Chapter 3

Sandra entered her office with a renewed sense of purpose. She needed more than broad concepts—she needed to understand what drove a partner who couldn’t control his impulse to masturbate. She needed the why behind it, and whether there was any rational, structured way to rein it in. She pulled the stack of copied articles from her desk. Years in the cutthroat legal arena had sharpened her mind to rapid assimilation, and she tore through the pages with almost ferocious focus, absorbing each point and theory as if preparing for trial.

When she switched to online research, her search narrowed quickly to the specifics of FLRs. Some of what she found shocked her. The ideas were more than intriguing; they were electrifying. One site broke down the use of discipline, orgasm control, and, something she had never even heard of, “chastity cages” as methods to curb a man’s basic urge to jerk off. The combination of surprise and excitement hit her all at once. She dug deeper, scanning site after site, realizing she had never understood just how widespread the FLR lifestyle had become.

To her own surprise, she felt the damp heat gathering in her panties as she read further. There were even businesslike groups where women exchanged strategies, support, and concerns about managing their partners. She searched for local groups and found several in her area. It made sense—she couldn’t do this alone. If she wanted real control, she needed to learn from women who already knew what they were doing.

Curious, she went on Amazon and typed in “chastity cages,” only to gasp at the results. They looked like medieval contraptions, cold metal devices lined up in endless variations. Dozens upon dozens of designs. Clearly, locking up male penises was far more common than she had ever imagined. She considered buying one, but she didn’t know where to start. Were measurements required? Were certain types better for beginners? More research led her through several sites explaining how the devices worked, including recommendations tailored to both newcomers and women already deep into the FLR lifestyle.

Then Sandra happened onto a site that described, better than anything she had seen so far, the real issue. She printed the document and sat back on her chair to read it. She realized very quickly that this was what she had been looking for. It was obvious that this woman knew what she was writing about. The article wasn’t long, but it covered most of her questions about how Jason, and all men, became caught in their addiction to masturbation.

“Let us now delve into the intricate psychology that underpins enforced chastity, a practice far more prevalent than one might initially assume. We shall dissect how a mere physical restraint can transform into an extraordinarily potent psychological instrument, capable of fundamentally reshaping desire, power dynamics, and even the very fabric of trust within a relationship.

To begin, we must adjust our perspective. When most individuals encounter a chastity device, their immediate thought is, "This is to prevent sexual activity." But what if that is not its primary function? What if the lock's purpose is not prevention, but creation—the creation of a distinct psychological state? Consider this figure: seventy percent. According to extensive explorations within dedicated online communities and forums, this is approximately the prevalence of chastity devices in FLR, or cuckolding, relationships.

Sandra paused to catch her breath. One word seemed to leap off the screen at her: cuckolding. She knew the definition, of course, but she had never imagined that women in FLRs actually practiced it. She had to admit that after she stopped allowing penetrative sex with Jason, the thought had flickered through her mind—briefly, absurdly—only to be dismissed as too extreme, too far-fetched.

Yet the article’s casual tone made it seem far more common than she had assumed. She felt her heartbeat quicken as she read on, the implications settling into her with surprising force.

“This is a substantial statistic. Yes, up to seventy percent. A figure of this magnitude indicates that this is not a marginal element, but rather integral to the experience for a majority of those involved. This suggests it must fulfill a profoundly significant role, a role, as we are about to discover, deeply rooted within our own cognitive processes.

Let us turn to the neuroscience. How does the physical denial of something effectively rewire our capacity for desire? It all hinges on a concept researchers have specifically termed "frustration arousal." This, in essence, is the crux of the matter. The brain does not simply cease functioning or become apathetic when release is withheld. Instead, the very act of denial becomes a powerful catalyst for excitement. The persistent physical reminder cultivates a continuous mental focus. A specific biochemical cascade facilitates this phenomenon. Observe this straightforward chain of events: When orgasm is unattainable, prolactin—the hormone responsible for satiety and temporarily suppressing libido—is not released. Concurrently, dopamine, the neurotransmitter associated with craving and anticipation, remains elevated. The outcome is a chemically sustained state of arousal that would be virtually impossible to maintain through sheer willpower alone.

