Hi-tech chastity belt maker

Rheinholds is back! He makes chastity belts out of composites, giving them a hi-tech and terrifyingly comfortable look. It's more or less how I imagined the chastity belt in my novel.

The difference between an erotic fantasy and an erotic story

This is a fantasy:
This is a story:The first is timeless. The only resolution is in the reader's... um... hand. In the second, the protagonist struggles, and that struggle is resolved.

8 ways to get a man into a (fictional) chastity belt, and keep him there

I want to get my hero into a chastity belt, keep him locked up while threatened by being trapped, then actually trap him.

So, in other words, I need mechanisms to provide (1) an inciting incident, (2) a premise and (3) danger, and a – hopefully unexpected but satisfying – (4) resolution. I’d like these mechanisms to be erotic in nature since erotica is escapist, and supposed to be about, well, erotic things, not nasty real world concerns. Finally, they need to be believable: “trapped” has to mean “trapped”!

Funnily enough, most mechanisms I can think of can provide all four elements. They divide neatly into three categories:

PHYSICAL
1. Force and threat of violence
Any sort of not-too-nasty force is a great inciting incident if it’s done quickly. For a premise, a mundane threat would strain credibility since it cries out to be solved non-erotically. Best that the violence be erotic and relate to something Mental, e.g. perhaps he enjoys the whippings rather too much…

2. Capture
Capture makes a great inciting incident and premise. Unfortunately, it provides a lousy danger and resolution. Plausible private captivity is always provisional, and the way you deal with it is by planning to escape.. a tad mundane, you’ll agree. However, you can field a Mental threat and resolution such as Perversion, which can cause the hero to miss opportunities to escape. I did this for my Psycho Goth Girl series over at www.IndecisiveCaptions.com.

3. Technology
Technology is great for the first three elements, if you can make it believable without being boring. Massive overkill works – in my chastity novel I threw in an indestructible “quantumite” chastity belt, had the hero volunteer to test it, and got on with the story. For a resolution… on its own, it’s not very satisfying, but you can use it to make irrevocable a Mental resolution. Perversion, for example, could make our hero throw away his key.

PRACTICAL
4. Blackmail
Blackmail gets the hero into his belt. It also keeps him there… for a while. And there’s the snag - there are mundane and ugly ways of dealing with blackmailers, and no obvious resolution except for light and fluffy ones. Really blackmail is only good for an inciting incident and a premise, and only then if the hero is blackmailed with his own sexuality – otherwise you’re spending screen time establishing a mundane threat. Like technology, use massive overkill and get on with the story.

5. Bribery
Somebody pays the hero to get into the belt and remain so. It has the advantage of creating a quick and simple inciting incident, which is why I used this in my novel. However, it’s not much use beyond that, since money isn’t erotic.

MENTAL
6. Sex
I love the irony of this one. Perhaps the male chastity belt unlocks the sexuality of an otherwise frigid woman. The one sided sex gets better and better, until the hero worries about being hooked… Great inciting incident and premise, plausible danger, but weaker resolution unless you can make it irrevocable.

7. Perversion
Perversion certainly gets plenty of real men into chastity belts, but I doubt it keeps many locked in. The paradox of chastity belts is that they put the wearer in a continuous state of conflict – sensuality vs need for release – with a built in safety fuse when the latter becomes too strong. However, it’s easy to fantasise about going so far that it’s impossible to go back. So, Perversion can carry all four elements. However, like Sex, it helps if you use some other mechanism to make it irrevocable.

8. Psychology
Phobia, panic attacks, guilt, dysfunctional body image, fear of premature ejaculation, performance anxiety, obsession, dysfunctional love, and mental dependency… all good psychological chastity mechanisms. They probably drive most of the other mechanisms, even Capture – did the hero unconsciously choose to antagonise his captor? They might make good vanilla inciting incidents, e.g. the hero dons a chastity belt to overcome his anxiety. However, not being very erotic, Psychology makes a weak premise and a poor choice of danger… does the reader want to spend 50,000 words dwelling on somebody else’s performance anxiety?

Where Psychology is utterly brilliant is in building a resolution. It’s entirely plausible that somebody could be mentally incapable of removing their chastity belt, or unable to leave somebody who demanded they stay in it 24/7.

To get a permanent resolution, the Physical mechanisms all require mental gymnastics. Can’t the threat of violence be overcome through flight? Is it really possible for her to keep him captive forever? Is any device truly inescapable? Practical ones are flawed because, surely, time, flight, or the law will negate blackmail threats, and there must come a point where money is less interesting than orgasm.

The Mental mechanisms make the most satisfying resolutions because they resonate with the chastity belt fantasy – they’re what it’s about. However, we’re only really driven by Sex and Perversion when we’re turned on. Give the hero an ejaculation, and he should be thinking about how to get a proper orgasm, if not today, someday.

In contrast, Psychological chastity mechanisms work even when we’re not turned on. Fear of sex is fear of sex, whether or not you’re aroused. Even better, amongst most fetishists, I think there’s a nagging worry that their kinky perversion really masks something deeper and more pathetic. Does your vigorous eroticism mask chronic performance anxiety? Scratching that itch adds punch to the story, and serves up a little dose of erotic terror.

Better yet, it has the possibility of making it into real literature...

Chastity Planet Episode 3

Here's Chapter 3 of Chastity Planet. It'll make more sense if you start at the first episode of this SF male chastity story.

PUNH: The co-ed university where girls can become ladies, without becoming
women!
- The Planetary University of New Hymen Marketing
Department, New Hibernia
Division AD3115

Brigit turned away from Tom and bent over the room's object printer. The hem of her shiny silver dress rode up over her pale thighs. The moisture fled Tom’s mouth. Inside his chastity cup, his penis stirred and flexed.

Behind him, an air cab zipped past the open balcony window. Tom's naked buttocks must be on view to the whole world, but it didn’t matter. He leaned forward slightly and feasted his eyes on Brigit’s smooth, freckled skin. Even though he’d already tongued her flame-thatched pussy, he still wanted her… would always want what he could not have: his cock inside her moist vagina.

The printer pinged. Brigit straightened and turned on the heel of her strappy sandals. The slender fingers of her right hand now clasped a shiny black dildo. She brushed a stray lock of red hair from her face. “You’ll be familiar with this?” she said, her Celtic lilt making the words sound fresh and innocent.

Tom nodded. Tanya had never let him use one, but he knew what to do.

Deidre and Mary giggled. Tom looked at them properly for the first time. Deidre was too plump to be pretty. Mary was petite and blonde, but her hooked nose made her look a little like a goblin. Neither were ugly; just ordinary girls from some backwater world.

An orbital shuttle screamed through the night. Ordinary girls, he realised, renting an ordinary cheap apartment, too close to the spaceport.

Tom’s cheeks burned. Madame Amy’s Club felt like a porn tri-D, but this was different… real. His imprisoned penis shrivelled. Slumping, as if that would hide his shame, he edged away from the open doorway.

Brigit arched a russet eyebrow. “Well then?”

The slippery artificial penis half slithered out of Tom’s shaking fingers. He put one hand over the slit-less head and – feeling a little queasy – shoved the base against his chastity cup. The thing… squirmed… then bonded in the right place giving Tom a fake erection.

Again, a flush crept over Mary’s face and into the roots of her blonde hair. She put a tiny hand over her mouth. “It’s huge!”

Deidre just stared, open mouthed. She lent closer so that her heavy breasts swung forward under her pyjama top. “You’re never hiding a monster like?”

Tom looked down at the thing sticking out of his chastity cup. His own penis might be curled up in terror, but the artificial phallus remained defiantly erect. Performance anxiety didn’t really mean much on New Hymen. He straightened his back. “What you see is what you get.”

Brigit clapped her hands. “Beds!” Three single beds emerged from the wall. She cried, “Last one in, goes first!” and dived onto the nearest.

Giggling like a demented pixie, Mary launched her tiny figure over the back of the sofa and onto her own bed.

Deidre’s jaw dropped. She shrieked. “Oh, Mother of God! Not me!” She staggered over to her narrow bed and sat on it, hunched shoulders squashing her big breasts together.

“Go on then, Tom,” said Brigit.

Tom took a step forward and felt his cock harden. He smiled and thought, I’m going to fuck your brains out.

Deidre’s wide eyes followed his advance. As he sat down beside her, she asked, “What about privacy?”

“Lights down,” said Brigit. The room darkened

Mary giggled. “It’ll be just like back in the dorms at St Ursula's, sharing racy stories!”

“I don’t know what to do!” wailed Deidre, next to Tom. “I’ve never been with a man.”

