Locktober

Jonathan Quincy Graves

This is going to be the best year ever! My husband has become so respectful, so helpful, and so eager to please. If only I had known the secret sooner!

I was taken aback when in September John suggested I lock him up for the month of October. He wasn’t talking about time-out locked in his room, or sensory deprivation, locked in a dark closet. He had to explain it to me, which got him all flustered. I secretly love him when he’s like that. My little boy, all shy and embarrassed talking about sex. No, he finally explained to me the thing called “Locktober” involved locking up the male penis in a special cage or tube for the month of October. He’d seen it on the internet. Apparently, his browsing habits are somewhat different from mine. Surprise, surprise.

John’s pitch ended with the words, “It sounds like fun.” To me, it sounded like… Well, to be honest it sounded weird. Perhaps a little perverse. I had only the vaguest notion of male chastity and the devices used for such. And never imagined there was a month devoted to it, like Irish American History Month (March) or Bourbon Heritage Month (September). [Is it just me that sees a quirky irony in going from a month celebrating booze into a month devoted to male abstinence?]

John and I have been married for eighteen years. I guess our sex life is about typical for our age and social group. Which is to say, maybe once a week. Some sessions strictly routine with little excitement for either of us. Don’t get me wrong, I like sex. Sometimes, I really LOVE sex. My husband and I are not always on the same schedule, though. Sometimes one of us may be in the mood, while the other performs more out of a sense of duty. That’s pretty common for married couples, isn’t it?

The other activity probably common for people like us is masturbation. I did it now and then, and I’m sure John did it a whole lot more. This is not an excuse, but it is just easier sometimes to take matters into your own hand than to negotiate a union with another person, even when the other person is your spouse. Plus, I think John often used images and stories he found on the internet to excite him. He thought it would be awkward to get all excited in front of his computer then run into the bedroom to jump my bones. So, he took the easy out, eliminating the second step and using his hand instead.

I often thought about confronting him over his uses of the internet, but to what end? I could nag him about it, but I couldn’t force him to stop. And I couldn’t take him over my knee and spank him like a little kid. He would not have allowed it, and the idea did not appeal to me. I’m John’s wife, not his mother. The idea of being the family disciplinarian seemed distasteful. I thought it sounded like too much work, and I was not comfortable with what it might do to our relationship.

However, John volunteering—no, requesting—I put a stop to his behavior, in a strictly passive way? Why would he do that? And on reflection, why would I say no?

“If you’re sure this is something you’d like to try,” I said, “I guess I’m game, but I have no idea where you would buy a thing like that.” I’m sure it would have taken me about two minutes to answer that question with a Google search, but the more effort he put in himself, the less he could blame me if he changed his mind in the days, weeks, month ahead.

“I think I can find one without spending a lot of money,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, “but what would you expect of me while your dick is behind bars for the month? Would I be without sex for the month as well?”

“Well, uhm, I mean, there are more ways than one for a man to provide sexual, uhm, pleasure to a woman.” [Isn’t he just the cutest when he’s flustered?] “And since I could no longer reach satisfaction for myself, my craving would build, and you should be the one to benefit from that.”

“You’re saying that after being locked up for a while, you’re going to get horny and apply that energy to bringing me off instead of yourself.”

“Exactly!”

“And what will you want from me in exchange?”

“Nothing, really,” he said. “Except, I guess I’ll want you to take advantage of the situation whenever the mood strikes you. You’ll have to be direct about letting me know. You know how lousy I am at taking hints.”

“And your horniness will continue to build—there’d be no post-orgasmic let down—and you’ll be unable to take the chastity device off and masturbate because…”

“Yes, well, we’ll get one with a lock, and you will keep the keys. That way, the only time I will get to, uhm, orgasm, is when you let me out.”

“And this Locktober thing means I won’t let you out for the entire month of October?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. But since this is the first time, we might discover you want more than just my fingers and my, my tongue. You might decide to let me out now and then during the month of October to have sex the regular way. That would be your decision.”

While he said that, I was warming to the idea and thinking: A horny man at my beck and call for an entire month, why in the world would I want to screw that up by letting him out before the month is up?

