Chaste Honeymoon: Welcome Cocktail

Chaste Honeymoon: Welcome Cocktail

The bride and her caged groom meet Guests at the Resort's Party

### Disclaimer. This is completely imaginary fiction. All the characters are over 18 years old. After their very fetish wedding,

Dean and Britney are on their Chaste Honeymoon in a peculiar friendly Resort open to naturists and fetishists (each husband with his penis locked in a cage), but it is not necessary to read previous episodes of the series "Here Comes The Bride (Only)".

English is not my mother tongue, forgive my mistakes.###

Trying not to think about the cage squeezing the flesh of my penis, I engaged in pleasuring my wife with my mouth.

I continued to impale her asshole with my tongue, with greater intensity and energy. Britney laughed with delight. "Lick my asshole, and if you try hard enough, I'll let you lick my pussy, too, before we go to the cocktail party! That way everyone will recognize the smell of your wife's orgasm on your face, because I certainly won't permit you to wash your mouth, ha, ha!"

I don't know how long I continued licking anus and perineum.

Then, suddenly, she ordered me, "Now stop. We have to go."

And she left me like that, on my knees, in front of our big king-size bed. Naked, with a collar, a metal cage clutching my genitals, and my wrists cuffed behind my back.

I was exhausted. For two nights in a row, I had not slept, tormented mercilessly by her bridesmaids, and now the prearranged schedule for my first night of our Chaste Honeymoon would not allow me to rest (or fuck, like any other vanilla groom!) but would force me to go, naked and submissive, to a Welcome Cocktail Party.

Where everyone would have judged me a loser and a loser within seven seconds.

My wife was getting dressed in the bathroom. The door was closed and I imagined she didn't want to be seen.

Other women waste so much time putting on makeup and changing different clothes. My Britney doesn't. The only make-up she uses is lipstick (light colors and never vulgar), and an eyeliner pencil to draw a short line at the side of her eyelashes (the so-called "Cat-Line": quick and easy). Nothing else.

If she had been one of those women who stay in makeup for hours at a time, I might have been able to sleep. But I knew she would come out after a few minutes.

And indeed, after a few minutes, I heard her melodious voice.

"What do you say, Dean dear? Is this outfit suitable in your opinion?"

I looked out of breath.

The bathroom light was off, and she was illuminated only by the distant glow of the porch lights outside.

But even so, in the half-light, my wife Britney looked beautiful, inside a long, very elegant black dress that covered her whole magnificent body.

The key to my penis' cage shimmered glistening between the boobs included in a decent and indeed, almost excessively morose neckline for a summer resort.

In one hand she clutched her shoes, which she had not yet worn.

It was my duty to answer a specific question from my Owner, and so I murmured, "This outfit makes you look very elegant and sophisticated, Brit...everyone will think you are the most morose and puritanical of all wives..."

At least, that was what I thought until Britney remained in the half-light of the bedroom.

But then she stepped forward toward me, gracefully moving her barefoot, and I realized how deep my mistake had been.

The dress was long. That was a fact.

But the material was not black.

It was completely transparent.

The areolas of her nipples were showing, perfectly visible, at the apex of the perfect curve of her natural, firm, proud tits.

The nipples protruded forcefully as if to pierce the thin fabric.

I thought it was silk: my wife was not the type to buy cheap materials to save money.

Her navel was completely exposed, covered only by a very thin layer of transparent silk.

The fabric covered her ankles, as in a Victorian-era novel. This was a fact.

But two long slits opened when she moved a foot.

The slit reached from her ankles to the height of her navel.

And below the belly button.

The most obscene G-string Thong I had ever seen.

The string around her hips was as thin as the one that furrowed her two labia, rubbing her clit with every step.

Britney saw that my eyes had fallen down there, and laughed joyfully.

"What do you say about my dress under the light, Dean dear? Would it make you want to fuck me before the Cocktail party? Claim your bride, and screw me raw and wild?"

"I would. I really do. There is nothing I want more in the world." I stammered.

"Too bad. Ha, ha! Today certainly won't be your release day, darling, think how vanilla it would be: "The bride allows the groom to penetrate her vagina on the first night of Honeymoon!" Holy crap, that sounds like a sentence written by my grandmother!"

