First two chapters of The Chastity Belt

Discussion in 'Member fiction' started by Giles_English, Feb 17, 2019.

  1. Giles_English

    Giles_English Chaste slave

    Dec 8, 2011
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    (I've just republished this old classic - written before the days of the mass market male chastity device! I think it's stood the test of time. Anyway, you guys might enjoy the first couple of chapters, if only out of curiosity...)

    Chapter 1

    Wanted: Healthy male students to test cure for sex addiction and compulsive masturbation. Apply to Dr. Jones, Human Sexuality Institute, University Campus. Good money.

    Mark huddled into Cassandra’s doorway and tried to calm his breathing. He pinched his jeans, feeling for the chastity belt’s edge beneath the denim. The device was still there, locked around his hips and groin, as unobtrusive as a second skin. Mark exhaled slowly, extended a trembling hand and rang the door bell.

    "Mark?" Cassandra's clipped tones crackled from the entry-phone. "I shall be down shortly," she said without buzzing him in.

    A crowd of female students rustled past, laughing girlishly as they kicked through the autumn leaves.

    Mark’s gaze wandered amongst the forest of knee-boots, some shiny and new, others nicely crinkled, veterans of several winters. His grip tightened on the chastity belt.

    A pair of impossibly long legs swept into view, moleskin pants hugging each sweeping curve, black suede boots clacking on the damp pavement. They halted and turned slightly towards Mark’s hiding place.

    He froze, not even daring to breath. Slowly, as casually as he could, he relaxed his fingers and slid them innocently into his pocket. He raised his gaze from the boots and discovered a blond girl looking him up and down with cold blue eyes.

    Abruptly, she turned on her heel and vanished into the gathering dusk.

    Fresh bootsteps echoed from behind the door. Mark jumped back into the street. "This will work," he said aloud. "It has to!" The door creaked open and he forced himself to take slow, measured breaths.

    "Mark? Are you quite all right?" asked a very BBC English voice. As always, with her bobbed hair, fur-trimmed coat, and ankle-length A-line skirt, she looked straight out of his copy of 1930s Ladies.

    "Cassandra!" Mark's heart leapt into his mouth. People wove past, but he just stood and stared at her, fighting back the old desire.

    Mark's penis tried to erect itself inside the chastity belt. At first the sensation was familiar; like getting a hard on pointing the wrong way in tight jeans. Then the shaft met the walls of the internal tube. Instead of subsiding, the captive member throbbed violently, trying to split its hi-tech prison and rear itself upright.

    Mark struggled to keep his feet against a rising tide of panic.

    Cassandra eased the door shut and looked at him sideways over her fur collar. Delicate crows-feet formed around her twinkling brown eyes. "Have you been drinking?" she asked primly.

    "No," he said over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

    Cassandra gave him a quizzical look. "I have a study date with my roommate," she said, striding out. "You may chum me to the library if you so wish."

    Mark shouldered his rucksack and caught up with her. It was then that he noticed her new boots, his favourite kind – knee-high patent leather gleaming in the light from the street lamps. The tightly laced uppers hugged her curved calves up to the hem of her severe skirt and beyond.

    "Are you quite all right?" asked Cassandra without slowing.

    Mark couldn’t answer. This was his masturbation fantasy come true. Cassandra in boots, old-fashioned boots with prim squared off toes, lace-hooks like a row of steel teeth, high arched insteps, and tapering block heels that clip-clopped with each precise step. She just needed stockings and a garter belt to complete the vision.

    The throbbing rippled out from his chastity belt, as if every artery in his body was forcing blood into his imprisoned cock. Mark staggered drunkenly, fighting for balance, the world a blur except for beautiful, untouchable Cassandra, her swishing skirt, and shiny boots.

    It was like that first time, a year ago. He'd stumbled across the canteen just to queue behind the mysterious girl who dressed twice her age and made it look good. More grown up than grown up, he'd thought as he fumbled at conversation. It was only later, when she developed a fad for retro clothing, that Mark realised who she reminded him of.

    "A little eccentricity will repel unwanted attentions," she'd declared. “I will surrender to no man.”

    Cassandra was safe with Mark now, safer than with any other man in the world. If he told her, perhaps she'd trust him to take her to the cinema. He'd sit next to her in the dark for hours on end, brushing arms and shoulders, aware of every stretch of her long legs, hearing her boot leather creak during the quiet moments.

    But if he told her about the device, he'd also have admit that it was supposed to be a cure for unrequited love.

    "Mark?" Cassandra halted under a street lamp.

    Slowly, Mark forced his gaze away from the gleaming boots and made himself look at the special wrist watch that came with the chastity belt.

    November’s digital guardian angel shook her finger back at him. Her halo already looked patchy. The more he got turned on, the more of her would vanish, until the chastity belt’s time lock started running backwards. Mark tried to imagine spending the entire year in the device without masturbating or any chance of sex. He shuddered.

