That’s What You Are: A Wallet, A Loser, A Tool For My Amusement.

Evil Chastity Regime

You lock it up. First it's plastic, because over time the resting state gets smaller. Months in, you switch to metal. At some point, there's a Prince Albert, to keep me secure.

You restrain me and blindfold me when you take it off to clean me, which grows to feel incredibly intimate. You say you want me to forget what my dick looks like out of the cage. I crave these moments it even though you smack my balls if I get hard, and use ice to shrink me when it's over.

My orgasms get rarer and rarer. At first, sure, it's a restrained hand job every couple weeks, but that stretches to a month, then six or eight weeks. You smear my cum on my face, then into my mouth. Sometimes you lick it up and spit it into my mouth.

You decide I should get pegged to cum from now on, and so I am. You caress me as you rail me, stretch me. You discover a dildo that tickles my prostate. I have a weird kind of orgasm that way -- I dribble cum, but I get no release. You tell me it's "medically sufficient" and so real orgasms get even more rare, as long as you make me "cum like a little bitch" every month or so.

Then you get creative. If I don't need a regular orgasm anymore, than you want to make them more significant. And you decide you want me to be afraid of them. You tell me that in six months, you'll give me the best hand job of my life, but that afterwards I'll get punished for it. I know you mean it. I know you know that after I cum, my tolerance for pain is low. I know this excites you.

The first time you set a date, it's been over a year since I had a real orgasm. I'm desperate to feel your hand around me again, to really get off again. But you tell me that afterwards, you're going to cane me, and I'll have no safeword. You tease me when you say this. You make me desperate for it, but also terrified.

The day comes and you tie me down, bent over the spanking bench. You kiss my lips and whisper your excitement into my ear. With your sex close to my face, it's easy to smell your own desire. The cage comes off, and I'm loose again.

You lube your hand and start stroking. A bit, then a break. A bit more, and a break. You cup my balls, gently, then firmly. You tease my ass. Delicate fingers on my glans, just enough to make me twitch. But then you start talking about how much you're going to hurt me when I cum. You tell me this is the new way, and you need to make it so bad I fear orgasms. You want me to beg you to never give me another one, and the only way to do that is pain. My animal brain doesn't care. My dick is throbbing. You squirt more lube and stroke the full length of me once, twice, three times, and I explode before you start the fourth. I'm immediately terrified.

You smear up the cum from the floor and feed it to me. "Eat it up, little bitch boy." You smile. "Now it's my turn."

There is no warmup. The strokes start strong and come steady, with suitable pauses between them, but continuing inexorably, rhythmicly, brutally. I'm in tears quickly. I'm begging. I'm pleading. I'm apologizing.

"Oh, I know, honey. But this is how you learn. You'll be very, very sorry when I'm done. But that won't be for a while, and then you'll know what your nasty little orgasm cost, won't you?"