Brains Over Brawn
The drive home was nerve wracking. Every time I came to a stop light, my face burned because I was certain that the occupants of the other cars could see me and the drying cum covering my face and smeared into my hair. I kept my eyes straight on the road in front of me and never looked to either side. The only thing I could think about was passing one of my friends or someone who knew me, having them look over, and see the signs that I had become a gay slut. When I arrived home and pulled into the driveway, I felt all the muscles that had been tense with worry begin to ebb and relax. I was safe.
The cage around my cock signaled a clear change in the relationship between Ryan and me, and he took no time in making it clear. I called him the first thing the next morning. I'd woken up hard, or at least as hard as the device allowed me to get -- my cock would lengthen and thicken to the extent permitted by the plastic bars down the length of the curved cage and those which closed off the end at the terminal ring. As my cock grew inside, the pain became insufferable, the sensitive head of my cock poking into the cruel, unyielding bars.
He answered the phone on the second or third ring, and when I begged him for release, he laughed scornfully. "Sorry fucktoy, things have changed. Now I'll know whether you try to rub one out against orders, because the only way you can is to break the cage off. That means I no longer feel the need to be lenient on you, to let you come over when you feel horny so that you can get release without breaking my rules. To let you come over so that in a fit of lust, you don't cut yourself off from my cock. You need my cock, don't you, Alex? In your mouth? In your ass?"
"Yes," I muttered in acquiescence.
"Yes, what, bitch?!"
"Yes Sir!" I shouted militaristically, like a recruit in basic training.
"You don't call me anymore, fucktoy. When I want you to get me off, when I've decided that you've been restrained long enough to earn my cum on your tongue or in your cunt, I'll call you. Then, if you've been a good boy, I'll pop that cage open for you. You can get your cock all nice and hard without that plastic biting into your skin. You're hard now, aren't you?" I confirmed that I was. "It hurts, doesn't it?" I told him that it did. "Just think," he continued, torturing me as my lust only grew, "you can wrap your lips around my cock. Maybe your ass lips, maybe the lips on that cock sucking mouth. And your cock will be free to pulse and throb. To jut out from your body into the air. You want that, don't you?"
"Yes Sir, please, how long..." I began to whimper.
"When I decide it's time, bitch," he cut me off. "And maybe, if you get me off really well, maybe I'll even let you cum before I slam that cage back around your cock and lock it into place." That thought ricocheted around my brain. Now, he might use me and not even let me get off! And with this chastity device, he could do it! "But don't despair, Alex. You know you can get that thing off anytime you want. I think that a pair of pliers, your jock strength, and some determination could easily break those plastic rings. Or break that mini-padlock. You can make that decision anytime you want. But you know the consequences, right? Tell me what happens if you break free."
"I'll never get your cock again, Sir."
"That's right. But that's not all. If you ever call me, if you ever look at me longingly in the hall at school, if you ever make any sign that you want my cock again, your DVD goes into publication. I might email an .mpeg to everyone at school. Or mail them a copy. And your parents. Or, maybe it finds its way into the DVD tower in the media lab, and one day, all the monitors throughout the school flash up with Alex Cheswick, soccer captain, big man on campus, sucking cock and begging to have his pussy fucked. Think about that," he mocked. He let the minutes slip by in silence, knowing the thoughts in my head. He had the computer skill to do any of what he said, and more. I could feel my body blushing, from head to toe, as I thought of my friends, my teammates, even the faculty. Even kids I didn't know, but who knew me because of my popularity.
"Alex?" he asked, finally.
"Sir?" I answered by reflex.
"Is your cock still hard, boy?" My mind turned from the nightmarish daydreams and zoomed back into the the present reality. My cock was still hard, I knew because it still hurt from the bars and rings that formed the cock cage. I told him so. He chuckled. "See, I think that some part of you, deep down in places you don't like to think about, wants everyone to know you're a dick licking, ball washing, cock riding faggot. Wants everyone to know you're my bitch. But I think we'll let that mature a little first. If everyone else knows, someone might want you for themselves. In fact, your jock buddies might just want you on your knees for them in the locker room showers, servicing each of their rods, sucking down their loads of spunk as they all watch and cheer each other on. Or maybe to bend you over the changing benches, forcing one sweaty, post-practice fuckstick after another into you, until your cunt overflows with their sperm and your hole is so red and sore it won't even close. Maybe that's what you want."
