My Dom Locked Me in Chastity and Made Me Read

When I agreed to spend some time in chastity, I thought it would be a manageable game, one of those trials that are more exciting in the imagination than in practice. I was wrong. Not because wearing the belt or the plug was unbearable, but because my owner found the exact way to put desire in my head and leave it there, throbbing, without giving me permission to shut it off.

I call him my owner when we're alone. Outside the house, he's simply Mauro, my partner, a calm, grown man, patient, with the kind of quiet authority that doesn't need him to raise his voice for me to obey. In the bedroom, or the living room, or the kitchen when he feels like it, he's my Dom, and I know perfectly well the tone he uses when he expects complete submission.

Chastity began as a short challenge. A few days without orgasms, a little discipline, a few simple orders. But he decided to extend it because, as he put it, I still wasn't completely empty.

—You have a very hard time stopping yourself from seeking pleasure —he explained one night as he sat me on the edge of the bed—. I want to see what happens when you can't escape either with your hands or with your head.

He calmly spread my legs and fitted the plug as if it were already part of my routine, unhurried, sinking it slowly while I breathed through my mouth. He knew my body by heart. He knew exactly how far to push, when to stop, when to look at me to check whether I was enjoying it too much.

—That's it —he murmured, pressing the base against my sex—. I want you to get used to feeling occupied.

The worst part, or the best, was that he was right. After several days, I stopped noticing it every second. I walked around the house, cleaned the kitchen, folded laundry, or worked at the computer with that intimate weight inside me, discreet, firm, permanent. And when for some reason I removed it to clean myself or shower, I felt such a distinct emptiness that I caught myself searching for it with my legs, as if I were missing part of my uniform.

That idea obsessed me more than it should have. I wanted to suffer more, feel more intensity, more discomfort, something that would prove I was being an exemplary submissive. I confessed it to him one afternoon, thinking he would like my devotion. What I got was his cold expression, the one that makes me squeeze my thighs even though I know it won't do any good.

—I didn't ask you to suffer on a whim —he said—. I asked for obedience. If you keep insisting on inventing tests for yourself so you can feel better about yourself, I'm going to punish you.

I got wet when I heard him. It humiliated me to admit it, but I got wet anyway. Because when he gets like that, when he makes it clear that he is in charge and not my disordered fantasies, something in me surrenders immediately.

The punishment came that weekend.

***

He made me shower and present myself naked in the bedroom, except for the thin leather collar I only wear for him. The room was arranged with the almost ceremonial cleanliness Mauro likes before playing. The curtains were closed, a lamp was on, and the book was already placed on the bedspread.

I recognized it at once. It was an especially filthy erotic novel, chosen by him with all the viciousness in the world. He smiled when he saw my face.

—Today you're going to read aloud —he said—. And you won't stop even if you get touched, even if you open up, even if you beg me to come. Understood?

—Yes, sir.

—Clearer.

—Yes, my Dom.

He ordered me to bend over the bed. I felt the air on my ass before I felt his hand. The first smack wasn't brutal, but it was sharp. The second drew a moan from me. By the fifth, my skin was burning and my head was light, and I began to understand that he wasn't punishing me for breaking one particular rule, but for my habit of wanting to decide what kind of submissive I ought to be.

—Count —he ordered.

—Six.

Another slap. Then another. I lost the rhythm in the mixture of pain and arousal, and that made him correct me with two more, this time lower, exactly where the impact spread toward my thighs. The plug shifted inside me with every blow and tore a thick, indecent sensation from me, as if the punishment were fucking me from the inside.

When he finished, he had me trembling. I was still bent over, my face buried between my forearms, my cunt wet and my ass hot. I felt his fingers parting my lips and let out an embarrassed moan.

—Look at you —he said—. Punished and dripping.

He didn't let me answer. He slid two fingers in and buried them without gentleness, forcing me to spread my legs wider. I felt the plug inside and his fingers in front, filling me from both sides, and my knees buckled.

—Do you like being corrected?

—Yes.

He pinched my thigh.

—Sir.

—Yes, sir. I like it.

