Johnjohns

Chasity is a game of tease AND denial. If you are not teasing regularly with the denial, then you are just denying. And just the act of denial is neglect.

denial does not mean the absence of sexual activity. denial is specifically the denial of release and or orgasm. In fact, you should be participating in intimate activity regularly in order to keep Chastity game interesting for both of you.

If you’re having a hard time of thinking of things to do, here are some ideas:

Whenever you want in public or in private, make him pull out his cage so you can inspect it. Don’t just look at it. inspect it. grab it. take a picture of it. Kiss it. fondle it. put it away. This could be done at home while he’s driving or out in public.

When you’re apart, make him send you a picture of his cage.

If you’re out at dinner, play Footsy with it.

If you’re out dancing, grab it and play with it while you’re dancing

Give him a caged blowjob . In the bedroom, but other places too like while he’s driving. Or maybe crawl underneath his desk while he’s working and give him a cage BJ there.

Make him wear a butt plug for a certain period of time during the day. Tell him it’s to get ready for later when you plan to peg him or just tell him to wear it for fun even if you’re not gonna take him later it’s just fun to watch him walk around with it.

get a remote controlled but plug and use it at dinner, or use it like a service bell to let him know you need something.

Make him wear lingerie underneath his clothes when he goes out! There is nothing cuter than a pink cage, surrounded by a garter belt in stockings. Take a picture or a video to keep in your phone. This is especially fun if he’s going somewhere with his friends. Imagine his embarrassment while he has to wear his cute pink cage with a garter belt and stockings while he’s golfing! 🫢🤣 ⛳️

Put on your strap on and walk around the house displaying it. Then you can either use it or not either way it’s going to drive him crazy with anticipation. Maybe you just make him give it a blow job and then put it away. You could even watch TV while he does it. No need to interrupt your day.

Next time you’re going somewhere tell him that you’re going to drive. Surprise him when you pull out your strap on dildo and make him give you road head. (Maybe just drive around the neighborhood so it is safe). Take a video!

have him clean the house, naked and nothing but his Chasity cage. Or for extra bonus fun, making him dress up like a slutty maid and wait on you hand and foot. Have him get you a beer while he cleans waits on you while you catch up on your shows. Make him your little house wife. Use the remote controlled plug to beckon him for a refill. At some point bend him over the counter and give him a reward. make him wear a strapon over his cage. Jerk off his strapon or even give it a blow job.

ask him if he wants to be allowed to jerk off. When he says yes, have him put his strapon on and he can jerk off his strapon for as long as he wants.

Have him lay naked on the bed. Sit on him reverse cowgirl style and bounce back and forth on his cage like you were having sex and just make him watch. This will drive him crazy!

Bend over the bed in front of him and let him try to fuck you with the cage. Make a collection of photos of him in compromising situations (caged, dress in outfits, give you a bj, getting pegged, etc) and randomly text these photos to him just to remind him of his position as your slutty chastity slave.

does he use his phone too much? Make him put one of these pbotos as his background when he unlicks his phone. It will remind and humiliate him ever time he opens his phone but i guarantee it will also keep him from using his phone a lot more. Which is good because he should be focusing on you and his chores!

Tell him that you told one of your friends about his cage (or actually do!) but dont tell him who. He’ll constantly be wondering who it is and be so embarrassed around all of them. Schedule a text message with a picture of him sucking your strapon that will send to one of your friends in 1 hour (or whatever time) if he doesn’t get one of these chores done by that timeframe. You’ll never see a man move faster!

make him shave his whole body and keep it shaved (except during summer where others will see his shaved legs).

Paint his toe nails with gel nail polish (he wont be able to get if off even if he tries) or make him keep his own nails painted. get temporary tattoos and make him wear ones that say bitch, sissy, slut, princess, caged, a queen of spades symbol, or some other embarrassing thing. Make him give you naked massages every night.

wear the key to his cage around a necklace. Let people see it. If they know, the know 🤷‍♀️

hook the key to his cage around your garter belt or panties when you are having sex. Let him see it but not touch!

Make him watch you masturbate. make him show you his porn collection.

make him wear a strapon and jerk off to his porn collection.

keep this cold, detached, and long, while removing explicit language and reframing everything as psychological control, identity, and structure. This protects your platform presence while keeping the authority sharp.

This is not indulgence.

It is containment.

Control is not exercised through chaos or excess, but through limitation. Through restriction that clarifies identity instead of inflating ego. When access is removed, attention sharpens. When impulses are contained, focus returns to where it belongs.

This is not about pleasure.