“He’s not quite counting as a man!” said Mary.

“We’ll provide instructions,” said Brigit. “And if he hurts you, we’ll give him a demerit or two.”

“Tom,” said Mary. “Kiss her.”

Fear thrilled up Tom’s spine. The public whipping seemed horribly closer. It would be so easy for the nervous girl to lash out with a demerit. He twisted and reached for Deidre’s shadowy form. Her lips were moistureless and almost rubbery. Gently, he brushed his tongue against them. Her mouth opened and he tasted pizza. Down between his legs, his cock throbbed against its prison.

Mary’s voice squeaked out of the gloom. “Is he doing tongues?” asked Mary.

“Mmmm,” said Deidre.

“Fondle her breasts,” ordered Brigit.

Maintaining the kiss, Tom carefully reached under Deidre’s pyjama top and slid his hands over her soft tummy. His fingertips lodged in the fold between breast and ribcage. Carefully, he cupped each clammy breast and squeezed.

Deidre broke the kiss. “Sweet Mother of God! He’s got my paps!”

“Grab his balls, then!” said Mary. “That’s what the Sisters taught us.”

Deidre’s sweaty hand pushed between Tom’s thighs – she was clutching his chastity cup. “He doesn’t have any, silly.”

Tom’s penis twitched and he felt his face redden. “Yes I do!”

“Not on New Hymen!” declared Brigit. “And you only have a cock because we gave you one.”

“Now what?” asked Deidre.

“Take her top off, and suck her nipples,” ordered Brigit.

Tom tugged Deidre’s pyjama top over her head. A bare breast clipped his elbow. He shuddered and dropped the garment onto the floor.

“What does it feel like?” asked Mary.

The buxom girl’s shadowy figure shifted as she lay back on the bed with a rustle of sheets. “Worse than naked!” she said. “But…exciting.”

Tom knelt next to the narrow bed. He ran his hands over her round tummy and cupped a heavy breast. Slowly, he descended on it and fastened his lips around the nipple. It was salty but sweet.

Deidre writhed away. “Oh Jeez!”

“Shall I give him a demerit?” asked Brigit.

Tom caught his breath. His penis pulsed.

“No…” Diedre wriggled back down the bed. “I can feel…” Deidre gasped. “This tingly feeling. It’s making me feel hot down there!”

Mary squeaked. From somewhere in the room came a soft scratching sound, like a small dog scampering over wet sand.

“Take her bottoms off,” ordered Brigit, her voice breathy.

“Oh no!” said Deidre, but she lifted her hips for Tom to drag down her pyjama pants. Her body heat warmed his cheeks. A faint, savoury aroma teased his nostrils. “Omigod! I’m naked!” she said.

“Are you… wet?” gasped Mary. The moist scratching intensified.

Deidre shifted and a similar sound came from near by – the finger on pussy. “Very!”

“Fuck her, now!” gasped Brigit. From her direction came a new, faster scratching sound.

A wet ripple went through Tom’s penis. It shrank inside the chastity cup. His cheeks burned. The truth was, without the chastity belt he’d probably come all over Deidre before his cock so much as got near her. He was glad of the dark to hide his embarrassment

Tom climbed onto the narrow bed and clambered over Deidre’s plump right leg. Her damp skin stuck to his.

“Ouch! Careful!”

Tom flinched and felt his penis twitch. “God I’m sorry!” he gasped. “Please don’t give me a demerit.”

Brigit and Mary giggled.

He felt a tug on his chastity belt – Deidre had him by the dildo. “That depends on how good you are.”

He let her guide the tip of artificial cock so that he was poised to sink into her. Again, his penis swelled against its tube – but then, it didn’t really matter what it was doing.

“It’s too big!” she squealed. The plump girl curled forward. Her wet mouth pressed against his shoulder. Her fingers grasped his buttocks and dragged his dildo inside. She bit him and, between clenched teeth, gasped, “Oh Mother of God!”

His armoured groin bumped against hers with a loud squelch. I’m fucking her and I can’t feel anything, he thought. His penis went berserk, throbbing and pulsing, as if it could tear itself free of the indestructible prison between his thighs.

“Faster!” gasped Brigit from the other side of the room.

Tom worked his hips. The artificial cock plumbed Deidre’s vagina, slurping each time he withdrew. The only sensation was the rhythmic slap of his belly against hers. The busy fingers of the other girls kept the beat, so that the whole room seemed to throb in time to his thrusts.

“What’s… it like?” asked Mary.

“Good… Like… Like I’m going to burst and…” Deidre subsided into moans. Her soft hands slid around Tom’s forearms. Her nails dug into his flesh.

Tom doubled his pace, slamming the dildo into the plump girl again and again. Sweat coated her flesh, trickling down his hips where they touched her thighs. She heaved under him and groaned.

“What’s happening?” asked Mary. “I want to see.”

“Lights ON!” said Brigit.

Tom found himself staring into Deidre’s wide, black eyes. A crimson flush covered her round, perspiration-lacquered face.

Deidre grinned, shifted her grip to his waist and dragged him down against her sweat-soaked body, so that his chest squashed her large breasts.

Her big mouth enveloped his. He brushed his tongue against her lips. They opened and she sucked, drawing his tongue in until it hurt.

The new position forced Tom to rely on pelvic thrusts. Now his abdomen began to ache.

Deidre twisted her mouth free. “He’s slacking off!”

“We’ll fix that!” said Brigit. Her footfalls traversed the room. The replicator pinged. Something stung Tom’s back.

He yelped and turned his head.

Still in her silvery mini-dress, the redhead towered over the bed, her long fingers wrapped around the handle of a whip. She struck again, this time across Tom’s buttocks.

Tom opened his mouth to yelp, but Deidre crushed his mouth against hers and clamped her plump thighs around his waist.

Now each crack of Brigit’s whip made Tom flail his legs and howl into Deidre’s cavernous mouth.

A low growl welled up in the girl’s throat. Her breath hissed through her nostrils, scalding Tom’s cheek. Her teeth gnawed his lips. Her nails gouged his back. Finally, she tore her mouth free and screamed.

The whipping stopped. Tom flopped against her, immobile except for a futile quivering in his chastity cup.

From behind the sofa, Mary whimpered then sighed.

Tom’s penis pulsed in sympathy.

Brigit laughed. “I’m hoping you have something left, Mary. It’s your turn now!”

Slowly, Tom withdrew from Deidre. The dildo plopped out and he got to his feet. He felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. His legs buckled under him. If Mary was expecting a repeat performance, he was in big trouble.

And this, gentle reader, is as far as I've got. Is it worth me writing more? While you're waiting, perhaps you'd like to check out my chastity novel, which is full of more of the same, but - since it was written for publication - in greater and more lurid detail.

Building Chastity Planet

(If you prefer to read chastity erotica rather than read about writing it, then please skip to Episode One, or take a look at my male chastity novel.)

So, I’ve got my own planet! It’s called New Hymen. Like a lot of erotic worlds – let’s call them erototopias - it’s culture conspires to cater for a particular kink, in this case Male Chastity, with a dash of femdom. This makes it an S&M erototopia.

In most S&M erototopias, the doms seem to go to a lot of trouble to give the subs an erotic experience.

In the Story of ‘O’, despite all the arm waving about her total surrender, the masters spend ages putting the eponymous heroine through exquisite rituals, and take pleasure in stripping inhibitions so subtle that most men would stare at you blankly if you tried to explain them: “Yes, I made her sit on a cab seat with her legs open and no undies. Eh?” Men interested in pure physical pleasure care about receiving services – oral sex, massage, penetrating different positions and different orifices – not the state of their slave’s self esteem at that moment.

Similarly, the Anne Rice’s Beauty enjoys a masochist-orientated adventure. Even when she’s assigned to the Village where she’ll be a “real slave” and not a plaything, it’s all S&M fantasy. Real slaves don’t generally scrub floors holding brushes in their mouths, or transport gold coins in their rectums. Real slave owners just want the job done.

Does this matter? It’s only erotic fantasy.

True, but I’m one of those people who gets a buzz out of walking barefoot over an ancient cobbled street through a ruined city and imagining what it would be like to be the personal slave of a nymphomaniac Roman widow.

The more believable the scenario, the more powerful the fantasy. This is especially true of S&M fantasies. Reality gives them edge. (Though too much reality can spoil them.)

I'm also fascinated by girl next-door doms and vanilla relationships kinkified by chastity.

So, I created New Hymen as a far future female orientated pleasure planet. Somewhere, women and girls (over the age of consent) can let go, without any consequences. It’s not just “The safest girl’s night out in the known universe.” It’s also a place where women have all the physical and erotic power.