He moved in and out several times, getting thoroughly wet with my arousal. He wasn't caressing me to relieve me; he was using me, stirring my desire until it glowed white-hot. Every time his fingers brushed that swollen, sensitive place inside me, a spasm escaped me. I wanted to move my hips, seeking more, and he held me by the nape.

—Still. You don't fuck with me. You take whatever I give you.

His other hand spread my ass without putting anything in, merely holding the hot flesh apart while the plug remained buried in me. I moaned into the bedspread. The contrast between his fingers in front, the pressure behind, and the sting in my buttocks turned me into an obedient mass, breathing in ragged gasps.

—Now sit —he ordered.

I sat on the bed with my legs spread. He put the book in my hands and settled beside me, still dressed, immaculate, as if he hadn't just left me half-undone.

—Start reading.

I did. My voice was unsteady at first, but he wouldn't let me stop. After a few paragraphs, I was already inside an explicit sex scene, pronouncing filthy words with a dry throat while I felt my own body react. Mauro ran two fingers over the red marks on my buttocks, and I lost my place.

—Keep going.

I picked up the sentence. He stroked me between the thighs without reaching the center, merely brushing up and down. Every time I thought he was finally going to touch me where I needed it most, he pulled away. My voice began to break over the more direct words, especially when the text described cocks, mouths, come, everything I couldn't have even though I was reading it aloud.

Suddenly he took the book from one hand.

—Hold it with your left —he said—. Your right behind your back.

I obeyed. He spread my legs farther and looked at me for a second, enjoying my tension.

—Keep reading while I open you.

He slid two fingers over my wet cunt and put one in me, then two, with calculated slowness. I kept reading as best I could, swallowing my moans between sentences. My entire body was focused between my legs. The plug pushed from inside, his fingers penetrated me from the front, and the friction had me so aroused that the words began to blur together.

—Enunciate properly —he corrected me with cruel calm—. If you're going to read obscenities, read them all the way through.

And I read them. I read about tongues, about fucking against the wall, about women begging for more with their mouths full. Meanwhile, my Dom fucked me with his hand at a slow pace, pulling his fingers out and pushing them back in again and again, making wet sounds with my arousal. My clitoris burned from not receiving exactly what I was asking for.

When I was about to clamp my legs shut by reflex, he withdrew his hand. I almost cried with frustration.

—Thank you, sir —I said, because that was what I was supposed to say.

He smiled. That slight, satisfied smile of his embarrassed me more than if he had openly laughed at me.

—On all fours.

I dropped the book and changed position on the bed. I heard his belt buckle opening. That sound alone made me wet again with an almost ridiculous violence. He didn't always let me feel him inside me during chastity. So when he did, my body went on alert as if it were finally going to be fed after days of being kept on bread and water.

He stroked my ass with his open palm before lowering his pants far enough. Then he pulled on the plug. It came out slowly, slick, and I moaned at the immediate emptiness.

—You'd grown attached to it, hadn't you?

—Yes, sir.

He ran the tip of his cock over my swollen lips, coating it. I pushed back on pure instinct. He gave me a short slap.

—Don't impale yourself on my cock.

I had to stay still, my back arched and my cunt throbbing like mad. He worked it in little by little, opening me around him, forcing me to feel every inch. Mauro isn't a rough man without control; he's worse. He knows exactly how to make slow penetration more obscene than a savage thrust.

—Fuck —escaped me when he went all the way in.

—That's it. Say it.

He pulled out only a little and sank back in. The wet sound filled the room. He gripped my hips hard and began fucking me at an even pace, without mercy but without haste, making sure I felt the thickness, the friction, and the delicious punishment of being unable to come even though he was taking me to the edge.

—Read it now —he said, pointing to the open book on the bed.

It took me a second to understand. Then I had to bend down, with him still inside me, to see the lines. He pulled almost all the way out and pushed back in while I tried to read aloud. Every thrust cut off my breath. Every obscene word mixed with the slap of his pelvis against my hot ass.

—Louder —he ordered, digging his fingers into my waist.

I read, trembling, saying “cunt,” “cock,” “come” between moans, while he fucked me from behind and let the wetness run down the insides of my thighs. I was so aroused that my belly contracted on its own. Several times I felt the orgasm approaching, rising like a thick wave, and several times he changed the angle or slowed just enough to ruin it.

