Bradley Jones's Chastity - Chapter 2

Erotic adventures in a world where male chastity is supported by the NHS.

“My doorstep,” says Mariella.

We’re at the street door of what looks like a converted warehouse --- red brick with homely light leaking from curtained double-glazed window units.

Mariella stands on the step and turns to face me, now eye-to-eye. She has a dramatic fake fur hat and coat, white to match her grey-blonde hair. That, plus the dusting of snow makes her look like she’s a Roger Moor Bond Girl --- a former one. The street lighting turns the wrinkles around her eyes into deep lines, casts shadows from her cheek bones.

Imagine having her on my arm at the Class of 2020 reunion! Everybody would be wonderfully scandalised, but also envious. She oozes cougar.

Mariella’s eyes crinkle. “Kiss me.”

I step in close, slip my hands around her waist and tilt my head.

Her lips are cold on mine. She nibbles my lip, her tongue slides past my teeth and I taste malt whisky. Her cold fingers hook my glass chaste collar and she clamps me to her.

My hips twitch. My cock strains in its cage, throbs forlornly. I shudder.

I twist my face away. “I can’t. I have to go.”

“Because I’m too old for you?” she says.

“Because I’m too horny.”

Mariella laughs. “How terrible,” she drawls and sucks at my lower lip.

A tremor runs through me. I pull away. “You don’t understand.”

Mariella’s eyes twinkle. “Why don’t you come inside and explain to me over a cup of tea?”

She turns and punches a code into the door. It swings open and she stomps her feet clean in the threshold then turns. The tight knee-length boots draw the gaze. “Come on, it’s cold.”

I find myself following her up a carpeted stair to a first-floor studio apartment.

She tosses her hat and coat over an old wooden chair. “Get comfortable,” she says. “I won’t be a moment.”

Her boots clip clop across the wooden floor and she vanishes into a what has to be the bathroom. As I shuck off my coat, I notice the railed mezzanine --- a loft, basically --- above the bathroom, and I can just make out the foot of a double bed draped in a vintage quilt.

The rest of the studio apartment is tidy, but full of her. There’s a wheeled clothes rail by the door, laden with quirky jackets and coats. There’s also shelf for shoes. She has a thing for knee-length boots, but there are also strappy sandals with leather insoles polished by bare soles.

The kitchen area is shiny-clean, but there’s a coffee pot on the stove, an open Earl Grey tea box by the kettle, and a used plate and cutlery for one in the sink, along with a soaking cast iron frying pan.

On a big drawing desk, a high end MacBook perches on a pile of sketches of room layouts. There’s a pin board with photos of furniture and interiors, and a bookcase crammed with hardback art books.

There’s a big sofa facing the TV mounted next to the bathroom door. I take off my wet shoes and sit down. My feet sink into the thick pile designer rug.

The bathroom door handle turns and Mariella emerges carrying what looks like a floral wash bag. She’s still dressed, but also still wearing her tight boots. Better yet, I know there are stockings beneath her little black dress.

What kind of idiot would divorce her?

She tosses the wash bag past me onto the sofa. “What do you think of my place?”

“Very you,” I say. Somehow I’ve gotten to my feet and we’re standing awkwardly an arms length apart.

“You don’t know me at all.”

“I do now.” I wave my hand to indicate... everything.

She grins. She crosses her booted ankles. “It’s my first. I mean, I’ve always shared, then I was married, now I’m not.”

I turn away towards her desk. “Minnie said you’re a designer.”

He feel her cheek head press between my shoulder blades. Her hands slide around my chest, tweak my nipples. “I certainly have designs on you.”

Pure lust prickles out from the little nub, blazes into my captive groin. I shudder. “Oh god.”

“Well that works,” she drawls, without letting go. “How long have you been a chaste?”

“F... four years,” I stammer.

“How long to go?”

“An... an...”

She pinches harder, making me squirm

“Another year.”

Mariella chuckles.“You must be... desperate.”

Right now, I’m desperate for her... for her poise and taste, for her experience. For somebody to treat me like a boyfriend, not a man-slut. But I can’t say that. “Yes.”

“You poor thing.” She lets go and tugs at my T-shirt.

I raise my hands and let her strip it off me. The belt to my designer jeans is next. As she draws them down, I kick off my socks.

“Turn around,” she orders.

