inside the metal cage at the thought.

.

"We Need To Talk," the four cruelest words ever uttered. No sadistic professional dominatrix in any cruel dungeon could ever invent words more frightening and terrible.

"We need to talk, Loser. Or rather, I need to talk, and maybe you'd better listen, so you can understand your place in the world and obey more precisely.

Take that gag ball and put it in your mouth. Tighten the leather straps and fasten the belt. Are you drooling already? You're such a swine: a pink little piggy.

That stupid metal chastity cage you locked yourself in... it just proves that your little penis is useless. It's never been good for anything. I let you cum in my uterus a couple of times just because I wanted to have two children, but that's all.

My younger colleague... You know, the tall one, Kevin... well, he invited me to go to a scientific conference in the Caribbean. Together. He and I together.

He winked at me when he said that he and I could save the department funding for the project a lot of money, if we shared a hotel room.

You got that right, idiot. Kevin and I were in a single hotel room in the Caribbean for ten days.

He added that for the same price, we could have a very small room with a large bed, or a very large junior suite with a small bed.

And then Kevin added, "Anyway, what do we need a big bed for? You'll always be under me or on top of me, but never next to me, ha ha!" And I smiled at him because I was thinking the same thing, you understand, Loser?"

With the gag in my mouth, I stood silent and still, erect. My chastised cock couldn't become erect, forced by the curved bars to maintain a humiliating downward bow. But it was agitated inside the cage, as if there were another small brain inside the small head of my cock.

"Are you wondering if I've been cheating on you with Kevin for a long time? I don't want to answer that. Whether I get fucked by a Real Man or not is none of your business, idiot. You locked your dick in a chastity cage, and you have no right to know who fucks my pussy.

Maybe I've been letting Kevin fuck me for years... maybe I only hired him because he was already fucking me... maybe Kevin fucks me because I'm his female boss in the department, so he hopes to get ahead by literally kissing his boss's sweet ass... You can't know what's going on. You can only imagine and suffer.

Maybe I've never let Kevin cum in my pussy... maybe I feel too old for him, and maybe I'm embarrassed by our age gap, with the old woman and the young man... I don't know. Or rather, I am aware of it, but I don't want to confess it to you, a loser.

Now go away. I don't want to hear your excuses. And above all, I don't want to hear the whining and moaning of a crybaby. Go sleep on your floor and leave me alone with my Magic Wand."

I tried to reach the gag strap before leaving the room, but she stopped me.

"Don't touch the strap! Did I tell you to take off the gag? Keep the gag in your mouth, go down to the kitchen, and make me a cocktail. You know exactly which one: the great "Between the Sheets"! You know the real name was "Sex between the sheets," but censorship corrected it. The sex. The one I'll always have, but the one you'll never have again, ha, ha. Bring it to me on a silver tray and climb the stairs on your knees."

Why did I obey her?

Why didn't I untie the gag, freeing my mouth from that obscene penetration?

Why didn't I react with my voice finally free, with my arms finally strong?

In the long minutes that followed, I carried out her orders like an automaton.

I prepared a [Sex] "Between the Sheets" for Her. When I was young, just hearing the name of a cocktail was enough to give me a hard-on: like "Screwdriver." Now I was so submissive that I couldn't even think.

I placed her cocktail on the silver tray.

I knelt in front of the stairs. Why did I do it?

She couldn't see me: she was lying on the bed and couldn't see the stairwell. But I felt I had to kneel. Slowly, with great effort, I climbed the stairs on my knees, holding the tray with both hands. It took a lot of concentration and a long time. My knees were red and sore.

Ah, that's why I did it: because otherwise she would have noticed that the skin on my knees showed no signs of my pain. Of course. It was obvious.

Slowly, I crawled along the hallway, stopping outside HER bedroom door.

I hesitated.

I had been summoned earlier, but then I had left the bedroom.

Inside, my wife was masturbating with the Magic Wand on the lowest setting. "Get in MY bedroom, Loser."

I entered, still on my knees.

The smell of her wet pussy made my imprisoned cock twitch.

"Put MY cocktail on the nightstand. Don't go anywhere. Suck my right toes... You know how I like it."

Why did I obey? I don't know. Why did I then lick her pussy and anus while she masturbated, screaming Kevin's name? I don't know. Why did I then crawl to the other room, still on my knees, while she rolled over and fell asleep peacefully without reciprocating? I don't know.

