Bradley Jones's Chastity - Chapter 7
Femdom and Permanent chastity in a near future where it's normal!
The taxi driver brakes at the entrance to a mews which seems lined with parking garages. She squirms around to leer through the partition; an older middle aged woman with cropped hair and nose ring that, together, made me assume butch lesbian. “Journey’s free if you let me climb in the back with you...”
My penis squirms in its cage. “Terribly sorry,” I say, and realise I mean it. “I’m on the way to a date.”
“Maybe next time.” She drives on a block and I step out into the night.
Caroline lives on a leafy street of Victorian mansions. Each two-storey house stands proudly in its own garden.
OMG! I knew she was a top lawyer, but Caroline is rich!
The outrageous fact of that proposition means I’m already hard. Now the cage seems to tighten.
However, Caroline’s instructions take me into a driveway, through a darkened alley to a side entrance.
I knock.
A shadow falls across the door’s frosted glass panels, then it opens letting out a gust of warm air.
I blink, and there’s Caroline looking down at me with cold dark brown eyes.
She’s tall anyway, but the step leading up to the door and her high-heeled shoes makes her seem even taller: like an outsize statue in a museum, or an Elf of the uncanny Lord of the Rings variety.
I can’t imagine her having sex with me or anybody else. Even so, just being this close to her makes my chastity cage clench like an iron fist.
Caroline is wearing a sleeveless gown that drapes her slender figure with pleated chiffon from delicate throat to trim ankles. It’s translucent in the light, with a pale knee-length slip beneath. Above the waist, the pleats run horizontally like a thick scribble, making the material opaque. However, the nipples of her small breasts stand out like fingertips: there’s no bra under there, just sheer material and sleek flesh. And her lips! They have a natural bruised pout, emphasised by her shiny pussy-purple lipstick. She must be in her thirties, but in this light, she’s as ageless as a goddess.
I blurt, “You’re beautiful!”
Caroline slaps me.
I see it coming, flinch away.
Her hand catches my left ear.
Before I can react, the return blow smacks my right cheek and mouth.
My hips tremble, but I have to set some boundaries. I mean to recite what I learned about consent and negotiation on the Internet, but the slap is too personal, too real and I hear myself ask, “What did I do?”
Caroline scowls. “When people say ‘beautiful’, I hear ‘trophy’”
My lip has swollen. OMG is that blood? And why am I still hard? My pierced cock actually aches.
“You’re a bit too high-powered to be a trophy,” I say.
Lydia’s eyes narrow --- she has strong dark eyebrows. “High-powered just makes me...,” she mimics a posh male voice, “a bit of a challenge Har har! You know what I mean, like yah?”
I finger my glass collar. “I’m a chaste. I’m the ‘conquest here’. I mean, what’s in it for me other than feeling uncomfortably horny? You being beautiful just makes that worse.”
“So why are you here?”
Despite the cold, I flush guiltily. The truth is, I want this memory to jerk off over. Once I’m unlocked, I’ll never merit the attention of a Caroline. And the other thing is, pursuing this dark attraction is way safer than dallying with Lydia.
“Well,” prompts Caroline.
“Same reason I didn’t walk off when you slapped me.”
“And, how does that make you feel?”
I can’t answer. I stand for a long moment then say the first coherent word that comes into my head. “Powerless. Scared.”
“Trapped by your own paraphilia?” she says. “And not enjoying it?”
I nod.
“Come inside.”
I find myself in a super modern kitchen, with cups and plates covering the surfaces. It seems Caroline is a slob.
She catches my look. “Problem with the housekeeping company,” she says.
Yeah, right, I think
“Now, get undressed,” she says.
I blush. I was about to open a conversation about our session. That’s what you’re supposed to do. “What?”
“Undress,” she says. “Strip. Disrobe. You do speak English?”
At least it’s warm. A few awkward moments and I’m standing bollock naked in her kitchen under the scrutinising gaze of this model-beautiful woman.
Caroline looks me up and down, nods. “Come.”
