Lately there’s been much babble in the FemDom blogosphere about the benefits of male-chastity devices.
The premise behind the chatter is that male creatures have a big head and (between their legs) a little head.
Too often men think with the little head.
The Woman who cages that pee-brain sliver of cartilage becomes gatekeeper of Her consort’s sticky liquid ego.
No more unsightly erections suddenly tenting his trousers in public.
No more surprise gobs of smelly spunk staining the near-pristine panties She'd left in the laundry basket yesterday.
And Hallelujah!
She sleeps at night without fear of a stealth frontal assault or a forced rear entry.
But here’s the problem:
If male chastity devices truly empower Women, why is it that men are the ones who buy them?
It’s men whom these contraptions truly empower.
Take My husband. (“Please!”, to paraphrase Henny Youngman’s classic line.)
Soon after I’d tamed--at the tip of My whip
--My subby-hubby’s male-creature carousing he started begging for a chastity device.
Finally I agreed.
As a Pro Domme I’d offered My clients key-holder services.
Lock up their rubbery male pride in a CB-6000 chastity cage, then pocket the key and My fee.
No big deal.
At home I had a spare, unused CB-3000. I locked up hubby bob’s penis and hid the key in My everyday handbag.
What a relief!
No more bathroom drainage problems from the non-biodegradable tissues the wanker uses to clean the cum off his cock. No more telltale bits of toilet paper stuck to his balls, while he swears up and down he's given up masturbating forever.
My relief was short-lived.
I’d come home from a hard day at the dungeon. But instead of kicking off My boots and watching a TV cooking show with a glass of wine in hand, I’d have to deal with hubby bob’s ever-needy sperm factory.
The chastity device was too tight or too loose or itching.
Every day a new concocted crisis of discomfort that required Me, the Mistress, to go down on My knees and nearly bury My face in his balls, fiddling with his dam chastity cage.
Occasionally I’d glance up and catch his face contorted in a triumphant smirk.
The worst was when he misbehaved and I wanted to punish him with My penis whip.
First I’d have to rummage through My cluttered handbag searching for his CB-3000 key, which (like a solo sock) had somehow migrated to a parallel universe.
Rather than controlling, I was being controlled.
I took off his chastity cage and reverted to My pre-industrial plan A.
Nowadays, once a month. without prior notice I hand bob a red plastic cup and order him into his bedroom.
he has five minutes to spew his cum into the cup, then bring me the proof.
If he fails to bring Me his fluids within the allotted five minutes, as a masturbatory aid I batter his ass with My black leather paddle.
If that fails and I‘m forced to milk him by hand, I turn his tiny pee-pee beet-red with My penis whip.
It’s easier for a male creature to think with its big head if its little head is suffering a severe migraine.