###

3. Free at last.

.

At the funeral, everyone told me, "She was such a good woman... a saint."

I remained silent. Silence somehow befits a widower, it seems.

My wife and Kevin had left for the Caribbean. But the Bermuda Triangle is stronger than any triangle between a hot wife, a cuckolded husband, and a bull.

Hurricane, they said.

Like in a Hollywood musical.

A hurricane hit their ship, which sank with all passengers on board. There were no survivors.

At the funeral, everyone told me, "Life goes on, be strong, you are resilient."

But my ears only heard, "Your forced male chastity continues, and even if you pump blood to get a resilient erection, metal bars are stronger than the flesh of your cock."

###

Gwen, whom I had met many years earlier, also came to the funeral. She was a friend of my brother's. They said she had a crush on me, but I was already involved with the woman who would later become my wife.

Sliding doors. Opportunities that slip away.

What would have happened if my wife had left me when I was 21, and Gwen had made it clear how she felt about me?

Gwen hugged me at the funeral, like a sister. But I could feel her nipples hard under the fabric. "If loneliness bites, give me a call. I'm a widow too, I know the kind of pain you're going through."

How could I call a young, beautiful woman who was in love with me when I was still wearing a metal chastity cage that I couldn't open? What could I offer a widow who needed a nice, hard cock, when I had my little penis perpetually bowed in a curved bow?

###

For a few weeks, I didn't call Gwen.

I was increasingly lonely.

My two adult sons lived far away and couldn't keep me company, nor did I want to be a burden to them.

I wanted to masturbate for hours, as I did when I was young, to seek some relief from serotonin and prolactin. But the chastity device was truly inescapable.

I picked up the phone. I had Gwen's number. I didn't know why I had it, but there it was.

I wrote a two-line message. I thought: I'll write so she doesn't have to answer right away. If she doesn't want to answer, she'll be the one making me wait three weeks. My wife never answered my messages, a classic move by narcissistic women to show me who's boss.

The message said, "Hi, I'd like to meet up, but I swear it's not to fuck you. Trust me, I can prove it. L."

It was 9:04 p. m.

I put my phone on the floor where I was about to sleep. My wife wasn't there to order me to do so, but I had been sleeping on the floor for years.

###

At 9:08 p. m., my message alert sounded.

"OMG, it's you, Lance! If you're feeling lonely, we can talk!

I'll be there for you, always.

Call me! Do you want me to come over?

I can assure you, "I swear it's not to fuck you", even though my oath only applies to tonight, ha ha! You know that I love you like a brother in our sad widowhood.

Love, Gwen."

I stared at the message, squinting. Like a brother? Oh. Well.

Friendzoned after only four minutes, that must be a world record, worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records.

Okay.

I've swallowed so much humiliation over the years, being friend-zoned by an old friend of my brother's isn't going to be the bomb that shatters my bulletproof armor. My wife always told me, "You're very resilient," to the point that I hated that word, but, fortunately or unfortunately, I really am... resilient.

I looked at the options on my phone.

Audio call or video call?

It would have been more polite to call audio only. Maybe she was enjoying some downtime in front of the TV, wearing a baggy sweater or sauce-stained pajamas, with her hair a mess and no makeup... You know how women are...

I put my finger on the audio call, but hesitated before pressing.

What if she only said it to be nice?

What right did I have to impose my emotional baggage on an innocent, blameless woman?

I didn't call.

###

Gwen called me.

While I was paralyzed by doubt, I got a video call notification.

Accustomed to being a people pleaser, always available to everyone, answering the first ring both at work and in my personal life, I accepted the call.

The next moment, I cursed my haste.

I WAS THE ONE WHO WAS DISHEVELED! I was the one wearing dirty pajamas covered in sauce with a sweater twice my size! I was the one who looked like a homeless person, but also like a failure!

Gwen, on the other hand, looked radiant and naturally beautiful.

She was smiling, talking very fast, and looking at me with her sweet green eyes peeking out from her natural blonde hair. I didn't notice that she was also uncombed and disheveled and wearing a gray sweater that was too big for her. All I could see were the sweetest green eyes I had ever seen.

###

Gwen said something silly and made me laugh.

I could hear my facial muscles asking my brain, "Hey, brainy boss, what the hell is going on? We haven't done these movements in years, are you sure we're capable?"

