Wrec Me

WARNING:

Some readers have found this story disturbing, while others have found it very enjoyable. Because I wish to cause only good feelings with my writing, I ask you to read this warning/extended summary before deciding if you want to go on.

This story is about a couple exploring male chastity (the practice of locking a penis in a metal device to prevent access) and teasing & denial (the practice of sexually stimulating a person for extended periods of time without allowing them to climax). It is written from the point of view of the dominant female and follows the course of an evening.

There is no pain play, no humiliation (beyond what lies in the nature of chastity and denial), no feces/urine, no choking, and no physical or social harm is suffered by any character.

But this story is emotionally intense. It is about pushing a sub's (and a dom's) limits and taking the sub farther than they could go alone -- within the frame of a loving relationship and the security of safewords. As a rule of thumb, if you cannot imagine ever wanting to be brought to the point of tears during sex, perhaps it's best to skip this story.

On the other hand, if you can -- enjoy.

***

It's a perfect Saturday night, and I'm in my favorite place in the world: In bed, with my boyfriend trembling under my touch. It's been fifteen days since I last let him cum, and he is well and truly fucked.

Heath has always been extremely open-minded when it comes to what we do in bed. Like, I'm serious. I'm a very adventurous person, but he has never once told me No. Not even that one time when I thought it would be fun to pretend I was a vampire thirsty for his blood and it turned out plastic fangs are impossible to kiss with.

But even so, I was surprised when he agreed to let me lock his penis away.

For the past two weeks, he has not once been able to touch his own cock. I've been taking care of his hygiene, and a handful of times I uncaged him to play for a short duration, but every time, he's had to put his cage back on with his needs unfulfilled. And every time, he has obeyed.

I didn't think he could do it, honestly. Not for so long. It was a bluff on my part when it all started, trying to see how long he could go -- but he has pleasantly surprised me, and earned the reward he was promised if he made it to two weeks: An entire weekend of uninterrupted playtime.

I've had him personally make all the preparations: We are well provisioned with food, massaging oil, and wine. The TV has been set up in the bedroom with his laptop hooked up to it; he's been collecting internet porn all week (a cheap trick on my part to keep him occupied and stimulated when I wasn't in the mood to play) and last night he set up each video in a separate tab, available at a click. Every window in the house has the curtains closed, the door is locked, even the car is parked elsewhere to make it look like we're not home. We don't want any visitors this weekend.

He woke me up early in the morning with kisses. He didn't have to say it, I could see it in the way his eyes sparkled:

Wake up, I want my gift.

And I've been giving it to him ... all day.

He has his eyes closed, attention turned inward. That has been a typical expression for the last couple of hours. It's taking him a great deal of restraint and concentration to avoid going over the edge and ruining our game before his due. I don't know if I could do it, if our roles were reversed. He must be very keen on keeping this up.

My fingers are feather-light on his cock, dancing up and down; I've been taking great care not to irritate his skin. It would be too bad if we had to stop just because I'd rubbed him raw. So, the lightest of touches and copious amounts of oil it is -- not very satisfying, of course. But then, that's not the point.

"I'm going to have the softest hands after this weekend," I muse aloud while the tip of my index finger circles his sweet spot. He makes a non-committal noise that could be anything from a laugh to a groan, not opening his eyes.

Following a sudden instinct, I lean over and take the tip of his penis into my mouth, sucking very lightly on it. I know I need to be careful here, but it feels too good in my mouth and I lean deeper, taking in about half of his length until the tip hits the roof of my mouth. Then I tighten the ring of my lips and draw up again, slowly and surely. I have done this hundreds of times today alone; it has given me expertise.

I rest there for a moment before coming back up and stretching out alongside his naked body again. It is hot against my skin. "Are you tired yet?", I ask. "It will be time to sleep soon." I bring my hand up and rest it on his chest while my nose brushes his cheek.

He whines quietly, then blinks his eyes repeatedly as if to shake himself out of a dream. Without even saying anything, he rolls over and pins me down with one forearm across the collarbones. He lowers his head and runs his tongue and teeth over one of my nipples.

