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.

They ate in near silence, forks scraping plates, the radio murmuring something acoustic. Liam’s cock throbbed against the cage with every swallow; he counted twenty-seven pulses before she stood and carried her bowl to the sink. When she turned, drying her hands, her eyes found his and stayed.

“Bedroom.”

He followed, trousers loose around his hips, the waistband brushing the padlock. The room was darker now, only the bedside lamp on, throwing a warm cone across the duvet. She closed the door behind them with a soft click that echoed in his teeth.

“Rule two,” she said. “Your orgasms are mine. Not from that—” she flicked the cage with a fingernail, metal ringing “—but from what I decide to use. Lie down.”

He stretched out on his stomach, cheek to the cool cotton, arms at his sides. The mattress dipped as she knelt beside him. A bottle cap snicked open; the smell of almond oil drifted over, sweet and faintly bitter, and the scent hurled him back to her bathroom three weeks ago, her hand spreading the same oil across his chest while she told him not to move until she finished speaking.

“Breathe in for four, out for six,” she instructed now, voice steady as a metronome. Her palm settled between his shoulder blades, counting breaths with pressure. When his exhale lengthened, she drew the hem of his T-shirt up to his ribs. “Good. Stay soft everywhere above the waist. Everything below is mine to tense.”

A drizzle of warm oil traced the cleft of his arse; he flinched, cheeks clenching instinctively. She waited, hand hovering, until the muscle slackened. “Open your knees.” The order was quiet, almost conversational, but his thighs parted before the sentence finished.

One slick finger circled the rim, not pushing, just mapping. The sensation was a bright point, like a torch held to skin, every nerve narrowing to that tight ring. She kept the rhythm of his breathing, circle on inhale, pause on exhale, until the flesh loosened and the tip slipped inside to the first knuckle. A shocked grunt muffled into the pillow.

“Feel the stretch,” she murmured. “Nothing else exists.”

She worked him with the patience of kneading dough, adding a second finger when the first glided easy, scissoring slowly. The cage pressed into the mattress, a dull counter-pressure that turned every inward stroke electric. His hips tried to rock; her free hand pinned the small of his back, holding him still, owning the motion.

A cool silicone shape replaced her fingers, narrower than two digits but longer, sliding deep on one steady push. He gasped, toes curling, the stretch blooming hot and full. She twisted it once, watching his back arch, then tapped the flared base. A low hum started, vibration spreading inward, a secret earthquake.

“Tell me what you feel,” she said, hand resting on the plug, feeding the buzz into him.

He swallowed hard, voice cracked open. “Full. Owned.”

She gave a single approving hum and increased the speed, the mattress trembling beneath them. Sweat broke along his spine; the cage leaked a thin thread that cooled against his thigh. Every pulse of the toy seemed to pull pleasure backward, away from the locked cock, gathering low in his gut like a fist tightening.

“Hold it,” she whispered. “Don’t chase. Let it come to you.”

The vibration drilled deeper, a steady thrum against his prostate. His breath fractured; thighs shook against the sheets. She kept one hand on the base, the other stroking the oil-slick skin of his lower back, grounding him even as she dismantled him. The room narrowed to the hot point inside him, the unrelenting buzz, the metal that refused to yield.

A sudden, sharp swell lifted him, different from any orgasm he knew—no forward rush, just a backward implosion. He cried out, sound raw, hips pinned helpless as the climax tore through his arse, cock jerking uselessly in its cage, spending nothing but a clear bead that smeared beneath him. The waves kept coming, drawn out by her unchanging rhythm, until he collapsed, trembling, cheek wet with tears he hadn’t noticed.

She switched the toy off but left it seated, a quiet claim. Her hand spread wide on the small of his back, warm, steady, saying without words: stay, breathe, belong.

The plug slid out slowly, a deliberate withdrawal that left him clenching at nothing, the sudden emptiness shocking after the steady pressure. Chloe set it aside with a soft click against the nightstand, then moved closer, her knees bracketing his thighs. Her hands returned to him—no longer exploratory, but instructional, spreading him wider with thumbs that pressed firm against the sensitive rim.