    "Yes. I’m fine," he lied, feeling sick and unbearably turned on at the same time. Why hadn’t he stayed away?

    "Well then," began Cassandra then smiled past Mark. "Ah, Moira! You made it."

    "Sorry!" Cassandra's petite roommate brushed by Mark and stood between him and the taller girl.

    Moira reached back to smooth her hair. It was carrot red and gathered into a ponytail which made her look younger than she was. "The Riding Club Committee overran," she said, her fresh Highland lilt out of place amidst the dreary concrete buildings of the university campus.

    Mark just stared at nape of her freckled neck. Mentally, he stripped off her Arran sweater and imagined the freckles speckling her back, her slender hips and pert buttocks as well. Did they reach as far as her thighs?

    Moira turned to Mark and smiled up at him. "Hiya!" She brushed a stray red lock back from her face and Mark pictured pubic curls in the same spicy hue. What would she taste like?

    Moira's green eyes widened. A blush blotted out her freckles. "We’re going to the library," she blurted and scampered behind Cassandra.

    Mark's cheeks burned. He didn’t usually leer at Moira like that.

    "So," said Cassandra briskly, setting off again. "Do you notice anything different?"

    "New boots?" he asked offhandedly, trying to ignore the way his half erect penis quivered each time their soles smacked the damp pavement.

    "A treat from last year's Class Prize." Cassandra pursed her lips into a toothy smile. "Practical and nicely old fashioned, don't you think?"

    "Very Mary Poppins," said Mark, grasping at an image as far away as possible from his book of pre-war pornography.

    "I am no Julie Andrews," she snapped. "Marlene Dietrich, perhaps."

    Oh yes please! he thought. "So, is the Blue Angel costume next?" he heard himself ask.

    Cassandra rewarded him with a frosty look that sent tendrils of ice to his chastity belt. "That would be pandering to male fantasies," she said and marched inside, Moira in tow.

    Mark watched through the glass doors as she swept through the foyer like a ghost from more elegant times. He cradled his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead. How could he have hoped to flirt with Cassandra, let alone date her?

    The library doors closed then whirred again for a vision of black fishnet clinging to unashamedly – no, deliciously – chubby legs.

    Mark's gaze lingered over the girl's wide hips, barely hidden by a leopard-patterned mini-skirt, then fixed on the curve of her breasts where they overflowed her low-necked top.

    A familiar round face smiled at him.

    Mark swallowed. Felicity, the class flirt, had always been sexy. But now she was captivating. His penis beat like a second heart and, in the corner of his eye, the digital angel shook her finger.

    Felicity's cheeks dimpled. She pushed her lips out into a pout and fixed him with bedroom eyes as black as her wild hair. Then she twitched her hips ever so slightly and purred, "Hello Mark," making it sound like an invitation to sex.

    Mark glanced at the digital angel in time to see her halo dwindle to just a thin circle. "Got to go," he gasped and fled into the night.

    He was still trying not to think of Cassandra’s boots and Felicity’s bosom when he reached his top-floor room. He shut the door and thought, Thank God! Now I can masturbate.

    Except, this time, he couldn't. Not for at least a month. Longer still, if he kept getting aroused. No masturbation until he broke the cycle and escaped his obsession. In theory, at least.

    Without touching the light switch, he turned to the mirror and slowly, like a man peeling off a bandage to inspect a wound, eased down his jeans.

    He shuddered.

    In the gloom, there was just a neat gap between his legs, as if Dr. Jones had sheared off his penis and testicles.

    Staying back from the window, he clicked on his reading light. Now he could see the sexless bulge that hid his genitals. It was featureless except for a slit for peeing and a discreet hole for the special shower attachment.

    The hi-tech material – Quantumite, Dr. Jones had called it - coated the rest of his loins like a slick of crude oil. Everything about it said hi-tech, evil, and permanent.

    It’s designed for much longer than a month, he thought dizzily. He sank onto his narrow bed, only to land on something hard. He reached under the duvet and retrieved his battered copy of 1930s Ladies.

    He picked it up, meaning to throw it in the bin. But it was open at his favourite photograph: a statuesque girl in a corset, who, thanks to her bobbed hair, looked a lot like Cassandra. She was frozen in a moment of self-gratification, slumped in a chair with her stockinged legs spread, garters stretched over her thighs, and elegant fingers curled over her pubic mound.

    A cold hand seemed to clutch Mark’s genitals. He felt a familiar, bleak thrill in the pit of his stomach.

    He frowned. There was something about her that brought him back to the same page, time and again, even before he met Cassandra. Yet, he couldn’t imagine interrupting her, let alone having sex with her. There was no trace of a man in the picture, except for the long-dead photographer's flash lamp reflected in her knee-high boots.

    Mark remembered Cassandra's new boots, and for an instant she seemed to take the place of the girl in the photograph.A tremor ran through his groin. "And now, I'd jerk off," he said aloud.

