Rimmy And The red Headed Woman

“So, Rimbaud, I have decided I have a special task for you this afternoon,” Ms. Morrigan informed me, between sips of her tea.

“Yes?” I responded, immediately feeling a surge in my penis, which had become only semi-erect while I had concentrated on dusting her knick-nacks. Ms. Morrigan always has me do chores for her in the nude, and today was no exception.

“Yes, you’ve been a very good boy, and I want to reward you. But for this task, I really am going to need you to put on a cage.”

And with that, my cock practically slapped me in the belly. I had no idea what she had in mind; but the very mention of a chastity device – the fact that she now wanted to deny me not only an orgasm, but even the possibility of an erection – was deliciously unsettling.

“I hope you brought the clear plastic one,” she added. “I love the visuals.”

I nodded. I always brought at least two chastity devices, in case she stated a preference. Truth be told, I liked the CB6000 too. It wasn’t as practical for long-term wear, but I understood what she meant about the visuals. The bulb on the end of it allowed my glans to expand to almost full size, and to turn shockingly purple as the blood that rushed into it found itself trapped by the fact that my shaft was constrained into a narrow inch of hard plastic. But I was also almost entirely encased, other than the tiny slot at the end. No opportunity to bulge out between the bars and receive even the slightest external sensation.

I stepped into the guest bathroom and pulled the little bag containing the components of the CB6000 out of my backpack. I lubricated the ring and fit it around the neck of my scrotum, forcing my protesting testicles to not pull up against my body. Then I lubricated the inside of the cage itself particularly generously, and worked to slowly force it over my shaft. This always took some time when I was already erect, and today even the intense concentration that it required wasn’t causing me to lose any tumescence. I hoped Ms. M wasn’t getting impatient.

When I finally returned from the bathroom, the scene before me took my breath away. Ms. Morrigan was seated in her favorite chair, her legs crossed, her black skirt showing her legs from the knees down, her shiny black silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of delicious cleavage. But on the end table beside her, I saw an array of items that she had recently had me purchase for her from her wishlist: a pink bikini-trimmer lady’s shaver. The bottles of “Coochie-plus Intimate Shaving” aftershave and moisturizer. And on the floor before her, a steaming bowl of hot water and a white washcloth and towel, with a shiny silver razor perched atop it.

She reached a hand toward me and simply said, “Key, please.”

Trembling, I approached her and handed her the key. This was too amazing to be true. In our months together, Ms. Morrigan had mostly only allowed me to actually touch her pretty feet, only recently letting me move up to put lotion on her shapely calves. Was she really going to invite me to pay detailed attention to the most intimate, sacred part of her unattainable body?

“Ms. Morrigan,” I asked, breathlessly. “Are you going to allow me … to shave you?”

Her eyes sparkled as she gestured for me to lean toward her enough that she could reach up and caress my cheek. “Oh, dear, sweet Rimmy,” she replied. “Of course not.”

I could literally feel the confusion that must have been passing over my face. “But … then … what is my task?”

She picked up her phone and pushed a single button. A moment later, the doorbell rang. “I need you to answer the door.”

I straightened up, feeling the dread spreading outward from my stomach. I was completely naked, except for the humiliating little plastic cage compressing my genitals. Who was at the door? The UPS man? Or perhaps some other, less random, less submissive male visitor?

She looked at me, expectantly, somewhat sternly. I gulped, but obediently I turned and walked across the room to the front door, and opened it.

The person on the other side of the door was a woman. A striking woman, of medium height and slender build, with a head full of strawberry blonde hair piled up in an informal bun and a pretty face with exquisite, subtle make-up.

I realized it was the saleswoman from Ms. M’s favorite shoe store.

The woman looked me up and down briefly, pausing briefly as she observed the plastic contraption that was punishing my manhood. A hint of a smile crossed her face, but she stepped past me wordlessly.

“Hello, Annalise,” I heard Ms. Morrigan say. “You remember my friend Rimbaud?”

“Yes,” Annalise responded, without turning back to me. I had accompanied Ms. Morrigan on a couple of shopping excursions, carrying her bags and even gently offering my opinions, but of course I had been fully dressed then.

“Hello, Annalise,” I said, my eyes following her as she walked slowly away from me, toward my goddess.

“Rimbaud,” Ms. Morrigan continued, “I would appreciate it if you would go wash my car.”

Her car. Out in the driveway. And I was naked, except for the cage. I was gripped with turmoil, but as always, I was also swept away with the excitement of acquiescing. “Yes, ma’am,” was all I could say.

I headed for the kitchen, but then paused and allowed myself one forlorn look back. Ms. Morrigan was opening her lovely legs, her skirt beginning to rise around her silken thighs. But I couldn’t see more than that. All I could see was Annalise, beginning to kneel at Ms. Morrigan’s feet.