I’m sitting here on my sun-lounger, gazing out at the Mediterranean Sea, and I feel quite relaxed now. You might wonder why you should care about my mental state? Let me tell you.
Last Friday*, I returned from work eagerly anticipating our holiday (vacation for us Americans) in the sunshine. We still had some packing to finish up, which naturally took longer than expected. But by 11:30 pm, everything was ready: suitcases were by the door, passports located, we’d checked in online for the flight, and a taxi was scheduled to pick us up at 6 am the next morning.
As we got ready for bed, I casually mentioned to my Wife that there was one last task. “What is it?” she asked. I nodded toward the padlock on the stainless steel cage around my cock—a device that had been holding me captive for seven months, three weeks, and three days… She jumped up with genuine panic in her eyes. “Oh God, I can’t remember where I put the keys!”
Even though I hadn’t seen those keys once during these seven months (I am locked 24/7, and my Wife holds all three), I remained calm at that point. They had to be somewhere in the house. She tossed me out of the bedroom while I heard her frantically searching through what must have been her usual hiding spots.
After a surprisingly long time, she emerged holding up a large key with an “Is this it?” look. I knew immediately it wasn’t right—I simply pointed down at my small padlock and shook my head. She retreated to the bedroom for more rummaging. Eventually, she came back out with two smaller keys. I was fairly confident these belonged to a different padlock we’d lost during an earlier period of freedom—but we tried them anyway. No luck. It was past midnight now, and mild concern began to set in.
Finally—getting quite late by then—she walked out triumphantly holding three small keys on a ring. With some relief, I thought they looked like the right ones for my cage. I stood beside the bed while she inserted one into the lock (I’m not permitted to open or close it myself). “Oh no! They’re still not the correct pair!” she exclaimed. I was pretty sure they were, so I asked if I could try. Sure enough, that specific key didn’t seem to fit!
With a dawning realization of what might be wrong, my worry grew deeper. I shower daily, and this is an inexpensive padlock. After seven months, three weeks, and three days without being opened—and likely clogged with soap and who-knows-what else—I realized the pins inside had seized up, or perhaps even rusted.
I do own a bolt cutter, but I lent it to my brother about fifteen years ago, and he hasn’t returned it yet. By nearly 1 am, no DIY shops are open (at least none that I know of in the UK), and my brother lives two hours away by car. Besides, I can just picture how that conversation would go at that hour—even assuming he still has the tool.
“You’ll have to head to the Fire Station,” offered my Wife helpfully. There was no way that was happening. Fortunately, I don’t wear a heart-rate monitor; otherwise, it might have had an aneurysm itself by then!
Anyway—you will be pleased to know that after some extra time and blood pressure, plus generous squirts of WD-40 into the lock (and all over my balls), the mechanism finally gave way. The next morning, I sailed through airport security without any embarrassing delays.
The moral of this story—or rather, three lessons learned—are: a) Encourage your Wife to remember where she keeps the keys; b) Avoid using a cheap padlock; and c) Even if you aren’t being released, at least check the lock every month or so!
- I did write this while on holiday, but for some reason it didn’t post. Now that I’m back home, rest assured I am once again under lock and key, but now with a higher-quality padlock whose keys are stored in a key safe. I know where the safe is located, though I don’t know its combination—my Wife has written it down in her address book disguised as a phone number.