THE CRAFTSMAN

F.X. Copeland parked his truck across the street from the Enright’s Colonial house. Real nice, these houses, Cope thought to himself. He had grown up on the other side of Buttermilk Falls, in the tenements, but his Daddy had done some of the work rehabbing the various stately mansions here on Buttermilk Hill, and Cope had helped a few times when he was a little squirt.

Cope got his toolbox and his manifest list and shut the truck door. Cope was a little fireplug of a guy, who wore a green coverall, but it was unwise to dismiss him—he was a craftsman of the first order. And how many other people knew how to build and repair chastity belts? A Copeland belt was a thing to be proud of.

He’d fixed elevators for a while, and then he’d done HVAC, but the belt thing was up and coming. Cope walked across the street in his stolid gait, and rang the doorbell.

A housekeeper opened the door. Yessir nice titties on them Hispanic girls, Cope thought cheerily. “You are Mister Copeland? Mrs. Enright waiting in the parlor.”

Cope entered the parlor, and yup, here’s a looker. Mrs. Enright was blonde and she had a nice figure in that little black dress of hers. “How are you, Mr. Copeland? I am so glad you could come on such short notice!”

“Oh, you call me Cope, ma’am…what seems to be the trouble? Y’all need a belt?”

Carmel Enright smiled at the squat little man. Well at least he WAS a man, unlike Watson. Watty was constantly whining, and after she’d told him that she was no longer interested in sexual relations…and she began dating around a little, of course Watty had begun playing with himself.

Disgusting…sneaking into her bathroom, jerking off while sniffing the panties  from  her laundry basket, and of course sneaking around, trying to get a peek of her as she showered or changed for her dates.

Certainly, Carmel couldn’t blame Watty for having a case on her…she had curly short blonde hair, and nice natural 36 DD breasts…very long legs and a heart-shaped ass, as one of her old boyfriends had once told her…her parents had been thrilled when she’d “caught” one of the rich Enrights…but rich men, though good to marry, weren’t too good in the sack.

She’d finally forbidden Watty to play with her breasts because he was always slurping at them greedily, it was quite digusting. This had been heartbreaking for him, as she’d waited a year after they’d started dating to let him touch them in the first place!

And then, finally she’d told Watty she wanted him to stay in his own twin bed…and what does he do? Snivels, bitches, and masturbates…disgusting!

Masturbation was such a disgusting, adolescent behavior in a man. Last night after she’d caught Watty messing around with her Victoria’s Secret catalogue, she’d stripped him and tied him over a hassock and whipped him hard with his mother’s Amber cherry wood walking stick.

Watty’s mother had presented it to Carmel the day before the wedding. “Watty’s a dear boy, Carmel darling, but he is a whiner, and often throws tantrums if he doesn’t get his own way…this will be of prime assistance in handling him.”

Carmel had been amazed how soon she’d needed the damn thing, he’d begun whining and bitching on the honeymoon, and she’d been glad of bringing it along to the hotel room!

But now there was a bigger problem…with all the masturbation, Watty had become rather heavy lidded and lackadaisical…and she was so glad when she’d called the manager of the PainCafe, and he’d sent Mr. Copeland out.

“Well, Cope,” Carmel said, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here. I will send for Mr. Enright, and you can give him a measurement, or whatever it is you do.”

“Yes’m.” Cope said as he brought out his measuring tape and his other tools. Damn this is a nice house, he thought. Oriental rug and all that. Cope’s loving wife, Mrs. Copeland, often pestered him to go antiquing, and go to auctions, but they could never afford nothin’ like this.

Carmel left the parlor, and in a moment came back with a little bald man, who looked like Mr. Peterson, the patient in the old Bob Newhart shows when Cope was a boy. He remembered how he and his pals played a drinking game where you chugged a beer every time someone said “Hi Bob” Them was the days…yessir.

“This is my husband, Watson Enright, Cope.” Mrs. Enright said, smiling. Cope was almost sure, plumb sure that Mrs. Enright was waving her big bazoom at him, but of course he had to maintain seriousness. This was the client, after all.

