Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
Week 18: My week long birthday fantasy seemed to have turned into a permanent arrangement.
One night she happened to notice me rubbing some cream on the exposed area of my cock, and dabbing a little under the ring. I had long stopped trying to get myself off this way, since in the past it has only led to frustration, a sore cock, and lots of wasted cream; but I found that a little lubrication at night helped ease some of my discomfort. When she offered to help me, I was eager to have her lend a hand, so I lay back on the bed while she massaged the cream around the cage. Her touch being much better than my own, I was soon moaning in pleasure, fervently hoping that she wouldn’t stop.
My wife poured then poured cream on my balls, and massaged them with one hand while she rubbed my caged cock with the other. I tried not to let her see how excited I was so that she wouldn’t stop. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep from thrusting my hips up to meet her strokes. Eyes twinkling, she squeezed my balls more firmly, knowing full well what effect that would have on me.
“Please, please let me come,” I begged, “I’m so close… mmm. “
“I don’t know,” she replied slowly, “you don’t seem to enjoy it when I let you come with this thing on.”
“Oh, we can take it off, can’t we?” I was becoming frantic.
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, but kept rubbing and squeezing. “I don’t think that you should get to come so easily. Besides, I’m sure you won’t even enjoy it.”
My mouth was almost too dry to speak. “Yes, yes, I’ll enjoy it, I promise. Please, don’t stop, it feels so nice, oh please oh please …oh oh oh… uunhh…”
The next thing I knew, I had a few short spasms and the come just dribbled out of me. As usual, it wasn’t enough to abate my desire. My wife seemed fascinated by watching my cock leak all that fluid, and kept prodding it. Finally it stopped coming out, leaving a small pool of come on my stomach.
“Not very much,” she commented, “you used to shoot so much of it, remember?”
I nodded, remembering how she often gave me hand jobs and I would end up with come as far up as my pillow, or sometimes even the wall. Apparently she remembered that, too.
“No, not very much anymore, I’m afraid,” she said, shaking her head, “Poor honey, just can’t shoot if you can’t get it hard, can you?” She bent down to give me a kiss. “Oh, by the way,” she added, “I don’t remember giving you permission to come, so I hope you realize what this means.”
Damn it, I thought to myself, probably an extra week until she lets me out again. Ignoring the pained expression on my face, she just draped a towel over me and left the room.
Week 21: My frustration started to give way to resigned acceptance.
At some point I began to realize that I was going longer and longer between unlockings. While our frequency remained pretty much the same for lovemaking, it seemed like she found one excuse after another to avoid letting me out, so that lovemaking sessions invariably became exercises in frustration for me. Yet I still woke up each morning spooning her, my caged cock pressing against her round ass. Or I’d rub up against her in the kitchen, or pop into the shower with her to feel her naked body against mine. I began to take pleasure in having her rub other areas of my body – my ass, my thighs, my chest. I didn’t stop looking forward to my now-infrequent orgasms, but I learned how to become almost satisfied with our long make-out sessions.
My wife, I’m sure, noticed this because she taunted me a little less frequently about not coming, even though we seemed to indulge more frequently in mutual kissing and fondling. She even once remarked that I didn’t ask as often to be released from the cage. I had a few moments of confusion over this; was I really becoming more satisfied without coming? Having fewer orgasms didn’t sound like such a good thing to me, but at the same time I no longer watched the calendar like I used to. Was there something wrong with me?
Week 26: An unusual turn of events.
For a while I wondered if my not paying attention to the calendar meant that I was losing my sex drive; over the last few months I’d gone from being allowed an orgasm each week, then every other week, and now it was about once a month; even less frequently when she decided that those involuntary emissions counted. Yet each time we crawled into bed together, I certainly felt randy and aroused, even when I knew I wouldn’t be unlocked.
One afternoon there was a package in the mail. My wife just smiled when she saw it, but wouldn’t tell me what was inside. That night, she told me that she was going to unlock me, but that I had to promise not to come until she allowed it. I readily agreed to be tied to the bed – hell, I would have agreed to be tied to a porcupine if it meant a good orgasm for me – and she carefully fastened my wrists and ankles to the straps at the corners of the bed. She unlocked the cage and carefully worked it off of my cock, stiff with anticipation. She made me squirm as she cleaned it with a warm washcloth, and then went into the bathroom for a few moments. When she returned, she had removed her clothes, and was holding a large towel. She placed the towel over my face and told me to remain quiet. I heard some unfamiliar noises, then what sounded like rummaging in a shopping bag, and the tearing of paper. A soft “pop” and then I gasped as she worked warm lotion over the head of my cock, letting it dribble down the shaft.
Whatever she was rubbing on me had a warm, tingly feeling, almost like menthol but without any scent that I could detect. Soon my cock was sso completely engorged with blood that it was almost painful.
“Doesn’t that feel nice?” she asked me.
I nodded, then realizing that she might not be able to see my face under the towel, I moaned a “yes” to encourage her to keep rubbing. Soon I realized that my hips were rising up to meet her firm strokes, and I felt myself making little noises in the back of my throat.
“Such a nice shape,” she mused, “I think that you’re about as hard as I’ve ever seen you.”
I moaned again in agreement… and then in frustration as she took her hand away. She said nothing, but I heard some fumbling with containers, and a few seconds later I felt a sensation around my cock, almost like warm dough. She pushed and squeezed, shaping something around my cock, all the while whispering encouraging words and fondling my balls.
“Try to keep still for a few minutes, okay?” she asked. For emphasis she wrapped her fingers around my balls and gave a firm squeeze. I felt her fingernails trace a path around my stomach and chest, taking care to pinch and tweak my nipples. I bit down on my lip to keep from twisting and moving. After two or three minutes, she released her hold on my balls and I felt her get up from the bed.
“Umm…,” I questioned, but I felt her finger on my lips.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised, and I heard her footsteps across the room. A few minutes and some bathroom noises later, and suddenly I felt a cold wet rag across my stomach.
Hey!” I yelled, “That’s friggin’ cold! Whatthehellareyoudoing?!”
I heard her giggle and she removed the cold cloth, only to wrap it around my swollen balls. I started to bounce up and down, but she pressed her hand to my stomach to keep me from jumping. Moments later, my blood-engorged cock was shriveling up, trying to crawl back into the warmth of my body. The weight of whatever she had on my groin was lifted and apparently she took it into the other room, leaving me to writhe and twist in agonizing frustration.
Dammit!
About five minutes later she came back and began to clean me up with a warm cloth. By that time I had lost all traces of my erection, and I felt her squeezing my cock back into the metal chastity cage. I started to twist and bounce, but she crawled up onto the bed and sat on my stomach to keep me still. A minute later I heard the lock click shut. I grumbled a bit, but she managed to quiet me down when she turned around and positioned herself over my face. She pulled off the towel and guided my head between her legs; she was extremely wet, and she came very quickly several times in a row.
“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” she said as she unfastened the bonds,” I mean, you did agree not to come until I’d given you permission, right?”
I nodded, seething slightly.
“So, what’s the problem? I didn’t give permission and you didn’t come.”
“But what was that stuff you put on me?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s a surprise. You’ll find out soon enough,” she replied. “Our anniversary is coming up next month; maybe that would be a good time to let you in on it.”
Next month? It had already been a month since I’d last had an orgasm – would it be another month before I’d be allowed my next one?
More of my ridiculous attempts at erotica can be found on my Stories page.
