Weight Loss Through Chastity

I guess it was my own fault really. When I first met Anne at college, I was playing sport of some kind almost every day of the week. Then after we got married and I settled into a 9-5 job, there just never seemed to be any time. I'd also have to say that her fantastic cooking played a part. Whatever the reason, I began to pile on the pounds. I didn't really notice at first as it was so gradual, spread over a number of years. Maybe also there was a part of me that kept me in a deliberate state of denial - always avoiding weighing scales or any athletic activity that would show up how unfit I had become, wearing loose clothing to hide my bulges etc.

Eventually, however, my size began to affect our sex life, and Anne understandably complained. I made all the usual excuses, but she pointed out that she was just as old as I was and just as busy, but she was in as good shape as when I met her, which was true. She insisted there and then that I go and weigh myself. I thought I was prepared for the worst, but the result was shocking. She made it clear that I would be weighing myself in front of her every Saturday morning from now on, and that she expected to see some results.

So I joined a gym, took up jogging and started watching what I ate. At first the results were great, but before too long I fell back into my old ways. I'd always have a ready excuse for why I couldn't go to the gym that day, or why I deserved that donut after the day I'd had at the office etc. Gradually all the weight I'd lost during my initial burst of enthusiasm crept back on, to Anne's obvious disapproval.

The crunch came one Saturday morning when, to my horror, I saw that my weight was even higher than the day I had started the diet. Anne spoke quietly, but with a steely determination in her voice that frightened me. "Honey, I've given you every chance to do this yourself, but you obviously don't have the willpower. I think the only way you'll manage this is if you have to choose between food and something you love even more. So as of now, we don't have a sex life. Period."

"Oh honey, please, not that. Our sex life is so great." I pleaded.

"Yeah, for you, sure, because I look after myself. But I didn't marry a fat slob, and don't see why I should have to settle for one. Lose the weight and we'll talk about restoring your privileges."

"In fact," she added before I could protest any further, "since we already know about your lack of willpower, I'd be crazy to trust you not to give yourself a little hand relief whenever you felt like it. So here's the deal. I'm going to order you a chastity belt from the internet. When it arrives, you'll put in on and I'll keep the only key. That way, I'll know that no sex life really means no sex life. I think it'll put your craving for food into perspective when you're deprived of something really important."

I tried to talk her out of it, but she was implacable - I'd had my chance to do it through my own willpower, and now she was taking charge. The belt arrived a few days later, and she announced that she would lock it on me that night, after what she called the "condemned man's last meal". To my surprise and joy, she'd decided to cook me the kind of high calorie roast dinner I loved, and was happy for me to have second helpings of everything. One last fling before the new regime begins, I thought.

Afterwards, we went upstairs for the final weighing. Sure enough, after a meal like that, it was the highest I had ever been. I joked that the condemned man should get a last roll in the hay too, but her expression told me not to push my luck. She produced the belt from her bedside drawer. There was a stout metal waistband, to which was attached a metal tube to contain my cock and a ring that fitted around my ball sack. I was surprised at how small the cock tube was.

"My God, I won't even be able to get an erection in this thing."

"And what would you want an erection for, honey?" she asked. "Why remind yourself of what you can't have?"

At that moment I heard a loud click, and realised that she had already locked it in place with a padlock that fitted underneath my crotch. She smiled broadly and suggested I go and clean up the kitchen and do the dishes while she gave some thought to the best place to hide the key.

About half an hour later, she came downstairs just as I was finishing up. There was something about the expression on her face that told me that the prospect of me losing weight wasn't the only thing she enjoyed about this situation. She waited for me to speak.

"So... what's the system, honey?"

"System?" she asked, apparently confused by my question.

"You know, what do I have to do to get out? It is one orgasm for every pound I lose, or every two pounds, or what?"

She laughed. "Honey, the 'system' as you call it is that you get down to the ideal weight you should have been all along, and I might just forgive you for not having been anywhere that weight for the last 15 years. Until then, you stay locked up."

"Wha... but that's about 50 pounds less than I weigh now!"

"63 pounds actually. I never did believe in all this 'a large frame means a higher ideal weight' crap. In my book, if you're that height, you should be that weight, plain and simple."

"But... you can't be saying I'll have to stay in this belt for months without a break?!?"

She smiled sweetly. "Of course not, honey. It's completely up to you how long you take. You can do it as quickly as you like. But I have to say, too many meals like tonight's aren't going to help. I bet that meal alone has added a week to your sentence!"

"But you cooked it for me! It was your idea!"

"Ah yes, it's always someone else's fault isn't it? When are you going to learn that it's up to you, and you don't have to eat food just because it's there? Well, as I say, it's your choice. But that belt isn't coming off, even for a moment, until you're at your ideal weight."

