Chapter 4: The Cage

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

Tuesday morning arrived with a hollow ache behind my ribs.

I barely slept the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—Sean’s body, the heat of his mouth, the searing burn of his commands. I woke tangled in the sheets, hard and leaking, my cock throbbing uselessly against empty air. I’d denied myself release, half-afraid it would somehow cheapen what had happened between us, half-afraid of what it would mean if it didn’t.

I dressed for work in a daze, my mind thick with restless need. In the mirror, I barely recognized myself. There was a rawness to my reflection, a faint flush to my skin that no amount of cold water could hide. I was unraveling—and Sean hadn’t even touched me again.

At the office, he was nowhere to be found.

I checked my emails obsessively, watched the hallways, lingered by the kitchen longer than necessary. Nothing. Sean was a ghost—present only in the glances of others, the hollow thrum of passing footsteps, the phantom scent of cologne that wasn’t his.

By Tuesday afternoon, my nerves were strung tight enough to hum. Every interaction felt like a placeholder, every task mechanical. I couldn't focus. Couldn't breathe properly. My body remembered him too well—remembered the way he'd looked at me, the way he'd told me to crawl, the effortless weight of his control.

I told myself it was foolish to hope he would seek me out so soon.

But when the knock came at my door—soft, deliberate, unmistakable—my heart stopped.

I looked up—and there he was.

Sean leaned casually against the frame, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a small black box.

For a moment, I simply stared at him, everything in me stuttering to a halt.
He looked immaculate, as always—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, tie loose at the throat like he'd already started shedding the constraints of the day. But it was the glint in his eye that made my mouth go dry. That quiet, knowing amusement, like he could see straight through me and liked what he found.

"You’re not running off yet, are you?" he asked, voice smooth, his metallic blue eyes glinting with something private.

"No," I managed, straightening a little. "Just finishing up."

He stepped inside without invitation and closed the door behind him.

The click of the latch sounded loud in the quiet room.

Sean held up the box between two fingers. It wasn’t large—sleek, discreet, the kind of thing you might mistake for cufflinks or expensive pens.

"This," he said, walking toward me with measured steps, "is yours now."

I stared at the box, then at him.

"What is it?" I asked, even though a sick, electric part of me already suspected.
But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I opened the box.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, gleamed a small, stainless steel chastity cage—sleek, polished, unyielding. The sight of it stole my breath.

"I had it fitted to the measurements I took last night," Sean said lightly, as though we were discussing a tailor’s work. "I thought you should have something... more official."

My face flushed hot.

I’d thought he was just toying with me when he made me stand there—naked, humiliated—while he measured me with his cool, steady hands. Measuring everything, not just my cock, but the thickness, the base, the curve. I thought it had been another way to mock the difference between us: Sean’s cock had been huge and heavy even half-hard, at least eight and a half inches thick, while mine, at full desperate arousal, barely stood at four and a half.

He’d teased me then, too. Commenting idly on the "cute little size" I had, laughing softly when I twitched in his hand, helplessly eager for touch even under the weight of his casual cruelty.

I hadn't realized he’d been collecting data for this.

I couldn't speak. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.

"You'll put it on tonight," he continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "When you get home. I expect a photo. Full body. Nude. Cage clearly visible."

I swallowed hard, nodding automatically.

"And before you ask," he added, reaching into his pocket again, "this—" he produced a small, clear acrylic tube sealed tightly at the top, inside of which was a single brass key "—is your emergency release."

He handed it to me.

I turned the container over in my hand. It was seamless—no latch, no twist-cap. Only a solid cylinder, designed to be broken if opened.

"If you open it," Sean said, his voice dropping lower, "I'll know. There’s no way to get that key without destroying the seal."

He stepped closer, and I felt the heat of him like a tangible thing.

"I hold the real keys," he said. "All of them."

I nodded again, throat too tight to form words.

Sean smiled, slow and dangerous. "Good boy."

Those words. They hit harder than any touch. My knees almost buckled.

"We won’t see each other again until Friday," Sean went on, his voice rich with promise. "Until then, I expect obedience. I expect updates. And I expect you to behave."

He paused, letting the silence fill the space between us like heavy smoke.

"Be a good boy for me, Blake."

Then he turned and walked to the door, pausing only to glance back once.

"Don’t disappoint me."

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

I sank into my chair, the box still trembling in my hands, the emergency key glinting ominously on my desk.

