Bethany

PART I

"Have a nice life, Solitaire," The telephonic voice whispered sarcastically.

"Wait!" I cried, as if snapping out of a dream. "Beth, you HAVE to help me!"

"Not a fucking chance, you scoundrel. I wouldn’t help you now for the world. I think you just need to suffer awhile."

"Wha -- huh, how long is awhile?"

"You should know how long by now, I would say. And listen: if you find a way to pry it off (doubtful), let me just remind you. Do not try to remove it. Bad things will happen."

Tak! Dial tone.

* * * * *

Long before my girlfriend of nearly threes years left me, she fashioned a fateful titanium chastity belt, modeled primarily after those made in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, those that American parents apparently locked on the genitalia of newly pubescent boys to prevent them from "abusing" themselves. When I say "primarily modeled after," you must take me to mean that the most basic structure was similar, and really, that was it. She added many parts to the belt, for progressive purposes (that is, for the utmost in hygiene, comfort, and security), parts that the original belts would not have had. I’ll get into the belt’s structure in a little, but first, I believe I have something of a story to tell:

For fifteen years -- the time period during which Bethany fervently pursued an artistic career -- people pelted her with politically malicious gobbledygook for her works. Her pieces’ theses were usually as bizarre as the works themselves. She took constructive criticism well, but she always stood by her work and never doubted her own intelligence.

One day she very lackadaisically mentioned that she had just finished a bona fide chastity contraption and she had good reason to make it, I felt. People, odd people, provided her with her exorbitant livelihood in exchange for her creation of bizarre shit like this, which she then put on exhibition. This particular time she wanted, in her own words, "to artistically express the concept of sexual repression, to give it some relevant and concrete substance. To reify it." She wanted to depict societal disapproval of natural impulses, apparently, as a prison.

She drew up the blueprints, acquired enough pure titanium, and -- retracing a history of favors owed to her -- got her hands on the three-thousand degree oven needed to manipulate the alloy, courtesy of the U.S. government. Her design, she bragged when first she showed me the final product, was faultless.

* * * * *

About a year into our relationship, she first told me of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries’ idiosyncratic practices of sexual repression and, at my constant and disgusted urging, graphically described the inner workings of the turn-of-the-century male-geared chastity belt. A sort of sick fascination with the concept kept it lurking almost always in the darkest and deepest recesses of my mind. I somewhat fancied myself an amateur expert on the subject when she informed me that she had formed her own belt, fairly similar to those of yore and fitting my exact physique. "Remember when I extensively measured your genitalia a good three months ago? I measured you from all angles and I recorded your every inch. I took down such scrupulous notes that I thought for sure by the end of it you had figured it out. You lack more savvy than I thought, bud," she added, smacking me on the ass. I let her think what she wanted to think. Truthfully, I had known what she was up to from the day that she began measuring me.

However, still I wondered what her production of such a thing could mean. If I desired to find out her motives, I decided shortly thereafter that I had to act with professional subtlety. My words rolled from my tongue, bundled in a tone of forced indifference (conversations commonly assume this guise when touching upon taboo topics and most commonly, I have observed, when sailing into the touchy subject of copulation -- especially of the deviant sort. Theoretically, my tone should have given me away) and I attempted to balance out the indifference in my voice by feigning the slightest hint of excitement and arousal. One quiet evening, following a charming dinner filled with romance and candlelight, we both lounged like fat and placid wintertime grizzlies in my apartment’s den, smoking and drinking gin, seated across from one another in plush arm chairs. With my face hidden behind a sprawling newspaper, I drew a profound breath and, launching into it like a cavalier boldly taunting assured doom and laughing seriously still, I cautiously began to mention my potential interest:

"Beth?"

Not looking up from her fat novel, she mumbled a disinterested, "Mm."

"Why don’t you tell me more about it," I queried, quivering. Even I found myself irritated by my noticeably intentional vagueness. After all, the topic, which she had initially mentioned off-handedly two days prior, had now assuredly left her mind. I glimpsed up, wondering if she was as annoyed with me as I was. She did not look annoyed. She still did not seem interested, either. She had no clue.