    He sighed. That summed up his sex life for the last year - spend time with Cassandra then masturbate in his room using old pornography to fill in the blanks. He might as well have been wearing the chastity belt from the moment he met her. No wonder he was still a virgin.

    Beyond his dirty windowpane, a dozen fireworks lit up the sky.

    November the Fifth. Bonfire Night. The other – normal - students would be partying, flirting, looking for sex, or just holding hands and watching the fireworks. But not Mark.

    Across the quadrangle, a light blinked on in the third floor of Dacre Block. A girl appeared at the window.

    It was the tall blond who'd eyed him up so clinically outside Cassandra's front door. Another untouchable woman, thought Mark.

    She shucked off her sleeveless Barber jacket and stooped to get a silver-bottled energy drink from her fridge. Even at a distance, Mark liked the way her sweater hugged her full breasts and slightly flared hips. But she was out of his league if she could afford a Dacre apartment.

    A second light came on. It backlit a pair of net curtains, turning them transparent so Mark could see down into the blond's bedroom. Feeling a little guilty, he started to close his roller blind.

    The blond pulled off her sweater in a single smooth movement. From the waist up she was all honeyed flesh and lean muscles, except for where a white bra cupped her jutting breasts.

    The blind cord slipped from Mark’s fingers. He pressed his face against the glass. Perhaps if he’d only spoken to her, he could have been in the room with her now. But then what would he do?

    The blond unzipped her boots and pulled them off. The movement set her breasts quivering. They quivered again as she rolled her leggings over her hips and down her sleek athletic legs. She high-kicked the stretch moleskin across the room. Now she stood framed in the window, a vision in white underwear.

    Mark imagined running his hands over her lean body and felt a tightening inside the chastity belt. He knew his arousal was eroding the digital angel. Even so, he just could not look away. All he could think was, Why did I waste a year on Cassandra?

    The blond raised her hands to the ceiling and stretched. Then she bent at the waist and touched her toes, making her breasts swing beneath her and drawing her white knickers tight around her angular buttocks.

    Mark flexed his fingers. It would be nice to stand behind her and grind against that muscular bottom, then to lean over and grab her pendulous breasts and squeeze.

    Mark grimaced. He'd probably hurt her or something. It was not as if he’d much experience.

    Oblivious to his gaze, the long-legged blond switched on her hi-fi and skipped and twirled to whatever the music was. Finally, her path took her to her bed. She dived onto the covers then rolled onto her back to lie sprawled out, her feet towards the transparent net curtains, her white knickers stretched across her crotch.

    How would I get her bra off?

    Her thigh tendons tensed. She arched her back and reached behind herself to peel off her bra. Her breasts sprang free and flopped to either side, the rosy nipples clearly visible against the honey-toned flesh.

    Mark licked his lips and wished he could suck at the dark pink nubs. Meanwhile his penis throbbed and strained to unfold itself.

    The girl shifted her hips and, before Mark's eyes, writhed out of her knickers. Her pubic hair was white blond, a heart-shaped splash of snow between her thighs. Thick, blood-red inner labia divided the neat fuzz. They sparkled slightly, as if covered with glitter... or already speckled with moisture.

    Mark’s penis went berserk. It butted against the bottom of its tube, again and again. Instinctively, he reached for his groin and found just the chastity belt's cup, blank except for its narrow slit.

    He pressed hard against the neutering cup, trying to joggle it or make the tube shift just a little around his bloated penis... and felt not the slightest change in sensation, just a new, primal fear wrapping its claws around his spine.

    Across in Dacre Block, the tall blond caressed her own flanks and slowly spread her long legs. Her left hand swept up over her flat stomach and captured a lolling breast. The right formed a hook and burrowed into the radiant white curls between her thighs.

    Mark's eyes widened. All the moisture fled his mouth. Girls didn’t really play with themselves, except in pornography, not on his dirty concrete campus at least.

    The blond rubbed, driving the digits in and out, faster and faster. Her face went pink, then beetroot red. The blush swept down her throat and between her breasts.

    Those could be his fingers, if only he'd talked to her!

    Mark trembled. His pulse thundered in his ears. Inside the chastity belt, his penis expanded and contracted forlornly in time to her movements. The pressure built up until his testicles ached and he whimpered in dismay.

    The blond squirmed then tilted her hips. Like a great spider, she drew in her shuddering legs and planted her bare feet on the mattress. She curled her toes then pushed off the bed, raising her buttocks until all her weight was on her shoulders and her pale thighs framed her flushed face.

    At last, she screwed up her eyes and opened her mouth in an orgasmic moan made silent by distance between them.

    Mark's penis spasmed. Something hot and sticky squirted onto his hand. The watch chimed.

    He stared at the puddle of semen in his palm. Then he remembered the noise from the watch and checked the digital angel. Half of her had gone. Worse, she still wagged her finger at him, though lazily now.

    He grabbed his rucksack and pulled out the big attaché case that came with the chastity belt. He flipped the lid and opened the glossy manual. "Ejaculation," he read out. “Ejaculating halves the guardian angel, or doubles any penalty weeks.

