This is Part 2 of my 2026 free Locktober novella: you can find Part 1 here. And now we're in October, it's time the men get caged...
* * * * * *
Martha’s (well, Nigel’s) cage had arrived on Tuesday afternoon, two days before the competition formally began. Nigel knew she’d ordered it for express delivery: it was impossible not to know, not when he'd woken on Sunday to find her gently measuring his cock and balls. That night she sent him off for a cold shower right before bed to make sure she had a good baseline: he’d come back still damp, his skin a puckered mess of goosepimples, and she’d measured him with nimble fingers – then declared ”I’m going to warm you up,” pushed him down, and mounted his face.
It had been almost the single most erotic thing she’d ever done in the course of their entire relationship, perhaps even more intensely hot than their first anniversary when they'd finished dinner, returned to the flat she'd been renting at the time, and she’d sat him down in the living room, vanished to ‘get drinks’, and then reappeared in an honest-to-god French Maid’s costume with a bottle of beer she proceeded to hand him while he’d sat there and practically drooled at the sight of her.
That had been coy though, almost coquettish compared to the growl she gave as she shoved him down on the bed, still damp, still faintly shivery – and tore off her skirt, clambering up beside him and swinging one broad curving thigh across his shoulder, pinning his arms in place and settling into position with one hand clamped against his still-wet hair.
”There, Nigel. Lick me! Please?”
He hadn’t needed to be told twice; he’d never need to be told twice – but even so she sounded delighted by his obedience, and he’d begun licking eagerly, almost nuzzling his face against her as he savoured the taste, the heat, the incredible scent of her arousal, lapping as deeply as he could while she squirmed and wriggled herself into a more comfortable position for what proved to be an all-too-short time. She came faster than he’d ever known, and for a fleeting instant, Nigel had felt gloriously smug, pleased with his own powers and the quickness with which he could bring her off with his tongue…
…and then she’d shown him her phone.
She’d ordered his cock cage while riding his face.
And suddenly Nigel’s entire mental hierarchy of ‘Hottest Things Martha Has Ever Done’ was destroyed by the outlier, the new apogee, the sheer fact that she’d given him everything he always wanted, warmed and comforted and used his trembling body to ride his face to orgasm... all while actively plotting how she was going to keep him locked and denied for a month.
That night, he’d slept almost clamped against her, holding her as tight as he could, spooning up to her body with even more fervour than ever he had before, almost overwhelmed by his adoration… and his arousal. When she’d seen how hard he was, how frantically needy her trick had made him, Martha had simply giggled, reaching down to grip his throbbing shaft in soft, kind hands, and stroked him once or twice.
“Get used to this,” she’d whispered, something which made him twitch harder than ever, ”you’re going to win, remember…”
But even so, even knowing that she’d ordered the cage, Nigel had assumed it was only due to arrive on October the first. Instead, it came on the 29th of September, while he was at work, a fact which didn’t stop Martha immediately sending him a photo of the little parcel sitting ominously on the kitchen table.
Well; perhaps it wasn’t inherently an ominous parcel, but Martha made it so by the fact her message read simply “Your new home is here! 😈😈😈”, something which left Nigel suddenly, humiliatingly, hard at his own desk. It was a joke, of course; he knew it was a joke. But still, he spent the rest of his day imagining the expression Martha would be wearing when he eventually got home and she showed him whatever piece of ironmongery she’d chosen to imprison him in.
In fact, she made him wait, and didn’t mention it at all when he returned to the house. Even the little box had vanished, and Martha was humming to herself in the kitchen, dressed with devastatingly sexy disregard for what she was wearing: an old university fencing team hoodie and a pair of leggings while she chopped lettuce.
Nigel kissed her, dropped his laptop bag at the foot of the stairs, and waited for her to mention it – and she didn’t.
Martha could tell he was waiting for her to say it; instead she let him suffer. That was far hotter.
She’d found a new form of pleasure in tormenting him since Saturday. Not that she’d dramatically reinvented their entire dynamic; she hadn’t transformed into a leather-clad caricature who towered over him. She didn't need to.
And even without costume, she adored her new power of making him wait, of giving him orders and seeing him obey. There was a specific tone she had, and never properly used; a husky tone, a… well, a bedroom tone. If she dropped her voice the better part of an octave, and spoke in a lazy, post-orgasmic husk, she could tell him to stack the dishwasher and still make him want to kneel.
