A Chastised Man and a Widow

### Note to the reader. Every character is an adult. Only a few drops are slightly autobiographical (or from the real lives of my personal friends); the rest is fantasy. There is no such thing as an inescapable chastity cage; we could even label this narrative as "science fiction."

The entire story revolves around forced male chastity (often associated with the "Fetish" category): if this topic does not intrigue you, please stop reading.

English is not my native language, so please forgive my grammatical and lexical errors. ###

.

Chapter 1: I served.

.

I always served my wife like a queen.

It started as a small and short game in bed.

Small gestures. Unreciprocated oral sex.

A coffee made by me for her after she had her selfish female orgasm, without giving me anything in return.

Then it became a way of life.

At first, my wife denied me my orgasm, but my cock remained free, and I masturbated while she slept.

I masturbated often. Very often. More than you may guess. Double it.

Then she started saying she didn't want me to masturbate.

I tried to obey, but I couldn't. She mocked me, telling me that if I were a Real Man, I would be able to control my animalistic urges of lust. I was deeply humiliated by her words, because she was the most important person in my whole life.

But I can't help myself.

One night, after more than three hours of edging while surfing dozens of porn sites, I stumbled upon a story that included a male chastity cage.

There were no tags or warnings. It started out as a normal story with the usual stuff, then suddenly the author wrote that the male protagonist was wearing a locked chastity cage that imprisoned his penis, preventing him from getting an erection!

I couldn't believe my eyes. There really was something that would help me resist the urge to masturbate for four hours or more every night!

I fell deep into the White Rabbit hole. I spent the next few weeks reading stories and consulting advice blogs.

I realized that most male chastity cages were just... useless plastic toys. Small silicone objects that any pair of scissors could cut through. Metal trinkets that you could slip out of using olive oil as a lubricant. All silly nonsense.

Until I found a website that offered "100% inescapable forced male chastity." The name was promising: "InesKapableKages", and the logo guaranteed "anti-escape proof".

To my embarrassment, it was a site for gay men. The photos were unmistakable, and the posts were all signed by male couples: "Me and my husband Kevin," "Signed: Mike and Jack," "Kisses, Adam & Yves." And if there were a few female-sounding names, they were clearly men using women's names: "Big Chad and his submissive Angeline," "Jock & his devoted French maid Sissy."

But I did care about the other customers. I understand so many gay couples may purchase it, but an object is just an object; I don't need to be gay to like a pink tie.

For me, the only important message was that the site guaranteed that the cage was 100% inescapable: evasion-proof. The craftsmen behind the site offered to send me a plastic model first to check the measurements, with thin bars and large gaps where you could see the swollen, desperate flesh exposed to teasing. Then, if the measurements of the plastic model were perfect, the company promised to send me a metal cage that was perfectly secure against any escape attempt.

That was exactly what I needed. Without hesitation, I contacted them, and two weeks later, I was wearing my metal chastity cage, with no chance in the world of escaping. Only my Keyholder could open it with a secret numeric code, only when she wanted to. Only IF she wanted to, eventually.

Honey for my ears.

I will surrender all my future erection to my wife.

I was so happy and so pleased because of my huge sacrifice for her happiness and her control over the most precious part of my body and my life.

I feel like a White Knight, a devoted Paladin in a shining silver armour, ready to obey and to serve my Queen.

I feel my full happiness approaching through my devoted sacrifice.

.

###

.

But something unexpected happened.

My wife didn't want to open it.

It was my birthday. I was so used to her not organizing any parties for me. Funny, isn't it? Women take advantage of women's birthdays because they can expect to receive gifts even if they haven't done anything to DESERVE them: they can demand to be the center of attention (as if that doesn't happen every day!) and that for that day, she's in charge and everyone must obey... just like every other day.

Men, on the other hand, never celebrate birthdays. Boys are taught that they will be rewarded (sparingly) only after they have earned it. There are no gifts for boys: there are only rewards for hard work. And no celebrations: it is not acceptable for a boy to be the center of attention, and at least since 1776 or 1789, no boy can say "today I am in charge and you will all obey" without being ridiculed or insulted.

