Bradley Jones's Chastity - Chapter 9 (FREE TO EVERYBODY)
Permanent chastity femdom erotica in a world where Chaste is an identity, and the NHS installs male chastity cages!
The buzzer goes.
I flinch.
It’s been a week since Caroline, and I can finally sit without too much discomfort. But sudden noises still make me jumpy.
It’s only the pizza delivery.
Valentines night, so the delivery has taken so long that I almost forgot I ordered it.
I pull on a dressing gown and trudge to the door. I’ve been off sick from work for a week. I told them flu, but really it feels like depression.
At least the pizza girl is brightly cute --- white-blonde, student-age with a thing for red lipstick and heavy eye make up and pigtails with little red bows that tickle the shoulders of her puffer jacket.
I offer her a tip.
She takes it, looks pointedly at my collar, then the state of my face. “If you shave quick, you can lick my pussy.”
My poor penis throbs to life.
I’m not just on edge, I’m horny all the time. Every time I go to sleep, I get flashbacks to naked Caroline and I wake up wet and sticky.
At least this girl is real.
“Take a seat,” I say, tossing some empty food boxes off the couch.
The mess doesn’t seem to bother her --- student. She unzips her puffer jacket to reveal a tight red pizza company T-shirt that shows off her pert breasts. She sits on the couch, all sweet pigtails and Lycra leggings.
For a moment I wonder if I heard her right. Am I hallucinating now?
Then, without so much as looking at me, the pizza girl crosses an ankle over her knee and pulls at the Velcro straps of her cycling shoes. “Hurry up then. I don’t like leaving my bike for too long.”
She’s slim hipped and slender-limbed like Caroline, but not remotely as tall and stately. Even so, my penis throbs hungrily in its cage and I find myself rushing into the bathroom. I drop my dressing gown and blunder through a wet shave.
Seven days worth of beard growth! God I’ve been in a rut. I still have a black eye. And the shave has revealed my cut lip.
The pizza girl is waiting for me open legged, smoothly-hairless pussy gaping, inner lips glistening frills of flesh.
Her eyes widen. “What happened to your face? Do you do martial arts?”
“Sometimes it feels like it.”
She lifts her bare feet off the floor and plants them on the edge of the sofa. “Come on, then.”
I’ve been wearing these pyjamas for the last three or four days, but I feel weird stripping in front of her. I compromise by pulling off the top.
She glances at my torso. “Pretty good. Do you work out?”
I grin. She can’t see my bruised back. “The energy has to go somewhere.”
I kind of expect a lewd suggestion, a little banter. Some seduction, perhaps.
However, she just lifts both feet in a gesture that’s more command than invite.
I kneel before her and inhale the musk of her pussy. The shave is really smooth --- does she pluck? However, close to, she’s less doll like: the skin is slightly uneven with pinker patches.
Her feet catch the back of my shoulders, setting off the bruises.
I tense for a remark about the state of my whip-marked back.
Instead, she uses her heels to draw me in to her shaved crotch.
I don’t know her, don’t know her pussy, so I do the thing that normally works: lick like a dog, long deep strokes that gather her salty juices into my mouth and flick the little bump of her clitoris at the top.
Each sweep of my tongue in this stranger’s vulva tightens my caged groin.
And the pizza girl just sits there, silent except for deep breaths that make her small belly rise and fall under the tight T-shirt.
As I work my tongue, her breaths become faster, shallower. They match the beat of my licking, then outpace it; two pants for each flick of the tongue in pussy, then three... then she holds her breath, exhales and sits up.
I roll back to my feet to watch her dress.
She’s all brisk efficiency now; cream panties then lycra cycling shorts, shoes and she’s on her feet. She gives me a professional smile as if nothing just happened. “Enjoy your pizza, sir.”
And she’s gone.
I sit at my kitchen table contemplating the seafood special I ordered, too turned on to think about eating, too depressed to care.
There’s a knock on the door.
I yell, “Hang on.”
Is she back for more? Or did she leave something behind?
I set off to retrieve my dressing gown, but the knocking becomes insistent. I cry, “I’m coming!”, and run to the door.
It’s Lydia, my boss, who I did once rather once hope to date.
And she is dolled up for a date; burgundy gown and knee-length boots, long black hair just right. Probably got a Valentine thing going on.
“I’m pretty certain you’re not, Jones,” she says.
I blink. “Not, what?”
