What the actual?

My dick is in a cage. That’s not, like, a metaphor or some shit. My dick is literally in a cage. There are iron bars around it. Or maybe it’s stainless steel. I’m not a metallurgist.

A couple of days ago we had that whole thing where he caught me jerking off after I’d turned him down for the old horizontal mambo earlier and he was all like “this stops now” and I’m all like “ooh, I’m scared,” because what the hell does that even mean?

This. Stops. Now. It’s like something Arnold Schwarzenegger would say in a bad eighties movie.

(Yes, Dear Diary, I know that you know that I really am scared—scared of losing Graham and scared of having no fucking place to live—but let a guy save a little face, OK?)

Things were all tense between us for a couple of days even though I was totally on my best behavior, giving up my ass every night like a good little boyfriend and not hardly bitching about it, laying off the old herky-jerky, if you know what I mean, and then yesterday maybe I slipped up a little. Just a little. I still put out but maybe not exactly whole-heartedly and anyway, I guess my asshole boyfriend installed some kind of spyware on the computer because it ratted me out, which I didn’t know until this morning.

Which brings me back to the cage.

So I get out of the shower this morning, fresh as a daisy and naked as the day I was born, wagging my dick to get the last drops of water off it, and Graham calls me over to where he’s sitting on the edge of our bed. He’s got this cock ring which he starts stuffing my balls through and I’m, like, I’m not really in the mood to fuck, never mind go at it for some endurance session. I’m so not a morning person. I don’t even jerk off in the shower, which, let me tell you, was a mistake this morning.

Anyway, Graham’s got both my balls through the ring at this point and I’m a little hesitant to pull away because he’s got a pretty good grip on them, but when I see what’s coming next I’m primed to nope the hell out of there because he’s got this contraption, this cage.

I didn’t know what it was at first. I just saw metal bars worked into the shape of a lesser-endowed limp dick. Weird. But he slides the thing over my dick and works it back until it touches that ring he yanked my balls through and the two pieces sort of click together and I’m like, “The fuck?”

Graham asks me if I trust him, and I tell him I do. I do trust you, Graham. But can you really ever trust someone who’s putting a cage on your dick? I think you know the answer to that is no. He hooks a little padlock through a catch on the cage and snaps it shut and that’s when I’m like, “Hey.”

Because what the fuck, right? I already said that before, but now there’s not just a cage. There’s a lock on the cage and the lock is shut and Graham gets up from the bed and moseys on over to his dresser like it’s business as usual. I tug at the cage, this way and that, and only manage to pinch my balls in the ring, which makes me squawk.

“Graham?” I say, which he ignores. “Take this fucking thing off.” Which he doesn’t do.

He sort of pauses in tying his tie, which I used to love watching him do. I’d forgotten that, how powerful he looks flipping that thing around like he knows how to work it. It’s just a normal thing for him, to tie a tie. Me, I gotta have a mirror and a YouTube video and about twenty minutes.

But, OK, never mind about the tie. He snugs it all up tight against his neck and comes over and pulls me down into his lap on the bed. I’m still naked because I got distracted by him putting a fucking cage around my cock and he’s dressed all the way up to that tie and it feels weird and dangerous.

He wants me to behave, is what he tells me, and I want me to behave, or so he claims, and the cage is going to help. I kind of want to argue that part about me wanting to behave. I do. I do want to behave, but I don’t want my cock locked behind bars. I’m not going to be complicit in this bizarre situation he’s put me in.

“You can’t just walk away with the key,” I tell him. “What if I need this fucker off?”

“For what?”

“I can’t go all day without taking a piss.”

Graham rolls eyes at me. “It has a pee hole,” he points out, as if I’ve had time to examine the thing in minute detail. He snapped a cage on my dick. I’m way too busy panicking to appreciate its practical design.

“What if I get hit by a bus?”

“Don’t get hit by a bus,” he says snarkily, like he’s me all of a sudden, “but if you do, they might have more important body parts to work on than your dick.”

“Yeah, but they’d see it.” I’m getting desperate at that point, because Graham sure as hell doesn’t sound like he’s about to take that cage off.

“I’m sure they’ve seen worse,” he says with a  shrug, and he goes back over to the dresser to do that cufflink thing that’s also sexy as hell when I don’t have a fucking cage on my dick and so I tackle him. Or try to. I may have mentioned that Graham’s a lot bigger than I am so I don’t end up with the key. Instead I end up over his knee while he gives me twenty or so decently-hard swats.

That leaves us both hot as hell, except that I can’t get hard. It’s like I’m hard but I’m not.

“Take it off,” I say, “so we can fuck,” because at that point I really want to fuck, even though I’m not a morning person, but there’s this weird hotness to him locking my dick up and then the definite hotness of him giving me a spanking and when Graham says the cage isn’t coming off until he gets home from work no matter how hard I beg, somehow I end up blowing him.

And that’s the story of why my dick is behind bars, in case you were wondering. And also in case you were wondering, no I haven’t figured out how to get it off and yes I’ve tried. And no I haven’t figured out how to get myself off either, and yes I’ve tried that too. I’ve tried that hard.

As soon as I got home from work, I put on some good porn and started wiggling and jiggling and poking and prodding, but nothing’s enough to get me there. I’m so horny I could die and I’ve got way too much time on my hands.

I should go to the gym. I’m getting doughy and I obviously need a new boyfriend, but if I put on gym shorts, everyone’s going to see what’s going on down there. I’ve got to get this thing off.


OK, I just had a mini panic attack because … what if Graham lost the key? It was so tiny and he just slipped it into his pocket with his change and whatever-the-fuck and I can see him buying something off a food cart for lunch and pulling out a quarter and there goes the key, plink, right onto the pavement or down the drain, and would he even notice?

We’ll have to bring in a metal worker. Bolt cutters, a welder. Go to the emergency room. I don’t even know. Which would be humiliating. I’d rather live with this thing forever, and why is that making me so horny?

Wait, that was the door. Graham’s home, thank God. Gotta go.

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