Bradley Jones's Chastity

Chapter 1
​

A couple goes into the pub ahead of me; my age, normal looking, in love --- not like me; chaste, collared, single.

Boozy conversation escapes into the street then the door closes.

I stop at the steps to stomp the snow off my shoes. My cold-shrunken penis flops around inside the Chaste Maker cage. The NHS installed it four years ago, but this time next year it’ll be gone. I just have to keep my head down and avoid getting drawn into a relationship with somebody who prefers me this way.

“Oh hello, Brad. How’s the eunuch thing working for you?”

Damn, it’s square-jawed Roger. Posh as they come, and oozing wealth from his overcoat to his brogues. The girl with him giggles. “Eunuch? Ewww.”

“It’s chaste,” I say. “I’ve still got my dick, but at least I’m not a dick.”

Roger laughs. “Very good, Jones, very good.” He sweeps the girl inside leaving me standing out in the cold. I’ve known him since university, but he still makes me feel like a loser.

Another couple arrives --- two women this time.

I follow them in, through the empty pub, up the stairs leading to the function room. The woman on the left has a short skirt that swishes around the top of plump legs. I lavish my gaze on her curves. I’ve been the unicorn before. Chastes get interesting invites, just not to sleep over... or at least I rarely do. My love life in the last four years has been, “Slurp, squelch, thank you, man.”

Great fun, though --- I reflect as I glimpse her plump rear sheathed in warm tights --- but I’ve had enough of the frustration. And, frankly, being a chaste in your thirties is embarrassing.

The cloakroom girl is young --- early twenties, has that student look --- and distinctive long red hair framing a long face. Her green eyes meet mine.

My cock has warmed up by now. It twitches speculatively as I hand over my coat. I can’t help asking. “Sorry, don’t I recognise you?”

There’s a moment of assessment, then she looks away. I’m used to this: too big an age gap unless I’m a keeper, and something about me says I’m not a keeper. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“My mistake."

I glance around. I’m the only chaste at the party. It’s a sea of men with bare necks. One guy could be a neuter, but I’m not going to stare at his crotch looking for the bump of a cage.

I decide to leave on my turtle neck sweater and head towards the bar.

“Bradley!” Minnie --- this is her Christmas party --- bounces up to block my path. Spiked hair, big eyes. We’ve been friends since Uni, but never lovers --- even with the cage, I have the wrong tackle for her tastes. “What’s this? Won’t you be too hot?” She’s already drunk and thinks nothing of tugging at the high neck of my sweater, revealing the glass collar that’s ringed my neck for the last four years.

“Hey!”

“Just checking I hadn’t lost track. Come on, take off the naff Christmas jumper. Chaste Pride!”

The coat girl looks up at me, then opens her phone.

“Fuck Chaste Pride!” I say.

“Come on,” says Minnie. “Half the people here are queer. Be yourself.”

I sigh and hand off the sweater to the red haired girl. She’s got HrLckr open, but she won’t find me on the “Chastedar” page. I haven’t opened the app since the start of the month. And I have a little bronze patch over the QR code --- there’s a jeweller in the Orkney Islands that makes them. Very hipster

People glance at the collar. Chastes and Neuters have been around for ten years now, so I’m not a freak, but I’m still a novelty in polite company.

Minnie has vanished off into the Ladies, so I decide to brazen it out and head for the bar. I should be used to this.

As I lean on the bar, a small blond middle-aged woman slips up onto a barstool. “Hello,” she drawls. Her hair is bobbed to her jawline. Red lipstick emphasises a full mouth. Her skin crinkles around her eyes. “I’m Mariella Robinson --- Minnie’s interior designer.” She has a posh drawl, almost hoarse. Something about it tightens my Chaste Maker cage.

“Bradley Jones,” I say. “Minnie and I went to uni together. You’re a designer --- I’m a commercial artist.”

“And a chaste,” says Mariella. She swivels around to face me and crosses a leg so that her little black dress rides up to uncover a lacy stocking top. “Let me buy you a drink---”

While Mariella orders two single malts, I try to tear my gaze away from her crossed legs. She has a yoga body, shallow curves made of lithe sinews. I wonder what she tastes like, and my lost cock throbs forlornly in its cage.

I should be used to this by now! But I can’t look away until she hands me a glass of peaty whisky.

“Cheers,” drawls Mariella. “So how long have you been a chaste?”

“Four years. One to go.”

She nods. “Is it true that you can’t get off?”

My cheeks burn. I nod.

“Believe me, I know how that feels. Thirty years of marriage, and no fireworks in the bedroom. Mind you...” She uncrosses her legs, leans closer, fixes me with her blue eyes. Her breath is hot my face. “I’ve always had my vibrator. They don’t work on you do they?”

I shake my head. Something about pressure points. Anal doesn’t work either.

The skin around her eyes crinkles. “Poor boy. You must be a walking horn.”

“I go to the gym a lot,” I say. Perhaps I can change the subject to yoga or something.