Now I’m standing here naked except for my permanent glass collar, my boxers, and the chastity device they conceal.

Mariella runs cool hands over my biceps, my pectorals, then down my belly --- not quite a six pack, but flat and muscled from the gym. She pauses at my underwear, then pings the waistband. “Oh good, magic boxers.”

I am indeed wearing ‘magic boxer shorts’. Thanks to a well-placed neoprene ring, they can mount a range of dildos. I know! I’m not supposed to be on the pull tonight, but these things support my locked junk, and they are all I have.

Mariella’s fingers flutter back up my belly, my chest, linger on my nipples --- a quick squeeze makes me whimper. “Domus, mood lighting,” she orders and the lighting changes to shadows and warm light pooling on the rug. She laughs. “Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.” She grabs me by the collar and pushes me down onto the rug.

Suddenly, I’m lying on my back looking up, past her boots, past her stockings and into the gloom under her little black dress. Pale thighs frame a blond pubic frizz and, behind that, a plump-lipped pussy.

My hips twitch. I curl forward, mouth open. “Oh god yes please.”

Mariella chuckles. “Way too intimate for a first date. Besides...” She leans over to retrieve the wash bag from the sofa, unzips it, and hands me down a thick dildo. “...I have other plans.”

The artificial penis is realistically flesh toned, with blue veins and a bulbous head.

I survey her slender frame and narrow hips. “Isn’t this a bit large.”

“Not as a big as a baby’s head,” she says cheerfully.

My cheeks burn and my erection subsides. I could wriggle away now, get dressed, leave.

But she’s grinning down at me, all triumph, and I want to see her cum.

A moment of fumbling and the dildo projects from my boxers, its flared base rooted in the angle between my abdomen and my caged dick.

With a creek of boot leather, Mariella sinks to her knees astride me. She lifts the hem of the little black dress to reveal her lacy stocking tops, half way up long, slender thighs, and between them, her blond-thatched pussy.

The Chaste Maker cage seems to tighten. I whimper and thrust my hips towards her.

She chuckles. “You chaste boys are such sluts!” Grinning and still chuckling, she lowers her pussy until the head of the dildo nestles in her notch. She reaches an elegant hand between her thighs, adjusts the angle then sinks down so that her vaginal lips bulge around the thick rubber penis. “Oh,” she says. Her grin widens. She grinds her hips. Her blue eyes bore into me and she asks, “What can you feel?”

I can feel her boots nestling against my thighs, the heels digging into my skin, the hem of her skirt brushing my belly, a hopeless constriction in my groin, like it’s a ball of barbed wire.

But that’s not what she wants to hear.

“Nothing,” I gasp. “I can’t feel anything.”

Mariella grins and the mood lighting turns her wrinkles into shady valleys. She lifts her hem and rises up the dildo. Her pussy makes a slurping sound that goes straight to my caged groin. “But you can see,” she drawls, a little breathy now.

I raise my head.

The shaft glistens with her juices.

My hips twitch. I whimper.

“Ha!” Mariella sinks back down with a squelch, her outer lips bulging visible, then descends on me with a kiss. “Go on,” she says, “roll me over. I’m not doing all the work.”

I shove off with an elbow, and over we go.

Mariella grabs my waist and somehow we land in missionary position, the dildo still inside her.

I raise myself up on my arms and look back, over the mounds of her breasts beneath the black dress, over her exposed hips --- pale skin with a honey tan --- her dark stockings and her shiny, crinkly boots.

It looks for all the world as if I am having sex with a beautiful older woman.

“Come on slut boy,” she says. She raises her legs and kicks my buttocks with her boot heels. “Fuck me.”

My hips twitch then withdraw. The thick dildo makes a double squelch sound in her vagina. I repeat the action at a stead beat --- one, two, one, two, squelch, slurp...”

Mariella groans. Her legs flop down, boots scraping my skin. “Oh yes. This is perfect.”

I pick up the pace, thrust harder so my abdomen bumps hers. I look down between us. There’s the realistic rubber penis going in and out, shiny with her juices, and it’s like I’m watching a porn video, only then I would be able to at least jerk off.

Her legs shift, dragging her boot heels over my calf muscles. “This is so... so delicious,” she purrs. “What can you feel?”

“Nothing... nothing...” I repeat, in time to my pounding and her vagina’s wet sounds.