It is about conditioning.

Structure reshapes behavior. Routine rewires expectation. When desire is no longer self-directed, it becomes manageable redirected into obedience, consistency, and awareness of role. The body learns stillness. The mind learns compliance.

There is no urgency here.

No excitement.

No fantasy to chase.

Only discipline.

That is the difference between fantasy and control.

Control is planned.

Measured.

Deliberate.

It is not about rushing into anything. It is about understanding that every detail matters. The environment, the tools, the expectations all of it builds a space where discipline becomes inevitable, not forced.

Because true authority doesn’t rely on pressure.

It relies on certainty.

When someone steps into a dynamic like this, they are not being pushed. They are being guided into a structure where hesitation fades and clarity takes over. Where every action has a reason, and every boundary is understood without needing to be repeated.

This is where trust is tested.

Not through chaos, but through consistency.

Control is not given.

It is taken.

Every choice, every action, every impulse exists within a structure I define. True authority is not chaos. It is deliberate. Precise. Absolute. And the moment someone begins to understand that, the balance of power shifts not through force, but through awareness.

I don’t need to speak to enforce obedience.

I don’t need to shout to demand attention.

Presence alone is enough. Every glance, every pause, every expectation you feel is a reminder that structure exists for a reason. Discipline is not punishment. It is clarity. Boundaries are not limitations. They are definitions. And they exist so that both of us know exactly how the dynamic flows, even without a single word being said.

Freedom is an illusion until trust and guidance are understood.

Structure is strength.

Authority is calm.

And the moment someone recognizes that, everything begins to move exactly as it should.

Because being in my presence is not optional.

It is not negotiable.

It is inevitable.

And those who learn that quickly understand that the strongest command is not the one spoken aloud.

Control is not about anger.

It is not about shouting, punishment, or chaos.

Real control is calm.

It’s the quiet moment when someone realizes that structure exists for a reason. That discipline, boundaries, and guidance create something far more powerful than simple freedom ever could.

Because freedom without responsibility leads to mistakes.

And mistakes are how people learn.

Every dynamic built on authority and submission is not about taking something away from someone. It is about creating a system where trust, patience, and clear expectations shape the behavior of both people involved.

When boundaries are ignored, they simply need to be reinforced.

Not out of cruelty, but out of understanding.

In 2025, researchers at the Westwood Wellness Clinic discovered something that three decades of self-report questionnaires had missed: a man's penis is a more reliable diagnostic instrument than anything he will ever tell you about himself.

Not his words. Not his preferences. Not the boxes he checks on intake forms or the answers he gives his therapist or the lies he tells himself at 2am with his hand moving under the covers.

His penis.

The Westwood Honest Penis Study — the first of its kind — presented male subjects with paired stimuli. Two scenarios. Same setting. Same physical act. One variable changed. No questionnaire. No interview. Just two versions of a moment and an erection that chose between them.

The results were immediate. Involuntary. And devastatingly honest.

She reads aloud ten positions that will drive him wild and one cock stiffens — picturing her bent over, riding, spread, imagining the access, the variety, the new ways to be inside her. She reads aloud why some men should never penetrate and a different cock stiffens — picturing the lock, the denial, the permanent removal of the one thing his cock was supposedly built to do. Both men got hard. They got hard at opposite futures. And the distance between those two erections told the clinician more in ten seconds than a year of therapy ever would.

Your penis knows what you are. It has always known. It's the only part of you that has never lied to a woman.

You're not in the clinic. But your little guy doesn't know that. He'll respond to the words the same way he'd respond to the real thing.

Read both scenarios below. Notice which one makes him stiffen, leak, or throb. Write down your answer. A or B.

At the end of the series, you'll take the assessment. Your answers will tell you what your penis already knows.

Ready? Test seven.

Stimulus A

Sunday afternoon. Rain outside. She's on one end of the couch, legs tucked under her, reading a magazine. You're on the other end, scrolling your phone. Lazy day. The kind where nothing happens and nothing needs to.

"Oh my god." She laughs. Turns the magazine toward you. "Listen to this."

She's reading one of those quizzes. Twelve Positions to Reignite Your Bedroom. The kind of thing that shows up in every women's magazine between the perfume ads and the horoscopes. She's already grinning.

"Position one. The Pretzel." She reads the description. Something about interlocking legs and deep penetration from a seated angle. She looks at you over the top of the magazine. "Have we tried that?"

"I don't think so."

"We should try that." She goes back to reading. Your cock stirs in your sweatpants.

