Chastity is Punished

I've never really been into dominance and submission, and even bondage is something I've engaged with only reluctantly. I don't like handing control of my body over to someone else. The idea of wearing a chastity belt for the pleasure of some 'Master' - or 'Mistress', for that matter - and begging them to unlock the belt so that I can finally achieve a long-denied orgasm is not erotic for me.

And yet, my recent adventure in the park had taught me something unsuspected about myself. Fear of discovery is naturally erotic, of course, but the humiliation of actual discovery is something I find intensely erotic. I had lost count of the number of times I had made myself come while replaying in my mind the moment when the old woman discovered me peeing outside her house, naked apart from stripper heels and a chastity belt. Pee trickling down my legs from the perforated plate over my imprisoned pussy. Could I have looked any more like a kinky amoral slut?

Well, yes, I could have been dripping with cum too, I suppose, something else I had experienced that night. The belt had been such a frustration. I had hated it - in part because it denied me control of my body, of my orgasms, but mainly because it represented someone else's control of me. Once the keys were safely in my possession, my hatred of it evaporated.

Instead, like the One Ring with Frodo, it exerted an almost constant tug on my awareness, a promise not of invisibility but rather the opposite: discovery and humiliation. Wearing it in the safety of my house, my ground-floor flat with the curtains surely and securely closed, served to tease my imagination, and I would test myself to see how long I could stand to wear it and deny the aching need for release. If at times I stroked the belt and called it 'Precious', there was as much truth as jest in that mockery of my new-found fetish.

It baffled me. I was reasonably attractive and had an active sex life - or I did until recently - and now, instead of glamming myself up for clubbing and the never-ending quest for a more-than-one night stand, I was Netflix-and-chilling with a piece of metal. Instead of sharing a bottle of wine with a handsome man, I was filling myself with water, impatient for the inevitable moment that the floodgates broke and my pee gushed messily through the perforated plate.

It was a sickness. An addiction. I needed help. Deep down, however, I didn't want help. I wanted more. I wanted the promise to be fulfilled. I craved discovery and humiliation.

Just not by anyone who actually knew me.

And not by actively or deliberately exposing myself, either. I had often read erotic stories and watched porn videos with women in short skirts with nothing underneath - except maybe a butt plug. Although I found these exciting (and had even dared to go commando to night clubs once or twice in the past - where, in fact, discovery would hardly have raised any eyebrows), the danger of accidental exposure to children or prudish authorities was too high. The chastity belt would allow the potential for discovery and humiliation while remaining completely hidden.

You can probably tell I thought about this a lot. Every time it was a war, my brain calling me an idiot, my shielded-and-sorely-neglected clit screaming, "Get the fucking rabbit!"

But what pussy wants, pussy gets, even if what pussy wants is to be teased and tormented by a monstrous contraption that no woman in her right mind would wear.

The elegant design and tight fit of the belt allowed it to be worn under my customary trouser suit. After some experimentation I gave up on the idea of boxer shorts and accepted that the only thing between belt and trousers was an absorbent pad that softened the outline of the lock and shield as well as serving to soak up any escaping moisture. I knew from experience how necessary that was.

I was torn between the practicality of keeping the keys with me, to make it easier to pee, and do the other (which I had done through the belt's anal ring once out of curiosity, but ultimately disliked too much to try again), and the eroticism of being caught in my own trap, forced to endure until my return home. At the last moment, as I wavered uncertainly in the open doorway, I returned the belt key to its place on the mantelpiece, and set off for work with only the shield key, dangling like a charm from a slender silver chain about my neck, only just hidden from view by my silk shirt.

For the first time in nearly a month I was wearing the chastity belt outdoors. That first time had been a frantic, terrified scurry between shadows. I had been cold, naked, miserable, and driven half-wild by the weak but persistent thrumming of a vibrator and bewildered by the shameful speed with which I had given in to my primitive sexual hunger. Four different men, two of them complete strangers, had left their mark on me one way or another. Only the chastity belt had stopped them from leaving their mark inside me too.

