Chapter Seven
I lift with the plug in now.
Graham handed me the small black one and the bottle of lube on my way out this morning, like it was toothpaste.
Put it in before you go, he said. You'll be out a while.
So I did, bent over the edge of the tub with the mirror still fogged, working it in slow like he showed me, breathing through the burn until it seated with that strange final pop.
Every step across the gym floor, I feel it.
The cage is still on from last night too.
Graham didn't unlock it this morning and I didn't ask him to.
The seamless underwear sits smooth under my gym shorts. I look like a guy going to lift.
Dev is already at the squat rack when I get there. He grins when he sees me.
"Look who remembered his shoes," he says. "Thought you were gonna flake again."
"Traffic," I say. The plug shifts when I rack the bar. I adjust my stance and pretend it's nothing.
We warm up. Dev talks the whole time, some girl from the app who only sends voice notes, his boss being an idiot, the new protein that tastes like chalk but works.
I nod in the right places. The plug is a constant low pressure.
Every squat, every deadlift, it reminds me it's there.
The cage stays tight and small under the shorts.
I don't reach down to check. I already know.
On the way to the water fountain I catch myself looking.
There's a guy at the bench press. Big. Not gym-rat huge, just solid.
When he racks the bar and sits up, his shorts ride up and I see the outline.
Thick. Heavy even soft. Longer soft than I get hard.
The same way Graham's looked that night on the couch.
More of it, the kind that actually fills a hand, the kind that would show.
My cock tries to get hard inside the cage.
It swells the tiny bit it can and stops.
The plastic holds it. The plug shifts when I clench without meaning to.
I feel the wet spot start inside the underwear.
I look away fast, heart kicking, and tell myself it's just body comparison.
Guys do that at the gym. It's normal. The cage makes everything feel louder, that's all. It doesn't mean anything.
Dev is still talking when I get back to the rack. I don't remember what he said. I just lift until my arms shake and the plug and the cage and the wet spot are the only things I can feel.
After, in the locker room, I keep my eyes on my own locker. I don't look. I don't need to look. I already know what I'd see if I did.
* * *
Graham texts while I'm still sweating in the car.
While you're out, pick up a couple more pairs of panties. Same brand as the ones you have. And see if that shop has the next size up for the plug. You'll be wearing them, so you should choose what feels right on you.
I sit in the parking lot with the AC on and read it twice. The plug is still inside me. The cage is still locked. I type back ok and put the phone down before I can think about it too long.
The store is a department store with a discreet section in the back for "intimates.
" I walk past the men's underwear like I'm just browsing and end up in front of the seamless racks.
The packages are small and soft in my hands.
I pick two pairs in the same cut as the ones I'm already wearing, then stand there longer than I need to, turning the packages over like I'm reading something important on the back.
The plug moves when I shift my weight. I feel the wet spot from the gym pressing against the fabric.
I pay at the self-checkout. The machine beeps. The bag is small and light. No one looks at me. I still feel like they should.
On the way out I drive to the adult store a few blocks over.
It's small and bright inside, with bright packaging and a young guy behind the counter who looks like he's in college.
I walk past the dildos and lube until I find the plugs.
I pick the next size up from the one I already have, trying not to look at anything else.
When I bring it to the counter the guy rings it up without comment, but I can feel him watching me. I pay fast and get out.
In the car I sit with the bag on the passenger seat and don't open it.
* * *
I stop for coffee on the way home because I don't want to go back yet.
The shop is small and loud with the grinder.
I get a black coffee and sit at a table by the window with my phone face down.
The plug is a steady reminder every time I move in the chair.
The cage is tight. I keep thinking about the bag in the car and what I bought and why I didn't argue when Graham told me to.
She sits at the next table after a few minutes. Dark hair, laptop open, one earbud in. She catches me looking when I glance over and smiles, small and real.
"Long day?" she asks.
I blink. "Yeah. Something like that."
She nods like she gets it. "Me too. I keep telling myself I'm going to work from home and then I end up here anyway."
We talk for twenty minutes. Her name is Nora.
She works in insurance, the kind that figures out what things are actually worth after they've broken.
Meg did that too. I don't say so. It's a big industry and it's not the kind of thing you lead with, and anyway it only makes her easier to talk to, the way anyone from your hometown is easier.
She asks about my job without it feeling like an interview.
I tell her about the manuals and the midnight guy with wet hands and she laughs in the right place, not polite, real.
When she laughs her eyes crinkle at the corners.
She has a small scar on her chin from falling off a bike when she was twelve. She tells me without me asking.