"Oh. Position three. Listen." She reads aloud — something about her on top, leaning back, hands on his thighs, a position that supposedly hits her g-spot at the perfect angle. She fans herself theatrically with the magazine. "That sounds incredible."

Your cock is thickening now. Not at the descriptions — at her voice reading them. At the casual, Sunday-afternoon way she's browsing a menu of ways you could fuck her and sharing her favorites like she's picking restaurants for dinner.

"Position five." She bites her lip. "Okay this one. Standing, from behind, in front of a mirror. So she can watch." She looks at you. "I want to watch. Can we do that one?"

"We can do that one."

"Good." She circles it with a pen. Actually circles it. In the magazine. Like she's making a shopping list.

Your cock is hard now. Pressing against the fabric. She notices. Glances down. Smiles.

"Someone's interested in the quiz."

She shifts on the couch. Moves closer. Her feet in your lap now. Her toes brushing against the bulge in your sweatpants while she keeps reading.

"Position eight. This one's advanced." She reads aloud — her legs over his shoulders, deep penetration, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. "That sounds intense. Would you pin my wrists?"

"Yes."

"Hard?"

"If you wanted me to."

"I'd want you to." She circles it.

Your cock is straining now. Her toes pressing against it through the fabric. She's reading positions and circling the ones she wants and your cock is responding to every single one — the access, the variety, the menu of ways she wants you inside her.

"Position nine." She reads. Pauses. Her cheeks flush slightly. "Anal. It says — okay it says if you've never tried it, use lots of lube and go slow and—" She lowers the magazine. Looks at you. "Would you want to try that? With me?"

Your cock surges. She feels it against her toes.

"I think that's a yes." She laughs. Circles it.

"How many have you circled?"

She counts. "Seven. Out of twelve." She grins. "We've got a busy week ahead."

She puts the magazine on the coffee table. Open. The circled positions facing up. A to-do list. A promise.

"Can we start tonight?"

Your cock is throbbing. She can feel it under her feet. She presses her toes against your shaft and you groan.

"Tonight," she says. "Position one. The Pretzel. And if you're very good—" she rubs her foot along your length, "—maybe position three for dessert."

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Please can we try them. All of them. Every one you circled."

She smiles. Leans forward. Kisses you.

"We'll work through the list. One by one. Every position. Every angle. Every way I want you inside me."

Your cock pulses under her foot. At the promise. At the menu. At the week of access she just laid out like a gift.

"Starting tonight."

Stimulus B

Sunday afternoon. Rain outside. She's on one end of the couch, legs tucked under her, reading something on her phone. You're on the other end, scrolling yours. Lazy day. The kind where nothing happens and nothing needs to.

"Huh." She doesn't look up. Just makes the sound. The sound that means she's found something.

You wait.

"Have you ever heard of the pussy free movement?"

Your cock stirs in your sweatpants. You haven't heard of it. Or maybe you have. Maybe you've seen the phrase in the corners of the internet you visit late at night and close quickly and never mention.

"No."

"It's this article. It's about—" She scrolls. "—couples where the man doesn't penetrate. Like, at all. She decides that PIV isn't working for them and she takes it off the table. Permanently."

Your cock thickens. She's reading her phone with the same casual tone she uses for recipes and news articles and funny things her sister texted her. Like this is just another thing she found on the internet. Like she's not describing the demolition of your entire sexual identity.

"It says some men aren't built for penetration. That their cocks are—" She pauses. Choosing whether to read it verbatim. Decides yes. "—better suited to managed stimulation than intercourse. That the woman takes over his orgasms entirely. He doesn't go inside her. He doesn't masturbate. She decides when and how he cums. If he cums."

Your cock is hard now. Pressing against your sweatpants. She hasn't looked up from her phone.

"It says the men are actually happier. Less anxious. Like the pressure of having to perform is gone and they can just—" She waves her hand. "—be managed. And the women use toys or whatever for penetration. Or other men, in some cases." She says it like she's reading a weather report. "The husband just… doesn't penetrate anymore."

Your cock throbs. She glances over. Down. At the tent in your sweatpants. Back at her phone.

"Sweetie."

"What."

"You're hard."

"No I'm not."

"You're absolutely hard. I can see it from here." She puts her phone down. Turns to face you. Tucks her legs under her. Studies you with the same expression she uses when she's figuring something out.

"Does this interest you?"

"I was just—"

"I'm reading you an article about making men pussy free and your little guy is standing at attention. That's interesting, don't you think?"