—Not yet —he murmured against my back—. I want to hear you beg properly.

That was what broke me. Because I had endured the hand, the punishment, the reading, the restrained penetration. But when he asked me to beg, the proud submissive I sometimes wanted to be disappeared, and all that remained was a hot, open, needy woman.

—Please, sir.

—Please what?

He thrust deeper. I let out a short cry.

—Let me come. Please. I'm about to.

—I know.

And he kept fucking me without giving me permission. Faster now, dirtier, making the bed creak, drawing moans from me that were no longer restrained in the slightest. He brought one hand to my breast, twisted a nipple between his fingers, and then moved down to my clitoris. He barely touched it, a short, exact pressure, and I had to bite the sheet to keep from coming apart.

—Look at me —he ordered.

I turned my head as best I could. His expression was pure concentration, jaw tense, eyes fixed on me, his cock sliding in and out coated in my own wetness. The sight aroused me almost as much as the friction.

—Tell me whose cunt this is.

—Yours.

—Whose?

He gave me a brutal thrust, one that reached all the way in and made a wet, obscene, unmistakable sound.

—Yours, sir. Yours alone.

Then he did. Then he began touching me for real. His fingers rubbed my clitoris with exactly the right pressure while he kept fucking me without stopping for a second. It was too much all at once: the shame, the pain of the punishment still alive in my ass, the book lying open beside me, his cock pounding inside me, his hand working me outside. The orgasm shot up through my belly like a lash and split me in two.

I came screaming his title, without elegance, without holding anything back. My cunt throbbed around his cock again and again, squeezing him as he continued thrusting, using my spasms to drive himself deeper and deeper. I felt him holding me so he could use my body during my own climax, as if my come belonged to him completely.

—That's it —he growled near my ear—. That's how I like to leave you.

He didn't let me rest. He kept fucking me with short, deep thrusts until my orgasm turned into painful sensitivity. I was moaning senselessly now, exhausted, my legs weak. When he came, I felt it in the tension throughout his body before I felt it in his hardened cock striking one last time. He emptied himself inside me with a hoarse groan and kept me full for several seconds, motionless, breathing hard against my back.

When he pulled out, I collapsed onto the bed. My body was open, my ass burning, my cunt trembling, and my mind empty of all resistance. Mauro brushed the hair from the nape of my neck and kissed me there, softly, almost tenderly.

—Now you understand —he said.

I didn't know whether I nodded or simply let myself sink farther down. But yes, I understood.

***

After that night, the routine changed for good. Reading stopped being a decoration and became discipline. Every night, for between forty-five minutes and an hour, I had to read whatever he chose or whatever I suggested with his prior approval. No excuses. No distracting screens. No touching myself.

The worst part was that he didn't always intervene. Sometimes he sat in an armchair with his laptop, working as if I were just another object in the room. I was there, with the plug inside me or the belt on, depending on what he had ordered, reading entire pages of explicit sex while he barely looked up. That indifference affected me more than any hand.

Because I knew he was watching me even when it didn't seem like it. I knew he noticed when I squeezed my thighs, when my tone of voice changed, when I got so wet that I had to reposition myself on the bed to avoid rubbing too much. And above all, I knew he enjoyed letting my need grow without doing anything to relieve it.

One night I had a novel I'd chosen myself. I thought it would be easier because I knew the style, but I was wrong again. It was worse to read something that genuinely aroused me, something that hadn't been selected as punishment but as a matter of personal taste. Mauro realized it on the third page.

—You're enjoying it too much.

I kept reading, though my cheeks were burning.

—Answer me.

—Yes, sir.

He approached the bed and pulled the book aside for just a second to kiss me. It was a dirty, lingering kiss, his tongue entering my mouth while I remained seated with my legs held together by the belt. When he pulled away, he left me breathless.

—Open the page and keep going. If you stop, I won't take anything off you all day tomorrow.

I read. He positioned himself behind me and unfastened my belt with the calm of a man opening a gift that already belonged to him. I wanted to turn around, throw myself on top of him, kneel and suck his cock until he filled my face. I couldn't do anything. He held me by the neck with one hand and used the other to put the plug back in, larger this time.