Now that we have seen the internal neurochemistry, let us broaden our view to observe how this forms the bedrock for a tangible and significant shift in the power balance between partners. This presents a truly compelling distinction. While intellectually consenting to a fantasy is one matter, and always allows for a mental retreat—the ability to change one's mind—a physical lock effectively seals that escape route. It transforms an abstract concept into an unalterable, twenty-four-seven reality. The option for impulsive withdrawal is, quite simply, extinguished. This sentiment perfectly encapsulates the situation: the individual wearing the device is not merely complying passively; they are making an active sacrifice. This is not merely granting permission; it is a profound, physical, and irrefutable demonstration of trust, signifying a genuine transfer of power. Ultimately, the device serves these three critical functions simultaneously: it acts as a constant, visible symbol of devotion to the dynamic; it compels the wearer's sexual energy and focus entirely onto their partner's activities; and, naturally, it bestows upon the keyholder an immense sense of control and empowerment.

Now, having said all that, The mere insistence of a wife or girlfriend demanding a man wear a chastity cage, while perhaps well-intentioned, rarely yields the desired results. Men, by their very nature, possess an inherent drive to escape confinement, especially when it pertains to such fundamental urges. Unless there’s a specific, and often permanent, modification like a Prince Albert piercing that physically secures the device, a determined man can, and often will, find a way to circumvent the cage. The ultimate success hinges not on external imposition, but on internal volition. The man himself must actively desire to curb his basic urges, driven by a compelling motivation, such as the preservation of a relationship. For him to reach this point of personal resolve, he must first acknowledge and accept that his persistent, perhaps compulsive, masturbatory behavior is indeed a problem. Only once this self-awareness and agreement are established does the prospect of him willingly embracing a chastity cage become genuinely viable.

This is where the delicate dance of confrontation, or perhaps more accurately, honest dialogue, becomes paramount. It cannot simply be a unilateral desire on the part of the woman for him to cease his behavior. The impetus must originate from within the man himself; he must reach his own conclusion that change is necessary. Once he has independently arrived at this understanding and committed to the idea of restraint, then, and only then, is he truly prepared to accept the physical reality of his penis being locked away, a tangible manifestation of his newfound release of control.

Now, we arrive at perhaps the most counterintuitive aspect of this entire dynamic: the device can, in fact, serve as a tool to alter the way the male brain is wired. Think of the device as a converter. It captures the raw, untamed, and potentially destructive energy addictive masturbation. Rather than allowing it to continue and destabilize the relationship, it transmutes his desires into the very fuel that sustains the dynamic. Thus, instead of undermining everything, his sexual desire is co-opted to amplify the intensity. Over time, these effects begin to compound. This is not merely about a single weekend or a solitary experience; it concerns how this practice, when sustained, can fundamentally shape the identity of the relationship and the individuals within it.

One can observe its progression: on day one, it is merely a novel physical reality. By week one, the psychological impact becomes quite pronounced. However, after a month has passed, many individuals report a complete reorientation of their consciousness, finding that their state of confinement has become integral to their sense of self.

What ensures the long-term sustainability of this endeavor? Several key factors come into play. The lock itself establishes exceptionally clear, enforceable boundaries, which can surprisingly reduce anxiety. And at its core, it remains the ultimate ongoing physical testament to trust. This brings us back to our central premise. For the numerous couples who engage in this practice, the device is not perceived as a punishment or an onerous burden. Rather, it is the very instrument that renders this intricate dance of power, trust, and desire psychologically tenable for all involved. This leads one to ponder: from where does deeper intimacy truly emerge? Is it found in the shared experience of mutual pleasure, or is it discovered in the profound vulnerability inherent in placing absolute, unwavering trust in another?”

Now that she understood why Jason had a problem, she became more sympathetic, but even more determined to fix this. She decided because she didn’t believe that Jason would be able to control his addiction, she would order several different cages to see which would be the best for Jason if that was the way she decided to go. Even if she didn’t use them, she wanted to have the option if that became the route they took.