It was my birthday. My wife, as always, had ignored me all day, and now she was on the bed reading her long novels about vampire kings and werewolf chiefs who impaled with equine cocks or tentacles or trunks some boring ordinary female librarians with glasses and ponytails.

I walked into our bedroom with a towel around my hips and said, "Look, my love, I bought you a present."

She looked at me suspiciously. "You're not going to give me your weenie with a red ribbon tied around it, are you, Lance?"

"No, darling, what are you talking about! My gift is that I'll never masturbate again without your permission! I can't open this chastity cage, only you can do it!"

And I dropped my towel, revealing the steel jewel that imprisoned my family jewels.

She laughed.

.

###

.

It wasn't the reaction I expected after reading all those stories about Keyholders, but it was the reaction I got.

Some might say it was the reaction I deserved. I don't know.

My wife loudly laughed at me and my sacrifice.

In a moment of clarity, similar to Post-Nut Clarity, I understood so many things.

She had never loved me. She had never cared about anything I did for her. She didn't care how hard I worked to bring money home, how many hours of overtime I did at the office for her, how hard I worked to get a promotion to bring her more money.

What's more, she didn't care about all the errands and chores. I always did all the chores, chastened because she wouldn't let me fuck her. I cleaned, ironed, cooked, and every time she found an excuse to attack me, scolding me because I was never up to the standard of perfection she demanded of me. A narcissistic wife? I don't know.

She loudly laughed at me for a long time. Then she said, "I'll never be your keyholder, idiot.

That male fantasy of being the center of a woman's attention... yeah, because you all imagine that a woman would devote time to tease and denial... It's a full idiocy, Lance.

A woman's priority is her own pleasure, her second priority is her own relaxed laziness, and her third priority is something silly or preposterous, yet it still comes before her husband.

Even the most wonderful husband in the world will be somewhere between 21st and 22nd in a woman's list of priorities. And, guess what? You are not handsome, fat, bald, or stupid. No, no.

And furthermore... A woman craves the risks, the danger. A female desires a Bad Guy, a toxic abuser, a thief, a rogue.

You're predictable, Lance. I don't need to do anything to seduce you: you're already completely my slave. And it's useless to promise me anything. You simply can't give me what I deserve."

She spread her thighs and showed me her hairy pussy, glistening with vaginal juices.

"Lick my pussy. Loser. If you were a real man, you would impale me against my will, forcing me to wet myself to prevent your domineering cock from tearing my pussy walls apart.

But instead, you were born a loser, and the only thing you know how to do is lick, like a lesbian without a cock. That's right: you're a lesbian without a cock. And I despise you. Now kneel down and lick me."

I moved my hands closer to her spread knees, but she snapped, "Hands off! Don't touch me with those hairy gorilla hands! You disgust me!"

Always double standards. If something concerns you, the wife who never does anything wrong, she must be praised and forgiven: if her laziness allows hair to grow on her mons pubis, I must forgive and praise her, even though I have told her a thousand times that I prefer her shaved.

On the other hand, if something perfectly natural like a few hairs on a man's wrist or knuckles happens, THE WIFE arrogates to herself the right to insult me, scold me, denigrate me, and emasculate me. And I put up with everything out of love for her, with my patience and resilience, waiting for her to become more affectionate, but instead, month after month, my wife becomes increasingly aggressive and contemptuous.

Angry with me for forcing her to get up and interrupting her laziness, my wife jumped out of bed, grabbed a pair of stockings from the drawer, and tied my wrists behind my back.

Then she lay down on top of her without even looking at me, her eyes on her smartphone, and ordered me:

"Now lick my pussy, idiot. I have to finish reading at least one chapter, maybe two, I don't know... and you'll lick my pussy the whole time. Loser!"

.

Chapter 2. Disappointed.

.

Many narratives about forced male chastity focus on avoiding disappointing the Keyholder.

Almost no one writes about the opposite effect: that the caged husband is disappointed.

All my life, my wife had disappointed me.

She always promised things she didn't keep.

She promised to take care of the dog, and then I had to take care of it.

She promised she would take care of our first child and our second child, but instead, I always had to take care of them (I'm still friends with all the moms at school, who considered me a woman like them).

