Bradley Jones's Chastity

Author note: The tale grows with the telling. Bradley's awkward conversation with Lawyer Caroline is now even more awkward and uncomfortable. So, if anybody is reading this for the story, I thought I had better share the update.

If you like, imagine this as a Netflix show with a Sophie Ellis-Bextor theme tune...

“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, but not the details of how it caters for each paraphilia.”

Wait? What did she just say?

I plough on. Maybe I can turn this around.

“Well...” I finger the glass collar. “It’s criminal deception to wear one of these if you’re not... um.” I squirm.

“Not what?”

I nod down at my caged crotch. “Not...”

Weird. Something about her makes me feel caught out, and I can’t say the word chastity cage.

“...done down there. And the only surgeons licensed to remove the... um... device are part of the CARGO Programme, which means chastes have to do the full five years.”

Caroline’s eyes blaze. “Then I am smarter than you,” she says. “I can’t imagine getting myself in such a predicament.” Her nose wrinkles. “All this to gratify a fetish.” She starts to turn away.

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.

Caroline turns back to look down on me. “So this is a heroic sacrifice? Oh, please.”

“I just... Empowered women make me happy,” I say, and it sounds lame, even to me.

“Empowered?” Her eyelids flicker as if they’re warning of a reservoir of repressed rage. “I’m sure some women are just relieved to find a man that doesn’t just metaphorically hump their leg then pee on the rug. You have to admit, it’s a very low bar. If that was truly your motivation, you wouldn't need the fetish paraphernalia. You could just be a decent human being.”

I draw myself up. “There’s a whole feminist movement.”

“Oh, the SCUM+ radicals? A pandering minority. We don’t need men to empower us,” says Caroline. The eyelids still and she gives me a Medusa stare that bores through my eyes and into my caged groin. “Especially not degenerates who fetishise our empowerment.”

My locked cock throbs and I shudder. “Ahem,” I say. “Wait! Isn’t it possible to like the sacrifices we make for love?”

Carline points at my collar. “But it’s not really a sacrifice, is it? Five years as a boy toy will give you years of material to contemplate in onanistic solitude. Now, you must excuse me. I have to talk to normal people.”

And with that she turns away.

My hips twitch, and there’s a hot wet pressure in my caged dick, and I feel dirty... soiled.

I notice Mariella lurking closer, and move in the opposite direction.

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 glance wistfully at Caroline. Imagine turning up with her on my arm! Her face is slightly flushed and something about her oozes sex. Did she actually enjoy giving me that roasting?

She’s hugging Minnie and Wendy, but I notice Roger hovering nearby, without his escort.

I slip through the crowd towards her.

“Congratulations both of you,” she says, “but please don’t try to set me up with another drooling pervert.”

Minnie laughs. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“He was very trying,” says Caroline, and Wendy giggles and does that hip shimmy thing that makes her so unattainably sexy.

I blush and turn away.

Mariella pops up. She’s brandishing mistletoe and a bedroom grin. “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 glance back at Caroline. Roger has moved in and somehow gotten her laughing. Her head’s thrown back, exposing her long neck.

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

The track Take Me Home swells and the title sequence runs.

 

Planning a side tale...

​

 

CHAPTER 4​

Friday morning, the day of the gallery opening, and I haven’t slept all week. Every time I drift off, I get visions of RedRunner’s red-thatched crotch --- I mean women just don’t normally send unsolicited pussy pics! --- then dream about kissing my boss.

God I miss being able to wank. Eleven months and two weeks left!

Anyway..., luckily..., I have the day off to write my speech --- which seems excessive --- so I’ve switched off my alarm and woken later and refreshed, if still a little woozy.

I manoeuvre through my bedsit’s clutter of canvasses and paints and manage some coffee --- no milk, so I call it Americano. Finally, I sit cross-legged on the bed and open my laptop.

Shit.

There’s an email from the CEO --- my boss Lydia’s boss --- with the subject “Brief for your speech”.

I open it. Blink at the text.

“Shit!”

I mean, seriously, SHIT!

Dear Bradford...

--- bosswoman can’t even get my name right ---

Thanks for agreeing to introduce Artemis, who will be making an announcement about a new innovation. Please note that she is the main sponsor of the exhibition and that Artemis Futuristic is one of our major clients, and that she requested we platform an “ordinary chaste”.

Artemis! He means the women formerly known as Shohreh Christian, the Iranian former model turned entrepreneur turned plutocrat! The founder, owner and CEO of Artemis Futuristic, the company who manufactured my Chaste Maker. She doesn’t normally leave her South American charter city...

It’s then it hits me.

Arguably the most powerful woman in the world, and I have to introduce her, and do so in front of the world’s press and my boss.

It gets worse.

We are grateful that you have agreed to share your feelings about experience Chaste Pride.

Thanks Caroline! This is not what I thought I signed up for.

It’s important that you do so in a way that does not centre the male perspective, but at the same time avoids making patronising assumptions about female empowerment.

Now I have flashbacks to lawyer Caroline’s eyes boring into me while I squirm and feel dirty.

*Bear in mind that the audience comprises some of the most powerful female executives in the UK - for which read “potential clients”.

About five minutes should suffice.

Thanks once again...*

Blah blah blah.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! SHIT!”

#
By four in the afternoon, I’m jogging around the local park. It’s snowing lightly, but not settling, so I almost have the place to myself. I’ve got my phone, but I’m not in the mood for music. There’s something soothing about the rumble of traffic and the steady beat of my feet on the wet path.

It’s been a long day, alternating between hyper-ventilating panic and frantic research. I’ve gotten a page written, so I’m half way there. But it reads like a UN report:

Since 2023, uptake of the NHS Chastity programme has resulted in 5% of the male population of the UK...

Snooze!

I decided I needed to lose the stress so I could think. My gym is near work --- chastes get free membership for some reason --- so here I am running round one bit of green in the area. I wonder where RedRunner----

RedRunner herself appears from around the bend ahead, lithe limbs under green Spandex, red hair like embers against the winter grey of the leafless trees lining the path.

I get a vision of the pussy pic she sent me.

Quickly, I pivot and run the opposite direction.

She catches up with a giggle. Now she paces alongside me, shoes splatting on the wet path, ponytail bobbing. “You’re supposed to be chasing me, not the other way around.”

“Go away,” I gasp. “I’m working.”

“Well you’re certainly not wanking,” she says, and I realise she has a sweet Irish accent.

“I will be in a few months,” I say. “So thanks for the pic.” I break into a sprint to end the conversation.

I’m panting now.

A giggle and she’s caught up with me again. “Eleven months is long enough for my purposes,” she says. (Of course! It’s on my profile.)

“Too long for my taste. I’m on the wagon.”

The faster gait makes her red ponytail dance, but she speaks with ease. “But you cannot resist me.”

“Give me...” I have to speak between pants. “...your number and I’ll... call you... when I’m...”

“Oh, no,” she says. “I don’t fuck basics. Ew.” Another giggle and she speeds up so now she’s running in front of me, long buttocks twitching with each pace of her lean legs.