Hours later, with the last document consumed and her research finally complete, a profound realization settled over her. It wasn’t a nuanced legal strategy or some groundbreaking point of jurisprudence that brought clarity. It was the stark, unvarnished truth about the male psyche. She understood now—with a certainty that was both humbling and exhilarating—that controlling the average man was not difficult. Not for someone like her, someone who spent her days persuading people to see her side of an argument.

It was, in fact, astonishingly simple: a measured dance of teasing and the tantalizing promise of intimacy, a deliberate withholding calibrated to ignite and sustain desire.

She marveled at her own lapse, her forgetfulness of this fundamental truth, a truth she witnessed daily in the professional sphere. Her natural allure, a potent weapon in her arsenal, had, time and again, compelled men to act in ways they would never have considered under normal circumstances. It was the subtle, innate magnetism that all women possessed, a secret language understood by those who navigated the male-dominated landscape. And now, with a pang of regret for her neglect, she recognized that this same allure was not just a professional tool, but a vital component of a thriving marriage. It was, she now understood, a perpetual game of tease and denial, where true intimacy was a reward, hard-earned and deeply cherished.

Jason, in his blissful ignorance, was about to become—if not unwilling, then certainly unwitting—the participant in this newly rediscovered, far more strategic phase of their relationship. And it would begin tonight.

The soft hum of the television drifted through the living room, a familiar lullaby that framed Jason’s quiet evening routine. He sat on the sofa, the flicker of the screen casting shifting shadows across the walls. Sandra stood in the doorway, her silhouette outlined by the warmer hallway light behind her, and a slow smile curved across her face. It was time to begin the dance.

Jason looked up and smiled back—then his eyes widened slightly. Sandra wore only a pair tight white shorts, and a short cropped top. Normally, by this hour, she had on long sweatpants and a loose pullover. This was different. This was deliberate.

“Can you prepare me a bath?” she asked, her voice tinged with a soft, weary edge that reached straight into him. “I’m exhausted.”

“Yes, of course,” he said immediately. A familiar warmth spread through his chest. Preparing her bath was something he used to do without fail. He wasn’t sure when he had stopped—or whether it had been him or Sandra who had let the ritual fade. Either way, it had slipped away, and he regretted it.

He moved through the steps with a quiet reverence. He filled the tub, then placed candles—dozens of them—around the edges. Their glow was enough that he could dim the other lights, letting the room settle into a warm, flickering calm. It had always been a ritual, a once-cherished dance step in the choreography of their life together. A prelude to intimacy that now felt more like a memory than a promise.

Finally, he brought in an ice bucket with a bottle of wine and two glasses, though he wasn’t sure the second would be used. Sandra often preferred to soak alone, wrapped in nothing but warm water and silence.

Sandra followed him into the bathroom, her presence a quiet but unmistakable invitation. She watched him for a moment, her gaze steady, lingering. Then, with a soft command that sent a tremor straight through him, she said, “You may undress me.”

A shiver of excitement rippled through Jason. His smile widened at the intimacy of it—she wanted him here, wanted his hands on her. His fingers, guided by an instinct shaped by years of shared touch, moved with familiar grace. He eased her cropped top upward, the fabric gliding over her skin until it lifted free. The gentle swell of her breasts emerged in the dim light, pale and luminous, her nipples already firm. They were as beautiful as the first time he had ever seen them. A quiet sigh slipped from him, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding back, and he fought the nearly overwhelming urge to bend forward and kiss them. Not yet. He sensed that tonight had its own rhythm, and she would decide the pace.

He knelt before her, fingers finding the snap of her shorts. The fabric surrendered easily, sliding down her legs. Beneath them he saw a pair of lace panties—a delicate scrap he recognized immediately. A sudden jolt of awareness passed through him. These were the same panties she had worn earlier, the ones she’d had on when he had knelt between her thighs. And now he saw the dampness clinging to the crotch, the lingering scent of her arousal drifting up to him, unmistakable and intoxicating.