“Now Watty, I want you to take off your clothes, so Mr. Copeland can measure your private parts and lock you into something sensible, so I don’t have to run around keeping your hands off your pecker.” Carmel tapped Watty’s chin with a red nail, and he blushed.

“Look here, Carmel, I won’t stand for this. I don’t want to wear a chastity belt, and you’re neglecting your marital duties by me. How dare you—“

Mrs. Enright slapped her husband hard, and Cope goggled a bit. He was no stranger to witnessing these female dominated households, but he’d be damned if he’d let a woman slap him around like that. She’d be chewin’ her teeth.

“Now you take your clothes off right now. Or am I going to have to ask Mr. Copeland to lend me his belt?” Actually, Cope was wearing a coverall, but Carmel was too distraught to notice this.

Watty Enright looked at his wife in horror. What was she thinking? God, what Watty had put up with for this woman. He’d met the curvy and enticing Carmel Bromden at the tony Bachelors and Spinsters Ball, a sort of gala for Buttermilk Falls’s elite, a bit too old for debutante balls, but not quite married yet.

And he’d gone crazy for her! He’d bought her jewelry, and taken her everywhere…he’d begged to touch her beautiful breasts, and bribed her in every way…and then she’d finally told him, “Watty, you can have all of me if we’re married!”

And then eight months into being married, she cut him off!

“I’m just not that interested any more, Watty.” Carmel had said to him one night, when she was wearing a delicious turquoise camisole, painting her nails and lolling her long legs on the bed in their master bedroom.

“And as a matter of fact, I am getting rid of this big bed and we’re going to have twin beds. I really don’t need you slobbering on me all night long. Don’t argue, or I may consider separate bedrooms.”

This had just made Watty crazy. And then at some point, she’d refused to let him see her naked…said it made him too excitable. Watty wondered whether Mother was behind all this—she’d been quite the martinet when he was young.

“No, I’m not going to let you date until you’re older, Watson” Mother had told Watty all through his high school and University years. “You’re too excitable, and I don’t want some poor girl’s father calling me in a rage because you poked your thing at her, like you did at that dance recital in the 9th grade.”

All he’d done at the recital, which was what they had after ten weeks of dancing school was have an erection and stand a little too close to  Starline Fauntroy…who was such a bitch..and ever since then, Mother had attempted to keep poor Watty away from the opposite sex!

And when he’d complained, even at twenty years old, Mother had taken Watty’s pants down and thrashed him with the cane, and then when he’d finally broken off and gotten married, Mother had given the damn cane to Carmel!

And so he’d masturbated a bit in secret, remembering, nay relishing the few times that Carmel had allowed him access to her beautiful, stiff areolas…what a hot girl she was!

And now she didn’t want him to masturbate. She said he was uninterested in helping her out, in remembering things when he was all spent. “I just think it’s a nasty habit” she’d said.

Mother had been the same way…when she’d caught Watty playing with himself in high school, she’d bound him naked to the bed and rubbed cayenne pepper and Ben Gay to his genitals until he’d screamed, and then she’d spun him on his scorched privates and whipped his bare buttocks with her cherry wood walking stick…but to no avail!

Now Watty stood feeling ridiculous, looking at Mr. Copeland, the chastity belt builder fellow, as his wife ordered him to strip naked in front of him!

“I am so sick of this. Carmel was saying. “You are so full of shit, and I am tired, utterly tired of trying to get you to behave yourself.” God, look at how she sashays around,  Watty thought.

He remembered taking her to a ball game one summer day…she was wearing this adorable tube top, her boobs almost spilling out of it, and she’d kissed his neck and made him all hard…but even then, he’d felt she was play acting, and her eyes had been intently on a handsome young guy on in the next row of seats.

Watty knew at heart he was a Beta male—that his money, his stability made him interesting as a prize to a woman wanting to settle down, but most of them weren’t all that interested in fooling around with him…it was regrettable.