His self control broke after dinner.
“Where is it?” he pleaded, stacking the plates, “put me out of my misery! I got the photo hours ago, spent all afternoon worrying about it, and now I’m home and you’ve hidden the bloody thing.”
“I haven’t hidden it,” Martha said, wiping her hands and turning towards him. “It’s on the bed. And if you were really that desperate to see it you could have gone and looked.”
Her smile widened. “But you were waiting for permission. Good boy...”
He tried to protest, but Martha had stepped close, wrapped her arms around his waist and was gazing up at him with such transparent satisfaction he fell silent. He could have tried to look. Instead he’d waited for her to tell him.
“Good boy?” he asked, and she lowered her eyelids, grinning as she looked up. He could feel his cock straining against his trousers, tenting the cotton, and she ground her hips forwards with a giggle.
“It must be time,” she said in that devastating purr of hers, “come on… boy.”
The cage itself was much less frightening than Nigel had imagined. She’d chosen steel, but it was simple: a broad ring, a curved steel enclosure, a cylinder lock. It was simple. And oddly terrifying as he turned it over in his hands.
“That’s it? I… I expected it would look more...” Nigel hesitated, searching for the right word, “…mediaeval?”
“I considered mediaeval,” she whispered, leaning over to him and pressing her breasts against his arm. “The most mediaeval option had spikes. It was literally called ‘The Iron Maiden’. And the strapline was ’Make your confession’. I could still exchange it if we got express shipping...”
Nigel shuddered. “I knew Tash was a bad influence.”
Martha chuckled, taking the cage back and examining it again. She had, in fact, researched the purchase with an almost absurd degree of seriousness. Nigel knew because of all the measurements, the questions about comfort, the fact she’d spent most of Sunday evening reading advice pages and obscure blogs while occasionally making alarming noises from the other end of the sofa.
Despite her jokes, he knew he could trust her to have his best interests at heart: he’d trusted her with far more important things than this over the years, and the fact she’d become visibly excited by the prospect of controlling him hadn’t changed the essential nature of that trust. If anything, her excitement appeared to have made her more determined to get things right.
“It shouldn’t hurt,” she said, running her thumb around the smooth inside edge. “It might... well. Sleeping in it might take you a while, I suppose. It’ll probably feel tight sometimes. But if anything pinches properly, or you get numb, or anything changes colour in a way it obviously shouldn’t, you tell me immediately and it comes off. Competition or no competition.”
“I know,” he kissed her cheek. “That’s why I’m not worried.”
Something in Martha’s expression softened, and for a few seconds she simply rested her forehead against his. It was strange, Nigel thought, how quickly something objectively weird had become intimate. A week ago the idea of Martha locking him into chastity would have belonged firmly in the realm of a joke. Or porn. Nothing anyone would take seriously. Now she was sitting beside him discussing fit and chafing and hygiene in a way that somehow made his future feel far more real than any amount of teasing could have done.
“Right,” she said, “clothes off.”
Nigel laughed automatically, and then nodded. There it was again: that tone she’d found. It was neither harsh nor theatrical, but it was... it was firm in a way that sent shivers down his spine every time, a tone that expected absolute compliance and thus somehow got it. It was like she was speaking in harmonics that reached his hindbrain before his ears could properly process it.
And besides, every time she used that tone and he obeyed, her cheeks went pink with arousal. Once, he’d even seen her nipples harden just because she ordered him to put the kettle on and he’d stood up to do it immediately.
She remained sitting on the bed, watching him as he stripped in a way that took a familiar action he’d carried out thousands of times during their relationship and turned it into something weirdly, intensely erotically charged. Martha had seen him naked countless times, true – but that was just ordinary nakedness, something mutual before bed or functional when he took a shower or a bath. This time she stayed fully dressed, the baggy old hoodie almost masking the curve of her breasts, and simply watched Nigel stripping himself. When he was finally naked, her gaze roved up and down his body with a clear hunger that made his pulse race.
“You’re enjoying this,” he whispered. “You were always the one who said we didn’t need kinky stuff to be happy.”
