Marinella’s Chastity Belt – Ch. 1

This first experience with a chastity belt had been breath-taking, in a frightening sort of way. This contraption, she reminded herself – this steely metal undergarment, was locked onto her hips. And without the key, she truly, absolutely could not get it off. She had no access to herself at all, no ability to let out any of the frustration she felt, a steel wall erected between her and her own sex that no amount of strength could shift. It was a thought that thrilled her as she cast her mind back to the journals she had read of maidens locked into similar, if not less substantial devices than hers. To remain like this, the way she felt now, for months, if not years on end – how would that feel? If she could not remove the belt… no, the thought didn’t bear thinking about. Marinella knew she could, anyway. She had the key in her hand. All she had to do, right now, was push it gently into the lock… just like that… and twist-

…

What?

She sat bolt up right, stumbling to her feet, as she looked down at the key. She twisted at it again, but nothing happened. It wouldn’t turn.

Marinella’s heart stopped. She rattled at the key, at the lock, twisting it in both directions, turning it over. She kept trying for several minutes, wondering if she’d made some mistake, some obvious error, but it was fruitless; the chastity belt remained firmly locked in place, the key refusing to turn a millimetre.

And with that, Marinella’s chastity truly began.

Tara’s Game

“P-Please, I- Ah… N-No! Let me go, please…!” The hellhound went wild in the restraints again, bucking and wrenching at the straps hopelessly as she felt the feather touch down, moving slowly up and around in time with the angel’s circling fingertips. Soon, she was gasping and panting once more, feeling the fingers and the feather work together to stimulate her so unbearably lightly. One finger slid inside her, rubbing and flicking against the inside of her clenching tunnel as she tried desperately to hump it, to free her torso from the straps keeping it so completely still and vulnerable. Free of the angel’s weight, her struggling renewed, but rather soon, only half an hour and 13 denied orgasms later, came to a exhausted, humiliated stop.

The edging, however, did not.

It cycled endlessly between so many different techniques. The feathers, several different ones – the brush, the long strokes, the intolerable rotation of the brush’s very tip against her weary, overstressed clit… and those fingers. Those soft, careful, deft little fingers. Cinder could’ve wept. But she’d already spent enough of her tears today, and it was all she could do to helplessly weather the sensations, unable to do a single thing to stop the angel or even interrupt her careful, practiced touch. She wailed and whined, but it was hopeless. The angel ignored her, neither one of them able to focus on anything but the sensations they felt.