Gwen asked me if I still did the things I did when I was younger. "Do you still play electric bass?" "Are you still a dwarf paladin-healer in Dungeons and Dragons?" "Can you still eat three pizzas in a row on a bet?"

Oh my God.

My wife had made me stop eating pizza on bets. She said it was because I would get fat. The reality was that she considered those things "vulgar," like my friends. The reality was that she wanted to separate me from my friends, make me lonely and isolated, weaken me, and confuse me.

My wife had managed to get me to stop playing DnD every Wednesday. We had a very precise Dungeon Master who organized personalized adventures for us. My younger brother and other friends, including Gwen, were also there... but every Wednesday, my wife would come up with some excuse not to let me go. A movie, a concert, a museum, or she would simply be found naked on Wednesday evenings. My wife would reject me all weekend, then on Monday and Tuesday, and then, playing on my lust, she would offer herself naked only on Wednesdays. And I, manipulated and screwed, gave up playing with my DnD Party, and in the end, I asked to be excluded.

My wife told me I was very good at playing the electric bass. But. And because in every kind sentence my wife said, there was always a but. "But Andrew plays much better than you. He has long fingers and big hands and he's very tall... taller, longer and bigger than you--his fingers, I mean--and you'll never play bass as well as he does, because he's taller, longer and harder and the girth of his fingers..." Well, I stopped.

I didn't answer Gwen's questions. She fired them off like a machine gun, and I mumbled a few words, but my mind was racing, finally realizing, after decades, that my wife had destroyed all my previous happiness.

While I was still stammering, Gwen said, "If you want, I'll come see you at your place."

I don't know how I did it, but I said yes.

###

Gwen was at my house. Her hair was messy, and she was wearing a gray sweater.

We talked all night.

I wanted to overwhelm her with all my useless explanations, but instead, she silenced me. "What is it with men in this century that they always want to drown women in their excessive words? Less is more. I will never stop you from speaking sincerely, but I will stop you from speaking TOO MUCH."

I realized she was right. My urge to always explain everything had only brought me trouble.

I spoke very little and listened a lot.

Gwen had a lot to tell me. She told me about her widowhood and her grief.

First, she had to fight breast cancer, which left her with a scar on her breast. A reminder: "Gwen won," defeating breast cancer with the help of the surgeons and nurses at the hospital.

She told me, laughing, that she no longer had to worry about contraception: the surgeons had removed her uterus with a partial hysterectomy to prevent the fibroids from spreading, also removing one of her ovaries. "My pussy works just like before, though: it's just that since my husband died, I've never met the right man."

I joked with her, "Well, that's why we never met again, ha, ha!"

"Exactly," she said very seriously.

We talked for hours. She talked and I listened, or I talked for a few minutes, only very short sentences, and she listened without judging me.

At dawn, she lay down on my sofa and said, "I'm going to close my eyes for a moment."

Gwen was barefoot. I looked at her perfect toes. Inside the cage, my cock was thrashing around like King Kong in a cage.

I spread a wool blanket over Gwen's body and went to sleep on the floor of my wife's bedroom, as usual.

###

.

Chapter 4. We need to talk.

.

"We Need To Talk," the four sweetest words I've ever heard from Gwen's mouth.

"We need to talk, Lance. Seriously. I need to understand."

###

It was eleven in the morning: brunch time.

Gwen had made me eggs and bacon, orange juice, yogurt, and fresh coffee. Like a sister. I had already resigned myself to being friend-zoned: a friend is better than complete loneliness.

She had come upstairs to wake me up. Gwen found me lying on the floor next to my wife's bed.

Gwen saw the row of vibrators, dildos, and sex toys on the nightstand and dresser. I hadn't put them away, and no one ever came into that room.

"I'm not a virgin, Lance.

I'm a woman with two grown children, currently widowed after my Art died.

I know very well what BDSM is and what a gag is for.

But this chastity cage you're wearing, with 'inescapable' engraved on the metal, disturbs me.

I'm not judging you! In fact, I admire you.

But you have to admit it's disturbing. Where's the key to open it?"

"There is no key."

"What? How is that possible?"

"The manufacturer sent the digital code to my wife. She never shared it with me."

"What are you saying! That's not possible!"

"That's exactly how it is. I'll be chaste forever, as if I were castrated, except that my balls are blue with unextinguished desire... for over seven years."

"No, I can't accept that.

I've had a crush on you for almost thirty years, and a little metal spider web isn't going to stop me.