"No," I whispered. I realized I had goosebumps all over my skin and the tip of my cock was trying to pry through the unyielding plastic. "Please! Please don't tell anyone!" I had begged before, begged for his cock, begged to be allowed to cum, and I thought I knew desperation. But it was desperation from lust. This was desperation from fear. >From fear of being outed, of being ostracized, fear of being ridiculed and losing my position and respect? Or fear that what Ryan said was true? I didn't know and didn't care, I just knew I was scared, and I needed reassurance that my life as I knew it wasn't going to end -- despite how much it had changed behind closed doors.
He must have sensed the genuine concern in my voice because his tone mellowed. "Don't worry, Alex. Like I said, I'm not going to tell anyone. Just remember over the coming days, whenever you feel like you can't stand it and you have to rip that thing off, that will be it. If you make that decision, if you act hastily out of lust, the first thing in the back of your brain as the afterglow from your orgasm ebbs is going to be, `Oh, fuck! I've lost Ryan's cock forever!' And that's going to be followed by, `And if I even beg for forgiveness, offer to sell my soul for a second chance, I'm going to be exposed to everyone!' It'll be your call."
And the click signaled that he'd hung up. I stood there in silence and set the phone down. I stared at it, and within seconds, it rang. I picked it up in a daze, but heard Ryan's voice. "Oh, and each time you call me in desperation between now and when I want you, you add a day to your wait. That was one." The phone went dead.
I sat down on the desk. I already wanted his cock. I could feel nothingness in my ass, and I craved something to be there. I craved it like I craved release from the fucking rings around my cock. I sat on the desk and there was no warmth emanating from it, there was no shaft wedged between my lips, no head against my prostate or buried in my gut. I sat there and felt the breath on my shoulder that wasn't there. The hands on my hips that weren't there. I could smell the odor that wasn't there, the odor of his crotch smeared on my face the way it did after I'd rubbed his cock along my cheek while licking his nuts or sucking where his thigh met his groin. The texture of his cock head and veins of his shaft on my tongue wasn't there. I could taste the sweat, the salt, the musk, the cum, that weren't there. I was alone and abandoned.
And each day that went by, I'd get more horny, and I'd want more desperately to cum. And each day that went by, I'd miss his cock more. I'd miss his control more. Some part of me already longed to hear his voice calling me names. "Boy," or "whore," or "slut," or "fucktoy," or "bitch." Or Alex. How long would he keep me from jerking off? How long would he deny me his cock? Which would be worse? I knew the answer as soon as I thought of the question: Denying me his cock was worse. I could jerk off whenever I wanted to, it just meant I'd never be with him again.
How had this happened? How had I become a slave to cock? I thought about the feelings, the smells, the tastes of being used. Being fucked, mouth or ass. Every image was of Ryan. I could replace the image with other guys. At first it surprised me that I could picture my teammates naked and see their hard cocks in my head. And want them. But as I went through guys I knew at school in a mental slide show, undressing each, imagining the taste, feel, and smell of each package, something was missing. I felt lust -- only overwhelmed with lust as I was at that moment would I even have conceived of thinking of guys from school the way I was -- I felt undeniable lust for cock. But only when I though of Ryan did I feel something else. Completion. He owned me. I craved his control, his domination. I could suck anyone's cock, I could take anyone's cock in my ass, but I knew that there was something else I needed just as much. And I sat on my desk.
That day passed and so did the next. Then it was Christmas Eve. I'd finished my shopping and wrapping. I'd hung out with my friends at the mall. The weight in my crotch from the chastity device was something I no longer noticed. I was still aware of it on a subconscious level, but other than when I went to the bathroom -- I had to sit to piss to make sure it didn't splatter on my pants -- or showered, it didn't interfere with my life. And then I'd get hard and have to suffer through the cramping restriction. The combination of the plastic cock ring that formed the base of the cage and the curved shape of the device itself made a bulge in my pants, especially khakis. I got around this by sort of tucking everything down into a jock strap when I needed to, which made the bulge less noticeable.