I don't tell her about the cage or the plug or the bag in the car. I don't tell her about Graham. I just sit there and feel like a person having coffee with another person who might actually like talking to him.
When she gets up to leave she hesitates.
"I'm here most afternoons," she says. "If you ever want to not-work from home again."
I give her my number. She gives me hers. The plug shifts when I stand up to walk her to the door. I don't reach down to adjust it. I just say goodbye and watch her walk away and feel the quiet from the cage and the plug and the morning all at once.
On the way out the barista calls after me.
"Tell your boyfriend the oat milk is fixed," he says, friendly.
I stop. "He's not— we're not— he's my roommate."
The barista shrugs, already on to the next order. "My bad. He seems cool."
* * *
Graham is in the kitchen when I get back. He sees the bag and doesn't say anything about it at first. Just takes it from me and sets it on the counter like it's groceries.
"You did good," he says after a minute. "Picking them out yourself. That's the right way to do it."
He opens one of the packages and holds up the new underwear. Plain. Seamless. The same cut as the ones I'm already wearing.
"Put one on," he says. "Let me see how it sits with the cage."
I go into the bathroom and change. The new pair is almost identical to the old one. It holds everything flat and close. When I come back out Graham is still at the counter. He looks at me in my gym shorts and the new underwear waistband showing above them and nods once.
"You look good like this," he says. Warm. Reasonable. "Cleaner. Less to think about."
I don't know what to say to that. I just stand there in the new underwear and the cage and the plug still inside me from this morning, and the low quiet takes me over again.
He steps closer and puts a hand on the back of my neck, not hard, just there.
"You're getting better at this," he says. "At letting it be quiet. That's what we talked about. That's what you wanted."
I nod. My throat feels tight. The plug is still there. The cage is still locked. I bought the things myself. Nora gave me her number. The barista thought Graham was my boyfriend.
Graham's hand stays on my neck a second longer.
"Go get cleaned up," he says. "We'll eat in a bit."
I go. The plug comes out in the shower. I clean around the cage like he showed me and put the new underwear back on. When I come out he's already at the stove. He doesn't mention the plug or the gym or the bag. He just hands me a plate like it's any other night.
After dinner he has me on my knees in the living room again.
This time he doesn't rush. He lets me take my time. His hand stays in my hair, guiding, not pushing.
Somewhere in the middle of it a thing comes up that I don't have a shelf for.
I want it. Not the way he means it, not practice for later, not so I'll know what to do when a woman finally lets me.
I want this. The weight of him on my tongue, the salt of him, the way he goes heavy when I get it right.
I want to be good at it because I want him to have it, and the wanting is its own thing with nobody else in it.
No woman. No someday. Just me on the floor wanting the cock in my mouth because it's his.
Then I catch it and set it back where it goes.
It's practice. It's just what learning a thing feels like once you stop fighting it.
That's all it is. I go back to using my mouth the way he taught me and I don't let it come up again.
When he finishes I stay there with my mouth full like last time. I swallow without him telling me to. The taste is the same. Bitter and thick and familiar now. Some of it runs down my chin anyway. I wipe it with the back of my hand and sit back on my heels.
He looks down at me, calm, the picked-you look still there.
"Better," he says. "You're learning how to be useful without getting in your own way."
I don't say anything. My jaw hurts. The cage is tight. I can still taste him. Nora's number is in my phone. The new underwear sits smooth under my shorts. The plug is out but I can still feel where it was.
Graham reaches over and gets me a tissue like it's nothing.
"Text that girl if you want," he says. "The one from the coffee shop. You should. This is what we're working toward."
I nod. I don't move yet. The quiet sits under it, heavy and low and steady. I don't know how to hold both things at once, the number in my phone and the taste still in my mouth and the cage locked between my legs.
Graham stands up and puts the plate in the sink.
"Early night," he says. "You've got work in the morning."
I stay on the floor a minute after he goes down the hall. I can hear him moving around in his room, the ordinary sounds of someone getting ready for bed.
I get up eventually. I brush my teeth. I put the new underwear in the drawer with the others. The cage stays on. Graham didn't unlock it. I don't ask him to.
In bed I lie on my side. The plug is out, but my body still feels open in the back, loose in a way it wasn't this morning.
Down the hall Graham's still moving around, the small ordinary sounds of him putting the day away one thing at a time.
A drawer. The closet. Then the give of his mattress, and nothing.
I lie there and listen to it like a kid listening to a parent still up in the house.
Wanting to hear it is new. I don't remember starting to need the sound of him settling in for the night before I can settle myself, but I need it now, and tonight I get it, and I let it be enough.