"Tell you about what again, angel?"

Timidly, tremblingly I gave a response: "Tell me about your ... you know ... " She did not know; still she had not a clue. But now she looked up, bit her lower lip, and crinkled her forehead questioningly. "Tell me about your project, the belt. You know."

She nodded. "Oh. Yeah. All right, what would you like to know?"

She had already implanted in my mind a pristine picture of a daemonic device akin to the kind mass produced and sold to Christian families a hundred years before. I could almost feel its cold touch on my own pelvic flesh; it shone so vividly in my mind. Thinking she would spoil the picture’s clarity if she had me separately imagine the new and foreign pieces (of her own design and implanted by her own hands), the pieces added solely for progressive purposes, I asked her to describe the entirety of the device to me, for clarity’s sake. I also wanted to appear nonchalant, as if I had forgotten most of what she had told me. I wanted her to think of me as if, despite my obvious interest, I was absolutely disinterested. She told me that she was not in the mood. "It’s out in my car," she said. "Let me go and fetch it. You can examine it for yourself." She returned with a leather backpack. She set the pack down on the coffee table in the middle of the room and slowly unzipped it, peering at me mischievously all the while. She took the device (which, I could tell, was unlocked and open) from her pack and very carefully handed it to me as parents transfer a cherished infant from one to the other.

I looked it over, marveling at its perfect symmetry. Its apparently flawless design was breathtaking. I stared at the perfectly untarnished surface and saw my reflection as clearly as if staring at a curved mirror. It appeared exactly as Bethany had described. It resembled a pair of metal underpants, like men’s briefs manufactured several sizes smaller than ordinary and therefore made to fit with exceptional snugness. And yet, like fabric, it still looked wonderfully comfortable. I wondered at the device’s intended purpose and in so doing, I felt my heart pounding. I turned the object over several times in my hands, knowing that I held an inanimate object as harmless as an unattended pistol in an impregnable safe. In the wrong hands, however, (namely, my hands) this contraption could be just as intimidating as the most seasoned gunman.

I glanced at Bethany, who had returned to her chair and now watched me intently. I held the device slightly elevated and shrugged my shoulders. Silently, I begged her to tell me more. But instead she stood, walked over, and took it from me. Now she took her turn to silently marvel at her handiwork. She began with an enthralled giggle, "Pretty cool, huh?" She peered at it and then turned to me, her dark eyes bright and beaming excitedly. "My design is quite faultless. The bastards down at the art studio don’t think it’s anything special, though. I explained and they booed. They think the idea is too grotesque. ‘Who would ever agree to participate in your experiment, Beth?’ they asked. Fuck them, I say. They’re censoring squares, every last one of them."

She shrugged her shoulders, placed the device back on the coffee table next to her pack, looked up at me sinisterly, pounced, gave me a long and full kiss, and went into the bedroom. She said over her shoulder, "Don’t be up too late, hon." I watched the two halves of her perfectly circular ass sashay up and down as she went. She was tired and when I entered after about ten minutes, she was already fast asleep. That left me to masturbate and so I lifted the sheets, crawled into bed, and began to stroke myself. Thoughts of the chastity belt slowly began to creep into my mind and before I knew it, I was yanking vigorously to one tune alone: Beth and I and the wonderful click of the belt’s lock as she told me, "Better get used to it, big boy." But to achieve orgasm while fantasizing about enforced and inescapable chastity seemed like a basic contradiction and so as I approached ejaculation, I tried to stop. I managed to hold the semen in for several seconds, but slowly it started to seep out. That became the last orgasm of my life, as well as the most unfulfilling.