He reached for them with something close to reverence, sliding them slowly down her legs. He didn’t drop them to the floor. Instead, he placed them carefully on the edge of the tub. He wasn’t sure why—whether it felt disrespectful to toss them aside, or whether he already knew the truth: that once she was gone, he would be tempted to steal them, bury his face in them, and use them while he masturbated. The wetness in the fabric made that possibility feel almost inevitable.

Sandra watched his eyes, the flicker of recognition, the thoughts he didn’t voice but couldn’t hide. She knew exactly what ran through his mind. She knew the familiar path his desires tended to take after she drifted off to sleep. And she was certain that if she left those panties out, he would use them—use her scent, her dampness—to get himself off once she was no longer awake to stop him.

She slipped into the waiting warmth of the bath. A contented sigh escaped her lips, a sound of pure relief. “Ahh, I’ve missed this,” she murmured, the water a balm against her weary skin. As she lay there with her eyes closed, she could feel Jason looking at her, she could hear his breathing. It was strangely comforting to have him there, not unlike a servant waiting for an order. She knew what she was doing to him and excitement ran through her. She knew it was all about the tease.

“Glass of wine please,” she said without opening her eyes. A moment later she had the cool glass in her hand and began to sip it. She finished the glass before she stirred.

She said, “It is nice to see you being so attentive.”

Jason smiled and said, “I appreciate you letting me stay.” Jason poured her another glass of wine and sat down again. Maybe there would be more of what happened earlier if she had enough wine.

“I want you to wash me with the sponge,” she stated simply.

Jason’s eyes widened, a boyish eagerness flashing across his face. He dropped the towels in his haste to find her favorite sponge. The implication was clear, a silent promise hanging in the air. He’d expected, hoped, perhaps, that she would invite him to join her. He was already erect.

Sandra took a slow sip of wine as Jason sat back down on the edge of the tub. She surveyed him, her gaze cool and appraising as she looked at strong biceps and the obvious muscles under his tight shirt. “You have a great body, and I like that you have kept it in shape,” she said, her voice a low purr. Then, the familiar barb, delivered with practiced precision.

“Too bad your penis is so little, but you make up for it with your wonderful tongue," she said.

A flush crept up Jason’s neck, that familiar heat that always accompanied her assessments of his anatomy. He was used to it by now. She pointed out his shortcomings often enough, and he suspected—resignedly—that it wouldn’t be the last time. It wasn’t meant to be cruel or vindictive; it was simply a statement of fact. He knew he was inadequate down there. There was no sense pretending otherwise.

Yet there was a strange, almost masochistic pleasure he felt when she teased him about it. A quiet, private thrill in her steady reminders of what he lacked. He couldn’t explain it, but it had become as much a part of their intimacy as anything physical. The truth was unchangeable—he couldn’t control what nature had given, or hadn’t given him—and that made her gentle criticism easier to accept. It even seemed to give Sandra a certain satisfaction.

He still lamented that they hadn’t had penetrative sex in over a year. But he understood that too.

Sandra leaned back in silent invitation for Jason to begin washing her. As she did, she moved closer, giving Jason better access to her breasts and body. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of being pampered, of being cared for. The day’s burdens seemed to melt away with each passing moment.

Then when Jason leaned over to kiss her, she didn’t resist. It was all part of the teasing process. Kisses were fine, but everything else had a price he had to pay.

She allowed his lips to linger on hers, and could already hear and feel his heavy breathing. But then, as much as she didn’t want to, it was time to stop.

Then, a question gave them a gentle nudge back to reality. “Did you finish cleaning up the kitchen?”

Jason’s momentary reverie was shattered. “Uh… I have to put some of the leftovers away,” he stammered, the words a confession of his lapse. “Why don’t you do that and give me a little time to enjoy my bath,” she said, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. It wasn’t so much a request as a directive, a subtle shift in their established roles.

Jason, more than a little deflated, retreated to the kitchen to complete his forgotten task. The night had been a roller coaster of sexual emotions for him. It was obvious that Sandra was enjoying teasing him... taking him to the edge and then letting him down. He rushed through his chores and fifteen minutes later, he returned to the bathroom. Sandra was still submerged, her eyes closed, a picture of serene contentment.