It wasn’t realistic to populate New Hymen with male slaves.

Straight women having fun like to flirt, neck, and enjoy one-night stands with pickups. Watch a hen party in action - there is no action without men to torment, intimidate, and ultimately entice. A planet of obedient male slaves just wouldn’t be interactive enough. There’d also be a problem with recruiting that many male subs willing to live 24/7 for a year or so.

So, how to use the SF setting in order to tweak the power balance in women’s favour, but without turning New Haven into an explicitly S&M world?

First, reverse the threat of violence. Each man is disarmed by an anti-violence collar (remember Spike’s chip?) and has no legal protection against anything but the most serious assault. Since most women are too civilised to beat up a man, they have the option to give out Demerits. Three Demerits, and it’s a nasty public whipping. Oh, and - just for non-assertive women from backwards patriarchal worlds – Half Demerits are anonymous and totted up at midnight each day.

The erotic power? That’s harder. Even when men can’t take pleasure by force, they can get it by emotional blackmail, or just by a female sense of duty – not all the visitors come from emancipated societies. The answer - strangely enough - is to put all the men in chastity belts… or better yet – since this is the Far Future – chastity cups held on by nanotechnology.

If he’s lucky, and depending on his caste, a man might persuade a woman to use her control ring to open his belt just enough for him to touch the tip of his penis. However, for most castes, this only works if she’s had a recent orgasm. Strangely enough, New Hymen men are very diligent lovers.

So, if the men are all disempowered, where do they come from? They need to be normal young men from off-planet, or there’s no story – an acculturated slave is about as interesting as a happy masochist. Also, normal women would turn away from a planet full of “drooling sex perverts”. Unfortunately, a normal man wouldn’t sign up to be sex slave for a year, and certainly wouldn’t want people to know about it!

What might tempt them – if the money was right – would be visiting worker status. Even nowadays, backpackers work in far more physically hazardous places. The Demerit system might seem arbitrary, but then travelling foreigners have always risked falling foul of local custom. If you’re polite and well behaved you really don’t have anything to fear… and did I mention that the money’s good. There’s also several very good universities. Course fees are waived for males, and the degrees laundered through off-planet institutions.

So most men arrive as Free Neuters, and leave a few months later, erotic horizons broadened. If they arrive with a partner hook up with a resident, they can even become Kept Men.

But, because some women want more subjugated men (and because this is a setting for erotic stories, which fail if there's nothing at stake), there’s a carefully set up slippery slope.

So, here's the hierarchy of male servitude on New Hymen:

1. Free Neuter: CB never opens. Live freely as second class citizens.


2. Kept Man: CB opens by default at home, but controlled by mistress.


3. Bondsman: CB opens whenever a post-orgasmic woman decrees.


4. Neuter: CB never opens.


5. Mute: As Neuter. Also unable to speak.


6. Damned: Sexual pleasure causes pain. Other statuses exist for this rank.

NOTES:

To get out of a duff relationship or dodge a public whipping, you can demote yourself, either as a gift to a woman of your choice, or else for public auction with the proceeds going to your bank account for when you eventually leave - of course, demoting resets the release clock…

Value increases the further down the scale you go, so if you give yourself to somebody, there's always the risk she'll just sell you on.

Businesses treat their bondsmen fairly well because they stand to lose money through voluntary demotion. They also give them time off, since there's a good chance of a sale to a lovestruck female at an inflated rate.

Chastity Planet Episode 2

Here's Episode 2 of Chastity Planet, tweaked a little since posted on Altairboy a few years back. It'll make more sense of you read Episode 1 first.

EPISODE 2: BECAUSE SHE'S WORTH IT

Be free with the demerits – it’s your planet!
From “It’s Your Planet: The
Unofficial Guide to New Hymen First Edition AD 3015

As she reached her orgasm, the Nubian tourist wrapped her ebony legs around Tom’s face and crushed him into her shaven vulva.

His cock throbbed against his chastity cup and he had a blinding vision of the redhead’s spicy curls.

The Nubian girl didn’t taste the same, but still Tom found the strength to lick until her salty juices sloshed around his mouth and formed a fragrant puddle under his tongue.

She arched against the back of the booth, thrusting her insatiable groin into his face.

Tom struggled for breath. His arms strained against his cuffs, trying to get his hands from behind his back.
Feeling his energy fade, he forced his tongue into one last flicker.

And she unclasped him.

Tom’s efforts had been enough after all. He knelt back down on the rubbery floor, gasping, tongue and chastity cup throbbing in unison.

On her way out, the tourist’s clammy legs brushed against Tom’s shoulder. His cock gave a little spasm and he felt something hot and wet on his thighs.

Then, behind him, the door opened for yet another client.


I’m done for, he thought, picturing the public whipping.

But, with a beep, his wrists cuffs parted and his arms dropped to his sides. He clutched at the front of his chastity cup, but the flesh-like slit had long since closed. If he wanted a proper orgasm, he would have to find a woman to please.

* * *

Off duty at last.

Tom struggled to his feet. He staggered out of the licking booth and stepped aside so Mistress Amy, the club owner, could install a new bondsman.

He checked for signs of Tanya. Then, feeling safer, he scanned the club once more, this time looking for the redhead. She wasn’t at the bar, and he would have spotted her on the dance floor, unless she was one of the usual clump of girls writhing around Eduardo, Mistress Amy’s personal slave.

But somehow, Tom couldn’t imagine the redhead doing anything quite so brazen.

A middle-aged tourist jostled past him and hurried into the booth. Her head and shoulders appeared above the padded walls. Soon, her ropey neck muscles and facial convulsions made it easy to imagine the tongue lashing between her legs. She sobbed, loud enough to be heard over the dance music. Heads turned, but she didn’t seem to care.

Tom grimaced. A few days on-planet seemed to destroy most women’s sense of shame. It had taken Tanya less than two weeks to get hooked on the licking booths – and yet now she was stalking him, angry he had escaped her through voluntarily demoting himself from kept man to bondsman.

The woman arched backward, exposing the crinkly line under her chin where the makeup left off. Her bosom emerged over the top of the booth. Her tight top barely restrained her breasts, which quivered in time to the unseen licking.

Tom’s imprisoned cock twitched and he wished it were his tongue driving the woman to such pleasure. I’m going crazy, he thought. I have to get out of here, or at least get a date so I can come.

“Looking for somebody?”

Tom yelped.

“Who were you thinking it was?”

Tom found himself eye-to-eye with the tall redhead’s pert breasts. Her silvery mini-dress flowed over them like a waterfall, catching on her nipples to form glittering pleats.

His chastity cup seemed to constrict. Reflexively, he glanced down and saw that his hands were at the same level as her bare thighs.

He curled his fingers. He imagined running his hands over those lovely long legs, then felt a pang of fear. On New Hymen, leering was dangerous. He craned his neck to meet her green eyes. “Hi.”

She extended a freckled hand. “I’m Brigit,” she said in a fresh Celtic lilt that made him think of green hills and convent schools on backwater colony worlds.

Her fingers were soft and warm. He kissed them and said, “Tom.”

“Well, what scared you so?”

Tom fumbled for a convincing lie.

Brigit fixed him with wide green eyes. Suddenly he was very aware of standing before a beautiful girl, naked except for his chastity cup.

“My ex is sort of stalking me,” he admitted. “She’s already given me one demerit. Two more and it’s a public whipping…” He flushed. You should never tell a woman how few demerits you had - she might think it wouldn’t hurt to add another.

“But can’t you demote yourself out of a whipping?” She tilted her head. A cloud of red hair fell over her face. She flicked it over her shoulder. “At least that’s what the guidebook says.”

“I’ve already demoted once. I don’t…”

Just then the music halted in mid track. A shrill male
scream mingled with the orgasmic cries of the tourist.

One the dance floor, the gaggle of girls scattered, leaving Eduardo exposed. The tractor beam took hold, levitating the man until he hung over the dancers. He thrashed in agony as if unseen torturers flogged his naked skin. All the while semen spurted from the tiny opening in his blank groin.

“What’s happening to him?” asked Brigit.

“He’s demoted so many times, he’s ended up Damned.”

“Oh, I read about those in the guidebook.” Brigit’s eyes twinkled. “He’s automatically punished if he… ejaculates, isn’t he?” She grinned, dropping her jaw to flash her white teeth. Then she clamped a hand over her mouth, as if shocked at herself. “He must be a bit dim to end up like that.”

“Rumour has it that he was Claudia’s kept man. She only let him touch her when he demoted himself. When he got down to Damned, she sold him to Amy for a small fortune.”