“What about outside the bedroom?” I said. “How would that change? I mean what would you expect of me? As you describe it, this would be a twenty-four seven thing for you, but I’ve got enough to do. I don’t need any additional responsibilities to fill my day.”

“Not an issue,” he said. “This is strictly bedroom related. I mean, you read stories about women who use the power to get their husbands to do whatever they want, once their man is desperate enough, but those are just stories. That’s not us.”

“No, it’s not,” I said, while thinking: But it could be. ‘Desperate.’ I like the sound of that.

That’s about where we left the conversation in September. John went to a site called Cherry Keepers where they provided instructions on measuring for size. I helped, and there were lots of giggles before we were done. John is about average when hard, but when soft, the measurements we took were all over the place. I iced him down at one point, and we both laughed at how short his soldier shrank. I won’t quote you centimeters; John got enough kidding from me. Suffice it to say, it was short. The word “nubbin” comes to mind.

Armed with measurements, John went back to Cherry Keepers and ordered a ring, a cage and followed a link to their recommended German-made lock.

All the pieces arrived a week before the deadline, October 1^st. Of course, John had to try them on to see if they fit and whether they would bind or rub on delicate flesh. They did, and they didn’t.

I sensed John slept poorly the night of thirty September, and he woke with morning wood on the first of October. He wanted to have a final release—a good luck fuck—before beginning his month in chastity, but I denied him.

“If we are going to do this,” I said, “let’s not start by breaking the rules. In fact, wait there a moment. Once we get rid of your woody, we can get you safely locked away.”

“But I have to pee.”

“Wait there.”

So John would not beat one out in the bathroom, I did not let him leave the bedroom until I applied a cold washcloth to his crotch to bring down his stiffy, then watched him lock himself away. I suspect the snick of the lock sounded ominous to John, but it was way too late for him to have second thoughts. To me, that little click ushered in a new era in our marital relations. I had no idea at the time how “new” that new era would be.

I let John go pee, for which I insisted he sit on the toilet seat, then put him to work with his mouth and tongue before I dressed for the day. John and I have never consciously vied for power in our marriage, but there was a definite shift in the balance with that first orgasm—mine alone—seven hours and thirty-six minutes into the month of Locktober.

The first of October was on a Saturday this year, so we were both home for the day working on various tasks and projects. Several times, in passing, I noticed John rearranging himself in the front of his pants. It brought a smile to my lips each time I saw it. Having that cage in his pants was something new for him to get used to.

I did a little searching online and discovered some wives put their chastised husbands into panties. I thought this was silly. What kind of wife wants her husband skipping around the house in panties? I’m guessing it’s the kind who stomps around in thigh-high patent leather boots, a bustier, and wielding a whip. True, panties would help support his package so he wouldn’t be constantly groping his crotch, but I would think male briefs would serve the same purpose. He hasn’t worn briefs all the years we’ve been married, preferring boxers, but there were still a couple pair at the bottom of his drawer. I decided to suggest them if he did not think of it himself. I would not want him absentmindedly adjusting himself in public. The image of him groping his crotch in church brought a chuckle.

I availed myself of John’s services when we went to bed that first night. It had been years since we indulged in sex twice in the same day, and it seemed strange for me to not work to return the pleasure my husband gave me in like kind. Strange, but I expected I could adapt. One thing I noticed was his penis tried to harden in his cage. That did not look very comfortable, but I reminded myself Locktober was his idea. He must have anticipated this problem and decided it was no big deal.

John stayed closer to me than usual for the rest of that weekend. I ignored him. He’d said I would not have to deal with his issues outside of the bedroom, and I took him at his word. In fact, we spent Sunday having no sex at all. That would have been typical prior to Locktober, and I did not feel like having my routine turned completely upside down.

It was the third or maybe the fourth night of the month John gave me three great orgasms using cunnilingus. I kept him down there longer than ever before. When I was satisfied, he worked his way up my body kissing and nibbling. As he caressed my breast, he whispered in my ear, “Remember, darling, any time you want to have some real sex, all you have to do is pull out the key. I’ll serve you any way you like.”

“I remember, dear,” I said. “Good night.” I pulled him into a spoon with me behind him, commanded the bedside light to turn off, and went to sleep.

