Locked and Laughed At: SPH Chastity

The cage arrived on a Tuesday. Small, matte black, with the world's tiniest little padlock, and I laughed so hard opening the box that my roommate came in to check on me. By Friday night it was locked around him, the key was on a chain around my neck, and we were driving up to the cabin for the weekend. My little SPH chastity experiment had officially begun.

He'd begged for it, by the way. That's the part people get wrong about me. I don't force anything. He showed up at my door with the box, on his knees in my hallway, asking me to take control of his orgasms for the whole trip. Who am I to say no to a man with a plan?

The first morning I woke up before him, slid the keychain between my teeth, and crawled on top of him in nothing but his t-shirt. He woke up hard, or tried to. The cage doesn't allow hard. It allows a sad, straining little bulge that made me absolutely howl with laughter right in his face.

I told him to look at himself, grinding down on the cage through the thin cotton, slow and deliberate. All that effort for nothing. It's like watching someone flex in a straitjacket. He whimpered. The cage rattled faintly. I kept grinding until I came, right there on top of him, using his locked-up frustration like my own personal toy. Then I rolled off, stretched like a cat, and went to make coffee. I asked if he wanted some, then told him oh wait, he couldn't have anything he wanted this weekend. I'd forgotten.

That first night I didn't even undress him all the way. I just pushed his shirt up, traced the outline of the cage through his boxers with one fingernail, and narrated like a tour guide. I told him that little bump was all the manhood he got this weekend, that I'd had bigger reactions to iced coffee. He tried to roll away and I pinned him with one hand on his chest. I told him he wasn't going anywhere, that I wasn't done appreciating him. I kissed down his stomach, slow, stopping right at the waistband, breathing warm against the cage until he was whining into the pillow. Then I got up, turned off the light, and said goodnight like the sweetest girl in the world. He didn't sleep. I know because I was awake listening to him not sleep, smiling into the dark.

Day two was the lake. I made him wear the tightest swim trunks he owned, which under normal circumstances would have been fine, but with the cage underneath there was this unmistakable tiny, rigid outline that had me giggling every time he walked. I told him to go jump off the dock. He did. When he climbed out, wet and shivering, I stood there in my bikini, wrung out my hair, and told him to race me back to the cabin, knowing full well he couldn't run properly.

That night I gave him the closest thing to mercy he got all weekend. I laid him out on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, unlocked the cage just long enough to check for chafing, and laughed the entire time I inspected him. I announced to the empty room, like a nature documentary narrator, that it was even smaller when it was cold, while he covered his face with both hands. I stroked him exactly four times. Four. Then I clicked the lock shut again and kissed the padlock.

He gasped asking why. I told him because I could, and because his face right then was my favorite thing in the cabin.

He spent the rest of that evening bringing me things. Cocoa. A blanket. The good chocolate from his bag. Every time he knelt to hand me something I ruffled his hair and called him my little lockbox, and every time he shivered like the nickname rewired him. At some point he just sat at my feet without being asked, leaning against my legs while I read, the chain of my key necklace tickling his forehead. I didn't move him. Why would I? He was the perfect footstool: warm, quiet, and completely, hopelessly mine.

The last morning, I woke him up the way I'd woken him every day, climbing on top and taking what I needed while he lay there locked and useless and perfect. But this time, when I finished, I didn't roll off. I held the key up where he could see it, dangling and glinting in the morning light coming through the pines.

I told him here's what was going to happen: I was going to unlock him. He was going to thank me. And then he was going to beg me to put it back on, because we both knew he liked every single second of being laughed at.

I unlocked him. He thanked me. He begged.

I locked it back on for the drive home, because I'm a brat, not a monster. Mostly not a monster.

The key's still around my neck. He's still checking his phone every hour hoping I'll say he's earned it back. Maybe next weekend. Maybe never. Isn't the not-knowing the best part?