Chapter 3
MILES
I’d clocked him as a punctual person. Jocks always are. Practice schedules, game days, protein shakes at the same time every morning. Brett Calloway ran on routine.
I opened the door.
He was in a grey henley, sleeves pushed up, and dark joggers. Casual. Like this was nothing. Like he hadn’t spent last night staring at his ceiling running exit strategies. I could tell by the set of his jaw that he had a plan. I didn’t know what it was yet. It didn’t matter.
“Hey,” he said.
“Come in,” I said.
My dorm room was small. That was about to become relevant.
He stepped inside. I shut the door, and suddenly the air was different.
He smelled like fresh soap and underneath it something warmer, something naturally sexy, the kind of smell that doesn’t come from a bottle.
It was just us, and four walls, a desk and a bed, and the black box sitting right there in plain sight on my bookshelf. Two keys lay against it.
Brett saw it immediately. His eyes went to it and stayed there before he pulled his focus back to me.
“So,” he said.
“Sit down,” I said.
He looked at my desk chair like it had personally challenged him, then sat. He was big in my space in a way that was hard to ignore. His shoulders took up too much of the room. His forearms rested on his knees.
I stayed standing. That part was intentional.
“Here’s how this works,” I said. “You wear this cock cage for seven days. I hold the keys.”
“Both of them?”
“Both of them.”
His jaw tightened. “And if I just —”
“You said you don’t back out of bets,” I said.
That landed. His mouth closed.
I took the box off the shelf and opened it. The cage sat there in its foam cutout, clean and silver. I watched Brett look at it. Something moved through his expression that he immediately tried to flatten.
“It’s not going to fit,” he said.
“It will,” I said. “I did the math.”
He stared at me. “You did the—”
“Statistically average sizing,” I said. “It came with multiple base ring sizes, too, so that won’t be a problem. It’ll fit, Brett.”
His cheeks went pink. Good.
I held the box out and let him look at it properly. Up close, it was undeniably well-made. Solid weight, no sharp edges. Not a joke purchase. He had to be registering that.
“You bought this specifically for me,” he said slowly.
“Three weeks ago.”
“That’s—” He stopped.
“That’s what?” I asked.
He didn’t finish the sentence. The pink on his cheeks traveled down his neck. I could see him working very hard to look unbothered, and losing the battle incrementally. It was everything I’d wanted, and somehow still more satisfying than I’d prepared for.
The room felt close, too close, and way too damn hot. His scent was everywhere now. Soap and skin, and the faint edge of nervous sweat just starting to make itself known. My pulse was doing something I was managing carefully.
“Bathroom’s through there,” I said. “Instructions are in the box. Come out when you’re done.”
He looked at the bathroom door. He looked at me. He looked at the cage.
“Miles,” he said.
“Brett,” I said.
He took the box.
He stood slowly. All six foot-three of him unfolded from my desk chair, and for one moment, we were close. Very close. His eyes were dark. His jaw was tight. He smelled incredible. I kept my face completely neutral through what I can only describe as an act of extraordinary personal discipline.
He turned. Walked into the bathroom. Shut the door.
I sat on the bed.
I pressed both hands flat against my knees.
I listened to the silence on the other side of that door and smiled at my own floor like an idiot.
Then I straightened up and waited.
The bathroom door opened after a few minutes of shuffling and bumping around in there.
Brett stood in the doorway, both of his big hands cupped tight over his crotch like he was trying to hide a crime scene. His massive jock shoulders were hunched up, traps flexed hard, and the usual swagger had completely cracked.
He always looked like a fitness ad, nothing but pure muscle, his wide chest stretching his shirt thin across thick pecs, deep-cut abs obvious even through the fabric, and those powerful tree-trunk thighs that could crush a man between them.
But right now, sweat glistened along his forehead. His face was flushed, jaw tight, eyes wide with a mix of panic and pure frustration he had no words for. The big, untouchable jock suddenly looked like a man whose entire world had narrowed to the throbbing problem trapped under his palms.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t get it on.” A pause. “I’m too hard.”
“Does chastity excite you?”
“No, dumbass.” His voice was sharp. “It’s just because I’m touching my dick.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, so get back in there and put it on.”
“I can’t get my dick to go down.”
“Okay.”
“It pisses me off when you keep saying okay.”
“Okay.”
He exhaled through his nose. A long, pained sound. Then, quieter, “Can you help me out?”
“Help you out, how?”
He shifted his weight. His pants were halfway down his thighs. He looked ridiculous and incredible. “I don’t know. Suck it or something.”
“I’m not going to suck your dick. You lost the bet. You should suck mine.”
His face did something complicated as he seemed to consider the option, but only for a split second. “I just figure if I nut, I’ll go soft. Can you at least jack it?”
I looked at him for a moment. All that swagger reduced to standing in my dorm room with his pants down, asking me for a hand job. I’d imagined a lot of scenarios during my months of preparation. This one was so much better.
“Fine,” I said.
“This stays between us.”
“I don’t break my word,” I said.
He shuffled over, and I finally got my first real look at what I’d been fantasizing about for so long.
God.
Brett’s cock was a fucking monster. Thick as my wrist, flushed deep red with arousal, and rock-hard, curving slightly to the left in that perfect, aggressive way that made my cock swell just looking at it.
The fat shaft was laced with bulging veins that pulsed under the taut skin, each throb sending a fresh bead of pre-cum welling up from the wide cock head.
That slick tip glistened obscenely, a long, shiny string of pre-cum already stretching down before breaking and splattering onto his heavy, low-hanging balls.
Those balls were massive, swollen tight with cum, covered in a light dusting of dark hair, and they swayed heavily between his powerful thighs like they were begging to be drained dry.