“Basics” is a term fashionable among what they call the CARGO Generation: the cohort who reached sexual maturity after 2023, and just take all this for granted.

I wish I’d been one of them!

I squeeze a little more speed out of myself. “Does anybody... ever... catch you?”

“Often.” RedRunner throws me a glance over her shoulder, all sparkling green eyes and parted lips. “When I let them.”

“But I don’t want to catch you.”

“That’s what makes this so hot.” She pulls ahead and calls back, “You’re hooked by your own paraphilia.”

Now she’s sounding like the sexy version of lawyer Caroline. I coax just a little more speed out of my legs. “Doesn’t that...” I lose it and grind to a halt.

RedRunner turns and jogs on the spot, making her small breasts quiver under their green Spandex covering. “Doesn’t that what?”

“Bother you?” I gasp. I straighten. “Doesn’t it bother you? My---,” I make air quotes. “---paraphilia?”

Her red eyebrows furrow in what looks like genuine puzzlement. “Why should it? I get what I want. You suffer. Why should I care if your life choices are stupid? Anyway, I’m getting cold and bored.”

She spins around and starts to run.

I sprint after her.

The worst of it is that I know I can’t resist, know I’m going to suffer, know this is not a good way to prepare for my dreaded speech.

I’m at her heels when she turns out of the park onto the street.

“Slow down!” I pant. “I’ll be too tired.”

“It’s not as if you have to get it up!”

RedRunner does, however pause at the traffic lights. Then we’re over the road into a new built block of student housing. She pauses again at the big glass door, running on the spot. “You have to accept the date.”

My phone is on a shoulder strap. It just takes a quick swipe to accept the date. Then we’re running across the foyer, past the elevators and into the stairwell.

She runs ahead, climbing one turn above me.

The fire door at the top is swinging closed and it looks like it has a security lock.

I hurl myself through it, and there’s a corridor of identical doors, except one’s open.

I stagger through it, stumble on a pair of discarded running shoes.

RedRunner leaps into my arms, wraps her legs around my hips, puts cold sweaty hands behind my neck, hooks bare feet into the crook of my knees.

I stagger back against the door, which bangs shut.

The red-haired Irish girl kisses me, fiercely --- chewing, tonguing while my cock goes wild in its cage.

I kiss her back. Her lips and cheeks are cold, but my tongue finds her mouth warm and wet beyond the scraping teeth.

I’m holding her by the waist, but RedRunner is skinny and doesn’t need my support. I tug at her damp Spandex. It rolls up over clammy skin, up her spine, the back of her sports bra.

She lets go of my neck, leans out and whips it all off in a single motion. Her small breasts are pale in the room’s harsh LED light, the nipples rosy like her lips.

I tear off my own top, cup her firm buttocks and raise her so I can suck a breast, tongue a hard nipple. The taste of fresh perspiration floods my mouth, tears through my senses so my caged groin hardens like concrete. I whimper into her flesh.

She giggles. She reaches back to let her long red hair fall free. Still giggling, she runs her nails up my back.

“Put me down on the bed, you degenerate perve.”

I stumble forward and deposit her on the queen-size bed, landing with my chest between her thighs.

RedRunner rolls her legs back - toenails scraping my skin --- and tugs her waistband.

Once again, Spandex and underwear come away, and there she is in her glory; pale freckled skin, rosy nipples and rosy inner lips glinting from behind a fuzz of red pubic hair.

My groin clenches. The cage crushes my penis. “Jesus!”

Her bare feet land behind my shoulders. She kicks her heels, nudging me down. “I’m not Jesus,” she says, “But if I do a hundred chastes, they say I’ll become a blessed virgin.”

I duck down and land on her pussy open mouthed and suck. It’s the same musk as her perspiration, but stronger, spicier. My caged penis prickles like its wrapped in barbed wire. I let out another whimper.

She giggles merrily. “Your going to regret this.”

Without breaking the kiss, I nod. Then I trawl her slit with my tongue, flick her clitoris.

RedRunner purrs and shifts against me. Juices well into my mouth. She places my hands firmly on her small breasts.

I pinch her nipples.

She groans and writhes.

Raising my eyes, I can just see through the red frizz of her pubic hair to her flushed face.

She crosses her ankles behind my head, clamps my cheeks with cool thighs. “Faster!”

I gladly obey. My tongue sloshes between her inner lips, slapping her clit at the end of flick.

RedRunner arches her back, thrusting he small breasts towards the ceiling, grinding her groin into my face. “Oh yes. Yes.” She’s breathing hard now, harder than when she was actually running. “YES!”

And that’s it. Her legs unfurl and she pushes me away.

I settle onto my knees and stare forlornly at her pussy while my caged cock throbs in time to the memory of my tongue in her slit.

She sits up on the edge of the bed, cheerfully naked, and flicks back her long red hair. “Very good. Five star review for you, ArtBoy99.”

“It’s Bradley,” I say.

“That’s nice,” she says.

I stand up. “I’d better go. I have an important work thing this evening.”

Her green eyes flash. She rolls to her feet and pinches my nipples, making me squirm. “I’m not done with you yet, ArtBoy99,” she says.

I try to back away, but that just stretches my nipples. A prickling pleasure-pain spreads out over my chest. “I need to go.”

“Yes,” she says, “You do.” She lets go of my left nipple and uses the free hand to pull down my trousers. “Oh good, magic boxers.”

“Hey!” I start to try to pull them up.

She straightens and slaps me, hard.

My cheek blazes with pain and I put one hand hand to it. “Hey!” I repeat, even as my lost cock twitches.

She slaps the remaining hand and I let go of my waistband.

Dropping to her haunches, she peels my trousers down to my ankles.

I start to back away.

She rises up like a banshee. “You’re going to leave a girl naked and unsatisfied, are you then?” She slaps the other cheek.

I should fight back, but now I’m holding my smarting face like it’s a football while my lost cock throbs like a second heart. “You’re crazy!”

“No, I just like getting what I want.” She points down.

Somehow she’s installed a realistic dildo in my magic boxers. “I need to go,” I say.

“You need to be fucking me,” she says. She springs on me like before, hooks her feet behind my knees. Then she lets go and drapes herself backwards until her palms are planted on the floor like something out of the Kama Sutra.

I look down and just find myself staring.

The artificial penis is still lodged in her vagina. Her lean tummy is stretched taught. Her small breasts have subsided towards her upside down face, which is red from the blood flowing to it. “Well?” she says. “Or is it my spurs I’ll have to get?”

I twitch my buttocks and the dildo goes in a few inches. As it withdraws, her vaginal lips seem to suck at it.

I repeat the twitching action and it looks for all the world like I’m having sex with this beautiful, red-haired Irish girl.

Except my real cock is curled up in its prison, hard as rock, as hopeless as a prisoner doing hard time.

I should be used to this after four years, but it never ever gets old... probably because I never ever get to get off and clear my head.

She really doesn’t weigh much. It’s easy to stand there rocking back and forward, poking the roof of her vagina with the dildo.