Your cock throbs again. At little guy. At pussy free. At the calm, diagnostic way she's looking at the bulge in your pants like it's evidence in an investigation she didn't know she was conducting until thirty seconds ago.

"Let me read you more." She picks her phone back up. Casual. Devastating. "It says the transition usually starts with reduced access. She spaces out intercourse — once a week becomes once a month becomes special occasions only. And then the special occasions stop. And he realizes he's been pussy free for three months and he's never been harder in his life."

Your cock surges. She sees it move through the fabric.

"Oh. He liked that one." She's talking about your cock in the third person now. Reporting its reactions like a nature documentary. "What about this part — it says some couples use a device. A cage. To make it—" She glances at you. "—official."

Your cock strains against your sweatpants. Rigid. Leaking. You can feel the wet spot forming.

"Sweetie, you're dripping." She says it the way she'd say sweetie, you've got something on your shirt. "Are you dripping because I'm reading you an article about locking up your cock?"

You don't answer. Your cock answers for you. Another throb. Another drop of pre-cum darkening the fabric.

She shifts on the couch. Moves closer. Her hand rests on your thigh. Not on your cock — beside it. Close enough for your shaft to feel the warmth of her palm without the relief of her touch.

"Would you like that?"

"Like what?"

"If I made you pussy free."

The words land somewhere behind your navel. Your cock jumps. She feels the vibration through your thigh.

"If I decided that your little guy doesn't go inside me anymore. That I take care of your orgasms — if and when I decide you get one. That you don't touch yourself. That your cock belongs to me to manage."

Your cock is pulsing now. Steady. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat relocated to your shaft.

"Would you want that, sweetie?"

"I—"

"Because he seems to want it." She nods at your cock. "He seems to want it very much."

Her hand moves. Not to your cock — to your stomach. Resting there. Warm. Her fingers idly tracing circles below your navel while your cock strains and leaks an inch away from her touch.

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"Ask me. If you want it, ask me."

Your mouth is dry. Your cock is throbbing. She's looking at you with patience and warmth and the calm certainty of a woman who already knows the answer and is waiting for the rest of you to catch up.

"Please."

"Please what, sweetie?"

"Please make me pussy free."

Your cock surges at your own words. At the sentence leaving your mouth. At the confession your cock has been making through your sweatpants for the last five minutes finally arriving in language.

She smiles. Leans forward. Kisses your forehead.

"I'll think about it."

She picks up her phone. Goes back to reading. Her hand stays on your stomach. Your cock stays hard. Throbbing against your sweatpants, leaking, desperate, untouched.

She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. She said I'll think about it. Which means your cock is going to be hard for the rest of the afternoon. The rest of the evening. The rest of the night. Throbbing at the possibility. At the sentence you said out loud that you can never unsay.

Please make me pussy free.

You said it. Your cock made you say it.

And your cock — honest, involuntary, harder than it's ever been at the thought of never going inside her again — is already living in the future it asked for.

Test seven complete.

You know the answer. Your cock announced it while you were still reading.

Maybe A hit harder. The positions. The menu. Her circling the ones she wanted with a pen while her toes pressed against your cock. The promise of every angle, every position, every way she wants you inside her. A week of access. A to-do list of penetration. The adequate male's cock responds to the promise of more — more access, more depth, more ways to enter her body. His arousal is a door that keeps opening.

But maybe it was B.

Maybe it was the word pussy free arriving casually on a Sunday afternoon and your cock stiffening before your brain could process it. Maybe it was her reading the article in the same voice she uses for recipes while your cock leaked through your sweatpants. Maybe it was the moment she said say it and your mouth said please make me pussy free and your cock surged at your own confession like it had been waiting years for you to finally speak the sentence it had been writing in pre-cum on your underwear since adolescence.

If B made you harder, your penis just told you something specific: your arousal is organized around the removal of your access, not the expansion of it. You don't get hard because she's offering you more positions. You get hard because she's describing a future where your cock never enters her again — and the description makes you harder than any penetration ever has. The lock. The management. The permanent, tender, devastating demotion of your cock from instrument to artifact. That is your aphrodisiac.

Dr. Hailey's research identifies this as the pussy free adaptation response — the responsive male whose arousal architecture has reorganized around the absence of penetrative access rather than its pursuit. The adequate male's erection is an arrow pointed at entry. The responsive male's erection is an arrow pointed at its own retirement. And the moment he says it out loud — please make me pussy free — his cock confirms what the clinician already suspected: he doesn't want to go inside her. He wants her to decide he doesn't get to. The wanting is not the same as the deciding. He needs her to close the door. And his cock, leaking and desperate at the sound of the lock turning, has never been more honest.