The raw male scent of him hit me full force, clean soap completely burned away by hot skin, heavy balls, and pure desperate jock sweat that made my own cock throb painfully and my mouth flood with saliva.
I wanted to drop to my knees, shove my face into that sweaty crotch, and worship every thick inch until he was sobbing and shooting straight down my throat.
I wanted to spread those massive thighs wide, pin him down, and take my sweet time learning exactly how he tasted when he lost control completely. The hunger was so intense it took every ounce of concentration I had just to keep my face neutral.
I wrapped my hand around that thick jock cock and got to work. He sucked in a sharp, desperate breath the second my fingers closed on him. His big paw shot out and clamped down hard on my shoulder, fingers digging in like he needed something solid to keep from collapsing.
The heat of his shaft burned against my palm, velvet skin stretched tight over rock-hard meat, every fat vein throbbing wildly as I started stroking him with firm, deliberate pulls.
I kept the pace efficient and clinical on the outside, but inside, I was losing my mind at how good he felt.
The fat head flared bigger with every upward twist of my wrist, smearing hot, sticky pre-cum all over my fingers until the whole length was slick and shiny.
His heavy balls slapped rhythmically against my wrist, full and swollen, the skin drawn tight as they tried to pull up closer to his body.
The wet, filthy sounds filled the dorm room, the obscene squelch of my fist gliding over his leaking cock, his ragged breathing turning into low, broken grunts, the creak of the floor under his shifting weight.
Up close, his scent was overwhelming, raw sweat and balls and pure Brett, thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue and making my own dick leak steadily into my underwear.
“Miles.” His voice came out wrecked.
His orgasm was building fast. Every muscle in his thighs turned to stone under my free hand, the thick quad flexing hard against my palm.
His ripped abs locked down into a perfect, glistening washboard, veins popping along his forearms and neck as his grip on my shoulder turned bruising.
His hips stuttered forward in short, needy thrusts, fucking my fist like he couldn’t help it, the fat head swelling even bigger, turning dark as it pulsed in my grip.
I let go.
He made a noise, a half-strangled groan, half-raw animal outrage. His cock jerked wildly in the open air, the fat head flaring wide as thick, pearly ropes of hot jock cum erupted from him in powerful, wasted spurts.
One heavy blast after another painted his own muscled thigh in sticky white streaks, splattering across the hard ridges of his quad and dripping down in long, messy trails toward his knee.
His powerful body shook with it, legs trembling, chest heaving, abs rippling as the orgasm tore through him without a single stroke to ride it out.
He stood there braced hard against my shoulder, breathing like he’d just sprinted the length of a football field, staring down at the mess on his leg with the stunned, furious face of a man who’d just been betrayed by his own dick.
In the chastity world, that was what was commonly referred to as a ruined orgasm. And I’d just ruined Brett.
I picked up the cage.
“You son of a bitch,” he growled, voice still hoarse from the ruined load that painted his thigh.
“Hey, you’re soft now,” I said calmly, holding the cold steel between us.
He looked at me. His face was flushed dark red, furious, sweat still dripping down his temples, and underneath the anger, something raw and unnamed flickered in his eyes that made my stomach tighten with pure, filthy satisfaction.
I held the cage out.
He took it with unsteady hands, the metal looking small and cruel against his big jock fingers.
He looked down. His cock was finally soft and spent, still thick and heavy even when limp, the fat shaft glistening with leftover cum.
He worked the cold steel base ring behind his swollen balls first. The metal was snug against his warm skin, forcing those heavy, cum-drained nuts forward so they bulged obscenely through the ring like ripe fruit on display.
Then, he slid the tight tube down over his soft meat, watching helplessly as the steel swallowed every inch of what used to be his proud, thick jock cock. The fat head disappeared, crammed down into the short, confining cage until nothing but a smooth, shiny steel prison remained.
I set the lock with the turn of the key.
The sound was loud and final in the quiet room.
The cage sat flush and inescapable against his body, the heavy ring framing his trapped balls perfectly, turning his once-massive dick into nothing but my locked-up little toy.
A small, helpless bulge of soft meat pressed uselessly against the bars, already looking smaller and more pathetic than it had any right to look.
He just stood there for a second with his eyes closed, breathing hard, feeling the cold steel locked tight around his spent cock and heavy balls like a permanent claim of ownership.
“Keys,” he said.
“Mine,” I said.
His eyes opened. “Both of them?”
“We’ve covered this already.”
He looked down at himself. The steel sat flush and snug, completely inescapable, and the expression on his face moved through multiple emotions before settling somewhere I couldn’t quite read.
“Seven days,” he said.
“Seven days,” I said.
He looked down at the cage again. Then back up at me.
“What happens if I get hard in this thing?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
He winced. “Can I come over? If it gets bad?”
“You can come over any time.”
His face did something helpless and hopeful. If he were a golden retriever, he’d be wagging his tail right now. It was deeply inconvenient how endearing it was.
“But I won’t unlock you,” I said.
The tail stopped wagging. His expression deflated so completely, and so fast, I almost felt bad.
Almost.
“Seven days,” he repeated.
“Seven days,” I agreed.
He went back into the bathroom to clean up his ruined load. He left the door open so I could witness everything. I didn’t know he was doing it, but I enjoyed the show.
He pulled his pants up, adjusted himself carefully, and stood there in front of the mirror for a moment looking like a man recalibrating his entire week. Then he headed for the door.
He paused with his hand on the frame.
Turned back once.
Didn’t say anything. Just looked at me with those dark, stormy eyes, something hot and unresolved, and already desperate sitting right behind them, his massive jock body now marked and owned in the most intimate way.
Then he left.
I locked the door, sat down on my bed, and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Seven days, I thought.