“Claudia wouldn’t do that!” said the girl.

“This is New Hymen.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She stooped and kissed him on the mouth. Her tongue flickered on his lips.

Tom opened his mouth, drove his own tongue forward and tasted tangy margarita.

Brigit recoiled slightly. Her eyes widened. “I just realised all the places that’s been.”

“Practice makes perfect,” said Tom, putting his hand on her waist. Beneath the silver material, she was soft and yielding - unlike his chastity cup which had never felt harder or tighter.

“So,” she said, making him look up. “Is it true? What the guidebooks say about bondsmen being easy?”

Tom edged his hand onto her bare thigh. He stroked the freckled skin, then slid his fingers up under her skirt and over her hipbone. She still wasn’t wearing any underwear. “We’re highly motivated to please.”

“Let’s get a cab, then.”

“I need to get dressed.” Tom glanced at the changing room door and spotted Claudia stalking towards them. She wasn’t even looking at her tortured former lover. Everything about her – her eyes, her body language, the swing in her hip – was aimed at Brigit.

Tom frowned. He was damned if the predatory lesbian was going to get Brigit first. “But I’ll be OK between the front door and the cab I guess.”

“Let’s go then!” The redhead waved at Claudia and took his hand.

Still naked except for his chastity cup, Tom let Brigit lead him out of the club. His skin puckered in the cool night air. “How am I going to get back without any clothes?”

She just giggled.

* * *

Tom hardly noticed as the cab hurtled up into New Hymen’s night sky.


Brigit sat opposite him, crammed into the seat with her knees drawn up between them like a stick insect. The position turned her dress into silvery funnel, sucking his gaze between her freckled thighs to fix on her rusty bush.
Perhaps she’ll buy me, he thought. No more parade of vulvas. Just long hours lapping between her endless legs.

Unless she was just a tourist. Was she? She didn’t fit any of the patterns – not brazen enough to be off a cruise ship, not confident enough to be a citizen.

Brigit snapped her legs shut. She leaned forwards and stroked Tom’s thigh. “I’ve never really touched a man before.”

Her contact sent an electric tingle straight to Tom’s chastity cup. “Exactly where are you from?” he asked.

With her other hand, she brushed her signet ring. “Anywhere I want,” she said. “It’s my planet, after all.”

A chill of fear wrapped around Tom’s spine. She might be sweet and fresh, but thanks to New Hymen’s laws, he was almost totally in her power.

Brigit smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t just threatened to bring him within a demerit of a whipping. “Put your feet up, I want to examine you.”

Was this a good sign? Perhaps she was interested in more than a one night stand. Cheeks burning with humiliation, Tom made himself put his feet on her seat, bracketing her hips. She parted his knees, spreading his legs as if for a gynaecological examination.

Brigit clenched her long fingers and rapped his chastity cup. “It’s fleshy, almost!” She probed the tiny slit in its base, then explored the angle where the nanothreads bonded the black cup to his flesh. “What did you have before you demoted?”

“I was a kept man,” said Tom, hearing his voice shake. “It was like this except.” He felt a wave of heat.

“Tell me!” Brigit reddened and her teeth flashed white from between crimson lips. “It’s embarrassing, isn’t it? You’re blushing all over!”

Tom lowered his gaze and stared at Brigit’s delicately freckled knees. They’d drifted open again, just enough so that he could see between them and into the darkness beneath her silvery dress.

He forced himself to look up at her face. “The opening was bigger.”

“I thought there were no free cocks on New Hymen.” Again she put a hand over her mouth.

“The whole wasn't that big,” said Tom.

The taxi started its descent. Tom glanced out the window, but the only lights were a long way off.

“How big?”

“Just enough so you can touch the tip of…”

Brigit gasped. “You spent all day playing with yourself! That’s why she dumped you!”

Tom felt his head throb. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget about the rows and tearful arguments. “I wasn’t dumped. It was all a mistake, but Tanya wouldn’t sell me on. I demoted myself.” He glanced up at her, not really caring if she gave him a demerit.

But Brigit’s face had softened. “Did you love her?”

“I followed her to New Hymen to be her kept man.”

“And now?”

“And now she hates me.”

* * *

The taxi halted at a third floor balcony. The doors were already open to let in the warm night air.

Inside, two pyjama-clad girls lay draped on the sofa, eating pizza and watching a period drama on the Tri-D – the one where the earthy hero and frosty heroine nurse a crippled star tramp back to Earth orbit. They had just got to the famous sex scene in the engine room.

A standard year ago, Tom couldn’t have dragged his eyes away from the holographic lovers in the middle of the floor. Now he just glanced around the rest of the room, saw the text books and the computer pads and thought, Students. There was no way Brigit could afford to buy him.

Brigit said, “Tri-D off.”

The hologram vanished. The nearest girl looked up and gasped. Her baby-blue eyes widened. Her cheeks coloured. The crimson spread up to the roots of her blonde hair. Her gaze flickered up and down Tom’s naked body, then fixed on the blank cup between his legs.

Tom fought the urge to put a hand over his shamefully neutered groin.

The second girl’s big round face furrowed into a frown. She’d be pretty, thought Tom, if only she’d not tied her black hair back so tightly. “Whatever is this?” She had Brigit’s Celtic accent, but her voice was deeper.

“It’s a naked man, Deirdre," said Brigit. "I’m bored of talking about It and watching racy films. There’s no point in studying on New Hymen if we don’t have fun with the local lads.”

“Well, it’s not like we can lose our cherries,” squeaked the tiny blonde, then giggled and blushed.

“Mary!” Deirdre got to her feet and put her hands on her wide hips. “We can’t to afford waste our scholarship money on gigolos.”

“He’s free,” said Brigit. “He needs me to get him home, so he’ll do just what I tell him.” She turned to Tom. “Won’t you?”

They had chatted, flirted even. But, when it came down to it, Tom was utterly in Brigit’s power.

This was nothing like licking booth.

This was personal.

Tom’s penis swelled against his chastity cup so fast that he buckled as if punched in the stomach.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Anything.”

(To be continued...)

If you've read this far, please let me know what you think. I write to please!

Chastity Planet: Episode 1

(Skip the the intro if you want to get straight to the chastity erotica!)

Here's the first episode of a sequence of a SciFi male chastity yarn I originally wrote for Altairboy.

OK. Mea culpa! In my last post, I was rather scathing on the subject of erotic utopias: Wot? No threat? A pleasure planet, is of course, nothing more than an erotic utopia wrapped up in SciFi bondage tape. As long as the inmates are volunteers, it's hard to see an erotic threat for visitor or denizen.

In my Chastity Planet sequence, I tried to give it a twist: I set up a world which isn't overtly femdom, but in which the men are all enslaved to some degree. There is a cunning slippery slope; if you don't like your situation, you can always demote yourself out of it. So, men accompanying their partners, or gap year youths earning a good stipend as bartenders, sometimes find themselves having a longer and more degrading stay than expected.

Is it enough? Does this work? You tell me. The sequence is complete but for one episode. I plan to post tidied up versions of the what I have. With enough encouragement I might even finish it.

EPISODE 1: The Redhead

“New Hymen – The safest girls night out in the Galaxy”
New Hymen Tourist
Board, AD 3102.

#

The girl scowled down at Tom. Her chubby fingers closed on her signet ring. It was a pretty gemstone, but one twist would take Tom a demerit nearer to a public whipping.

Tom’s chastity cup seemed to fill with ice. The vaginal juices dried in his mouth, leaving a salty sludge. The music from beyond the licking booth became a sharp, nagging thump in his temples.

Again, he dragged his tongue up the cleft between the girl’s fleshy labia, desperately seeking her clitoris. How did I end up like this? he wondered. I only came here to please Tanya.

The plump customer just sat there, legs spread, but inert.

The music paused between tracks. Now feminine chatter rattled in Tom’s ears, reminding him that tere was a world of scornful women just outside the booth, waiting to see him flogged.

The music swelled. Each beat made Tom flinch as if it were a whip-crack.

Fighting panic, he changed tactics and dropped to squash his face into wet labia and hook his tongue into her vagina.

Fresh juices spilled into his mouth. Above him, the girl squirmed. She drew up her short legs and rested her feet on the highest of the padded bars which projected from the walls of the licking booth.

He had her! Tom’s penis tried to unbend against the chastity cup. He ground his tongue against the mouth of her vagina and strained against his cuffs, wishing he could slip two fingers into the slippery tunnel.

A flush shone through the girl’s heavy makeup. She twisted and shouted to somebody outside the booth.