When the phone rang, I leapt for it. When I heard Ryan's voice on the line, my cock jumped. "Hey, whore. Merry Christmas. I had planned to have you over tonight for some special eggnog, but you have to be penalized a day for calling me and begging for cock. How does that make you feel?"
"Frustrated," I answered. He chuckled.
"Been hard much?" he asked.
I fought back the temptation to be a smartass. I was pretty sure that's what he was provoking, so he would have an excuse either to inflict some cruel new punishment on me tomorrow or to postpone my chance at relief. "Yes Sir."
"Good. I'm feeling festive. What does your family do for Christmas?"
"We open presents in the morning and then have dinner in the early afternoon."
"Just you and your parents?"
"My uncle's family, too. We alternate each year, and this year it's his turn to come here."
"How cute," he replied. I thought about Ryan, alone in his big house, his parents off in Europe without him. I wondered what he'd done to pass the past few days. I wondered whether he'd spent much of the time planning something for me. My benefit? Probably not. I shoved the thought aside as he continued. "Here's the plan. I've sent you email, and you're going to download it and look at it all. Afterwards, you're going to reply describing in detail what you've seen and its effect on you. This is due by midnight tonight." It was about seven now. "Before you start, though, I want you to put on my collar. You'll wear it until you arrive here at my house twenty-four hours from now."
"But what about my family?" I interrupted. "What do I tell them?"
"Tell them you're my bitch. Tell them you wear that leather collar because you're a cock hungry faggot. Tell them you want to slurp my spunk down, and that's the only way you're going to get it." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "What the fuck do I care what you tell them? Improvise. Do I have to do all the thinking for you?"
"No Sir," I mumbled.
"You'll be here at least one night, maybe two but no more. If your parents are prone to worry, you might want to tell them that."
I was trying to think of how to explain to them I was going out on Christmas night at all. Now I had to explain my absence overnight...and maybe longer. "Yes Sir," I answered, but the line was already dead. I replaced the phone in its cradle and looked at my computer. With growing trepidation, I sat down in front of it, logged onto my ISP, and opened my mailbox. There it was. Email, from an account with Ryan's initials followed by a series of numbers. There was an attachment, a large one. My cock was swelling in its cage, and I was tempted to open the message now to end the suspense, but I remembered my orders: I had to put on the leather collar first, and it was in the glove compartment of my car.
I stood and wasted a futile minute hoping my cock would go down. I gave up and decided to make a break for it before the erection and its tell-tale bulge worsened. I darted down the steps and out through the kitchen back door, narrowly missing an encounter with my parents in the living room. I trembled as I unlocked my car in the frosty air. It was a reaction to the cold, against which I was pretty lightly dressed, and from my predicament. I popped open the glove compartment, reached in, and took out the object that signified my station in life. My cock throbbed as my fingers closed in on the smooth, cold leather. I shuddered from both the temperature and the tight plastic around my engorged dick as I closed a fist around the collar and rammed both hands into my jeans.
I returned inside through the kitchen door, but this time I ran into my mom. "Alex, you should be wearing a coat if you're going outside," she scolded. I accepted her rebuke and quickly stepped around the island countertop, putting the structure between my rampant arousal and my unsuspecting mother.
"Hey, Mom, a friend of mine is having a Christmas party tomorrow night. I know it's Christmas and Uncle Jack will be over, but I was wondering if I could go," I ventured cautiously.
She frowned at me. "Alex, it's Christmas night, couldn't your friend have picked a better time for a party?"
I faked a sly grin before turning my face to the floor. "Well, his parents are out of town, and this was a great opportunity for a party. And I mean, sure, it's Christmas night, but it's a Christmas party, after all." My mom was pretty cool, and we usually shared an honesty about my social life that won me a lot of latitude. Providing the shadier details of some of my plans had earned me permission to go out a number of times before, probably because she appreciated that I wasn't going behind her back. I kind of felt guilty using her trust against her this time, but the tactic worked.
She contemplated for a few minutes. "Well, OK, Alex, as long as you're here through dinner. Just don't do anything to get arrested, eh?"
