She Locked Away My Cock and Taught Me a New Way to Come

He pressed the buzzer for her flat and waited. The familiar click and then the sound of her voice, thin and metallic through the speaker. All she said was his name, a question without the inflection. He said, hi, it’s me, and the main door unlocked with a harsh buzz. Her flat was on the third floor, no lift, and by the time he reached the top he felt the usual tightness in his chest, a sensation that had little to do with the exertion of the stairs. She was waiting in the open doorway, leaning against the frame in jeans and a grey t-shirt.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

He stepped inside and she closed the door behind him, the sound of the lock clicking into place. He took off his shoes and his jacket, placing them neatly by the wall where he always did. The flat smelled of her, that sharp citrus scent and something else, something woody he could never quite place. She was already in the small kitchen that opened onto the living area, filling the kettle with water.

“Tea?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Please.”

He sat on the sofa, the one with the dark grey fabric that was slightly worn on the armrests. He watched her movements, the efficient way she took two mugs from a cupboard, the precise tear she made in the top of the box of teabags. Everything she did seemed deliberate, even this. They had a routine, of sorts. They would have a drink and talk for a while. It was a performance of normality that preceded the rest of it, a necessary buffer.

She brought the mugs over and set them down on the coasters on the coffee table. “I saw that film you were talking about,” she said, settling into the armchair opposite him. “The one set in Berlin.”

“Oh, yeah? What did you think?” He picked up his mug. The ceramic was warm.

“The cinematography was interesting. But I felt like the director was more interested in the aesthetic of alienation than actually exploring it.”

He nodded, taking a sip of tea. He hadn’t really thought about it that much. He’d just thought the main actress was good. As Chloe continued to speak, analysing a particular long take, his attention drifted from her face to an object on the table between them. It was a small, square box, covered in dark blue velvet. It wasn’t large, it could fit in the palm of his hand. It sat next to a stack of books, looking entirely out of place in her curated, minimalist space.

He tried to pull his gaze away, to focus on what she was saying about the film’s score, but his eyes kept returning to it. He could feel his pulse in his throat. The box was closed. It was just a box. But its presence felt significant, a dense object pulling all the light and air in the room towards it. He found he could no longer properly hear her words. They were just sounds, shapes of a conversation he was supposed to be a part of. All of his focus was on the object, on its texture, its silent and heavy promise.

She stopped talking. The silence that fell was different from the comfortable pauses that usually punctuated their conversations. It was heavy, pointed. Liam finally looked up from the box and met her eyes. She was watching him with an expression he knew well, a kind of calm, analytical curiosity.

“You’re not listening,” she stated. It wasn’t an accusation.

He shook his head, just once. “Sorry.”

Her gaze dropped to the velvet box, then returned to his face. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and picked it up. She held it in her open palm, her fingers long and pale against the dark blue. He watched her thumb stroke the soft pile of the fabric. The air in the room felt thin, difficult to breathe.

“I’ve been thinking about us,” she said, her voice low and even. “About the terms of this. I think we could introduce a new rule.”

Liam swallowed. The tea in his stomach felt like a hot stone. He said nothing, just waited.

She didn’t open the box. She just continued to hold it, as if its weight was part of the explanation. “This is a chastity device,” she said. Her words were precise, stripped of any emotion. “The idea is that you would wear it. All the time. And I would keep the key.”

A cold dread spread through his abdomen, so intense it was almost nauseating. He felt his hands grow clammy around his mug. He could feel the shape of her words in the room, the absolute power contained within them. You would wear it. I would keep the key. He imagined the cold metal against his skin, the permanence of it. The thought was terrifying. And underneath the terror, a deep, pulling current of excitement started to flow, hot and shameful.

“It would mean you can’t get hard,” she continued, her eyes fixed on his. “It would mean you can’t touch yourself. At all. Any release you have would be my decision. When it happens, and how it happens. Or if it happens.”

