Bradley Jones's Chastity - Chapter 3
Erotic adventures in a world where male chastity is supported by the NHS.
Monday, first day walking to work since the New Year.
First day as the New Me!
It’s a crisp January morning and the women are all knee-length boots and faux fur trimmings. Despite the cold, my poor imprisoned cock stirs in its prison. Less than a year to go!
I’ve been good. I haven’t opened the HrLckr app since servicing Mariella. Not once!
And I’ve changed my style.
No more flaunting my tell-tale glass collar. I’m wearing a nice turtle neck sweater under my jacket. No bling or chains either. Brad the Chaste Slut has gone. Now I’m Mr Bradley Jones, commercial artist and aspiring fine artist --- I’ve gone back to painting, though God knows my flat is a mess now.
A red-haired girl in bottle green Spandex jogs towards me. It’s the coat girl from the Christmas party, and I’ve seen her running past my flat - that’s why she seemed familiar. There us something strikingly elven about her. She has ethereal green eyes and her ponytail bobs as she weaves through the foot traffic as if running through primordial woodland.
Her head turns as she passes.
She can’t possibly recognise me. She must just like my new look.
And I bet I’m oozing masculine confidence --- being a chaste has taught me that.
Perhaps I can strike up a relationship before I get the Chaste Maker Cage removed, but take it slow on the physical side of things. Find a woman who respects me enough to wait until next December --- or however long it takes my cock to heal --- before we get intimate...
I pass one of those pop-up Christmas shops, up for rent now, but with old stock still in the window.
There’s a reindeer jumper, and just seeing it gets me hard inside my cage.
OK that sounds weird.
The thing is, I did fall off the wagon during the Christmas break... just a little. When I went home to the country for Christmas, there was an old schoolmate whose boyfriend had just traded her for a younger model. Comforting her was the Right Thing To Do.
My folks had half the village in for a leftovers party, so she and I slipped out to her folk’s empty house, specifically to her old room, which still had boy band posters pinned to the wall, where years before I’d spent hours wallowing hopelessly in the friend zone while she complained about her older biker boyfriend.
I wasn’t the acne-ridden teenager any more. Better, I was safely disposable. And, she wasn’t the skinny mini-skirt wearing six-former any more, either. She was plump around the hips and tummy, but with compensatory big breasts under her Christmas reindeer jumper, and messy bottle blond hair that gave her the air of the bedroom.
The blouse undid, then, with some writhing the bra came away, and there they were, soft white globes that tasted of fresh sweat and soap. Her mouth tasted of punch and her pussy was slick around my probing fingers. More writhing and she shoved her panty hose and big kncikers to the foot of the single bed, up hard against the Buffy stickers. She hiked up her skirt and underskirt, pushed my head suggestively.
I wasn’t even out of my shirt and boxers, but I hunched up between her fleshy thighs and trawled her mousy pubic hair to burrow my tongue into her welcoming slit.
She giggled, then she groaned so that my caged groin clenched.
Then she wept and I cuddled her.
Fifteen minutes later, we were back at the leftovers party, eating turkey and she was behaving as if nothing had happened.
And she was wearing her reindeer jumper again, only now her nipples were big and visible through the fabric.
Some American women --- well-bundled against the British cold --- trundle their suitcases past me. I listen to their voices and imagine what they would sound like having orgasms.
And I flash back to that other time I fell of the wagon. It was a big New Year’s party. There was this American woman, short, plus-size and loudly body positive, with thick black hair to her waist. She didn’t mention my chastity, not once, but back in her hotel room she had dildos ready to install in my magic boxers.
Typical bloody sex tourist!
But, heh, it was New Year and I’d been drinking, and if I hadn’t been trying to reform, I would have done her anyway.
The American kept on her stockings and bra while I fucked her missionary style --- though I don’t think the missionaries would have quite approved of the thick hooked dildo doing what a normal penis couldn’t and grinding her G-spot with each thrust. The big woman undulated under me, and it was like riding the ocean on an inflatable lilo... a warm panting ocean with soft, cashmere-clad legs that wrapped around yours.
The big American came quietly, all whimpers and stifled sobs, as if holding back from being unladylike.
So I flipped her over, swapped to a short fat dildo, and banged her doggy fashion. Hard.
The warm scent of her pussy rose up to bathe my face while I pounded the daintiness out of her. Each thrust made her pussy squelch, forced a grunt out of soft lips. By the end, she sounded like a power lifter; grunts turning to martial arts shouts, then merging into a long, shuddering groan.
She lay there flat on her face, sobbing for breath, while my cock throbbed in time to the rise and fall of her bare shoulders.
After a while, she rolled over, reached into her purse and handed me a wad of notes.
HrLckr has strict rules about prostitution, we’re not supposed to charge for services rendered. But we’d hooked up off-app, so I suppose she just assumed I was pay-to-play.
I didn’t want to embarrass her, so I took the money and went back to the party.
I woke up with a hangover, a sore tongue, and a strange woman in my bed. Greek, I think. Or maybe Turkish. She was gone by the time I brought her breakfast, but she left behind the scent of sex that gave me weird dreams until I got around to changing the bedding.
But I didn’t use the app. Not once.
As I enter work, the receptionist winks at me and I remember skinny thighs wrapped round my cheeks and a pussy that tasted sharp from nicotine intake.