Her threats and her determined manner terrified me. That night I hardly slept, both from fear and because every time I dozed off, my penis would try to erect, and the pain when it came up against its metal prison would wake me. The next day I hoped to find that she'd reconsidered or had just been joking to frighten me, but she didn't budge an inch - lose the 63 pounds or I would never have an orgasm again.

I threw myself into losing weight, not daring to think about how long it would take. Frustratingly I found that there was no way I could go to the gym, since getting changed in front of strangers would be impossible, and jogging or any kind of sport were now painful due to the way the cock cage swung and rubbed against me, thus robbing me of the two most effective ways to shed pounds. I pointed this out to her, begging her at least to remove the belt while I exercised (figuring that I could take the opportunity to lighten my load in other ways too) but she was merciless. I'd been able to jog, play sport and go to the gym as much as I liked before I was belted, she said, and it hadn't done me any good. Now I had to play by her rules - in other words, lose the weight just through sensible eating.

So I gave up all the foods I love and lived on what for years I had dismissed as "rabbit food" - plain salads with no dressing, fruit, low fat cereals etc. I was constantly hungry, and it didn't help that my wife was still eating whatever she wanted, right in front of me. If I complained, she said that she didn't need to lose any weight, so why should she starve? And anyway, I'd always been happy to eat donuts and oher junk food in front of her without worrying about whether I was putting temptation her way. All this was true, yet I suspected there was something deliberately malicious in her behaviour. I think she was eating healthily during the day and saving up any high calorie foods to eat in front of me in the evening, just to increase my torment. She would certainly have gained weight if her lunch was anything like the lasagnes, fried chicken and cheeseburgers she ate in front of me every night! She also loved to buy the fattening foods I loved and leave them lying around where I would see them.

After a week of hell, constant hunger combined with sexual frustration, Saturday morning came around and I duly mounted the scales. I had lost four pounds. I could have wept. It was more than I'd ever lost in a week before, even when I was exercising regularly, but how long would it take me to lose the 63 pounds she demanded at this rate? My wife could hardly keep the amusement out of her voice as she congratulated me.

"Four pounds, honey, that's great! Isn't it a shame that diets always start this way, with a sudden weight loss that it's impossible to maintain? The body gets used to the lack of food and compensates, or something like that. Seems terribly unfair, especially when it doesn't work the other way - when you're overeating, the body doesn't adjust to it so you don't gain weight. Ah well, that's life I suppose. So I guess it's up to you whether you eat even less than you have been and carry on losing four pounds a week, or eat the same amount and lose less. But that would mean you don't get the belt off until... well, don't let's think about that!" She laughed and left the room.

She was right. Over the next week I'd swear I ate even less, but when I weighed myself, I'd lost only 3 pounds. On the other hand, something did occur to me which gave me a glimmer of hope.

"Another three pounds, honey, well done," she said, "nearly as much as last week. Oh, just before you go..."

I froze in my tracks.

"You've now lost seven pounds since I fitted that belt on you, so I'm guessing it must be feeling a little looser by now? Funny how you never found time to mention that to me, despite all your constant whining about being hungry and horny. Hoping that if you lost a few more pounds you might be able to slip out of it, were you?"

The guilt in my face made an answer unnecessary.

"Bad news, honey. I asked them to make this belt with a special kind of lock that works the same way as a pair of handcuffs. In other words, you need the key to unlock or loosen it, but you can tighten it without unlocking it - like so." Taking hold of the belt, she squeezed it together until the ratchet mechanism gave a loud click, and the belt was once again as tight as when she first locked it on.

"If you're wondering, it can accommodate a waist as small as 22 inches. Still, I don't we'll need to use that setting for you, will we? At least, not for a while..." she laughed.

The next few months were pure torture. Lack of sexual release was definitely not something the body could just adjust to and compensate for. If anything, I was amazed that my frustration never levelled off. Every day it was worse than the day before, and the day that after was worse still. But I had to admit she was right - I was losing weight precisely because I was being forced to choose between food and something I wanted even more. I just wished she would allow me a release for, say, every five pounds I lost, rather than keeping me locked up until I'd lost the whole lot. But no matter how I begged and pleaded, she wouldn't relent. Why should she, when her own sex life was better than ever? I had become quite adept at pleasuring her with my tongue, something I was never that keen to do beforehand. But as she loved to point out, back then I had other options.

Every time she tightened my belt another notch, I was torn between conflicting emotions - joy that I was getting closer to my goal, and frustration that my one possible avenue of escape had been closed off yet again.

Finally the day came when I was within 10 pounds of my ideal weight. I mentioned this during my Saturday morning weighing.

