Rita Hayworth

Not so fast, Sweetie!’ Mrs Barker-Jones called out in a sing-song voice from the gallery to her husband down in the hall.

Mr Barker-Jones’ brow furrowed. ‘But I’ll be late for work!’ he called back, eager to get out of the house to the relative safety of his office. ‘I’ve a board meeting first thing.’

‘You’re the CEO. They’ll wait,’ his wife responded, in a manner indicating there was no room for discussion.

Reluctantly, Mr Barker-Jones loosened his grip on the door handle, and waited to receive the latest in a long line of chastisements.

A touch of the Rita Hayworth about her, her husband had thought on their first date, and in a floor-length black velvet robe and kitten-heels, his statuesque redhead wife descended the staircase just like a star of the silver screen. But with every step, her manicured ruby-red fingernails tapped a cruel rhythm on the banister. When she finally reached the bottom step, she told him, ‘Your PA—she called me yesterday—concerned about the state of your health.’

‘My health?’ her husband replied, confused.

‘Apparently, you’ve been rather hot and bothered in the office lately, and struggling to concentrate on your work.’

‘H-have I?’

‘Yes, Sweetie, you have, and your PA seems to think that this malady of yours coincides with the appearance of a new member of staff-—the accounts clerk—young, tall, slim, blonde, blue eyes, long legs, eager to please…’ She drew out the description of the accounts clerk as if it were an elocution lesson.

Mr Barker-Jones withered under his wife’s penetrating gaze, and mumbled incoherently, ‘I, um, I don’t, um, I haven’t…’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I thought you’d say, Sweetie.’ With a nod to the direction of the orangery, his wife then added, ‘But you know what has to happen next—we defuse this unfortunate situation with immediate effect.’

Her husband put down his satchel, which was a gift from his mother-in-law, along with the mackintosh. ‘Do you have to?’ he whined. ‘It’s not as if I could even do anything with it, anyway; it’s locked away in a cage day and night!’ He stamped his foot in temper. ‘It’s not fair!”

Mrs Barker-Jones smirked at her CEO husband’s sulky face. He was having a tantrum. So perfectly childish! A brilliant business mind, but quite pathetic otherwise, she had quickly come to realise that on their first date.

‘But physical chastity isn’t enough, Sweetie; it has to be a state of mind, too.’ She prodded her husband on the forehead to make her point. ‘You should have learnt that that by now, you silly boy.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘After all, you don’t want that primitive urge building up and interfering with your progress at work, now do you?’

He shook his head, and squeezed his thighs together, and wished that the useless bits trapped between his legs would just fall off like a lamb’s banded tail. It was always getting him into trouble—this skin tag, as his wife called it. His life would be so much easier without it. At least, that was what he had come to believe since his marriage.

‘You’ve got a lot to do to meet the ambitious sales targets I’ve set you for this financial year,’ his wife reminded him as she deftly undid the buckle of his belt and unzipped his trousers, which his mother-in-law had taken up so that they were too short for him. Long gone were the bespoke designer suits and handmade footwear. He now wore hand-me-down clothes and Clarks’ back-to-school shoes, which were far more practical for such a clumsy boy, his mother-in-law had said. ‘After all,’ his wife continued, ‘I’m spending money like you’ve already earned it, more and more each day. You’ll just have to try to keep up with me, Sweetie.’

‘I know,’ Mr Barker-Jones said, followed by a deep sigh and a shaking of the head. ‘The bills are piling up in my in-tray.’

‘That’s right, Sweetie—the sooner you get back to work, the sooner you pay those bills.’ Extracting a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of her robe, his curvaceous wife then swung them before his eyes like a metronome counting time. ‘So, stop answering back, and let’s get this nasty business over and done with as quickly as possible, for both our sake, shall we?’ his wife said, neither expecting nor waiting for an answer. ‘Now get in there!’ she ordered, and a warning smack on the bottom got her husband moving in double-quick time to the orangery.

In the orangery, at the rear of the house, there were no blinds or curtains to obscure the pastoral views, which were so popular with the ramblers who used the right of way through the grounds, and so the room was flooded with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The orangery was also known as the playroom, initially because it contained the model train set that Mr Barker-Jones had played with since childhood. There was the train set at one end, a folding daybed or cot at the other, and a large rubber exercise or play mat in the centre of the room. When his wife entertained guests, often she would tell him: ‘Run along to the playroom, Sweetie. Go play with your toys, there’s a good boy!’ And usually, her husband liked to go to the playroom as it provided an escape from the constant criticism and ridicule. But not today; there would be no escape today.