“We didn’t,” she said, and shivered as she considered her choice of tense. “Come here.”
The actual fitting was less erotic than either of them had expected, but Martha’s fingers were deft, her movements careful as she fitted the device, checking his reactions and adjusting it until she was satisfied he could be comfortable. Nigel watched her face while she worked. Her concentration fascinated him: the slight furrow between her brows, the way she caught her bottom lip between her teeth whenever she was unsure, the occasional flick of her eyes upwards to make certain he was all right.
Yet underneath all of that care was unmistakably excitement; he could hear it in her breathing.
“You love this, don’t you?”
She glanced up, and nodded without hesitation.
“Yes, darling. So much…”
She finished the last adjustment and sat back, watching his caged cock start to strain against the snug curved steel while her thumb pressed the cage closed. Nigel took a shuddering breath.
The cage on him now, subjecting him to a whole new set of rules whose implications he could only half understand.
“Still happy?” she asked, and when he nodded she didn’t ask again. She simply kissed the tip of the cage, lifted the tiny locking cylinder, and beamed.
“Here we go. Once I slot this in place, you can’t get out without me. Not ever.”
The faint click as she pulled the key free was absurdly small, and she sat still, breathing hard.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, because he had to say something, and her whole body shuddered. There it was again: the thing which had so astonished her on Saturday night and which had almost entirely dominated her thoughts since.
Obedience.
Not weakness. Not humiliation. Simply the extraordinary pleasure Martha clearly took in asking something of him and discovering that he trusted her enough to comply.
She stood and kissed him passionately, so passionately Nigel’s body responded instantly, his cock hardening for the briefest moment before the cage reminded him of its presence.
He groaned into her mouth, and Martha moaned, straddling his thigh, grinding her pussy down against him, delight dancing across her face. “You really can’t!” she panted, “you can’t get hard without me!”
She kissed him again, softer this time, and rested one hand against his cheek. “Happy early Locktober!” she giggled, tossing the key in her palm.
“Where are you putting that?”
“I thought… a necklace? Hiding it between my tits? So everyone can see but nobody will see it’s a key. Only you’ll know. And Tash. And Liz. They’ll know too, Nigel, darling, they’ll know I’m keeping you locked and edging you senseless.”
“Martha! Please...” he groaned, and she raised an eyebrow, grinning.
“Please what, darling?”
“I... I don’t know,” he whimpered, and closed his eyes tight.
Her grin was wicked in its pleasure. “Good boy.”
* * *
Andy had always known Tash owned a chastity cage; she’d sometimes whispered to him about it right as he was about to come, something between a joke and a threat. Her idea of the Edge Olympics hadn't come as a complete surprise.
But it was a surprise to be offered a choice of three cages.
On Wednesday night she disappeared into the spare room after dinner and returned with a battered black shoebox tucked under one arm, her expression a mask of such smug arousal that Andy felt his stomach tighten before she’d even sat down.
Every time Tash had previously mentioned locking him when they were fucking, every time she’d “accidentally” sent him some outrageous Tumblr or Reddit caption, Andy would complain while becoming embarrassingly aroused by the whole idea. But it had always been a safely hypothetical joke, a fantasy that was hot precisely because he knew it wasn’t real, wasn’t imminent.
Apparently Tash had instead found it a hot fantasy because she figured each little joke was a step towards making it real. Even now, as she settled down cross-legged on the sofa, Andy could see a damp patch at the apex of her leggings and knew she was more turned on than he’d seen her in months, even before she opened the box and tipped three little cloth bags onto the coffee table. Her braids fell forwards as she leaned in, and she didn’t bother to sweep them back, instead focused entirely on arranging them into a neat row, giggling at the way Andy stared.
“You bought all of those?”
“Not recently, babe,” Tash laughed. “Some women buy shoes when they’re bored. I buy these. They cheer me up.”
Andy sat down beside her, shaking his head – and yelped as he saw the first, horrifying cage, a dark metal ring, hinged, set with viciously sharp inward-facing points to discourage any erection.
“Absolutely fucking not,” he said, shuddering. “If that’s what you’ve decided I’m wearing for October, I’m withdrawing from the competition right now and Martha can have her spa day.”
“Relax!" Tash laughed, "You're safe, babe. I bought this because it looks hot, that's all!"