It went in slowly, stretching me with firm pressure that made me gasp over the page. I got so wet that my thigh was glistening within seconds.

—That's what I wanted to see —he murmured—. A book opening you up like that.

The reading continued amid small tortures. A pinch on the nipple. A hand closing around my throat just enough to remind me of his control. Two fingers spreading my wetness over the fold of my lips without entering. A sharp order whenever my voice trembled too much.

I reached the end of the chapter shattered with arousal. I closed the book and looked at him with the humiliating mixture of desire and submission he liked so much.

—May I ask for something, sir?

—You may ask. Whether I give it to you is another matter.

I knelt before him. I opened his pants and pulled out his hard, heavy cock, already shining at the tip. Just seeing it so close made me salivate. I gripped it with one hand and kissed the base before slowly licking upward.

—I want to suck it.

—You're already doing it.

He was right. I took it into my mouth hungrily, tightening my lips, letting it brush my throat while my hand worked on what wouldn't fit. Mauro held my hair and set the pace with short tugs. He didn't force me to swallow it all at once; he guided me, which is different. I moved up and down obediently, savoring the heat, the weight, and that note of authority that always drives me wild when he uses my mouth.

—That's it, slut —he said quietly—. Read obscenities and then do them.

I moaned around his cock. The plug inside me and my full mouth had me in a state of savage arousal. He pulled me away just when I was doing it best and made me stand.

—Turn around. Put your hands on the wall.

I obeyed immediately. He lifted the hem of my nightgown and lowered the fabric just enough to expose my ass. He removed the plug and, before penetrating me, spat between my buttocks. The gesture made my entire body shudder. He ran two fingers over the spot, opening and pressing, without putting in more than the tip. I moaned against the wall.

—Easy. I'm not going to fuck your ass today. I want you to feel it and be left wanting.

Then he lowered his hand to my cunt and put in one finger, then two, stirring my wetness roughly. I nearly pulled myself onto them, begging with my body, when I felt the tip of his cock at my entrance.

—Fuck me, please.

—That sounds better.

He entered in a single thrust. I let out such a loud cry that I had to bite my lip. He grabbed my hips and began fucking me hard, without aesthetic concern, the way I like it once he's worked over my head enough. The sound of his pelvis against my ass rebounded off the wall. Every thrust crushed my chest against the paint and left my cunt throbbing.

He put one hand in front of me to rub my clitoris while he kept penetrating me. It wasn't a delicate caress; it was firm, rapid friction, taking me to the edge on purpose. I could no longer speak in complete sentences. Only moans, short pleas, and his title repeated like an indecent litany came out.

—Tell me you like obeying.

—I love obeying you.

—Tell me I leave you a needy slut.

—Yes, sir. You leave me like that. A needy slut.

He grabbed my neck and made me turn my face just enough to kiss the corner of my mouth while he kept fucking me. That contrast always finishes me: brutality between my legs and an almost affectionate calm above. I felt the orgasm coming with unstoppable violence.

—Come —he ordered at last.

I needed nothing else. I came standing, against the wall, with his hand between my legs and his cock buried all the way inside me. The orgasm left me trembling, moaning filthily, contracting around him. Mauro grunted when he felt it and emptied himself seconds later, gripping me hard so I wouldn't fall.

When he finished, he kept me there, pressed against the wall, the two of us breathing as if we'd run a great distance. Then he turned me around and kissed me properly, long and slow, savoring the mess he'd made of me.

—Now you can close the book —he told me.

I burst out laughing, half broken, half happy. He smiled too.

From then on, I understood that chastity wasn't just about not coming. It was learning to inhabit desire without relieving it at once. It was wearing a plug for hours until it felt like part of me and, when it was gone, missing it. It was reading with my legs spread and my voice trembling, knowing that every word could become an order. It was begging when the time came and keeping quiet when he wanted silence.

And above all, it was discovering that my Dom didn't want to destroy me through gratuitous pain. He wanted to mold me through control, sustained arousal, precise punishments, and carefully administered orgasms. He wanted my cunt to obey him just as my mouth did.

He succeeded.