    He dropped the book and stared at the angel on his watch. Day One in the chastity belt, and she was down to one wing, two legs, a head and an arm. Surely she wasn’t supposed to be this sensitive? He reached for his phone and dialled the 24-hour emergency number.

    "Dr. Jones? It’s Mark Armstrong here - It’s a mistake, I want out."

    "I’m sorry Mark," said the doctor. "There is no override – that's what makes the Tough Love Chastity Belt the perfect treatment for your masturbatory obsession with... uh... Cassandra, wasn't it?"

    "But suppose you misdiagnosed me..." began Mark.

    Still flushed, the blond put on lacy black bra. She sat on the bed, pointed her toes and lovingly unrolled a black stocking up her leanly muscled leg.

    Just like in 1930s Ladies! thought Mark. His limp cock twitched in agreement.

    Dr. Jones was saying, " the diagnosis doesn't matter. The device will release when you're cured." She sighed. "Or at the end of the one year safety limit... unless you feel the need to self-medicate, that is.”


    The girl rolled on the other stocking.

    Mark bit back a moan and continued. "I’ll cut my way out."

    "With a tame nuclear explosion, perhaps," said Dr. Jones, amused now. "As you well knew when you signed the waiver, Quantumite is almost indestructible. Do try not to injure yourself. Let me spell it out for you, again..."

    The blond fished a pair of black high-heels from under her bed and tied them to her ankles with ribbons that went almost all the way up her calves. Then she rose and stood in front of her mirrored wardrobe, legs slightly apart, like a centrefold model - black bra, stay-up stockings, high-heels, and no knickers.

    Dr. Jones's voice seemed very far away. Mark registered technical words like "super conductor" and "quantum action-reaction", but all that really mattered was drinking in the sight of the blond. She was every bit the modern girl now, but she might as well have been in a photograph for all the chance he had of touching her.

    The blond rummaged in her bedside drawer and took out something pink and sausage-shaped.

    Mark’s jaw dropped as he recognised the sex toy. My missing cock. Somehow, his own penis revived and swelled in its prison.

    “We are paying you quite well, after all," concluded Dr. Jones.

    "I bet you do have an override and you won’t give it to me!" he blurted.

    "Believe me, Mark, there really is no override."

    Across the quadrangle, the blond lay back on the bed - this time almost side-on to Mark. She pointed her stockinged toes and spread her legs until they touched either bedpost. She probed between her thighs with the dildo then, abruptly, plunged the artificial cock into her vagina. It came out glistening with her juices.

    Mark shook his head from side to side but could not dislodge his gaze from the blonde's window. His hips twitched involuntarily. "I’m... I’m going to get..." He licked his lips and tried again. “Legal advice,” he managed and ended the call.

    The blond’s arm worked the dildo like a piston. The flush returned to her face and spread over the honeyed skin between the black cups of her bra.

    "Go on!" urged Mark. He rocked back and forward, as if his hips were driving the dildo.

    Her toes curled. The flush spread over her belly and down her thighs and vanished under her stockings...

    ...and inside the chastity belt, Mark’s penis spasmed for a second time. Again, the watch chimed. I came before she did! He looked on numbly, semen dripping the blank cup, and imagined her scorn, or, worse, pity.

    But, across the quadrangle, the blond knew nothing of Mark’s inadequacy. She worked the dildo like a plunger, churning her vagina, on and on, not needing him or any other man to give her pleasure.

    An age later, as Mark’s cock hardened, her blue eyes widened, her jaw set, her spine arched and her mouth stretched wide. Then she flopped back, limp and spent.

    The blond lay as still as a picture until her flush faded. Then she rolled onto her side, presenting Mark with the backs of her stockinged legs and naked thighs.

    Half an hour slid by as Mark watched over her, hypnotised by the throb in his chastity belt.

    Then, at last, the blond sprang into movement. She leapt off the bed, cleaned the dildo, and, without putting on knickers, slithered into a little black dress. Now she stood framed in her window, rich, sensual, sophisticated and ready to go out on the pull.

    "So out of my league," murmured Mark.

    Below, in the quadrangle, somebody whooped. There was a whoosh and a huge firework exploded.

    When Mark got his sight back, the blond was standing in front of her net curtains with her face pressed to her own window. She glanced up at him, then drew heavy drapes, cutting off the light from her bedroom.

    Mark closed his eyes and mentally replayed the image of her masturbating. His penis responded immediately and he snapped them open again. But already the digital angel had lost all trace of her remaining wing.

    Then he noticed the time.

    He'd been part of the experiment for less than three hours and already he had – what? – one quarter of the angel to last him until the end of November.

    Now he understood that the chastity belt meant far more than no sex or masturbation. If he so much as thought about sex, he risked being trapped right up to the one year limit.

    Mark frowned. A year without wanking was too big a price to pay for curing his obsession. It really was time to take legal advice.

    In the mean time he should try not to recall the way the blond writhed to her own touch.