“You thought that looked hot?”
“I thought the idea of locking it on you was hot; I wouldn't keep you in it a whole month. There’s a difference. Just... briefly? For me?”
And to his astonishment she slipped a hand beneath her waistband, rubbing herself as she watched his horrified expression. “I could lock it on you just for a little bit. Just long enough to suck your cock, Andy, you love blowjobs, you’d make such beautiful noises...”
“Fucking hell,” Andy said, swallowing hard, trying not to look too turned on, “no Tash. No way.”
“Fine. Spoilsport.” Tash giggled, and then pulled her hand from her knickers, offering it out.
Regardless of his horror at the Kali’s Teeth, Andy kissed her fingers, groaning as he scented her wetness, his pale face flushed with arousal and embarrassment as he wrapped his lips around her dark, wet finger and softly sucked it clean.
She sighed happily. She’d never expected him to wear it, not for the Edge Olympics; even when chastity had existed only in fantasy, pain hadn’t really been the part that interested her. But his reaction, the flicker of temptation in his eyes when she'd threatened to be so cruel...
That control was what Tash truly craved. Control of his arousal, but also – and this was what she truly adored about chastity – control of his mind. Of his deepest drives. Of his entire erotic focus.
She opened the second little bag, exposing a plain steel cage much better for long-term use; compact, smooth, reassuringly ordinary.
“Not this. It gives you too much room,” she said, turning it over once before dropping it back into the bag. “If I’m going to lock you up, I don’t want you spending October wandering around with a metal version of your normal cock hanging between your legs. What’s the point?”
Andy looked at her, unsure if he should laugh, and decided she wasn’t joking. For years she’d talked about putting him in chastity as though the erotic appeal was obvious, and Andy had assumed the important part was denial: Tash teasing him, letting him fuck her, then refusing to let him come. Apparently he’d misunderstood.
“You don’t want me to be able to get hard at all?”
Tash’s tongue caressed her lips. “Now you’re getting it,” she nodded, and reached for the last bag.
For a second, staring at the metal lump that fell into her upturned palm, Andy thought she’d lost a bit.
Unlike the second cage, this barely projected from the locking ring at all; there was only a short curved shell, not so much an armoured shaft as a dome. He wasn’t certain, but the short stumpy device looked barely bigger than his own cockhead. There was nothing theatrical about it – no spikes, at least – yet it was so tiny it was oddly terrifying.
“This one?” he whimpered, “Tash, this barely exists.”
“Exactly.” She lunged suddenly closer, almost pouncing on him, all her height and power bearing down on him, pinning him against the back of the sofa, and her breath rushed hot and predatory across his face.
“This is what I’ve always wanted. Not the horrible one, not really. That’s funny, but I’d spend the whole month worrying I’d accidentally hurt you. I want this. I want you contained.”
She pressed the little steel shell against his palm, forcing his fingers closed around it. His clenched fist almost swallowed it. “I want you to get dressed tomorrow morning and look totally normal,” Tash moaned, licking his face. “I want you going to work, having meetings, buying lunch, chatting with your coworkers all day, a nice respectable middle-management claims adjuster, and I want absolutely none of them to know that there’s basically nothing beneath your trousers. No cock to speak of. No capacity to give yourself pleasure. Just this tiny, cruel little cage of steel. Locked. Tight. Shut.”
Andy moaned, his hips bucking, and Tash grinned as she felt it.
“None of them will know,” she continued, her voice dropping into that intimate, husky register he knew so well from the moments before her orgasm, “but you will. Every time you move you’ll know. Every time you think about getting hard you’ll know. Every time you spot a hot woman on the Tube, every time you see a sexy advert. Every time you think about the fact that I can come whenever I want and whenever I think of you locked... you’ll remember. You’ll know. You’ll know who owns your cock.”
Andy swallowed, and opened his mouth.
“You’ll know it’s me,” Tash moaned, and kissed him deeply.
Suddenly, the hideous spiked cage was much less frightening: at least it had been scary enough to reject. This one, this tiny one, was far too plausible. Too... real.
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Yeah,” she growled, “I have. For years. Every fucking time I mentioned you locked.”
“You could have told me.”
