Miss 3

Her text said, "I feel like locking your cock in a chastity tube would be easy and fun. Though I don't know if I could last six days just teasing you!" And then we didn't talk about it again.

1.

It's an ordinary Tuesday. I'm just in from work, settling in for some dinner and Netflix when my phone buzzes. It's from her, and it just says "Home?"

I text her back "Yep..."

Her reply comes at once: "Don't go anywhere."

We haven't seen each other in a week. Her text gives me instant butterflies in anticipation. But I don't have long to wait. She must have been just down the block; it hasn't even been five minutes before two sharp knocks sound on my apartment door. I open it, grinning, and she strides inside. She's wearing workout clothes—a loose-fitting shirt and tight yoga pants—and carrying a rolled mat and she gives me a quick hug and brushes my cheek with a kiss.

"I hope you're ready for this," she whispers, or at least I think that's what I hear. I give her a quizzical raised eyebrow, but she brushes past me and into the living room.

"I don't have much time before class, so I don't want you asking a bunch of questions. Understood?"

I give her a bare nod, mouth slightly agape. We're still new to each other, but the last time we played I pinched her nipples until she moaned and then turned her perfect ass pink with an extended and escalating spanking. This is a side of her I haven't seen before: stern, unsmiling, in complete control. And in a hurry.

"You showed me some chastity devices last time I was here. Get one you can wear for an extended period."

"How lo—" I begin, but then, at a tightening of her lips, I remember the rule. "Yes, Miss," I say, the title slipping out before I can help myself. She lifts her chin a fraction of an inch and smirks at me and I feel myself reddening. I hurry out of the room.

The device is hard plastic, transparent but thick and formidable, with an integrated lock. I hand it to her, along with its two keys joined by a small ring. At her prompting I explain how it works.

"Stand here," she says, pointing to a spot in the center of my living room. When I oblige, she says "Strip."

I glance to my left, at the open blinds on my windows. Although I've seen much of her body, I've never been naked in front of her, and this is all happening very quickly

"Come on, pet," she says. "I don't have all night for this."

I unbutton my shirt and shrug out of it, then peel off my tee shirt. One sock off, then the other. Belt. Jeans. And then I am standing there in my boxers and I hesitate just an instant too long and she takes my chin between thumb and the knuckle of her forefinger and pierces me with the kind of glare I would have sworn was completely foreign to her.

"I know this started off as your thing, but I decided that if we're going to do it, we're going to do it the way I want." Her voice is quiet but razor-sharp. "When I am in a hurry, I expect you to be in a hurry too." She takes a step closer to me, almost but not quite kissing distance, and her next words are barely above a whisper. "This is

not

the way you want to start this out with me."

"I'm sorry, Miss," I say, and I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers and slide them down my legs and step out of them.

She holds my gaze a smoldering moment longer, and then steps back. My arms are at my sides, my feet a few inches apart. I don't remember a time I've felt more exposed, standing in front of her as she takes me in with a thorough and leisurely perusal. My cock is soft from the combination of cool air and cool gaze. She traces a finger across my collarbone, then down, casually flicking first one nipple and then the other, making my cock jump and twitch a bit. Then, her eyes back on my face, she slowly gets down on her knees in front of me.

At another time, in another circumstance, I might feel in control in this position, her on her knees, face only inches from my cock, but she leaves no doubt that this is not that time or that circumstance. She takes my balls in her hand and passes them through the base ring, then—her touch almost clinical, fingers cool and dry—she does the same to my cock, pulling it through the hard plastic hoop, which she then slides up snug against my body. The whole package is in the palm of her hand and she squeezes for an instant, not quite hard enough to hurt, but enough to demonstrate the power that grip gives her. Then she has the tube in her hand and suddenly I'm not so sure about this, thinking maybe I want to get off before she puts me away for some unspecified period of time and I start to form a protest, to ask if we can call this off and then.

And then.

And then I am in her mouth, she has taken all of my still-soft cock in her mouth, and it is so warm and so wet and so soft and I gasp and she is drawing back slowly, gently, sucking, tongue doing unbelievable things on the most sensitive parts of my body. There is a moment of shock and then my eyes drift shut and I feel myself start to harden and I know she feels it too, pulsing in her mouth and my hips moving forward to meet her lips and just as suddenly as it was there her mouth is gone.