I can't believe how good it feels. My body is ready as a ripe fruit, falling open to the simplest touch. And I have only been frustrated since this morning. If this is how I feel, what must it be like for him?

"Not tired, then," I say, striving for confidence while I wind my hand into his curls and run the other over his neck and shoulders. "But surely, you can't want to play anymore?"

Even as I speak, though, my legs are sliding apart, and even as he answers "I do", he accepts the invitation. His tongue is warm and perfect, and I tense up into it with a sigh, pleasure spreading through my skin to every part of my body.

One great advantage of being denied release this long is how easy it becomes to take each other to heaven. He barely moves, barely has to put in any effort to get me squirming. Just that sequence of slow, steady licks and after just a minute, I have to tell him to stop before he pushes me too far.

He obeys, but instead he starts licking my entrance, pushing in with his tongue; when I do not stop him but open my legs wider instead, his fingers follow.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," I say without harshness. He twists his fingers inside me. "You're trying to make me crave it. You're hoping I'll want your cock in me so bad that I'll fuck you." And I do,

I do

, it's almost working but I'd better not tell him that. I am his Dominant. I have an obligation here.

"But you can't, remember? You'd spill before you satisfied me at all."

"We could try," he says hoarsely, thrusting his fingers in and out, and I am so tempted to do it. Even if it's just for a moment. Even if I can't do more than just hold him inside me. Would that be such a bad way for the game to end? To have him collapse, shaking, on top of me, covering me head to toe with heat?

I draw him up by the shoulders, pin him back down underneath me onto the white covers. The tip of his cock bumps into me as I hover over him. His gaze never leaves my eyes; he's trying to tell whether I mean it this time, or whether I'm just playing with him.

He should know by now that I'm always playing with him.

Very slowly, I lower myself down on his shaft. Beneath me, he is holding his breath, his eyes boring into mine, wondering if this is going to be it. I have promised him one more day, and one night. He has a right to that, but I could end it now with one push of my hips and he's not second-guessing me. He is only waiting at my mercy. It is a beautiful look on him.

But I am not merciful. I am his Dominant, and I am strong enough for the both of us.

So, I only take in a little bit, just like before. I hold it for a moment, wanting to carve in stone the obedience on his face, and then I lift myself up and get off the bed.

"Dinner, then."

**

I remember how it all started. We were working together in the kitchen as we so often do, preparing dinner; we would have friends over later in the evening, and we were going to outdo ourselves.

I had made some infantile joke -- an insult to my jack-ass sexist colleague. Something about how he might learn to treat women better if someone finally got his dick in a cage.

Heath laughed and shook his head in disbelief, asking how in the world that would help. So, in the tone of easy dinner conversation, I explained to him the psychological benefits of enforced chastity that I had read about: That many people reportedly became much more manageable in well-administered chastity, for example. More respectful, more considerate, more willing to please ... Among other things.

While I was talking and happily chopping away at my broccoli, I became aware that some of this might not be common knowledge. None of it, in fact. I had my back to Heath, and so I could not see his face, but he had gone awfully quiet, and the quiet hung heavily in the small room after my little monologue ended.

Now, I wasn't too worried about this side of my inclinations coming to light; Heath knew that I was a girl of many tastes, and he had already proved to be quite versatile himself. He would not be scared off by a little more kink. But still, this was a bit out there even for me.

Chastity. I had fantasized about it, yes, and read everything I could find on the internet, but that was all. And that had been long before Heath ... before I'd ever had anyone crazy enough to even confess this to. I had never considered actually doing it in real life.

But now ... in the space, in the quiet between us, here it was: An idea manifesting, drawing its first cautious breath. In a flood, memories came streaming back to me of what I had read, and of what I had imagined; suddenly, my skin seemed alive with a hundred tingles.

Into the quiet, Heath said my name, lending weight to what he was about to say. He took a breath. Another one. And then: "Is that something you want to do?"

