tagFetishThe Chastity Sack

The Chastity Sack

bydowd_elwood_p©

*** Breaking Down ***

I understood his point, but I didn't necessarily agree with his vision. "Don't let their looks fool ya. Those Tannerites have a fortune socked away somewhere," my boss had lectured me. "They're shrewd and resourceful, and they have no overhead. Go in and sniff it out. There's a market there, and it's untapped. I can feel it."

And so there I was, driving down a deserted country lane on a dark, rainy night in the middle of the Canadian prairies, attempting to find the little-known Mennonite splinter colony, and trying to keep a low profile at the same time. Well ... low profile ... it became obvious to me almost immediately that, in a farming community that exclusively embraces an 18th century way of life, shuns technology and rides in horse-and-buggies, my driving a car did not exactly contribute to me maintaining a low profile, which was why I was travelling at night.

Like the Amish and Hutterites, the Tannerites had split away from their Mennonite roots over 300 years ago but still maintained their conservative customs, Anabaptist beliefs and Dutch-German language. They wear plain clothes, do not use electricity and reject modernity, despite pressures from the outside world. They are pacifistic and self-sufficient, and they maintain strict conformity to colony rules through corporal discipline. But what had my boss's attention was that they follow the practice of "shared community goods," which led him to believe that, though the individual members might look impoverished, the colony as a whole could be very well off. So far, I didn't see it.

In fact, in the dark, featureless middle-of-nowhere, I didn't see much at all. And I certainly didn't see the road I was on shown on the map. Unfortunately, I was beginning to realize that a consequence of the Tannerites' reclusiveness was that a lot of their territory is not detailed on the map, and I now suspected that I had lost my bearings a couple of turns back.

I decided that the smart move would be to turn around and drive back until I could re-orient myself again. Well, I thought that would be the smart move until halfway through my three-point turn when my rear wheels lost their traction on the soggy shoulder of the road. I tried spinning my wheels for a bit. That was fun – mud flew everywhere – but I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as my car's rear end got a sinking feeling in the ground. Drat! So I checked my cell phone, but of course, with no potential subscribers for miles around, there was no signal. Finally, I decided to hoof it back to the farm house I had just past, and it was at about that point in time when the rain started to really come down. Great! Well that would teach me for not bringing a coat.

In the dark and wet, I trudged down the road, steeling myself against the elements. Cripes, it was cold! Rounding a corner, I headed across the farm yard and approached what appeared to be the only house for miles around. It was a small, simple building of rough-hewn, wooden planks, but it was an oasis to me at that point. A flickering light through one of the front windows gave me hope that I might at least get warmth and shelter, if not extrication, that night.

As I raised my arm to knock on the door, a curious thought crossed my mind. Did these people just avoid outside contact or did they actively repel it? Would they open the door to let me in or to let the dogs out? I shivered, braced myself and knocked. I had no other option, but I tensed my legs to spring to a hasty retreat just in case.

The latch twitched up, and the door creaked opened. A dark figure loomed in the opening. ... FLASH! BANG!! Rrrrumbumbumble ... Lightening illuminated my greeter, and thunder announced his presence. It was like a cheesy scene from a bad, 1950s' horror movie. Nevertheless, I jumped and yelped in surprised, "Aaa-uhhh!!"

The old man looked exactly as I thought a Tannerite farmer would, in a Boris Karloff sort of way. He seemed thin and gnarly and, at the same time, rugged and sturdy. He had rough, weathered skin, a scraggly, chin-curtain beard, and a wart on the side of his nose. His dark eyes stared at me impassively.

"Sorry," I apologized when I recovered from my startle, "Um ... Good evening. My name is Harvey Davis. My car is stuck in the mud on the road back there, and I was wondering if I could get some help."

He continued to stare at me silently, and I wondered if there was going to be a language problem. Then he said, "Ye are vet."

There was a long pause. Finally, I broke the silence, "Yes I am."

"Kom," he commanded and held the door open for me.

"Thank you," I said, as I stepped inside and removed my muddy shoes. He led me towards the glow. As we traversed the main room, I noticed that the house had relatively few belongings and the furniture all looked hand-made. A modest fire burned in the flagstone hearth, and I almost climbed into it to get warm.