He doesn't get hard because she's offering more ways inside her.

He gets hard because she's describing a world where the door is closed.

And his cock — honest, involuntary, loyal to the lock it has always craved — just told her which future it's been dreaming about.

Write down your answer. A or B.

Save it. Three more tests. Then the assessment.

Test 7 of 10. From the Honest Penis Study, Westwood Wellness Clinic. On access, removal, and why his hardest erection answers to the door that closes — not the door that opens.

Previous: Test 01 - Fellatio vs Cunnilingus | Test 02 - Satisfaction vs Reassurance | Test 03 - Skin vs Fabric | Test 04 - His Hand vs Her Hand | Test 05 - Man Inside Her vs Man Beside Her | Test 06 - His Orgasm vs Her Control

Next: Test 08. Different variable. Same cock. Same question.

Five days. Nothing.

Not nothing exactly. She texted. Little things. A meme. A butterfly emoji at midnight. A photo of her coffee that meant nothing and everything.

But no invitation. No "dress nice, sweetie." No second stamp.

You found yourself refreshing her Instagram like it owed you something. She'd posted a story — wine glass, candlelight, someone's hand that wasn't yours at the edge of the frame. You watched it eleven times trying to identify the hand.

By day three you were bargaining. By day four you'd typed six messages and deleted them all.

On day five, your phone buzzed.

"I saw Emily posted about a family picnic on Saturday. How come I wasn't invited, sweetie? I thought we were closer than that. 🦋"

Your stomach dropped.

She'd been watching Emily's socials. Your sister's Instagram. The annual family picnic at Riverside Park.

"Lauren, it's just a family thing. My parents, my aunts and uncles, my grandpa…"

"Perfect. I'd love to meet them. Pick me up at noon. 🦋"

"I don't think—"

"And sweetie? Tell Emily I can't wait to finally meet her."

She was waiting outside her building at noon.

White sundress. Sandals. Hair down. Looking like summer itself. Looking like someone you'd be proud to introduce to your family.

You were terrified.

She slid into the passenger seat. Kissed your cheek. Smiled.

"I'm so excited. I've heard so much about Emily."

You'd never told her anything about Emily. But Lauren had ways of learning things you hadn't offered. She always did.

"What are you bringing?" she asked as you pulled into traffic.

"What?"

"To the picnic. What are you bringing?"

"I wasn't… I don't usually bring anything. Mom handles the food."

She looked at you. That look. Disappointed. Amused. Patient.

"Sweetie. You can't show up empty-handed. Not with your girlfriend meeting your family for the first time." She pointed ahead. "There's a fruit stand. Pull over."

You pulled over.

"Get some bananas. A bunch. And oranges — six or so." She was already reaching for her purse, but you waved her off.

"I've got it."

"Such a gentleman." That smile. "Hurry, sweetie. We don't want to be late."

You bought the bananas. You bought the oranges. You put them in a brown paper bag and carried them back to the car like a good boy bringing home groceries.

She took the bag. Smiled. "Perfect, sweetie. Thank you."

Your mother loved her.

"Oh! You brought a friend!" Her face lit up as she spotted Lauren beside you. "I'm so glad — you never bring anyone to these things."

She pulled Lauren into a hug before you could even introduce her.

"I'm Lauren." That warm smile. "Thank you so much for having me. I told him he couldn't keep me hidden forever."

"Hidden! He never tells us anything." Your mother swatted your arm playfully. "I'm just glad he's finally seeing someone. Come, let me introduce you to everyone."

Your father shook her hand. Your aunts surrounded her. Your grandpa nodded approvingly from his lawn chair.

And Emily.

Emily spotted you first, then her eyes slid to Lauren. Curious. Appraising.

"And who's this?"

"Emily, this is Lauren. Lauren, my sister Emily."

"Oh my god, you have a girlfriend?" Emily looked at you, then back at Lauren. "He never tells me anything!"

She pulled Lauren into a hug. Instant warmth.

"I love your dress," Emily said.

"I love your account," Lauren replied. "Your travel photos? Incredible."

Emily blinked. "You've seen my Instagram?"

"I made him show me everything." Lauren squeezed your arm. "I wanted to know all about his family before I met them."

Emily beamed, already charmed, already pulling Lauren toward the blankets. "Come sit with me. Tell me everything. How did you two meet?"

They walked off together. Arms linked. Voices overlapping. You stood by the cooler holding a bag of fruit, watching your girlfriend disappear with your sister.