I look down and she is looking up at me, a strand of saliva depending between her full bottom lip and the glistening spit-wet head of my cock. As if she's done it before she slides the tube up and over the slick skin and holds it in place while she fits the lock, twists the key, and it strikes me.

I am hers. Until she says otherwise, until she decides, I will not be touching myself when I go to sleep or when I wake up. I will feel this restraint on the most private part of my body at odd times during the day and I will know it's there at her whim.

She stands up, tucking the keys absently into a pocket and only then does she lean in and kiss me, long and hard and thoroughly, one hand coming up behind my head and the other caressing my back, pressing me to her. From there they wander all over me, all over my skin, touching and caressing and owning me. Mine are on her back, on her ass, sliding up beneath her shirt until she tells me no and pushes them back down, makes me keep them firmly outside her clothes. Tonight she gets to possess me entirely; tonight I get to possess her not at all.

To bring it home she strokes my chest and then gently works my nipples, flicking and pinching and pulling and caressing. The last part of me still present is rapidly being carried away on a tide of wanting. I am making whimpering noises in my throat. I cant help it. And she is drawing them out of me, a virtuoso on the instrument that is my body, the pleasure immense, overwhelming. And incomplete. My hand, uncommanded, goes to my cock and all it encounters is hard plastic and my thumb strokes along the top and no matter what I do there is nothing I can do.

Her smile, when she steps back, is knowing and wicked.

"You're fun, mister," she says. "I think I'm going to enjoy this." Her hand has stolen inside the waistband of her yoga pants. I'm helpless to take my eyes away as it slides lower, arches underneath and then, I think, a finger moves and presses and parts and penetrates and it is her turn to gasp and to moan. She gives herself a few moments' attention, her eyes roaming up and down my body, coming back again and again to the hard cage and the cock inside it, jumping and twitching and helplessly restrained.

She withdraws her hand, first and second fingers glistening, and she raises them and slides them into my mouth. I smell her arousal and taste her, sweet and tart, and I want nothing more than for her to call it off, to take me into the bedroom and fuck until we can't stand up.

Instead she is leaning in and giving me that same, impersonal brushing cheek-kiss. "See you soon," she says, and lets herself out the door.

"Probably," she adds just before it swings shut.

2

The next morning, the first day, I woke up early, cock straining uncomfortably—and unsuccessfully—against the unyielding tube. I lay in bed, fingers idly touching and stroking the skin around the cage, and she was all I could think about: how much I wanted her, how completely she owned me.

I sent her text messages over the course of the day, trying to play it cool at first—mildly flirty but with no mention of the chastity tube. No reply. As the morning rolled on I hinted obliquely. Nothing. In the afternoon I couldn't find a comfortable way to sit. No matter how I moved my legs the cage announced its presence, a cruel hand with a firm grip on my most private parts. I daydreamed through a conference call and sent another text, asking how long she was planning to keep me for. I closed the message with a smiley face. She gave me silence.

I sent one more message before going to bed: "Sweet dreams, Miss."

The second day I resolved that the messages had been too much. Or that maybe she wanted to control the communication as effectively as she was controlling my body, my ability to touch myself. Either way I was at her mercy and so I waited for her with something that, from the outside, probably looked like patience. Work crawled by and I could feel every heartbeat in between my legs and all I could think about was and offering myself up for whatever she wanted me to do. I imagined kneeling between her thighs until I was given permission to kiss and taste her, looking up the long slope of her body and seeing her eyes cool on mine looking back at me.

By the end of the day my cock was dripping pre-come, making a dark spot on my ill-chosen khakis. And my phone continued not to buzz.

* * *

In the end, when I get home from work, I can't help it. I write and delete a dozen different messages before typing "Please, Miss," and pressing send before I could stop myself.

Her reply comes moments later. "Oh, I thought you might have forgotten about me. Please what?"

I am elated. Even this bare acknowledgement is enough to make my breath catch and my hips move involuntarily. "Please, can I see you tonight?"