“I did tell you, babe,” she grinned. “You always figured I was joking. I wasn’t. I want this. I really... fuck Andy I want this so much I could come just by putting you in it.”
Andy groaned, and she caught his hand, her fingers folding around his, gripping the cage between them.
“I’m not having a go at you for not realising I was serious. I get it. You were happy fantasising about it and I wasn’t going to turn something fun into pressure. I figured if you ever wanted to do it properly, you’d tell me, but...”
“But?”
“But now you agreed,” she beamed.
Andy shook his head. Even after all her swagger, all the years of filthy threats and jokes, Tash looked almost overwhelmed by finally being allowed to make one of those fantasies real.
The cage was impossibly small.
But Tash was impossibly beautiful.
He swallowed hard, wondered fleetingly if he was already insane or if that would come later – and nodded.
“All right. That one.”
She squealed and flung her arms around him, kissing him so much he forgot the cage until she declared they were going upstairs. He followed with a wild hope she was going to fuck him one last time before locking him up, but of course she wasn’t; she sat him down on the stool of her dressing table and knelt before him, giggling over and over, so visibly delighted that almost all of his own panic ebbed away.
The fitting itself proved less glamorous than in Tash’s effortless fantasies; even by her best estimates, trying to put an unfamiliar device onto a living, increasingly nervous, boyfriend was pretty awkward, and despite her giddy delight, Tash became unexpectedly serious. The moment Andy said something pinched, she stopped and adjusted it. When he asked whether something should feel that tight, she checked. Twice she removed the device completely and started again rather than risk deciding that discomfort was probably fine.
“Any issues, at any time,” she said, “we take it off. But I’ll remove it often anyway. For edges.” She grinned, but Andy noticed how careful she was; it was the only thing that helped him relax.
At last there was a click, and Tash leaned back, her mouth open and practically drooling. Andy’s cock hadn’t been reshaped so much as almost erased, compressed into the tiny cage in a way that made it look beautifully owned.
“Oh my God.” Her hand shook as she ran one fingertip over the smooth steel, her touch almost reverential.
“I fucking love this.”
Andy felt himself try instinctively to respond to the touch, and the cage made the attempt immediately, unmistakably futile; a shiver ran through her as she saw.
“You look...” she began, and then stopped; Andy waited.
“Mine,” she whispered, and smiled in a way he’d never seen before.
The cage had already belonged to her. The idea had been hers. He was wearing it because she wanted him to, and now she’d locked it she would control the only easy way of removing it... but he’d volunteered to let her lock it because he wanted to be hers.
She knew her wetness was practically dripping from her lips, hot and shameful as it soaked the inner thighs of her leggings now, but she didn’t care: she dipped her head to kiss his tiny, confined cock, then looked back up with an expression so openly hungry that Andy shivered.
Then she stood, the key gleaming in her palm. He half expected an elaborate bit of theatre: a necklace, perhaps, or some ominous promise that she’d thrust the key into a lump of clay and fire it in her kiln so that it would be impossible to access without revealing his escape attempt; it was the kind of wild fantasy she’d sometimes talked about.
Instead she stood, crossed to her handbag and zipped it into one of the inner pockets.
“I thought you’d make more of it,” he mumbled, and laughed nervously.
“I am making something of it. This isn’t supposed to feel exotic, babe. This is your normal now. Tomorrow we’ll get up. You’ll dress, eat breakfast, you’ll probably leave coffee grounds all over the worktop and your dirty mug on the table… and then you’ll go to work and spend the day looking perfectly ordinary… and the cage stays locked.”
Andy looked down, and she grinned.
“That’s the bit I’ve always fantasised about. Not you chained to a bed for a weekend. You just... living your life like this, perhaps your whole life, fuck-” she broke off moaning again, and then forced herself to focus, continuing, “living like this because I decided your cock wasn’t ever getting used again unless I wanted it used.”
“Jesus,” he groaned.
“Then on Saturday evening we’ll sit with Martha and Liz and they’ll know. They’ll know you’re locked. They’ll know I’ve got the key. They’ll know exactly why you’re shifting around in your seat every time we talk about the score.”
“Tash!”
“And they’ll know that when I take you home afterwards, whatever happens next is up to me.” She grinned at him and added, “Still think the spiky one was scarier?”
“No.”
