Millicent Hayward
Over the years, I have found that keeping the male beast deprived of sexual
satisfaction... lets term it physical sexual satisfaction... can give rise to a form of
satisfaction of its own... for me, that is.
My name is Millicent Hayward, my mother had a thing for old fashioned names, and my
husband of some ten years is Harold Hayward. We dated vanilla... married vanilla... lived
vanilla for the first few years of our marriage. And then came Harold’s big day... his
last as... let’s call it fully functioning... yes, his last day as a fully functioning
male... April 5, 2001.
He was in the mood... I wasn’t. Instead I was in that mood. And the intervals of being
in that mood had been becoming longer and longer. At first when I was in that mood, I
would berate myself and feel a little sorry for Harold. But then I began to analyze... if
we planned not to have children, and that was agreed to upon our betrothal, why should I
continually have to lie in the prosaic missionary position and press my ankles to the
ceiling?.. and do so at his whim? Why was it always about him? His needs?
When in that mood, I would think up excuses but even Harold knew that the menstrual
cycle does not come that often and last that long. So I would just enunciate a clear and
firm ‘No’ and move elsewhere in the house... cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, feigning
indifference.
But it was feigned, for as Harold pouted, my own circumspection led to ongoing analysis,
giving the situation deep thought. You see, though I never admitted it, nor even discussed
it with pimply teenaged girl friends in my youth, I did need... well, let’s call it
attention... but never really liked being penetrated. Deep within, I guess that I knew I
was different. But I never brought the thought to the front of my mind until I had
ensnared Harold in marriage. Thereafter there developed years of understanding the male
needs... his needs... but not fully understanding mine. And this formulated a sense of
frustration on one hand but also empowerment... he needed my warm and wet tightness more
than I needed to lie beneath his sweaty pudgy form obsequiously searching with my spread
legs for the best angle to receive his manhood.
I could do without... he couldn’t.
I read where some leader in the women’s rights movement referred to most copulation as
masturbating in the vagina. And that stuck in my mind during the infrequent times I
consented... as I stared at the ceiling with disdain, Harold was indeed masturbating in
me! And it became embarrassing.
Yes, the sense of embarrassment grew. I was never comfortable and would let my mind
wander as Harold frantically pumped away. During one carnal Saturday matinee, I recalled
visits to the zoo as a child, watching the various mammals mate. The female always
appeared so indifferent to the male’s zealous lust... her being mounted appearing to be
such an act of condescension... afterwards nonchalantly stepping away while the male
collapsed in exhaustion. But I did note amongst the beasts an activity more
participative... the constant foreplay... the female scent seeming to drive the males into
sexual frenzy resulting in frantic tongues.
And there was the tasting. I many times recalled, as a pubescent girl, feeling a curious
tremor between my thighs in watching an evidently randy lion thoroughly lick the genitalia
of his prospective mate. As I lay beneath Harold, awaiting his masturbatory offering, I
often thought that though procreation demanded the lion eventually consummate the
coupling, the lioness seemed much more sanguine receiving broad applications of a rather
assiduous tongue then the gruff penetration that followed.
And so it finally dawned on me. In the years of adolescent dating and adult sexual
exploration, the most explosive orgasms I ever had were while receiving oral
gratification! And Harold was so bad at it and offered it so rarely!
So I finally just learned to say ‘no’. No more. Why should my needs be so subordinate to
his? Enough of lying on my back while he pokes and prods away, futilely attempting to
develop friction within an organ designed to accommodate a baby’s head... and with that
pusillanimous pecker!
Yes, April 5, 2001. My 30th birthday. He thought it would be a great gift, to pound away
and once again let me watch as he masturbated within me. I thought differently.
And so the story begins...
“Happy Birthday,” Harold slobbers, configuring his lips in offering some juvenile wet
kiss, his arms extending as if to embrace a polar bear.
I know what he anticipates. In typical male delusional thinking, he expects that the
best birthday present I can have is a quick kiss and a roll in bed. Since I’ve been in
that mood for many days, he’s hoping that I will lighten up on my birthday and let him
drag me into the bedroom. It’s early on a Friday night. He thinks that I will tire during
sex and therefore he will escape the expensive dinner he always promises.
Well, as stated, there’s been a lot of contemplation in reaching age thirty. Many
interludes of lying staring at the ceiling while that inadequate male appendage plunges
away in forays of self satisfaction.
“No!” I reply to his unspoken offer.
I enjoy being succinct. It empowers. And the pout resulting from my expression of denial
can be amusing, as he has learned that no is no and that even on my birthday, I can
abstain.
“No nookie?” he inquires in lugubriously accentuating my refusal.