This time the pause is longer. "Sorry! Other plans. 😊"

My heart falls. But she isn't done yet. Her next messages arrive in quick succession:

"I know how much you want me to take this seriously. And the more I think about this the more I want to push your limits.

"I'm sure you agree that's for the best.

"If I saw you tonight I'd be tempted to go easy on you. I'd probably let you out.

"I'd probably want you in me, in my mouth, in my pussy.

"I told you I'd probably have a hard time just teasing you, but I really want to try. So I came up with a plan!

"I don't know if you're going to like it very much. But then I figured you don't really have a choice."

This time there is a much longer pause. Her mention of my helplessness is exciting and frustrating and unbearable. I am all pins and needles, heart pounding, breathing too fast. If I were free to have an erection I would be rock-hard.

My phone buzzes and I swipe it open and my breath catches in my throat.

The picture is her, giving a smoldering glare to what looks like the mirror over the bathroom sink in a fancy hotel or restaurant. She is in a close-fitting black dress—or at least she is from the hips down. She has undone the top and let it down and the picture shows her breasts, hard-nippled, two perfect handfuls. And between them, hanging low on a gold chain are the keys.

My mouth is dry but she is not done; the second half of this two-punch combination is yet to land. She is typing and then the message displays and I have to sit down.

"My date hasn't seen these keys yet, but if he keeps playing his cards right, I bet he will before too long!😉

My stomach is suddenly in knots, a combination of jealousy and anger and unbelievable, overwhelming arousal turning me red. My hands clutch at the couch cushions as she keeps typing.

"Anyway, I should get back. He was telling me about how much he likes tying girls up and spanking them. Wish me luck!

"Oh, and mister? I don't want to be interrupted again. If you're good, maybe I'll make it worth your while later.

"You definitely don't want to be bad."

3

We've never discussed dating exclusively, although it occurs to me that I, at least, am going to be exclusively hers until she says otherwise. But I definitely didn't expect this, this soon, this blatantly. I lie in bed stewing in a heart-pounding mixture of envy and lust. My phone stays silent. Eventually I drift off.

The next morning, Friday, I wake up early from strange, sweaty dreams—bare skin, slick bodies, hands and mouths giving pleasure and taking it away. My cock pulses and strains, but there's no release, no relief. I run my finger along the tiny bits of skin that it leaves uncovered and shiver and wish for her.

There's a new message from her on my phone, timestamped 1:30 in the morning:"Good boy. Be home tonight at 7. Leave the door unlocked."

I text back: "Yes, Miss." It's still an hour before I have to be up for work and so I roll over and am about to try to get a bit more sleep when my phone buzzes again, and then a second time as I'm reaching for it. When I unlock it and see what she's sent I know sleep won't be coming again.

There are two pictures. In the first, taken in a full-length bedroom mirror, the two of them are standing, with him holding her phone up in front of his face. In background is a substantial four-poster bed. Behind the flash his head is just a dark shadow, but the rest of him—of them both—is brightly illuminated. They are nude; he facing forward and she with her back to the mirror. His body is impressive—lean, well muscled, with a patch of dark hair on his chest, trailing down over his stomach. She has wide black leather cuffs with metal D-rings on her wrists and her ankles, and her hair is tucked to one side over a matching collar. Her upper back and her ass are bright red, and I see individual handprints and flogger marks and, on her upper thighs, what look like a few cane stripes.

Her hand is gripping his cock near its base and though the rest of the photo is clear that part is blurred a bit, as if she's stroking him gently. And my god. His cock is huge—perhaps nine inches, with a prominent, purple head that looks as big around as her fist.

In the second picture, again taken with her phone, she is fastened to the posts at the foot of the bed, spreadeagled with her arms above her head and her legs drawn to either side. She is on tiptoes, feet barely touching the ground, taut and wholly on display. The keys still hang from the chain between her breasts, but he has added accompaniments: a pair of clover clamps, connected with a chain, depend from her nipples. Her pussy, shaved completely bare, is red and engorged and glistening wet.

He is behind her, kneeling on the mattress and holding the phone up over her shoulder to snap the picture. His free hand is reaching around her, a finger hooked through the nipple chain, tugging it gently into a V-shape. And about two inches of his giant cock are visible below where it disappears inside her.

