I realised that itwould be very reassuring to know that when I was in the office or out inpublic there would be no embarrassing moments when the front of my skirtcould indicate that I had a tent-pole in my knickers. But it was certainlydifferent that the only parts of my genitals that I could touch with myfingers were my balls. And only my balls were in contact with my silkyknickers.And later, I discovered that while the device would prevent me getting anerection, it didn't prevent my cock from trying to get one. And when thathappened I realised just how small the device was. Small, but strongenough to exert a firm squeezing effect. Moderately painful. And thedesire for an erection subsided rapidly. Until the next time. I kept thedevice on until bedtime. And then my cock celebrated its release fromcaptivity. The next morning, before my shower, I took the necessary stepsto ensure that I would be able to fit into the device...For the next week or two I followed the pattern of wearing. My arms. Self-hug. All I’ve gotten since I stopped getting ‘you poor thing’ hugs after Keith died. Until this weekend.Brad stood up and turned. Yes, I wanted this. I could DO this. That’s half of us. We have the rest of the week for him to figure it out.“Where’re you going?” I asked him as he stepped past me.“Bathroom. Wash my hands. Et cetera.”I could hear it. The washing of hands, the vigorous splash of ‘et cetera’, the whoosh of the toilet, and he was back.“Got room for me on that thing?”“You get your end, I’ll get mine,” I said.We went back to reading. I caught him staring at me a time or two, made sure that my legs tangled with his. My turn to be domestic. Bottle of non-descript red wine. Apple cider. Store-bought mulling spice mixture. Honey. Cinnamon sticks.“Mulled wine?”“Isn’t it a perfect night for it?”“It is ... Can I help?”“You distract the cook,” I laughed.The smells that arise from that concoction are wonderful. I handed my brother a steaming, aromatic mug, then sat.
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