“It’s my birthday... not yours,” I sternly remind.
“Well... it’s been awhile... I just thought...”
“You thought wrong. Besides, I’ve just done my hair.”
Yes, the monthly cycle thing has been strained as an excuse. So I switch to the hair...
planning that pretext to serve for a few days of reprieve... whereupon nails, then
mascara, then make-up will have to suffice until, indeed, the monthly curse arrives.
But I am tiring of the games. So tired that I bought myself a birthday present knowing
that Harold’s contemplated ‘gift’ pleases him more than me.
“Dinner?” he squeaks.
Well, at least he’s trying. He plans to ply me with wine then resume his mission... the
never ending male pursuit of getting off the rocks. Well when I’m in that mood, I also
need to get off. But hiding in the bathroom with the shower running to disguise the sound
of energetic batteries vibrating a girl’s best friend has become both boring and
demeaning.
“Thought you’d like an hors d’oeuvre. I can sit without messing up my hair,” I imply in
suggesting a form of sustenance that can stave both appetites.
Now I smile coyly, contriving that look, which in our younger days, served as a
precursor to sex. Only I cannot mess up my hair... yet I can sit... therefore...
Harold has always been the horse that not only needs to be led to water but also have
his snout immersed up to the ears. So I plunk my butt onto the edge of this
straight-backed kitchen chair and draw my feet to the side and then back. The motion both
parts my knees and causes my loose skirt to hike well up my thighs.
Harold smiles devilishly. He gets it!
“Right here in the kitchen?” he gushes.
I pull my hands and forearms to the back of the chair in a casual motion to stretch and
then yawn. The position arches the small of my back and thrusts forth my breasts.
Mammaries of which I am quite proud press forward against a tightened bodice and the skirt
rides further up my thighs to flash just a hint of pink. Harold gawks. I am pantyless.
‘Drink you dumb beast,’ I think to myself.
“It’s not like we have little children running about, Harold. No one will see. We don’t
even have a dog for goodness sake!”
I finally bring forward my hands and lift the hem of my skirt figuratively immersing the
equine’s head. In being sans undergarments, Harold finally figures out what his gift will
be. He falls to his knees, little realizing it is only the beginning.
I slide forward so that my crevice abuts the front edge of the chair. A randy Harold...
yes I know how long it has been... crawls forth to worship at my long neglected temple...
neglected orally that is to say.
“As I said... just a little hors d’oeuvre.”
I am shaven but undouched. I know the scent attracts. I think the taste will both thrill
and fulfill. In my plan, Harold’s appetizer will become a feast over time. With time comes
training... with training comes obedience... with obedience comes gratification... mine.
Harold’s oral efforts are attentive but gruff. He unfortunately offers his tongue and
lips like he tries to hump... assaulting more than idolizing. Still, since my own efforts
have been limited... by design... his warm wetness feels good. There are definitely
possibilities, I think to myself.
I grasp his head and guide, assuring that my outer labia are well laved and the
circulation stimulated before encouraging deeper efforts. And I must discourage tongue
work on my rapidly stiffening bud. In typical male fashion, he wants to go right for the
treasure. That will have to wait.
“See Harold. My hair doesn’t get messed up and afterwards we can go right to dinner,” I
justify in tossing off a mild orgasm.
Meanwhile he squirms a bit below the waist. Hmm. Could it be that Harold is becoming
hard? It’s difficult to determine with specificity but I surmise that even his small penis
is feeling the confines of his undershorts as it stiffens in response to the overwhelming
effect of my fine pink charms... the sight, smell, taste and feel of steamy hot feminine
flesh.
Despite the many years, he has had little practice. Harold still needs instruction as to
best perform cunnilingus. Why don’t they teach this in sex education classes? You’d think
he was trying to devour a cactus the way he attacks... as if my moist softness will bite
back.
Well, he does manage to sop up the abundant flow of juices, obviating any need to change
my skirt before going to dinner. So I let him feast, managing on occasion to pry open my
eyes to watch his hands. I know he’s dying to get himself off and that as a male, he has
no compunction about playing with himself right in front of me.
Yes, he reaches to his zipper, once again preferencing his pleasure over mine. That
won’t do. The new paradigm has begun.
Though I have the physical capacity to toss off a couple more thigh clenchers, when
Harold goes for his crotch, I abruptly push away his face and stand.
“Time for my dinner,” I firmly announce, smoothing down my skirt, strongly suggesting
the appetizer is finished.
He groans, fully expecting some degree of reciprocity. Does he really think my lips
would ever touch that useless thing of his?