"Moeder, ist auslander," he called out to someone behind me, "Get towels and prepare dee room."

"Ya, Vadder," a younger-sounding female voice responded.

I glanced behind me and noticed a woman in a plain, dark, floor-length dress and a white, close-fitting, cotton hair bonnet leave the room. At the edge of the door she went through, the faces of two surprisingly beautiful young girls peeked around the corner. The younger one, who appeared to be about 18, had her long blonde hair braided in a ponytail, and the older one, who appeared to be in her early 20s, had her blonde hair cut close with a little bit of a natural wave. Both girls had grins that stretched from ear to ear and eyes that sparkled with novel excitement.

The father turned on them sternly when he noticed their presence. "Aus!" he commanded, "Get thee to bed. There ist nicht for thee here!" Two sets of light feet pattered quickly down the hallway, accompanied by some muted giggling. Finally, the woman returned to the main room with a lit oil lamp in hand. She gave her husband a single nod.

"Goede," he said, "My frau vill care for thee now. There ist nicht to do dis nacht. In morgen, I vill take horses and pull out dee machine." The instructions were expressed very clearly and sternly, and at the end, he added for emphasis, "Then ye vill go."

"Well, thank you," I offered. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your assistance."

He stared at me for an uncomfortable moment without expression and then departed. As he passed his wife, he looked at her side-long and said, as if to remind her, "Kuisheid zak."

"Ya, Vadder. Kuisheid zak," she repeated back to him in acknowledgement, and then, as he clomped out of the room and presumably off to bed, she turned to me, smiled and beckoned, "Kom."

*** Washing Up ***

My goodness, as I got a good look at her, I was struck with how beautiful she was. She couldn't have been more than 40. She had high cheekbones, tight, clear skin and dark, piercing eyes. I couldn't help but to stare, and when she noticed me gawking, she grinned in embarrassment and averted her eyes. Her lips pursed together in a coy effort to not smile, but when she turned her head back to me, she looked through the corner of her eyes and yielded a tooth-filled, little-girl grin. "Kom," she repeated coyly. ... I could have melted.

I followed her out of the room and down the hall. In the distance, I thought that I saw the pale reflection of a face zip out of view and into the recess of a room on the right, but when we reached the end of the corridor, that room was dark and still. We, instead, turned left and entered the room across from it, which appeared to be a small, minimally appointed bedroom. The glow of the oil lamp revealed a wash basin filled with steamy water on a washstand, and a pile of towels and linens on the bed. It suddenly struck me as strange that, in all the times I had seen antique washstands in houses I had visited, I had never actually seen one used for washing ... until now.

The woman closed the bedroom door, placed the lamp on the washstand and returned to where I was standing in the middle of the room. Then she started unbuttoning my shirt. "I can do that," I offered in deference to her modesty, but her fingers were working so quickly and diligently that I wasn't sure I could have helped the situation much.

"Ney," she responded distractedly and continued her work, "I am to do." My soggy clothes plopped loudly on the floor as she took off my shirt and undershirt.

When my chest was bare, she lingered with her glance a bit and then nervously got down onto her knees in front of me. She undid my belt and then delicately held the tongue of my zipper out from my body, perhaps to avoid touching my private parts. She ran it down its track, marvelling at its operation. I inferred by her reaction that the community did not use them. She zipped it back up and softly ran one of her fingers over the closed teeth. I felt a certain amount of perverted joy watching her do that, and when she realized what she appeared to be doing, she stopped and re-opened my zipper in a more business-like fashion.

Grabbing the sides of my pants, she pulled them down. As I stepped out of them, I noticed that she had her head turned deliberately away from me in order to not look at anything she was not supposed to see. She threw the pants onto the pile and slipped off my socks, which followed. She turned back to me and reached up for the waistband of my shorts. As my bulge came into her eye-line, she couldn't help but to stare, and I think that I saw her eyes widen a bit, but once she had a hold of the sides of my underpants, she snapped her head away again, yanked them down and pulled them off my feet.

