Complete control. (Patreon)

If they don’t do exactly what I say, they get in serious trouble.

Here's how this works: The first thing that I do is have all of my charges sign a contract. The contract tells them very exclusively what I expect of them and how they should behave. I tell them how they should act in my presence and what they should do on a day-to-day basis. I have no time for people who don't know what they're supposed to do how they're supposed to act. Their time is mine, their focus is mine. Their minds are mine. Everything about them should be focused on me.

One of the things that I've noticed over time is that a lot of these men when they first walked into my house forget to do a detailed job of reading the contract. Most of them look at me and grin with their dopey smiles and they say, “Hey so this is pretty cool,” or “How often do you do this?”

I know exactly what they’re doing. They’re flirting with me. Trying to get something for free. It’s pathetic.

Every single one of these men walk into my house and they think that they are in charge. They think they are the ones who are controlling the scene. They're used to being the powerful man in charge during their day-to-day lives. I've had CEOs, executives, movie stars, and anyone in between that too. I've had your local garbage man, your average science fair director who only sleeps with his wife once a month. I've even had people like you were reading the story right now, the ones who think this is just fantasy.

The thing they all have in common is they walk into my house and they expect me to please their every need there every fantasy.

But I only offer one thing: Complete utter control.

That's right, I make it no secret that you will be locked for my pleasure. I make it no secret that you’re coming to me because you want me to hold the key. The key that keeps them locked for as long as I say so, not after they’ve had their fun for a few hours.

I know you might think this might be an usual arrangement because if someone comes in and say, “Hey, I want to lock myself for a week.” But do you remember the contact I spoke about earlier? The one that each of them has to sign?

Of course you don’t. No one ever reads the contract these small minded horny men sign.

Because if they had, they’d know that even if they want me to just hold the keys until their lunch break, at the end of the day, I get to decide the length of locking up.

It could be a few hours, a few days, a month. A year. Or more.

Here’s how this works.

First I have these men pull their cocks out and show them to me.

And believe it or not, each one of them do.

They unzip their pants proudly to show me what they are working with. Believe it or not, most of these men sit around average. Five inches or so. Trust me, I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime and that’s enough to please me. It’s about how you use it… or don’t.

But sometimes, he’ll pull off his boxers and reveal something a bit larger, a bit more unwieldy, something that absolutely deserves to be locked up.

Like a giant eyeball staring me in the face. Ready to pounce. Slither over to me.

I usually take a look at their manhood, hold it in my hands. Lightly caress the balls that are hanging down and watch as each of them, every single one of them, gets an erection in my hands. And then I tell them to knock it off.

They were here to be locked.

Not play.

How do they expect me to lock them up if they keep growing?

Usually I sit patiently in the chair, watching each one of them squirm uncomfortably, realizing that I will be no help for them as they fix themselves.

I know you think it’s cruel for me to sit there, staring at these men while they struggle to fight science.

Not my problem.

But then I say it.

“For every sixty seconds that you stay hard, that’s another week that you’re staying locked.”

Some men get harder at that comment and I watch them strain to control themselves.

Most of the men think that it’s part of the game, but they’ll learn eventually eight weeks later when they are begging for release and I tell them they are only halfway through their lock up period.

But eventually, their little cocks go into the cage, however long it takes. Even if it takes an ice pack. An ice pack that I wrap around their cocks and balls that causes them unimaginable pain and shrinkage.

When they’re shrunk, I laugh and lock the padlock.

I have them thank me for locking up their pathetic cocks, beg me to keep the key until I say they can have it back and then I send them along their way.

And I tell them I only have one rule:

I will call them when it’s time for release.

They are released on my schedule.

But you know how that goes. Sometimes the men leave like obedient little boys and wait for me to call them back, constantly staring at their phones for the text message that will set them free.

But most of them do not.

Most of them, within three days are calling me, begging me to release them from their sentence.

I just tell them, that the fact that they called me, means they get to stay locked even longer. They can’t obey so they don’t get a reward.

But that’s what they should have expected when they signed the contract.

The one none of them read.

Besides, I can never remember where their keys are anyway. I have so many at this point and goodness it’s so hard to label them sometimes.

I love it when one of the men come to my house, begging me to release them. They’re at my front door on their knees.

“Please,” they cry to me when they are in my living room, naked and shivering. “It’s so uncomfortable, my balls are so full. I can’t sleep.”

Some of them have wives who they are having a hard time hiding from.

So I sigh heavily and tell them that I thought they were man enough to take their sentence like a man, but let me get out my key box.

And that’s when I pull out the box of keys.

Actually, it’s more like a chest.

It’s a large box, about the size of a piano bench. And inside, mountains and mountains of chastity keys. I take my time selecting one and have the man, who is nearly weeping at this point, come close. I make it a big show of inspecting the lock as if I’m a locksmith. I always grip his balls tightly in my hands to make sure he can feel the warmth of my fingers and slowly insert the first key into the lock.

It won’t fit of course.

I keep one hand on his balls as I continue to try different keys for the next half an hour, slowly stroking him, reminding him that this was as close as he was going to get to release.

After an hour of trying, I sigh and tell him that the cage can’t be coming off any time soon and that we can try again in a few weeks.

By then, the locked man would be close to tears, telling me he’s leaking all the time. That he’s ruining his underwear.

And that’s when I’d tell him there was another way.

Another way that he was not going to like.

But they are so desperate they beg me for the solution.

And that’s when the diapers come out.