“Oh that’s good,” she says. “Don’t you wish you could feel it... feel me... feel my cunt...” She’s getting breathless and there’s the flush spreading up from her face to between her breasts. “I’ll forget you but you’ll remember me... my cunt... what can you feel?”

“Nothing!” I say.

“Nothing!” she repeats. “NOTHING OH MY GOD FUCK!” Then. “Stop.”

I obey and watch the shiny dildo spring free of the red forest between her freckled thighs.

“Wow. Dizzy.” She giggles, tries for the bed, ends up sitting on the floor with me looking down on her. “Intense.” Another giggle.

I stoop to reach for my trousers, which are still around my ankles. “I really should go.”

“Oh well,” she says, rising. “If it’s like that then.”

I flinch, expecting another slap.

However, RedRunner turns away.

Have I hurt her feelings?

She braces her legs and bends over the bed so that the arrow where thigh meets buttocks frames her puffy red-thatched vulva.

I find myself standing tall, stepping forward. I grab her slender, perspiration soaked waist, thrust my hips to hook the dildo up inside her.

My groin is now a numb knot of lust.

She giggles. “That’s more like it.”

I slam into her hard.

“Oh,” she cries. “Fuck me you pervert. Fuck me like the memory’s going to fuck you.”

I work the dildo like a piston, churning her squelching vagina while the hot scent rises from her like a face-full of sex.

RedRunner devolves into a swearing, grunting catlike animal. There’s a pause of inhaled breath, then a screech. “Oh myjesusandmary andfuck!”

I gently withdraw the dildo.

She turns around and unsteadily sits on the bed. “You can give me back Mr Knightly.”

“What?”

“My dong.”

I wrestle the slippery penis out of its retaining ring and detach it from my magic boxers. It actually says Mr Knightly on the base.

She catches my look. “Jane Austin themed dildos... there’s a website.” She takes the penis off me. “You can go. I need to take a shower then do some studying.” She picks herself off the bed and limps over to her small en suite.

My cock is still throbbing and I have this urge to thrust it into something... anything.

“But...” I begin.

“You see? This is why you chastes are great hookups, but crap boyfriends. Always pestering for sex. Fuck off or I’ll give you one star.”

Her contempt is casual, a million miles away from scary lawyer Caroline’s offence at my mere existence.

“Look,” I blurt. “I have to speak about chastes tonight. Answer a couple of questions for me? You owe me that.”

“OK,” she says, “One for each cum. But get dressed and be quick. I need a pee.”

She stands there in the doorway, totally naked, unconcerned by my gaze or the throb in my caged crotch.

As I pull on my damp running trousers I ask, “Have you done this with a basic?”

She laughs. “A basic wouldn’t have the staying power. And I’m not ever parting my legs for some random dick, to be used and discarded like some soiled hanky.”

“Soiled hanky?” I say, reaching for my shirt. “What does that make me?”

“Interactive porn,” she says, with a grin. “That hurts and pleads and sometimes bleeds. Now piss off and let me pee.”

“One more question,” I say as I pull on my shoe. “What about a bloke in an ordinary chastity cage?”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” She moves inside the bathroom. A toilet seat clangs and there’s the hiss of urine. “How would I trust him? And what kind if nice young lady would keep a poor boy locked?” There’s the scrape of toilet paper on crotch. The lid clangs, and the WC flushes. She sticks her head around the door. “Are you still here?”

“One more. Do you think you’ve behaved like a nice young lady tonight?

“Of course not,” she says. “I laid hands on you. Treated you worse than a stud animal, and now I’m sending you off without so much as a kiss goodbye. But perves like your are literally asking for it in your natty glass collars and inescapable cock cages. So I get a free pass. That’s the point. Now, if that’s all, I really do have to take a shower...”

“I’m done,” I say.

But she’s already closed the door.

I slip out of her room and head for home. I just have time to shower and rewrite my speech. It’s going to be perfect...

 

CHAPTER 5​

It’s 7 PM when I step out of the taxi.

As I stroll the up-market pedestrian precinct, I hear the chugga-chugga beat of dance music. It’s coming from the gallery up ahead, with its big neon GIRL BOSS sign.

Bloody hell! Nerves.

There’s a mirror in the window of a posh furniture shop. I stop to check myself.

The chaste boy toy has gone!

Business jacket, black turtle neck, khaki chinos, no bling: very much “up-and-coming designer with a side-order of Steve Jobs”.

Mariella appears behind me, all crinkly white-toothed smiles and neat bobbed blond hair. “Oh hello, Bradley,” she drawls in her throaty upper class accent. “Are you going to the exhibition opening?”

I have a vision of the older woman’s flushed face as she arched her back and chanted “Nothing!” all the way to an orgasm. My hips twitch and my cold penis wakes in its cage. “Um,” I say turning to face her. “Actually, I’m the exhibition designer.”

Mariella grins and slips an arm in mine. “I hope the title wasn’t your idea.”

I shake my head. “Ironic call back to the 2010s, apparently.”

“Hah!”

We walk along, arm in arm, while I enjoy the clip-clop sound of her boots. We must look like a proper couple, though the age gap draws glances from passers-by.

As we queue to get in, I ask “What’s your connection?”

“You mean,” she drawls, “how did a nobody like me merit a ticket?”

I blush. “I meant...”

Mariella laughs. “A neighbour works for the sponsor.”

The doorwoman waves us through and --- Bloody Hell!

“Well, fuck,” says Mariella, and vanishes into the crowd.

The place is crammed with women, mostly in their 30s and 40s, most in fashionable winter boots, some with chastes in attendance...

And there’s a stage with a strip show going on...

A male strip show.

As I watch, a 20-something blond dude rips off his boxers to reveal a very big Chaste Maker cage around his groin. He’s got no collar, so he’s a neuter signed up for the terrifying ten-year long haul.

And a hundred women cheer... an animal baying that goes straight to my caged groin. Suddenly I’m aware of a background aroma; the perspiration of all these women crammed into the small venue.

I know it’s a bad idea but I can’t help slipping out my mobile phone. I open HrLckr and set it to Live.

Somebody tugs at my arm.

My boss Lydia contemplates me with her twinkly eyes. She’s wearing a silvery sequin dress that hugs her hour-glass figure. She cocks her head in the direction of a side room, which turns out to be a quieter bar area. “You’re on in ten,” she says.

I nod.

“I...” she trails off and stares past me.

I turn and see Caroline the scary lawyer in an argument with square-jawed Roger, my university nemesis.

He pivots and marches past me without a look.

Caroline does look at me as she passes; a fierce glare that makes my pierced cock flex in its prison.

And now Lydia has gone.

I shrug and wonder over to the bar for a lemonade. It’s hot in here. The jacket and turtle neck were a mistake. I shed them and settle to going over my speech on my phone.

“Excuse me? Gosh, this is forward of me, but are you a... chaste?”

A 40-something woman I’ve barely noticed has turned from her gin-and-tonic. She’s wearing a slightly frumpy dress and an Alice band contains her long mouse-brown hair. Nice boots, though; knee length and tight around her dancer’s calves.