Do you have a computer? You eat fried eggs and bacon while I look for a solution."

Gwen uses my computer and my home Wi-Fi to contact the company that manufactures the Inescapable.

Meanwhile, I chew on pork bacon and think, "It'll be weeks before the company responds. Assuming they still have the codes for a chastity cage I bought more than seven years ago!"

To my amazement, they respond immediately.

The craftsmen confirm that they have never been contacted by my wife.

Gwen writes that she could be the Keyholder if they have no objections.

They say that if I agree, they will send the code to Miss Gwen; my opinion matters a lot because I am the one wearing the cage.

Code of ethics, they say.

Perhaps to avoid lawsuits, nothing would prevent a cruel Keyholder from blackmailing a poor submissive man.

But that's not my case.

Gwen is not blackmailing me.

I write "yes".

Gwen sends the confirmation email. A message appears on the screen: "The password will be delivered to you within the next 6 hours."

With a sweet smile, Gwen says to me, "As soon as they send us the code, I'll free you, and then I'll go home. That way, you can masturbate as much as you want and make up for all the ejaculations you've denied yourself in the past. I know how much a person masturbates when they're widowed... after my Art died, I masturbated day and night for weeks. I'll gather my things scattered around the living room, then I'll release you and you'll be free forever."

"No! Please don't do that!"

"Don't you want to be freed?"

"I don't want you to go home."

"Do you want to masturbate in front of me? It's a bit perverse, but I think I can help you."

"I want you to be my sweet but strict keyholder."

.

Gwen stared at me with an uncertain look. "I don't know if this is right, Lance... I carry a lot of emotional baggage, and I have two grown children.

Maybe you should find a younger girl to start over with.

And I don't want you to choose me just because I'll know the code to your padlock today."

"I don't want to overwhelm you with MY emotional baggage, Gwen.

Ever since I was a child, I've always explained things too much and talked too much in detail... because my mother never listened to me.

I've always laid out my reasoning and explanations, and plans... and that has always hurt me.

I'll tell you as little as possible.

Less is more.

That's all you need to know.

I love and respect you.

Maybe you love and respect me.

My wife never did.

I admired Art... and I was very sorry when he died.

My children and your children are not forced to share our choice. They are all grown up.

Let's not think about them and the past.

I urge you, we have to think about us and the present."

.

Gwen hesitated but was clearly intrigued. Almost thirty years ago, half drunk, she had confessed in front of everyone that she had had a crush on me, and those things never fade completely.

A flash lit up her green eyes. Gwen bit her lower lip with her front teeth, then asked me, "Are you good at licking pussy?"

"I don't want to feign modesty, my lady... my skill is far above average! Unlike my... oops!"

"What?"

"Nothing... just an old joke. My wife used to make me say I had a small penis."

"And is that true?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I haven't made many comparisons with men in real life. And porn actors are not representative of the real human average: they are chosen specifically for being above average, and amplified by lighting, camera angles, and other technical devices."

"Nice answer," Gwen joked, "sounds like the words of a man with a very small penis trying to protect his male ego, but for now, I can accept that. In a few hours, I'll know what kind of beast we're dealing with. But first..."

With a spontaneous gesture, she took off her panties. It wasn't sexy lingerie: it was the underwear she had slept in the night before on my couch.

Nothing prepared, nothing premeditated.

Now she was wearing only her gray sweater.

Underneath, I guessed, she was completely naked.

"Lick me all over, Lance. It will be the last torture for your locked-up cock before I set you free. Lick me as if your freedom depended on your skill. If you lick me enough... I can promise you..."

I murmured devoutly to interrupt her, "I'll never achieve perfection, my Lady..."

"How silly you are! I don't care about perfection, I care that you're happy! And I don't want you to give me an orgasm without me being able to reciprocate... I want you to fuck me, Lance.

I've been dreaming about you fucking me for thirty years, and now that we're so close, I don't want to miss it."

I tried with all my might to make her orgasm using only my mouth.

On every part of her body.

Her earlobes, her neck, her shoulders.

The scent of her body drove me crazy with desire.

But the bars of my cage forced me to wait.

She took off her gray sweater, revealing her naked body.

Someone else would have seen the signs of two births, the wrinkles, the stretch marks, the scars. A tattoo in a place on her body where I had never seen a tattoo before: a surprise. The scar on one breast, like a medal for defeating breast cancer with the help of surgeons and nurses at the hospital. And a scar halfway between her navel and her pussy, another medal for having her uterus removed with a partial hysterectomy to prevent the fibroids from spreading.