All of this intimate attention was starting to have an effect on me. I know the group's religious piety and unspoilt innocence should have filled me with reverential respect, but a gorgeous woman's face was inches away from my naked penis, and so I ... and my penis ... couldn't help but get a bit enthused. Although my cock was not firm yet, it hung down a little more heavily than usual. In fact, when I shifted my feet, it had a bit of a sway in it, which I kind of liked, but I prayed that it wouldn't come much more to life and embarrass me. I tried to get my mind off of what was unfolding here.

"I take clothes to dee fire," she said as she gathered them up. "I kom back." She opened the door and left with her armload.

It seemed strange standing totally naked in the middle of the dimly lit room. I felt very vulnerable, even though the house was still and quiet. Well, not entirely quiet. A floorboard creaked in the distance ... outside my door ... in the hallway ... no, in the room across the hall. I stared into the darkness. I could barely make out a figure standing back from the room's doorway. I could see the paleness of a long white nightgown or something. It stayed perfectly still ... no, wait, it was approaching the door. A face appeared at the door jamb; it was the older of the two girls. She stared at me, bit her lower lip and scanned my body up and down.

A more prudent man would have covered himself, stepped out of her eye-line or closed the door, but I just stood there, squinting into the darkness trying to figure out what she was doing. It became a moot point in any case when the woman returned to the room and the face withdrew immediately. She hustled in with the air of getting back to her chores, but when she incidentally caught sight of my cock again, it seemed to throw her. She looked away from me and towards the linens on the bed.

Picking up a small hand towel, she came over and draped it at my waist. It only reached across my front, and she had to pin it on my hips with her hands. Its material hung down to just under my balls. I replaced her hands with mine and held it in place. It wasn't much cover, but she seemed to relax when the challenge to her modesty was out of view. I began to think, however, that this was going to be only a temporary solution, because I felt some stiffness coming on and I feared that my penis might "raise the curtain" for a peek around. ... Think about something else; think about something else. ...

"What is your name?" I asked, hoping that I could distract myself.

She had moved to the washstand, and I heard water squishing out of a sponge in the basin. "Klara," she answered behind me.

"Klara, my name is Harvey."

"Har-vey," she repeated. A wonderfully warm slop of water hit my upper back, and she began to rinse off the chill of the rain. The sponge felt decadently wet and soft and soothing as it travelled all over my back to my backside. She returned to the basin and squished in a new supply.

"So, how long have you lived here?" All right, a stupid question I'll admit. All her life, no doubt, but I wanted to get her talking.

She did not answer immediately. The sponge brushed all over my ass cheeks and the back of my legs. Then when she returned to the basin, she finally spoke, "I am nicht to speak mit thee."

"Sorry," I offered. All right, I would shut up.

Next came a soapy washcloth – uh oh! That felt a bit too good. The cloth glided slickly over my skin. It was very comforting and sensuous and erotic and ... No! Mind out of the gutter. ... It was very ... um ... cleansing. It felt very pure and sanitizing and massaging and rubbing and stroking and ... No, no, no!! Oh drat, my little pole was starting to rise.

The washcloth ran over my butt and legs and then returned to my rear cleavage. It pushed between my cheeks slowly but firmly. The material scoured along the length of the channel, and then a hand on my back encouraged me to bend forward. The cloth re-entered my crack, and a cloth-wrapped finger probed around my pucker. It touched and prodded and tickled, and then a fingertip entered slightly. I inhaled as the pressure sent a shudder through my body. Across the hall, a face leaned forward into the doorway and then pulled back quickly.

A splashing in the basin indicated to me that she was through down there, and so I righted myself. Looking down, I saw that my little guy had really committed himself to becoming firm, and the hand towel was pushing out noticeably. I didn't know what to do about it. If I held the towel out away from my body, the protrusion would not be as obvious, but then I would leave an indiscreet gap at my waist that would show too much. When I held the towel close to my body, it looked like a half-opened beach umbrella lying on its side.

Klara rinsed off my back with the wet sponge and then brought it around to my front. As she spied the tenting material before me, she inhaled in surprise. In the low light, it was hard to tell if she was blushing, but as she wetted my front down, she definitely focused on her work and did not allow her eyes to stray below my waist. She scrubbed my chest and arms and then turned her head to the side as she dropped down to her knees. She blindly rinsed the tops of my feet and the front of my legs. When she had finished everything below the towel, she gingerly pinched its lower hem and, still without looking, lifted the cloth up and away from me.