I smile at her, and finger my glass collar. “Yes, I am indeed a chaste.”

The woman offers me her hand to shake and I spot the wedding ring. “Sarah Liemann, accountant. Mrs Sarah Liemann.”

I laugh. “How can I help you, Mrs Liemann?”

“Well, I’m just finding out about all this um chaste stuff and I wonder if it might suit my husband. So, may I ask you some questions?”

There’s something mesmerising about her eyes: wide and innocent but with a kind of fanatic light burning behind them. “Go on...”

And we have The Chat. She’s stumbling over herself to be polite and delicate, but it comes down to:

*Does it hurt? No.

Am I horny all the time? Yes, but you get used to it.

Porn use? Self punishing.

Vibrators? Don’t work. No, really they don’t work. (Ass play doesn’t come up, so I mention it as not working either.)

Is it better to be a chaste or a neuter? Um...*

Lydia sweeps in and rescues me from Mrs Liemann. I just have time to pull on my turtle neck, and then I’m at the edge of the stage. Two chastes are dirty dancing with each other, while an older woman in a ringmaster costume uses a whip to direct the action.

The dancers end on a kiss, flit off the stage past the hawkish gallery owner who slaps a passing buttock --- she keep her hands to herself around chastes, by the way --- and then Artemis herself, who waits behind a screen on the other side of the stage. She’s a striking sixty-year-old Iranian woman who looks exactly her age, and comfortably sexy with it. Her amazing braided suit could be ethnic, or very expensive, or both, and she just oozes power --- and that makes her ultimately hot.

Her husband clearly thinks so; a balding man in his fifties, he’s flaunting a collar with a holographic gold spiral running round it. Mr Artemis is something of an icon amongst chastes: fitted with a unique device that even surgery can’t remove without making a mess.

I’d call that the ultimate sacrifice for the ultimately high status and thus hot wife.

Lydia gives me a shove, and I’m up in the spotlight.

I put my phone on the podium, open my speech and look up.

A hundred women... powerful women --- the main guest list is all directors and CEOs --- are look back at me.

My hips twitch reflexively. There’s a wet pulse in my groin.

Crap. Those khaki chinos were a bad idea!

I really, really need to check my groin for a damp patch. Instead, I opt for diversionary tactics. “How can I follow that?”

They laugh. The women actually laugh... probably because they are all a little drunk.

And suddenly I want to wallow in that laughter. “Token man,” I say.

More female laughter. Female, not feminine. Something primal is going on here.

I shuck off my turtle-neck. “Or perhaps a half man...” I raise my hands and do a few hip thrusts. “Make the most of this, laides. That’s as far down as I get... unless you get me in private.”

That only earns a few laughs, but they are deliciously knowing ones that tighten my groin. A wet pressure builds up.

Time to be serious before something embarrassing happens.

“OK,” I say, and read from my phone. “They picked me to introduce Artemis, because if she’s Frankenstein, then I’m one of Frankenstein’s monsters. Or maybe she’s Dr Moro, I’m one of her creatures, and the UK is her island?”

Nobody gets the joke.

“Movie nerd humour,” I blurt. “Sorry. There’s a reason why I ended up a chaste - it’s hard to talk with your mouth full.”

Now everybody laughs, and I feel my brain spiralling into my caged groin.

I take a breath to centre myself. My voice wobbles slightly as I continue. (Shit. Why did I agree to this?)

“They asked me to talk about Chaste Pride. But what is there to be proud of? I once made the mistake of telling a devastatingly intellectual and high-powered lady --- who happens to also be stunningly tall (I add) --- that I liked empowered women. And she looked down her elegant nose on me and pointed out: women don’t need men to empower them.”

Nods and yesses from the audience.

“Also, why not just focus on being a decent human being? How dare I fetishise female emancipation?”

That actually creates an awkward silence. I need to get the next part right.

“Well...

My phone pings and the screen fills with an image of RedRunner’s crimson-furred pussy. Worse, it’s an animated image, and she’s using her Mr Knighty dildo. Each time it withdraws, it draws out her rosy inner lips, which glisten with juices. The caption reads. “You can’t unsee this.”

The audience becomes restive.

I play for time. “To be honest...”

I try to swipe away the unsolicited pussy, but my fingers are sweaty and the phone doesn’t want to respond.

I look up at the audience and realise I must resemble a deer in the headlights. And the words just come out.

“To be honest, that roasting turned me on. Because, chaste.”

The tension breaks, and they laugh.

I mentally cringe, but I just can’t stop talking. “But... seriously... she made me feel like a dick... not that I’ve felt my dick for four years!”

Now the laughter is deliciously cruel. My caged penis throbs warningly.

“So I’m on the wrong end of a roasting from this amazing woman, and I’m turned on, and I can’t wait to get some privacy to...” I glance theatrically at my groin. “Well, damn.” (No wet patch. Thank god)

More cruel laughter.

“Well, it’s a funny sort of fetish which doesn’t give pleasure to the fetishee. Funnier still...”

I close my eyes, try to recall my speech

“...chastes who get married tend to stay chaste. Or ‘upgrade’ to neuter --- which, given I’m in my last year, scares the pants off me... but not the Artemis Futuristic cage.”

A woman shouts, “Get ‘em off, boy!”

I duck to speak directly into the microphone. “ArtBoy99 on LckHr, madam.

My app pings with a date request, and everybody laughs.

I wait for silence. “So, what I wish I’d said to that devastatingly lady is---.”

Another ping. And another.

“Men are a mixed bag. You don’t know who’s just going to --- as she so delicately put it --- metaphorically hump your leg and pee on the carpet...”

Shit.

Lawyer Caroline has somehow reached the front of the audience. I thought she’d gone home with square-jawed Roger! Instead, she’s glaring up at me. Her eyelids are flickering with barely suppressed rage.

And it’s actually funny, because I have the stage and the mic, and she hasn’t.

I look past her. “But you know who’s definitely not going to behave like an incontinent Labrador---.”

I finger my glass collar.

The women cheer.

But I can feel Caroline’s glare boring into me.

I look directly at her and our gazes lock. I could drown in her piercing brown eyes.

“Not only can’t we actually hump anything, but you can treat us worse than you’d ever dream of treating a dog... and we’ll worship you for it because, yes OK, maybe this is a fetish or paraphilia or whatever, but like a good bank error, it’s in your favour!”

The women laugh, and Caroline flinches her gaze away.

I raise my voice a little for the finale. “And I’m proud to be one of those reliable, reliably mistreatable, utterly disposable, chastes. And that, ladies and...” I make a play of peering into the crowd. “...gentlemen, is my Chaste Pride.”

Everybody claps.

I bow and add. “Now a big hand --- not that it will do me any good - for the Girl Boss Exhibition’s sponsor, the one and only Artemis!”

Caroline is back to glaring at me, and suddenly I realise all the things I’ve said. I flee the stage, past security, and through a door into the actual gallery containing the exhibition.

Safe now, I take a moment to calm myself.