I hadn't even put the cage on yet, and already, I could feel it — the invisible weight of it, the cold metal of Sean’s expectations clamping shut around me, tighter than any lock.

A part of me was terrified.

The rest of me had never been harder in my life.

The box sat heavy in my bag the whole way home.

Every bump of the subway seemed to shift it slightly against the fabric, a constant reminder of what waited for me. I couldn't stop touching the strap of the bag, as if somehow making sure it was still there, still real.

The train car was crowded, but it may as well have been empty. My mind played only one thought on repeat: Tonight, I would lock myself away. For him.

I replayed Sean’s voice over and over in my head:

"Put it on tonight. Full body photo. Nude. Cage clearly visible."

I swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably on the plastic seat. My cock, traitorous as ever, gave a small, involuntary twitch at the memory of his command. I forced my legs tighter together, willing myself to stay still.

By the time I reached my apartment, I was trembling.

I locked the door behind me, dropped my bag by the couch, and just stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.

The city buzzed outside my window—cars honking, people laughing, life carrying on as though I hadn’t just agreed to give up control over the most intimate part of myself.

I moved slowly, almost ritualistically, peeling off my work clothes one piece at a time. Jacket first, draped neatly over the chair. Tie next, unwound with shaking fingers. Shirt. Undershirt. Belt. Trousers. Socks.

Each layer felt like a confession.

When I was finally naked, I stood in front of the mirror, heart pounding.

My cock was half-hard already, straining up shyly from a thatch of neatly trimmed hair. Even now, after everything, it looked embarrassingly small to me. Thin. Soft-featured. I thought of Sean’s dismissive smirk as he measured me, the heavy weight of his own cock swinging just inches from my face.

"Cute little size."

Humiliation crawled hot across my skin.

I opened the box carefully, almost reverently. Inside, the stainless steel cage gleamed under the soft light of my apartment. It was smaller than I expected—sleek, tight, unyielding. No room to grow. No room to hide.

There were instructions tucked inside, but I didn’t need them. I'd watched enough videos in secret late at night, aching to understand this feeling, to prepare myself for this moment without ever admitting that preparation out loud.

I sat on the edge of the bed, fumbling slightly as I slid the base ring behind my balls, lifting and arranging them carefully. Even that small pressure made my cock twitch, desperate for attention.

The cage itself was cool in my hand, its weight substantial for its size. I lined it up, pushed the head of my cock through the opening, and began to guide it down.

It was harder than I expected. My body fought me, confused by the strange mixture of arousal and fear. Every time I tried to fit myself inside, I swelled a little more, defiant.

I gritted my teeth, willing my arousal to subside.

Think of something else. Anything else.
The subway. The meeting schedule. The taste of burnt coffee from the kitchen downstairs.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I managed to push myself fully into the cage. The steel pressed against me from all sides, unforgiving and absolute. I reached for the small integrated lock Sean had provided and slid it into place.

The click was almost inaudible.

But it thundered through me like a closing vault door.

I sat there for a moment, breathing hard, the weight of the cage already beginning to register against my skin—heavy, foreign, unescapable.

I was locked.
Owned.

A soft tremor went through me.

There was still one last command to fulfill.

Shame coiled tight in my gut as I set up my phone, propping it against a stack of books on my dresser. I stepped back, positioning myself fully in the frame. I felt ridiculous—standing there, bare, small, encased in gleaming steel, my body betraying every inch of my vulnerability to the camera lens.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat, squared my shoulders as best I could, and took the photo.

The image appeared on the screen a second later—stark, merciless.
There was no hiding.

My chest was lean but soft around the edges, my hips narrow, my thighs defined but slim. And there, at the center of it all, was the cage—glinting under the lamp light, locked tight around my pathetic, subdued cock.

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then I sent it to Sean.

The message delivered instantly.

No response.

The silence was worse than anything he could have said.

I crawled into bed without bothering to dress, the cage a constant, intrusive pressure against the sheets. Every tiny shift reminded me of its presence. Every flicker of arousal—which came like an unwanted tide whenever I thought about Sean—brought only frustration and tightness.

I lay there for hours, hard but helpless, staring at the ceiling while the cage held me firm in its merciless grip.

Sleep came fitfully, in ragged pieces. Every time I drifted, I would startle awake with a painful throb between my legs, my body trying desperately to swell past the limits Sean had set.

There was no escape. No relief. Only the endless, aching reminder:

I was his now. Even when he wasn’t there.

I woke to the feeling of pressure.