I looked up at her and smiled, my sincere gratitude overwhelming the shame I felt inside. I turned and headed for the hall and the stairs, and as I made my way through the doorway I called back over my shoulder, "Thanks, Mom. By the way, I may plan to spend the night, just to play it safe," and I darted up the stairs before she could protest.
Once in my room, I locked the door, something I never did because my parents never tried to come in unannounced. Nevertheless, I felt a sense of foreboding about this email, and I wanted to ensure my privacy. I took the collar out of my pocket and shakily fastened it around my neck. It felt strange, having been off for so long, and especially to be wearing it now, here in my own room in my own house. The leather quickly warmed around my neck, and I moved in front of my computer and sat down. I clicked the email message, and read the text that awaited me.
"Alex Cheswick," the message began, "this is your mission, should you choose to accept it. First, I want you to strip. I want you to take off every article of clothing, except the collar that should be around your neck right now. When you're naked, I want you to stand in front of a mirror. It doesn't have to be full length, but it should at least cover from your mid chest to your head." I was lucky, I had a large mirror on the inside of my closet door. I quickly stood, shrugged off all my clothes, kicked off my shoes, and rolled my socks into the floor.
"While you're naked and looking at yourself in the mirror," the message continued, "think about yourself. Look at my property. Think about the fact that you're owned. Reflect on the fact that, regardless of how this began, you are where you are right now because you wanted to be here. You begged me for my cock. You begged me to fuck you. You begged me to feed you my cum. Even when I cut you loose, you made the choice to come back to me. You are my slave because you wanted it.
"I want you to stare at your body. As you take in the sight, remember that it is mine. Everything you see is mine. I want you to know that we both know that I control it. I control what you wear now; you're naked because I have ordered it. I control your involuntary biological functions; the pubic hair that's starting to grow back by now? It was shaved because I ordered it. And rest assured, that stubble will soon be gone as well. I control your sexual outlet. You will not receive release, your cum will not spew -- in fact, your cock cannot even grow fully erect -- unless I order it.
"Now, go, do it," the message concluded. "And when you're ready, download the attachment."
I stared at the text in front of me. Every word was true. I stood, walked unsteadily to the closet, and opened the door. I saw myself in the mirror. I saw everything above my navel. My skin was pale and the cold had risen goosebumps on my chest and forearms -- the cold or Ryan's words. My nipples were hard, and, on glancing down, I knew the cock cage was full, too. I slowly moved my eyes up over my torso. The email echoed in my head. My chest was smooth, as always, and I stopped to look at my nipples. The tender flesh was tightly clenched. My eyes travelled still upward, over my neck, where I wore Ryan's collar. I was mesmerized. Suddenly, my eyes locked on their own reflection. It was not a fantasy. It was not a nightmare. I stared into my own eyes and it felt as though my soul passed from my body into the reflected image and back. It felt as though the Alex on the real side of existence had flowed into the imaginary, and that, on returning to reality, some part had been left behind, replaced by something new. "You are my slave because you wanted it," Ryan had written.
I stood there, dumbfounded. Frightened. Lustful. Enslaved. I stared for a long time, motionless, until I couldn't look into my own eyes anymore. I turned my face down, quickly taking in the reflection of my own pecs, biceps, abs, until my gaze rested on my feet. I was broken.
My legs felt like lumber, senseless, dead, as I walked back to my chair and sat in it. I clicked the download button to save the attachment. I stared thoughtlessly as the file transfer finished, and then I opened the file. It was an image file. It was a montage of still images, presumably from the DVD Ryan had burned of our second night together. The night I had begged to be fucked. The night I had been shaved. The images were crystal clear, unmistakably showing my face and body in various emotional states, from reluctance to lust, from pain to pleasure. It showed the vile acts, a faceless man whose cock I sucked, who spewed cum into my gaping, eager mouth and onto my face. It showed the faceless man plunging his cock into my ass. The final image showed me as Ryan lied to me, telling me we were being broadcast to my friends. I was staring, horrified, directly into the lens. In subtly colored text at the bottom of this last image, there was a message. "And prepare for others to know what we know, too."