Locktober, keyholder, chastity, confession, denial – these words swirl in my mind like a sinful litany as I toy with the key around my neck. The weight of it, cool against my skin, imbues me with a sense of power over the submissive soul kneeling before me.
“It’s Locktober, and as your keyholder, I demand your confession before I bless your denial,” I purr, my voice like honey dipped in mischief. The young man before me trembles, his eyes cast downward in shame and longing.
He begins to speak, each word a pleading cry from the depths of his enforced chastity. I listen intently, my fingers tracing the ornate lock that holds him in thrall. His confessions are a balm to my desire, a sweet agonized melody that stokes the fires of my control.
As he spills his secrets, his need, his desperation, I imagine the cock hidden within that cage, hard and aching for release. But release is for the deserving, and he has yet to earn it. Not with his wanton lust, his sinful urges, his lack of discipline.
I lean in close, my breath hot against his ear. “Now say your prayer, pet—the only release you’ll get tonight is the sound of my laugh,” I whisper, and as he stammers out a plea, I chuckle darkly, the key glinting in the dim light. Locktober has only just begun, and his denial is already Sweet, sweet music to my ears.