Pussy-Free at the Sex Shop
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
Some years ago, before I fully realized that my role in our marriage would always be somewhere between sexless husband and live-in chastity pet, my wife and I visited an adult store together. I don’t recall which occasion we were celebrating, but the trip itself felt like a milestone in our relationship: she had never been shy about telling me what I could and couldn’t buy, but this was the first time she insisted on picking out my masturbator herself.
I remember the harsh fluorescence of the shop, how the aisles all smelled vaguely of lube and plastic, how the displays were overstuffed with toys of every shape and size. My wife immediately made a beeline for the wall of strokers and jerk-off sleeves, her fingers dancing along the boxes while I trailed after her, feeling like a kid at a store where I wasn’t quite old enough to be. She examined each package with the stern scrutiny of a schoolteacher grading homework, holding them up to the light one by one before dismissing them back onto the shelves.
“Too big,” she said, dropping a thick, bulbous Fleshlight back into its slot.
“Too loose,” she murmured, shaking her head at a particularly floppy sleeve.
Finally she settled on a slender, clear toy with a faux pussy opening. The box showed it in lurid detail, the labia molded to look disturbingly real, only rendered in translucent silicone like some kind of mutant sex fruit. “This one might actually be small enough for you,” she announced, loud enough for the bored teenage salesgirl stocking the lube shelf to glance up and smirk. I felt my face redden, but said nothing as my wife tossed the box into our little shopping basket.
We wandered the aisles for a few more minutes, my wife pausing only when she found a display of dildos arranged in a size gradient, from elegant and delicate to blunt and monstrous. She picked up a truly enormous one at the far end of the spectrum—black, veined, and intimidatingly lifelike—and held it up to herself with a thoughtful frown, as if weighing its merits as a home defense weapon.
“You know, I bet you could barely wrap your hand around the base of this thing,” she mused, not bothering to lower her voice. “Do you want to try?”
The salesgirl was openly eavesdropping now, and I almost wished I could disappear into the wall. My wife pressed the dildo into my palm and made me grip it, then compare it to the dainty stroker in our basket. The physical contrast was obscene, my own inadequacy rendered in silicone and acrylonitrile butadiene styrene. She snapped a picture of me holding both toys before returning the dildo to its place, and I could only imagine what the girl behind the counter was thinking.
At the register, my wife set the masturbator down with a deliberate thud and leaned over to the cashier. “This is the only kind of pussy my husband gets, isn’t it?” she said, giving me a sharp, expectant look. The cashier—a pixieish brunette with chipped black nail polish—raised her eyebrows and sized me up for a long moment. I knew what my wife wanted to hear, and I felt the words curdle in my throat before I forced them out.
“Yes, Mistress,” I mumbled, my eyes glued to the countertop.
The cashier scanned the box, her lips curling into a not-quite-smile. “That’s how you keep ‘em loyal,” she said, sliding the stroker into a nondescript paper bag. My wife laughed and squeezed my shoulder with a mock affection, as if I were her favorite but slightly defective pet. As we walked back to the car, my wife swung the bag jauntily in one hand, humming under her breath and clearly relishing my discomfort.
She waited until we were on the highway before bringing up the new toy again. “You know, some men would be grateful to get even a fake pussy. You should be grateful I don’t keep you in a cage full-time,” she said, flipping down the sun visor to check her makeup. “But don’t worry—I’ll put this one to good use. I have plans for you tonight.”
That night, after dinner, my wife left me at the table to do the dishes while she disappeared into the bedroom with the bag. When I finished scrubbing the last plate, I found her sprawled across the bed, wearing only a sheer black slip and holding the new stroker like it was an art object. She made me kneel at the foot of the bed and read the instructions aloud, emphasizing every humiliating detail about its “ultra-tight entry” and “realistic vaginal texture.” Then she had me lube it up, her eyes locked on my hands as I worked the slippery goo into every ridge and fold.
She told me to put it on and stroke myself while she watched, but not to finish until she gave permission. When I hesitated, she rolled her eyes and took matters into her own hands—literally—sliding the toy over my cock and pumping it with practiced, clinical efficiency. She kept up a running commentary the whole time, comparing the feeling to “fucking a child’s toy,” and reminding me that this was the closest I’d ever get to the real thing. Every time I edged close to orgasm, she stopped, pinching me hard at the base and laughing when I whimpered in frustration.
Eventually, after what felt like hours, she let me finish into the toy. She made a show of inspecting the aftermath, then tossed the used stroker into the bathroom trash with a look of mild disgust. “That’s the last time you get to come this month,” she said, turning out the lights and leaving me alone with the mess.
The next morning, I found the stroker on my pillow, still sticky and faintly warm from the night before. There was a note taped to it: “Clean this before I get home. And remember—no hands, no cum.” I stuck to her rules, because I knew what happened when I didn’t.
The humiliation of that night stuck with me for weeks, and every time I touched myself I thought about the cashier’s smirk, about the picture my wife had taken in the store, about the easy way she wielded my orgasms like a leash. I wanted to resent her, to reclaim some dignity, but the truth was that her mockery turned me on more than anything else. I started fantasizing about being exposed in public, about being forced to confess my perversions to strangers, about being permanently locked away and denied any real intimacy. The shame became its own kind of pleasure, and I craved it more with every passing day.
Eventually, my wife took things a step further. She signed me up for an online support group for “men with performance anxiety,” then made me write a post about my experience at the sex shop. She read over my shoulder as I typed out every humiliating detail, correcting me when I softened the blow or tried to make myself sound more masculine. When I finished, she made me attach the photo from the store, then hit “submit” before I could change my mind.
The responses flooded in almost immediately—some mocking, some sympathetic, most tinged with awe at my wife’s creative cruelty. She read every comment aloud to me, rating them on a scale from “pathetic” to “utterly emasculated.” My favorite was from a woman who wrote, “Your wife is a goddess, and you’re lucky she even lets you clean up after her.” My wife printed that one out and taped it to our fridge.
After that, our sex life developed a rhythm. I would buy her new toys online, always picking out the most intimidating ones I could find, and she would reward me by letting me watch her use them. Sometimes she’d let me participate, but only as a spectator or as a clean-up boy. She kept me on a strict edging regimen, never letting me finish without her explicit permission, and sometimes not at all. The only pussy I got was the clear, stretchy one from the sex shop, and even that was a privilege I had to earn.
Over time, I became comfortable with my role. I learned to embrace the humiliation, to savor the ache of denial, to crave the approval of the women who wielded my orgasms like currency. My wife reveled in her power, and the more I leaned into my own submission, the more creative she became with her punishments and rewards.
I don’t know if this dynamic would work for everyone, but for us, it became a kind of honest intimacy. We both got what we needed from it: she got complete control, and I got the freedom to be exactly as weak and needy as I truly was. Sometimes I still think about that day at the sex shop, about the girl at the counter and the way my wife announced my fate to the world. Back then, it felt like the most humiliating moment of my life. Now, it’s just another fond memory in a long, ever-growing list.
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