I just step away, pick up a special little package on the way to the door and exit to
the car. This one last time I can trust Harold to follow and not instead wack off in the
bathroom. After all, he gallantly expects to ‘please’ me with a quick hump for my birthday
and therefore will ‘save’ himself for later. He’s wrong about latter, but it’s just as
well that he keep himself in heat until I explain the new paradigm.
We drive to the restaurant and I must confess that at least Harold has good taste in
food. Dinner is exquisite. The wine superb. The attentive waiter even noting that we, as a
couple, prefer to talk without disruption, our sotto voce murmurings hinting at intimacy.
“Wondering what’s in the package?” I inquire as the waiter departs with our dessert
order.
“You’ve bought yourself something to wear for your birthday. Jewelry, I suspect. But the
box is larger than for a ring. It must be a necklace.”
I smile coyly. The same smile that I use to precipitate sex... back when I was not so
often in that mood..
“Kinky underwear?” Harold revises his guess.
“Well... it can be worn... and it can be described as kinky... and it is for my
birthday. So you are very close.”
I retrieve the little box. Though the restaurant is crowded, the nearby table is open,
for now. So I must proceed quickly.
“But it’s really for you as much as for me.”
Harold just looks at the black box of flimsy yet decorative cardboard.
“Go ahead, Harold. Open it. But don’t wave it about too much.”
His curiosity has him pulling open the top as I speak. As he peeks within, his look
changes from wonderment to perplexity. Despite my warning, he lifts the plastic from its
concealment.
“Something for you to wear while I’m in those terrible moods,” I explain.
Harold holds the assembled pieces of plastic under the candlelight. The fact that it is
shaped in the silhouette of the male package quells further questions as to its function.
“You’ll wear it and we can better coordinate our needs.”
It’s a fabrication of, course. The new paradigm completely ignores his needs. This is
all about me! What I want. There will be no more masturbating in my vagina... there will
be no more masturbating, period! But first I have to get him into the thing...
“What’s it called?”
“It’s a CB2000. And as you can see, there’s a little key that keeps it locked in place.
That’s for me. The rest is for you.”
The waiter approaches with dessert. Harold plunks the device back into the box. An
elderly couple is led to the adjoining table. No further inspection is possible... but the
message is received.
“How long?” is his simple question.
“Bought it yesterday.”
“No. How long will the moods last?”
I smile inwardly. This is simpler than I thought. The discussion is not whether he will
wear it... but instead for how long. Well... when about to offer a dissatisfactory
reply... quibble instead. This I have long postulated.
“Days. Maybe a week. But there are always alternatives. You seemed to enjoy the
interlude in the kitchen.”
It becomes Harold’s turn to stifle a smile. Yes, he enjoyed indeed.
“So that suggests you’re in that particular mood... when you’re in the kitchen wearing
no underwear.”
“That can be the signal... or a signal. But being in the mood means you’ll have lots of
what you got. And I can flash you more if you’d like Harold. I don’t need to be shy with
you.”
Of course not, silly boy. Once you’re locked up, I may walk about the house completely
naked and listen to you groan with the frustration of lust. At thirty years of age I’ve
kept trim. No excess fat and all the curves remain.
“And I’ll stay nicely bald for you. Matter of fact, in that capacity you can help.”
Yes, such delicious torment. Harold can labor to primp and preen my mons... that to
which he will no longer have access... with his pecker that is.
The bill is paid. The car ride home is initially silent. I let Harold ruminate. That is
best. I realize what I am demanding... to control the most basic element of the male
existence. But I humorously think of the benefits. When I am in that mood, Harold is known
to take excessively long showers, running up the gas bill. Since I know what part of the
anatomy he ‘cleans’ so fervently, I suspect such will stop. With his joystick encased in
plastic, shower time will shorten, saving a few shekels in energy.
“Not all women enjoy being penetrated, Harold. Besides, it’s demeaning. You respect me
too much for that,” I resume the discussion as the car approaches the driveway, knowing
that he expects to finalize his birthday ‘gift’.
But I remain in that mood... and I suspect I will for the duration of our marriage.
“It looks uncomfortable, Millie.”
“Well you’re probably best being shaved down there. That way hairs won’t entrap and the
area will clean quicker. And of course there will be more thorough cleansings once a week.
The CB2000 came with a special cleaning kit.”
“Cleaning kit?”
Now I have him intrigued. For weeks I have been online reading of male chastity and I’m
convinced it is best for Harold... and for me. That tongue is close to usefulness. And in
letting his hormones percolate for a while... like maybe a few months... he’ll become more
attentive concerning my stimulation and arousal. His will only bring frustration and
discomfort.
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