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that honey," she said. "You know, what they call an ideal weight is really just an average after all. And I think you can be better than average. Hey, you were such a sporty guy when I first met you, I bet you weighed much less than that back then."

I had to admit I had no idea. I never had any need to weigh myself back then.

"So I'm thinking it might be time for a new, more ambitious target. One that reflects what I know you're capable of achieving. Here's what I've come up with."

My heart sank when I read the piece of paper she handed me. Another 25 pounds! I would go out of my mind if I didn't get some relief soon. I knew that pleading and begging would get me nowhere, so I decided to try a different tack.

"Sure honey, whatever you say. I'm flattered that you believe I'm capable of achieving this. But we could still... er... mark the occasion when I get to my original target weight? You know, celebrate?"

She pretended not to understand me. "Sure, whatever you like. Only I'd advise against having a big meal or getting drunk. That would only put your release date even further away. And you wouldn't want that now, would you?"

Three weeks later, I stood once again on the scales and saw that I had surpassed my original target weight. I didn't say anything, but a single tear rolled down my cheek.

"Aw, come on honey, it's not that bad. I bet you never thought you could get this far, did you? You see what we can achieve when we work together? Just make a concerted effort and these last few pounds will be off in no time."

In that she was wrong. Losing weight when you're grossly overweight is one thing, but now I didn't seem to have any more fat to lose. I ate like a bird or a rabbit. I walked everywhere instead of driving. I couldn't remember the last time I'd enjoyed eating or looked forward to a meal. But no matter what I did the weight just crept off, never more than two pounds a week.

Finally, one week I saw I was just three pounds from my goal, and I was determined that this would be it. Nothing would stop me getting there this time. If I didn't get a release next Saturday, I was sure I would go insane with frustration.

All through the week I looked forward to Saturday with mounting excitement. I even considered asking if I could have my weekly weighing earlier, but then panicked at the thought that I might not have lost enough yet and might ruin my chances of getting out of this infernal belt. All through Friday I ate nothing at all and drank nothing but water. On Saturday, as I watched my wife eat breakfast, I could hardly contain my excitement. Finally, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, she suggested we go upstairs for my weighing.

And there it was. I was one quarter of one pound overweight. On an old-fashioned scale with a dial and pointer it probably wouldn't have shown up, but she had recently insisted on buying a digital scale for complete accuracy, as she put it.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face.

"Honey," I sobbed, "The belt..."

"Hmm, what about it?"

"It must weigh more than that. It's the belt that's putting me over the limit."

"Do you know, you're probably right. I stupidly didn't think to weigh it before locking it on you. And there's no way I can weigh it now without taking it off you. Which obviously I'm not going to do."

"Honey... PLEASE!!! I'll go out of my mind if I don't get some relief today!"

"Oh come on, what's one more week after so many months? Don't be such a crybaby. Unless of course you're hoping to shed a quarter of a pound's worth of tears!" she laughed.

That final week was the longest of them all. I ate only one frugal meal a day. I was so hungry I started to get dizzy spells and feel faint. But nothing was going to come between me and that release. I kept thinking back to my wife's taunt that my final meal as a free man had probably added a week to my sentence.

When Saturday finally came, I noticed that my wife didn't come down to breakfast immediately after getting up. When she finally came down, I watched her eating without daring to risk even a sip of water myself. I couldn't believe how much the sight of a bowl of muesli was tormenting me, something I would not so long ago have dismissed as bird food while tucking into toast dripping with butter.

Finally, we went upstairs to the scales. As we passed the open door of our bedroom, I saw what my wife had been doing up there. At each of the four corners of our bed I could see a set of manacles.

"What the... what's all this?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she replied. "You've managed to lose all this weight, and become once again the desirable hunk I married, purely because I've deprived you of something you value even more than food. Do you think I'm just going to let you out of the belt so you can go back to your old ways and put the weight straight back on? Not a chance. From now on you'll be weighed every Saturday morning, just like over the last few months. If you don't meet your target weight, then of course the belt stays on. If you do, then it comes off and we have sex - but only once you're securely manacled to the bed, so I'll have no trouble locking the belt back on afterwards. This is how it's going to be for the rest of your life."

"Oh, don't make a face honey. If you're honest, you know you need me to do this for you. You know you don't have the willpower to do it on your own. Besides, you've already done the hard work of losing the weight, now it's just a matter of keeping it off, which is much easier. And don't worry, you can still have the occasional blowout, stuffing yourself with, burgers, chips and beer. It just means you won't have sex for a few weeks. And we've established that you can handle that, right?" she laughed.

I knew she was right, and more to the point that I had no choice. I resigned myself to the life she had chosen for me.

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Page last updated 07-Aug-27 by: Altairboy@aol.com