“May I continue to wash you?” he ventured, his voice a tentative offering.

Her eyes fluttered open, a tender smile gracing her lips. Tease and deny, she thought. “Yes, by all means,” she replied, and with a fluid grace, she shifted, leaning forward, her breasts buoying from the water like twin alabaster moons.

Jason sat on the edge of the tub and lifted one leg into the water so he had better access. Surprisingly she allowed him to kiss her again.

As Jason’s hand, guided by the sponge, brushed across her breast again, a tremor passed through it. His fingers quivered. Sandra noticed immediately. The faint tightening around her eyes was the only visible sign of her reaction, a quiet acknowledgment of her growing influence over him. It was working, she realized, and a small, private sense of victory warmed her from within.

She knew this was only the beginning. There was still a long way to go. But she was following what she had learned—immersing herself in the subtle techniques of power, in the delicate choreography of control and manipulation. The articles had emphasized that touch was a privilege, not a right. Her body, she reflected, was a kind of sanctuary, and he was the supplicant who approached it with reverence, his desire fed and shaped by the restraint she cultivated so carefully.

The tremor in his hand was unmistakable proof that her strategy was taking hold.

When he had finished, she pinned her hair up to keep it out of the water, and lifted her legs, one after the other, granting him permission to wash them with the same deliberate care.

Then, she rose, the water cascading away, revealing the full, unblemished expanse of her form. Jason’s voice, hushed, inquired, “May I wash the remainder of you?”

Sandra smiled, inclined her head, and then added, “But get in the water on your knees.”

Jason hurriedly stripped, his little penis popping out of his underwear, bringing a giggle from Sandra. A moment later, he was kneeling before his wife. His gaze ascended her magnificent form, then met her perfectly blue eyes. His heart quickened its pace. He marveled at his fortune in having won the hand of such an extraordinary woman, a pang of regret surfacing for his recent neglect of his duties to her. He resolved to amend his ways. To Jason’s astonishment, she turned her back to him, presenting her impeccably sculpted posterior. “Attend to me there first.”

Jason’s hands trembled even more as he slowly guided the sponge over her buttocks, his movements a languid, rhythmic caress, as though he were tending to the most delicate porcelain. He eased the sponge between her cheeks, half-expecting her to stop him with a gentle command. But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned forward ever so slightly, an unspoken permission that sent a jolt through him.

He ventured deeper, the sponge gliding in a slow, deliberate stroke. Unable to resist, he stole a glance between her cheeks. In the dim candlelight, he saw her little rosebud. His heartbeat kicked hard in his chest, and a mix of guilt, awe, and something darker flooded him. This was a level of intimacy she rarely offered—rare enough to feel almost unreal.

Abandoning every caution, he leaned forward, his hands parting her cheeks as he pressed his face into the soft, yielding warmth between them.

“Oh, you are most decidedly a naughty boy,” Sandra murmured, her voice a velvet caress as she gently pushed back toward him.

Inside she was more than a little pleased. She had never allowed this, nor had he attempted it. But soon, he would know that area very well indeed. Now she had learned that her entire body was a place of worship, especially in female led relationships, and she was prepared to take advantage of Jason’s building desires.

To Jason’s delight, she leaned over a bit and gave him even better access, but only for a short period of time. He knew he would have to work harder to earn total access to that private part of her body.

Sensing his time was limited, he quickly used his tongue to tease the forbidden terrain with a boldness that surprised even him. The tightness of her rear passage on his tongue was almost more than he could take. He felt himself on the precipice of climax, a wave of intense pleasure building within him, when Sandra’s voice, a silken barrier, intervened once more.

"That’s enough for now," she whispered. “You have not earned that, yet.”

Still, he wasn't disappointed. She had said, “yet”. For now, the sheer audacity of his own actions, the unprecedented level of intimacy he had achieved, was a victory in itself. He had never gone this far with her, and the knowledge that there were further depths to explore, further privileges to be earned, fueled a potent, unwavering resolve. He didn’t know what he would have to do to earn that ultimate pleasure, her complete surrender to his tongue back there, but he would do whatever it took.