He knew the drill by now, pulling off his shoes and dropping his trousers on a wooden chair by the door, and then down on his back on the play mat to assume the position—a suspended backward roll, with his legs doubled over his head, so that his groin was directly above his face. It was not at all an easy position to hold for any length of time, but thanks to the yoga classes his wife had signed him up for, his body was quite supple now.

While spreading her husband’s legs and positioning herself between them so she could have full access to his bottom, his wife’s velvet robe fell open to reveal her bare breasts and erect nipples. Prostate milking time was the only time Mrs Barker-Jones ever got aroused in the company of her husband. It still excited her to see him rendered impotent, especially as he had once been so cocksure. And at the sight of his wife’s fulsome breasts bearing down upon him, and the brush of her nipples against his thighs, her husband’s cock stirred from its hibernation and it stretched and stiffened in its cage. But its uprising was immediately crushed against the unforgiving steel bars, and Mr Barker-Jones screeched at the resulting pain.

Mrs Barker-Jones threw back her head with a laugh that made her breasts jiggle, and when she had recovered her composure, she wagged her finger disapprovingly at him. ‘Naughty, naughty, Sweetie!’

The chastity cage was so terribly tight now, Mr Barker-Jones felt sure his cock and balls would be permanently scarred from the imprint of the steel bars, which felt like teeth biting into his flesh. The same could be said of his mind, for he no longer associated his cock with pleasure, only pain and suffering. For all he knew, his cock might not even function anymore as a sex organ—crushed, damaged, beyond repair. Perhaps it would have to be amputated due to lack of blood circulation—cut off—and that would be the end of the torment. Blessed relief!

She had done this to him. She had made him think this way. His wife! The woman he loved. The woman he feared. The woman he was so desperate to please, but never could. She had snared his manhood, and she was literally draining the life out of it.

First, the plastic milking bib was tucked into his collar to protect his shirt and tie from splashes. Then the plastic pants and pull-up nappy were yanked down to his knees in one swift and well-rehearsed manoeuvre. This was followed by the snap of latex gloves being donned and a light dusting of talcum powder from within. Next came the pop of the lid of the jar of Vaseline, and then the squelch of the latex fingers scooping out a dollop of the translucent jelly.

The sounds alone were enough to set Mr Barker-Jones’ limbs trembling, and somewhat strangely, his cock wetting or salivating, even.

‘What a dirty little boy you are!‘ his wife exclaimed when she caught a glimpse of what her youngest sister referred to as cock snot, and she reached down and gave the cage a good, sharp slap. This caused her husband to screech again, but this time his body recoiled from the shock of the punishment and he struggled to regain his balance.

‘Position!’ Mrs Barker-Jones demanded, raising her hand in readiness to slap once more.

Her husband whimpered as he steadied himself. And only when he was stock-still did his wife spread his bottom cheeks.

Mrs Barker-Jones was an expert at milking a man. She had a number of techniques, devices and tricks up her sleeve, down her bra, and in her handbag, as she liked to quip, to drain every last drop of prostatic and seminal fluid from the prostate and testes glands of her husband—or any man, for that matter.

Explaining the theory and practice of this quaint custom at a recent illustrated talk she had given to her local branch of the Women’s Institute, Mrs Barker-Jones had summed it up in the simple, memorable turn of phrase: the milking of the gland, not the wanking of the organ. And following that well-attended talk, a date had been set for a workshop to be held for a select group of women particularly interested in a live demonstration.

Mr Barker-Jones flinched at the clinical touch of his wife as she lubricated his anus with the dollop of Vaseline.

‘Take a nice, deep breath for me; there’s a good boy,’ she instructed.

Her husband did as he was told, and as he exhaled, his wife penetrated his anus with her middle finger, which immediately caused him to catch his breath and simultaneously tighten his sphincter. But this did not deter Mrs Barker-Jones who simply waited a minute or so for her husband to surrender to the violation, at which point his sphincter gave up the fight, also. And then, slowly but surely, his wife probed him rectally with the entire length of her digit.

At such indignity, Mr Barker-Jones could only console himself with the thought that at least none of his wife’s five sisters were present at the house on this occasion, or the landscape gardener, for that matter, for he would often hear him sniggering out there on the patio.