She probably had friends on the dance floor. Tom decided to give them a show. He worked his tongue faster, vibrating in time to the music, his captive cock pulsing in sympathy.

Just as his tongue began to ache, the plump girl’s eyes widened. Her hands found the back of his head and crushed his face into her vulva.

Tom gasped for air and ground harder, counting the tongue-strokes.

On the thirty-third, she pushed him away.

He sat on his ankles and watched as she smoothed her mini-skirt over her big thighs and stepped around him without so much as glancing down.

Experienced tourist, he thought, or perhaps a Citizen.

The breeze of the open door tickled his back. He twisted to look over his shoulder.

Beyond the threshold of the booth, the dance floor was crowded. Women of all ages jostled around a handful of men – some Free Neuters also flaunted their freedom, but mostly black-collared Bondsmen like Tom dating in their free period. He grimaced. The only way out of the Licking Booths was if somebody bought his contract.

The girl paused in the doorway and chatted with her wide-eyed friends – definitely tourists fresh off a starship. Perhaps a hen party or graduation present – after all, for all its steamy reputation, New Hymen guaranteed the safest girls night out anywhere in the galaxy.

I don’t even know her name, but I just made her come, he thought and felt a twinge in his chastity cup.

The client stepped aside. Tom glimpsed an impossibly tall redhead hovering on the edge of the dance floor.

Her silvery mini-dress barely covered her thighs. She wore it awkwardly, hunching her shoulders to lower its hem by an extra few centimetres – as if that would make it modest.

The door swung shut.

There was something about the tall girl that made Tom want her as his next customer. He hunched to see under the edge of the booth.

From the forest of legs he picked out a pair of slender shins rising up from strappy sandals. Red toenails peeked from the open tips. It had to be her.

She shifted weight from foot to foot, hesitated, then walked briskly towards Tom’s licking booth.

Tom cursed and wriggled around to put his face in the cleanser.

A familiar breeze brushed his bare back. He couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder.

The redhead stood in the entrance to the licking booth, one ankle crossed over the other.

Tom’s gaze swept over her elegant feet, webbed by simple high-heeled sandals, and followed her impossibly long legs – bare and with a hint of freckles – until they vanished under her silvery dress.

Inside the chastity cup, his cock strained hopelessly to erect itself. His captive balls throbbed.
He stared up into the girls’ green eyes

She blushed.

Hastily, Tom looked down – no point in earning a Demerit through bad manners.

It was then that he spotted Tanya gliding through the crowd like a blonde ghost, not a snowy hair out of place. Fear clawed his spine. She would still be angry that he’d preferred to downgrade to Bondsman than be her Kept Man. He bowed his head lower. Perhaps she wouldn’t recognise him.

The red head brushed past and the door swung shut.

By the time he had shuffled around to face her, she was perched on the booth’s U-shaped seat. She stretched her long legs into a tense inverted V. The movement made her silver mini dress furl over her slender hips, unveiling a red bush between pale thighs. Her long inner labia pouted from behind the russet frizz, glistening like wet rubies.

All the moisture fled Tom’s mouth. His penis curled in on itself then flexed until he imagined it was about to split its plasteel prison.

He craned forward and pushed his face between her thighs. Lovingly, he drew his tongue over her vulva, parting the red curls. A second stroke dipped into delicate flesh and his senses filled with a savoury honey taste.

His penis gave a little spasm, and he knew his chastity cup must be dripping semen.

The redhead’s thigh muscles hardened against Tom’s ears. But, no sign of pleasure.

Tom explored the moist nook at the apex of her pubic slot. A clitoris popped up to greet his tongue.

He ground the slippery nub and at last, the girl squirmed in her seat, making her long legs writhe like snakes.

Tom repeated the movement until his tongue ached, but nothing else happened.

He glanced up and saw that her green eyes kept flickering around the club. Nervous and self conscious. Probably just off a cruise ship, and striking out on her own. He couldn’t imagine her giving him a demerit, but that just made him want to please her all the more.

He had just one gambit left.

He withdrew his head. When she looked down in surprise, he dove between here freckled thighs, took her red-thatched vulva into his mouth and sloshed his tongue up and down, tweaking her clitoris at the end of each stroke.

The readhead shuddered. Her slender thighs clamped his ears. Then one leg dropped between his. Her sandal scraped his thighs and her toes rapped his chastity cup.

Tom licked faster and she cried out, louder even than the pounding dance music. Her juices flooded Tom’s mouth, her nails gouged his shoulder blades, her foot pressed up against his chastity cup until her toenails dug into his buttocks.

The redhead climaxed with a scream then flopped against the padded back wall of the licking booth.

Tom slowly withdrew.

Her toes glistened with his semen. He ducked down to kiss away the offending smear before she noticed.

When he looked up, she slid off the seat and stood above him. The mini-dress dropped back into place. But kneeling at her feet, he could still see her saliva-soaked vulva glistening in the gloom between her pale thighs.

Tom’s cock throbbed. If he didn’t have a proper orgasm soon, he’d go insane.

The redhead stood straighter now, as if her public display had given her new confidence. “Oh!” She touched her signet ring.

Tom flinched, expecting a Demerit. Instead, there was a familiar squirming in his chastity cup. The tube end yielded slightly. His cock swelled, pushing the very tip of his penis into the tiny opening. As a Kept Man, he’d learned that a few minutes of frantic fingerwork would give him an intense orgasm – Tanya had called it his clitoris.

Tom flushed. Back then, there’d been plenty of time for experimenting. Now he had just five minutes before the gap closed, entombing his penis. He checked the time on the tall girl’s old style watch then shrugged his shoulders to remind her his hands were bound.

Her eyebrows arched. Her green eyes seemed to focus on him for the first time. “Oh, a Slave.”

Tom heard himself blurt, “Bondsman.” He wanted to add, “You can date a Bondsman…” but the words died on his tongue. On New Hymen, it was dangerous to disagree with a woman.

She tilted her head, making her red hair swish across her face. “You’re afraid of me.”

Tom nodded. Perhaps if he found the right words...

A face appeared over the edge of the cubicle. “That was some orgasm.” Tom recognised Claudia, the resident lesbian predator. Her succulent lips pursed into a smile that was almost an invitation to a kiss. “Come join us for a drink.”

A blush blotted out the redhead’s freckles. Her green eyes hooded.

Tom held his breath. There was something about visiting a penis-free planet that turned women bi-curious. Not this one, he thought. She’s mine.

Claudia glared down at him.

Tom flinched. He lowered his gaze before she decided to give him a Demerit.

Above him, the redhead said, “OK.”

Without another word, she left Tom kneeling on the floor of the licking booth, savouring her aftertaste.

He had to have her properly, to run his hands over her sleek body and kiss her delicate face. But would she succumb to Claudia’s charms before his shift ended?



(Continued...)

Erich Von Gotha's "Twenty": Three things wrong with erotic comics

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

What's so good about real slavery fantasies?

Make no mistake. Real slavery sucks. In it's modern form, it's downright evil. In the ancient world - well - it was a fact of life, with all sorts of nuances. Remember, though, that for every loyal human chattel of a stern but fair familias, there were dozens of mine and farm slaves, brutalised into an early grave, or freed in their dotage to starve as beggars. So let's not get nostalgic.

Even so, there's something attractive about the fantasy of being a real slave.

By "real slave", I mean something a bit different from the typical "bottom" who craves the drama and the ritual of the extracting and testing of their submission. In submissive fantasies, the slave is the centre of attention. In, for example, The Story of O, there's a lot of song and dance about how 'O' is becoming nothing, yadyadyada, but the entire story world revolves around her to the point of turning her into a Mary Sue.

I also mean something different from modern 24/7 consensual slavery. This sort of existence is close to the sort of slavery I'm talking about, but it's both consensual and remarkable; slaves can walk away, and they aren't part of the backdrop since they pretty much define a subculture. Fantasising about consensual slavery would be like enjoying films about paint war games.

No, the fantasy I'm talking about is something close to the personal version of the Roman original; real slavery in a society where slaves are ubiquitous and unremarked on, invisible almost.

So what are the attractions?

The most obvious and comfortable to admit are the semi-vanilla erotic attractions; slave as voyeur, and slave as masturbation toy. The slave gets to watch, and the slave gets to touch and taste. The slave never doubts what his lady wants in bed, because she's his owner not his partner, and she does not think twice about telling him.

Slavery then becomes a sort of shark cage, taking the fantasist to places where he otherwise could not go, for example and most obviously, a Sapphic bedchamber.