Her eyes are shut, brows drawn together, mouth open in an abject moan of pleasure/pain. A stray lock of hair curls across her face into the corner of her mouth.

In this position, owned and still owning me, she is the most erotic sight I have ever seen.

As I am taking this in I see the typing icon, and then another message from her appears: "You should be sure to thank me tonight—he said it was only because I was such a good girl that he let me keep your keys. 😊"

All that day I am a mess at work, and I keep surreptitiously looking at the three photos of her—at the restaurant, and with her date making her his own. I make excuses and go home at 5, leaving a document half-done on my desktop. I will come back in this weekend, but for now I can't even think straight.

When she arrives she strides through the door as if she owns the place. At this point, three days after she's locked me in, even her mere presence is intoxicating and I am almost giddy with a mix of relief and longing. But for her part she brushes past me as though I'm not even here. She is dressed in casual clothes—jeans, a jacket, a white knit cap. She gestures at my coffee table. "Move this," she says. "I want you naked and kneeling right where this is when I get back."

With that, she walks into my bedroom and shuts the door. As I slide the table out of the way and take off the clothes I hear her rummaging through her bag. And then as I kneel I hear the closet door opening, and the sound of her going through my duffel bag of kink toys. She gives a low chuckle.

When she comes back into the living room ten minutes later, I can't help but glance around from where I kneel, naked and knees apart. She is transformed: black silk bra and panties, black high-heeled shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, and she has applied dark-red lipstick. In her hand is a bundle of black leather and shiny chrome.

"Face front," she says, and then I feel her fitting a leather collar around my neck and pulling it snug before buckling it in place. "You have some really excellent toys. I am going to enjoy using them on you. Hands," she adds, walking around in front of me.

I lift them and she buckles my leather cuffs around my wrists, then locks them in place with two luggage locks. "So many keys to keep track of," she says. "Hope I don't lose any." She runs a short length of chain through the D-ring on the collar and then uses a third lock to fasten it to the cuffs. The combination of chain and cuffs and collar keeps my hands just below my chin. I can't lower them below shoulder level.

She leans back on the sofa, surveying me. The pointed toe of one shoe prods my knees farther apart and then taps the plastic cage. "I bet you're ready to get out of this," she says.

"Yes, Miss," I say. My voice is almost steady.

She gives me a long, considering look. "I'll make you a deal. I had a long day at work after a . . . very long night." Her hand slides to her thigh and a finger idly traces a line down the center of her underwear, then back up, and she catches her breath. "If you do a nice job rubbing my feet while I tell you all about it, I'll let you out for a bit."

Lips parted, I can manage only a bare nod. The fact that she's said "for a bit" hardly registers.

"Don't go anywhere," she says. She stands and fetches a bowl from the kitchen, then goes into the bathroom. I hear water running. She comes back with the bowl and a towel and sets them on the floor next to me. Then she is behind me, on her knees, pressing her body against mine and reaching around me and the key is in her hand and it is sliding home and she is twisting it and whispering in my ear. "Are you ready to get out? Ready to have a nice little hardon for me?"

The tube slides, ever so slowly, off of me and I am instantly, gloriously hard, the feel of cool air on my skin a novelty, and she is tracing a soft, gentle finger along the length of me, first on top and then underneath and I can hardly breathe with the pleasure of it.

She leaves the base ring in place and dips the towel in the bowl of warm water and washes me, gently and thoroughly. As she takes the towel away and with it all stimulation my cock gives an involuntary throbbing twitch and a single drop of precome appears at the tip. "Looks like somebody's happy to be out," she breathes in my other ear, dipping the tip of a finger into the wetness and drawing it out in a long string.

I want to reach down and touch myself, stroke myself, even just hold myself in my hand but her bondage is effective and all I can do is murmur "Please."

She slides the finger slick with my precome across my lips. "No."

She gets up and walks back around and sits on the couch and lifts a stiletto-clad foot to where I can reach it. I slide the shoe off and, bending over, set it gently aside. I begin rubbing her heel, the toes of her foot millimeters from my mouth.