I smiled, too. "It's true. But I'm not your grandfather -- and I'm not your father either, honey."

"My grandfather would not have approved of me going to the pool wearing this swimsuit, Dean dear."

"What swimsuit?"

"This g-string rubbing my clitoris will be my swimsuit in the pool tomorrow morning, Dean dear: it's just as thin in the back... and I don't have a matching top, so, I'm going to the pool topless!

And don't pretend to be scandalized...your friend inside the metal armor gets very nervous, and I understand that you like to know that your naked wife is being watched by other men with lecherous desire...don't you?" and gave me a playful slap on my swollen testicles.

She embraced me and kissed me. A long, passionate, slow, swirling tongue kiss.

Britney knew full well that the kisses would trigger an erection--and she also knew that the curved metal bars would smother that erection, forcing my cock to remain hard but unsatisfied inside a tiny living space.

It had been 122 days since she had allowed me to make love. I had asked her, and at first, she was reluctant, but week after week, she realized that there were many benefits, even for her.

The contract I had written and signed was very clear.

She was never to pretend to enjoy it.

She was never to reject my sexual initiatives, because I would never initiate anything if she did not want to.

She was never to reciprocate: even if I provided an orgasm for her, she was not obliged to provide an orgasm for me. If she was tired, she would roll over and fall asleep peacefully; if she was not tired, she would cuddle me without making me cum, in sweet aftercare sessions that drove me crazy with desire.

She never had to clean my mess. And if a drop of precum wet the tip of the cage, she would pick it up with a finger and make me swallow it. These were the covenants between us.

###

Chapter 2. What to wear.

.

"What should I wear?"

"Nothing! You've seen your suitcase: there are only sex toys and costumes for the bedroom. I didn't bring you anything to wear, because I decided that ours would be a Chaste Honeymoon under the CFNM sign: the wife dressed, the husband naked. You don't mind, do you? If you have a serious objection you can utter one of your safe words." She said, as she folded the small apron she had taken off me, and unfastened the two leather manacles attached to my wrists.

I replied, "No. Naked husbands are fine with me. I saw that the resort admits naturists, and although I am embarrassed to be seen by people, I understand that for you this constitutes a remarkable--"

"Empowerment."

"Exactly."

"You know, Dean dear, I was uncertain until a few days ago. I was thinking: but will people think that girl married a loser?

Because you see, Dean, I know that you are a decent guy, that you have an admirable job, and that you are respected by your friends and colleagues.

And I also know that you have a nice cock, and that you can fuck well, without selfishness or premature ejaculations.

But the people at this resort might think you're a loser."

"I am a man with a soul. I am a husband who is faithful to his wife. I don't care what people think. You and I live our lifestyle, and others have to think about their business."

"Of course, I know. I wasn't worried about YOU. I was worried about ME. Will they think I'm a loser, too, if I'm with a man who allows himself to be abused and have his penis locked up?"

"And what did you solve?"

"I calmly re-read the reviews at this resort.

It was full of ecstatic comments, written by both happy wives and calm and serene husbands.

Not all comments are equal, because each couple experiences this in their way.

But the reviews were all positive, and that encouraged me a lot.

If couples much kinkier than us can come back to this resort every year, then maybe we too can relax and rest and have as many orgasms as we want... or to be precise, I can have as many orgasms as I want, and you can struggle against the bars of the cage!"

"Yes. That's exactly what I thought too."

"CFNM means, for those who will see us at the first cocktail reception, that I am the Dominant and you are my submissive. I am free, and you are in chains. By the way--you don't mind if I lead you on a leash, do you, Dean dear?"

"I thought I was coming naked."

"Naked, except for a dog collar, two leather manacles on my wrists, another secret thing, and finally the butt plug with the emerald crystal. You know it's a wedding present and I care about it."

"All right..."

"Don't close the manacles! I need your hands again for a little service."

I put on the black leather collar. Then I very calmly placed the padded leather manacles around each of my two wrists. They were very effective handcuffs, virtually impossible to escape because the leather band wrapped almost halfway around my forearm (metal handcuffs are thin!) and yet they were so comfortable that I was able to fall asleep without pain.