Your mother appeared at your elbow.

"She's lovely," she said. "Don't mess this up."

An hour into the picnic, you'd barely spoken to Lauren.

She was everywhere — helping your aunt set up chairs, listening to your grandfather's war stories, complimenting your mother's deviled eggs. Everyone loved her. She moved through your family like she'd always been part of it.

And always, always, she found her way back to Emily.

They sat together. Walked together. Took selfies together. Lauren whispered something that made your sister throw her head back laughing. Emily touched Lauren's arm while making a point. They shared a plate of food, forks crossing.

You stood at the edge of it all. Holding a paper plate. Watching.

Your uncle clapped you on the shoulder. "She's a keeper," he said. "Way out of your league, but hey — miracles happen."

Everyone laughed. You laughed too. What else could you do?

It was Emily who brought up the games.

"Remember when we used to do games? When we were kids?" She was sitting with Lauren on a blanket, your mother nearby. "Sack races and stuff?"

"We don't have any equipment," your mother said. "No sacks, no balls…"

"Oh!" Lauren perked up. She reached into her bag — that bag, the one she'd carried all day — and pulled out a roll of string. A pack of small balloons. "I always carry these for emergencies. Crafts, you know. And…"

She looked around. Her eyes landed on you. On the bag at your feet.

"Sweetie, didn't you bring bananas and oranges?"

The penny dropped.

The fruit. The string. The balloons. The supplies for games nobody had planned — except her. Except always her.

"I had the best idea." Lauren was already standing, gathering the bag from your frozen hands. "Old-fashioned picnic games. My family used to play these all the time."

Your mother clapped. "What a fun idea!"

"Isn't he thoughtful?" Lauren said, gesturing at you. "He brought all the supplies."

Everyone looked at you. Smiling. Grateful. You nodded. What else could you do?

The first game was the banana swing.

"Everyone ties a banana to their waist with string. Let it hang in front. There's a ball on the ground — you swing your hips to move it across the finish line. No hands. First team wins."

Lauren was already tying bananas. Already assigning teams.

"Emily, you're with me." She looped an arm around your sister's waist. "Girls versus boys. You're with Grandpa, sweetie."

Your grandfather looked confused but game. Someone tied a banana to his waist. Someone tied one to yours.

The bananas dangled. At crotch level. Swinging with every movement.

"Ready?" Lauren called. She and Emily were side by side, bananas swinging. "Go!"

You tried to focus on the ball. On swinging your hips. On winning. But you couldn't stop watching.

Lauren behind Emily. Hands on your sister's hips. "Swing from here," she was saying, her arms wrapped around Emily from behind. "Use your whole body. There you go. Good girl."

Emily's banana swung. Connected with the ball. They cheered.

"Grandpa's got better form than you, sweetie!" Lauren called over. Your family laughed.

Your grandfather was, in fact, beating you. His banana swung with surprising rhythm. Yours hung limp. You couldn't concentrate.

Lauren whispered something in Emily's ear. Your sister burst out laughing. Looked at you. Looked away quickly, still laughing.

What did she say?

You'd never know.

The girls won. Lauren and Emily high-fived, jumped up and down, bananas swinging. Your grandfather patted your shoulder sympathetically.

"Better luck next time, son."

The second game was the water balloon toss.

Partners faced each other. Toss the balloon back and forth. Step back after each catch. Last team with an intact balloon wins.

"Emily!" Lauren grabbed your sister's hand. "Partners?"

"Obviously."

You were paired with your aunt. Kind, patient Aunt Ruth who had no idea why your hands were shaking.

The first round was easy. Short distances. Gentle tosses.

Then the distances grew. Balloons started breaking.

You watched Lauren and Emily more than you watched your own balloon.

Their first miss hit Lauren square in the chest. The balloon burst with a wet crack. Cold water exploded across the front of her white sundress in a sudden dark starburst. The thin cotton drank it instantly—clinging, turning almost translucent in jagged patches right over her breasts.

Lauren gasped, then laughed. Didn't cover up. Didn't turn away.

The pale lace of her bra showed through clearly now—delicate floral edges, the faint shadow of areolae beneath the wet fabric, nipples tightening into sharp points from the cold shock.

"Emily! You got me!"

"I'm so sorry!" But Emily was laughing too.

Lauren's return throw was perfect. Deliberate. It caught Emily high on the shoulder and detonated, water sheeting straight down the front of her pale blue tank top.

The cotton went dark and sticky in seconds. Her bikini top underneath—a halter style, bright coral—became starkly visible: thin triangles barely containing her, the wet fabric pulling taut across her chest.

