My initial three months in chastity were beyond difficult, it was life-changing, and when you change your life, you change yourself. But what if it’s someone else changing you? You feel like you’re not in charge of your own destiny anymore. But what if your destiny is to find a woman who will control your destiny? Does that mean I’m still in control of my destiny? Or is destiny just a word we use to avoid talking about fate? Well, as I sit alone in my big house with a tiny cage locking my penis away, it doesn’t feel like I’m following my destiny, it feels like I’ve found my fate. You know the term ‘Fate is a cruel Mistress’? Well, fate could take lessons from Veritasia! I see her so infrequently, but she’s always on my mind, a hundred times a day. Every time I reach to stroke my cock and find only a metal barrier. My frustration overwhelms me as I finger the cold, shiny chrome of the prison that reduces my manhood to little more than a perpetual nub. No longer a cock but a nubbin. Only good for rubbin’. Certainly not pleasing a woman. I can see my face in the distorted reflection of the curved surface of the tube, and I look every bit as sad and pathetic as I feel. The little chrome steel tube is shaped realistically, with one inch of drooping shaft and one inch of detumescent glans, and that’s all she allows my flesh to aspire to. You know the way proud parents bronze their baby’s shoes as a keepsake? I feel like my proud domme has turned my once proud cock into a silver-plated teeny-weenie as a keepsake. Something kept only because it’s cute and adorable and a reminder of something that once was special. But just a trinket, soon to be forgotten, left to collect dust with no one to miss it. I miss it. I miss it so much I don’t know what to do! I fret so. I often catch myself wringing my hands in my lap like a nervous Victorian lady. I normally would just reach for my dick, but now I can’t. I feel like an ex-smoker, they always have a dreadful time finding something to do with their hands, they’re so awkward and uncomfortable to watch. I feel just like that, like an ex-smoker. But I’m an ex-stroker, as Veritasia calls me. Whenever we’re with her friends and she sees me being fidgety, she’ll say “Sit still! Goodness, you ex-strokers always need to be playing with something!” Her friends erupted in gales of laughter. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about women, nothing makes them laugh harder than a man belittled. As I sat there blushing, I wished I got laughs like that from women when I’m doing comedy! But no, I make them laugh much harder when Veritasia delivers the punchline. And it’s hard being an ex-stroker when you were up to four or five packs..I mean whacks a day! She’s so skilled and clever, always finding the most humiliating thing to say, and her words never fail to remind me of my place in her life. Her friends asked one day, as they watched me iron her boyfriend’s shirts, “So he can’t be straight, right? Doing the laundry of your lover? That seems pretty gay to me. So is he bisexual, homosexual..?” “Hmm..” you say, “He’s in strict chastity, so he’s not allowed any sex. I guess you could call him a no mo’ sexual!” Everyone laughed at that, except me of course, I fought back tears, but a single tear fell and sizzled on the hot iron. Yeah, I think of her all the time. But here I sit, alone, so horny thinking about her all day and unable to masturbate anymore. I need to find something else to do with the time on my hands. It’s a hard adjustment, no pun intended, and since idle hands are the Devil’s tools - and I can’t get my hands on my Devil’s tool - I picked up my guitar for the first time in a year. I put new strings on it and fiddled it into tune. I sat to play some familiar songs, some rocking bluesy riffs by Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters, drinking and fighting rock anthems by the Who, but they just didn’t...feel right. I just couldn’t find that attitude anymore. It wasn’t my mood. My mindset. Songs about “stealin’ women from they men” and “got a wife in Chino and one in Cherokee”. Songs about men with lots of women, real alpha type stuff. I felt silly trying to play them, it just isn’t me anymore, I have a hard time remembering when it was. I don’t have women in two cities, I can’t satisfy a woman in one city! If I could I wouldn’t be in this unforgiving contraption. So I closed the songbook I was playing from and tried to remember some of my original songs. They were okay songs, maybe some were even good, but they were from long ago when I was living with my submissive girlfriend, and I was a different man then. No, I can’t play those songs anymore. It was depressing, and I absently fumbled a few notes while my mind wandered. It started to sound interesting, and more reflective of my mood. I started adding harmonics, settling on a minor key (the only major key in my life is the one Veritasia wears around her neck) and a delicate waltz tempo. I liked it. It was sad, but not in a bluesman funky way, it was..I don’t know, it was adjectives I’ve never used before..I’m reaching for them. This music I’m writing, it was..wistful. Romantically sad. Flowery. Melancholy. I have the tune to it in my head; honest, plaintive. It needs lyrics, but what should I write about? They say