An hour later, I awakened as Bethany went to get a glass of water. When she returned she saw that I was awake. She smiled at me and when she lay down, I began to caress a breast covered by the silk of her see-through chemise. Always horny, she began to kiss my neck passionately and her hand slid down to my inner thigh and began to make its way to my cock. My cock jumped but the spikes inside the newly entrenched chastity tube refused to give it any room. Suddenly, I was filled with shame at having locked the thing on myself. I did not want Bethany to know. So I redirected her hand away from my groin and I looked at her lovingly, brushing some strands of hair out of her summer freckled face. I told her that I had already jacked off and I was still too low. The shame I had felt turned again to exhilaration and, without letting her know of my predicament, I went down on her. It was the best experience I had ever given her. She rode my face, squirming violently, pushing her pussy hard against my tongue as I pushed harder still. Her pelvis began to gyrate clockwise and her entire body would jut up then fall back down, up then down. She arched her back and moaned terrifically. "Oh god, yes!" she whispered. "Do that. That. Yes. Oh-h-h-h." A surge of electricity momentarily coursed through her and she lay rigid and paralyzed. Meanwhile, my cock, still attempting to smite the spikes, was unsuccessful and tearful in its plight. As soon as it would become even moderately engorged, the teeth surrounding it would sap it totally of its motivation. My motivation was to get Bethany off as soon as possible so that the pain would stop and so I did. When the electric surge had subsided and she was again given the gift of movement, she giggled, gave me a peck on the lips, and was unconscious before her head hit the pillow.

* * * * *

The next morning, Bethany awakened early because she had much to do and on her way to work, she forgot to put the belt back in her car. That is, she forgot all about it. It would not have been there had she remembered to look for it. The previous night, before the aforementioned encounter, I had discovered it waiting exactly where we had left it, on the coffee table, tempting me. I managed to ignore it for a half hour, but inevitably I submitted to its irresistible call. Without so much as a cursory examination of the device, I stripped naked, placed it on the floor, and very gently I placed my feet into the waiting void of the leg holes, not wanting to harm the delicate device. I bent down and pulled it up. I drew a deep breath, sucking in my stomach, and pushed the two sides toward one another. As soon as the sides met, the lock was activated. I heard a series of soft clicking sounds: the latches of the belt’s interior lock falling into place I presumed. Also from the inside, I heard a clamping sound and felt a gentle jaw-like strength encircling the base of my penis. Left in utter silence, I remained still for several minutes after, shocked by the definitive swiftness of the locking mechanism, pleasantly paralyzed by the concept of this momentarily inescapable captivity. I had known all along, but had denied it until the end, and now the intimate reality of my situation made my legs feel like gelatin and filled my stomach and groin with a warm tingle. "I have no key," I whispered, then giggled.

Immediately, this realization made my heart pound and that was the only sound that resounded then in the surrounding black night. I had examined the belt before. It is a perfect design, I had noted. Tracing my hands around the entirety of the belt, I then confirmed my initial epiphany: the lock must be internal. I can get it off, weakly I assured myself. I will get it off. I searched the meeting point of the two sides for a lock and I eventually uncovered a circular metal plate that I easily unscrewed. In a mirror I saw the heavy lock, the entirety of which was welded wonderfully still in the body of the belt: frozen forever by fire. The key hole looked intricately daunting even from the outside.

This contraption that I had placed on my person engulfed my entire groin in an impregnable sheath of metal. Welded to the inside of the front plate was an extremely narrow and short, spike-lined tube, which I had carefully slid my penis into and which now held the organ pleasantly captive and absolutely inert. The tube, I was sure, had been bigger when I put the belt on, but upon closing the belt, the tube had constricted. The tube curved dramatically downward, keeping my penis bent in half and doing a good job of preventing erection. This tubular bend made escape a hopeless enterprise. The limited size of the tube also restricted erection completely, thus restricting any form of sexual gratification. The belt was constructed of metallurgic materials absolutely foreign to me. Yes, it looked and felt like titanium, was as immaculately durable as one would expect a pure titanium chastity belt to be, and yet it was a living entity. I could locate no hinges, locks, or even the slightest of cracks. I sucked in my stomach but its warm, rubber-coated embrace only clung tighter, as if it breathed with me.