She promised she would support me in my career, but instead, she dumped all the chores and errands on me, so in the end, her career was better than mine. Now she was the main breadwinner in our household, and she constantly reminded me of it, humiliating me in front of my family and friends. She didn't remember the years when I had literally supported her, paying her college tuition and letting her live rent-free in the apartment where I paid the rent. Nor did she ever remember that I had paid off her college debt. I worked and she studied: I was stuck in a job with no career prospects, just so she could get that particular degree that would open up endless opportunities... just for her. I had sacrificed my career to further hers, and I had even paid off her debts. But now all my sacrifices seemed to have vanished when she bragged to her friends that she now earns twice as much as I.

###

Long story short.

My wife never opened my chastity cage.

I haven't had an erection since. Years have gone by.

I sacrificed my manhood for nothing but ridicule and contempt.

On my birthday, my wife summoned me to her bedroom.

Yes, because a few years ago she had decided that I snored too loudly and that I had no right to disturb her while she was resting.

By that point, our children had flown the nest, and we were a couple of empty nesters. If we had been a normal couple full of joy and happiness, we would have used that phase of life to have sex every day, but I was married to a lazy, selfish, narcissistic wife, and she didn't want me to have any moments of joy.

In particular, she had decided that I would sleep in another room, but always with the cage on. She had said, "You will not sleep on the bed, but on the floor: only a Real Man deserves a bed, but you are just a beast driven by Animalistic Lust, and you deserve only the cold floor."

.

For weeks, months. Almost a year.

.

But that evening was my birthday.

She summoned me to HER bedroom, near HER lavish and soft king-size bed, with soft silk sheets scented with both eau de toilette and the smell of her selfish orgasms as she often masturbated herself, laughing at me.

I admired her body.

She was wearing a severe black silk nightrobe, tied at the waist with a silk belt. I had never seen that outfit before, nor most of the sex toys that were lined up on the large bedside table: I wasn't allowed to enter HER bedroom even for chores like changing the sheets, I could only enter if I was summoned. I realized that she had bought dildos and vibrators, and nipple suckers to satisfy her body without needing me. My cock twitched inside the metal cage at the thought.

.

"We Need To Talk," the four cruelest words ever uttered. No sadistic professional dominatrix in any cruel dungeon could ever invent words more frightening and terrible.

"We need to talk, Loser. Or rather, I need to talk, and maybe you'd better listen, so you can understand your place in the world and obey more precisely.

Take that gag ball and put it in your mouth. Tighten the leather straps and fasten the belt. Are you drooling already? You're such a swine: a pink little piggy.

That stupid metal chastity cage you locked yourself in... it just proves that your little penis is useless. It's never been good for anything. I let you cum in my uterus a couple of times just because I wanted to have two children, but that's all.

My younger colleague... You know, the tall one, Kevin... well, he invited me to go to a scientific conference in the Caribbean. Together. He and I together.

He winked at me when he said that he and I could save the department funding for the project a lot of money, if we shared a hotel room.

You got that right, idiot. Kevin and I were in a single hotel room in the Caribbean for ten days.

He added that for the same price, we could have a very small room with a large bed, or a very large junior suite with a small bed.

And then Kevin added, "Anyway, what do we need a big bed for? You'll always be under me or on top of me, but never next to me, ha ha!" And I smiled at him because I was thinking the same thing, you understand, Loser?"

With the gag in my mouth, I stood silent and still, erect. My chastised cock couldn't become erect, forced by the curved bars to maintain a humiliating downward bow. But it was agitated inside the cage, as if there were another small brain inside the small head of my cock.

"Are you wondering if I've been cheating on you with Kevin for a long time? I don't want to answer that. Whether I get fucked by a Real Man or not is none of your business, idiot. You locked your dick in a chastity cage, and you have no right to know who fucks my pussy.

Maybe I've been letting Kevin fuck me for years... maybe I only hired him because he was already fucking me... maybe Kevin fucks me because I'm his female boss in the department, so he hopes to get ahead by literally kissing his boss's sweet ass... You can't know what's going on. You can only imagine and suffer.

Maybe I've never let Kevin cum in my pussy... maybe I feel too old for him, and maybe I'm embarrassed by our age gap, with the old woman and the young man... I don't know. Or rather, I am aware of it, but I don't want to confess it to you, a loser.