Both the collar and the manacles had large metal rings that Britney could close with simple brass padlocks.

The key was always the same.

I know a lot of people have fun with the fantasy of living an entire vacation without the key, or leaving the key at home, or even mailing it in! We were not so crazy. A key was hanging from my wife's necklace, and the spare key was in a crystal case sealed with a wax seal: I could have gotten rid of it at any time, in case of some medical reason or some impossible-to-predict urgency, but the breaking of the seal would have shown my wife that I had failed her trust.

I looked at my wife.

She looked beautiful in the long dress and shoes that I had never seen before (except perhaps in some illustrations by artists like Linkartoon).

The sandal sole and thin laces were flesh-colored leather that left her foot bare and visible, with the toes mobile and free. The heel, wide with a rectangular section, and very high, was of a transparent silicone. From a distance, I thought, everyone would imagine that she was prancing on her toes like a delicious fawn, without seeing either the transparent heel or the flesh-colored sole and very thin laces.

Everyone would have thought that she walked on the toes like Margot Robbie in the first part of the movie "Barbie" (2023).

I stared the shoes up close, so I could recognize the shape of the heel. I immediately thought that position aroused me: Britney's feet were lovely, and that arched shape pushed her calves up and altered her gait in a sexy way.

The penis struggled desperately against the bars, and the knob was all purple.

Breathing heavily from the excitement of seeing my wife's arched, barefoot, I tried to calm myself by thinking that the heel with such a wide base was a good choice because the wet sandy path would sink a sharp stiletto.

I knew that my wife had in her closet some black "fuck-me-now" pumps with the long stiletto so thin you could stick it in a nostril, or maybe even in the anus of a poor obedient husband. It had never happened, but we were not married before, and the gold ring changed many things.

She had fastened the thin leather webbing to her right foot Since the color of the leather matched the color of her skin, from a distance it could look like Britney had bare but arched feet like Barbie's.

The other foot was bare, raised above a chair. Her open thigh showed her open pussy, with the thong's string obscenely rubbing her clitoris.

The fabric of her dress was wet in front of her clit, because she had touched her pussy while I cuffed myself.

"Kneel, Dean the Paladin! Behold!

I want you to be silent during the Party, and this ball gag will keep you from impressing people.

I want everyone to know that your tongue is mainly for licking my pussy rather than talking.

Do you agree, Dean dear?"

"Yes."

And that was the last thing I said that night.

She bent down to move closer and like that, her wet pussy came closer to my nose.

The smell of aroused pussy was overwhelming!

If I had not been caged, I would have cum for sure.

Very calmly, she took her time, but still kept her right foot on the chair, to have an excuse to keep her thighs wide open.

Then she said, "I'd like you to tie my sandal laces, here on the chair, see? But don't get up. In fact. I want you to lower your testicles to the floor."

Mute I lowered myself.

I did not know what would happen to me, but the position prevented her from kicking me, in the tradition of ballbusting.

I would not have protested, but the anatomy prevented it.

"I want you to be presented to people with a wide drop of precum swinging dangerously from the tip of your cage.

I want everyone to see that you and I are not a vanilla couple, but two kinky kinks.

To accomplish this, I want you to rub your blue balls against the back of my foot -- the shoelaces of your shoe might make you wince because they are raised, but I don't care how much you suffer, I only care that you create a humiliating drop of precum.

And in the meantime, I want you to tie my shoe -- it will be the last gesture you make with your hands-free because I'm not going to release you until the end of the party.

And thank me while you rub your balls...I was undecided whether to wear these shoes or these others...and someday you know the choice will be for the others, sooner or later..."

As she said these words, she pointed with her hand to a pair of shoes with a very high heel.

A wide leather band joined the toe of the shoe with the ankle strap, and on this band was a large number of pearls, precious stones, and other ornaments, all framed by small metal frames. So many little bijoux, with so many sharp points and so many sharp edges.

"What do you say, Dean dear?

Show me when you are grateful to your Keyholder, who has decided to be magnanimous for this time, and let you rub it on the smooth skin of the back of your foot....

Someday I will order you to rub your scrotum on this pile of sharp, pointy bijoux, and then who knows how much your blue balls will suffer!"

I sighed, thinking that I was very lucky at least one day.

