Read part 4 of “Husband, Husband, Neighbor” to get caught up before reading on…
By Thursday afternoon, I was a wreck. Gone was the focused productivity of the previous workday, and in its place was a sweaty, horny, humiliating distraction. Every time I rested my fingers on the keyboard to respond to an email or update a client file, my caged cock practically cried out to be fondled. Again and again, my right hand abandoned the desktop and drifted between my legs. Every time, I felt nothing but disappointment and the lack of stimulation as my fingertips bumped against the inert barrier encasing my junk.
After dismal performances in the day’s first two meetings, my coworkers expressed concerns, and my manager eventually “encouraged” me to take the rest of the day off. With nothing at home to distract me, I ran some errands. If sitting at my desk in the privacy of my own home had been frustrating, nothing prepared me for the way the heavy cage undulated between my thighs with every step I took. More than once, I caught myself staring at my bulge in public, and I was sure that everyone else was, too.
The greatest paranoid humiliation came at Buzzwords, the trendy local coffee shop where middle-aged gay guys like me liked to hang out in the middle of our remote workdays. When getting up for a refill, my crotch knocked against the table’s edge, and everyone around me had to have heard the telltale metallic thud. I felt all eyes on the softball in my trousers. It was all in my imagination, of course, but the combination of repressed horniness and the weird encounter with Mike earlier that day had utterly decoupled my mind from logic. I was adrift, pulled by the currents of a horniness I couldn’t satisfy, and my actions reflected my increasing desperation.
I reached a new low that night. After dinner and another rerun of Honest to Todd, I tried taking a cold shower, but my cock started rising again the second I stepped out and dried off. The initial seconds of pleasure were quickly overtaken by pressure and pain as my cock strained against its containment. I practically tore the house apart trying to locate the old thumb drive with all my favorite porn on it. I hoped in vain that I could stimulate myself enough to get off or at least take the edge off my mind-numbing horniness.
So, there I was, naked in the living room, dry humping the sofa as “Bruno” railed “Tristan” on my TV screen. With every thrust, my solid cage smacked against the armrest, but I felt nothing. My frustration grew with each bucking of my hips, and I resented the two-dimensional characters in the film for getting what I was being denied.
“Oh, yeah, Daddy,” Tristan moaned. His gruff, ragged voice usually sent me into an erotic frenzy, but right now, I hated him. I hated Bruno and his nine inches, and I even hated the twink roommate whose name I couldn’t remember and who didn’t even enter until the next scene.
“Fuck!” I growled. My seed pod resisted all attempts to be removed and prevented any external stimulation from getting through to my cock. I was losing my mind, and the only thing that kept me from going entirely off the deep end was the countdown to Paul’s return and the promise of being unlocked. Despite the haze of my arousal, I could picture the sex Paul and I would have once he came home and freed me. The problem was, I could also imagine our hunky next-door neighbor Mike, and as I collapsed into bed for a second night of awkward non-sleep, it was thoughts of Mike, not Paul, that kept me awake.
“What do you mean you’re not coming home today?” I barked into the phone. I instinctively reached into my shorts and fondled my caged junk as if shielding it from the news.
“Airport’s shut down,” Paul said. “Nobody’s getting out of here today. I’m waiting for a cab to take me back to the hotel.”
I glanced at the clock. Paul should have been boarding his plane any second and would have been home within four hours. He sounded exhausted, and while I usually went out of my way to be there for him when he needed me, my needs—or rather, my cock’s needs—refused to take a backseat this time. My horniness overrode my empathy.
“When are you coming back? Did they rebook you on another flight? Will you get out of there tomorrow?” My fingertips traced the outline of the steel cage, and my anxiety blinded me to the fact that I’d asked the same question three different ways. I sounded pathetic, but I didn’t care.
“Dyl, I don’t know,” Paul said, his fatigue now cut with a twinge of frustration. “There are 36 inches of snow on top of three inches of ice, and it’s still coming down. They canceled over a thousand flights. I’ll be lucky to get out of here before Sunday.”
I didn’t feel bad for Paul. I didn’t miss him. I didn’t care about the weather. All I wanted was for my cock to be released from its confinement.
“Dyl? You there?”
I took my hands out of my shorts, and the cage thudded dully against the seat of the dining chair. I was so pent up that I had zoned out for who knows how long.
“Yeah,” I said. “What about renting a car? We could use points to pay for it, and if you left right now—”
“What part of ‘snow and ice’ did you not understand? Babe, I won’t drive 500 miles during a blizzard. What’s going on with you?”
I bit back visceral feelings of hurt and offense. Had he forgotten? Here I was, locked and aching, waiting for him to come home and release me, and he didn’t even remember he was holding the keys.
“Paul,” I took a deep breath and tried not to sound like a complete loser. “You have something of mine, remember?”
The line went quiet momentarily, and then I heard my husband’s keys jingle. “You mean these? You’re acting like a basket case because of the keys?”
“Yes,” I said. Paul jingled the keys again. “I’m going out of my mind. I need you to come home and unlock me.”
“I’ll be home as soon as I can. I don’t like this any more than you do.” If I were clearer headed, the concern in his voice might have made a difference to me. But my aching desperation could not be reasoned with.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I spat. “If you don’t care enough about me to come home right now and unlock me, maybe you shouldn’t bother coming home at all.”
The last thing I heard before hanging up was Paul’s bewildered “What?” God, what was happening to me? Barely 48 hours in chastity had turned me into an emotional wreck. With no end in sight—another day, or two, or more—my erection pressed achingly against the inside of the cage. What was I going to do?
I called Paul twice and got his voicemail each time. I texted him a rambling apology, and my stomach dropped when I got his response.
P: Whatever, dude. We can talk when I get home.
He only ever called people ‘dude’ when he was fed up. I was screwed.