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Taking My First Wobbly Steps Into The World Of Male Chastity

A few weeks ago I received an email from a customer. A regular query asking about sizing and looking for recommendations. Nothing odd about that. We started emailing back and forth then he revealled that he's a journalist (an award winner in his niche) and asked if I'd be interested in publishing his experience of trying a chastity cage for the first time (amongst other things). Delighted with the offer and eager to hear his thoughts I jumped at the chance and quickly accepted.

Here's his story.

Lock and keys page break

I’d never even heard of male chastity until the topic came up at a dinner party sometime ago, the conversation being led by a lady who was very much in favour of the idea.  I listened quietly at my end of the table, contributing little but absorbing much. I came away intrigued, elements of that discussion buzzing round my head long afterwards. I’m a journalist and like to think of myself as open to fresh ideas and chastity sounded rather appealing. Although it startled me to think it, I found I liked the idea of being locked up, denied, my energies re-focussed, directed down channels other than my own pleasure.

And so a seed was planted. When Covid came along, and put an end to international travel, clipping my wings, I decided to take lockdown literally, and use it as an opportunity to embark on my own inner journey: exploring this brave new world of chastity.

Since I was going to be cooling my heels at home, I decided to take that literally too. For ages I’d had this sneaking desire to wear high heels. It was my guiltiest secret. One I never imagined I’d really act upon. But if I was going to be spending the next few months sitting home writing a novel, why not? What would it hurt? Having opened myself up to chastity, it was but a short if rather breathtaking step to daring myself to buy a pair of stilettos. I had no idea what a fabulous pairing chastity and heels would turn out to be.

And so I went shopping. And gosh, wasn’t browsing for heels a pleasantly dizzying novelty? So many styles, colours, and heel heights from which to choose, all of them dangerously feminine and miles outside my usual button-down self. I’d never tried on a pair of heels in my life. As to style, I knew only that I wanted nice ones, nothing tacky, no stripper heels, no platforms, nothing fetishy. After much pleasurable indecision I whittled down my choices to either an almond-toed pump in black leather or a classic ladies’ knee boot in brown, both with five-inch stiletto heels. Eventually I went with the boots – on the rather nonsensical grounds that in the moment they somehow seemed less girly.

My search for chastity was simpler, if no less giddy. Smiling Fate led me to the virtual doors of the House of Denial. Once again I found myself confronted with bewildering choice but after a pleasant exchange of emails with Mistress K, who sent me a very useful sizing chart, I ordered myself one of their S200-series cages – a rather elegant stainless steel affair, whose artiness – for lack of a better word – made it seem somehow less hard-core and confrontational.

My boots arrived first, having had a several-day head start, neatly folded in their box, wrapped in tissue, smelling richly of new leather. As I laid them out I could feel my cheeks flush and heart pound, becoming suddenly shy in the face of my own daring. After a long moment I try them on. I’m pleasantly surprised to find they fit beautifully. They’d looked oddly small at first, but then I wasn’t used to the foreshortening effects of high heels. I sat for a while, holding my feet up, marvelling at the sight of myself in stilettos.

Then it was time to stand; the big reveal. I placed my feet on the floor – or rather I try to, for only the balls of my feet actually touch, the rest being held aloft by a towering heel. After another long moment's pause to gather my thoughts, I rise up. It’s exhilarating. I become aware of this subtle shift in my centre of gravity, an unaccustomed tippy-toe elevation and an intriguing sense of feminine poise. A giddy realisation comes over me: I'm in heels!

And my cheeks flush:  I kind of like this.

No, I love it.

My cage arrived the following day. Once again I find myself a little awed by my purchase. I turn it over in my hands, marvelling at its heft, precision and purpose. The stainless steel was smooth and polished, tactile. With the almost Art Nouveau styling on the latticing at the front of the cage, I feel like I’m holding a piece of art – but highly functional art. When I test the key, the lock closes with a decisive click. Once on, there will be no getting out of this.

Eager to launch myself on this journey into chastity I take a shower and put it on. Fumbling fingers and inconvenient arousal meant it took a few tries, but then suddenly everything comes together, the cage slides home and before anything can slip out of alignment I insert the key and lock myself in.

And there it is.

I’m in chastity.

I look down at my cage, neat, smug, secure, and take a deep calming breath.

I think I’m going to like this…

I’m pleased to discover my cage is discrete enough to wear under my skinny jeans with no tell-tale bulge, although of course I know it's there. It’s comfortable but pleasurably insistent at the same time. Intrigued by my subjugated state, and more than a little aroused by it, I find I’m unable to resist toying with it, fumbling experimentally, wanting it to be secure, naturally, but at the same time wondering if maybe I can’t wriggle around and ease myself just a teensy bit. But no dice. No matter what I do I am utterly unable to give myself any pleasure or relief. Nothing to touch but unyielding steel. And having hidden the keys in inconvenient locations, that’s the way it will remain. I have no intention of cheating.

Acceptance and submission is the only way forward.

A focus on other things.

There really is no other choice.

As I settle into my cage I find that thought oddly liberating.

Masculinity has been set aside, locked away, is no longer the driving force.

And wow what a difference! These powerful sensations are heightened still further when I put on my heels and head downstairs to start my day’s work. Along with their poise comes a sense of submission, my hobbled gait a reminder of empowered femininity. I can feel it flowing through me, guiding me. As I sit writing at the table, in jeans, jumper and stiletto boots, masculinity locked away in an elegant steel cage, I find myself opening to the idea of exploring a side of myself I’d scarcely recognised or acknowledged before. And with this openness comes a surge of creativity, with no other outlet for expression than the page on which I am writing. I may be stuck at home, but I feel as though I’m embarking on a grand journey. This is going to be good.

A persona has been created to protect his identify.

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