Her little eyes twinkle. “Coming. You have ten months left at least.”
My pierced penis throbs in protest. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s been a week and you’re never off work.” She cocks a head. “Jesus, Jones, look at the state of your face!”
I blush. “I fell over jogging.”
“Like hell you did. Caroline did that.”
“No...” I begin.
“I saw your recent review from one ‘LegalEagle’. Apparently you are, and I quote...” She drops into a good impression of Caroline’s upperclass accent. “...‘delightfully compliant with an erotic response to pain.’ It even sounds like her.” She reaches out to almost-stroke my black eye with the back of her hand. The jewels in her finger rings all look real. “I did try to warn you about her.”
“What do you...?” I’m not sure what I’m trying to ask.
“She’s my ex wife. My crazy ex wife.”
My penis hardens so quickly I feel like I’ve been kicked in the crotch. “Oh,” I manage. “How... um... terrible.”
Lydia puts a be-jewelled hand on my chest and pushes me back inside.
I’m just too confused, too low, too turned on to resist.
Lydia follows, shuts the door and hands me her coat. As I turn to hang it up, she pulls at the waistband of my pyjama trousers. “Jesus what a mess.” She releases the elastic, making me yelp.
I turn. “Hey, hands off.”
“Just checking the damage.” She wrinkles her nose. “You stink. Go shower. Dinner is booked for an hour’s time.”
“Dinner?” A hand clutches my heart. She’s dressed up for me.
“Jesus, Jones. You survived Caroline. You deserve a night out.”
Or is she just being a good mate?
Damned mixed messages!
I emerge from my bathroom wrapped in my towels to find Lydia seated on my couch where pizza girl was, but still fully clothed.
Now I have mixed feelings to match her mixed messages.
I want Lydia naked, pussy crammed into my mouth.
But, I don’t want to date like this --- caged crotch and drippy dick. I want her to love me as a man, not as some kind of hi-tech eunuch substitute. What did RunningGirl call me? Interactive porn. And pizza girl just treated me like a sex toy.
Thinking about all that makes my chastity cage tighten.
God! What a mess I am.
Lydia’s eyes crinkle. “Well, get dressed, Jones. And, for goodness sakes, put on a nice shirt. We’re going somewhere posh.”
What do I do? “Do you want to wait outside?”
“What’s the matter, Jones? I’ve already seen it all, and anyway, you’re practically one of the girls.”
“One of the girls?” I turn away and rummage for underwear.
“Well, no dick to speak of... Jesus! your back. It’s yellow. What were you thinking?”
“Your ex-wife is very persuasive.”
“Hot as fuck, to be honest.”
I turn to face her.
She gives me her urchin grin, uneven teeth and beady eyes. Her gaze flickers to my groin.
I’m wearing ordinary briefs, not magic boxers. There’s no O-ring to support a dildo.
Lydia claps her hands. “Well, hurry up! Do you have any decent chinos...?”
I guess that was a test, and she passed it. So, a taxi ride later, and we’re entering a very nice Greek Restaurant, with waitresses who see my collar and giggle behind their hands.
They’re so sweet about it, it feels like a complement, and it makes Lydia hold my arm tighter... it’s good to feel her being possessive over me. I’m tired of being disposable.
Perhaps tonight, Lydia and I can come to some sort of... accommodation is the word, I think.
I’ve walked on the wild side. Now I’m ready for her.
Only, I wish the timing were better.
Lydia eats her souvlaki from the stick, sharp incisors nipping the cubes of marinated pork. “So, Jones. What made you decide to get done?” A flick of eyebrows indicates my crotch.
“Oh.” I sip my wine. “I was... um... turning into an incel. And these memes kept going round talking about how becoming a Chaste turns you into a sex god.”
“And did it?”
“You should know,” I say.
She treats me to her dirty smile.
“But it was more than that,” I say. “I’m not really a player. I like women. I wanted to be with them. Chastity was the way to do that.”
“Just like in your speech, then. So what’s the problem? Isn’t it working any more?”
“I turned thirty one,” I say. “I’m ready to settle down. Maybe get married. But women who like me like this, want me to stay this way.”
“You said something about that in your speech.” Lydia chuckles. “Shortly before you ejaculated all over my trigger happy ex-wife.”
I sit up straight and say firmly, “OK. I admit it. This whole chastity thing is addictive, including the promiscuity. But it’s a trap. And I don’t want to stay trapped. This was supposed to be an adventure... a sabbatical, and I want to keep it that way. Do you understand?”