She turns. Her kitten heels click on the expensive linoleum floor and the messy kitchen becomes a catwalk or a red carpet.
I scamper after her into a corridor with stairs going up. This really is just the basement. Caroline actually owns the entire house. There really is a housekeeping company.
Caroline sweeps into a room decked out as a gym: windows near the ceiling; door to a bathroom in the corner; mirror down one wall; pull up bar mounted on the other; and one of those monstrous multi-gyms sat on thick rubber mats. There’s also free weights, yoga mats ---
--- and a whipping horse.
I stop in my tracks. It’s in the same black leatherette as the other equipment, but it’s definitely BDSM kit.
It looks like a pervert’s picnic table, only the top is narrow and padded, and what would have been the seats are supports with very business like webbing straps for the legs and arms. There’s even a horseshoe-shaped face rest like you get at spas.
“I purchased this for my ex wife,” she says. “But don’t worry, I’ve had it cleaned.”
“Ex wife?” I blurt and have this image of her entwined with another woman. My cock quivers in its cage.
“On you get,” she says.
“I have to pee,” I say and flee to the bathroom.
Caroline actually follows me in.
I stand over the WC. A gossamer strand of semen trailing from the tip of my cage.
She says nothing.
I blush, but manage to pass water while she watches.
As I wash my hands, she asks, “Does the device cause you any practical problems?”
I shake my head. “Other than the obvious.”
She nods and lets me pass back into the room.
I clamber onto the horse so that my caged genitals sit back between my thighs. The padding is warm and welcoming on my limbs. She doesn’t offer any help so I kneel up and twist to get the straps over my ankles and calves.
It’s then I notice the nearby folding table with a towel draped over its contents. A couple of wooden handles whip protrudes from the near side. A braided leather whip tail dangles down the other.
“Hurry up,” she says.
I get my legs in and return to kneeling.
“But has anybody ever had to have one removed for medical reasons?” she asks.
“What?” I ask as I struggle to slip my arms into the loosened straps. Oh, she’s still asking about the Chaste Maker Cage. “Never heard... of that... happening. Hygiene’s not a problem and the piercing doesn’t drift.”
Caroline clacks closer. I can picture her elegant heels and shiny pumps approaching. “They have to cut that out, don’t they? If they remove it?”
I flush and sink into the face rest. “Something like that.”
“And that’s happening for you in a year’s time?”
“Just under, yes.”
“That will do, I suppose.”
She tightens the strap on my right wrist, checks the tension by slipping a finger under. It’s the first time she’s touched me, and it makes me tingle. “You suppose?”
“Well, I must confess that I find the new Capon identity intriguing. The thing is...”
I kneel there, hard and scared while she does the other wrist,
“...I would like,” she continues, conversationally, “to beat somebody just once without feeling like I’m setting them up for a really nice orgasm.”
She tightens the straps on both forearms, my ankles and calves in silence. Then, as she wraps a padded strap around my waist she says, “I can take some consolation in the fact that, when you do eventually masturbate over this, the paradoxes of your paraphilia will ensure that you will be inevitably be alone and sad.”
She slaps my buttocks hard.
I yelp and try to twitch free. The straps keep me bound firmly to the whipping horse. Suddenly I’m totally at the mercy of this woman I don’t know. My seems to cage tighten, crushing my rigid cock. I raise my face, find myself looking at myself in the mirror.
Caroline stands behind me to the left, dressed for an elegant party, but instead standing in this well lit home gym, leather paddle in hand. The towel has gone from the folding table, revealing at least a dozen different instruments of pain.
“S...” I begin, meaning to say “safeword”.
But the tall lawyer talks over me; “I will strike you fifty times with each implement. Between sets, you may choose to be released. Once you are released, the evening is over and there will be no more assignations. If you choose to continue, I shall remove one item of clothing before proceeding to the next set of fifty. Do you understand?”
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be done, but I nod stupidly.
She swings the paddle a forehand blow. “One!”
It’s... heavy.
The blow drives a shockwave through my buttocks into my caged groin. I try to rear off the horse, struggle for breath.