Mariella reaches out and squeezes my biceps. “So I see.” She sips her whisky. “There were no chastes back when I got married. Now I’m divorced, I think I have catching up to do.”

“Bradley!” It’s Minnie again. She has her girlfriend in tow, willowy Wendy. They are the perfect couple. “Come on, there’s somebody I want you to meet.” Then to Mariella. “Sorry, I’m going to steal him away.”

“Wait,” says Mariella. She slips off the stool and beams up at me, wide lips curved --- she’s slightly shorter than me, though taller than Minnie. “Brad? What’s your HrLckr handle?”

“ArtBoy99,” says Minnie, “Come on Brad.”

“Hey,” I say as we navigate the crowd. “You didn’t have to tell her.”

“But you don’t need to accept a date,” said Minnie. “It’s not like you’re some ravening manslut. And I’ve got just the girl for you. Recently divorced. Partner at my firm. Intense the way you like them.”

“Divorced? Another Mariella?”

“More your age range.”

We’re heading towards a model-tall woman with long brown hair cascading over the back of a black velvet dress. She’s turned away from us, and there’s something about the way she stands, legs slightly braced, diamante heels plated firmly, that makes her own the space around her.

“Look,” I say. “I’m in my last year of chaste. I don’t want to get into a relationship with somebody who...”

“Prefers her men without a dick?” says Minnie. “Don’t worry. Caroline is really square.”

Caroline turns. The dress has a V neckline that shows off a little cleavage. “Did I hear my name?” Her brown eyes flick to my collar then away.

“Oh,” says Minnie. “I was saying Bradley should ask you to model for him.”

She looks at me down her elegant nose. “You’re a photographer?”

“Artist,” I say, and my god I would like to paint her, or just run my hands over her long limbs. My cock pulses, making my hips twitch reflexively.

Caroline flushes behind her perfect make up. Her face stiffens and her cheekbones suddenly seem harsh and angular.

I realise I’m grinning up at her like a labrador. Words fall out of my mouth. “Commercial artist in my day job - advertising, though it can be quite creative --- but I have had the odd exhibition... I mean paintings in exhibitions and...”

Mariella’s eyes bore into me

I’m babbling. Worse, Minnie has abandoned me. “And you’re a lawyer?” I ask, trying to change tack but keep the conversation going with this beautiful woman.

“International Maritime Law,” says Caroline. “It’s quite technical,” she adds, as if to say it would be all over my pretty little head.

It is over my head. But actually, I quite like that. “You must be much smarter than me.”

“Perhaps.” She points at my collar. “What’s the law around this specific... installation?”

“You know about CARGO?”

“Strangely, I am indeed aware of the 2013 Consenting Adults Relationships, Gender and Orientation Act. I meant specifically the apparatus.”

I finger the glass collar. “It’s criminal damage to remove it, and criminal deception to wear one if you’re not... um.” I squirm.

“Not what?”

I nod down at my caged crotch. “Not done down there. And the only surgeons licensed to remove it are part of the CARGO Programme.”

Caroline’s eyes twinkle. “Then I am smarter than you,” she says. “I can’t imagine getting myself in such a predicament.” Her nose wrinkles. “Was this to gratify some sort of fetish?”

My cheeks burn. It’s true I used to jerk off to this kind of thing, but it’s not that simple. “I... I like women,” I say and feel like a sticky cocked idiot. I really do want this thing off.

“And, do women like you this way?”

I notice Mariella hovering nearby. “Some do,” I say. “But...”

“I suppose it is safe sex,” says Caroline. “And does this... lifestyle make you happy?”

“Not any more,” I say. “One year to go, and I’m out.”

“Will women like you then?”

“I...” I shrug stupidly. “I don’t know.”

“Well at least you’ll have self-gratification.”

Somebody taps a glass. It’s Minnie, standing on a chair, for once taller than Willowy Wendy who’s holding her hand.

“Quiet everybody! Quiet. We’ve got an announcement.”

They raise their joined hands. Diamonds flash in the light.

Everybody cheers.

When people settle down a bit. “It’s just going to be a small family wedding --- my mum’s getting on a bit,” says Wendy.

“Then we’re off around the world,” says Minnie. “And we’ll see some of you at the Class of 2020 reunion.”

Shit! The ten years reunion. I’m going to feel like a bloody loser if I go, and they’ll know I’m a loser if I don’t.

I turn to find Caroline. Imagine turning up with her on my arm!

But Roger has moved in and somehow made her laugh.

Mariella pops up. She’s brandishing mistletoe. “Merry Christmas!”

What the hell. I stoop to kiss her.

Her tongue flicks my lips. Her hands go round the back of my neck. Her small breasts press into my shirt.

My caged cock goes off like an air bag.

I slide my tongue past her lips, brush her small sharp teeth and we smooch like teenagers.

Somebody --- must be Roger --- cheers and there’s general laughter.

Mariella detaches, grabs my hand. “Come on, ArtBoy99, my place is just around the corner.”