As per my design, the partitions are arranged to make a ritual maze you have to wind through. I was here to watch the picture hanging, but somehow I’m seeing the portraits of powerful women as if for the first time --- perhaps because I was distracted by fending off the gallery owner.

There’s a PA system in the gallery, so I can hear Artemis addressing the crowd in her oddly sexy accent. “Twenty years ago, I realised I had a hanky hubby on my hands... always on the internet surfing porn. I thought to myself, fuck that! I’m a billionaire.(Laughter) I tasked my medical engineers to come up with a permanent solution, and here we are...

Girl Boss really was an ironic title. The portraits depict women like the ones in the audience --- some of them are the women in the audience --- high-fliers in their thirties and older... at work, resplendent in their mansions and penthouses, astride thoroughbred horses, climbing, skiing, yachting... all of them fabulous and formidable... and judging from my phone, I may soon have dates lined up with some of them.

Meanwhile, Artemis’s tone changes to something more serious. “Artemis Futuristic is proud to support Chaste and Neuter, but we’re truly thrilled to roll out a third CARGO identity based on the device piloted by my dear husband all those years ago and ever since... ‘Capon’, which I’m reliably informed means ‘domesticated cock’. This one is truly permanent, ladies. And, if you want to skip the NHS waiting lists, I’ll be handing out vouchers later on. (FERAL CHEERS)”

It’s as if somebody’s punched me in the groin. There I was, nervous about justifying being a chaste, and here’s the audience baying to virtually castrate their men, or any men. Or all men!

Caroline looms out of nowhere. “How dare you make a fool of me!”

Some instinct makes me hunch my shoulders. “I didn’t actually name you!” That comes out as more of a whine than intended.

“Positively everybody will know it was me you were getting off over!”

Suddenly her rage is funny. “If I was able to get off, I wouldn’t be here.”

Caroline’s hand lashes out, and for the second time today, a beautiful woman slaps me.

Her palm lands with a resounding thwack!

White pain flickers across my vision. The whole side of my face blazes. I stagger back.

My hips twitch. There’s a wet fire in my captive dick and my balls empty out in a joyless convulsion.

I fall to my knees, find myself staring at Caroline’s knee-boots.

“Oh my god,” she exclaims, bending to offer me a hand. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

I smirk up at her. “Don’t be sorry. It’s the closest I’ve come to an orgasm in four years.”

She sees the wet patch on my chinos, straightens. Her nose wrinkles. “You’re disgusting.”

I shrug and touch my cheek. “It still bloody hurt, and I still can’t bloody cum.”

Caroline contemplates me. The anger has gone, but it’s been replaced by a curious coldness, as if I were a bug in a laboratory. “Why don’t you have Masochism or Femdom selected on your profile?”

“My profile?” But of course. If she has a HrLckr account, she can tinker with her own choices to see what we match on.

There are footsteps. Lydia calls out, “Bradley?” She’s carrying my discarded turtle neck and jacket.

“Never mind,” says Caroline. She strides past me into the maze.

Lydia looks down at me. Her eyes twinkle. “Oh, Bradley. Was it all a bit much?”

I nod stupidly.

“You have to watch out with Caroline. She’s not a good person.”

“So I gather.”

Lydia contemplates my damp crotch. Her eyes become twinkly beads. “Now I realise why chastes wear dark trousers. Never mind, we’ll get you out the back entrance and into a taxi.” She crosses her booted ankles. “I’d see you home, but I need to hobnob with the sponsor.”

An hour later, I’m showered and tucked up in bed

Three hours or so after that, I’m woken by the doorbell.

While you're waiting to find out who just rang Bradley's doorbell, you can read what the slightly odd Sarah did about her 'hanky hubby' in Sarah Makes Her Marriage Chaste...

 

And here's that side story!
​

 

The current series bible is here, if anybody is curious about the world of NHS Chastity...

 

Chaste Identities - which would you choose? (Or impose?)

There are four Chaste Identities in my story world. Each is backed by a legal framework, and is practically impossible to get out of without serving the specified term.

I tried to make them extreme, but just plausible...

Chaste: The baseline identity. Sign up for a 5-year-term. In practice, it takes a little longer to schedule removal, and you had better not miss the appointment. Chastes must wear an official collar. If the collar is removed, you are automatically treated as a Neuter. (And yes, sometimes collars get non-consensually removed.)

I think I'd have signed up for this back in the day, as long as the collars were socially acceptable... which is part of the point of the setting.

Neuter: Open-ended, minimum ten years with waiting lists and counselling at the end of that. Neuters have the option to wear an official gold tinted glass collar.

The big advantage of this is no collar... I have a feeling that these identities would be tattoo sleeves: a "young person thing" for the first decade at least. So as a middle-aged man, I might be more comfortable as a Neuter. However, ten years is a long time!

Capon: Perpetual chastity. There is no legal or safe way to remove this… intrusive device. Optional collar is jet black. This is the device featured in "Sarah Makes Her Marriage Chaste" and is only available in Trial format (see Locked, below).

I'm sure some people would sign up to this! But, nope. Hell nope!

Locked: A halfway house available privately, but fitted and administered by the NHS. The chastity device is a "Trial Version" and has three (3) keys. It also has a Red Button. Push the button and the lock simply falls off, leaving you sealed in. If it’s a Trial Chastemaker Cage, your locked period begins as soon as you register as a Chaste or Neuter. If it’s a Capon Cage, no registration is needed unless you want to wear an official collar. It should be noted that some women find the red button particularly tempting…

Best option, though the cost might be an issue. And there would be that red button...

Which would you sign up for? Or, which would you have your sub sign up for?

 

Coming soon! (Though Bradley isn’t…)​

So the door buzzer goes, only I’m dreaming and it isn’t a doorbell it’s a vibrator and I’m naked in front of all those women at the gallery opening and I’m going to spray semen everywhere...

The buzzer goes again, urgent.

Now I’m awake and horny, but I get flashes of me spilling my guts to all those people, then Lydia’s amused look when I literally soiled myself with spunk. Lydia who is --- be honest --- next year’s potential new girlfriend - once I’m out of this hellish chastity device that seemed like a good idea at the time four years ago.

My caged, pierced penis tries to rear in agreement, failed.

More buzzing.

My phone lights up --- it’s on mute, but there’s a text message:

Lydia: U OK? Let me in.

She’s checking on me!

Is that a boss thing, or a potential new girlfriend thing?

Or both?

Or a sympathetic mate thing?

Ugh.

I turn on the bedside light, roll out from the covers, flop the canvas in the middle of the bedsit so she won’t see it, and get to the entry phone.

“Lydia?”

“Hey Jones. Let me in. It’s bloody sleeting out here and there are no bloody cabs.”

I buzz her in, put the door on the latch and run to put the kettle in.

Here’s a whine of wind slipping into the building. The lower door slams. Boots clip-clop up the stairs. My front door creaks open then shuts.

I turn from making tea.

Lydia is framed in my doorway like a 90’s feminist icon: Long coat open to reveal deep red dress with understated Paisley patterns, black knee boots with shiny lace hooks. A really expensive gold chain adorns her elegant neck. Her jet black hair has a light dusting of snow; so much for sleet!

