“You have to put your cage back on, you know.”
It wasn’t an order, just a statement of fact. I knew this was coming. It was a sunny Friday afternoon, and we had just gotten out of the shower after having spent a very pleasurable hour in bed.
“I don’t want to,” I replied. “Maybe I can wait a little bit?”
“Wait? My car is going to be here in an hour. Wait until when?”
“Umm… Sunday?” I said, hopefully.
“Yeah, I could put it on then, and, you know, take a picture and send it to you,” I said. “You can trust me.”
“No freaking way. Go put it on right now,” she demanded, “and then I’ll give you your keys.”
Despite the fact that I had had a very intense climax a half hour previously, my cock was twitching as I spread lotion on it and fitted the pieces of my chastity device together. My wife watched as I eased myself into the tube and fumbled with the stainless steel locking pin I had made. Damn, I couldn’t believe that I was getting hard again! This was certainly not the way I would have wanted to start off.
She handed me the lock, and I finagled it into the hole in the pin, elusive because my swelling in the tube was pushing things out of place. Finally I managed to position everything properly, without pinching.
“Do you want to lock it yourself?” I asked her.
“Of course I do,” she said.
I sat on the edge of the bed, and she reached down to snick the lock closed. She she tugged on it a few times, eliciting a whimper from me. Then she gave me a soft kiss and held out her hand.
“Here’s your keys,” she said.
“Wow, did you save any tape for anybody else?” I asked. The key to my lock, plus the key to a spare “just in case” lock were wrapped with a layer of tamper evident security tape, signed, and then wrapped again with several layers of clear plastic tape.
I stood up and walked to the dresser, where she was putting on the last bit of makeup. I pressed myself against her back, feeling the pressure of the cage against her ass. Damn, I could not freakin’ believe that I was getting aroused already. She noticed, and pulled herself away to finish dressing.
“I think it’s the perverse hotness about being made to do something when I really don’t want to,” I told her. “Like, when you make me keep fucking you with the strapon after I’ve already released.” I stood up and put my arms around her waist again. “Or when I think about being forced to eat you after I’ve already come. The idea is much hotter than actually doing it, at least for the first few minutes. Then I get into the groove again.”
She nodded. “You know, usually when you come, I leave you out until the next day.” She disentangled herself again and pulled on a shirt. “I kind of thought that this might be sexy, making you put it on right away.” She pulled her jeans up and faced me. “We did talk about it, though, right?”
We had talked about quite a bit of things when we found out that the Elm City Consumer Products Co. was sending her along with a team to Bangalore for most of July. She had mixed feelings about going, but it would be a great experience, augmented not a little by the fact that her stay in a nice hotel would be on somebody else’s bill.
As it happened, my birthday was in the beginning of June; I had been locked up for the previous two months, so she let me out and I — we — had strong and frequent orgasms for the next several weeks. Funny thing, I know I give the impression that I enjoy the arousal of denial, but once I start having orgasms it’s really hard to stop wanting them. Now the end of June was here, and it was time for that to end.
We finished the afternoon by me pleasuring her with both me and my other cock, just so she would have enough to last her for the next four weeks. We both talked about how exciting it would be to put me back in the device immediately after coming, right after the sexual rush had been diminished. I whispered things in her ear, telling her how much I was going to miss her. Eventually she was satisfied, and I asked for permission to have my own. She hesitated for a moment, and conceded that it would be cruel not to allow it. Mindful of the child downstairs, I stifled my moan in her shoulder. My body seemed to know that I would need to make this one last, and my muscles were sore when I finally finished. A few minutes later, I was stroking her body as we lay side by side.
“It’s only a month, you know,” she said. “You can do that like it’s nothing.”
“Yeah, but we usually get to have sex because you’re around.”
“So, maybe it will be easier, since I won’t be here for you to think about.” She rolled out of bed. “Come on in the shower with me, and wash my back.”
When she was finished in the shower, I grabbed the soap and razor to shave my cock and balls. She eyed me for a moment, and stepped out of the stall.