"Feel how open you are now," she said, voice low, clinical. "How ready."

He couldn't answer, his mouth working soundlessly against the pillow. The cage throbbed in time with his heartbeat, each pulse a reminder of what wasn't being touched, what would never be touched again if she chose. The denial itself had become a kind of touch, a negative space that made every other sensation unbearably sharp.

She reached for something else—he heard the soft sound of silicone against glass, then the cool drip of more oil, warmer this time. When the new toy pressed against him, he felt the difference immediately: thicker, curved, designed with intention. She worked it in slowly, rotating her wrist in small increments, teaching his body to accept the increased girth by degrees. The stretch burned deliciously, his breath catching on each incremental advance.

"There," she murmured when it seated fully, the curve pressing insistently against his prostate. "Feel how that sits. How it knows exactly what it's meant to find."

Her hand found the base again, but this time she didn't turn on a motor—instead she began a slow, rocking motion, the toy moving in microscopic thrusts that dragged the curved tip across that swollen gland with maddening precision. The rhythm was educational, each movement demonstrating how his body could be made to respond without his consent, without his participation beyond acceptance.

Liam felt his mind fragmenting, thoughts dissolving into pure sensation. The cage prevented the usual build-up, the familiar path to release, so the pleasure had nowhere to go but deeper, spreading through his pelvis like warm metal being poured into a mold. His prostate felt impossibly sensitive, each pass of the toy sending sparks up his spine that made his fingers claw at the sheets.

"You're learning," she said, and there was something almost proud in her tone, though her voice remained steady, pedagogical. "This is what your body was made for. Not that useless thing locked away, but this—this capacity to take, to feel, to come apart from the inside."

The words hit him like physical blows, each one driving him closer to an edge he didn't understand. His orgasms had always been forward-propelled, a rushing outward. This was different—a pulling inward, a collapsing star of sensation that threatened to consume him entirely. He could feel it building, pressure mounting in a place he'd never associated with pleasure, his body learning its new purpose under her patient instruction.

She maintained the same rhythm, neither speeding up nor slowing down, simply allowing his body to discover what it could become under her guidance. The steady pressure, the impossible fullness, the denial of his cock—all of it conspired to create a pleasure so focused it bordered on pain, sharp and clean as broken glass.

The pressure inside him had become a living thing, demanding recognition. Chloe's wrist moved with the same steady cadence she'd used to stir the sauce earlier—deliberate, unhurried, each small rotation calculated. The curved toy dragged across his prostate again, and Liam felt his spine arch involuntarily, a sound escaping his throat that he didn't recognize as his own.

"That's it," she said, her voice maintaining that clinical distance even as her fingers tightened on the base. "Let it build from the inside. No rushing."

The cage pressed against his belly, a cold reminder of what wasn't happening, what would never happen again unless she decided otherwise. The denial had rewired him; every nerve ending seemed to have migrated inward, coalescing around that single point of pressure she controlled with such precision. His thighs trembled, sweat pooling in the small of his back where her free hand rested like an anchor.

She changed the angle slightly, the toy's tip finding a spot that made his breath stop entirely. The sound of the city outside faded until there was only the wet slide of silicone and his own ragged gasps. His fingers clutched at the sheets, knuckles white, as she maintained the same inexorable rhythm—not faster, not slower, just consistent enough to drive him insane.

"Feel how your body learns," she murmured, and the words sent a fresh wave of heat through him. "How it stops waiting for what it can't have and starts begging for what it can."

The pressure built differently than anything he'd known—not the familiar climb toward release but something deeper, more primal. His prostate felt swollen, impossibly sensitive, each pass of the toy sending shockwaves through his pelvis. The cage throbbed in time with his heartbeat, each pulse a reminder of his complete powerlessness in this moment.

