Exactly 750

I asked for it.

It's all my fault. For the past seven and half years, my girlfriend Jenny, now my wife, has held the key to the steel tube that cages my cock. We met at work, both aged 22, part of the same graduate intake and we hit it off immediately.

The sex was great. But my masturbation habit got in the way. You see, fate -- or genetics - dealt me a triple whammy; an addiction to jerking off, a chastity fetish and an inability to put my girlfriend before my own urges. Too often, by the time Jen and I fell into bed at night, I'd secretly rubbed my cock sore during the day.

So I plucked up the courage to ask her to take me in hand, so to speak. And boy, did she. Now a married man of almost 30, I usually go 10-14 days between orgasms, and so get 2 per month, or 3 if I'm lucky. Left to my own devices, I'd jerk off 2 or 3 times per day!

Of course, I could end this at any time. Jen loves being my keyholder but she could stop tomorrow. What she won't accept is me topping from the bottom. So long as I want her to continue holding my key, it's her way or no way.

She enjoys limiting not just my quantity of orgasms but their quality too. My releases are not only scarce, they're also rushed and functional. Whereas hers are plentiful, multiple, leisurely and intense. Obviously, we fuck occasionally but I'm almost never authorised to orgasm when we do. She's taught me to satisfy her without losing control. Needless to say we both get a real kick out of this inequality.

She has a wickedly inventive mind. All but a handful of my releases are manual. Her particular favourite is what we call the 'TMR', or Two-Minute Rushjob. Every few weeks, we meet up with the same bunch of mates at the same local pub. It's our team ritual; five couples, although not everybody makes it every time. We meet around 7 o'clock for drinks, banter, gossip and laughs. None of our friends has any idea about our sex life.

Before we leave home, Jen unlocks my cock and teases that she 'might' allow me a TMR, provided I give her a particularly good orgasm with my mouth first. Once she's sated, we get dressed; me in pale blue jeans and a shirt, her in something sexy.

The drinks flow and we all stand in a circle at the back of the bar. I make sure I'm opposite Jen and keep an eye on my watch ... and her. The minutes tick down past seven thirty, seven forty-five. By now the whole pub's crowded and loud.

At precisely 12 minutes to eight, Jen silently raises her eyebrow and catches my eye for a moment. Nobody else notices. I slip away to the pub's toilets. They're pretty sordid; two urinals and two smelly cubicles. Fortunately one of the cubicles is free. I undo my belt, yank down my jeans and glance at my wrist.

Half a minute gone already. I grab my cock and start stroking. Jen orders me to do it standing up. There's little privacy. The cubicle's walls are low with a gap where the hinges are. The guy next door grunts. Doors slam, noise, the hiss of piss.

Over a minute now. It's awkward, trying to be discreet, desperate to cum. Somebody knocks on the cubicle doors. I hear the guy next door using the loo roll. It's time to make a call. I've less than 50 seconds left. It's no pleasure but I'm desperate. I haven't had an orgasm for 17 days. I could give up. If I'm one second late, her punishment will be severe. I go for it.

My knees buckle. I lean against the cubicle wall and face the cistern. Yessss! I stifle a groan. I catch it all in my palm and lick, while I wrestle with my clothes, forcing my damp cock inside my pale jeans. I pull the flush and exit, swallowing, grimacing, avoiding everybody's eyes.

Ten seconds to go. I push my way through the crowd. I catch Jen laughing at somebody's joke. She sees the damp patch in my jeans and smirks, amused, then winks at me. Damn I love her wicked imagination! Five seconds left. I reach the group and look at my watch. Phew. Made it.

It's exactly 7.50.