“Shaving yourself nice and smooth before you go back in?” she asked.
I muttered something, concentrating on not nicking or slicing anything important. And that’s when I began to think on it. I wasn’t ready to go back in again, certainly not so soon. I had sudden visions of laying in bed with a bottle of lotion and a hand towel…
Damn! Not yet, not yet!
But a few minutes later I was maneuvering my freshly-shaved parts into a hard plastic tube, half-aroused by the idea of doing so without being fully aroused. Human sexuality is so strange at times.
The first week passed like nothing.
Actually, it was pretty good; the Edglette is a young teenager, so we went to the movies, we went grocery shopping, we did laundry, cleaned the house, made dinner, and spent hours in the family room, each of us logged into our own computers — sharing links, lolcats, and other assorted jokes.
And it really was good for me, because Mrs. Edge is a restless sleeper. Me, I wake up pretty much in the same spot in which I lay down each night. I might actually sleep fewer hours, but it was a better quality sleep. Yeah, I know I’m supposed to talk about how much I miss her warm body and all that, but facts are what they are.
The second week wasn’t too bad. I posted some HNTs, and the hectic schedule kept me occupied. Mrs. Edge called twice a day, but her crazy work schedule made it impossible for us to talk when both of us were alone. I began to think more and more about the hot, kinky sex that we would have when she came back. Or wouldn’t have. Or whatever.
She has always taken week-long trips on vacation without me, but by the end of two weeks I found that I was wanting to touch myself, if only to help me relax enough to go to sleep. I searched for our back massager, knowing that the vibrations would bring me to a release within a few minutes, even while inside the cage. A quick look in the usual places, however, suggested to me that Mrs. Edge had hidden it from temptation. As with the security tape on the keys, this showed a little more interest and creativity on her part; generally that would have been a good thing, but two weeks is a long time not to be able to caress yourself. But fortunately, I had more shopping, laundry, cooking, and cleaning to occupy my time.
By the third week, the dreams started.
I’m long accustomed to orgasm denial, and I think that I’ve done an excellent job in having learned to sublimate my arousal. I find that the first few days after being locked that I’m randy all the time. Then I settle down to a low simmer. But for some reason, after about three weeks that low simmer boils over and I’m aroused again. Not active, randy horniness; more like an aching desire that can’t be sated. When Mrs. Edge is around, I can’t stop touching and pawing her. At night, I no longer sleep on my own side of the bed, but curl up tightly against her, spoon fashion.
Any desire of sexuality is sublimated into a raw need for sensuality. I’m constantly hopping into the shower with Mrs. Edge, offering to soap up her back. I offer massages in the evenings. I rub her feet. This isn’t the devoted pampering offered up by a slave, but a selfish need on my part for touch and feel. The problem with sublimating one’s desires is that one needs some substitute action. I don’t always know what will satisfy to me, and indeed, most of the time nothing does. These are the days when I’m begging to make love to her — even when I know she has no intention of letting me out of the device, even when I know I can only use my other cock; but I’m still desperate to penetrate, to be one with her, to feel her coming under me.
I think that’s why the dreams come.
I tell her I have the dreams, but I don’t always tell her what they are. Oh, I give her some hints, and I tell her a few things, but some of them are too dark, even for me. I’m not sure that I’m not protecting myself as much as protecting her by keeping quiet.
But at three weeks, the dreams always come, and I never know how long they will continue. They vary in some random fashion, and several will play more often, and then be replaced. They are never exactly the same, but they tend to follow the same pattern. And invariably I wake up early in the morning, incredibly and frustratingly aroused. Most times I just spoon up against Mrs. Edge and hold her tightly, letting her warmth relax me until I can drift back to sleep. Sometimes I have to get up, pee, then toss on some clothes to exercise. Or I plop down at my desk and check the messages. This week it feels a bit empty without being able to spoon her.