But I didn't notice any of that at the time. My lust blinded me. And with my nose so close to her skin, I could barely tell if I was near her armpit or between her thighs.

My blue testicles were screaming like crazy. I had seven years' worth of cum to unload.

Below her perfect belly button, I found the smooth mound of her mons pubis. I don't know why I had always imagined she had a lush carpet of blonde curls. Instead, I found a smooth slope that eased my tongue toward her clitoris.

I hesitated for a moment. The scent of Gwen's pussy was intoxicating.

She just said, "Please..."

I knew what she wanted.

Gwen had asked me to lick her "everywhere."

She wasn't offering me her toes, but was moving her hips to ask me for something. Hips don't lie.

I grabbed her hips and turned her around.

Her ass cheeks were round and firm, just like when she was twenty. Some women lose tone with age, but she looked like she had just left college.

Without hesitation, I dove into that Fair Rosebud. I pushed my tongue in hard but not too deep at first, then pushed in as hard as I could. She moaned, and I was sure no one had ever buried their tongue so deep in her asshole before.

Her hips summoned my attention. Turn again.

It needed another round. But first, I wet a finger with saliva and very calmly stuck it inside her rosebud. She moaned with pleasure as she writhed, impaled on my finger.

I began to frantically lick her pussy lips. My nose accidentally bumped her clitoris, eliciting sighs and moans.

One finger in the stink, two fingers in the pink.

Ignoring the tremors of my imprisoned genitals, I concentrated on the contractions of her flesh. I held her tight between the fingers of my two hands, like a crab that had caught its prey.

"Ah! Yes, Lance, yes! Ah, it's like being fucked by two men! Oh, Lance, don't stop, please!"

With my thumb, I rubbed the tip of her clitoris or the surrounding area with unpredictable movements, never pressing too hard. She probably didn't expect it and gasped.

With my mouth, I captured a nipple that was dancing wildly a short distance above the throbbing pussy. With my lips closed like a suction cup, I sucked that nipple as if it were the only source of life on the entire planet.

The movements of her pelvis became more frantic. Her ass sucked my finger inside her, and her pussy had become a soaked swamp.

Gwen was about to reach a very intense orgasm, I was sure of it.

We heard a signal from the PC that had been left open.

I didn't stop pushing with my hands, but Gwen still didn't know how much she could trust me, and she screamed, "Don't stop, Lance! Give me an orgasm!"

I squeezed her pussy, and she screamed, impaling herself with all her strength against my fingers.

.

After what seemed like an eternity, she opened one eye and said with a smile, "Now I'm going to look at the code they sent me so I can unlock you."

I realized that Gwen was no longer saying "we," as if the code had been sent only to her as my official Keyholder.

For a moment, I feared that she didn't want to open the lock either.

But she came back, muttering a six-digit nursery rhyme, opened the lock without ceremony, and helped me out of my inescapable chastity device.

While she was busy opening the various parts of my chastity cage, Gwen said, "Let's take advantage of my current condition: full, soaked pussy. I don't have a latency period like you males... I can fuck right now.

And I see you lied to me: your cock isn't small at all! Oh, wow! I once saw a Bad Dragon shaped like that!"

I was overwhelmed. My wife had never said anything like that to me in thirty years. Men receive so few compliments in their entire lives that a sincere little phrase is enough to make them happy for years.

I looked down. It had been more than seven years since I had seen my cock with a proud erection. The purple head was shiny and taut, ready to ejaculate.

She noticed and said, "I promised you I'd let you fuck my pussy, and I always keep my promises.

But it's clear that your desperate friend here, with his purple head, is in a rush to ejaculate right now.

Here's my proposal, Lance.

Double Feature.

The first fuck is just for hygiene reasons: you ejaculate as soon as possible and don't worry about your performance. Seven years in prison, I would have cum on the cell door! Ha, ha!

After the first fuck, I'll cuddle you for as long as you need, Lance.

Without false modesty, I am the Queen of Aftercare.

And in half an hour, or even an hour, I want you to tie me to the bed and fuck me, Lance.

Yes, I'm not kidding. I know everything about BDSM... because I'm partly a submissive myself. And now that I've seen your huge, hard cock, I want to be your sex slave forever.

