I can’t be trusted

I can’t be trusted. That’s not Graham saying that. That’s me confessing it to you, my loyal readers. I know you’re out there—one or two of you anyway. You don’t leave comments, but I can see you in the usage logs, so I’m telling you, my loyal readers, my fan boys, Alex’s Army—I’ll think of a name for you—but whoever you are, I’m telling you that I can’t be trusted.

Graham left this thing on me for a week. There’s a lot of negatives to having a cage on your dick, as you might expect. Not being able to masturbate is the obvious one, but let me explain about pissing. There’s a round hole at the front of the cage and if you line everything up perfectly, the piss goes through it. But if you’re off by just one little bit?

It’s like that thing where you put your thumb over the end of the hose, except instead of spraying your little brother with water, you’re spraying yourself with piss. Yourself, the floor, the wall. You get the idea. So the best bet is sit down and let the urine run out. If you don’t try to be a racehorse about it, the spray is kept to a minimum and what spray there is goes in the toilet.

But who wants to fucking do that??? Like, just in case some of my half-dozen readers are women, I’m going to spell it out for you. Pissing like a racehorse is fun. Squirting it out in a huge arc, painting the urinal, aiming for the sky. Well, the sky is a bad idea even if you don’t have a cage on your dick, but you get what I’m saying.

A dick is a kind of plaything, but a dick with a cage on it is no fun at all. Daddy done took my toy and locked it up.

The other downside that you—person who doesn’t have a cage on their dick—have probably not considered is that it’s heavy. It’s there. There’s no forgetting that I, unlike every other man around me, am lacking the privilege of touching myself.

There’s a constant reminder that Graham holds the key, not to my heart in some mushy-squooshy Valentine’s Day card way, but to my dick. Every time I sit, every time I stand, every time I pee, every time I go to scratch my balls, every time some hunky guy passes by and a bit of boner starts to raise itself in appreciation, I am reminded that he’s my master. My keyholder.

I think that’s what he wanted. Like, keep me from jerking off, sure. Check. He’s done that. But the other thing too. The thing where I know he owns me. And I guess that’s why I kept letting him lock me up every morning, because after that first morning, I couldn’t claim I didn’t know what was coming.

And I can’t pretend it was all emotional blackmail either—that shit about how he’s helping me to behave like I’m a six year old. I mean, I’m totally a brat, but still.

No, I liked it. I kind of did. Even though it made me nervous as hell. I was sure the cage read. I wear these heavy-duty canvas carpenter pants to work and they’re not exactly slim-fit but you got a hunk of metal swinging around between your legs, that’s maybe going to be noticeable, right? So I asked my friend Isaac, who I totally trust, and he says you can’t see anything, but ever since he found out what’s going on I catch him staring at my crotch sometimes like a perv, so I don’t know.

One week. It wasn’t so long. I served my sentence, restored Graham’s faith in me, felt kind of good. Definitely enjoyed some crazy-hot sex. When Graham would get home and take that thing off me? I’d fucking jump him. Every night. I’d be, like, so mad at him because of brooding on it all day but the cage would come off and boom! I’d be in his arms begging him to fuck me, fuck me hard, fuck me harder. Spank my ass. Oh, shit. Just all of it.

Just crazy hot good times.

And then it was over. And I was back on the honor system. And ….

Yeah.

I’m typing now, but that wasn’t what I was doing fifteen minutes ago. Fifteen minutes ago I had my dick in my hand and a surprisingly flexible twink getting spit-roasted on my screen. Because I can’t be trusted. Which you knew. And I knew. And in about an hour, Graham’s going to come home and know it too.

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