    Quietly, without any fuss, the digital angel's sleeve lost its pleats.

    Chapter 2

    The receptionist smiled, opening her mouth just enough to show off neat white teeth. She was tall. Very tall.

    Mark’s cock tightened inside its Quantumite prison.

    It wasn't just her height, though. The even, coffee-coloured tan, the white office blouse, the somehow clinical mini-skirt, the translucent faun nylons covering her long, thin legs – everything about her was as tidy and clean as a freshly ironed sheet. And for some reason, that was unbearably sexy.

    Mark grimaced. All women are sexy when you haven’t wanked for three weeks. He’d just spent two hours in class, watching Cassandra and Felicity argue and not knowing whether to look at the icy girl’s boots or the flirt’s cleavage.

    "Mrs. Fortescue wants you taken right up?" said the receptionist, her Australian accent making it sound like a question. She glided across the room, almost dragging her endless legs as an afterthought. "This way please?"

    Mark stumbled after her, watching her thighs brush as she climbed the stairs.

    She was taller than Cassandra – or, he thought guiltily - the masturbating blond. But her waist and hips couldn't have been much larger than Moira's.

    His penis hardened, triggering the chastity belt bio-feedback circuits to erode what remained of the digital guardian angel. Even so, he couldn't help imagining messing up the Australian's perfect hair and makeup, and having those long limbs wrapped around him as he slipped inside her slick vagina.

    And ejaculated immediately, he thought glumly.

    A shorter but equally elegant pair of legs waited on the landing. They swelled out from expensive high-heels and vanished into a pinstriped pencil skirt. Above the skirt, a tailored jacket promised a trim feminine shape beneath its stripes.

    A mature face crinkled into a smile, crowfeet forming around twinkling eyes. "Mark? Sorry it took this long to see you," drawled the woman, her upper class voice hoarse but fruity, like an ageing Shakespearean actress.

    She ushered him into her office then turned back to the receptionist. "Kitty, why don't you go home for the night? Don't worry – I shall be quite safe."

    Kitty smiled again. "Cheerio, Mark," she chirped.

    The older woman shook his hand. "Mrs. Fortescue, at your service. But call me Caroline, please."

    Mark made for a chair, but she redirected him to a couch next to a low table strewn with familiar photocopies. She sat down beside him. "Now, I've studied the legal precedents and..."

    As Mrs. Fortescue shuffled the documents, her perfume invaded Mark’s nostrils. It was an expensive but animal smell - musky with a hint of spice. She leaned over the papers and her grey-white bobbed hair fell away from the inviting nape of her neck.

    Mark shook himself mentally. This was his lawyer, after all. And she was almost old enough to be his, well, aunt.

    "Now..." She patted his thigh. It wasn't exactly a sexual touch, but it made his skin tingle. Suddenly the couch felt cramped, but not as cramped as the tube imprisoning his penis.

    "...why," she continued, "would an attractive young man want to wear the Tough Love Chastity Belt?"

    Mark blushed. He couldn't tell her about Cassandra. "The money," he lied. "It’ll only be a month or so."

    She crossed her legs, treating Mark to a glimpse of lacy stocking-top. He licked his suddenly-dry lips and tried not to stare.

    "Unless you find yourself in any... situations." She purred the last word. "Mind you, if you went the entire year, you would be a very comfortable young man."

    "But not a very sane one."

    "Ah ha!" Mrs. Fortescue threw back her head and laughed. The skin under her chin had only a hint of creping. Like her laughter lines, it spoke of experience more than age. "Witty as well as attractive," she said.

    The chastity belt seemed to tighten. Mark squirmed. "So, what is the legal position?" he asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

    Mrs. Fortescue grimaced theatrically. "Not good, I'm afraid. You paid them a small sum for the device before you put it on?"

    "A fiver."

    "You accepted the Master Control and set the timer and the one-year limit yourself?"

    Mark nodded.

    “I am afraid...” She swivelled towards him. Her knees brushed his, sending little sparks of sensation through his jeans. "... that what you do with your own property is your own business."

    "But they pay me a monthly fee—"

    "—for attending the interviews, no more." She leaned forward slightly. "You're thoroughly trapped, I'm afraid."

    Mark sank back into the couch without answering. He'd expected to be angry or afraid. Instead he felt a strange, icy tingle in his stomach.

    "A pity the material is Quantumite," said Mrs. Fortescue. "It's practically indestructible, is it not?" She slid the top leg further over the other. The lacy stocking-top emerged from the slit in her skirt. An inch of smooth thigh followed.

    Mark's eyes widened. He tried to look away, but his gaze kept darting back to where the lace gave way to flesh.

    "Is it comfortable?" she asked, reaching for his cheek with long, elegant fingers.

    Mark averted his eyes and blushed for a second time, aware of her electric touch on his face. She was only trying to comfort him. She couldn't possibly know the effect on his poor penis. "Yes. It’s OK, I suppose. They moulded it to my body. It has special micropores so it works like a second skin."