Then it happened—not the explosive release he expected but something that felt like being turned inside out. The orgasm tore through him from the inside, his body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed through his arse, his cock jerking uselessly in its prison. A sound of pure shock escaped his throat—half-sob, half-groan—as his hips bucked against her restraining hand, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain.

She didn't stop, didn't slow, just maintained that same steady pressure as his body learned its new way of coming apart. The waves kept coming, drawn out by her unchanging rhythm, until he collapsed boneless against the mattress, tears wet against his cheeks, every muscle spent.

Only then did she ease the toy out slowly, leaving him empty and trembling. Her hand came to rest on the small of his back, warm and steady, the weight of it anchoring him to earth as he floated in the aftermath. No words passed between them—no praise, no reassurance, just the shared silence that felt more intimate than anything they'd done, the understanding that she'd taught his body something it would never forget.

The restraints were soft, but they held him with absolute certainty—wrists above his head, ankles spread wide, each limb secured to the four corners of her bed. Liam lay on his stomach, a pillow beneath his hips to tilt his arse up, the position exposing him completely. The chastity cage pressed cold against the fabric beneath him, a constant, unyielding presence. He could feel the weight of it, the way it held him in check even now, when his body was otherwise at her mercy.

Chloe moved around the room with quiet purpose, the sound of drawers opening and closing, glass bottles being set down. She didn’t speak. The silence was deliberate, part of the orchestration. He turned his head to the side, watching her shadow stretch across the wall as she passed the lamp. She wore a simple black tank top and nothing else, her bare thighs brushing against the edge of the bed as she leaned over him. The scent of her—something clean and sharp, like eucalyptus—cut through the warmer notes of the oil she was warming between her palms.

She started with his back, hands gliding down his spine in slow, deliberate strokes. The oil was thick, fragrant, her fingers pressing into muscle until he melted into the mattress. But even that was part of the design: relaxing him, loosening him, opening him. Her thumbs dug into the base of his spine, then lower, spreading him gently, teasingly, before retreating. Again and again, she came close to where he ached, then pulled away.

When she finally touched him there, it was with one slick finger, circling the rim with maddening patience. He exhaled into the pillow, his body already trembling. She didn’t push in, not yet. She just traced him, around and around, until his hips began to rock involuntarily, seeking more. The scent of the oil—sandalwood, maybe—brought back the memory of her pressing two fingers inside him for the first time, whispering, “Breathe.”

A soft click sounded—lube being opened. Then the cool press of something larger, firmer. A plug, but not one he recognized. She worked it in slowly, twisting it with each small push, his body stretching around the gradual increase in girth. When it finally seated, his breath caught. It was bigger than before. He felt impossibly full, the pressure constant, unrelenting. She didn’t turn it on. She didn’t need to. Just the shape of it, the way it pressed inside him, was enough to make his thighs shake.

She left it there.

Then came the vibrator—not the gentle kind from before, but something heavier, industrial. He heard it before he felt it: a low, deep hum that seemed to vibrate through the mattress itself. She pressed it against the base of the plug, and the sensation shot through him like electricity. His back arched, a groan tearing from his throat. The cage throbbed, useless and tight, as the vibrations echoed through his prostate, each pulse a reminder of what he couldn’t have.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her hand moved the vibrator in slow circles, pressing it harder, then pulling back, always keeping him on the edge of too much. His body responded without his permission—hips jerking, muscles clenching, sweat beading along his spine. The restraints held him fast, not painful, just absolute. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. Couldn’t do anything but take what she gave.

And she gave. Relentlessly. Methodically. The pleasure built inward, sharp and focused, until he was panting, begging without words, his voice reduced to raw, desperate sounds. She watched him the entire time, her expression unreadable, her control total. The scent of her skin, the heat of her proximity, the sound of his own ragged breathing—it all blurred into a single, overwhelming current.

He was going to come. He could feel it, that same implosive pressure from before, building low and deep. But she pulled the vibrator away just as it crested, leaving him hanging, trembling, empty. A whimper escaped him, involuntary and pathetic.

She waited. Then started again.