The scent of her perfume, that sharp citrus and wood, seemed to intensify, filling the space between them. It was the same scent that had clung to her hair weeks ago when she had leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered, Don’t come until I tell you. He had been on his knees then, his face pressed into the mattress of her bed, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back. The memory of that specific, sharp command, of the desperate relief when she had finally given him permission, was inextricably linked to this moment. This wasn’t just a suggestion. It was an escalation of that same feeling, magnified a hundred times over. It was the offer of a state of permanent surrender, a constant, physical reminder of her control. His anxiety was a tight, cold knot, but the thrill wrapped around it was undeniable, a familiar and addictive poison. He wanted it. He wanted it so badly it made him feel sick.

He held her gaze for a long time. The room was so quiet he could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. He watched the corner of her mouth, the slight upward tilt that wasn't a smile. It was a challenge. It was a question she already knew the answer to. He could say no. The thought occurred to him as a distant, theoretical possibility, like a path on a map he had no intention of ever taking. Saying no would mean leaving this flat and never coming back. It would mean the end of this, and the thought of that was a hollow, empty ache. He looked at her eyes, dark and unblinking, and felt the last of his resistance dissolve.

He gave a single, short nod. It was a barely perceptible movement, but she saw it. Nothing in her expression changed, not really. She did not smile. But the hard, interrogative intensity in her eyes seemed to soften, the focus shifting into something that looked like satisfaction. It was the look of a problem being solved, of a plan clicking neatly into place.

With her gaze still on him, she used her thumb to press the small clasp on the front of the velvet box. It opened with a soft click. She turned it so he could see inside.

Lying on a bed of white satin was a cage made of polished, surgical steel. It was smaller than he had imagined. There was a solid ring, designed to sit at the base of his cock and balls, and attached to it was a short, ventilated tube that would sheathe his penis, ending in a flat plate with a small opening for urine. On the side, a tiny, integrated padlock was nestled in its own cutout in the satin, its key next to it. The metal looked cold and absolute.

Chloe picked it up. It seemed delicate in her hand, despite its purpose. “This is the base ring,” she said, her voice retaining its calm, instructional tone. She touched the hinged circle of metal. “It comes in two halves, for comfort. It sits behind everything.” She then pointed to the main part. “The cage itself attaches to the ring here, with a pin. It covers you completely. It’s designed so that you can’t get hard. If you start to, the ring will pull tight. It will be uncomfortable.”

She demonstrated how the pin slid through the aligned holes of the ring and the cage. “And then the lock goes through the end of the pin, here.” She picked up the tiny padlock and clicked it into place. “And that’s it. It’s on.” She unlocked it again, the mechanism making another small, precise sound. “It’s medical-grade steel, so it’s hygienic. You can shower with it on. We’ll need to take it off for a proper cleaning every few days. But otherwise, it stays on.”

She held the assembled device in her open palm, offering it for his inspection as if it were a new phone or some other piece of technology. He looked from the object to her face. She was just watching him, waiting. There was no excitement in her expression, no hint of arousal. She was simply presenting the facts of the situation, the mechanics of his submission.

The bedroom was dim, the afternoon light filtered through the half-closed blinds into pale stripes across the carpet. Liam knelt on the rug beside his bed, naked, his hands resting on his thighs. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the cedar block he kept in the drawer beneath his bed. Chloe sat cross-legged behind him, her knees brushing the backs of his calves. She had laid the pieces of

The first morning, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror longer than usual, tracing the outline of the cage beneath his briefs. The metal had warmed against his skin overnight, but the weight was still there, a quiet gravity tugging at his groin. He peed through the slot, aiming carefully, the thin stream hissing against porcelain. When he shook off, the device shifted, rings knocking softly against plastic, and the sound made his face burn even though no one could hear it.

At the office he kept his jacket buttoned. Every time he sat, the front of his trousers pressed the cage closer; when he stood, the ring gave a small tug that shot a bright wire of sensation up his spine. During the ten-thirty project review he lost the thread of a question because the chair’s upholstery snagged the padlock for half a second—long enough for him to feel the metal bite, long enough for him to picture Chloe slipping the key onto the plain steel loop of her keychain that morning, clicking it shut with the same decisive motion she used on her front door. The memory of that click was louder than the presenter’s voice.

