Last night was so good. My head’s been in the clouds all day thinking about how much I love Graham and how much he loves me and how good it was last night and how tonight’s going to be even better. I was flitting about at work bad enough that Isaac noticed, asks me what I’m so happy about when I’ve still got that thing on my dick.
Dude needs to stop looking at my dick unless he plans to do something about it, is what I told him. Me and Isaac, we been working together maybe two years now. He’s straight, but ever since he heard about the cage, he’s been taking way too much interest in what I got going on in my pants.
I let him get a peek at it the other day. We were working at this office building that’s being remodeled and when break came we headed over to the men’s room together and I figured, fuck it. He’s so interested, I ain’t gonna bother to hide it, so I went over to the urinal and whipped my dick right out.
I’ve gotten better at pissing through the cage, out of necessity. I still sit as often as not, because the odds of my not being washed by a backspray of piss are better that way, but I lined it up good for my man and let fly and I swear he never took his eyes off me once. After I tucked myself back in, he had the decency to be embarrassed about ogling a gay man’s locked-up cock. But still with the comments.
Anyway, when he asked me why I was in such a good mood, I told him I’m getting my cage off today, which I am. I can’t wait to see how many gallons of come I’ve got stored in my balls. There’s so much in there now it leaks out whether I’m coming or not, a steady stream of overflow dripping into my pants.
I’d never go commando at work—those carpenter pants are way too rough. My little guy needs to be coddled, if you know what I mean—but now I need my shorts more for absorption than protection. I wonder if they make special jocks for guys in cages with an extra panel up front for that all-day freshness.
Drip, drip, drip. All day, as the anticipation increases with no outlet. All week, as the anticipation increases with no outlet. But tonight? Gush, stream, cascade—a literal fountain of come will soon be exploding from the tip of my cock along with a week’s worth of pent-up need. I need, I need, I need.
But thinking about letting loose tonight wasn’t really why I had trouble keeping my mind on my work today. That was all thanks to replays from last night.
So I get home from work yesterday. Horny. I say that in case you forgot. And I’m sitting at the computer doing my usual except without the jerking off part. Because cage. In case you forgot. And the clock’s ticking but ever-so-slowly towards when Graham gets home when suddenly I remember that shit about him having dinner before he’ll fuck me.
And I’m like, shit. Because I can just see it. What do you want for dinner? No, what do you want? Should we go out? Order something in? What’ve we got in the refrigerator? Do you think this is still good? Sniff, sniff. Frozen pizza again? Oh, I don’t know. We had that yesterday.
And I decide, no. That’s not how it’s going to go. There’s going to be dinner ON THE FUCKING TABLE. He’s going to eat that fucker in ten minutes and we’re going to fucking fuck. So I run down to the store and pick up stuff for sauce. I’m no cook but my mama wouldn’t have let me move out if I couldn’t make a pot of sauce. Salad in a bag, check. Garlic bread, also in a bag, check. Fresh pasta takes seven minutes to boil. Got the water already bubbling, ready to dump in the noodles the second he walks in the door.
I put on this jock he likes. It’s electric blue and frames my ass perfectly and the pouch is this silky fabric that clings to the cage so every bar is highlighted in screaming blue. Then over that a grey t-shirt that’s so old you can practically see through it. It rides up just below my rib cage. The strip between shirt and jock could be tighter, but Graham loves my body the way it is, as he’s been making abundantly clear ever since this cage showed up.
Sure enough, when I meet him at the door, he’s gotta grab me. I’m covered in kisses so sweet and hungry I think yes! Score. We’re doing the dirty before the dinner. But after a minute he pushes me back and sniffs the air and asks me what smells so good.
I give him the whole treatment. Shoes off, wine poured, me bustling around the kitchen in my shirt and panties. Pasta in pre-boiled water, garlic bread in pre-heated oven, salad already dished out. Asking him how his day was. And I turn around and he’s looking at me like … like for all the kinky, dirty, hot and heavy things I’ve ever done to him, or let him do to me, this is the best.
It was supposed to be a quick dinner so we could get to a quick fuck, but that’s not how it turned out. After I served everything up, he pulled me onto his lap to eat. Totally inefficient, right? Feeding me bites of pasta from his own fork and sips of wine from his own glass, hand drifting up under my t-shirt then smoothing it back down again, brushing the fabric of my jock tight over my cage, tugging it down for a peek, then tucking me away.
Kisses between forkfuls, caresses between sips. Our tongues mixing with the heady flavor of the wine. Getting drunk on each other.
I slipped to the floor between his legs and took him into my mouth, blowing him slowly so he wouldn’t come, relishing the drops that oozed from his cock the way they oozed from mine. I was so hard/not hard and he was so hard and time just stopped. I’d planned on him fucking me over the table, fast and furious, but we ended up in the bedroom, face to face, taking our time until he pulsed deep inside me with the softest of moans.
He fell asleep still inside me and I laid there satisfied and not satisfied and still soft and still hard and not wanting to change any of it. After a bit, he shifted off me, apologizing, and I told him don’t. Don’t apologize. And then instead he said thank you.
“Thank you, Allie, for the best night of my life.”
Best night of mine too, if anyone’s counting.