The vibrator returned, pressed harder this time against the base of the plug, and Liam's whole body jerked against the restraints. The sound that came out of him was barely human—raw, broken, desperate. She held it there, steady, merciless, the deep rumble vibrating through the plug and into him, sending shockwaves through his pelvis. His cock strained uselessly in its cage, the metal unyielding, the denial absolute. He could feel his prostate throbbing, swollen and sensitive, every pulse of the vibrator sending a jolt of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

"Count," she said, her voice low, calm. "Five breaths. In. Out."

He tried. He really did. But by the third exhale, his lungs were stuttering, his chest heaving. She didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just watched him fall apart.

The fourth time she brought him to the edge, he was sobbing. Not from pain, not exactly—but from the unbearable tension of being held there, suspended, his body screaming for release while she denied it with clinical precision. The scent of her skin—clean, sharp, like cold air—cut through the heat of his own sweat. It reminded him of the first time she’d pressed her mouth to his ear and said, “You’re going to learn to come like this, or not at all.”

She shifted the angle of the vibrator slightly, and the sensation changed—deeper, fuller, more invasive. His thighs shook uncontrollably, his toes curling against the sheets. The plug inside him felt like it was pulsing with his heartbeat, every nerve ending in his arse raw and overstimulated. He could feel himself leaking—thin, clear fluid dripping from the tip of his caged cock, untouched and ignored.

"Again," she said. "Five more."

He tried to breathe, tried to obey, but the pleasure was a fist inside him, clenching tighter with every second. His voice cracked on the third exhale, a desperate whine escaping him. She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just held the vibrator in place and watched him break.

The orgasm, when it finally came, wasn’t a release—it was a collapse. His body convulsed, his arse clenching around the plug, the cage jerking uselessly against the mattress. The sound he made was guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, as the pleasure ripped through him from the inside out. It wasn’t ejaculation—it was something else, something deeper, a full-body spasm that left him breathless and shaking, tears wet against his cheeks.

She didn’t stop.

The vibrator stayed, the pressure constant, and before he could catch his breath, another wave hit—harder, sharper, his body clenching again, his voice gone hoarse. She rode each one out with him, her hand steady, her gaze unblinking, as if cataloguing every twitch, every sob, every involuntary spasm.

When she finally pulled it away, the silence was deafening. His body was limp, spent, his skin slick with sweat, the sheets damp beneath him. The restraints held him still, his limbs useless, his chest heaving. She set the vibrator aside with a quiet click, then rested her hand on the small of his back, the weight of it warm and grounding.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but lie there, shattered, as she watched him come back to himself—piece by piece, breath by breath.

She waited until his breathing steadied, then began again—not with the vibrator this time, but with her fingers. Two of them, slick and deliberate, pressing against the plug’s base to rock it inside him with slow, grinding pressure. The sensation was different now—deeper, more controlled, like she was playing him from the inside. His body responded immediately, hips twitching, a low moan escaping his raw throat. The cage throbbed uselessly, his cock swollen and aching, the metal unforgiving.

“Again,” she murmured, not a question.

He didn’t have time to answer. The pressure built fast this time, coiling low and tight, his prostate swollen and hypersensitive. She worked him with the same clinical precision, her fingers curling slightly, pressing the plug against the exact spot that made his vision blur. The scent of her—eucalyptus and something metallic, like the key she wore around her neck—filled his lungs as he gasped. It reminded him of the first time she’d locked him up, her fingers brushing his hip as she’d said, “This isn’t about what you want anymore.”

The second orgasm hit harder than the first, his body jerking against the restraints, a strangled cry tearing from his chest. His arse clenched around the plug, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain, his thighs shaking uncontrollably. She didn’t stop. Just kept the pressure steady, riding the wave with him, her other hand resting lightly on the back of his neck like she was holding him in place—not just physically, but entirely.

The third came before he could catch his breath, a sharp, electric spasm that left him sobbing into the pillow, his voice cracked and broken. He could feel himself leaking again, the fluid pooling beneath him, warm and humiliating. His skin was slick with sweat, the sheets damp, his body a mess of tremors and twitching nerves. She didn’t speak. Didn’t praise. Just watched him come apart, her fingers never faltering.