Now there was no need for me to hide, and yet the tight pressure of the belt could not be ignored. My awareness of the secret I carried was constant. As I waited in the queue for the bus, I felt sure my fellow passengers could see through the silk and cotton of my bland exterior to the steel that cupped my sex like a possessive lover. Heat stirred uselessly within that protected zone and my hard, sensitive nipples pressed against my unpadded bra. Peeking inside my jacket, I could see the sharp points that betrayed my arousal.

Normally at this time on a Monday morning, I would be worrying about the work awaiting me at the office and the endless plague of deadlines that sapped all joy from life. All of that seemed distant and irrelevant. Instead there was the itching need to scratch the bud of pleasure nestling within the folds of my sweet untouchable flower. (That was how it was described in the romance I had read the previous day.) There was the impulse to grab the hand of the tall man beside me and hold it against my steel-caged crotch. "Come back to my flat," I would say, "and I will give you the key to my precious..." He was a little old for my liking, but we had exchanged smiles often enough and he seemed nice.

I resisted the impulse. What if his reaction were horror, not hunger? There was a running commentary at the back of my head: "You idiot! You stupid slut! It's not too late to go back..."

I stayed where I was, kept my hands still, tried not to be too obvious as I examined every face around me for any hint they suspected the truth. I wondered whether any of the men had a cock long enough and slender enough to penetrate both the belt's anal ring and my own more welcoming anal ring. I was yet to try that, though I had been sorely tempted to summon Tom and Ricky to my flat to make the attempt. My fantasy was elaborate. I would imagine our old English teacher crying out, as one young cock gave way to the other, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," his own cock thrusting mercilessly into my mouth. ("You have witchcraft in your lips," he said to me once. There's something both sweet and surreal about a man quoting Shakespeare moments before filling your mouth with his cum.)

I didn't need a vibrator to keep me aroused. Just wearing the belt was enough to fuel the heat and stir my imagination. It was with such relief that I boarded the bus at last and settled into a seat next to an old lady - not the one who saw me pee, thankfully. She glanced at me critically but ignored me thereafter, and I smiled to myself at the thought of her reaction if she knew.

The smile was wiped off my face as the bus pulled out into traffic. My chosen seat was close to one of the wheels, and the vibrations swept through my pussy, forcing an anguished whimper from my lips. I would have moved elsewhere if I could, but already the bus was full. The tall man from the bus stop stood in the aisle beside me, his crotch level with my face. I wondered whether the vibrations from the bus affected him the way they affected me. I couldn't touch myself. I didn't dare to touch him. But the image of his cock in my hand, in my mouth, in my ass, tortured me for the duration of the ride.

My face must have been very red by the time my stop came. I couldn't resist brushing against his crotch as I squeezed past - but was disappointed to feel nothing. "You horny little slut," the voice inside my head sneered.

I walked through the crowds towards my office, an inferno of sexual need concealed within a suit. No one really saw me. I was just a face in the crowd. As a professional woman, that normally never bothered me much, but my horny inner slut ached to be seen. I wanted eyes on me, and hands on me, tearing my clothes off. I wanted hard cocks pointed at me, urgent with desire, too hungry for me to listen to my denials.

I turned right abruptly into a shoe shop, and scanned the shelves for something more compelling than my kitten heels. There - black elegance with half-inch platforms and long, sharp heels. I emerged from the shop in my new five-inch stilettos, feeling twice as tall and a hundred times sexier. By necessity my pace was slower, my steps shorter. The voice in my head shrieked, "Idiot! They'll never take you seriously at work wearing heels like these, you horny little slut!"

But for the first time that day I saw eyes lingering on my figure, the descending gaze of men undressing me, all in fleeting moments as they passed by me in the rush. "So what if I am," I replied to the voice. "Maybe it's time to embrace the real me."

