Keyless Security

What follows is perfectly true. Better thought out than my plaster chastity fiasco. And it is definitely my current state of being.

Funny the difference a quarter ounce of something makes. Something so small. Something so insignificant. All in all, just a small puddle, tiny, in fact. But right now it is all the difference.

I have toyed with chastity before. I have several ineffective home-made devices lying in a trunk, unused. I have a CB-2000, frustrated and broken, replaced and cast aside. I have a Curve, promising much and then disappointing. I have a CB-3000, effective, oh so effective but temporary. . . the lock can be defeated, the penis can pull out. . .

I have played with tape, spent days, weeks, with medical tape wrapped around penis, sequestering scrotum and testicles, fanning over my abdomen in purest white but always disappointing.

I have played with plaster. Enfolding all in a solid white ball shape only to have the solid crumble in the presence of moisture.

But then. . . we planned, she and I. What if? . . .

What if there was no way out. But there is always a way out. We prepared. The way out would be difficult, costly. Not impossible but oh so daunting. . .

And the day came. . . and we didn't do it.

Time has passed. The cage we had prepared, all the necessary items for it, they were all still there waiting. In the box. On the dresser. A shadow looming. One year went by. Two years. The CB-3000 was introduced. Perhaps. . .

I enjoyed being locked into the CB-3000 for one week, two weeks. Ah then the PA piercing! I knew why I wanted it. Combined it with the CB-3000, no pulling out now. Just irritation. Too much pressure, too thin gauge jewelry. Time must pass, time to stretch, 8 gauge, 6 gauge. . . try again. Success.

Then life changed. Another entered my life. Chastity games were left behind. At least for me. Another year. Then she was gone too. And that thought in the back of my mind, in the box on the dresser, always a shadow, flitting in my mind, that thought, that spectre, grew.

Then there was the party. Only once before had I gone to bottom. All in fun. I wore the Curve to it. Admired. Came home, took it off. Life goes on. Not this time. This time I was serious. I had been wearing the CB-3000 for five days before the party. Secured the curved barbell and left the keys at home. Those bloody keys. Always too easy. Always there. Put the key in the lock and turn. Bah!

The party was good. I flew, bound in a chair, flogged, whipped, clothes-pinned, caned, scraped, scratched, punctured, violet wanded, pummeled. . . I flew. I came home and still I flew. I went to bed, drifted through dreams, strange, erotic, bizarre, disquieting, disturbing dreams. I awoke in a muck sweat and I knew. My heart raced because I knew this was the time. Now. My limbs seemed to move of their own volition. I could no more control my actions than I could stop the tide, the moon, the world.

I sat looking at what I held in my hands. The first ring, smoky grey, center hole pierced by white. White nylon bolt. Affixed, immoveable secured in place with the epoxy. I fitted the second ring on it and they mated, slipped on the spacer, slid the cage in place, gently tightened the nylon nut and held it before my eyes. "If I do this, I won't be able to unlock it." Simple words. Freighted with horror, freighted with desire, my tide, my moon, my world. I disassembled it. Changed my mind. Discarded the grey smoky cage. Felt the CB-3000 imprisoning my cock. Yes.

Gather the necessary items: Epoxy glue, nut driver, vaseline, paper towel, toothpick. Lay out the ballgag, cuffs and hand cuffs. Stretch the string from the bed to the post across the room. Arrange the ice escape. Get the keys. At each step my heart pounds. My breath comes in gasps. My hands shake. I cannot believe what I am about to do.

All is in readiness. One deep breath. The barbell is released. The key is in the lock. Opened. Removed. Spacer removed. The cage sticks a little and then slides free. My penis springs forth, quivers. The locking pin slides out, the rings removed. All is free. I touch myself. "For the last time," I think. My hands slide along the shaft, linger at the head, circle. . . sweet, tempting. "I should," I think. But, no. Reluctantly I let go. I pick up the first ring. Look at it. Inspect it. Caress it with lubricant. Place it against my testicle, pull a little and it slides over, work the other through, scrunch my half-erect penis down under, pull on the jewelry and it is on. "For how long?" I wonder. I take the second ring and work it on. It was even easier than the first. I slide it part-way up the bolt. I lay back. Breathe. Now it begins to get serious. I open the first tube and squeeze a tiny bead of clear, viscous liquid onto a paper. Harmless. I open the second tube and squeeze out another bead to equal the first. My breath catches. How often have I done this before? Repairing a piece of broken crockery. Mending a broken figurine? How different is this? I mix the two drops and see just how small a thing it is. A tiny dot, really, perhaps several millimeters in diameter. Scooping the substance onto a small spatula I coat the base of the bolt, both sides of the rings where they will meet and slide them together. Now the spacer. Coat the bolt again, dip the spacer in the remaining epoxy and slide it home. I stop. I breathe. I can still back out now. Nothing final here. Perhaps do this another time. Yes, another time. This new time I'll prepare better. Shave off all my pubic hair again. Not like tonight. Damn, this epoxy will make a mess of my hair. . .

