Caged For Her Ch. 01

Anthony let the water batter him until he felt his skin might give up and slough off in strips. His shitty apartment shower always ran too hot or too cold, never the temperature he wanted, but he'd learned to just submit. It was easier that way. Most mornings, he showered before anyone else on his floor managed to stumble from their rooms and today was no exception. The hour belonged to him: the thick blur of steam, the chemical scent of mint and industrial cleaner, the hum of the extractor fan overhead. He stood for a long while, spine pressed flat to the tile, arms out and eyes closed, willing his brain to slow its frantic roll.

When he opened his eyes, a cartoon outline of his own body shimmered on the glass partition. He reached to clear a circle, streaking the condensation with the inside of his wrist, and stared at his reflection.

He looked good, and he hated it.

Six-foot-four, his skin a soft gold under the last rags of summer, shoulders a little wider every week from daily punishment at the gym. The muscles stood out in clean definition across his chest and arms, and he'd finally lost the little belly his mother said made him "huggable." Now, even though she said he looked like a man--admittedly with something between pride and dread, he sure didn't feel like one.

Anthony ran a palm down the slicked slope of his abs, letting it linger at the deep V above his hips. He flexed, just because he could, and watched the familiar configuration of curves and lines stand out. Above, his pecs bulged, smooth and dusted with water beads; his nipples puckered, dark from the cold. He pinched one, just a test, and his cock twitched, bobbing up against its constraint. He reached lower, then stopped.

The cage. Always the fucking cage.

The clear polycarbonate curled around him like a question mark. It was smaller than the first one, the one she'd bought as a joke, with enough give to let him get semi-hard before it strangled the urge at the root. This one was tighter, truer, a plastic vice that denied even the hint of rebellion. It was the third week of the semester, and he hadn't gotten himself off once. Not even close.

He splashed water onto his face, massaging it into the skin, fighting the urge to look again. But he always looked, addicted to the shame.

Three months ago, it had been an idea. A dare, and then an agreement, and then a rule. She'd said, "It'll be hot," her smile shark-toothed over FaceTime. "I don't trust those basic sluts at State, and you're too weak for your own good." He'd called her jealous, which she was, and she'd said, "So prove me wrong, bitch." She sent the package to his dorm address.

He hadn't argued. If he was honest, it made him feel wanted, even owned. That was the part he didn't talk about.

Now, as the water hissed around him and his cock bulged helpless against the hard plastic, Anthony bit his own fist to keep from making noise. It was his new habit--something to feel, something to control. He pictured the key, back in his girlfriend's apartment, somewhere in a locked drawer, and wanted to howl.

He soaped himself, working deliberately from neck to knees. He lingered at his chest, circling his thumbs over each nipple in turn. The sensation was shocking: a jolt, a rocket from the tiny brown centers all the way down. He shuddered, tilted his head back, imagined a tongue or a hand or--fuck, anyone, at this point--touching him, using him. The cage made his balls ache, pulled them up tight like they were trying to vanish inside him. The slit at the tip dribbled with lust, clear and slick, that washed away before it could reach the floor.

He let his hand drift lower, cupped his own sack, squeezing it until pain smothered the pleasure. The bar of the cage bit into the crown of his cock, trapping the throb of his pulse. He couldn't even get hard enough to feel it properly; the pressure stopped him at half-mast, not enough to satisfy but more than enough to tease.

He shut the water, body slick and glistening, and stepped onto the bathmat. The air outside felt like an icy slap. He shivered, forced himself to slow down and dry every part of himself, even when all he wanted was to throw on clothes and run out the door. He always dried the cage last. He didn't know why. It was a ceremony. Some days he wished she'd break up with him, that she'd forget, that she'd fuck someone else and set him free. Other days he hoped she'd transfer to State, show up and demand to watch him squirm.