In the crowded elevator I was surrounded by men in suits, most of whom I knew well enough to greet with a friendly smile. It took some effort not to push my bum back against the crotch of the man behind me, to feel him growing hard with desire for me. The fear that he would feel the metallic hardness of the belt stopped me, kept me from abandoning my charade of moral correctness.

The belt, the very thing that was driving me to a fatal precipice, was the only thing holding me back from the edge.

As I exited the lift and walked across to my desk, a semi-private cubicle in an office shared with twenty others, my co-workers greeted me and watched me with unaccustomed curiosity. I dropped the bag with my shoes onto my desk and headed straight for the bathroom. There in the mirror I saw a young woman with flushed cheeks and a posture that suggested restless energy. I looked like a woman who had just had sex and wanted more. "Oh God," I whispered, appalled and thrilled at the same time.

If I had been alone at home, I'd have had the belt off in the flash, my pink rabbit ready to dive into action. Hell, if I'd had the belt key with me I'd have been straight into a stall here to put my fingers to good use. Without the key, the best I could do would be to sit there massaging my breasts and pinching my nipples until futility set in. It wasn't even nine a.m. yet - how was I going to last the day? Maybe I could claim sickness and go home early...

I shook my head angrily. No. I would get through it.

Taking a deep breath, I headed back to my desk and switched on the computer. And, work being work, all too demanding of attention, I was able eventually to focus on the e-mails and accounting spreadsheets, and even to talk normally on the phone, and the feverish need that I had struggled with earlier diminished to a dull ache. Like a fire starved of oxygen, it would surge back to life whenever the pace of work eased off.

At lunchtime, in the privacy of a bathroom stall, I eased my trousers down. The smell of my arousal was unmistakable. The absorbent pad was proving its worth. I took the key from around my neck and removed the perforated plate from the pussy shield. This didn't make access to my clit or pussy any easier, but it did make peeing a lot less messy. At home I wouldn't have done this, because the sheer dirtiness of making a mess, of not being able to adequately dry myself, is part of what turns me on so much about the belt.

But I couldn't afford to have pee seeping out of my shielded crotch at work. There were limits to what the pad could soak up. Stinking of sex I could live with. Stinking of urine would do nothing for my career.

I joined my colleagues Martin and Rach for lunch in the canteen. I had salad and chips. "I love the shoes," Martin said.

"Thanks," I said. "They're killing my feet."

Rach laughed. "I bet. But every man in the office has noticed them. Even Tim." Tim who had never met a closet that could contain him. "Even Mr Darcy," she added with a wink. Mr Darcy - not his real name, of course, though he does share his name with another Jane Austen character - was our boss. He was handsome, ambitious, late-forties with silver-edged hair, married to an actress who was often away on tour, and had a reputation for screwing his secretaries and any young woman who had the misfortune to work for him. Rumour had it that he screwed the men too, but no one had ever admitted to this.

Rach, on the other hand, was always happy to tell people about the threesome she had had with Mr and Mrs Darcy after the Christmas party. "I'll do anything for an autograph," she would joke, the autographed photo in question being displayed proudly on the cork board beside her desk.

"What's up with you today?" she asked me. "Anyone would think you had a vibrator in your pants."

"I don't!" My denial was was itself denied by the sudden heat in my cheeks.

Her eyes went wide. "Oh my God! You do!"

"Shut up!" I hissed. People were watching us from all around. "I don't."

"Uh huh." She grinned, not believing me for a second. "Prove it."

"What? No!"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Prove it to me now or I'm telling everyone."

And I knew she would. "Okay! But only you - sorry Martin, I'm not showing you my pussy just to shut Rach up."

He nodded, clearly bemused by the whole event. I led Rach out of the canteen and to a nearby accessible loo. There was space for both of us, and complete privacy. "I'll show you," I told her, "but only if you promise to say nothing to anyone."

She nodded, and I took a breath for courage. Slowly I unbuttoned and lowered my trousers, peeling away the pad to reveal the shield and the shiny metal band running between my legs. I lifted my shirt and vest to reveal the rest of the belt.