I tugged on the device that now enveloped my lower regions, but it would not budge a bit, as if I tugged on another body part. I calmed myself down, went in to bed with Bethany, and -- to my surprise -- found myself at once overcome by sleep’s heavy blanket.

The next morning, when I awakened at seven, she was gone.

* * * * *

I called in sick to work that day.

All day I felt my member remember its captivity and, aroused by the memory, try to grow. But the belt allowed almost no room at all for the organ, even at its most flaccid. So the frustration began. With the frustration came a flustering. I felt anxious at the thought of not being able to touch myself, as I had been able to do so without restriction my entire life.

Remaining naked but for the belt, I spent half the day in delight waiting for Bethany’s expression. I spent the other half horrified. Bethany was either going to kill me or never release me. I was right about one of them.

* * * * *

PART II

When she returned that evening, she came into the cellar to find me frantically trying to free myself. I did not know that she was there until she laughed and said, "Oh my god! You actually put the belt on!" She snickered and then saw my stern look of reproach. "Oh," she said, with a defiantly innocent tone. "Oh, poor baby. Are we stuck?" After a short moment of silence, her tone changed from mock sympathy to one of profoundly malicious seriousness. "Don’t bother. You couldn’t affect that alloy with a blow torch." Tearfully, I asked her where she had hidden the key. She grinned, turned, and walked up the steps and out of the cellar, saying, "Key? I don’t remember anything about a key. Maybe you could help me recall?" Shortly, I followed. I found her lying on the bed, naked, and she said, pointing to her pussy: "Lick."

I walked up the bed, dropped to my knees, and begged her, "Please, Beth. Please. You need to let me out."

She smacked me as hard as she could and I rose up in furry, my fists curled. She only cocked her head and raised her eyebrows as if to mockingly ask, "What? What are you going to do?" She lightly traced a toenail along the front of the belt, staring at me. I wished that I could feel her toe at that moment and, I told myself, the faster I did her will, the faster she would acquiesce. She saw me give in and, pointing again to her vagina, she said, "Lick. Now."

I did so obediently. When -- after three orgasms, each one better than the last and all of them by far better than the previous night’s -- when she was sufficiently satisfied, she told me to roll off. I did so. "What about the key?"

"First, tell me about your ordeal, pet. Then maybe I will tell you about the key."

"Beth -- "

She slapped me across the face again and said, "You will call me Mistress. This is not up for debate, pet. You are under my lock, now. You will do as I say. Now," she stood up and went to her purse. "Here, lock these cuffs to your ankles and then to the footboard ... good. Now attach these to your wrists and then to the headboard. That’s right. Now, how do you feel? Helpless?" I wriggled and tried futilely to escape, yanking on my cuffs, digging the sharp metal into my flesh. "Good. Now, tell me about your ordeal."

Ruefully, I complied. She took from her purse a small tape recorder and a black scarf, pressed the record button, placed the machine on the bedside table, fastened the scarf around my head so that I was blind, and I then told her all that I have already told you.

Eventually, I paused and looked at her pitifully. I asked, "What else do you want to know, Mistress?" She wanted to know more about my attempts to free myself. "I have tried everything that I can think of to pry the fucker off, to no avail. With each new attempt, I grow exceedingly more disparaged. I cannot get it off and as long as it stays on me, I cannot get off. Indeed, as long as it sticks, I abandon all hope of ever again knowing the infinitely pleasurable jab of semen’s swift secretion. In other words, the metal belt has remained unequivocally loyal to its solitary purpose. It must come off! It must come off now!"