And now, of course, Carmel had no interest in him whatsoever. She still knew how to get stuff out of him. Just a week ago, after the no sex ban had been put in place, she’d crawled on his lap when he’d been reading the “Financial Times”: and whispered in his ear about some Visa bill until he agreed to write the check…she’d been so hot in her nightie!

He still remembered Carmel rubbing her full buttocks against his burgeoning penis…she had been so affectionate, so sweet, until she’d gotten what she wanted. And of course she wanted him to be horny, not to jerk off. How on earth could she manipulate him otherwise?

Carmel smiled, and walked up to Watty. “You’ve taken too long, darling.” She unbuckled Watty’s belt and pulled his pants down, right in front of Cope. And then came his underpants—Cope noticed that he was wearing women’s panties, what th’fuck was that about—and then bent her husband over the armrest of the chaise lounge.

Carmel pulled Wally’s belt out of his pants and looped it in her hand and began thrashing him—fifty times, while Cope watched. This was not a new scene to Cope, but again, he couldn’t imagine what went on in these rich men’s heads.

Finally Carmel tossed the belt down, her husband was weeping, and she ordered him to strip, and poor Watty did, folding his clothes neatly as they’d taught him in ROTC.

“Now step up here and let Mr. Copeland examine your measly crotch.” Carmel ordered, and Watty did so, his stomach curdling as the little man in the coverall glided his fingers around Watty’s cock and balls while wearing surgical rubber gloves.

“Now what I want, Cope” she touched the little man’s shoulder as he was still examining Mr. Enright’s pubic area “Is a nice, tight fit, and a strong lock. I’ll let him out now and then if he’s a good boy, but much of the time he’s going to be shut down in that area.”

Cope nodded, and took some measurements, and then arose. “You kin get dressed if ye want, Mr. Enright.” Cope took the gloves off, and sat delicately in a Victorian balloon backed parlor chair, and consulted his notes.

“No, I’m afraid not, Watty. Your behavior has been execrable today, and so I’m going to insist that you remain naked, and in fact, just stand there. If you give me any lip, I’m going to make you stand in the corner for the rest of the day, including when Pilar comes in to clean.”

Watty looked terribly sad, and a tear coursed down a plump cheek but he stood still, and Cope noticed that his peeter  was getting a little bit of a hard-on. That kind of thing would end when he got locked up, Watty guessed.

Carmel stood close to Watty, and began playing with his penis. “You’re not going to get to jerk on this anymore, big boy. Mr. Copeland will see to that. Thank Mr. Copeland for his efforts on your behalf, darling.”

Watty looked stubborn. “I will not thank—“KICK! Carmel’s knee crashed into Watty’s testicles, and he buckled. He fell to the ground, and she pulled him up by his ear.

“Now as I said, you are to thank Mr. Copeland. If you keep acting up like this, I’ll make you kiss Mr. Copeland’s muddy boots as well, Watson.”

Tears of humiliation sogged his cheeks, but Watty finally said “Th-thank you Mis-Mister Copeland for your efforts, sir.”

“Ain’t no thang” Cope said cheerfully as he put his things away. “It’ll take about a week, mebbe ten days? An’ then I’ll be back with your belt. It’ll be comfortable, lessn’ you get too horny, y’understand.”

Carmel kissed her husband’s ear, much as she had some weeks before when she needed his attentions on her Visa bill. “Don’t worry…Watty’s going to learn to be a good boy, and not be so focused on sex. Right darling?”

Carmel’s hand stroked Watty’s member and then she remembered something. “Oh yes. What can I do to keep him honest until the belt arrives?” Carmel tickled the burgeoning head of Watty’s penis, and she giggled. “It’s just that he’s such a horny boy.”

“I have what I call my little coffin, ma’am.” Cope said. It turned out that there was a tiny, six inch wooden box, with a hole in the end, and this was locked onto Watty’s cock with a tiny padlock until he was ready for the real chastity belt. Carmel was excited, and gave Cope a hug, and he smiled good naturedly, and took his leave, wondering if these rich folks were insane.