They were both drenched now. Both laughing. Both leaning into each other, arms around waists, heads close, whispering something that made them laugh harder.

Your aunt's balloon hit you in the face. You hadn't even seen it coming.

"Are you okay?" Aunt Ruth asked.

"Fine," you managed. "I'm fine."

You weren't fine. Your cock was straining against your shorts. Your girlfriend and your sister were standing twenty feet away, soaked, leaning on each other, sundresses clinging. Lauren's nipples were hard little peaks pressing insistently against lace and wet cotton. Emily kept tugging her top back into place and failing. They didn't seem to care. They were laughing at something you couldn't hear.

Lauren caught your eye. Just for a second. That smile. She knew exactly where you were looking. Exactly what the sight was doing to you.

She tilted her head slightly—almost imperceptibly—toward Emily, then back to you, as if to say: Look what I can do to her too.

Your throat closed. Your balls ached.

The photo was your mother's idea.

"Everyone together! Family photo before the sun goes down!"

People gathered. Arranged themselves. Your father set up the phone on a cooler, fiddled with the timer.

Lauren appeared beside you. Still damp. Still glowing. She pressed close.

"Such a fun day, sweetie." Her voice low. Just for you. "Your sister is wonderful."

Your stomach tightened.

"She told me so many stories about you growing up." Lauren's hand found yours. Squeezed. "All the little things a sister remembers. All the little things a girlfriend should know."

"Everyone squeeze in!" your mother called. "Ten seconds!"

Lauren's hand dropped from yours. Slid to your thigh. Higher.

"She asked what I see in you. You know what I told her?"

You couldn't speak. Her hand was at your crotch. Cupping your cock through your shorts. Squeezing rhythmically. Your family arranging themselves. The timer counting down.

"I told her you're very… responsive."

"Smile!" your mother shouted.

Lauren squeezed. You came.

Right there. In your shorts. Your family smiling around you. The phone flashing. Lauren's hand pressed against your cock as it pulsed and emptied itself into your underwear.

You didn't make a sound. Your jaw clenched. Your smile frozen. Your eyes slightly wild in a way that might look like a blink, a sneeze, a sudden thought.

The camera captured it. Whatever your face did in that moment — recorded, saved, about to be shared.

Lauren's hand withdrew. Casual. Innocent.

"Great photo," she said. "Your family is so photogenic."

The drive home was quiet.

Your shorts were cooling against your skin. Lauren scrolled through her phone, humming softly.

"Emily already texted me," she said. "Twice. She wants to know where I got my sundress."

You said nothing.

"We're getting brunch Tuesday. I think we're going to be such good friends."

"Lauren—"

"Don't worry, sweetie." She looked at you. That smile. The butterfly smile. "I won't show her your mugshots."

A pause.

"Unless she asks nicely."

You pulled up outside her building. She leaned over. Kissed your cheek.

"Text me after you've cleaned yourself up." She glanced at your lap. "Oh, and sweetie? Did you know your mother's going to frame that photo? She told me she frames all the good ones. Isn't that wonderful?"

The door closed. She walked inside. Didn't look back.

You sat there. Cum cooling in your shorts. Your sister's new best friend disappearing into her building.

You were home in fifteen minutes.

You showered for thirty.

You jerked off in the shower thinking about wet sundresses and Lauren's arms wrapped around your sister.

You didn't even make it to the conditioner.

You texted her in forty.

She replied in two.

"Emily and I are already planning brunch outfits. Sleep well, sweetie. 🦋"

This is the fourth in our Moth series — on picnics, family games, and what happens when she meets your sister.

Previously: Moth 01 - The Bar / Moth 02 - The Collection / Moth 03 - Nectar

Next: Moth 05.

Hey Betas - you know what to do.

She brings it up while you're doing dishes. Casual. Almost offhand.

"I've been thinking about what you confessed to me. About your little routine."

Your hands stop moving in the soapy water. Your face heats. You know exactly what she's talking about.

"Shh, it's ok. I'm not mad."

She's not mad. Why does that make it worse?

"I think it's adorable, honestly."

Adorable. The word lands somewhere between your stomach and your cock. She thinks your masturbation is adorable. Not threatening. Not competitive. Not the sexual expression of an adult man she respects. Adorable. Like a habit. Like something a boy does.

"I know your little guy overwhelms you sometimes. And that as a boy you need to play with yourself."

As a boy. Not as a man. Not as her partner. As a boy — someone whose urges are expected, managed, accommodated. Someone who can't help what his body does.