In the mirror, her angelic face flushes and she swings it again.
I yelp.
“Two!”
I burrow my face into the horseshoe rest, close my eyes, as if that will help.
“Three! Four! Five...”
Each blow sends a sheet of white across my vision, echoes inside my cage, forces a yelp out of me.
I just have to get into the stride of this!
At ten, my buttocks are throbbing in counterpoint to the blows.
At twenty, my caged cock joins in, so that each strike of the spanker sets off painful double echo, and still this is like being awash in hell.
I recall something about new partners starting off gently, calibrating while warming up the victim. This isn’t that!
At thirty I’m pleading, “Stop! Stop! No! No!”
And the blows continue
“Forty nine! Fifty!” concludes Caroline.
Somebody is sobbing.
She clacks around to stand between me and the mirror. “Shall I remove an item of clothing, or release you?”
How can she even consider carrying on? Is she mad?
I raise my head so as to say as much.
Then I see her in the mirror.
Caroline’s eyes are wide and blazing, her cheeks flushed. I swear her nipples are hard through the pleats of her turquoise gown. “Undress,” I mumble through bruised lips.
She nods and reaches oddly inside the arm holes of her dress. There’s some contorting of arms. Then her silk shift falls down her long legs and pools at her ankles. She flicks it away with a patent toe.
“Cheat!” I say.
Caroline rotates on the spot, fast enough to make the hem of her dress rise to her knees. “Are you sure?”
Without the shift, her bottle green dress is almost transparent. The shape of her naked breasts is visible, as are her androgynous hips and the darker colour of her skimpy panties.
I’ve seen breasts before! Uncovered. Licked them, squeezed them, nibble them. Hundreds of them.
But this veiled glimpse of Caroline’s small bosom is enough to make my caged cock prickle as if the very blood was compressed into a solid. I whimper and bury my face in the padded rest.
“Interesting,” she says. “Why can’t you look at me?”
“Hurts,” I mumble. I should insist on being released. I should go home. This is enough to fuel my fantasies for years.
Caroline clacks around to stand to my left.
I raise my head to look in the mirror.
The pleated green fabric haloes her lithe figure like she’s the Absinthe Fairy.
Caroline raises a long whippy cane. The movement makes her breast quiver. Then she strikes, diagonally across the ribs of my back and onto my shoulder. “One!”
I scream and burrow my face into the padded rest. “Jesus!”
I let out one long continuous squeal as she works down my back, skips my waist.
I clench my buttocks and scream, “NO!”
She tears them anyway then lavishes five strokes on tender thighs. “Twenty five.”
I’m hoarse now. “Stop stop stop! Please!”
She laughs merrily and shifts sides. She works her way back up, striking the same spots on both thighs and buttocks, then finally ravishes the virgin territory of my right ribcage and shoulder.
I’m still screaming when I realise the whipping has stopped.
I raise my head. “You’ve got to... you’ve got to...”
Caroline hitches up one side of her green skirt, revealing smooth bare legs and the waistband of her underwear. Stooping so her tiny breasts swing under the pleated fabric, she pulls the panties down and steps out of them. The cream material is dark and sodden where it touched her her crotch.
I raise my eyes and the neat dark triangle is visible through the sheer green pleats. I inhale, and catch a whiff of animal musk.
I whimper and squirm in my bonds, half close my eyes, can’t look away.
“Got to what?” she prompts, tone sweet and innocent.
I just groan and bury my face in the rest. However, she’s standing close enough that I can see her feet.
“Change of rules,” she says, kicking off one high-heeled shoe the next. Now she’s standing barefoot on the floor like a lost elf. Her toenails are painted the same bottle green as her dress.
“You can go home now...” she says.
I hear myself blurt, “No!”
I raise my head. Try to focus. I want to go home. I want to stay. I don’t want the choice.
“Or...” Her eyes blaze. “...I can strip off and you consent to me beating you until I want to stop.”
“Strip,” I mumble. “Beat me.”
While you’re waiting for the next chapter, read about how the Capon permanent chastity identity affects a middle aged marriage…