I began to hump dry my testicles. The ring at the base of my penis held them captive, even though they were swinging freely under the cage.

For I don't know how many minutes I continued to hump her foot. From my throat, I emitted guttural sounds and grunts, like an imprisoned animal.

Finally, a drop of precum came out. Then I stopped and with my eyes warned my wife.

She smiled and said, "You did good, Dean dear.

Now you don't mind if I crush a testicle between my flesh and the sole of my shoe with my toes, do you?

It's like the bite of a poisonous snake, they say...but this way you have something to distract you while I close the lock on your wrists behind your back..."

How long does it take to close a padlock? Maybe a second, maybe a century. I don't know. The scrotum crushed by the toes was a new thing, and I was surprised to wonder which of the bachelorette girls could have provided Britney with such devious advice.

###

Chapter Three. Off to the Welcome Cocktail Party.

.

We walked out as a pair of vanilla lovebirds, two turtle doves cooing in their Honeymoon.

But we were not vanilla.

One last check before heading out.

Mouth? Blocked by a gag.

Wrists? Handcuffed behind the back.

Penis? Imprisoned inside a cage, and the key hung from the necklace of my Torturess.

Head? Collared and leashed, I couldn't even decide which path to take at the fork in the road.

Freedom? Zero: I didn't even have a door-opener badge to get back inside our apartment; if my wife lost sight of me, I would have to sleep on the ground in the garden, or under the porch.

Dignity? Less than zero: CFNM, I was completely naked and shoeless like a slave or a beggar, while my wife wore expensive shoes and an elegant long silk dress: even if it became transparent in the light, still she was "free" to wear what she wanted, but I was not.

She had everything: the clothes, the shoes, the leash, the key to the cage, the card to open the door, the mouth to drink cocktails, eat appetizers, and chat with other Guests.

They say the first impression is formed in the mind during the first seven seconds.

They say it only takes seven seconds to label, judge, and evaluate a person, by how they behave, how they are dressed, and how they speak.

I could not speak, I could not behave, and I was not dressed. In just seven seconds each of the Resort Guests would judge me.

I was confused, embarrassed, blushing, and... happy.

###

After a short walk, we arrived on the beach where the Welcome cocktail party was being held. There was a raised stage, soft music, and some large trays with appetizers and cocktails.

A blond girl with a ponytail was preparing cocktails behind the bar counter. She wore an apron so as not to get dirty with the ingredients (especially the tomato in the Bloody Mary).

I wanted to get closer, but the leash was pulling me to the opposite side.

I turned around and saw that my wife was talking to a couple.

Or rather: Britney was only talking to a woman, who had a completely naked man at her side, his knees painfully bent forward because a hardwood humbler was clutching his blue testicles.

If he had stood up straight, his thighs would have choked his testicles by pulling on his scrotum!

His penis was encased in a chastity cage-I didn't understand how that was possible, but from that position, I couldn't see very well and mummified in a black latex Guiana, from which only his caged penis and blue testicles emerged. His arms were locked by the sleeves of a straitjacket with metal buckles.

He wore a hood that covered his entire head, with zippers closed over both his mouth and eyes. His wife, a certain Charlotte, did not introduce him in her way, nor did she tell us his name: she merely said that he was "my pet."

Perhaps seven seconds is even too much to form the first impression!

This Charlotte was dressed like a serial homewrecker.

Charlotte was older than the rest of us.

Charlotte ostentatiously fiddled with a thin gold necklace to which a few keys (at least three or four) were attached.

She wore a very tight black corset, from which her nipples had escaped.

The corset at the bottom ended in a very frilly, pink satin ribbon that covered neither her buttocks nor her pussy. Long garters hooked the top of stockings with very wide lace, and Charlotte wore very thin stilettos. I thought that her house probably did not have to walk a wet sand path to reach her door, or that she was very experienced in walking on stilettos.

I thought that Keyholder was very experienced in many, many devious things, not just walking gait with attitude.

I thought that Charlotte somehow intimidated me.

Interrupting the flow of my thoughts, Charlotte said to my wife, "Uh, speaking of pet, but everybody look what's coming in here! Yikes! I thought humbler was an extreme toy, but these are much kinkier!"