In the main office, there are lots of cries of, “Happy New Year!”
One of the girls has gotten engaged. I join in the exclamations over the diamond, but privately hope her fiancée can make her squeal the way I did when I fingered her at that office party last year.
Then, avoiding looking at all the other pairs of legs that have welcomed my tongue or dildo collection, I settle at my desk, pick up on last year’s projects... I like this job. It’s not as cool as putting actual paint on actual canvas but I still get into the flow and...
“Jones? I’m speaking to you.”
“What?” I turn in my chair and look up at Lydia, my boss. “Sorry, I was in the zone.”
Lydia flicks back her long black hair and smiles her sexy smile; the one that exposes her top teeth as if she was just about to run her tongue over them. Then she glances past me at my monitor. “It’s looking good. You’re a real artist, Jones.”
I blush. My boss has that effect on me... which is probably why she calls me by my last name. Something about professional distance... not that chastes have protections against harassment --- they were reckoned unenforceable, so CARGO set them aside --- she’s never tried to take advantage of her position.
Does this mean Lydia respects me?
“Glad you like it,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on her face.
It’s hard. She’s wearing a black turtle neck that outlines her waist like a lover’s caress, and stretch leatherette pants over lean legs. The effect is somewhere between ninja and office assassin, except for the bling on her footwear.
“Nice shoes,” I blurt, as cover for staring at her long legs.
“Ankle boots,” she corrects, and turns a foot out to display the gold side sipper and leaf patterns on the toe. “So, I was asking how the party went. Minnie’s party?”
Minnie and her are old friends, which is how I got the contract which turned into the steady job. Some of that friendship has transferred to me, Lydia sometimes treats me like a mate. Or perhaps she just likes me?
“The party,” she prompts.
“The party...” I have a flash of Mariella’s blue eyes as she orgasmed. My penis hardens in its cage. I was already blushing. Now my cheeks are burning.
“Oh My God, Jones!” exclaims Lydia. Her eyes twinkle. “You’re no longer chaste and you got lucky!”
I pull down the neck of my sweater. “No. Still all locked up, I’m afraid. I just thought I would have a phased return to a normal sex life... I mean romantic life.”
Lydia snorts. “That sounds wise. So...” She shifts to half-perch on the edge of my desk, and I’m painfully aware of the shiny triangle between her leatherette wrapped thighs. “The party?” she prompts.
“Minnie and Wendy got engaged.”
Lydia screws up her eyes, turning her face into a kind of elven T-shape. She’s not exactly beautiful, but she’s striking. “I’m glad I missed that. Chad’s gone home, for good.”
Chad’s her square-jawed American boyfriend, some kind of big city player. Only now he’s no longer her boyfriend. Interesting.
“I always thought investment banker was rhyming slang,” I say.
Lydia laughs. The twinkle returns to her eyes. “If that’s all you can think about, it’s going to be a long year.”
My cock heaves in agreement.
Our gazes meet. Her eyes glint.
I cough. “Well they asked after you. Wanted to know why you didn’t come...” Does Lydia screw up her eyes like that when she comes? My imprisoned penis twitches speculatively. “...attend, I mean.”
Lydia lowers her voice. “As a matter of fact, I was avoiding an old flame who hurt me.”
“I didn’t see Chad there.”
She smiles ruefully. “Older history. Anyway...” She pushes off the desk and stands tall now. “We thought you would like to say a few words at the opening, since you designed the exhibition.”
“Oh.” I blink. “Would that be appropriate? It’s about female leaders.”
“Well you’d be the token male.” She snorts. “A sign of the times and all that.”
“I’m not...” I was going to say, not really a public speaker, just an airhead disposable chaste slut.
“Just something short and sweet,” she says, with a slight twitch of her hips.
My cock throbs and I find myself saying, “OK.”
She nods and turns away. Each step makes her buttocks twitch under the stretch leather and I have a flashback to rogering the New Year Greek woman --- or was she Lebanese --- from behind, her juices dripping onto my under sheet while she urged me on in her native language... whatever that was. No wonder the bed smelt of sex.
But.
Imagine having Lydia on my arm at the Class of 2020 Reunion.
Actually, imagine having Lydia on my arm at all.
Or just having her.
The best thing about this is that, since she’s my boss, there’s good reason to take things slow. This time next year, I could be hooking my real penis up between Lydia’s thighs, feeling her slippery vagina clench and ripple around my shaft while I pound into those firm buttocks.
My chastity device clenches like an iron fist. A reminder to return to work and start preparing my speech for the opening.
First I’m going to delete the HrLcker app.
I reach for my phone.
Not just delete it, I’m going to unregister as well.
I open it up and there’s a Hookup Review from one “CougarVamp” --- which has to be Mariella: Five stars on all counts and I am “Gentle and compliant”. Automatically, I click to approve it.
There’s also a message from a woman calling herself RedRunner.
That must be the coat girl --- but so what? I’m deleting the app.
But it’s a picture message.
Just taking a look won’t hurt... Oh My God.
She’s sent me a photo of her pussy: lush inner lips overflowing a red-thatched bush and the caption, “Catch me if you can.”
Not for the first time, my cock inflates like an air bag.
I shudder and swipe the app closed. I’ll deal with it later. I just need to cool down first. Do star jumps. Or perhaps go for a run.
Oh that is such a wonderful story….