Then there's the whips and chains. In any sort of slavery fantasy, there's bound to be lashings of B&D. S&M fantasies hardly need an explanation... actually, they are hard to explain, but they are a fact of many people's sexualities.

The thing is, you can get all of this from less extreme fantasies.

What really clinches the real slavery fantasy is just that; real slavery. Not the erotic aspects, the existential ones. Modern life is horribly complex. We strive, but we don't know exactly what to strive for. We want to be liked, but we don't know how. We want to feel secure, but nothing is stable.

Wouldn't it be nice just to give up? If things were simpler and all we had to do was obey orders? If we always knew our place? If nuances no longer hemmed us in?

It's an attractive fantasy to escape into... for a while.

Whips and Stockingtops: Roadside breakdown #1 (Updated)

There’s a bang, like a rifle shot. The old fashioned automobile swerves, throwing me across the leather upholstered rear seat. Cursing, my “owner” coaxes the vehicle into the side of the highway. The car sways and she gets out to take a look.

Still shaken, I right myself and peer out of the back window. I read somewhere that the best time for a prisoner to escape is as soon as possible after capture. What with the production line and the slave auction, I haven’t had a chance… until now.

Beyond the dirty glass, a prairie stretches out to the sky. In the distance, stick figures cowgirls in broad Stetsons herd longhorns. There’s nowhere to run to, and the penalties for running away are terrible.

My pulse throbs against the steel band around my throat, and I feel for all the world like a dog in the back of its mistress’s car. However, in this hellish alternate Earth, dogs - as they made a point to tell us at the Slave Factory - have more rights than men.

My hand drops to my groin. The chastity cage is hard behind the fabric of my knee breeches. The skin still itches where the surgical steel wires plunge through living flesh to anchor in the bone beneath. Better to risk a million beatings, than to spend a life as a semi-neutered slave.

I look the person who bought me at auction. She’s an ordinary girl about my age. In the long-sleeved 1930s-style dress, she looks more sweet than square, innocuous even. If it weren’t for the brain conditioning, I could overpower her.

She opens the door. “Get out,” she snaps. “Kneel over there, out of the way.”

I scuttle out and fall to my knees on the dry earth by the car’s front bumper. I can’t stop panting. Am I really scared of this girl?

But she has her back to me, legs pressed together, seems drawing neat lines up her nylon-wrapped calves. All her attention is on the deflated rear tire. With another curse, she unstraps the spare tire from car’s rear, then rummages in the boot.

I look around. A hundred paces from the road, there’s a stand of trees which I couldn’t see from the back window. I could lose her in there, then leg it back and take the car.

I check to see what she’s doing and gasp. For the first time, my penis swells against its cage and strains hopelessly to erect itself.

It’s not just her dress which is 1930s in style.

She’s sitting on the ground, wrestling with the tire iron. Her hem has ridden up to her hips, and her thighs are wide open. She has one slender leg braced against the rear bodywork, the nylon already laddered. The nylon ends half way up her thigh. Then there’s a glorious expanse of olive-skinned flesh, obscured only by a think white garter strap which vanishes into her loose silk panties.

She glances at me.

I flinch and blush, but she just returns to her task. If I’m less than a dog, why should she care that I can see her stockingtops?

Free of fear now, I just stare. My penis throbs against the wires, beating like a second heart.

The trees seem further than I thought. There’ll be other chances to escape, I’m sure.

She looks up and fixes me with a her dark eyes. "Why, you're thinking of doing a runner - aren't ya' boy?"

(To be continued.)

The real thing....?

I've just discovered a chap who's planning to spend the whole of next year in a male chastity device.

It would be nice to think that he'll get some vanilla dates during that time, expecially because he plans to buff up. But - hey! - who said life had to be like the erotic novel?

Would his adventure make a good erotic novel? Not as it stands. There's nothing forcing him to stay chaste, and nobody trying to coax him out of the chastity belt... hmm, now there's an interesting dynamic.

Slave as participant voyeur

This 1920s burlesque short seems to capture it all: a bevy of fresh-faced flappers strip off to go bathing in their undies and have a giggle, away from the male gaze.

It would be nice to be part of that scene! However, as soon as a man turned up, the private girliness would be gone. In it's place would be reserve, flirtatiousness, or embarrasment .

It would be a different story in my Whips and Stockingtops world. A more or less identical scene could play out, told from the attendant slave's point-of-view. The girls simply wouldn't care if he was watching, though, later in the dunes, they might use his willing tongue.

(Of course, the scene would need more than that to work as fiction.)

Kolkislavia: opening to a permanent chastity novel

In the last couple of years, I've tinkered with some non-consensual chastity settings. One of these - inspired by Ruritania - is a former Eastern Block republic called Kolkislavia. On the whole, I like this one better than Chastity Planet because the power play is in earnest.

Kolkislavia is a fascinating country, well worth a backpacking trip if you can get a visa. The men were mostly wiped out in World War Two, so that by the time the next generation grew to manhood, the women were used to getting their own way. They are legendarily sexually forward, though somewhat demanding. There are however traps for the unwary male visitor…

(Nurse kindly provided by Butch, a denizen of Renderotica)

Chapter 1

It was the pain in my groin that woke me.

I opened my eyes on blinding whiteness and tried to reach between my legs, only to find I couldn’t move my arms.

The white coalesced into dirty polystyrene ceiling tiles. I tried again. Still my arms wouldn’t move.

I shifted slightly and found my legs were also pinned.

“Hey!”

My voice sounded hoarse.

“Hey!” I repeated and heard answering footsteps, the sound of high heels on linoleum. A nurse bent over me – a proper nurse; hair tucked up into an old-fashioned cap, white coat unbuttoned to the cleavage. She smiled and said something in a language I couldn’t understand.

Of course, I’m in Kolkislavia – hence the out of date uniform. The whole country was like that, not that I was complaining. Her cleavage drew my gaze. Her skin was a radiant golden white, like a Slavonic goddess. The curves seemed taut and firm.

I felt a swelling in my groin. Then a strange, stinging tightness in my penis and an ache in my testicles. I tensed my buttocks but couldn’t get an erection.

“What’s happened to me?” I asked.

She pouted and said, in a cooing voice, “Ataletik.”

“Ataletik?”

She shrugged and rolled back the sheet as far as my waist. Now I could see that my wrists were held by hospital restraints.

The nurse produced a sponge and wiped my face, then my neck. She reached my chest and made some little swirls around my nipples sending little electric tingles to my groin. Now my penis felt as if it were being rhythmically squeezed by a mailed fist.

I had a flash of another nurse scrubbing me down, and an operating table.

Rising panic now, I tried to close my legs around my genitals. I strained against the restraints until my thighs touched. Nothing.

And yet I could feel them?

Unless it was like a ghost limb.

I had to know what had happened to me.

Kolkislavia.

I remembered Christina meeting me at the run-down railway station, and our chaste kiss. Her simple summer dress made her look like a Pre-Raphaelite saint.

Then seven glorious days, walking hand in hand in the park, seeing the frescos she was restoring, and visiting the unspoiled country – not speaking, just basking in her company. She seemed to spend her days in a dream, an erotic daze.

The throbbing grew stronger.

Had we had sex?

Not a chance. In truth, I couldn’t even imagine it. When I kissed her she jumped like a startled rabbit.

And then, as I walked back from her lodgings and van pulled up. I remembered masked men and...

“Ah, Mr Carlisle. You are awake.” A woman’s voice, low and clipped, speaking in German, the official language of the Republic of Kolkislavia.

I raised my head and found a big Amazon of a woman standing at the foot of my bed. A peaked cap shaded her eyes. A long black leather coat flapped open, revealing a tight grey uniform and the tops of her knee-length jack boots.

“Theda!”

“Captain Theda. I’m here in my official capacity,” she said. “This is Dr Olslova.”

A grey haired women with a clipboard nodded at the nurse who pouted then whipped away the sheet and held a mirror up between my legs.

There was nothing there.

I yelped, blinked then looked again.

Glass bars covered the space between my legs, forming a leaf shaped cage. It formed a ridge, like a stalk, over my penis. On either side, mesh flattened my scrotum. Stitches marred its delicate skin.

“My balls!”

The doctor smiled. “Still there. Tucked up into their cavities.” She tapped the cage and I saw that the flesh bulged either side of the root of my penis. “They’ve taken some darts out of your scrotum. But it’ll stretch once the cage is off. It’s all quite standard.”

I sat back. “So when can you operate to remove it?”

The doctor glanced at Theda and back again.

Christina appeared behind the two women. The light from the window turned her hair into a red halo making her look like an angel. “Andrew, I came as soon as I...” Her green eyes widened.