    The touch became a caress. "Isn't it rather constricting?"

    Mark squirmed against the cushions. "Sometimes."

    She scrutinised the watch. "Like now?" she asked. "If I understood the documentation, that is?"

    Only the angel’s head survived, plus the wagging finger broadcasting his arousal to the world... and to the grey haired woman sitting so very close beside him.

    Suddenly Mark felt very naked. "I'm sorry. I..."

    "There now, nothing to be ashamed of."

    Mrs. Fortescue touched his lips, setting his penis quivering inside its tube.

    "All that bottled up desire," she said and laughed pleasantly. "Like a champagne bottle. And some young men secretly desire an older woman... My goodness, that finger is positively vibrating. How very flattering!" Mrs. Fortescue tilted her head and kissed him on the lips.

    It was just a peck, but it made the chastity belt seem to clench Mark’s penis. He gasped and recoiled back into the couch.

    Her hand clamped his wrist. She rechecked his watch. "Poor thing! She's lost her face. I shall take that as a yes then.” Her grey hair brushed his chin. "Really, all young men ought to be fitted with one of these displays." Her hot lips fastened on his neck.

    Warm pleasure surged through his body, inflating his down-pointing penis to bursting point. He closed his eyes and wondered why he wasn't afraid.

    "You are quite swept away," purred Mrs. Fortescue, her breath hot on his throat. She tugged at his buttons. "Like my first time. I won't tell you the year, but it was Cambridge University Freshers Week."

    Mark’s shirt opened and the air-conditioned breeze chilled his chest, but still he felt hot and sleepy.

    Mrs. Fortescue's voice became throaty. "I was fresh out of boarding school. He was so very handsome and sophisticated. And the things he did to me!"

    Her fingers caught Mark’s nipples. “He started with my breasts. Just heavy petting, I thought.” She pinched expertly, sending strange new eddies into Mark's chastity belt.

    Mark moaned and stretched. His buttocks tensed, trying to push his half erect cock free of its prison.

    “Then, suddenly I was overwhelmed, just like you," purred Mrs. Fortescue. "Swept clean away. In a punt, on the River Cam." Her hands retreated. "Look at me."

    Mark opened his eyes.

    Mrs. Fortescue was sitting against the other end of the couch, legs curled up under her, pinstriped skirt folded back to expose bare thighs above the lace trimmed stocking-tops.

    She stretched out her legs, one at a time. "Be a good boy and take off my knickers."

    Mark ran his hands over her smooth legs. The nylon was dry and slightly rough, not slippery as its sheen promised. Would Cassandra's legs feel the same?

    “Before I knew it, my skirt was around my waist, my knickers overboard... go on.”

    The silk nothings slid easily over her tapering legs. She swung around and stood up so the knickers dropped to her ankles. “I can still feel the sun on my thighs.”

    She stepped free of the underwear. "Now I’m going to have my wicked way with you," she drawled and started unthreading her belt. “Of course, I can’t deflower you in a boat.”

    A movement caught Mark's eye. The digital angel's face had completely vanished. A cold hand clutched his heart. "I'm almost through my allowance!" He started to get up.

    Mrs. Fortescue pushed him back. "Not so fast, darling." She slid into the seat beside him. “Then he took me back to his digs and had me bend over his desk.”

    Mark attempted to rise, but his legs gave. Desperate now, he twisted to put his back to her.

    Mrs. Fortescue chuckled from behind him. "So enticingly skittish." Her silk-sheathed arms sweep around his bare chest. Her fingers clamped his nipples. Her breath came hot and wet his ear. “He squeezed my nipples until it hurt.” Her teeth nipped the lobe. “Chewed my ear, all the time, his big, strong manhood just tickling the lips of my cunt.” She drawled the crude word as if it were any other. Somehow that made it cruder still.

    Mark moaned and writhed in her grip, unwilling to stay, but unable to escape. It was as if the chastity belt weighed a million tonnes.

    "So young and virile," she purred. "And so deliciously impotent." She eased the shirt off his shoulders. “I wish I had a cock.”

    "This could add weeks to the time lock!" blurted Mark.

    "But won't it be worth it to put your face between my legs and lick?" she drawled.

    A wet ripple went through Mark's imprisoned penis. He clenched frantically and realised that sex with her would have been short and humiliating.

    But sex wasn't on offer.

    Mark stretched his arms behind his back so she could tug off his shirt. As it bunched around his wrists, he felt a sudden tightness. He curled his fingers and found the edge of her belt, now firmly pinning his arms behind his back.

    "Hey!" He half pushed himself out of the couch with his feet and strained against the belt.

    "Shush. It's more interesting this way." Mrs. Fortescue clambered astride his lap and kissed him full on the mouth, chewing his lower lip.

    Mark whimpered and tensed against his bonds.

    She slid her tongue inside, invading his mouth with the taste of lipstick and coffee. Her perfume became overpowering and the world spun.

