I've never really been into dominance and submission, and even bondage is something I've engaged with only reluctantly. I don't like handing control of my body over to someone else. The idea of wearing a chastity belt for the pleasure of some 'Master' - or 'Mistress', for that matter - and begging them to unlock the belt so that I can finally achieve a long-denied orgasm is not erotic for me.
And yet, my recent adventure in the park had taught me something unsuspected about myself. Fear of discovery is naturally erotic, of course, but the humiliation of actual discovery is something I find intensely erotic. I had lost count of the number of times I had made myself come while replaying in my mind the moment when the old woman discovered me peeing outside her house, naked apart from stripper heels and a chastity belt. Pee trickling down my legs from the perforated plate over my imprisoned pussy. Could I have looked any more like a kinky amoral slut?
Well, yes, I could have been dripping with cum too, I suppose, something else I had experienced that night. The belt had been such a frustration. I had hated it - in part because it denied me control of my body, of my orgasms, but mainly because it represented someone else's control of me. Once the keys were safely in my possession, my hatred of it evaporated.
Instead, like the One Ring with Frodo, it exerted an almost constant tug on my awareness, a promise not of invisibility but rather the opposite: discovery and humiliation. Wearing it in the safety of my house, my ground-floor flat with the curtains surely and securely closed, served to tease my imagination, and I would test myself to see how long I could stand to wear it and deny the aching need for release. If at times I stroked the belt and called it 'Precious', there was as much truth as jest in that mockery of my new-found fetish.
It baffled me. I was reasonably attractive and had an active sex life - or I did until recently - and now, instead of glamming myself up for clubbing and the never-ending quest for a more-than-one night stand, I was Netflix-and-chilling with a piece of metal. Instead of sharing a bottle of wine with a handsome man, I was filling myself with water, impatient for the inevitable moment that the floodgates broke and my pee gushed messily through the perforated plate.
It was a sickness. An addiction. I needed help. Deep down, however, I didn't want help. I wanted more. I wanted the promise to be fulfilled. I craved discovery and humiliation.
Just not by anyone who actually knew me.
And not by actively or deliberately exposing myself, either. I had often read erotic stories and watched porn videos with women in short skirts with nothing underneath - except maybe a butt plug. Although I found these exciting (and had even dared to go commando to night clubs once or twice in the past - where, in fact, discovery would hardly have raised any eyebrows), the danger of accidental exposure to children or prudish authorities was too high. The chastity belt would allow the potential for discovery and humiliation while remaining completely hidden.
You can probably tell I thought about this a lot. Every time it was a war, my brain calling me an idiot, my shielded-and-sorely-neglected clit screaming, "Get the fucking rabbit!"
But what pussy wants, pussy gets, even if what pussy wants is to be teased and tormented by a monstrous contraption that no woman in her right mind would wear.
The elegant design and tight fit of the belt allowed it to be worn under my customary trouser suit. After some experimentation I gave up on the idea of boxer shorts and accepted that the only thing between belt and trousers was an absorbent pad that softened the outline of the lock and shield as well as serving to soak up any escaping moisture. I knew from experience how necessary that was.
I was torn between the practicality of keeping the keys with me, to make it easier to pee, and do the other (which I had done through the belt's anal ring once out of curiosity, but ultimately disliked too much to try again), and the eroticism of being caught in my own trap, forced to endure until my return home. At the last moment, as I wavered uncertainly in the open doorway, I returned the belt key to its place on the mantelpiece, and set off for work with only the shield key, dangling like a charm from a slender silver chain about my neck, only just hidden from view by my silk shirt.
For the first time in nearly a month I was wearing the chastity belt outdoors. That first time had been a frantic, terrified scurry between shadows. I had been cold, naked, miserable, and driven half-wild by the weak but persistent thrumming of a vibrator and bewildered by the shameful speed with which I had given in to my primitive sexual hunger. Four different men, two of them complete strangers, had left their mark on me one way or another. Only the chastity belt had stopped them from leaving their mark inside me too.
Now there was no need for me to hide, and yet the tight pressure of the belt could not be ignored. My awareness of the secret I carried was constant. As I waited in the queue for the bus, I felt sure my fellow passengers could see through the silk and cotton of my bland exterior to the steel that cupped my sex like a possessive lover. Heat stirred uselessly within that protected zone and my hard, sensitive nipples pressed against my unpadded bra. Peeking inside my jacket, I could see the sharp points that betrayed my arousal.
Normally at this time on a Monday morning, I would be worrying about the work awaiting me at the office and the endless plague of deadlines that sapped all joy from life. All of that seemed distant and irrelevant. Instead there was the itching need to scratch the bud of pleasure nestling within the folds of my sweet untouchable flower. (That was how it was described in the romance I had read the previous day.) There was the impulse to grab the hand of the tall man beside me and hold it against my steel-caged crotch. "Come back to my flat," I would say, "and I will give you the key to my precious..." He was a little old for my liking, but we had exchanged smiles often enough and he seemed nice.
I resisted the impulse. What if his reaction were horror, not hunger? There was a running commentary at the back of my head: "You idiot! You stupid slut! It's not too late to go back..."
I stayed where I was, kept my hands still, tried not to be too obvious as I examined every face around me for any hint they suspected the truth. I wondered whether any of the men had a cock long enough and slender enough to penetrate both the belt's anal ring and my own more welcoming anal ring. I was yet to try that, though I had been sorely tempted to summon Tom and Ricky to my flat to make the attempt. My fantasy was elaborate. I would imagine our old English teacher crying out, as one young cock gave way to the other, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," his own cock thrusting mercilessly into my mouth. ("You have witchcraft in your lips," he said to me once. There's something both sweet and surreal about a man quoting Shakespeare moments before filling your mouth with his cum.)
I didn't need a vibrator to keep me aroused. Just wearing the belt was enough to fuel the heat and stir my imagination. It was with such relief that I boarded the bus at last and settled into a seat next to an old lady - not the one who saw me pee, thankfully. She glanced at me critically but ignored me thereafter, and I smiled to myself at the thought of her reaction if she knew.
The smile was wiped off my face as the bus pulled out into traffic. My chosen seat was close to one of the wheels, and the vibrations swept through my pussy, forcing an anguished whimper from my lips. I would have moved elsewhere if I could, but already the bus was full. The tall man from the bus stop stood in the aisle beside me, his crotch level with my face. I wondered whether the vibrations from the bus affected him the way they affected me. I couldn't touch myself. I didn't dare to touch him. But the image of his cock in my hand, in my mouth, in my ass, tortured me for the duration of the ride.
My face must have been very red by the time my stop came. I couldn't resist brushing against his crotch as I squeezed past - but was disappointed to feel nothing. "You horny little slut," the voice inside my head sneered.
I walked through the crowds towards my office, an inferno of sexual need concealed within a suit. No one really saw me. I was just a face in the crowd. As a professional woman, that normally never bothered me much, but my horny inner slut ached to be seen. I wanted eyes on me, and hands on me, tearing my clothes off. I wanted hard cocks pointed at me, urgent with desire, too hungry for me to listen to my denials.
I turned right abruptly into a shoe shop, and scanned the shelves for something more compelling than my kitten heels. There - black elegance with half-inch platforms and long, sharp heels. I emerged from the shop in my new five-inch stilettos, feeling twice as tall and a hundred times sexier. By necessity my pace was slower, my steps shorter. The voice in my head shrieked, "Idiot! They'll never take you seriously at work wearing heels like these, you horny little slut!"