Lydia grins. “Perfectly.” She raises her glass. “To absent friends... meaning your, er...” She hisses theatrically; “Orgasm.”
I laugh and we toast and we talk about growing up and families and life. The subject of Caroline doesn’t come up again, and actually I’m fine with that.
When it’s time to order desert, Lydia asks for the bill instead. “I’ve got special cake at my place, and something that will cheer you up.” She winks.
I stiffen. Is all this just a set up for another one-night-stand with weeks of awkwardness at work to follow?
But Lydia knows I haven’t put on my magic boxers.
“OK, then.”
We walk arm-in-arm down the local high street. She stops so we can look at ourselves in a window. “We make a handsome couple, Jones.”
We do. She’s got an earthy elegance. I’m reasonably athletic and have dark hair to match hers. We’re even the same height.
“Perhaps we should talk about that,” I say.
“Wait till we’re inside.”
Lydia’s pristine modern apartment is close by, and there is indeed an artisanal baked cheesecake on waiting on the black granite kitchen counter.
Lydia puts on coffee, then hands me a shoebox sized parcel in shiny gift wrap. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jones --- you probably want to open it in the bathroom.”
Frowning suspiciously, I retreat to her palatial bathroom...
Wow. Is that real marble?
God! Compared to this, my place is such a dump! How could she spend the night there?
Lydia must actually like me, that’s why. I’m probably being silly about the present. Maybe its expensive cologne or something.
I open the box.
No, it’s a dildo, long and slender like the one she picked for our night of passion. It’s rooted in a jockstrap made of flesh-toned silicone. No wonder she wasn’t bothered about me not wearing my magic boxers.
I toss the hateful thing on the make-up table and turn to leave.
Lydia is waiting in the bathroom doorway. She catches my look and her grin fades.
“Is this all I am?” I blaze. “Out of the way. I’m going home.”
She pouts but doesn’t budge. “Have some faith, Jones. Try it on, then we can talk about our relationship. You’ll see why.”
I glance at the dildo and have a memory of its twin squelching in and out of her vagina. My caged groin tightens.
Also, Lydia said the “R” word.
I mean... if this is a scam, I can just leave. But if I leave without at least giving her a chance, we’ll have no chance.
“OK,” I say. “But not with you watching.”
She grins and closes the door on me.
Enjoying the privacy, I strip and then contemplate the dildo jock strap.
Oh.
I’ve seen these things advertised.
They’re supposed to give a more natural look. I never bothered buying one because they don’t let you swap in a different dildo --- hook-ups usually like to supply their own. You can’t wear them under street clothes and they have a reputation for being beasts to get into... not exactly good for spontaneity.
Popular with couples, though.
“I’m an idiot.”
Lydia’s voice comes through the door; “What’s that?”
“Talking to myself. Hold on.”
It takes a good few minutes to get the jockstrap on. The silicone keeps sticking to my flesh --- which is excruciating where Caroline has bruised it.
Finally I look at myself in the mirror.
“Oh my god!”
“Are you OK Jones??”
“Fine.”
More than fine!
As worn, the jockstrap is more of a tight dildo harness.
The straps are webbed and transparent, and almost invisible against my skin. The mesh is wide over my pubis, so with a little fiddling I can get most of my pubic hair sticking out.
The dildo is a realistic penis, blue-veined and purple headed.
Beneath the dildo is what can best be described as a fake scrotum that completely encloses my locked junk. Better still, it’s shaped to mask the outline of my penis cage.
So, in the mirror, I just look like a naked man with big balls and a massive erection.
Lydia has given me back my manhood!
I open the bathroom door and stand braced in it. “I’m ready to talk about our relationship.”
Lydia’s small eyes twinkle. Without a word, she drops to her knees and takes the penis between her thin lips.
I run my fingers through her long hair.
She mewls happily.
I look down between us and it’s all real.
There’s my pubic hair.
There’s my penis, shiny with her saliva as she moves her mouth back and forward.
There’s her cleavage, pale-olive and welcoming, with a promise of more underneath her burgundy dress.
Hidden inside the tight silicone pouch, trapped in its cage, my real pierced penis flexes and spasms.
I ignore it.
“How about that shag?” I ask.
Lydia withdraws from the prosthetic and grins up at me. “I thought you’d never ask, Jones.”