Not the usual morning wood, warm and restless against the sheets. This was sharper, confined, denied—my cock swollen uselessly against cold steel, throbbing for a release that wasn't coming.

The cage held firm, unforgiving.

I rolled onto my back with a quiet groan, the metal biting slightly into tender skin. My balls felt tight, swollen, aching in a dull, constant pulse. I could already tell that movement would make everything worse. The thought of squeezing into a suit, sitting stiff-backed through meetings, pretending to be normal—it made my stomach clench with dread.

But there was no choice.

I showered carefully, my body hyper-aware of every slick brush of my own hands. Washing my cock and balls was an exercise in humiliation: soap sliding over the trapped, helpless length, no ability to touch, no ability to soothe. Every nerve ending was raw, exposed, hungry.

Getting dressed was worse.

The cage shifted under my boxer briefs, a hard, obvious presence. I could feel it with every step, every bend, every accidental brush of my thigh against the fabric. By the time I'd knotted my tie and buttoned my jacket, I was already sweating.

Sean had done this to me.
Even when he wasn’t there, he owned every breath I took.

The office buzzed with its usual early-morning energy. Phones ringing, printers spitting out contracts, conversations murmuring from open doors. I moved through it like a ghost, half-present, my mind trapped somewhere deep inside my own skin.

Nobody could see the cage, of course.

But that didn’t stop me from imagining it. From imagining that everyone knew—that somehow, the bulge at my crotch was too obvious, that every glance was weighted, curious.

Especially Sean’s.

I felt him before I saw him: a shift in the air, a ripple across the surface of the day.

He passed by my desk mid-morning, coffee cup in hand, suit jacket slung casually over one shoulder. His eyes flicked to mine, cool and assessing, and for a terrifying second, I thought he might say something—might acknowledge the secret locked between my legs.

But he just smiled.

That same small, private curve of the lips.
That same unspoken I know.

And then he was gone, leaving me burning in my seat.

I spent most of the day on autopilot. Responding to emails without really reading them. Attending meetings and nodding at the right moments, my mind elsewhere.

Every now and then, the cage would pinch unexpectedly. When I shifted wrong. When the pressure of sitting too long built up and demanded to be noticed. Each jolt sent a flash of heat through my body, a reminder of my captivity. A reminder of him.

It was just after lunch when the first text came.

Sean:
Thinking about you.

Three words.

That was all it took to send a bolt of need straight to my groin, my cock straining futilely against the steel cage.

I shifted in my seat, heart pounding, glancing around the office like someone had seen the message. Like someone could see the effect it had on me.

Another text followed, almost immediately.

Sean:
Bet you’re squirming in your chair right now.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, trying to will away the helpless throb between my legs. Trying to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me instead of the humiliating truth Sean had spelled out so effortlessly.

I didn’t dare respond.

But I didn’t have to.

Around three o'clock, Sean passed by my desk again.
This time, he brushed against me.

Casual. Effortless. As if it were an accident.

His hip bumped mine lightly as he leaned to place a file on the corner of my desk. His voice was low, professional. "For Sandra. When you have a minute."

But his fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary against the surface.
And when he straightened up, he let his hand drift just an inch too close to my thigh before pulling away.

I sat there frozen, blood roaring in my ears.

By the time I dared glance after him, he was already striding down the hall, talking easily with another associate.

Like nothing had happened at all.

I barely made it through the rest of the day.
By five, my whole body buzzed with frustration, every shift in my chair grinding the cage against sensitive flesh. My balls were heavy, aching. My cock throbbed against its prison, desperate for a kind of touch I wasn’t allowed to have.

I checked my phone obsessively all evening.
Half-hoping for another message.
Half-dreading it.

Nothing came.

The silence gnawed at me worse than the teasing.
Worse than the cage itself.

Sean was dangling me, letting me twist.
And I couldn’t even pretend I didn’t love it.

Thursday morning hit like a slow, heavy punch.

I woke stiff and aching, the cage an iron brand against my skin. Every attempt to stretch only made it worse—metal tugging painfully against swollen flesh, balls throbbing dully with pent-up need. Sleep had been a losing battle, stolen in snatches between dreams that left me even harder, even more desperate, even more humiliated.

I rolled onto my stomach, face pressed against the pillow, willing myself not to grind helplessly against the mattress.

I was already leaking—clear fluid beading at the slit of my trapped cock, smearing slickly against the unforgiving steel.