She reaches her hands inside the armholes of her dress. As I hammer into her, her fingers move under the fabric. She’s massaging her own nipples.

My cock pulses joylessly, shrivels, but I keep going.

She joins in the chorus of “Nothing! Nothing!” louder and louder. Her back arches. Her face flushes under her make up. The flush spreads to her cleavage. Then she flops back on the rug. “OK, you can stop.”

I gently pull out and sit on my heels between her boots. The dildo is warm and sticky against my belly. I glance up at the mezzanine. The bed is in shadows, but I imagine that the mattress is just right and the sheets are fresh. Imagine curling up with her.

But when I look back at Mariella, her open thighs funnel my gaze.

Her pubic hair is sodden and dark with her juices. Her inner lips have bulged free of the outer. The warm lighting, they are the same a pink the same shade as her lipstick. I realise that apart from kissing her, I haven’t touched her. Not her breasts, not her thighs, not even her pussy.

She raise her head. Her teeth flash. “What?”

I try to think of something wicked and sexy to say, but all the blood has drained from my brain into my caged cock. “Let me lick you!” I blurt.

Mariella sits up and sits cross legged, the supple leather of her boots wrinkling. “Show me,” she says.

“What?”

“The cage.”

I struggle to my feet and pull down my magic boxers. There’s not much to see, just a flesh-toned web of hi-tech glass tubes around my dick. “You must have seen one before,” I say.

“I’m a connoisseur of caged cocks,” she says. “Domus. Lights up.” She rises onto her knees and, in the normal domestic light, inspects my locked tackle.

As if shy, my penis shrinks and the tightness slackens.

“So how do I rate?”

“Ten,” she says. “Some boys look like they have a novelty pepper grinder between their legs, but this is neat.”

Mariella pokes the tip. Her elegantly manicured finger trails a gossamer of semen. “You got your rocks off. That doesn’t normally happen.”

I shake my head. “Leaked. No orgasm. Something about pressure points.”

“An elegant design,” she says. She looks up at me. “Do you feel any relief?”

“Not really.”

“Poor thing, let me help you out of this contraption.” She takes hold of the device and tugs. Of course, the base ring and the piercing in the hook stop her from removing it. She laughs. “Oh dear. No luck there,” she says. “Is it true they have to do surgery to remove it?”

“Uh yes.” I shift my weight. It’s something I hadn’t really thought about when I went for the operation.

“The piercing heals into the neo-coral hook, doesn’t it?” Her eyes sparkle. “They have to cut it out. Like digging out a weed.”

I squirm. “It’ll heal.”

“Eventually,” she says. “Unless you are unlucky.” She rolls back onto the rug, legs spread. Her clean hand --- the one without the semen --- slides between her thighs. Her index finger finds the notch at the top of her pussy and quivers. A wet clicking sound reaches my ears. She sighs happily.

My penis hardens to quickly it’s like being punched in the balls. I whimper and drop to my knees.

“No touching,” she says. “Just look and leak. You can’t unsee this.”

The dildo is in easy reach, still installed in my magic boxers. I want to grab it and lick her taste from the shaft, but I dare not move.

Her finger blurs. Her breathing quickens. Her pelvis twitches, then she sighs happily and sits up. “Well that was good.” She reaches out, offering me the finger.

I lick it and her musk explodes through my senses. I close my eyes, groan.

She laughs. “Just be glad you aren’t a neuter.”

The hands goes away. When I look, she’s standing over me, amused the thick dildo clutched in her elegantly manicured fingers --- I’ll never lick it now. “Well I’m all done,” she says. “You can let yourself out. I’m taking a shower.” She turns away. Her boots make slapping sounds as she walks, a little unsteadily, towards her bathroom.

I don’t want this to be it, to never see her again. “ArtBoy99!” I call after her. Then, so as not to seem sad and lonely. “Leave me a nice review.”

But, as I step out into the snow, I realise I am sad and lonely. Sad, lonely, and hopelessly horny. I close my eyes to centre myself, and I’m treated to a groin-hardening vision of her pussy sliding down that big realistic dildo.

That’s it. I can’t do this for another year. I’m going to change my look, stop flirting, stop slutting. I’m going to live like a monk.

I still turn on my HrLckr app, though, just to see whether she gives me a review.