The mirror was fogged but he could still see himself. His skin bright red from the boiling water he stifled himself with. He touched it, pressing down and watching as the blood beneath receded and returned. His dick throbbed again, angry and unsatisfied, the tip already oozing more precum.

He dressed in slow, measured motions, still damp from the shower: sweat shorts and a tee, hoodie slung over his massive arms, sneakers, sockless. He checked himself in the mirror one last time before grabbing his backpack. The outline of the cage bulged a little beneath the thin fabric, an obscene and invisible secret.

He cursed his girlfriend under his breath, but the anger wilted instantly. He missed her so much it hurt worse than the blue balls.

He wondered if it would ever stop hurting, or if this was just how things would be from now on: always wanting, never getting, walking the campus with a loaded gun in his shorts, ready to go off at any second. He tried not to think about it, but the thought was always there, right beneath the surface, waiting for a crack.

Anthony shouldered his bag and headed for the gym. Maybe, if he pushed hard enough, he'd sweat out the urge. But he already knew it wouldn't work. It never did.

----

The gym was always emptier than Anthony expected, considering how obsessed the student body seemed with hating the body they had. The place had been repurposed from some ancient racquetball court, and the windows were so high up you couldn't see out, only the milky shapes of clouds drifting by overhead, like the world outside was just a rumor. The air was warm, recycled, and heavy with the reek of sweat and disinfectant. This time of morning, there was only the two of them: Anthony and Wyatt, twin towers of sinew and self-loathing, putting themselves through the same paces as always.

Wyatt was already a fixture at the squat rack, a hulking presence amidst the clamor of weights and silence. His movements were fluid but deliberate, muscles taut beneath skin that glistened with a sheen of effort. The plates were loaded to capacity--an almost ludicrous display of strength that belied his leaner frame. Yet he moved with the grace of someone intimately familiar with his own power. In the stale gym air, Wyatt's bare feet planted firmly on the rubber mat, grounding him as he came up from a deep squat. He was bare-chested, the contours of his torso slick with a fine mist of sweat, each muscle straining against skin as he completed each rep.

His hair clung stubbornly to his forehead in damp rivulets, testament to his dedication even at this ungodly hour when most were still soundly sleeping. He grunted--a low, guttural sound that reverberated through the empty space and split the quiet like a knife. Wyatt pushed himself upward, the barbell rising in concert with his supple strength until it returned home to its cradle with a metallic crash. The sound echoed harshly against the cinderblock walls, rebounding back as if to underscore his dominance over gravity's pull.

He straightened, stepping back from the rack in an unhurried maneuver, rolling shoulders that gleamed under the dim lights like carved marble come to life. For Wyatt, this ritual held more than mere exercise; it was an act of defiance against every internal doubt that haunted him when night descended--a physical exorcism of mental clutter that threatened his focus. There was solace here in repetitive strain.

Breathing deeply, Wyatt collected himself, lifting eyes that shone like cut sapphires. They flickered towards Anthony's entrance with an easy familiarity bred from years of silent understanding spun between their shared struggles and triumphs. Despite all reservations he harbored within himself about what they did not say aloud, there was comfort in knowing Anthony would show up here too--his unwavering companion through thick and thin.

"You're late, bro," Wyatt called out, glancing over his shoulder. His voice carried, even in the dead room.

Anthony grinned and dropped his backpack by the nearest bench. "You're just early."

Wyatt smirked. "Some of us don't need a two-hour shower to look like a Greek statue."

Anthony rolled his eyes and peeled off his hoodie, then the tee beneath. The heavy air did nothing to help the situation down below, where the cage pressed into his balls like a constant reminder. He ignored it as best he could and fell into routine: warmup stretches, a few practice reps. All the while, Wyatt hovered, always eager to correct form or chirp some shit talk in his ear.

They were midway through a bench set when Wyatt gave him a look--one of those loaded, knowing glances. "So," Wyatt said, lowering his voice, "how's the hardware?"

Anthony squeezed the bar, forced it up for one last rep, and groaned as he set it back. "Fucking sucks," he muttered.