He texted her at lunch:
Liam: They’ve swapped the salad dressing again. Rocket tastes like soap.
Chloe: Buy your own.
Liam: Yes.
He stared at the exchange, the banality of it, while under the table his locked cock tried half-heartedly to swell and was stopped cold. The thwarted pulse left him light-headed, as if all the blood had nowhere to go but his cheeks.

Wednesday she sent, New Low album—thought of you. He listened to it on repeat in his headphones, bass lines thudding against the same rhythm as the cage tapping his thigh when he climbed the stairs. He walked an extra flight just to feel it.

Thursday night he typed, I dreamed about the key. He deleted it, wrote, Milk is on offer, two for one. She replied, Get two, then. He pressed the phone to his forehead, breathing hard, the metal between his legs suddenly the only real thing in the world.

By Friday his gait had changed: smaller steps, hips slightly forward, a secret adjustment that kept the ring from pinching. He caught himself in the lift mirror: same dull suit, same tired eyes, but underneath—steel, denial, her. The thought made his lips part, a silent gasp no one noticed.

At five-thirty he stood on the tube platform, crowd pressing close. A stranger’s briefcase bumped his groin; the impact jammed the cage against his pubic bone, pain flaring sharp and sweet. He went hot all over, vision tunneling. For an instant he was back on her rug, knees aching, hearing the first decisive snap of the lock. The platform swayed, fluorescent lights buzzing like her measured voice: Get used to it.

He boarded the train, found a corner seat, and texted her: On my way.
She answered with a single thumbs-up emoji. He read it again and again, the small symbol expanding until it filled his chest, heavier than any metal.

The key turned in her lock with the same metallic snick he’d been hearing in his head all week. Chloe stepped back to let him in, barefoot, hair twisted up in a pencil. She didn’t speak; she simply closed the door and walked toward the kitchen, leaving him to follow or not. He followed.

The flat smelled of garlic heating in olive oil, ordinary and domestic, but the air felt thick, ionised, as if a storm had already started indoors. She set her phone on the counter, the tiny key still on her ring beside the grocery loyalty fob. Liam stared at it while she stirred, the motion of her wrist steady, unhurried.

“Take everything off,” she said without turning around. “Fold it on the chair.”

He undressed in the living-room, piling jeans, shirt, briefs with the same care he used for client files. When he stepped into the kitchen doorway she finally looked at him, eyes moving down and back up like she was checking measurements. The inspection lasted long enough for the extractor fan to click off, leaving the room suddenly quiet.

“Come here.”

He walked forward until the tiles were cold under his feet and the scent of citrus-wood rose from her neck. She wiped her hands on a tea towel, then reached down. One fingertip traced a horizontal bar of the cage, a feather-touch that clanged through his nerves like a hammer on brass. His cock jerked inside the steel, found nowhere to go; the ring tugged, pain blooming bright and clean. A soft sound escaped him, half gasp, half whimper.

She watched his face while she did it again, slower, nail clicking faintly against metal. The memory of her whispering hold still the first time she’d pressed a lubed finger inside him flashed across his mind, carried on the smell of olive oil and skin. He swallowed, thighs trembling.

“No abrasions,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Good.”

She gave the cage a final, almost friendly pat, the way someone might test a ripe fruit, then turned back to the hob. “You can put your T-shirt and trousers on. Leave the pants. Dinner in twenty—chop the peppers.”

He stood there, blood drumming in his ears, erection throttled into a dull, insistent ache. The order was so mundane it felt obscene. He wanted to drop to his knees, to beg for release, for more contact, for anything. Instead he found the peppers in the fridge, the knife in the block, and started slicing, naked from the waist down, steel swaying between his legs with every cut.

She moved around him, adding tomatoes, tasting sauce, humming along to the radio. Each time she brushed past, the faint heat of her arm reset his pulse. By the time the peppers were diced into perfect squares, his throat was dry and his knees weak.

She glanced at the neat pile of vegetables, then at him, and for the first time that evening the corner of her mouth curved—not a smile, just acknowledgement. “Wash your hands. Set the table.”

He obeyed, erection pulsing against unforgiving bars, confusion a living thing under his ribs. The key glinted on the counter between them, close enough to touch, far enough to be unreachable, and the distance felt exactly like love.