Lydia’s eyes twinkle. “Are we OK, Jones?”

“I think so? You had my back, so thanks.”

Lydia shucks off her long coat so it falls to the floor by the door.

I start to move from the little kitchen area to pick it up, but she clip-clops across my bedsit’ Her hips sway as she navigates the canvas and paints. Her boots leave wet patches on the chipped laminate flooring.

Our eyes meet. She does her urchin smile; uneven upper teeth, wicked glint in the eyes.

Lydia puts her cold hands around my neck, tilts her head and kisses me on the mouth. Her lips make little chewing, suckling actions.

Something primal takes over.

I open my mouth, extend my tongue, clasp her to me.

Lydia’s mouth tastes of dry red wine. Her teeth scrape my tongue. Her body is lithe against mine, her breasts a warm cushion against my chest. My caged genitals become a knot of prickling, throbbing, lust. Four years! It’s been four years!

My hips convulse, grinding into her.

A groan escapes her throat. Without breaking the kiss, Lydia releases my neck, runs her hands down my back, caressing me through the material of my pyjamas, and slips them into my trousers to squeeze my buttocks.

My pulse rushes in my ears. I pull away. “Oh fuck. I really can’t.”

Lydia tilts her head and regards me quizzically. “You’re not exclusive with anybody --- I checked the HrLckr.” She pronounces it “Her Licker” and draws out that last word to make it sound really dirty.

I shudder. “It’s not that.”

“You do like me, don’t you, Jones?”

I flush. “It’s complicated.”

Something rattles on the windows. If it wasn’t sleeting before, it is now.

Lydia slips past me and hops up to perch on my kitchen work surface --- thank god I wiped it; I know I’m on the wagon, but I got into the habit of always tidying before I go out, just in case...

Lydia swings her booted feet. The leather shines in the half light from my bedside lamp at the other end of the room.

I have the urge to drop to my knees and just stare. There’s a goddess in my kitchen.

Lydia’s eyes narrow to twinkling beads. “Well?”

“You’re magnificent,” I blurt. “Elegant. Sexy. High-powered. I frankly get hard looking at you.”

Lydia lets out an amused snort. “But...? That sounds like a shit sandwich.”

“There is no but,” I say. “That’s the problem. I don’t want to date you as a Chaste.”

Lydia leans forward, treating me to a nice display of cleavage. “But that is a problem.”

“Only for another eleven months.” I realise I mumbled and repeat it.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh.” Lydia leans back. She swings her boots, bumping her block heels against my kitchen units. “But you spoke so well at the gallery. You were really impressive right up until you wet yourself in front of Crazy Caroline.”

My cheeks burn. “I didn’t wet myself.”

Lydia laughs. “Jismed. Whatever.”

“It’s not fucking funny!”

“What happened to reliable and disposable?”

“That was the old me.” I squirm in her amused gaze. “I want you to know the new me...” I trail off and feel my cheeks burn.

“Oh bloody hell,” she says. “You’re embarrassed and it’s going to make things weird between us.” She slips off the worktop, brushes down her dress. “Bend over. I’m going to spank you.”

The blood pumps into my imprisoned penis. I hunch over as if kicked in the balls. “What the fuck?”

“Go on. I’m still your boss and we have to work together. We’re both fully clothed so there’s nothing indecent about this. Just therapeutic. It’s all the rage in some ladies’ spas.”

“Uh.” I find myself turning round, bending over and bracing my hands on my knees.

She clip-clops closer.

I flinch.

Then she hits me.

On the buttocks.

And it stings.

I yelp and spring away. “What the fuck was that?”

She’s standing there holding a heavy rubber spatula.

“You said spank!” I accuse. “Not, beat.”

Lydia does her cheeky urchin smile. “Yes, but I’m not going to bugger up my hand. The effect is the same. Bend over again.”

I do as bidden, but when her boot-steps approach I flinch away. “I can’t.”

She bends over --- her breasts swing, her cleavage grabs the gaze --- and unzips her left boot. “Go on. Get on the bed. On your face. Arms by your side.”

My penis throbs like a second heart, robbing me of all willpower. As if from a great distance, I watch myself I obey.

The mattress dips. The bed creaks. She gets astride my back, facing my feet. Her knees pin my arms. Her buttocks settle on my shoulder-blades. “Now,” she says, “You’ve been a dirty, dirty boy!”

The spatula thwacks into my left buttock, then my right, then my left... Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

I gasp wordlessly. The pain is just too shocking to process. It’s like jumping into ice cold water. I squirm like a fish. “Help!”

Lydia just snorts with laughter and continues.

And I just can’t... catch up(?)... with the pain.

I’m lost, drowning.

I get a vision of scary lawyer Caroline watching me with cold brown eyes. Perhaps...?

And Lydia stops.

All the blood flows into my groin so that I’m scared my penis will split and burst like a sack of blood.

I whimper.

Lydia gives an amused snort. “Do you feel better, Jones?”

I manage a mumble.

She unclamps her legs from my arms, lifts off my shoulders. “Oh do turn over, I can’t hear you, Jones.”

I squirm around and---

“Fuck!”

Lydia is naked.

Her nearly trimmed pussy and white buttocks hang over my face like a wet dream.

I groan and crane forward.

Her thighs frame a view of her swinging breasts, upside-down face with hair streaming down over my legs, and golden chain swinging against her chin --- the only items she’s not removed are her necklace and finger rings.

The weather rattles the windows.

Lydia gives me dirty upside down grin and backs her groin into my face.

My nose jams into the sticky space between vagina and anus. I take her entire pussy in my mouth and... suck.

Her salty, savoury juices flow over my tongue, flood my palette, fill the back of my throat. Scent and taste whirl together to drown my mind. I whimper and hump the air.

Lydia pulls back and starts to tug down my pyjama trousers. “Come on, you’re my first Chaste. I want to look.”

I lift my buttocks so she can strip me.

“Fascinating,” she says.

Being half naked feels silly, so I writhe out of my top.

Her rear end bumps my face again. I clamp my mouth to her pussy, suckle.

She makes an indicative grinding motion. “Ahem, Jones?”

So I reach down with my tongue and flick her clitoris. It’s big, engorged, like the tip of a little finger, and it protrudes from her neat vaginal lips like one of those things you see when you’re hiking the hills and---

Lydia shifts to basically plonk the edge of her pubic bone into my mouth.

I trap her big clitoris against my upper teeth as if it were a nipple and grind.

She whimpers but doesn’t flinch away.

The world shrinks to just my musk-drenched mouth and my tongue flicking the magic nub.

Another whimper and my caged groin blazes in the dark.

I reach up and cup her breasts; soft with a firm core, small nipples as hard as pencil erasers. I pinch and tug.

Lydia’s panting now, whimpers breaking like waves, one building up before the last one has died.

I flick my tongue faster, harder.

She squeals. Her whole body vibrates. Fluid squirts from her urethra, fills my mouth.