Wyatt laughed, loud and unashamed. "Still locked in?"

"You know I am."

"And you haven't even tried to pick it yet?"

Anthony snorted. "I'm not gonna break her trust. That was the whole point."

Wyatt shook his head, half-admiring, half-incredulous. "You're insane."

Anthony sat up, wiped his face on a towel. "You're the only person I can talk to about this. If you tell anyone--"

"Dude. Who would I tell?" Wyatt fished in his gym bag and tossed Anthony a water bottle. "It's not like anyone on the team would get it. They're all too busy plowing freshmen."

The honesty stung a little, but he let it pass. "I can't even jerk off. It's like, constant blue balls. Literally."

Wyatt shrugged. "Have you tried, uh--" He made a vague gesture near his own ass, then waggled his eyebrows. "You know. The other thing."

Anthony stared, caught off guard. "What, like... actually stick a finger up there?"

Wyatt looked at him like he was the idiot. "Bro. That's where it is. The magic button. You wanna bust a nut, that's your only shot."

Anthony hesitated, then laughed, but it came out too nervous. "Isn't that--kind of--"

Wyatt cut him off, deadpan. "Not gay if it's your own finger, dude."

Anthony couldn't help but laugh for real. "Sure. Okay."

They moved on to deadlifts. Wyatt kept up the banter, ribbing him every chance he got. "Just saying, some guys go their whole lives and never find the secret level." He loaded more plates and winked. "And you're, what, nineteen? Twenty? You could be a prodigy."

"Have you tried it?" Anthony fired back, trying to flip the discomfort away from himself.

Wyatt's face went flat. "Fuck no. I like my G-spot where God put it. Deep in the closet." He looked at Anthony, then cracked a smile. "Don't knock it till you try it, though."

Anthony's head swam. The idea was so foreign, it was almost funny. Almost. But beneath the joking, the seed had been planted. He could feel it burrowing.

They finished out the hour in silence, save for the familiar clank and crash of metal, the low hum of the vending machines, the buzz of the overhead lights. When it was over, both collapsed onto the stretching mats, sprawled, sweaty, and spent.

Wyatt sat up and elbowed him. "You ever get desperate, you know who to call. I got, like, six fingers."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

Wyatt grinned, showing all his teeth. "Not as much as you would."

They both laughed, their voices resonating like the ringing of church bells in the cavernous, empty gym. The echo seemed to dissolve the tension that clung between them like smoke. For a fleeting instant, it felt as though they were just two normal guys--totally at ease with one another, their usual camaraderie intact, each armed with the ammunition of good-natured insults.

As Anthony began to towel off the sweat that had pooled along his brow and slicked his chest, he noticed Wyatt casting a surreptitious glance at the conspicuous bulge confined beneath his shorts. Time seemed to stretch taut between them, a thin thread ready to snap as their eyes locked. Neither spoke; neither dared to acknowledge the shared knowledge hanging unspoken in the air. It was a moment suspended like a breath held too long--a heartbeat that left an indelible mark on their otherwise routine morning.

Anthony wrapped the towel around his neck, pulling it taut as if hoping the pressure could redirect his thoughts. Yet, the touch of Wyatt's gaze lingered like a phantom sensation on his skin. He chuckled with forced nonchalance, but beneath the humor lay something heavier, fraught with unsaid implications that neither ventured to explore aloud.

Stepping away from Wyatt's penetrating gaze, Anthony attempted to focus on mundane tasks. He methodically folded his sweatshirt and tucked it into his bag--each action deliberate, almost ceremonial--as if seeking refuge in orderliness could stave off the unsettling stirrings within him.

Their laughter had faded into silence now, punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of Anthony's heart. He replayed Wyatt's earlier words in his mind--half-joking yet not entirely unserious--and weighed them against the nagging curiosity that nestled somewhere deep inside him. Was Wyatt right? Was there some untapped reservoir of pleasure just waiting for him, promised by the knowing smirk on his friend's face?