As the month progressed, John became more and more… I guess fidgety is the word. He could hardly stand still in church on the ninth, and his hand frequently dove to his crotch when we stood. On the drive home, I asked, “What are you wearing under your dress pants?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you wearing the briefs I recommended or are you still in boxers?”

“I’ve worn boxers most of my adult life. Briefs are for little kids.”

“Little kids frequently play with themselves, too. When we get home and change out of our Sunday clothes, I want you to put on briefs. It was humiliating for me to stand next to my husband while he constantly rearranged his package in public. People are going to think you have some kind of social disease.”

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. My chastity cage binds if it is not hanging right. I just need to rearrange it periodically, that’s all.”

“Briefs,” I said, tired of the discussion. “And be glad I’m not putting you into panties.” John did not argue further. Apparently, he read some of the same blogs about male chastity I researched when he first proposed this game.

I watched him when we changed into our everyday attire. He grumbled—too low for me to hear actual words—but he did change into briefs arranging his cage to his satisfaction. I hoped that would mark the end of his games of pocket pool. If not, well, I was on the verge of reconsidering the merits of panties for men in chastity.

I do Sunday breakfast of bacon, fried potatoes, and scrambled eggs almost every week. As I worked in the kitchen, my mind kept going back to John’s attitude of late. This whole Locktober thing was his idea. I would never have known it existed if he had not suggested it. But now, only a third of the way through the month, he was frequently irritable and a pain to be around (except when I commanded his tongue in bed). My body reacted to that last thought with a little tingle.

Breakfast would soon be ready, but there was no John. He usually sits at the kitchen table with coffee and the Sunday paper while I cook. There was no sense in starting the eggs, which only take a minute, until he was present and ready. I left the potatoes and onions in the frypan to keep hot and went looking for him.

John wasn’t in the hall bathroom, so I continued down the hall to our bedroom. As I stepped into the room, John was bent over my jewelry case, pawing through the items at the bottom. He did not notice my arrival.

“If you are looking for earrings to go with your t-shirt,” I said, “I may be able to help. Of course, all mine are for pierced ears. We’d have to get that taken care of first.”

John jumped like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“I, I was just…”

“I can guess what you were looking for. I’ve read some wives, some keyholders, spank their chasties when they try to steal the key and relieve themselves without permission.” My anger was percolating to the top. Honesty has always been important in our relationship. John and I, as a rule, do not keep secrets from each other. Yet, here he was, trying to go behind my back to satisfy his baser desires.

“Maybe you should, too,” he muttered, this time barely loud enough for me to hear, “it might take my mind off the, the other.”

“That does it!” I swore. “Drop your pants, I’ll be right back.”

John’s face was pale when I returned from the bathroom with my hairbrush. I never spanked John, nor did I ever expect to. Spanking was never part of our married life either in fun or as part of a domestic discipline regimen, but I was steamed. John seemed to be regressing before my eyes. Pawing through mommy’s jewelry box when she is not there, how juvenile is that?

“I said get those pants down!” I ordered as I moved my vanity bench into the open.

“But I didn’t really mean…” John started.

“Well, I did,” I said and sat, looking at him still standing like a bird transfixed by the stare of a coiled snake. “Come here!” I pointed at the floor where I wanted him to stand.

John moved in reaction to my command. Once within reach, I undid his belt and proceeded to yank down his jeans. His briefs were dragged down an inch or two, so I put my thumbs under the waistband and said, “We’ll have these down too.”

Taking John’s arm, I steered him into position and pulled him down across my lap. I’ve never spanked anyone before, not even in my babysitting years, but the ritual was coming to me as though it was the most natural thing in the world for a wife to do to her naughty husband.

Again, as part of my research into chastity for males, I’d read in some blogs about Female Led Marriages (FLMs they called them). The accounts all seemed farfetched—certainly nothing like my marriage—but at the same time, they were titillating, in a sexual fantasy sort of way. In some of those accounts, the women started spanking sessions with their hands. They called it a warmup. I was in no mood to warm John’s ass; I was in the mood to spank it—to turn it red, swollen, and very painful.

I lifted the hairbrush and brought it crashing down on John’s pale pink backside. WHAP!!

END of Part 1

Copyright © 2022 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved. Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

The spanking continues in Part 2 Never Spanked.

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