She flops forward so quickly her bare feet bump my head. “Bloody Hell!”

I sit up enough to get a pillow under my shoulders.

Lydia’s juices slosh in my mouth filling my senses with Her. I reluctantly swallow, but now the taste possesses my entire body like some magic potion. My face is sticky. I have pubic hair in my teeth, and my caged groin is on fire.

Lydia raises her head, grins at me, then rolls onto her back. Her skin is slick with perspiration, her breasts red from my groping. The fur of her crotch is wet and slicked back from her neat slit.

We lie here on my bed like sardines, head-to-toe. Her breasts rise and fall with long breaths. My body quivers with folorn lust.

At last she lets out a snort. “I would have warned you about the squirting, Jones, but to date your the first person with a penis to have that effect.”

A shudder goes through me. “You’re bi?”

She laughs. “I think of myself as more of an any-port-in-a-storm-sexual.”

I sit up properly against the bed head. “Well that was some storm.”

Without looking at me, she asks, “Do you still fancy me, Jones, now we’ve done it? Will you still look at me like a lost puppy?”

I laugh. “Who’s we? There is no ‘done it’ for me as in ‘done had an orgasm’. The champagne remains corked and the bubbles are all yours.”

Lydia draws in her feet, spreads her thighs. A whiff of pussy-musk wafts my face. She gives me a ragged-toothed smile. “Prove it.”

I lurch forward, mouth open.

She puts her hand over her crotch. “Oh, no, Miss Lovebutton has an orgasm hangover and isn’t available to visitors.”

We both laugh, and something about her laugh makes my pierced penis flex in its cage.

“What then?” I ask.

“Hold me tight and fuck me.”

A quick rummage in my bedside drawer and I’m pulling on a pair of magic boxers. My skin is clammy with sweat and its a struggle.

Her small eyes twinkle. “Like a condom but safer.”

I pull out a roll of dildos. “What size?”

“What size is yours?”

I blink at her. “I... I have no idea.”

“Let me pick.”

She rolls forward, selects a long slender dildo, then lies back expectantly.

With shaking hands I fumble the dildo into its ring so it’s properly seated in the angle between penis and pubis.

“Come on lover boy,” she says.

I kneel between her legs, drop onto all fours so my face is over hers.

Lydia shifts her pelvis, nudging the dildo with her pussy. Her hands grab my waist, pull me down.

The dildo goes in first time with a gentle slurp. She sighs.

My caged groin tightens.

Lydia’s hands shift to the small of my back. Her legs wrap my legs. She clamps me to her; warm, sweaty skin-to-skin.

I groan.

Lydia chuckles, shifts under me, rolls her hips.

I thrust with just a twitch of my buttocks. We lie like that, gloriously entangled, working the dildo in and out with synchronised movements, locked in a sweaty, carnal waltz.

She whispers in my ear. “What... do you feel?”

“You under me...” I gasp. “Beautiful long legs. Breasts. Skin. Scent. You smell... good.”

She sighs. Undulates. “Oh yes,” she breathes. “Keep going. I can feel your body’s weight on mine, your buttocks flexing between my thighs... thrusting... and your penis... deep inside my cunt... in... out...”

I’m panting now, twitching my buttocks harder. My penis strains uselessly against its cage while the dildo makes little wet clicking sounds in my boss’s vagina.

Lydia arches her back, as if trying to burrow her head into her own piled black hair. “Oh my bloody fuck!” Then, like a stage direction; “Keep going Jones. Keep...” She makes a anguished screech. Then another. She actually lifts us both off the bed, like she’s possessed. “Going! Keep!”

I somehow manage to speed up. Everything seems blurred now and my penis seems poised to explode.

Lydia grabs my head, jams our lips together. Her tongue thrusts past my teeth and she screams into my mouth.

Struggling with the odd position, I somehow work my legs and hips to keep going as per her instructions. My back starts to ache. My muscles start to cramp. How long has...?

Lydia goes limp. “OK, all done.”

I lie on her, shuddering with desire while she breathes like she’s just finished a sprint. The cage loosens and my pierced penis feels wet and sticky.

“Are you crying?” she asks.

Shit! I am. “Can’t cum,” I mumble.

Lydia ruffles my hair. “Poor sweety,” she says. She rolls me over then descends on my caged groin. She takes the dildo past her thin lips and deep-throats it.

I sob.

Lydia withdraws with a chuckle. Hair brushing my naked skin, she peels down the magic boxers and ducks to engulf my actual chastity cage.

There’s a weird sucking sensation in my dick. Leaking semen, it throbs back into painful hardness then the sucking sensation stops. I groan in despair.

Lydia misunderstands. “See, Jones? If anybody can get you off, I can.”

I laugh and the laugh becomes a sob. “I really am your first Chaste, aren’t I?”

“Oh, doesn’t it work?”

My eyes prickle. I shake my head.

Lydia grins wickedly. “What about up the arse? Do you have rubber gloves?”

Another shake, and tears flick from my cheeks. It’s like my mouth is full of fluff. “Something about pressure points.”

“Oh dear,” she says.

The weather chooses that moment to hammer the windows.

She gives me her urchin smile. “Baby it’s cold outside. Do you have a T-shirt I can sleep in?”

I sit up and consider the beautiful, sexy, powerful, naked, dirty-minded woman in my bed. I want to please her again and again. But I also want to fuck her. Really fuck her. Get my actual cock balls deep in her vagina. Or if not her, please God somebody else as wonderful.

“Sure,” I say. I take a long breath and think of what it would be like if I got stuck like this. “But I meant what I said about not getting into a relationship while I’m chaste.”

Lydia takes an old Heavy Metal T-shirt off the drying rack and --- long legs luminous in the light of my bedside lamp --- slips into bed beside me. “Just for tonight,” she says as she snuggles up and slips a sleek leg over mine.

“You must think I’m a complete idiot.”

She snorts. “I like you just the way you are, Jones.”

#
​

And so Lydia sleeps with her head on my shoulder, while I lie here awash her musk, my lost penis swelling and shrinking with the ebb and flow of my desire.

I wake late on Saturday morning.

She’s already slipped away, leaving behind just her scent and a few stray pubic hairs and a damp patch on my covers.

I check my phone, but there’s no messages.

Makes sense. She must have hurt feelings.

What was I thinking? It all started with the bloody spanking. If only she’d stuck to that!

HrLckr has more than thirty date requests, though. I put it on mute. Then I remember the spanking Lydia gave me and change my profile to include Femdom, CP and --- for good measure --- Bondage.

I endure two weeks of Lydia being super professional around me, and yes I do go on some dates --- I’d go mad if I didn’t. And all those powerful women who just want a disposable chaste to lick their pussies. None of them so much as had a conversation with me.

However, I do avoid the kinky requests. Avoid them, that is, until the Friday night when I get a date request from one “LegalEagle”.

I stare at it, my groin hard and heavy as if it's going to drag me down to Hell.

While you’re waiting for the next episode, click through to see what slightly odd Sarah does to her husband!

 

Click through to read Chapter 7!