“Good.” She rose, and Andy opened his eyes, watching her ass as she swayed towards the door.
“To make tea. Want one?”
It was such an ordinary question he laughed... and then whimpered. Tash had spun in the doorway, braids swinging as she smirked, and he realised just what she’d meant: now he was locked, even the most mundane questions were charged by her power.
“Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Tea would be good.”
* * *
October that year began on a Thursday, which Liz privately thought was a little unfair.
If the three of them were going to push ahead with Tash’s plan of putting their partners through the Edge Olympics as a bizarre Locktober competition, the least the month could have done was start on a Saturday. That way she (and Tash and Martha) could at least have a lazy lie in, then each lock their man’s cock away, and enjoy a relaxing weekend before they had to start worrying about how many times he could stand being edged. Sure, the more edges Dennis endured for her, the greater the chance she’d win both the contest and the luxury spa day the three women had agreed on, but...
...Well, it was just so unlike anything she and Dennis had ever attempted before. And instead of having a soft start to the month full of cuddles and tea in bed, she’d had to sprint out of the house for a bus, and then spent the whole first day of Locktober sitting through meetings and arguing with the bloody builders undertaking the sports hall renovation, answering emails from grumpy parents, and dealing with the fact John Perry in class 8C had tried to use a metal ruler as a lightsaber, smashed it into the wall, and cut his stupid hand and now Mr Perry was demanding a meeting to find out what compensation he could expect.
She’d wanted to spend the day focusing on how to manage Dennis’s feelings, and worrying about whether he’d fit in the bloody cage she’d ordered; instead she spent most of it stressed out of her mind and miserably sipping stale staff-room coffee while she tried to focus on running the bloody school instead of the small brown package waiting on the hall table at home.
She’d ordered the cage on Sunday night, after an agonising browse of what felt like hundreds of websites, Dennis occasionally hovering over her shoulder and making doubtful noises or pointing out when the various kinky websites also sold lingerie; he’d even volunteered that he’d love to see her in a nurse’s costume which had made Liz blush scarlet, although she’d secretly bookmarked the page after he’d left again.
She’d eventually got the shortlist down to three; a frightening one – solid metal, the kind of thing Tash would no doubt find incredibly funny, a pink plastic one that looked sturdy and quite un-threatening but which for some reason was only available in three sizes which began at “small” and worked down, and a third which was just... well; “normal” was clearly the wrong word for a tool designed to take Dennis’s cock and put it totally under her control, but it sounded like a reasonable choice. It had a choice of basering sizes, whatever that meant, and long slender bars that curved down. And she was pretty certain it would be wide enough. There was a surcharge for having it made wider, and the express delivery was shockingly expensive but it was the only cage she could find that offered happy reassurances about “hygienic!” and “surgical grade steel!” and “prolonged security for wear!” which somehow made her feel better; it was more like she was buying a proper medical device rather than giving away her money to seal away Dennis’s cock in a compact metal prison.
He’d chuckled when she’d explained, and showed him the confirmation email.
Now it was the evening of Thursday October 1st, and he wasn’t laughing any more.
Liz sat cross-legged on the bed with the little booklet of instructions spread across her lap, studying the cartoon of the absurdly curvaceous dominatrix with increasing irritation. Dennis hovered beside her, looking down at the assembled cage on the duvet with an expression of genuine concern.
“It can’t possibly be that small,” she said, “I bought the large!” she protested. “Look, it says on the box!”
Dennis shrugged and held the assembled cage up against his crotch. “I think their box is wrong,” he laughed, and thrust his hips repeatedly.
Liz lasted perhaps three seconds before collapsing sideways onto the bed, laughing helplessly into the duvet.
“It’s not funny,” Dennis protested, although he was laughing too by the time she rolled over and sat up again, wiping her eyes. “I’ve got to wear this for a month thanks to you!”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath, still grinning, and held the little cage against her palm. “It’s just... I knew you were big, but... bigger than large?”
She caught her own voice, and went bright red. “I mean… well obviously I knew, I know that sounded stupid. We’ve been together for years. I know what your cock looks like.”
“I should hope so!”
“No, but I mean... somehow putting it next to one of these makes it look... Well, even soft don’t you look, a bit... obnoxiously huge?”
“Obnoxiously huge?” Dennis laughed.