By the fourth, he was gone—no thoughts, no shame, just the raw, animal rhythm of his body surrendering over and over. The pleasure wasn’t pleasure anymore—it was gravity, pulling him down, stripping him bare. His voice was gone, reduced to wet, gasping breaths and the occasional whimper when she shifted the angle just enough to make him spasm again. The cage was a constant, cold weight, a reminder that none of this was for him—it was for her. All of it. Always.

When she finally withdrew her hand, the silence was sudden and total. His body sagged into the mattress, limp and spent, his chest heaving. She moved slowly, unbuckling the restraints one by one, her touch now gentle, almost tender. His wrists were red, not from pain but from strain, and she rubbed them lightly with her thumbs before letting his arms fall to his sides. The plug stayed inside him, a lingering fullness, a quiet claim.

She pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, the fabric soft against his sweat-slick skin. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just lay there, eyes closed, her hand resting on the back of his neck again—warm, steady, the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

He woke to the soft rustle of pages turning.

The room was dim, the light outside the window a bruised violet that meant evening had come and gone. Liam blinked, his body heavy, limbs tangled in the sheets like he’d been dropped there from a height. The plug was gone. The cage was still on. His mouth tasted of salt and sleep.

Across the room, Chloe sat in the low armchair by the window, legs crossed, a book open in her lap. She didn’t look up immediately. Just turned another page, the sound crisp and deliberate. He watched her without moving, the curve of her neck lit by the lamp behind her, the key glinting faintly where it hung against her collarbone.

He shifted, just slightly, and the sheets dragged against his skin like they’d been woven with static. Every part of him felt raw—not in pain, but exposed. Like something had been peeled back and left open to the air. The cage throbbed faintly, a dull ache now, not urgent. Just there. Always there.

She looked up.

Her eyes met his across the room, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no smile. No nod. Just the weight of her gaze, steady and unreadable, like she’d been waiting for him to surface and wasn’t sure what she’d find.

Liam swallowed. His throat was dry. He didn’t try to speak.

She closed the book, slowly, and set it on the windowsill. Then she stood, barefoot, and crossed the room. The floor didn’t creak. She moved like she always did—precise, unhurried, like she already knew how this would go. She sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, and reached out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingers were cool.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

Not are you okay. Not did you like it. Just—how do you feel.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The words weren’t there. Not yet. He felt… hollowed. Not empty, exactly. More like something had been scooped out and replaced with something quieter. Something heavier.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice rough. “Different.”

She nodded, like that was enough. Her hand stayed on his face, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. Not affectionate. Not quite. But not clinical either. Something in between. Something new.

He looked at her, really looked, and realized he didn’t know what she was thinking. Not for the first time—but this time, it didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a fact. Like the key. Like the cage. Like the way she’d held him down and taken everything until there was nothing left to give.

“I wasn’t scared,” he said, quietly. “Not like I thought I’d be.”

She tilted her head. “But?”

He hesitated. “I didn’t know I could feel that… seen. Without being touched. Not there.”

Her fingers stilled. She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, her expression unreadable again, but softer now. Not gentle. Never that. But something like recognition.

He closed his eyes. The scent of her—eucalyptus and the faint trace of sweat—settled over him like a weight. It reminded him of the first time she’d held his face in her hands and said, “You don’t get to hide from me.”

He hadn’t. Not once. Not even now.

She shifted slightly, her hand dropping from his face to rest on the blanket over his chest. Her thumb moved in small, unconscious circles.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked.

The question hung between them like something physical. He felt his throat tighten.

"No," he said. Then, more firmly: "No."

She nodded, but her eyes didn't leave his face. "Why not?"

He tried to find the words. The ceiling above her head was cracked in a thin line that ran from the light fixture to the corner. He focused on that.