(If you're actually reading my series here, click LIKE and perhaps post a comment so I know it's worth the effort pasting it in every week. Otherwise I'm just going to post links.)

 

And here's Chapter 8!

 

CHAPTER 9​

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.”

Click through to read the rest for free.

 

Bradley Jones's Chastity - Chapter 10
Lydia smiles up at me. “How do you like your new cock, Jones?”

Double-take!

I’m stark naked... well except for the low-key glass collar that marks me as a chaste, and the low slung silicone jockstrap.

Lydia --- my actual boss, but also my potential new girlfriend --- is still wearing her cosy burgundy dress and knee-boots, and she’s kneeling at my feet nuzzling and lapping at the tip of my erect cock, long dark hair swinging, small eyes twinkling as she gazes up at me lovingly.

Except for that glass collar, it’s like we’ve skipped forward a year.

Oh and the fact that the cock I can see is a numb prosthetic. My real cock is a knot of throbbing hardness in its cage, hidden by the scrotum-effect pouch of the silicone jockstrap.

But I don’t care.

“Shag!” I repeat.

Read the rest!

 

Glad you're enjoying it! It's great fun to write, though there's an irony in knowing that a couple of hundred people are probably masturbating over your story, and you can't.

(You can further encourage me by leaving a nice comment on the chapter in substack...)

 

Thanks, that's really useful feedback. One of the thing I am trying to do is have characters be actually intimate and vulnerable with each other... after a fashion.

When I polish it up into a book, then I'll try to carry some of Chapter 9 - where they do talk - into Chapter 10 a bit more tender.

 

Chapter 11​

A summer’s afternoon and I’m strolling back from the hotel car park through the grounds and feeling like I truly belong: casual blazer over linen shirt, khaki slacks, and barefoot canvas sneakers. Like a good boyfriend, I’ve deposited Lydia at the hotel’s main entrance with the suitcases and gone off to deal with the hire car.

I meet several groups of guests heading the other direction. None of them so much as glance at my glass collar --- it’s non-reflective and must be invisible in this glare. I do, however, get some envious looks at the big key fob of the MG roadster Lydia rented.

It’s been nearly six months, and she has made me feel like a good boyfriend... and more than that. I’m past the tipping point of my final year as a chaste. If I can get an appointment in December and have them leave the grommet in to reduce healing time, we can have sex under our first Christmas tree... real sex, no silicone prosthetic, no cage.

My penis hardens in its Artemis Chaste Maker device, and I imagine the feel of her silky vagina squeezing not my fingers but the shaft of my dick. It will have been worth the entire five years and a permanent hole in my manhood just to arrive at this point.

“Gosh, excuse me. Bradley isn’t it? I just want to say thanks so very much.”

A middle aged woman with long mouse brown hair and an Alice band blinks up at me with wide oddly innocent eyes.

“Uh,” I say, coming to a halt slightly too close.

Read the rest for free!

(And, as always, I'd be really grateful if you'd report any bloopers you spot in the comments here.)​

 

Well, careful what you wish for...

 

That's a really interesting comment, because I hadn't even thought of that option!

I think I'm writing the CARGO setting with as much realism as I can... or more accurately, making it as realistic as "chick lit" or "lad lit". So, though people do do crazy things navigating the post-CARGO world - have you read the Sarah side story? - they are still driven by normal urges.

 

A friend of mine pointed out that I'm basically writing gender flipped kinky "Chick Lit"!

Ah. Interesting. I think those are the women he attracts. He goes to a big party with over a hundred women, and only 2-3 want to predate him. I shall make that clearer when I polish it for publication.

 

Bradley Jones's Chastity - Chapter 12​

“So then the server went down...”

I’m trapped in conversation with Ada, a buxom woman with masses of straw-blond hair that cascades over an ill-advised denim summer dress with puffed short sleeves.

Ten years ago, Ada was a plump Goth, always off to do LARP or playing D&D in the common room. I fancied her, but wasn’t “Alt” enough and somehow ended up in the friend zone everybody said didn’t exist. Now, she’s turned in her chair to fix me with the forcefield from her magic boobs, but --- for all she looks like the Prime Minister who pushed through CARGO ten years ago --- she’s just not very interesting any more.

She pauses to take a gulp from her pint of lager.

I steal a glance around the wood-panelled dining room and realise I’m an idiot.

I needn’t have worried! Needn’t have turned my life upside down looking for date for this. Nobody cares that I’m a Chaste. I’m not even the only Chaste at the reunion.

Even so, I don’t feel like dancing so here I am---

Jesus!

Something is stroking my ankle. Someone.

Ada has slipped off a diamante flip flop and is teasing me with her massive toes. Swirling electricity prickles up my leg to my caged groin. I shudder.

Ada’s eyes twinkle. “So the server went down...”

A couple --- Caroline, flushed face, and Roger, laughing - sweep in through the double doors from the other room, letting in the dance music.

Ada merely raises her deep voice over bump of noise; “...for the third time!”

More stroking from her toes.

I look down at her extended leg. There’s a lot of power in those calves. I have an intuition that naked suits her better than clothed.

I raise my eyes for another glance around the room. It’s a bit like a wedding, lots of faces I recognise plus Minnie and Wendy happy from their honeymoon and holding court. A good proportion of everybody who was a student and lived in Brandemart House in 2020 us here, plus partners.

I spot a ginger bloke I noticed earlier - can’t remember his name - chatting up a leggy brunette, who I don’t think I every talked to. He’s got her attention, but her arms are folded as if she’s going to give him a very thorough assessment before deciding if she likes him. She throws back her head and laughs. What is he saying? I was never very good at chatting up women.

Ada pokes my shin with her big toe. “Bradley?”

I look her in the eye. “The server crashed the third time? How terrible!”

OK, there is something mesmerising about Ada. She’s oblivious to the way her denim dress doesn’t suit her chunky figure, but also to the way having four buttons open exposes her ample cleavage and a slice of sensible white bra. And she’s clearly used to getting her own way, which is kind of hot.

Ada squares her chin as if recalling the moment. She has a big mouth with big lips that make you wonder what she’s like at giving head. “I went straight to the director’s house and knocked on the door. His wife answered and I told her to tell him it was a new server or a new head of IT Support!”

There’s a movement behind Ada and I recognise Bella, another girl I fancied back in the day. She used to be an appalling flirt, but not interested in uncool boys like me except as practice targets. Petite and cute, she used to stalk the common room in camel-toe-tastic Spandex leggings and gym-rat crop tops. Now, however, she’s flaunting an expensive sun dress. It’s pleated and frilly, and covers her like a wrapped bath towel from the top of her round breasts down to sleek mid thigh. Her pumps have wide ribbons that wrap around the ankle, as if she needs to be tied up to stop her running barefoot.

Bella flashes her eyes at me, smirks and wiggles her hips.

That plus the insistent caressing by Ada’s toes is enough get a wet pulse out of my caged cock.

Bella is still an appalling flirt, then.

“Guess what happened next?” Ada pokes my nose. “Bradley?”

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