Sean did this to me.
And today, like yesterday, he would act like nothing had changed.
Like he hadn't locked a part of me away for his private amusement.

I moved through my morning routine like a sleepwalker. Shower. Shave. Dress. Each motion punctuated by tiny flinches every time the cage shifted or pinched.

By the time I stepped into the elevator at the office, I was already half-hard and aching.

I made it to my desk, dropped my bag, and sat gingerly—legs slightly parted, jacket tugged strategically to hide any suspicious adjustments.

I hadn't even opened my inbox before my phone buzzed.

Sean:
Hard yet?

My throat tightened.

Another buzz.

Sean:
Bet you are. Good boys stay hard for me, even when they can't do anything about it.

I shifted in my seat, biting down a whimper.
The metal pressed cruelly into the tender underside of my cock, every pulse of arousal magnifying the ache tenfold.

A minute later, another message popped up.

No words this time.
Just a photo.

I stared, pulse hammering in my ears.

It was a close-up shot of Sean’s cock—thick, flushed, slick at the head, glistening against the backdrop of his toned abs. His hand wrapped lazily around the base, thumb stroking just under the ridge of the head in a way that made my mouth go dry.

The caption came separately.

Sean:
Just finished thinking about you. Felt amazing.

I made a tiny, desperate noise under my breath, slamming the phone face-down onto my desk before anyone could see.

But it was too late.

The image burned behind my eyelids, impossible to unsee.
Sean, slick and smug and satisfied.
Me, locked up, untouched, denied.

My cock tried uselessly to swell, grinding painfully against the steel.

It was unbearable.

It was perfect.

The hours crawled by, each one heavier than the last.

At 11:37 a.m., another message.

Sean:
Come to my office. Knock twice.

I read it three times before moving, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.

The walk down the hallway felt endless. Every step rubbed the cage against my skin, every shift of fabric another taunt.

Sean’s door was closed.

I knocked twice, just as instructed.

"Come," came the cool reply.

I pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind me.

Sean sat at his desk, casual, composed—like this was any other meeting.

He didn't tell me to sit.
He didn't tell me anything.

He just tipped his chin slightly, eyes dropping pointedly to my crotch.

Understanding hit me like a slap.

I moved closer, fingers trembling slightly as I fumbled with my belt, then the zipper.

Sean didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

I pulled open my trousers enough to expose the cage.

The steel gleamed under the office lights, cruelly snug against my aching flesh. I stood there, trousers half-open, heart hammering in my throat, humiliation burning my skin.

Sean smiled faintly.

"Still locked," he murmured. "Good boy."

I waited, desperate for something—praise, touch, permission.

But Sean simply picked up a pen, scribbled something in the margin of a document, and said, without looking up:

"That’s all."

Dismissed.

I tucked myself away with shaking hands, zipped up, and fled.

Back at my desk, I sat staring blankly at my screen, the humiliation curdling strangely in my gut.

I wanted more.

Not just the inspection. Not just the proof.
I wanted to be used.
I wanted him to tell me to drop to my knees right there.
To make me serve him properly.
To humiliate me completely.

Instead, he left me with the cage—and the endless, gnawing hunger that came with it.

By the end of the day, I was buzzing so hard with frustration I could barely think straight.

I checked my phone obsessively, aching for another text, another crumb of attention.

At 6:03 p.m., just as I was packing up, one last message came through.

Sean:
Tomorrow. 8pm. Address to follow. Come hungry.

Attached was a photo.

A close-up shot of Sean’s ass—smooth, tan, perfectly shaped. The lighting made everything look deliberate, sculpted. At the very center: the tight, freshly shaved pucker of his hole, glistening slightly under the flash.

My knees almost gave out.

Come hungry.

There was no mistaking what he meant.

The photo. The message. The invitation.

Sean was telling me, without saying it directly, that the next time I knelt for him, it wouldn’t just be to prove my obedience.
It would be to serve him with my mouth—to rim him, to press my tongue against the most intimate part of him until he was satisfied.

Shame and heat crashed through me all at once.

And I had never wanted anything more.

I stuffed my phone into my pocket, grabbed my bag, and fled the office before I could humiliate myself any further.

I woke to the familiar, brutal throb of caged arousal, my body stiff and sore from another restless, broken night.
It felt like my cock had been in a constant, low-grade state of erection for days—never able to fully rise, never able to fully go soft. Trapped at the edge of relief, teasing the line between pleasure and pain.