"Because it feels like... like this is what I am," he said. "When I'm like that. With you. It feels like I'm not pretending anymore."

Her fingers stilled. The silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

"And what are you?" Her voice was quieter now, almost a whisper.

He looked at her then, really looked. The sharp line of her jaw, the way her hair fell across her shoulder, the key resting against her collarbone like it belonged there.

"Yours," he said. The word came out raw, stripped bare. "I'm yours."

Something shifted in her expression—not softening, exactly, but something behind her eyes that he couldn't name. She leaned forward slightly, her forearms resting on her thighs.

"That frightens you."

It wasn't a question. He nodded anyway.

"Yes." His voice cracked. "It does. Because I don't know where it ends. Or if it does."

She reached for his hand, her fingers finding his under the blanket. Her skin was warm, dry. She didn't squeeze, didn't comfort. Just held.

"It ends when you say it ends," she said. "But not before. Not unless you use the word."

He knew which word she meant. They'd established it weeks ago, back when this was still just sex and games. Before the cage. Before the key. Before she'd started looking at him like she was cataloguing his responses for future reference.

"I don't want it to end," he said. "That's what scares me. That I might need this more than I need... anything else."

Her thumb moved across his knuckles, back and forth, steady as a metronome.

"Needing something isn't weakness," she said. "Needing something specific, something exact—that's just honesty. Most people never get that far."

He thought about his life before her—the careful negotiations, the polite sex, the way he'd always held something back. The way he'd thought that was normal.

"With you, I can't hold anything back," he said. "Even when I try. Even when I want to."

"That's the point," she said simply.

The key caught the lamplight as she shifted, throwing a small flash of gold across the wall. He watched it move, thinking about the weight of it against her skin, thinking about the weight of what she'd taken from him and what she'd given back.

"I've never felt more myself than when I'm like this," he said. "Naked. Caged. Completely fucking helpless. It doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to," she said. "It just has to be true."

She was right. God help him, she was right.

She stood first, extending her hand. He took it, letting her pull him up, the blanket falling away. His knees wobbled; she steadied him with a hand at his waist, the metal of the cage brushing her thigh. The bathroom light was already on, harsh and white after the bedroom’s dusk. She positioned him on the bathmat, the tiles cool under his bare feet, and knelt.

The padlock clicked open with the same decisive snap he’d grown to anticipate like a heartbeat. She eased the cage forward, her fingers careful around the sensitive skin. Cool air rushed him; he exhaled, shaky. She ran warm water, soap scenting the steam with something neutral and medicinal. While she washed the device he watched, arms slack at his sides, feeling oddly weightless, as if some internal ballast had been removed along with the plastic and steel.

She dried it with a small towel, methodical, then held it out. For a second he didn’t move, the empty shell resting in her palm like an offering. The quiet hum of the extractor fan filled the room. He took the cage, thumb tracing the curved bars, then met her eyes. No instruction, no nod—just that steady gaze that had always been permission enough.

He widened his stance, lifted his soft cock with one hand, and threaded it through the ring. The metal was cold; he drew a breath, settled the shaft against the perforated sheath, then fitted the two halves together until the hinge aligned. A small click as the pieces seated. He kept his fingers there, holding it closed, waiting.

She slipped the padlock through the hasp, let it hang a moment, unclicked. The sound echoed off the tiles, the same sound that had ended his freedom weeks ago and now confirmed it again. She rose, key in hand, and tucked it back under her shirt, against her skin. The chain caught the overhead light, flashed once, then rested against her collarbone.

Steam condensed on his shoulders, cooling quickly. She reached past him to switch off the light, her breast brushing his arm. In the dimness her silhouette looked smaller, almost fragile, but he knew the strength in the hand that had just locked him up, the patience in the fingers that had opened him hours earlier.

They stood close enough that he could smell the soap on the cage, on her skin, on himself—clean, shared, ordinary. No words passed; none were needed. The ritual was complete, and with it the understanding that the key’s weight now belonged to both of them, a silent contract forged in clicks and breath and the space between control and consent.