"It won’t come off," She interrupted. "And you know what the best part is," I heard my Mistress whisper with a tone of contempt so completely vitriolic, that it (in conjunction with the fact that I was bound and totally helpless) made my stomach begin to feel ill. She stood just out of sight behind the bed’s headboard as she spoke. "The belt’s outer shell is completely impervious to all sorts of shock. It acts as the perfect husk for your ... innards." She stopped and let the reverberation of her words’ implications sink in. When she continued, she did so in a voice commanding and absolutely sure of itself. "However, the tools of humankind are many, and the belt can be cut, I am sure. That’s why I have added a bit of incentive for you to never even try to pry it off. Inside lurks a very simple mechanism under extreme pressure: a miniature and razor sharp guillotine positioned just above your cock’s base. Now again, I’ve tested this mechanism numerous times, and I assure you, you are completely safe from any undue mishaps." I heard the soft pitter patter of her feet that signaled her circling around the bed. Now she stooped above my naked and perfectly inert, bound body. She leaned forward to say, "But be forewarned: if you ever even try to slide a pinky finger under the frame of the chastity device, you may very well end up being my useless eunuch, and neither of us want that. Since your penis is positioned just above your testacles, the pressure upon the blade (that is, the speed at which it will drop) will castrate you immediately. Any questions, lover boy?" I could not speak. My eyes were seas of frustration. Tears flowed abundantly. She did not heed this silent protest. "I didn’t think so. Now, say cheerio to your wanker self, and say hello to a man infinitely more committed to me. We’ll share a happy life. Or at least I will. Now, lick," she demanded again, as she lowered her pussy over my lips and I complied, as I contemplated my now permanently chaste life.

When she finally undid my cuffs, I whimpered, "Mistress ... ?"

"Yes, my beautiful pet?"

"Are you ever going to let me out?"

"Silly boy," said she. "You don’t get it, do you? There is no getting out. You put it on and you activated that aforementioned mechanism. It’s just hovering over your cock as we speak, waiting to drop. If you open the two sides (in any way, with a key or with a jackhammer), the guillotine will fall. There is no getting out," she repeated. I dropped to my knees, my face in my hands, bawling. I asked her why she had done this to me. "Why have I done this to you?! Why, I haven’t done anything but supplied the means, dear. You became infatuated with the concept. You put it on. You locked it. Why blame me?" She looked at me and she did have some pity in her face. She lit a cigarette. "I’ll tell you why."

As it turns out, she had grown weary of my impertinent ways long before I even realized that I had grown impertinent. My impertinence, I discovered, was my infidelity (which took the form of a lovely girl named Missy), and methinks the irony is nearly unbearable:

Again, I have tried everything that I can think of to pry the fucker off, to no avail. With each new attempt, I grow exceedingly more disparaged. I cannot get it off and as long as it stays on me, I cannot get off. Indeed, as long as it sticks, I abandon all hope of ever again knowing the infinitely pleasurable jab of semen’s swift secretion. In other words, the metal belt has remained unequivocally loyal to its solitary purpose. It must come off! It must come off now! If it cannot, well, then, for the remainder of my years, it will remain attached and unequivocally loyal to its solitary purpose.

I served Bethany faithfully for five years (what choice did I have?) and she rewarded my services by allowing me to quit my job and live entirely off her income. We bought a house and moved in. I became her prisoner, her slave, doing everything that she commanded of me. And, after those five years, after I had learned how to act as a gentleman, Mistress Beth believed it was time for me to move on. She set my price at a half million dollars and I ended up selling for seven figures, though the exact number I do not know. She sold me to a grotesquely corpulent woman who, on the way back to her place in her car, I recognized as Missy. "Mistress Missy, pet," she told me.

* * * * *

I talked to Beth one last time. She called Mistress Missy’s house about two months after the sale to tell me farewell:

"Have a nice life, Solitaire," The telephonic voice whispered sarcastically.

"Wait!" I cried, as if snapping out of a dream. "Beth, you HAVE to help me!"

"Not a fucking chance, you scoundrel. I wouldn’t help you now for the world. I think you just need to suffer awhile."

"Wha -- huh, how long is awhile?"

"You should know how long by now, I would say. And listen: if you find a way to pry it off (doubtful), let me just remind you. Do not try to remove it. Bad things will happen."

Tak! Dial tone.

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Page last updated 04-Nov-15 by: Altairboy@aol.com