Wyatt had made it sound so simple, so casually revolutionary--as if this knowledge were an open secret among those daring enough to seek it out. And yet... could he really take that plunge? Anthony found himself caught in an intricate dance between old habits of restraint and burgeoning desires he was only now beginning to grasp.

Each glance exchanged had been a silent dialogue; each laugh a punctuation mark in their unscripted play of hidden truths. Even now, as normalcy resumed its hold, Anthony couldn't shake off the weight of new possibilities shimmering at the edge of his understanding.

He hesitated for just a fraction longer than necessary before slipping back into routine--a gesture executed with just enough delay to suggest inner turmoil unfolding beneath his calm exterior.

Anthony pulled his shirt back on, but the cage still dug into him, harder than before. He wondered if Wyatt was right, or just messing with him. Either way, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He didn't say anything as they walked out, but Wyatt clapped him on the back, like always. "See you tomorrow, champ."

"Yeah," Anthony said, voice low. "See you."

He wondered if tonight, he'd have the guts to try.

----

Anthony lay naked on his disheveled bed, riveted by the ceiling fan's hypnotic spin. Moonlight streamed through the blinds, casting fractured shadows across the scuffed cinderblock walls of his bedroom. A sheen of sweat glistened on his taut, defined abs and slick thighs, slick with the relentless drip-drip-drip of pre-cum that escaped the plastic chastity cage encasing his erect cock. He squirmed in frustration, unable to ignore the tormenting ache that had plagued him for hours on end. It was almost one in the morning, and, judging by the silence, he was the only one awake.

He'd tried everything: scrolling feeds, mindless YouTube, even finishing an entire psych reading that he barely remembered afterward. He texted his girlfriend and got nothing back. He glanced at their last conversation, which had ended with her sending a passive-aggressive meme, something about "men only thinking with one head." She was probably asleep. Or, if he let his brain go there, out with someone else. He wanted to believe she was too loyal for that, but the thought still dug under his skin.

He shifted, and the plastic cage thumped against the inside of his mesh shorts. His balls ached, the feeling so baseline by now he barely noticed unless he focused on it. Tonight, though, he couldn't help it. In his mind's eye, he could see her hands, slender and delicate, wrapped around his shaft, her long red nails digging into his skin. Sometimes, the sight was replaced with rough, calloused hands that belonged to someone else, adding an extra layer of pain to his imagination. He could feel their hands on him, their fingers pressing into his skin, their bodies close and hot as they used him for their pleasure. His skin tingled and burned with the sensation of being touched and controlled.

Other times, he saw Wyatt's muscular form, looming over him with a cruel smirk on his face. There was an undeniable magnetism in Wyatt's smirk; it held both challenge and promise within its curve, teasing yet inviting Anthony to explore further.

Anthony could almost feel the weight of Wyatt's presence bearing down on him--a physical manifestation of their earlier banter morphing into something more visceral. The lines between jest and sincerity blurred beneath closed eyelids. In this peculiar dreamscape, he watched himself laid bare before his friend's knowing gaze, vulnerability mingling with curiosity.

The echo of Wyatt's voice reverberated through Anthony's thoughts--a melody woven from fragments of memory and conjecture alike. It curled around him like smoke, ephemeral yet insistent, carrying with it Wyatt's laughter and barbed humor. And beneath that? A lingering question that begged for resolution amidst uncertainty.

As he wrestled with these spectral imaginings, Anthony found them impossible to ignore or dismiss entirely. They danced at the edges of perception--exhilarating yet intimidating--urging him towards a threshold he both longed for and feared crossing.

Each potential scenario played out with aching clarity: Wyatt's hand gripping his wrist just so; the press of skin against skin electrifying beyond anticipation; whispered words exchanged in dim-lit corners where intent was laid bare without masks or pretenses. The images tumbled together, a fevered hallucination he couldn't edit or mute.