Now go away. I don't want to hear your excuses. And above all, I don't want to hear the whining and moaning of a crybaby. Go sleep on your floor and leave me alone with my Magic Wand."

I tried to reach the gag strap before leaving the room, but she stopped me.

"Don't touch the strap! Did I tell you to take off the gag? Keep the gag in your mouth, go down to the kitchen, and make me a cocktail. You know exactly which one: the great "Between the Sheets"! You know the real name was "Sex between the sheets," but censorship corrected it. The sex. The one I'll always have, but the one you'll never have again, ha, ha. Bring it to me on a silver tray and climb the stairs on your knees."

Why did I obey her?

Why didn't I untie the gag, freeing my mouth from that obscene penetration?

Why didn't I react with my voice finally free, with my arms finally strong?

In the long minutes that followed, I carried out her orders like an automaton.

I prepared a [Sex] "Between the Sheets" for Her. When I was young, just hearing the name of a cocktail was enough to give me a hard-on: like "Screwdriver." Now I was so submissive that I couldn't even think.

I placed her cocktail on the silver tray.

I knelt in front of the stairs. Why did I do it?

She couldn't see me: she was lying on the bed and couldn't see the stairwell. But I felt I had to kneel. Slowly, with great effort, I climbed the stairs on my knees, holding the tray with both hands. It took a lot of concentration and a long time. My knees were red and sore.

Ah, that's why I did it: because otherwise she would have noticed that the skin on my knees showed no signs of my pain. Of course. It was obvious.

Slowly, I crawled along the hallway, stopping outside HER bedroom door.

I hesitated.

I had been summoned earlier, but then I had left the bedroom.

Inside, my wife was masturbating with the Magic Wand on the lowest setting. "Get in MY bedroom, Loser."

I entered, still on my knees.

The smell of her wet pussy made my imprisoned cock twitch.

"Put MY cocktail on the nightstand. Don't go anywhere. Suck my right toes... You know how I like it."

Why did I obey? I don't know. Why did I then lick her pussy and anus while she masturbated, screaming Kevin's name? I don't know. Why did I then crawl to the other room, still on my knees, while she rolled over and fell asleep peacefully without reciprocating? I don't know.

###

3. Free at last.

.

At the funeral, everyone told me, "She was such a good woman... a saint."

I remained silent. Silence somehow befits a widower, it seems.

My wife and Kevin had left for the Caribbean. But the Bermuda Triangle is stronger than any triangle between a hot wife, a cuckolded husband, and a bull.

Hurricane, they said.

Like in a Hollywood musical.

A hurricane hit their ship, which sank with all passengers on board. There were no survivors.

At the funeral, everyone told me, "Life goes on, be strong, you are resilient."

But my ears only heard, "Your forced male chastity continues, and even if you pump blood to get a resilient erection, metal bars are stronger than the flesh of your cock."

###

Gwen, whom I had met many years earlier, also came to the funeral. She was a friend of my brother's. They said she had a crush on me, but I was already involved with the woman who would later become my wife.

Sliding doors. Opportunities that slip away.

What would have happened if my wife had left me when I was 21, and Gwen had made it clear how she felt about me?

Gwen hugged me at the funeral, like a sister. But I could feel her nipples hard under the fabric. "If loneliness bites, give me a call. I'm a widow too, I know the kind of pain you're going through."

How could I call a young, beautiful woman who was in love with me when I was still wearing a metal chastity cage that I couldn't open? What could I offer a widow who needed a nice, hard cock, when I had my little penis perpetually bowed in a curved bow?

###

For a few weeks, I didn't call Gwen.

I was increasingly lonely.

My two adult sons lived far away and couldn't keep me company, nor did I want to be a burden to them.

I wanted to masturbate for hours, as I did when I was young, to seek some relief from serotonin and prolactin. But the chastity device was truly inescapable.

I picked up the phone. I had Gwen's number. I didn't know why I had it, but there it was.

I wrote a two-line message. I thought: I'll write so she doesn't have to answer right away. If she doesn't want to answer, she'll be the one making me wait three weeks. My wife never answered my messages, a classic move by narcissistic women to show me who's boss.