My hand strays to the CB-3000 cage and picks it up while I'm dithering. I look at it. I know there won't be any other time. I put the cage down on my stomach and pick up the first tube of epoxy again. Squeeze out more this time, a larger drop, almost a puddle, an entire centimeter. A second one joins it; I stir and mix them. With cruelty in my heart I liberally coat the guide pins, the bolt, the face of the spacer, the face of the cage, grease the inside, grease my cock, stiff with desire, stiff with fear. There will be no reprieve, no clemency. I sentence myself to this genital incarceration. Term: life. I thread the barbell into the cage, press my penis into it, guide the sticky pins into their holes, the bolt into the center. Squeeze them all until it slides together. Epoxy oozes out, flows. Still not too late. I can pull all this apart. Try again later. I don't really want this. . . do I? My hands move automatically. Coat the bolt. Smear the inside of the nut, the face of the nut. Thread it onto the gooey bolt. Tighten it. Get the nut driver. Slide it on the nut. Turn. Turn. Turn. Turn. Tighter. Tighter yet. Tighter yet. There. That's it. I can still change my mind. Remove the nut. I think I'm removing it, yes that's what I'll do. But I see my hands smearing the last of the epoxy over the outside of the nut now firmly snugged against the cage, the bolt barely protruding. I still have five minutes. I can change my mind.

I plug the ballgag deeply into my mouth. Fasten the cuffs on my wrists. Fasten my left wrist to the bed. Still not too late. The epoxy still is pliable. I can still remove the nut. Yes that's it. Why is it making that clicking sound? This isn't a ratchet driver. I'll just reach down and. . . My right hand won't reach. The clicking sound was the cuff closing around the bedpost. It will take at least an hour for the ice to melt and give me access to the handcuff key. By then it will be too late. It is already too late. What have I done?

It is morning. I stand in the shower. The key fell an hour ago. I released my hands. I reached down and touched it. It feels different. I trimmed the mess out of my pubic hair as well as I could. There is hair stuck in there forever.

My hand strayed down to it. It feels different. No lock. No convenient little handle to lift and pull with. How odd. Smooth and rough at the same time.

It has been nearly two days now. I reach down and touch. . . hard plastic, not soft skin. Strange. This now is my cock. Clear, I can see myself inside but a million miles away. No lock. This one doesn't unlock. This one doesn't come off so easy. . .This is different. This is permanent. I tried with the nut driver this morning. Nothing budged. The whole unit is solidly welded together. No flex in the parts, no give. Solid. Immutable. Secure.

Sometimes I don't think about it but then I move a little and I can feel myself slide and I know. This stays on. Totally different than when I had a key. A completely different head space. This chastity device is welded on me. It does not come off. I cannot touch my penis. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. No key. This prison doesn't need one.

Oh, I can remove it. I have the saw that will cut down through the epoxy and plastic. I even have the metal splint that will protect me from the teeth of the saw. But it won't be easy. I can't just do it on a whim. No, I will have to live this way. How long? I don't know. I honestly don't know. I'm kept in here by more than the physical binding of epoxy and plastic. I'm also kept in here by something in my head. Something that when I touch it and think about removal says to me, "You really don't want to do that. You are different now. Special."

While intercourse is now impossible, I'm not completely prevented from orgasm. Of course there is far too little friction inside the smooth interior of the CB-3000 cage to give any satisfaction and the piercing being secured the way it is prevents much movement anyway or makes it entirely too uncomfortable to get anywhere. Relief comes in the form of a Hitachi Wand vibrator. It is the only thing powerful enough to cause any kind of ejaculation but that is a torture in itself and results in a quick orgasm that leaves me feeling almost more frustrated than before or it takes so long that the vibrations are their own torture, the need overwhelming but the result totally unsatisfactory. I may lock the Hitachi away and mail myself the key. Perhaps only allow it once a week.

How long? I don't know. I honestly don't know. I know it won't come off tonight. I know it won't come off tomorrow. Oh I've already thought about it. Wanted to take it off. But then I'd touch it and think could I do this for a month? What will I think in six months when I touch myself and know I've been immured for so long? Will I ever even want to remove it? I don't know. I honestly don't know. Perhaps if someone else comes into my life she may inspire me to freedom, of one kind or another. Or perhaps she will prefer I remain in my tide, my moon, my world, my chastity.

Who would have thought such a small puddle, smaller than a lock, smaller than a key, lighter by far, almost nothing, in fact. . . who would have thought it could make such a difference.

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Page last updated 05-Mar-25 by: Altairboy@aol.com