The dream that is recurring most often this week — actually, for the last year or so — is the one in which she’s dressed in leather — usually a corset, sometimes more like a body harness, although sometimes she’s simply naked — and she’s taking me with her strap on. Sometimes it’s plain, sometimes a vibrating kind that specifically stimulates my prostate (or something that might not even exist inside me), and she’s making slow, deep, deliberate thrusts — or she’s pumping me hard and fast — and it’s feeling really, really good, and I want to come very, very badly. And in my dream I know — or sometimes she’s telling me — that I’m too strong for her, that simple denial just isn’t enough to break me, and that she’s using this on me to take me right up to the edge, to make me beg for release. And in my dream, it’s always been a long time since I’ve come; I’m not aware of numbers, but I know it’s been months, maybe longer. Sometimes I’m tied down to the bed, sometimes not, and sometimes my arms are bound behind me; but I’m always on my back looking into her eyes. She looks at me determinedly, and she knows I’m close. She’s not smiling, but she’s not looking bitchy or mean — just intent.
She leans forward.
“Come on,” she says. “You know you want to. I’ll let you come. All you have to do is to beg for it.”
And I’m so horny, so desperate for release that finally I succumb. In the dreams, it’s wordless, or I’m babbling and not making sense, but I always end up asking her to please, please let me come. She doesn’t always acknowledge the begging, or perhaps she smiles, or sometimes she nods and tells me that she knew I’d come around. And without stopping she tells me that she will finally allow me to come, but there’s a condition.
“You know why I bought this, don’t you? It’s because I’m not going to let you come the regular way anymore. You know that we been working up to this, right? I want you locked up all the time, but to keep you motivated, I’m going to fuck you this way, only when you deserve it, and only when you’re so desperate for release that you beg me to take you this way. Do you understand me?”
In real life I don’t particularly kink on humiliation, but in dreamland, this really gets to me. I’m ready to agree, partly because I’m so aroused that I’ll agree to anything, but also — to my embarrassment — because I want this. But I can’t allow myself to give in so easily… can I?
She never stops her slow, deliberate thrusting into me. “I think that you’ve been able to handle the denial because I’ve always let you come so nicely in the past, and so you’re just holding out for the next time. But you need to understand now that there is never going to be a next time; I’m never going to allow you that pleasure again. I know that coming like this, with me fucking your ass will never feel as good, but from now on it’s going to be the best that you will ever be allowed to have. Do you understand this?”
And for some reason I know she’s serious, that we have taken this not just to a new level, but to a new realm. And despite my humiliation, I want this. I want this because I know that she wants this, and I find my resolve slipping.
“And since it’s going to be all that I will ever allow you, you will begin to desire it. You’ll hold out for a while, but eventually you will want it; you’ll want it because it’s the best that you’re going to get. And when you realize that, then you will crave it, and when you finally crave it, then I’ll expect you to beg me for it. And then I’ll decide if you’ve earned it or not, and it will be totally up to me if you get to come like this.”
I’m moaning in a combination of arousal, frustration, and fear. I’m scared to not be allowed to come normally anymore; I don’t want to give up my orgasms, no, I really don’t, but oh, this feels so good right now, and maybe that will be enough… And she wants this, and now I realize that I want this, too. I’ve always wanted this. But… I need help getting there.
“Do you understand that I mean this, that I’m serious? That I’m really never going to allow you to come the regular way again? Do you?”
I’m nodding frantically.
“Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me to make you come only this way. Tell me how much you want me to control you. Tell me!”
And in my dream I acquiesce, I finally give over to her what she wants — no, what I want — and allow her to bring me gratefully over the edge to sweet, sweet relief.
Except that it never comes because invariably I wake up just moments before it happens.
It’s difficult enough at times to live with the constant arousal, but dreams like that heap fuel onto the fire and leave me more frustrated than ever. Which, I guess, is a good thing. Sort of. Curiously,in the five years or so that we’ve been practicing this, I think that I’ve only had one, maybe two nocturnal emissions while wearing the device, and that was early on. Now I just wake up. What the hell is up with that?
Anyway, we’re getting into the last week. More laundry, more shopping, more cooking. And one more week of sleeping alone, and perchance, to dream.