When I sat up, the cage shifted heavily against my sensitive flesh, dragging a low whimper from the back of my throat.

Everything inside me buzzed, feverish and hollow.

Work was a blur.
I stumbled through the morning in a daze, barely able to string coherent thoughts together during meetings. I nodded where appropriate, scribbled aimless notes, answered emails with mechanical precision—all while every inch of my skin prickled with anticipation.

The cage was unbearable now—constant, unavoidable, a cruel reminder of the night ahead.
Every minor movement rubbed steel against my cock, every thought of Sean twisted the ache deeper.

I couldn’t focus.
Couldn’t breathe properly.

Every clock I passed seemed to mock me.
Eight o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.

Shortly after lunch, my phone buzzed.

Sean:
Tonight. 8pm sharp.
Address: 32A Dominion Crescent. Buzz 604.
You have one job: Obey.

I stared at the message until the words blurred, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Eight o’clock sharp.
Not a minute early. Not a minute late.

I texted back a simple Yes, Sir, my hands shaking slightly, my body already reacting with a useless, caged hardness.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a dreamlike haze.
I could barely look at Sean without flushing.
Could barely hear my own voice when partners asked me questions.

Everything narrowed down to a single, pounding truth:

Tonight.

Tonight, I would kneel for him again.

I rushed home from work like a man possessed.

There was a strange reverence to everything I did—an almost ceremonial quality.

I showered carefully, scrubbing every inch of myself until my skin was raw and tingling.
I shaved: face, chest, everything below the waist—leaving myself smooth, open, vulnerable.

Standing naked in the bathroom afterward, I stared at my reflection.

The cage gleamed dully against my flushed skin.
I touched it lightly, almost reverently, feeling the way it had already reshaped me.
Made me smaller. Hungrier.
His.

I dressed simply: fitted jeans, a plain black t-shirt, clean sneakers. Nothing flashy. Nothing that would draw attention.

The way Sean wanted me to look: ordinary on the outside, branded on the inside.

I triple-checked the address.
Checked the time.
And then headed out into the evening.

The Uber ride was a blur.

I watched the city stream past the window—streets glowing under the warm haze of sunset, people laughing at restaurant patios, couples strolling hand-in-hand. All of it felt distant. Unreachable.

I clutched the emergency key in its sealed acrylic tube in my pocket, feeling its weight like a talisman.
Proof that I couldn’t escape.
Proof that I didn’t want to.

At 7:50 p.m., I was standing outside Sean’s condo building, heart pounding painfully against my ribs.

It was a sleek, modern tower—clean lines, dark glass, brushed metal accents.
A doorman stood discreetly inside the lobby, nodding politely at passersby. A black SUV pulled away from the curb, its headlights cutting across the pavement.

I shifted nervously, checking the time again.

7:51.

I wasn’t supposed to buzz until 8:00.

Sean had said it clearly.
8pm sharp.
Not before. Not after.

The minutes crawled by, each one heavier than the last.
I paced a little, trying not to look suspicious, trying not to grind helplessly against the cage every time I shifted my weight.

At 7:59, I moved to the buzzer panel, heart hammering so loudly I thought the doorman might hear it from inside.

I hovered my finger over the button for unit 604, watching the digital clock on my phone tick down the final seconds.

7:59:57.
7:59:58.
7:59:59.
8:00.

I pressed the buzzer.

The speaker crackled once.

Then Sean’s voice came through, low and amused:

"Come up."

The door clicked open.

I pushed inside, muscles vibrating with tension, and took the elevator up to the sixth floor.

Every ding of the elevator tightened the knot in my gut.

When I reached his door—604—I hesitated for just a second.

Then I knocked, two firm raps.

There was a pause.

Then the door swung open.

And there he was.

Sean stood barefoot in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of light grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.

His body was unreal in the soft, golden light spilling from behind him—tall, broad, cut from marble. His abs rippled under taut, smooth skin, every muscle carved and perfect. His chest was bare, thick and powerful, a light dusting of hair trailing down toward the waistband of his sweats.

And lower—between his thighs—the unmistakable bulge of his cock, heavy and thick, barely restrained by the soft fabric.

He was devastating.

He was everything I’d spent all week yearning for.
And so much more.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Sean smiled slowly, lazily, like a man who already knew exactly what effect he had.

"Good boy," he murmured, stepping aside to let me in.

And without thinking, without hesitating, I dropped my eyes to the floor and stepped across the threshold—heart pounding, mouth dry, body already trembling with need.