The Locked Bully (Gay Chastity Stories #1)

Chapter 1

MILES

This wasn’t my typical Friday night.

But before we get to that, let me explain how we got here.

I was at Token & Slice, which had been my favorite hangout since my first year of college. Officially, it was a pizza joint, the best pepperoni slice within walking distance of campus, cheap enough for a college budget, and open until midnight on weekends.

The front room was exposed brick and neon signs buzzing overhead, with old-school arcade games glowing along the walls. An air hockey table was in the corner, and a pinball machine was near the door.

In the back, through a wide arch, were three pool tables under low-hanging lights. That’s where the louder, more social crowd gathered to perform for each other.

That was Brett Calloway’s territory. The back room was always Brett’s territory.

You could find me in the front. Specifically, in front of a 1994 fighting game called Steel Fist. Nobody else on campus took it seriously because it had a learning curve that required actual dedication. I claimed 17 of the top 20 high scores. I’d been working on the other three.

The two rooms shared an ordering counter and a small seating area in the middle, which meant occasionally our worlds overlapped.

Brett had a laminated certificate on the wall.

He had the house record for Pocket Billiards — Singles Play, with his name printed in bold like it meant something.

To Brett, it meant everything. He strutted past it every Friday night like a king reviewing his own portrait.

Tonight, I was ready to take the king down.

Brett Calloway had spent the last two years systematically making my life at college hell.

He mocked me in front of crowds almost daily, shoulder-checked me in every hallway, spread rumors that I was a limp-dick who cried during sex, and once told a packed party that the only way I’d ever get laid was if someone pity-fucked the campus nerd.

He’d also taken to calling me Kilometers, because my name is Miles. (Miles/Kilometers, get it?) Apparently Brett Calloway considered unit conversion the height of comedy. His friends thought it was hilarious, and the nickname caught on.

Somewhere between hating his guts and being unable to stop fantasizing about him, I’d developed a plan.

The plan had two parts. Part one: learn to play pool well enough to destroy him at his own game. Part two: make sure there were stakes worth winning. That’s where the chastity cage came into play.

Part one involved several months of early mornings at the student union, geometry proofs applied to felt and slate, and an embarrassing amount of YouTube videos teaching me different techniques, which I’d quietly mastered.

Part two involved a cock cage I’d ordered online. It was discreetly packaged in a matte black box, tucked in my desk drawer, waiting for exactly this moment.

The cage had been there for three weeks. I’d taken it out and held it over and over, feeling the cold steel in my hand, imagining this perfect scenario unfolding...

Brett’s thick, veiny cock crammed helplessly inside the short steel tube, his heavy balls bulging through the ring, his usual swagger cracking as he leaked and begged.

Here’s what I’d never told a single person: I’d had this specific chastity fantasy for a while. I always imagined a big, dumb, gorgeous man, completely at my mercy.

He would only be unlocked when I decided he’d earned it, desperate in a way he couldn’t charm his way out of.

And Brett Calloway, with his square jaw, obscene shoulders, and the way he filled out a t-shirt like the universe was personally showing off, had walked directly into the starring role without knowing he’d auditioned.

I thought about him a lot. I thought about him in the shower, stroking myself while picturing his flushed face and straining cage.

I thought about him at 2 AM when I should have been sleeping, imagining what it would look like to watch all that easy physical confidence dissolve into raw, needy trembling, directed entirely at me.

I thought about him saying, “Please, Miles, can I cum?” And I’d smile, shake my head slowly, and say, “Not tonight.”

Then I’d go back to practicing my bank shots.

So when he swaggered up to me on that Friday night with four of his idiot friends and said, “Hey Kilometers, you up for a game?” I put down my drink very slowly and said, “Sure.”

It was the first time I’d ever said yes.

He’d asked every Friday like clockwork, more ritual than genuine invitation, laughing when I turned him down like my refusal was the joke.

This time, the laugh didn’t come. For one unguarded second, Brett Calloway looked genuinely surprised.

Then the smile slid back into place, easy and automatic, and he acted like he’d seen it coming all along.

He grinned at his friends. God, he was beautiful when he was being stupid.

“Stakes?” I said.

He shrugged, already certain he was the champion. “Loser does the winner’s laundry for a month.”

His friends laughed. I let them.

“Okay,” I said. “Those can be the stakes if you win. But if I win—” I paused. “Come here for a second.”

He raised an eyebrow but leaned in. He was close enough that I could smell him: fresh sweat, cheap cologne, and something warmer rising off his skin. I put my lips to his ear.

“If I win,” I whispered, “you wear a chastity cage for a week.”

He pulled back and looked at me. Really looked, like he was searching my face for the punchline.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“Do we have a deal or not?”

I watched him process it. I watched him glance at his friends, who were grinning because they assumed Brett was about to embarrass me for sport. I watched him decide I wasn’t a threat.

That was his mistake. He’d underestimated me for two years. Tonight, I was finally getting my turn.

“Deal,” he said.

He even offered to let me break. How generous.

I broke. Stripes. Three balls dropped clean, and the cue ball rolled to exactly where I’d calculated it would.

“Lucky,” Brett said.

I didn’t respond. I just moved around the table and got to work.

Brett played by instinct and ego. I played by physics. He’d never seen cold deliberation up close and didn’t know how to read it. He kept waiting for me to flinch or rush, and I gave him nothing. I just moved to the next shot, and the next one, and the next one after that.

By my fifth consecutive pocket, the table had gone quiet.

I heard him say “Okay” under his breath. Just to himself. He was having trouble processing.

I left him two stripes on purpose. Let him breathe. He sank both and looked up at me with something new behind those brown eyes. It wasn’t panic. Not yet. But those were the early tremors of it.

I ran the rest of the table without a word.

Eight ball, corner pocket. Called it. Hit it. Done.

Brett stood there holding his cue, staring at the table like it had personally betrayed him. The silence from his friends was its own reward.

Then he seemed to remember they were there.

“Okay, so,” he started, “I think we can all agree—”

“We had a deal,” I said. “A bet that you made. Out loud. In front of everyone.”

“Miles.” He’d never called me by my name before, and hearing it in that deep, rattled voice sent heat straight to my cock. “Come on.”

“I am coming on,” I said. “You agreed to the bet.”

His friends smelled blood. Dane, the tall one, leaned in. “Bro, what was the bet?”

The red hit Brett’s neck first. Then his face. Fast and total, that flush, and it was the single most satisfying thing I had ever witnessed in my twenty-one years of life.

“It’s private,” Brett said through clenched teeth, jaw tight, the flush only making him look hotter.

“I’ll keep it that way,” I said quietly. “Nobody will hear it from me. But you agreed, Brett.”

He stood very still. I watched him run the exits and find them all closed. He’d made the bet in front of witnesses. Walking away clean wasn’t an option without costing him something he valued more than comfort: his own ego.

“Fine,” he said.

“Dude, what—” Dane started.

“Drop it.” Brett’s voice closed the subject like a door.

He grabbed his jacket, looked at me one last time, that flush still burning on his cheekbones, something hot and unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“Meet me at my place tomorrow morning,” I said. “8 AM. Don’t be late.”

One beat. Two. Then he turned and walked out without another word to anyone, and his friends stood there looking at me like I was a different species.

I finished my drink, walked to the bathroom, locked the door, and allowed myself thirty seconds of completely undignified celebration in front of the mirror. My cock was swollen and achingly hard just thinking about tomorrow.

Then I straightened up, washed my hands, and went back out.

The cage was still in my desk drawer, but not for much longer.

The countdown began.

11 hours to go.