But since you asked me to be your keyholder, I'll also be part dominatrix. A little bit of both. Deal?"

I couldn't speak.

I pushed my needy cock into Gwen's soaked pussy and came after a few seconds.

She was very sweet, and I discovered that she really was the queen of aftercare. She said things like "your huge hard cock" and "you'll be happy, because you deserve it, Lance."

The only thing missing was her saying, "I'm proud of you."

Instead, she said, "Lance, I don't want to give you an order right now, which is very important to you, your first 'post-nut clarity' after so many years.

But let me say that even though I haven't experienced chastity as deeply as I've experienced BDSM, I've read some stories and seen some videos.

I'm not forcing you, you're free. But if there's one thing you'd like to ask me but are hesitating because you're embarrassed, know that my answer is yes!"

I looked at her.

Her eyes were encouraging but very serious.

I swallowed my saliva and my pride and confessed my most secret desire.

"Gwen, I don't know how to tell you..."

"IDWEMCFY."

"Excuse me?"

"I told you the acronym, so you know I know what you want to ask. And I'm telling you in advance that my answer will be yes. Or as a queen would say..." For a moment, she set her voice to the tone of a theater actress announcing a royal decree in a Shakespearean tragedy. "Her Majesty, the Queen, grants her high approval to your humble request, oh thou Sir Noble Knight! Beg your plea, and it shall be granted."

She smiled at me, running her tongue over her upper lip.

I knew she knew.

She knew I understood.

In a pleading voice, I asked her, "I beg you, my queen... may I clean your perfect pussy with my dirty cum? I Desperately Want to Eat My Cum From You."

At that moment, I didn't know that in all the years that followed, I would always swallow my cum from Gwen's pussy, or from her feet, her tits, her neck... wherever she asked me to ejaculate.

At that moment, I only thought that my secret desire had been granted. Gwen didn't judge me.

After only ten minutes, my cock was hard and proud again.

Gwen pointed this out with a wink and said, "Do you have something to tie me to the bed... Master?"

That day we fucked four times. And, yes, I cleaned Gwen's pussy with my tongue four times.

That week, Gwen moved into my house.

We had sex all the time. She loved my hard cock inside her needy pussy, and I discovered to my amazement that after all that sex with Gwen, I didn't need to masturbate as much.

When I wasn't wearing my chastity cage, she craved the penetration of my cock. She begged me to tie her up and fuck her while she was tied up or handcuffed: spread-eagled on the bed, or on her knees in front of the mirror. Every time she forbade me to cum until she gave me permission. Afterwards, without even asking, she had accustomed me to a facesitting session: while my cock went limp, I licked all the cum I had ejaculated inside her pussy.

Sometimes she took the initiative to play Keyholder.

On those occasions, she never told me how long my imprisonment would last.

She just said, "Sir Lancelot, her majesty, your Queen Guinevere, has summoned you, now."

I knew I had to put my wrists behind my back and kneel down.

She handcuffed my wrists with metal handcuffs and then put my chastity device on me.

Sometimes she would tease me with two or three edges and then lock me up after making me go limp with cold water or frozen peas.

Other times, she would make me cum in her pussy first, then lock me in the chastity device while I licked her pussy.

Sometimes she would release me after a couple of hours.

Other times, Gwen would keep me locked up for weeks on end, but without ever stopping teasing me with little gestures, phrases, and innuendos. Sometimes she would order me to sit on the living room sofa, and then she would parade in front of me in lingerie and heels to turn me on with her new purchases. If she were traveling or shopping, she would ask me to do chores and send me photos of herself to tease me. Sometimes they were very explicit photos, with close-ups of her bare breasts or erect clitoris, other times less explicit photos but ones that made my imprisoned genitals jump, such as photos of her bare feet under a restaurant table, or photos of her cleavage from an angle where you could peek at her erect nipple.

Once she forced me to serve tea to her sister, naked except for my chastity device. But that's another story.

Now, Gwen is planning a vacation for us at a Mediterranean resort with a "forced male chastity" theme.

And they lived happily ever after.

.

### Note to the reader. Every character is an adult. Only some rare drops are slightly autobiographical (or from the real lives of my personal friends); the rest is fantasy. There is no such thing as an inescapable chastity cage; we could even label this narrative as "science fiction."

As you learned with pain, English is not my native language, so please forgive my grammatical and lexical errors. ###