Sometimes, there is a moment that changes the game. When something that was previously out of the question becomes suddenly possible. This was such a moment, and I knew it when I turned around to find him already facing me.

There was no trace of a smile on his face, but his eyes and posture were sharply alert. And I knew it then, clear as day: This was

his

thing.

Here was a challenge. And I stepped right up to it.

"You mean," I said, staring him down and taking two steps towards him, which put me halfway across the kitchen, "Do I want to lock up your cock in a cage that only I can open? Do I want to be the only one in charge of when -- or if -- you can cum?"

Still holding the knife in one hand and his gaze with mine, I undid the button of my jeans and unzipped them, then slipped a hand inside. When I pulled it back out, my index and middle finger were glistening.

I meant to hold them out for him to see as I crossed the rest of the way towards him, but a sudden impulse made me bring them to his mouth instead, which opened without command. He already had one toe in subspace, and all it had taken was a few words.

While he sucked the wetness off my fingers, I leaned in and whispered in his ear:

"I think I do."

**

Dinner is a sticky affair, and it takes him forever to clear his plate because his bites are interrupted by moans and he finds it hard to eat with his stomach so tense with desire. I've placed a vibrator under his seat; I can hear it humming quietly. Under normal circumstances, it would tickle him more than anything, but tonight I can see him squirming and I know that he's grinding his arse into the soft fabric.

I smirk sympathetically; I have been there too. I know how it feels when even sitting down becomes a trial. When even your own weight on your buttocks becomes a pathetic substitute for real contact.

We make some conversation, speaking about the wine and the time, inconsequential things. Gradually, I recover my own composure while I watch his continued struggle. My timing pleases me; it was high time to re-establish the hierarchy between us. In order for this to work, he has to believe that my self-control is iron. He must feel small and undisciplined compared to me; be embarrassed by his weakness; but also trust that this weakness is well contained in my hands. I have everything under control -- that is the mantra of this game, the thread that ties it all together. That is the coin by which I obtain the finer subtleties of his surrender.

When he finally finishes, I offer him dessert like a cultured host, but he won't have any. So, I have him arrange some mousse au chocolat in a glass bowl for me and serve it. He lingers on his feet at my side, reluctant to sit back down, and I swear it isn't pity that makes me tell him to stay: He has given me an idea.

"Feed me," I tell him. "I need my hands."

I can see him tense as he obediently takes the little silver spoon and scoops up some mousse; he thinks I am going to touch him again, and is bracing himself. But he is quite mistaken.

I relax back into my chair and let my palms wander across my own skin. I have not done this since yesterday, which seems a world away, and my curiosity is engaged by all the little changes in the way my body feels. Even though they ache from too much touching, my nipples still harden instantly as I cup my breasts with my hands, and I sigh softly.

Feeding me is a new task for him, and he isn't quite at ease with it; unsure whether I am ready, the spoon often hovers in mid-air until I nod in encouragement. But he learns quickly, and before the bowl is half empty I can close my eyes and surrender a little myself. Relax from my duties as the entertainer, the caretaker, the mastermind. For a minute, I allow myself to be what outsiders believe being Dominant means: Being selfish and spoiled and commanding your personal slave to do your bidding. Never mind how carefully I have orchestrated this; for a minute, I can regress, and allow the multiple pleasures of touch and taste and smell to invade my senses and fill my mind, combining tentatively into a new kind of indulgence.

The truth is: I am no more at ease with this than he is. The incorporation of food into play still makes me deeply uneasy, stirs up fears and shames and guilts from dark and hidden places -- about my body, about dignity, even morals. But I am so aroused that I can permit it anyway. Admit to myself that I want this. That it moves me. And that I even like the tinge of revulsion it brings.

My slave is feeding me chocolate while I leisurely rub my throbbing clit, and if gluttony's a sin then I am going to hell for it. Simple as that.

I allow my mouth to fall open and the moans that bubble up my throat to fall out. Now it is me who has trouble coordinating swallowing and moaning.