    Mark groaned and twitched his tongue limply in response until Mrs. Fortescue laughed and dismounted.

    Wrists still tied, he slumped in the couch, and sat, dazed and unresisting, while the grey haired woman unlaced his shoes and methodically stripped him naked – except for his chastity belt.

    She dropped into a crouch and he felt her strap his ankles with his own jeans belt. “Then finally, when my own juices were gushing down my legs, he pushed his cock up, deep inside me.”

    Mrs. Fortescue rose and smoothed down her pinstriped skirt. She inspected his chastity belt. "Fascinating." She caught each side of the girdle and tugged. "It really is inescapable." She tugged harder. "Come on, onto the floor with you."

    Mark slid off the couch and stretched out on the rough office carpet. It prickled his back except where his arms took the punishment.

    Mrs. Fortescue appeared over his head, still perfectly dressed. She planted a high-heeled foot on either side of his ears, the toes towards his feet.

    Mark stared up beyond her stocking-tops and into the shadows where her pale thighs framed her dark bush. "Yes!" he gasped.

    "Really?" She sank to her knees so that her pin-striped skirt enveloped his face, curtaining off the rest of the world.

    Lost in the warm darkness, he twisted his head and planted dry mouthed-kisses on her thighs. Then he craned his neck and stretched out his tongue until he felt the tips of her pubic curls.

    “But he didn’t ejaculate when I reached my climax,” came Mrs. Fortescue’s voice, muffled by the skirt. “Or the next one.”

    A new scent invaded his nostrils, musky and spicy like her perfume, but so much more animal.

    Now awe mingled with Mark's lust. After years of masturbatory fantasies, he was actually about to kiss a real pussy.

    “In fact, he didn’t ejaculate inside my vagina at all.” Mrs. Fortescue raised herself just out of reach. "Do you want it?"

    "Yes!" groaned Mark, blinking in the light. He curled forward, straining until his neck and tongue ached. "Yes!"

    "Really?" gasped Mrs. Fortescue. A droplet of salty juice splashed on Mark's tongue. Exotic but familiar, like the perfect foreign dish you'd been looking for all your life.

    Mark's cock throbbed, sending dizzying pulses of blood to his brain.

    “No,” said Mrs. Fortescue, sounding strained. “He eased me onto my knees and pushed his wet dick into my mouth. And... how... I... sucked!” Her wet vulva crashed into Mark’s face. Her taste, animal and insistent, flooded his mouth and drowned the last of his thoughts.

    Mark pushed his tongue into her vagina and drank the wonderful juices.

    The wet tunnel rose out of his reach.

    "You are obviously new to this," said Mrs. Fortescue, in a stage whisper. "A little above the mouth of the vagina, you'll find a small protuberance. It’s called a clitoris. Lick it."

    She lowered her vulva and Mark gingerly explored with his tongue.

    Her inner lips were engorged, rubbery even. They resisted Mark's trawling until he found the small, hard hoodless nub where they met. Clitoris, he thought and felt a shiver in his chastity belt.

    "That's better." She clamped her stockinged knees around his upper arms and seized both his nipples. "Now, lick!" she commanded.

    Mark lapped away. Her juices trickled down his tongue to collect in his mouth.

    “Better. So, his penis tasted of my own cunt, but that didn’t stop me sucking it.”

    Mark’s tongue started hurt.

    "Faster!" She took a firmer hold on his nipples and twisted until he yelped and lashed at her sex like a human vibrator.

    Mrs. Fortescue gasped. “Then I thought...” She exhaled noisily, then gasped again. “...maybe it’s like a clitoris...”

    Mark felt a surge of triumph, then cramp locked up his tongue.

    "Drat!" Panting like a runner, Mrs. Fortescue shifted her hips and ground her sex into his face. Her words came faster now “So I used my... my tongue...” She gasped for breath. “On the tip.” Her whole body rocked back and forward, pubic hair scouring Mark’s his cheeks, engorged flesh squashing his inert tongue into his teeth.

    Mark writhed, unable to breath.

    Mrs. Fortescue’s nails tore into his tender nipples. The blazing agony sent his tongue into a final flurry, almost as if her pleasure was his. Then his mouth seized up.

    She raised her skirt off his face. "Is that it?"

    "Cramp in my tongue," gasped Mark.

    "Really? I'm sure we can fix that." The grey haired lawyer rose and went to her desk. “Yes well, where was I? I used my tongue on the tip of my lover’s penis and... eureka!” She returned, still neatly dressed in pencil skirt and tailored jacket, but now holding two bulldog clips.

    Mark guessed what she had in mind and started to wriggle away, scuffing his back on the prickly carpet. He got halfway across the floor before she pounced and trapped his head between her thighs. “ a mouthful of semen for my troubles. I knelt there, gargling it, wondering whether to spit or swallow...”

    From beneath her dripping vulva, Mark watched in fascinated horror as she opened both clips and carefully put them to his nipples.

    "They don't come off until I have," she said and let them snap shut.