Freed from its light covering, my hard-on seemed to stretch out into the open air and extend toward her sideways-turned face, although I don't think it really grew in size in the process. She blindly dabbed the sponge up and towards me, compressing its soft material on my cock and balls. The wet smushing of the warm sponge felt very, very naughty.

Klara stood up and let the towel fall back into place. My erection was now almost completely vertical, and the towel folded over my cock's length as if it had been hung over a towel rod. Klara returned with ... uh, oh ... with the soapy washcloth.

Her progress was painfully measured – my chest, my stomach, my sides, my arms, then my feet, my shins, my knees, my lower thighs, my upper thighs, my gawd, my gawd, my gawd, ... Finally, she invaded above the towel line, but this time without lifting the towel out of the way. Klara's head was again to the side, and under the towel, the washcloth slowly felt around unguided. Like a soapy snail, the cloth-covered hand crawled and slimed around my lower area – stretching, sliding and gripping; stretching, sliding and gripping – slithering between my legs, over each ball and finally along my shaft. I was in squishy, sudsy heaven, and when I looked down at her, I saw her swallow nervously.

Then I heard something wet hit the floor, but I couldn't figure out what it could have been, because the soaping continued. ... Wait a minute! Those were fingers that I felt, not the cloth. She was now cleaning my private parts very, very directly. I looked down and saw her face turned towards the towel. Her hand gently caressed and pulled on each ball, and then it wrapped around my penis and travelled up and down its length. Her eyes looked unfocused, and her breathing seemed very shallow, as she played and explored ... I mean, as she soaped and cleaned. Gawd, it felt fantastic!

Snapping back to reality, she jolted when she looked up to see me watching her. She jumped to her feet and withdrew behind me. Her movements were forced and awkward, and I think she swore once when her hand hit the basin, but I didn't understand the word she used – "kak" or something. When she returned to my front, she thrust the sponge at me. "Here," she exclaimed, "Ye must rinse. I am to get sewing kit for dee kuisheid zak."

In order to grab the sponge, I had to let go of one end of the towel, and it swung off my body revealing all. She glanced down at my exposed pole, turned abruptly on her heels in shock and exitted the room quickly. I stood for a moment in disbelief at the weird situation I found myself in, and then I dropped the other end of the towel and began rinsing my front. Hey, I had offered to do this in the first place.

Kuisheid zak? What the heck was a kuisheid zak? And why was it ripped already that she needed to sew it? Out of the corner of my eye, a white blur crossed the doorway on the other side of the hall, but when I looked up, nothing was visible.

When I finished rinsing myself off, I picked up the washcloth and plopped both it and the sponge back into the basin. Then I retrieved my towel and covered myself again.

*** Sewing In ***

Klara carefully peeked around the corner of the door and, seeing that I was covered, entered the room with a sewing kit under her arm. She crossed over to the bed and set it down. Then she fluffed out a sheet and smoothed it on top of the already made bed. Beckoning me with her hand by patting it on top of the sheet, she said, "Kom, ye must lie here." ... Hey, maybe I was going to get a massage. Perhaps, these Tannerites were pretty hospitable people after all ... in an archaic, rural, Aryan sort of way.

I crossed over to the bed and climbed face-down onto the middle of the sheet, keeping the towel discreetly in position as I went. When I was in place, Klara moved my arms to my sides and yanked the towel out from under me ... which felt delicious ... and then she grabbed the far end of the sheet and folded it over my body. She got up on the bed and knelt by my side. ... Here we go. I get it – an all-over body massage done discretely through a sheet. Kind of kinky when you think about it. I settled in for the rubbing.

Matching the two upper corners of the sheet, Klara started sewing. ... Sewing? ... Huh. ... I had to think about that for a minute. I turned my head. ... Yup, she was sewing the two parts of the sheet together. Her hands worked feverishly, and the stitching was quickly approaching my neck. ... Huh. ... "Um ... Klara?" I asked, "What ... um ... what are you doing?"

"Kuisheid zak," she replied briefly.

"Oh ... kuisheid zak." Huh. That explained nothing. "Uh, Klara?" I returned to the point, "I hate to be a bother, but what is 'kuisheid zak'?"

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