Mrs Barker-Jones preferred to milk her husband’s prostate by the digital method, as although the Aneros was highly efficient at massaging the gland to express the fluid, it also had the unwanted side effect of inducing pleasure, which could potentially prove orgasmic. Any such pleasure, of course, had to be kept to the absolute bare minimum in regard to the treatment of Mr Barker-Jones. His wife, therefore, was a practitioner of the digital method of prostate massage as performed by urologists across the country for rectal examination and prostate drainage. This method was most suitably perfunctory for the purpose of maintaining her husband’s chastity.

A walnut-sized gland positioned betwixt the penis and the bladder, Mrs Barker-Jones located her husband’s prostate, outlined at the frontal wall of the rectum. Blessed with long fingers—and with the precaution of a rubber thimblette fitted over the inch-long, sharp fingernail—she could well reach and tickle her husband’s p-spot with her middle finger in order to skilfully draw and drain off this troublesome build-up of male libido from his sexual glands.

His wife had first milked him three years ago on their wedding night, just before she had caged his manhood. But not like this. Oh no! Back then, it had been a prostate orgasm with the vibrating Aneros—a sex toy, she had called it. And it had absolutely blown his mind. She had referred to the chastity cage as a sex toy, too, and so acquiescent was her husband in the heady aftermath of that orgasm, that he had actually allowed the woman to lock away his cock and balls in it. And the turn of that key was the moment that changed the course of his life.

Prior to meeting Ms Barker, Mr Jones had played the field. A playboy. He was quite the catch, indeed. But Ms Barker did not catch herself a husband in Mr Jones; she positively ensnared him. She set a trap for a dog out hunting for a bitch in heat. He had boasted to his rugby pals that this one was sex on legs. But sex on legs was saving herself for her wedding night, she said—and for Mr Jones, it was a very long and very hard wait. So when he did put the ring on her finger, he really did believe that he had just bought the shag of his life.

In his contorted state, as his wife worked to drain him of his manhood in this most humiliating manner, the painfully humiliating details of Mr Barker-Jones’ wedding night—three frustratingly long years ago—flashed before his eyes to torment him further.

Ever since that fateful day, the chastity milking had been a weekly event, first thing on a Sunday morning before church; along with a one week on, one week off rota for the chastity cage; but with time off each for exceptionally good behaviour. There was also a wanking prescription, for medicinal purposes only, and begrudgingly doled out by his wife during periods of illness to aid his recovery.

Due to this latest indiscretion, however, and for the foreseeable future, Mr Barker-Jones anticipated the following changes to the routine: 1) there would be no wanking prescription, 2) there would be no cage-free days, and 3) there would be a daily chastity milking. This would be abiding punishment for his overexcitement, until such a time that his PA felt so inclined to provide a positive report of his conduct in the office.

He was not sure if his wife would remove his Sky Sports privilege, as well, because already that week he had earned the necessary number of gold stars for doing good deeds in the community—weeding a neglected grave of a forgotten suffragette in the cemetery; escorting a cantankerous old lady to the hair salon for her blue rinse; and picking up the litter, dog mess and used condoms at a recreation ground.

‘You do understand how important it is that you’re drained of all this manhood, don’t you Sweetie?’ Mrs Barker-Jones said, as she pressed upon his prostrate gland.

Her husband nodded as best he could manage.

‘And why is that?’ she asked, as she pressed more firmly.

‘So I don’t misbehave,’ he murmured.

‘That’s right, Sweetie. We have to make sure that you don’t bother the girls or ladies with this pathetic little cockerel of yours,’ his wife stated, as the first droplet of milk emerged at its head. ‘You see, it’s like a ticking bomb that needs to be defused otherwise it’ll blow up and make a nasty mess everywhere. And we wouldn’t want that, would we, Sweetie?’

He gasped. He could feel it coming. Not like an orgasm, or peeing, but a release of something deep within him. It was something he could not control. It was happening whether he liked it or not. It was being drawn from his prostate and his testes. It was being taken from him. He was being milked of it. It was uncomfortable. It scared him. He wanted it to stop. He wanted her to stop, but he knew she would not. Never. Ever. Stop.

‘Let’s get rid of the horrible man stuff, eh, Sweetie?’ Mrs Barker-Jones said. ‘Open your mouth, nice and wide. Here it comes! Open your eyes—look! Watch it, Sweetie. It’s coming!’