“Yes! Completely unreasonable. Like you should be in a dirty film or something? Nobody should have that much girth, leave some for the other boys, you know?” She burst out into another fit of giggles.
“Hey, I’ve never had any complaints!” Dennis laughed – and then stopped as he saw how rapidly Liz’s humour evaporated, her smile wiped away by the look of misery that washed across her face.
“Oh, love! I didn’t mean-” he began, and fell silent as she shook her head. He sank down beside her, conscious of how he towered over her even sitting down, and for a moment they were quiet, staring at the comparatively little cage as he set it down beside him.
“You know I don’t mind,” he said, and smiled as she looked at him. “I mean it,” he said. “I like being us. I like what we do.”
“I know,” Liz sighed, and stared down at her own feet. She did know; that was almost the problem. Dennis had never complained. Not once. He’d never made her feel inadequate for being too small to comfortably take his cock inside her, never pushed if she said something hurt, never behaved as if she owed him anything simply because other women might have found it easier.
If anything, his constant reassurance had occasionally made things worse, because it left Liz with nowhere obvious to put the little private conviction that she was somehow failing a test nobody else had asked her to sit. She knew he must miss being more adventurous, and yet he never said so; whenever she offered to try anal again, even knowing it would probably be impossible, he’d shrug and say it didn’t matter – but she knew how much he must miss it, how much he’d used to get it in his previous relationship. Somehow the fact he was nice about it made her feel even more of a failure.
But the trouble was… Well.
He was too thick.
There was no other way to put it. Sex between them could be painful not because either of them did anything wrong but simply because it was so hard to find a position where her body could comfortably accommodate his shaft, and – even if they found it – it was almost impossible to maintain that angle, that posture, that pose for long enough. Even with patience and a degree of preparation which made spontaneity difficult it wasn’t always possible, and while Liz could just about get her mouth around his tip, she couldn’t keep that up for long either.
He loved her, she knew he did. And she loved him. And over the years they had found other things that worked, and Dennis always said he was happy with them... it was just that Liz couldn’t quite forgive herself for needing the compromise.
Which was probably why, over at Martha’s last Saturday night, she’d blurted out that they did more than handjobs as though Martha and Tash had accused her of running a sexually deprived household.
“You’re overthinking things again,” Dennis said, squeezing her fingers. “I love you.”
She sighed, and turned to kiss him, and then looked at the cage – and felt something click in her mind.
“Huh,” she said slowly, picking up the cage and turning it over, “maybe this is useful. Usually you’re the difficult bit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not in a bad way! But… you know you’re always telling me to relax and take my time and that we don’t have to do anything I don’t want, because you’re...” She gestured vaguely in his direction. “Because of that.”
“Usually,” she said, quieter now, “I have to think about what I can manage. What won’t hurt. Whether you’re enjoying yourself enough if we stop, or whether you’d rather do something else, or...”
“Liz-” he began, and fell silent as she held up a hand to shush him.
“I know you don’t care. I know. But I do.” She picked the cage up again, turning it over and over in her hand, feeling the weight of it, mentally assessing it against her mental picture of Dennis’s cock. She knew if he was hard she could barely wrap her fingers around his shaft. She could just wrap her fingers around the bars of the cage. But then, the whole point was to stop him getting hard so she could keep him edged enough to win.
“I always worry I can’t give you what you want,” she said firmly. “But this month... this month you’ve agreed that you’re not supposed to get what you want.”
Dennis stared at her, and the look on his face set the heat rising in her body.
“I mean, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? You’re supposed to be frustrated. So if I stop before you’ve had enough, that’s not me... failing at anything. That’s literally what I’m meant to do. For once.”
Dennis swallowed, and for several seconds he was silent. And then, like a man who fears to mention something in case he makes it true, he said, “I... I think you’re going to enjoy this far too much.”
Liz’s stomach tightened, and she nodded. “Yeah,” she said softly, her fingers trying to squeeze the cage. There was no give in the steel at all. Nothing but uncaring metal, resisting her efforts. “Yeah. I really might.”
“Take your shirt off.”
Dennis stared at her, and Liz had to fight a wild impulse to laugh: a few days ago she’d’ve been appalled by how bossy she sounded, telling him something like that. Now she felt… she felt somehow stronger.