He remembered Wyatt's words--Not gay if it's your own finger, dude--and laughed in the darkness, the sound desperate and small. There was no one to judge him, not here, not now. And yet, as he stared at his own chest rising and falling, he could almost feel Wyatt in the room, watching with that lopsided, shit-eating grin.

The thought made his cock pulse, and the ache went molten.

The cool air that brushed against his skin as he padded across the room made his body tingle, causing goosebumps to rise and his nipples to harden. His fingers grazed over the smooth surface of the desk as he searched for the bottle of lube, the smoothness a stark contrast to the roughness of his calloused hands. For a second, he held it, thumb running over the cap, heart hammering. He waited for the self-loathing to hit. It didn't, not really. There was just a kind of numbness, a hunger that outpaced any embarrassment.

He lay back down and shucked his shorts, knees up, feet flat on the mattress. His thighs quivered from the workout and the anticipation. He popped the cap, slicked a finger, and hesitated.

"Not gay if it's your own finger," he whispered, voice barely audible.

As he applied the cold lubricant around his entrance, Anthony marveled at its warmth. He cautiously circled the rim, unsure of what to expect. The sensation was odd but not uncomfortable. Pressing a little harder, he felt his fingertip slip past the tight ring of muscle. He braced himself for pain, but instead experienced only pressure--a sense of fullness. His hips twitched involuntarily in response as his erection strained against its confines; feeling an overwhelming stretch that almost made him cry out.

He worked the finger deeper inside himself, knuckle by knuckle, until the whole thing was in. He flexed, letting the muscle clamp down, then relaxed. A strange sensation coursed through him, like a shiver that made the hairs on his arms stand up, yet it was oddly exhilarating. It was as if he was riding a rollercoaster, heart pounding and stomach fluttering, but he couldn't help but grin. He experimented, twisting, pumping in and out. The lube made everything slick, easy. The more he did it, the more he liked it.

He could almost imagine it wasn't his finger, that someone else was doing it to him. The thought sent a tremor up his spine.

He angled his hand, remembering something vague about where the prostate was supposed to be. After a few attempts, he finally found the spot--holy shit--the sensation was electrifying. A bolt of pleasure surged directly from deep within, racing like wildfire from his core to the very tip of his restrained length. His entire body convulsed with the intensity of it. Eager to experience the sensation again, he pressed harder with intent, and this time a deep, involuntary moan escaped him, reverberating through the room. Startled by the volume, he quickly clapped a hand over his mouth, attempting to muffle the sound of his own ecstasy.

His breaths came in ragged bursts as his pace quickened, each movement more frantic than the last. He craved a deeper sensation, an overwhelming need coursing through him. With a determined inhale, he carefully introduced a second finger, feeling the tautness that was both challenging and electrifying. As his hand moved with relentless intent, he groaned, the mounting ecstasy crashing over him in waves, more intense and consuming than anything he had experienced before.

Despite his efforts, he couldn't cum. The cage kept him on the edge, preventing any final release. He groaned, swore, and thrust futilely into the air, pressing his hips against his fingers.

Time slipped away from him like sand through fingers. Minutes blurred into the haze of an hour, perhaps more. His skin glistened with sweat, each droplet catching the dim light as his legs trembled beneath him, muscles aflame with exertion. The relentless heat coursed through his body, igniting every nerve. At last, the inevitable fatigue took over, and he crumpled to the ground. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, and his fingers, slick and sticky with lube, twitched with the remnants of effort.

He lay there, eyes wide, staring at the spinning fan. The pleasure ebbed, leaving only the ache. He felt raw, empty, but somehow alive in a way he hadn't in weeks.

He wiped his hands on the sheets, not caring. The smell of himself was everywhere, pungent and sharp. He wondered if Wyatt was right about everything, or if this was just another way to lose.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, sleep finally creeping in around the edges.