Then she turned around, her body fully exposed to his gaze. A low groan escaped him—pure, unfiltered awe—when his eyes landed on her sex. Those were the lips he had known so well, the lips he had pleasured countless times with his mouth. But this time he didn’t dive in, didn’t surrender to the instinctive pull that rose like a tide inside him.

Instead, he truly looked at her.

His eyes drank in every detail, reverent, almost stunned. She was gorgeous—undeniably so—from the crown of her head to the arches of her feet. But below, where her lips softly parted, there was something more. A deeper allure. Her lips appeared slightly swollen, the inner folds gently pushing forward, an unspoken, exquisite invitation that made his mouth water.

He was ready... achingly ready to pleasure her again, and again if she wished, to lose himself in the intoxicating sweetness of her. But before he could move, she whispered again , soft enough to still him instantly.

“Not yet.”

A familiar wave of disappointment washed through him, but this time she didn’t repeat her usual reminder that he had to earn the right to kiss her there. The absence of that line—so small, yet unmistakable—kept his hope burning.

He continued cleansing her gently, and a faint smile touched his lips when he caught the near-imperceptible sigh that slipped from hers.

He didn’t know it, but his brain was being rewired. No longer would access to her sexual parts be free. He would have to earn them. His brain was telling him that he had to do whatever it took to have that incredible level of access. And now staring at her forbidden fruit felt almost like a religious experience. Yes, he would lean to worship her in every way she desired.

Finally and reluctantly, Jason reached for the hand sprayer and began to rinse the soap from her skin. He followed with a large bath towel, his touch gentle as he dried her. Even through the soft terrycloth, he could feel the contours of her body, the yielding softness of her skin. A question echoed in his mind, a quiet lament. Why had he ever stop doing this for her?

Once she was dry, he wrapped the towel around her body.

She smiled and said, “Why don’t you use my water to take a bath before you come to bed.”

“Uh, okay,” Jason replied, confusion flickering in his eyes. He couldn’t quite grasp her reasoning. The water was still warm, but nowhere near the steaming heat he usually preferred.

Then her gaze dropped to the dark tuft of hair above his genitals. “Oh, and I want all that pubic hair gone,” she said, pointing at it with a firm, unmistakable gesture.

It was something she had read. She kept herself smoothly shaved—so why shouldn’t he, she reasoned. And there was a psychological layer to it as well: increased vulnerability. She had heard from friends in the service that the military shaved new recruits’ heads for a reason. Removing that hair was a first step in breaking down resistance, softening them so they could be rebuilt into people who followed orders without question.

She smiled to herself. She wasn’t going to shave Jason’s head—she liked his light brown hair—but he certainly didn’t need the tuft of hair below.

“What?” Jason’s voice was laced with disbelief, as if she’d uttered a nonsensical decree.

“You heard me,” she reiterated, her tone unwavering. “I’m tired of feeling it when I use my hand on you, or if I ever pleasure you with my mouth again. Besides, if I am shaved clean, why should you be?”

A nervous laugh escaped Jason. “Uh… that’s weird. What about when I shower at the gym?” he asked, a feeble attempt to deflect.

“So what,” Sandra said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I figured you didn’t shower when anyone was in there because of your little equipment.”

Jason’s breath hitched and his face reddened. He hadn't realized she knew, but she was right. He’d always waited for the gym showers to be empty, or simply forgone them altogether, a silent acknowledgment of his insecurity.

Sandra’s gaze swept over him, a possessive glint in her eyes. “Oh, and when you come to bed, I want you wearing my panties there on the towel,” she added, her voice laced with a new, playful authority.

“Huh, wear your panties?” Jason protested, his brow furrowed. “They won’t fit.”

“They will fit well enough for now. Besides, you are the one that made them soaked with your mouth earlier, didn’t you? Just do it,” she commanded, and with that, she disappeared from the bathroom, leaving him in a state of bewildered shock.

To Be Continued