Rach was speechless for almost a whole minute. "Can I touch it," she asked eventually.

"Yes," I whispered. I felt completely vulnerable. I had just revealed my most shameful secret to my best friend, and now her fingertips were wet with evidence of my arousal.

She dropped to her knees and breathed in deeply. "You smell amazing," she said. She tried to squeeze her fingers under the shield, but without success. Moaning with frustration, she licked my inner thighs around the shield, and the shield itself, making me whimper with desperate hunger. "I've been dying to get into your pants for years, and now I succeed only to find this? Who made you wear this?"

"No one."

She looked relieved. "Where's the key?" she demanded roughly.

"At home."

She glared at me. Pushing me back against the wall, she unbuttoned my shirt, and spied the key immediately. "Give it to me."

"It won't help," I said, but unclipped the key from the necklace and gave it to her. Immediately she dropped to her knees again and attacked the padlock on the belt. "The key's at home," I repeated.

Giving up on the belt lock, she attacked the shield lock instead, and growled with anger as she discovered how useless this was. She tried to penetrate the slit with her tongue and fingers, but she couldn't reach the prize.

With a sign of resignation, she stood and observed me with a fierce calculation in her eyes that made me shiver. "You slut," she said calmly. "You tease!" I couldn't tell if it was an act or not. "You turn me on like this and then deny me?"

"I'm sorry," I said, anxiously trying to think of some way to appease her.

"There's only one way to treat a naughty little slut like you," she said. "Turn around and put your hands on the seat." I obeyed quickly, fearful of the cruel determination in her eyes. She laughed. "Guarding your pussy like that but your ass is practically begging to be fucked." Her fingertips caressed the tight entrance. "I bet you love being fucked in the ass, isn't that so?"

"Yes," I said as I tried to push back against her.

"No no no," she said, pulling away. "You don't deserve the pleasure of my fingers. Naughty girls deserve punishment." The palm of her hand cracked against my left cheek, and I cried out from the pain of it. With her other hand she held me in place, bent over the toilet seat. Again and again her hand cracked down, the sharp noise of the spanking echoing loudly in the small room.

Sometimes on the left cheek, sometimes on the right. I soon lost count. The pain of her strikes had tears falling from my eyes, but the abused flesh of my bum and upper thighs became suffused with a fierce heat that oddly wasn't unpleasant. From time to time her fingers scooped up the clear liquid that dripped through the slit from my untouchable pussy.

"I think that's enough for now," Rach said. "If you don't bring the other key tomorrow, I'll have to punish you again. Down on your knees, slut."

My legs were trembling so much it was a relief to kneel. In front of me, Rach lifted her skirt and spread her legs. She tugged her black lace knickers, glistening with her own arousal, to one side. I'm not a lesbian, and any bi-curious urges I've had over the years have been ignored, but I didn't hesitate. Between the hours of imprisonment and now Rach's ferocious spanking, my whole body was on fire with need.

I had never licked a pussy before, but I knew how I liked mine to be licked. I loved the raw smell of her, and explored her delicate folds in a quest to scoop as much of her fluid into my mouth. I didn't try to tease her, but swept my tongue lovingly across and around her clit. I penetrated her with one finger, then a second, even a third, finger-fucking her slowly as I sucked her clit and dug my fingers into the tender flesh of her bum. I wondered what it would be like to wear a strap-on and take her roughly from behind.

Her hands were in my hair, holding me tight against her. Her breathing erratic. Sharp fingernails dug into my scalp and she cried out. Suddenly she was so wet, and convulsing against me. I continued stimulating her clit until she pushed me away, panting heavily, her eyes closed.

After a minute she calmed. "Thank you, slut," she said, and bent to kiss me briefly on the lips. She straightened out her clothing, checked her appearance in the mirror, then slipped out of the room.

I locked the door hastily behind her.