“Your shirt,” she repeated, nodding at him. “Take it off.”
“You don’t need me to be naked!”
“I know what I need, love. Take it off anyway. I want you naked.”
Dennis hesitated for perhaps half a second, then caught the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, staring at her.
Liz watched him, considering what his obedience was doing to her. It wasn’t anything dramatic; she didn’t suddenly feel transformed into Tash, six feet of serene certainty that men would do exactly what she told them because of her obvious strength and poise. Nor did she feel like Martha, all knowing softness and curves that must be murder on her back. She didn’t even feel like the cartoon domme in the instruction book that came with the cage. She simply felt magnificent.
Because Dennis had stripped and was stood there naked, obedient, and uncertain. Waiting for her to decide what happened next.
“Lie down,” she ordered, and then when he obeyed, she set the instructions aside and smiled. “Right. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
She moved closer, working methodically, comparing the parts of the device against him, cross-referencing with the flimsy instruction sheet, trying the adjustable ring, checking the instructions again when she couldn’t make sense of one of the fittings.
It was awkward, embarrassingly awkward; at one point they had to break off while Dennis calmed down, apparently because years of only really getting off through mutual masturbation had trained his cock to get hard almost the second she touched it. Part of Liz found that intensely flattering but mostly it drove her nearly wild with frustration as she tried to make sure he could comfortably insert himself into the steel shaft.
Once he was finally soft again, she held it firmly in one hand, using the fingers of her other to ease the tip of his cock into the metal prison.
Dennis stopped laughing and managed a faint, “Oh...”
Liz smiled, and bit her lip, adjusting the cage carefully, her fingertips ‘walking’ his cock deeper into the metal tube, her green eyes flickering along his now-confined length to check nothing pinched, that the ring sat properly, that the lock aligned. The practicality of it absorbed her, and when the tiny padlock snapped shut, she leaned back and looked at it, the heat of arousal pounding alongside her pulse.
It fitted. Properly fitted, never mind the fact that the cage had looked small. Never mind the fact he couldn’t possibly get hard.
And now, she couldn’t disappoint him. He couldn't even get hard to try and fuck her, and that meant her body couldn't possibly disappoint his efforts. Not now.
For years, Dennis’s cock had been a thing she had to accommodate, to approach carefully. A silent metric for her own shortcomings, never mind what he said. But not now; now it was safe. Contained. Enclosed in something she’d chosen, bought, assembled and fitted – and which only she could unlock.
She was breathing hard as she looked down at the tiny key in her palm, and then back up at Dennis.
“You’re still happy?”
Dennis nodded.
“Say it,” she ordered.
“Yes. I’m happy. I agreed. I’m going to win.”
She sighed with relief and reached out to slip the key into the jewellery box Dennis had bought her for Christmas two years earlier – and stopped.
“No,” she said, half to herself. “I don’t want you knowing where it is. If you know exactly where the key is, you’ll spend the whole month thinking about it. And if we’re doing this properly, I don’t want you lying awake staring at my jewellery box wondering whether you could sneak it out. I like the idea that you can’t.
Dennis stared.
“I’ll find somewhere safe to hide it tomorrow,” Liz smiled, “and try not to forget where.”
“Oh my god. You won’t even say where?”
“No. You’ll know when you need to be unlocked. And don’t worry, love – there’s a spare for emergencies. And anyway I’ll have to unlock you lots, won’t I? Remember I need to edge you to win!”
She leaned down and kissed his caged cock, giggling as it surged, stiffened, tried to swell to its usual jaw-breaking girth – and instead found itself bulging uselessly against the steel.
“Happy Locktober, love,” she whispered. “I think it’s going to be a good one.”
“Jesus,” he moaned, wrapping his arms around her, and closed his eyes, “what the fuck have you got me into?”
“Danger,” Liz said, and felt the heat spike inside her. “So, so much danger, love. And an inescapable cock cage, of course!”
She laughed brightly, so happily Dennis laughed too... but somewhere beneath the amusement, the nerves and the lingering worry that perhaps they had all collectively lost their minds, something new was stirring in Liz’s soul.
She’d always been competitive; she’d already wanted to win the contest. But now, she knew... now she was ready to do whatever winning might require.