I let her lead me away from the party. At least I know this is just a one-night-stand.

-------------------------------

What do you think? Should I finish this?​

 

Here's the background, for anybody that's interested:

In an alternate UK not so far from you…

The 2020 Consenting Adults Relationships, Gender and Orientation Act ("CARGO"), is the legacy of the unlikely coalition of conservative and progressive parties resulting from the UK’s 2011 electoral reform. CARGO mandates opt-out laws supporting "traditional" marriage, but also tremendous advances for LBGTQ+ rights and healthcare.

Unfortunately, during negotiations, each coalition partner’s “lunatic fringe” pushed radical amendments, which were in turn gleefully supported by trolls on the other side.

Thus, CARGO's originally slightly retrograde opt-out marriage provisions ended up so shockingly backwards that even some conservatives call it the "Stepford Act".

Meanwhile, CARGO also created a roster of "identities" for cis men in male chastity devices, as long as these had been installed and verified by a specialist NHS clinic. Nobody took the Chaste Identities section of the bill seriously, so in a spectacular act of trolling, conservative coalition members conspired to remove checks and balances, and even added some punitive measures to make these identities “stable and long-lasting”.

Fast forward to 2030, and all this legislative bad faith has proven to be surprisingly popular. Traditional marriage suits the people who've chosen it, especially because the role of “head of household” is gender neutral and can be specified. Meanwhile, the NHS Chastity Service is booming.

(There are conspiracy theories that Artemis Futuristic, the global tech company with the contract to run the NHS chastity clinics, was behind much of CARGO, and even the electoral reform. However, nobody has ever caught them profiteering. The CEO, who is based in the woman-centred South American charter city she founded, seems to be genuinely altruistic...)

 

I've been trying to come up with framework where each step is plausible, and the result doesn't break when applied to a real world setting.

 

I'm not sure how much I'll go into it in the story, but basically it goes something like this:

(I'm using "conservative" to mean parties with conservative values, not the UK Tory party)

Mainstream Conservatives: We'd like to have opt-in traditional marriages, for example making divorce harder.

Mainstream Liberals: OK. So we'd like the law to recognise the following gender identities
(Supplies list).

Mainstream Conservatives: It seems a fair trade. Live and let live, and so on.

Lunatic Conservatives: Wait! Jesus says we should have a law to recognise a head of household and him to have the ability to throw out his wife and control her finances!

Mainstream Conservatives (to Lunatic Conservatives): Shut up, you'll make us look like insane reactionaries!

Liberal Trolls: Lunatic Conservatives! We hear you. Your lifestyle is not our lifestyle, but we support your freedom of choice. In fact we've found this very conservative manifesto and would like to include it. Domestic discipline should definitely be legal within "trad" marriages.

Mainstream Conservatives: (Noooo. But we dare not vote against it.) We'll make it gender neutral, (so people won't think we're facists.)

Liberal Trolls: Look what the conservatives did!

Liberal Lunatic Fringe: While we're on freedom of choice, chaste should be an identity!

Mainstream Liberals: (Oh god please no.) OK. But with these stringent safeguards...

Conservative Trolls: On the contrary. Libertarianism tells us that it's really important for people to be able to choose their identity. So the chastity scheme should go ahead but with minimal safeguards.

Conservative Trolls: Look what the liberals did!​

Something like that. Basically trolls on one side supporting the fringe on the other side, turning the bill into "careful what you wish for".

I probably need a simpler way to express it!

 

I do have improved medical tech. An omni vaccine makes promiscuity safe.

For the chastity devices I have:

• "Nano spray" that seals piercings
• A laser piercing system
• A tough material that gives off heat when cut.
• "Neocoral" that lets the flesh heal into transdermal piercings.

I've put those in so that devices can be fitted and functional in a single session, and then be impossible to get out of without specialist tools and minor surgery. Also, the neocoral solves the unsexy problem of leaking pee through a PA piercing.

 

As little as possible. It's also set a few decades in the near future. Medicine is a little better. Probably more use of renewables. Cars are all electric. Haven't decided about cold fusion.

Politically, the UK got proportional representation in 2011, and we have a more European style series of coalition governments. Elsewhere, Charter Cities are a thing - allowing me to write a "realistic" gynocracy.

Possibly, the geopolitical situation is less fraught. However, I'll probably ignore that entirely.

I'm not sure what's going on in America.

Sexually: I'm also not sure whether the UK is the only place with official chastes. I quite like the idea of female sex tourists coming here from elsewhere.

 

Chapter 2​

“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.

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 kick off my shoes and take a seat. 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” 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.

Hope you enjoyed that. Please let me know if you noticed any obvious bloopers or typos...

 

So if you've read Chapter 2, the question is: Would you want to live in this world?

 

Thanks!

 

I think it will alternate chapters "in the world" and chapters "in the bedroom." But we'll see.

 

Chapter 3​

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.

 

If you've read this far, please let me know! Also, if any bloopers stand out, I'd be grateful if you'd point me to them...