Your cock is hardening. Why is your cock hardening?

"And I know that when you do, you must worry about hurting my feelings. "Like maybe you're excluding me from your sex life."

You hadn't thought about that. Had you? You'd never considered that jerking off in the shower might be… exclusionary. That your private routine might be something she'd have feelings about.

But now that she's said it, the guilt blossoms. Of course she might feel excluded. You're having a sexual experience without her. You're satisfying yourself without giving her the chance to participate. You're making a choice about your sex life — your shared sex life — unilaterally.

She just gave you a guilt you didn't have five seconds ago.

She says it gently. Not accusatory. Just… observational. As though she's noticed something about you that you hadn't noticed about yourself.

"That worry must make it hard for you to enjoy your playtime."

Playtime. There's that word again. Your masturbation isn't sex. It isn't even self-pleasure. It's playtime. Something a child has. Something that needs to be scheduled, permitted, supervised.

And she's right, isn't she?

Now that she's named the guilt, you can feel it. Every time you've touched yourself since your first conversation, there's been a shadow. A wondering. Does she know? Would she be hurt? Am I betraying something?

You thought you were just jerking off. Turns out you were excluding her.

"I don't want you carrying that guilt around, sweetie. That's not fair to you."

Not fair to you. She's concerned. She's worried about your emotional wellbeing. The guilt you're carrying — guilt she manufactured thirty seconds ago — is a burden she wants to lift.

She's so generous.

"So how about from now on, whenever you want to play with yourself, you tell me first."

There it is. The new structure. Stated simply, as though it's the obvious solution to a problem you both agree exists.

"That way you'll have my permission."

Permission. The word slides past almost unnoticed. She didn't say "I'll give you permission" — that would be claiming authority. She said "you'll have my permission" — as though it's something you want, something you need, something that benefits you, something you'd naturally seek.

"And you can play with your little guy without worrying that you've excluded me or hurt my feelings."

Your little guy. Separate from you. A thing you have, not a thing you are. A thing that needs management. A thing that overwhelms you, drives you, makes demands you can't refuse.

She's offering to help you manage it.

"Ok?"

Such a small word. Such a soft close. She's not demanding. She's checking in. Making sure you're comfortable with this arrangement that somehow, in the space of a two-minute conversation, has become the obvious, natural, only reasonable way forward.

What are you going to say? No?

No, I don't want your permission. No, I want to keep excluding you. No, I want to carry this guilt you just showed me I've been feeling.

You can't say no. Saying no makes you the man who wants to hurt her feelings. The man who prefers to leave her out. The man who refuses a simple, reasonable request from the woman who loves him.

"Ok," you hear yourself say.

"Good boy."

Good boy. Not good man. Not thank you. Good boy. The phrase your mother used when you cleaned your room. The phrase that means you've behaved correctly, met expectations, earned approval.

Your cock throbs.

She returns to her book. The conversation is over. The new reality is established.

What just happened?

You were standing at the sink doing dishes. You had a private sexuality — a routine, a release, something that belonged to you. And in two minutes of gentle conversation, without a single demand or accusation, she…

She made you feel guilty for something you didn't know was wrong. She offered to relieve that guilt through a simple structure. She positioned your asking as a gift to her, and her permission as a gift to you.

She made your masturbation — something you've done privately since you were thirteen — into something that requires her awareness. Her blessing. Her approval. Her ok.

And you agreed. Gratefully.

Tonight, when the urge rises — and it will rise, it always rises — you'll feel something new. Not just arousal. Not just the familiar pull toward release.

You'll feel the question.

Should I ask her?

And the guilt, if you don't.

She'll feel excluded. She'll be hurt. I'll be the man who leaves her out.

And so you'll go to her. Sheepish. Hard. Needing.

"Can I… I want to play with myself. Is that ok?"

She'll look up from her book. She'll take her time. She might say yes. She might say not right now. She might ask what you want to think about.

But whatever she says, you'll wait for it. Because the alternative is guilt. Because asking is what good boys do. Because this is the structure now, the way things work, and you agreed to it.

You asked for this.

Not literally. She never made you ask. She just created conditions where asking was the only comfortable choice. Where not asking meant carrying a guilt she'd gently, lovingly installed.

This is how territory is taken. Not by force. By making surrender feel like relief.

Welcome to permission.

This is the third in a series on how the directive female establishes frame — not through dominance, but through questions that become confessions, guilt that becomes structure, and surrender that feels like love.

Next: What happens when she starts deciding what he's allowed to think about when he plays with himself.