write about what you know, but I couldn’t write about what I’m going through, right? I usually just go stream of consciousness and see what comes of it, that will let me find the breaks in the lyrics, the points of emphasis, cadence is everything to a song. I can always swap in lyrics once the melody is right. I worked through the day on it, until it felt like work, that’s when you know it’s time to stop. I smoked a big fat joint and thought about it. I looked out the window and saw a couple walking by, he was pushing a baby carriage, and she was obviously pregnant with another on the way. She was radiant, young and lovely, he was tall, fair and handsome, he is virile, she is fertile. I sighed at the vision of a life I’ll never have. Real men fuck women and make babies. Women can tell who the real men are, and they let them. And women can tell that I’m not a man who could sweep them off their feet, that I’m the kind of guy who should be sweeping her floors. It’s just something women can tell, it’s not a matter of their education, or whether they live rurally or in the heart of a big city, whether they’re black or white, ANTIFA or MAGA. Women have the innate ability to tell a real man from a beta cuckold, even if they don’t think of it in those terms, that’s exactly what they do. And the inevitable destination for a man like me is not in her bed, it’s making her bed after she’s been with a man. It’s keeping her bed linens cleaned and pressed and changed every single day, hoping I can find a wet spot on her well-fucked sheet so that I can steal a lick, a taste of her, to rub my nose in her wetness so I can still smell her when I do her laundry. At least I hope the wetness is solely hers. I picked up my guitar again and played the tune, this time it started sounding, I dunno, Elizabethan, like an Elizabethan folk tune, played on a lute, or harpsichord, or more appropriate for my chaste state, played on a virginal. Eventually the lyrics fell into place, but they were far more emotionally honest that I intended for other people to hear. I’ll put the lyrics here, I’m afraid you’ll have to imagine a lilting tune, delicately plucked and strummed with augmentations and 9ths and 11ths, sorrowfully pretty, kind of like Greensleeves but sadder: “As I was a-wandering the low river valley, the far-away Catskill Mountains called me, So I walked through the bramble and brier and mire to find the fairest Lady I ever did see And I climbed due North to the top of the hill, high above river and town far below, At the end of the road I came to her door, a lady of grace atop a mountain of snow I fell to my knees before her, I asked but to serve, I begged to adore, She said 'Stay down on your knees if you’re eager to please, you can start by scrubbing my floors' I thought of myself as her chivalrous knight, but she saw through my masquerade, When I finished my work she’d allow me to jerk, as she made me her scullery maid Scrub-a-dub-dub her toilets and tub, I scour her sinks and wash all her dishes She puts me in my place with a smile on her face, she finds my debasement delicious I surrendered my pants and boxed up my boxers, she took away my boy clothes, And replaced them with blouses and aprons and skirts, and taught me to curtsy and pose I humbled myself before her, she fastened a humbler that forced me to crawl, She gave me commands with a wave of her hand, and taught me high protocol She tawsed me and flogged me, and marked my behind with the braided tip of her quirt, But I’ll never forget how hard she whipped me when I stole a glance up her skirt My bottom was welted and bleeding, my face was a blubbery mess, I thanked her for the valuable lesson, to never look up a lady’s dress She said ‘We’re not done yet, my insubordinate pet’, as she pulled out her riding crop She beat me completely, I wailed indiscreetly and she told me my jerking must stop ‘Your incessant need to keep spilling your seed has now affected your service So I think you will see, and eventually agree, that you absolutely deserve this’ That was the day that she changed my life, when she put me in chastity, And my poor little penis for the rest of my days, is locked away to atrophy I keened and I cried when the deed was done, as sad as a caged bird’s song, She laughed a little, which served to belittle and said ‘You’re right where you belong’ She said ‘You’re out of the gene pool now, you won’t be sharing your chromosomes, You should try to forget, and change your mindset, your dick’s in its permanent home’ So now it’s been months, and she hasn’t called once, I guess cruel is in the eye of the perceiver But she said what she meant, when she said permanent, it just took me so long to believe her” And I played it for her. She clapped her hands in delight, she loved it! So much so that she insisted I write more songs, then an entire album. She refused to let me keep it private, she insisted I record the album and release it far and wide on the internet. She said that it would be a good thing for all the betas out there, all the lonely cucks, all the chastity boys and sissy maids to know they’re not alone. And it will give them positive reinforcement to continue to obey and accept the will of their wives, dommes, and in some cases husbands, or the couple they serve. She knows best.