Fearfully, her husband did as he was told. He opened his eyes and looked up at the cage dangling above his face. He saw the milky droplet from his cock now suspended on the steel tip, and then he watched it drop—straight into his waiting mouth—quickly followed by another drop, and another, and another, until it was a trickle of his fluids, trickling into his mouth, like water from a leaky tap.

Mr Barker-Jones was being drained. He was being milked. And his wife would make him drink his milk.

‘Cock snot, slug slime or sour milk? What do you think, Sweetie?’ Mrs Barker-Jones taunted her husband. ‘Whatever it is, it’s all yours. And you deserve it. Every last drop.’

It was the milky cocktail of prostatic and seminal fluid that Mr Barker-Jones had once dreamt would impregnate his wife. Unfortunately for him, she had made her feelings crystal clear on their honeymoon, when she had laughed in his face at his pathetic attempts at sexual intercourse.

‘How on earth a man could possibly expect a woman to want that in her, I really don’t know.’ Mrs Barker-Jones had said that night. ‘Not in my mouth. Not in my vagina. Not in any part of me. Not now. Not ever.’

All in all, it took no more than ten minutes for Mrs Barker-Jones to milk her husband to completion, but for him it was a life sentence. Calling upon the memory of the Aneros helped Mr Barker-Jones endure each of these punishing humiliations. It was a yearly ration of thrilling sexual pleasure that sustained him, for on New Year’s Eve, his wife would summon him to receive his uncaged annual prostate orgasm. ‘It gives you something to work towards,’ she would explain to her husband. ‘A distant glimmer of hope to keep you going, and to keep you wanting. And it makes you even more pliable.’

Tapping the chastity cage to dislodge the last drop into her husband’s open mouth, his wife then announced, ‘Now drink your milk, Sweetie, there’s a good boy. Drink it all up for me, every last drop.’

One mouthful and it would be over. Mr Barker-Jones squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and then he swallowed. It was hard, but he kept it down. Even he had to admit that the term cock snot summed it up quite well.

Peering down at her husband’s pale face, his wife enquired, ‘All gone?’

Queasily, he made an attempt at a nod. ‘Y-yes, M-madam,’ he replied, his voice wavering. ‘Thank you, M-madam.’ Mr Barker-Jones knew all too well that if he were to be sick, he would have to go through the milking process all over again that evening, as had happened on numerous occasions previously.

‘A mouthful a day keeps the excitement at bay!’ Mrs Barker-Jones trilled, clapping her hands in mock applause. And then she peeled off the latex gloves, which she then balled up and discarded in her husband’s plastic pants as substitute for a waste bin. ‘Now, I must be off,’ she announced. ‘I’ve got plans, Sweetie.’ And with the click-clack of her kitten-heels, his wife exited the room without even a backward glance at the drained body of her husband left crumpled in a heap on the floor behind her.

Gingerly, Mr Barker-Jones unravelled his aching limbs. He had no time today to lie down and recover his breath and his senses on the playmat, he was already late for work. He quickly retrieved the latex gloves, removed the bib from his collar, and then he pulled up his nappy and plastic pants over the sticky chastity cage. He started to the wooden chair by the door for his trousers—but they were gone. Spinning around, his darting eyes searched the room.

‘Are you looking for these, Sweetie?’ a gravelly female voice echoed.

With a feeling of dread, he looked back to the doorway, only to see his trousers in the grip of the housekeeper—his mother in-law, Mrs Barker, Sr. It was disconcerting how much she looked like his wife and her sisters; only older and stouter, and sinister.

As she looked the pathetic specimen of manhood up and down, there was no mistaking the disdain Mrs Barker felt for her son-in-law—as if he were someone who had trodden in dog mess and traipsed it through the house.

‘Y-yes, thank you, M-madam,’ he stuttered, reaching out for his trousers with an unsure hand. Silently, he prayed that she would give them back to him, especially as he was down to this last pair and there was nothing left in his piggy bank to purchase a new pair.

Seconds later, his prayers were answered when Mrs Barker, Sr., smiled that menacing smile of hers—with one eyebrow arched as if to say No prenup? and the other at an oblique angle as if  to say No escape—and then she took a trouser leg in each hand and she ripped the trousers apart at the crotch.

Mr Barker-Jones instantly knew, then, that there was no God, after all; it was a Goddess.