    Mark opened his mouth to scream but it filled with wet, furry flesh. Waves of agony rolled out from his tortured nipples and rippled through his body, ebbing and flowing with his heartbeat.

    The darkness beneath her skirt blazed white. His tongue burrowed away from the pain, letting the fiery pulses drive its spasms. Time stopped and universe dropped away until there was just a writhing tongue trapped between a vulva and a wall of pure pain.

    Then the clips came off.

    Mrs. Fortescue sighed contentedly and stood up. "Four orgasms," she said matter-of-factly.

    The white haze dissipated.

    Mark watched, gasping for breath, as the mature lawyer straightened her skirt. Then all the blood flowed from his throbbing nipples into his captive groin. His penis swelled against its tube and he could only writhe and groan while staring at the beautiful older woman he had just pleasured.

    She raised an eyebrow. "What are you looking at?"

    Mark licked his bruised lips. "I'll be free in less than a month," he said, his tongue thick and heavy in his aching mouth.

    "Don’t be silly, young man." She scooped up her knickers and bundled them into her handbag. "You’re nothing like my first lover."

    It made sense. He could still taste her, his cock still throbbed in its prison, but the grey haired woman had had her four orgasms and that was that. Besides, she was right.

    She nodded. "Yes. I know. You do have a nice tongue. The world would be a better place for women if men put their tongues about more than their cocks." She smiled. "You had better roll over."

    Mark wriggled onto his front and she freed his ankles then moved to his wrists. "Oh dear," she said cheerfully. "That angel has utterly vanished.”

    All the moisture ran from Mark's mouth. “What does it say?”

    "01 weeks," said Mrs. Fortescue. “You'll still be free before the end of term. All those Christmas parties and tipsy girls under mistletoe?"

    Mark had a jumbled vision of legs and boots and stockings and breasts. Perhaps if he used his tongue properly, his cock wouldn’t matter. "Hell yes!"

    "Well, I'd like to give those nice, yielding girls, an extra special Christmas present." Without warning, she sat astride his back and squashed her wet, scratchy pussy into his spine. Her hands parted his buttocks. Something cold and oily pressed against his anus. “You see,” she continued. “Just gargling his semen was such a turn on, that I lay down on his floor and masturbated.”

    He tensed. "What are you doing?"

    Mrs. Fortescue slapped his buttocks. "Don't clench!"

    Her fingers swirled around his anus then pressed again, this time popping inside. “They’re not a penis, but fingers serve nicely, don’t you think?”

    Mark’s cheeks burned, even as a new, obscene heat spread out from his rectum and into his captive genitals. He groaned and found himself opening his legs as wide as they could go. "No!"

    "But no so often means yes," said Mrs. Fortescue. "It's fortunate that I had moisturiser in my handbag, you're somewhat tight." She retracted the finger and replaced it with what felt like two more. The invading digits stretched Mark’s tender rectum until he was ready to split. “And as he watched me pleasure myself, can you believe that he got hard again?”

    "What are you doing?" he repeated.

    "Shush." The fingers shifted inside him and a shiver of shameful pleasure ran through him. “And I knew I could never keep all that manhood, just to myself.”

    Mark’s face burned. His pulse thundered in his ears. He cried out over the deafening sound, "No!"

    From far away, he heard her say "Now let me see..."

    Unwanted pleasure speared him and molten semen squirted from his hidden penis.

    The watch chimed.

    "Well, so much for your plans of seasonal debauchery," said Mrs. Fortescue as she unstrapped his wrists. "Now be a darling and get dressed. My husband’s cooking tonight. We'll consider the consultation paid for in kind."

    "Oh. But... Is that the same man... why...?"

    "Silly boy. We belong to the generation that invented open relationships." Smiling, she neatened her hair. "Don’t act hurt. You’ve enjoyed yourself. Look!" She bent over and tapped his watch.

    Where the angel had been, the counter now read "02 weeks". Mark's penis shrivelled inside its tube. He put his hand to the slit of the genital cup. It came away sticky.

    Mechanically, he dressed and made his way downstairs and out into the rain. It was only as the cold drops splashed his face that everything became real.

    He'd been used then dismissed like a cheap prostitute. The worst of it was that he'd let her. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and decided that he needed a long, hot bath.

    He trudged back through the darkening campus. There was no point in hurrying – there'd be a queue for the bathroom and he'd have to wait in the corridor, the chastity belt cleaning equipment hidden in an over-sized wash bag.

    He paused in the foyer to look across the quadrangle at Dacre Block and imagine its warm, luxurious flats with their private bathrooms. Thanks to Mrs. Fortescue, there’d be a fee for a final interview in December. Why not put the money to good use?

    And, December would reset the guardian angel. If he kept his head down, he might even be free in the last week of term, just in time for all those wild Christmas parties after all.

    (Hope you enjoyed that! You can get the rest of it here... Special 50% off for CM users if you use this coupon: BT42Z )
    cshorts likes this.
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