Cope’s next stop was about a mile south, in mid town Buttermilk Falls. He walked to an apartment building and was buzzed in, and took the elevator to the 9th floor.

He knocked on the door of 9J, and the door opened. “Hello, Mr. Kutlov!” Cope said, smiling at the serious young dark haired man who answered.

“I got your piercing stuff, and the electronic connection.” The young man nodded, and walked to the computer, clicking a button and suddenly a cartoon image of a red-haired hottie, much like Jessica Rabbit of the old movie came alive on the screen.

“Hey there, Mistress Vivienne.” Cope nodded. He felt a little ridiculous, as it was quite odd to have a client who was a computer generated image, but certainly he got paid especially well by these people.

“Hello Cope” the cartoon babe said, smiling. “Were you able to get the needed equipment for Anson?” Mistress Vivienne was dressed in a cartoon belly shirt and cut offs, but then this image metamorphosed into her wearing a leather corset and holding a whip.

“Yes ma’am, I got it fixed up nice. Kin we use yer mantelpiece, Mr. Kutlov?”

“You have permission to speak, Anson!” the cartoon girl spoke, and suddenly she was in a bikini, riding a surfboard in the air over what appeared to be an animated New York City. “If he’s a little hoarse, it’s because it’s the first time he’s  been allowed to talk in 72 hours, since his mother called.”

Anson Kutlov spoke. “Yes, of course it’s fine. You can put the bolt in there, Mr. Copeland.”

Cope drilled a hole into the mantelpiece and attached an eyebolt to one of the ends. “Now, you’ll have to undress there, Mr. Kutlov.” Cope said, and the dark haired man took off all his clothes. Anson’s balls were locked in a little steel pouch (a creation of Copeland’s) that made masturbation impossible, but his cock stuck out of the hole of the pouch, and the underside of his glans was pierced with a little closeable hook.

As Cope motioned, Anson moved his hips up, arching his back so that Cope attached the hook in his penis to the hook in the mantelpiece, which kept Anson Kutlov on his tippie toes, as the penis was locked firmly to the mantelpiece.

Then Cope reached into his bag and brought out the electronic handcuffs, which he had also constructed, and he locked these on Kutlov’s wrists, joining them behind his back.

Now Anson Kutlov was on his toes, and when he relaxed, because his feet hurt, he felt intense painful pressure on his cock. This of course because the pull of an 180 pound man against a delicate foreskin was no picnic.

“This is excellent” cried Vivienne from the computer screen. “Now as you have it fixed, Copeland, the handcuffs can be timed for up to twelve hours, am I right?  And he can lock them on himself…and only I can unlock him early?”

“That’s right…if that’s what you want, Mr. Kutlov?” asked Cope, mindful of a lawsuit. “You did sign a contract, sir.”

Anson nodded and smiled slightly. “It’s all right, Mr. Copeland. Mistress Vivienne has me locked up, but usually every four hours I think she will agree to let me loose for a twenty minute rest, and to have a meal.”

Cope nodded. “Is everything else workin’ all right. How about the whippin’ machine?” Anson blushed as he looked towards the huge contraption in the corner of the apartment—a windmill with long strips of leather attached to it.

When Vivienne ordered Anson to be whipped, he would go to the “machine” and lie across the painful sawhorse under the windmill, and then Vivienne would press a control button from her mysterious location, and the windmill would begin pumping and the leather strips would whack Anson’s ass again and again, sometimes for an hour…

Although Anson had never met Vivienne, and indeed would have been surprised to know that Vivienne was not only not a young woman, but was an incontinent old pornographer with a modem in a nursing home…but Anson was devoted to Vivienne anyway!

And thanks to Copeland, his little torture chamber was in place. There were nipple clamps that could be attached and tightened from Vivienne’s remote location, and also a closet that locked at will.

There was some concern on Cope’s part that a fire might start while Anson was attached or locked up, or bound to the whipping machine, but it wasn’t his call. He just did the work, and collected the money!

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