Chayste at the wedding

It was one of those Scottish weddings where the girls kick off their elegant shoes and dance barefoot. Nobody asked me about my marriage prospects – the alien red gem growing out of my palm saw to that.

I don't know what's more embarrassing; when the thing's unlit, indicating that you've been a good boy and supplied lots of orgone energy for those little green men, or glowing hot-coal red, screaming out to the world that you've got no sex drive and that the crystal and groin-cup are about to drop off and fasten on some other poor sucker.

Actually, I do have a sex drive. However, up to that night, I'd been living like a monk – a Buddhist monk – doing yoga, meditating, working on maths puzzles... anything to take my mind of sex, to keep that chastity device loose around my lost penis.

I was doing so well, I could read at night by the light of the complaining gemstone. Another few days and I would get my genitals back.

But, when an old flame invites you to her wedding, it's hard to say no. And, what could go wrong? A load of old wrinklies prancing around in tartan?

Younger than me, just starting college. Long hair, bare feet and legs, and a stretchy black dress that clung to her hourglass figure as if it had been drawn on by a cartoonist.

There was no way I couldn't notice her, but I kept to the dances where you swapped partner with each verse, so between moments whirling her around on my arm and trying not to look at those smooth, curvy legs, I was spinning other people's grannies.

But then came the lady's choice and she pranced up to me and – with a sweet smile - offered her arm. As we danced, her breasts were always there, jostling my elbow, crushed into my chest, or just jouncing as she kicked and stepped and my chastity belt throbbed in time, not to the music, but to her flesh.

Somewhere, a flying saucer was feeding off my frustration, and then gem in my palm glowed slightly less.

We danced every dance until, around midnight, somebody called last orders at the bar. She beckoned me off through a side door. I followed, mesmerised by the swing of her hips, through the panelled corridors of the hotel, up a staircase lined with hunting pictures, and into her room.

I checked at the threshold, but she just stuck her tongue down my throat and shoved the door shut. Holding the kiss, she all but sucked me over to the bed.


Did she know I was chayste? Had she seen the gem?


She flopped back and a gentle shove pushed my head between her knees. Without a word, she swung those bare legs over my shoulders and parted her thighs so that the stretchy dress furled up onto her hips.


Yes. She knew.


There were no panties under there, just a forest of curls and wet lips. Penis prickling with the effort to fight its way erect, I dove between her soft thighs and licked like dog. Her clitoris rose beneath my tongue and I lapped faster and faster.

As the salty juices collected on my tongue, her thighs clamped against my ears and she began to pant.

Between my legs, a wet pressure built up as if could share her orgasm.

And then she pushed me away and wriggled up the bed.

I stood and my head whirled – all the blood was in my groin – and I scrabbled for something to say.

"You can go now," she said, her voice sweet and Scottish, and pulled up a pillow.

She didn't even look at me as I left the room, her taste still on my lips. If she had, she'd have seen the damp patch appear on my hired formal trousers.

As I walked out into the night, her only words to me echoed through my mind: "You can go now."

With each step into the darkness, the hardness in my groin returned, and the telltale gem glowed less faintly.