Theda’s face became rigid, as expressionless as a mask.

I half closing my thighs, and felt myself blush. Even in this mutilated state, I was embarrassed to show her my genitals. Nothing

I expected her to flinch or look away. But her eyes softened. “Poor thing. I’m sure we can make it all better.”

Theda visibly relaxed. She cleared her throat. “In the bad old days, the State used these to prevent athletes from defecting.”

And then I remembered the Backpacker’s Guide entry. “But that’s just an urban myth...” The doctor’s eyes became pitying. “It’s booby trapped, isn’t it?”

The doctor nodded. “The tubes contain a powerful explosive. You need the unique Catalyst Key to defuse it.”

Theda coughed. “My government is most embarrassed that this should happen to a tourist. We will make every effort to recover the key and free you.” But in her eyes I saw a strange mixture of triumph and guilt.

“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” said Christina.

So, who's reading this and what do you want to hear about?

So, I'm curious... who is actually reading this, how did you find me, and what do you want me to blog about most?

I can post polished pieces, muse about erotic writing in general, talk about my work in progress, or how I wrote The Chastity Belt. You tell me.

About Whips and Stockingtops

There's something about 1920s and 1930s women - that combination of freshness and sophistication, or is it just the stockings and garter belts?

Thing is, I'm not really interested in the men - stylish though they are. What I really want is hot flapper-on-flapper action. But, that would just leave me with retro-Sapphic tales. Where's the male viewpoint? How about an enslaved male?

So, I've created a Sliders-style alternate Earth, which I call "Whips and Stockingtops World". It's a sort of Art Deco parallel world where all - or most - of the women are lesbians, and the men are all enlabed abductees, fitted with permanent chastity cages.

The idea is to use a slave as narrator, a sort of kinky Dr Watson to the mistress's Holmes. Here's my first attempt. It established the world nicely, but...

I'd like the slave should be a participant voyeur. Not really part of the story, though it might affect him. For example, if somebody breaks his owner's heart, he should have to put up with months of abuse.

He might - perhaps - have an inner journey. The Art Deco setting is close enough to our own world to give him the odd you-are-here moment. This is a chance to explore the boundaries of fantasy and grim reality.

The snag is that this will only work if I can write more or less vanilla love stories! It gets worse: since it's a Sapphic world, I don't even get to do a coming out story.

However, potentially, this could be really hot. Just think of the contrast? Tender flapper lovers making out, while hero nurses his welts and tries not to react?

Chaste Erotica: Whips and Stockingtops

Here's a version of a test of concept for a 1930s Noir Femdom world I've posted elsewhere. I revised it after discovering these!

It was probably writing The Chastity Belt that got me into pre-war erotic photography. Poor Mark has a book called "1930s Ladies" which fuels his fantasies of unattainable retro Cassandra.

And... well there is something about all those vanilla ladies wondering around in stockings and well cut clothes. All that's needed is the whips...

Whips and Stockingtops: The Vamp by Giles English

As I sponge the inside of my slave collar, a light comes on in the cheap apartments opposite the kitchen window.

A girl in a fur-trimmed coat appears. She turns away and takes off her hat, revealing bobbed black hair.

My penis wakes inside its cage. I can’t help it; she’s the perfect vamp – icy promise wrapped in tailored elegance.

The coat slides off. Now a sequined evening gown glistens feebly in the light of the lonely bulb which hangs from the low ceiling.

The gown is a 1930s classic, cut to show off her radiant shoulders, and gently flared over her promising hips.

Expensive gown, cheap digs. What is she? Hooker, fresh from the arms of a rich old woman? Or is the Vamp expecting a guest?

I lean over to press my face to the dirty glass. The movement drags my night chain over the edge of the sink, but the walls are too thick for the noise to disturb Millie, my owner – she’s as sweet as they come, but form must be observed between mistress and slave.

The Vamp turns to her dressing table and unhooks earrings. She slides the dress off her white shoulders and carefully steps out of it.

Stockings! Better yet; garter-straps stretch over pale flesh and vanish into lace-edged white silk panties.

My penis throbs uselessly against its bars.

The Vamp’s pert breasts quiver as she drapes the gown on a hanger, but my gaze is fixed on her long, nylon-coated legs and garter webbed thighs.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen stockings almost everyday since I arrived in this strange, alternate world: the sight forces the blood into my imprisoned genitals.

I should look away. Nobody cares if a slave watches, but voyeurism is its own punishment.

The Vamp sits on the narrow bed and –

Omigod!

-her panties come off.

Her garter-belt and stockingtops frame a strip of milky skin: thighs, navel and shaven crotch. The white flesh flows from curve to curve to curve except for the deep red crease between her labia.

The blood pounds in my ears.

It must be the novelty. Apart from the odd fling at an Academic Conference, I’m all the sex life poor sweet Millie has. It’s been three years since I’ve seen another woman naked.

Or perhaps it’s because I’ve always had a thing for silent movies vamps, even before I was kidnapped and dragged off to slavery in this alternate version of the Jazz Era.

Cold metal brushes my stomach. My shackled hand has crept under my pyjamas. Pretending it isn’t there, I inch my fingers through my pubic hair.

I really should look away now.

The Vamp kicks off her court shoes and flops back across the bed. Her ruby fingernails slide over the hairless mound and a fingertip vanishes into her slit.

Her hand blurs with movement. Her flesh quivers. Her stockinged legs bend.

My own fingers drift down and I feel the dimples where the surgical steel pierces flesh to root itself in my pelvis.

I cup the entire chastity cage. It’s almost flat, as if there’s nothing inside. But the mesh is warm with heat from my captive genitals.

And the sensation is there!

The useless throb of my cock, endlessly trying to unbend from between my thighs… the aching pulse of my testicles, forever tucked up inside their pre-natal pouches.

I must look away now, before it’s too-

The Vamp’s free hand slides under her bra. Her head shakes from side to side. Her cheeks redden. And still her fingers rub at her groin.

Pulse hammering in my ears, I stroke my chastity cup.

Her high-heels gouge the rug. Her back arches and-

Wait! Was that the slave bell?

Without looking away from the masturbating vamp, I strain my ears. I gave Millie a good licking earlier. I smile. The amount of noise she made, she must be asleep.

The Vamp draws up her legs and rolls onto her side, presenting her buttocks to the window – two glorious half-moons bordered by night-black stockingtops and garter belt. Her pussy peeks out from the arrow-shaped gap where they meet her thighs. A curled finger churns the flesh which now glitters with juices.

The bell on the kitchen wall rings…

…and the Vamp rolls onto her back, braces her feet on the floor. Her finger is a wet blur between her legs.

My cock ripples. Something thick and hot squirts onto my hand and I experience a flicker of pleasure. Nothing like an orgasm, but premature ejaculation is almost all I have.

Another squirt is building up inside my entombed balls. Perhaps Millie will fall asleep again.

A blush now covers the Vamp from face to the edge of her bra. As I watch, she pops one breast free and pulls on the nipple, stretching the delicate mound out into a long cone. Her other hand shifts downwards. Two fingers slide into her hairless slit.

I tense my thighs, willing the semen through the tubes and down into the base of my penis.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Millie! What’s she doing in the kitchen?

I twist away from the window and drop to my knees in a tangle of chains. Already, I can almost feel the whip sear my skin.

“Well?”

I look up.

My owner stands over me like a small Yeti - bushed hair and padded dressing gown turning her hourglass figure into a formless bulk.

The fear sends a little jolt through my imprisoned genitals. It’s as if she’s reached through the cage and squeezed my cock. “I was watching out of the window, Mistress.”

Millie rustles forwards and now the pale light illuminates her face. Her black eyes widen — she’s seen the Vamp. “Oh.”

I watch her, watching the vamp. I like it when we share a reaction. How would it be, to know each other as equals? I often imagine getting her back to my world and having the chastity cage removed so we can be proper lovers.

Her breathing quickens. Then she tugs open her robe. Her silk pyjamas gleam in the half dark. “Take off…” She draws in a quivering breath. “Take off my pants and lick my pussy.”

She’s never bashful with me. I like that. I can’t understand how Samantha could have been stupid enough to dump someone this sexy.

I reach up and drag the pyjama pants over her wide hips. I glimpse olive skin and dark pubic hair. My cock twitches in its cage and I’m glad that the gloom hides my grin. I hate that somebody broke Millie’s heart, but it does mean that I’ve had her all to myself for the last few years.

Millie she steps forward, braces her hands on the sink and pushes her furry sex into my face. It’s still musky from her bedtime licking.