On the last bite, he seals my mouth with a deep, hot kiss and my awareness latches onto it with all the intensity just cultivated. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, no doubt tasting chocolate, and I submit to it just like I did to the food ... for a moment. Before I catch him off guard, pull him down to me, and bend him over my lap.

I rest my hand very gently on his buttock for a while, teasing slightly, just so he knows it's there. Just so he has sufficient time to wonder whether I'm going to spank him for taking charge without orders. Perhaps I should ... but I do not feel like it, and I have no desire to teach him total passivity. So, I leave it at the wordless threat, and a light scratch with my nails, down the buttock and around the curve to his inner thigh ... and from there, it is only a tiny flip of the wrist before I hold his balls in my hand. They are heavy and hard.

"Look at that ..." I murmur, rubbing the pad of my thumb gently against his perineum. "You're getting brazen again. We know what that means." I let go of his balls and run my thumb upwards until it's pressing lightly against his anus. His abdominal muscles twitch against my thigh.

"Looks to me like you need it up your ass."

***

During the second week of being locked up, Heath started losing it.

I heard his familiar footsteps out in the hall when he came home that night, and got up to get the door for him. I opened it, smiling brightly at him, and it immediately became apparent that something was going on with him; instead of smiling back, he stared at me with scorching intensity and let out an audible breath.

"What's up, babe?" I asked, stepping back and leaning against the wall so he could come in.

Without answering, without taking off his jacket or his shoes or even closing the door, he walked right into me, pushing me into the wall, grabbing my head firmly in both of his hands and kissing me. I kissed him back enthusiastically, bringing my arms around his body and steadying myself on my feet; my hips brushed over the eerie hardness of the metal underneath his jeans.

Eventually, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against mine, mumbling against my lips: "I can't take it anymore. It's too much. Did you get my texts?"

'I can't stop thinking about sex today,'

I recalled.

'This one colleague is wearing a low cut shirt today and I can't. Fucking. Handle it.' 'Please tell me we'll fuck when we get home.'

"I did." I ran my hands over the small of his back in a soothing manner. "I may have touched myself over them."

He made a small, lost sound, picked up my wrists in his hands and brought them up over my head, putting his weight against me as he kissed me again.

"Please," he whispered, "This is getting out of control. I have to have you today. I have to fuck something."

"No, you don't," I replied. "You could still work, right?"

I knew this because he hadn't used his safeword yet, and it had been one of the iron rules of our game that he would use it immediately if the game started interfering with his work. But somehow, I wanted to double check anyway.

"Yes," he admitted. "But I'm ... I can't ... I think about it all the time. I look at people and I want to screw them. I even look at ... at things." He took both my wrists in one hand then and trailed his other urgently down my body, over my chest and stomach and around to squeeze my ass and pull me into his hips so hard he almost lifted me off the floor a little. "Please unlock me. I promise you, if you unlock me right now I am going to fuck you like I never have before."

I wriggled my hips a little against him, but never dropped my cool for a second. This had not come unexpectedly. "Two weeks, baby. You agreed to go two weeks."

"Well, fuck that!" He raised his voice to a loud growl, and it sounded almost dangerous. Angry. "I'm not doing this anymore. I want my cock back, right now." He was dragging my pants down as he spoke, grabbing my vulva demandingly, still pinning my hands to the wall. I wasn't sure if there was a strategy to it, whether he was planning to seduce me or assert his physical power or whether he just wasn't thinking anything at all. But in any case, he harshly dragged my panties aside and pushed two long fingers inside me without preamble.

I wanted it. I wanted to unleash him, I wanted the rogue tide of his frustration to sweep over me and knock me off my feet. But I was prepared.

"Two weeks," I breathed. "And no less."

He

growled a wordless curse and began a quick rhythm on my cunt, his hips thrusting into thin air to the same rhythm.

"That's it, baby," I whispered, trying to shift the power dynamic back into my hands, "Give it to me. Show me how pissed you are right now. I'm gonna come again and you're gonna stay locked up in that cage for four more days."