I lean back, stretching out the night chain from throat to cuffs to plant my hands on the tiled floor. I crane my neck against the steel collar and I lap at Millie’s sex.

The first stroke of my tongue parts her curls. The second drawls her swollen inner lips. The wet folds of flesh open at my touch. My tongue finds the thick nub at their apex.

Millie whimpers and her thighs squeeze my cheeks.

I lick faster – perhaps I can give her an excuse to forget the whipping.

Salty juices flow into my mouth. Cramp claws at my folded legs and the cold seeps into my hands from the tiled kitchen floor.

I want get up and say, Enough. Game over. Let’s get these chains off. I want my orgasm now.

Millie moans and juices splash into my mouth.

This isn’t an S&M game. I can no more walk away than I can masturbate. But the upside is that I never have to worry that she’s faking.

The semen slowly forces itself into my penis. I whimper into Millie’s pussy. Any second now…

She shoves my head down from between her legs. I collapse back on my haunches, bumping my head on the sink unit.

She stands over me, dressing gown gaping, pubic hair slick with her juices. “You spoiled my damn orgasm!” She reaches under my chin and unlocks the combination padlock. The Night Chain falls free. “Into the Punishment Unit, slave!”

I bite back a whimper. I want to say ‘sorry', but that word is forbidden to slaves.

Slowly, I unthread the chain from my fetters. Then I strip off my pyjamas and, naked except for my fetters and cage, push the kitchen table aside and crouch at the Punishment Unit.

If I can resist crying out, I might just get my orgasm after all.

#

I pull two hanks of chain out of the floor. Above my head, a motor grinds, automatically lowering the chain from the ceiling.

My numb fingers wrestle the clip onto my right ankle fetters then I glance at Millie.

Her curved legs are bare below the hem of her quilted robe, a promise of later pleasure. But the longest of the slave whips trails from her hand, reminding me of what I must do to earn it.

I turn to the left fetter and my hands shake. What right has she to so casually brutalise me? She’s a head shorter than me, and soft-fleshed. Hardly the domineering Amazon.

A cold breeze tickles my inner thighs and coils through the empty space where my testicles should hang.

But who am I? An almost-sexless nobody. She doesn’t even know my name.

I straighten and, without looking at Millie, capture the dangling chain and clip it to my cuffs. Then I yank the chain.

The motor whirrs. The chains rattle and tauten. Without any fuss, the Punishment Unit draws my body out into an inverted ”Y” until my bare feet leave metal plate. It pauses for an agonising five seconds, then, with a clunk, loosens and the weight returns to my feet.

My penis swells against its cage. I can’t help it. This is my old fantasy made real.

The whip sears into my buttocks. Pain thrums through my taut limbs.

I yelp.

My penis throbs, reminding me what I must do.

The next blow lands. And the next.

I twitch, but I don’t cry out.

Millie grunts, “Useless slave!”

The blows drift down my thighs. The sharp pain deflates my abortive erection. It’s not erotic anymore.

My vision blurs. Tears trickle down my cheeks. I writhe and gasp for breath, but I don’t plead or scream.

Again and again, the whip lashes my thighs, each stroke like a knife in my flesh.

I give up and hang limp in my chains, trapped in the grim reality of my slave fantasy. The world spins and I have what we slaves call a You Are Here Moment:

An alternate Earth – an entire planet - every nook and cranny ruled by Amazons. A continent dotted with cities, among them New Minerva, a sprawling port with Art Deco skyscrapers rising at its hub. Each skyscraper, a hundred spacious apartments piled one on the other. In each apartment, a semi-neutered slave like me – endlessly serving and suffering, but never fucking.

The horror of it boils into my testicles where they nestle in their fleshy cavity, then oozes into my penis like molten silver.

No! Not when I’m so close.

Think about my job, back home sideways in time. Think about the office. My little cubicle. The roaring air-conditioning. About that date with the hot cycle courier I’ll never make. About never using my penis again.

The depression washes away any perverted pleasure. But that leaves me open to the pain.

I throw back my head and scream.

Millie pauses. I twist my head to glance over my shoulder. Her free hand is grinding at her crotch.

Our eyes meet and she lashes out, harder and faster. The whip scores my back, my thighs my buttocks. My breath comes ragged now. But, even as I writhe and sob, I know I’ve won. She’s lost her cool and now she’s turned on.

Millie cries out.

A sympathetic eruption builds behind my chastity cage. I clench my buttocks. Think. I’m a respected professional. A registered voter. A tax payer.

But she’s still torturing me for kicks.

Semen splatters on the zinc-coated floor plate.

The Punishment Unit whirs. I crumple to the kitchen floor to kneel in my own semen. Pain and frustration war for possession of my body. Ejaculating has eased the pressure, but it hasn’t really satisfied me.

Millie looms over me. “Clean up, then bring my prosthetic to the bedroom.” She pads out of the kitchen.

I lick my lips savouring her taste. Perhaps I will get my proper orgasm after all.

#

The soft sheet sooths my welts. I usually imagine the bed as the altar of my demanding goddess. But lying in it, it feels like a nest.

Millie’s hot hands part my thighs.

I draw in my legs like a willing whore. This is Millie’s nest, not mine.

She kneels between my legs, skin rainbow-dappled by the multi-coloured glass of her bedside lamp. A shiny black dildo casts a long shadow on her domed stomach. It’s J-shaped. The short end is rooted in her vagina so that it looks as if her clit has swollen into a slender black penis.

She shuffles forward. Icy lubricant drips from the tip. It splashes my cage and seeps through the bars to prickle my penis.

I squirm.

She drags her clammy hands over my flanks. “You like it, don’t you slave?”

I blush. It will take more than three years to get used to this. “Yes, Mistress.”

Her fingers clamp my right nipple. She tugs and twists. I yelp. But inside its cage, my sticky penis flexes. She laughs. “So delicate.” Her voices grows huskier. “You can touch me if you want.”

Gingerly, I reach out to her big breasts and gently squeeze the way she likes.

Millie’s face flushes. “Say it.”

My eyes water. I sob, “I love you Mistress,” and mean it.

Millie lowers herself on me, squashing her breasts against my chest. The cold dildo prods against my anus.

I tilt my hips and relax.

Millie’s artificial penis enters me. She gasps. It’d the device’s knobs rubbing her clit, but even so I feel used. I also feel a pleasant fullness, but no hardness in my chastity cage. If only I’d held back as she whipped me!

As she thrusts, Millie hooks her arms under my shoulders. Her breath comes hot on my ear. “Tell me about the girl. Talk dirty.”

“She was wanking,” I gasp. “But really she wanted somebody to lick her pussy. Her smooth, shaven pussy.”

Millie whimpers into my neck, just below my steel slave collar. Her moist mouth fastens on my skin. Her hips twitch, working the dildo faster.

Each violation pumps more blood into my penis.

“More!” she growls.

“Or to fuck her with a dildo,” I gasp. “Again and again.”

The dildo thrums in my rectum. Millie cries out. Her nails gouge my welts and – finally – I achieve an orgasm. I mentally claw at the sensation, trying to savour it.

But it’s gone.

Now my own semen lubricates the rubber shaft, stinging my delicate orifice.

Millie kisses me on the lips and rolls off.

By long practice, I wrap a handkerchief around the dildo and gently uproot its short end from her pussy.

She sighs. “Lie beside me, slave.”

I curl up around her, for all the world like her lover. This is how it should be; just her and me. No need for anybody else.

“Tomorrow,” she says sleepily. “You can find out who she is. It’s time I got laid.”

But what the hell did we just do?

The answer hits me like a punch in the stomach: We didn’t do anything. She was merely masturbating.

I start to weep. I’ve been lying to myself for the last three years. Millie enjoys playing at caring about me, but really I’m just a combination teddy bear, vibrator and domestic appliance. I’m not even a pet.

For some reason, my penis swells in its cage and throbs against the bars, sending pulses of blood to torment my bruised rectum. It feels as if my cock is going to squeezes itself through the surgical steel mesh like meat pouring out of a grinder.

I’m horribly turned on, and why not? Millie is intelligent beyond belief, witty, stunningly attractive in an old-fashioned pneumatic way, and erotically insatiable. Even sharing a bed with a sleeping Millie is sexy.

Then I realise. There’s no way that the old - free - me could have seduced somebody that classy. Even without the fetters and the chastity cage, I’m still a nobody.

Millie sighs and rolls over. Her warm, sleep-drenched breath tickles my cheeks.

I smile to myself. It’s worth being an unloved, semi-neutered slave just to be with this wonderful woman.

The snag is; what happens if she gets a new girlfriend?