Jay Hypno Writer

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Husband, Husband, Neighbor (Part 5)

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. 

Husband, Husband, Neighbor (Part 4)

Read part 3 of “Husband, Husband, Neighbor” to get caught up before reading on…

A low, guttural roar followed by the clang of metal against metal jolted me out of my dreamless sleep. Disoriented, I squinted at the morning sunlight streaming through the blinds and struggled to hoist myself into a sitting position. My lower back ached—I wasn’t old, but I was too old to spend the night on the sofa and not feel it the next day—and so did my balls. It wasn’t even 36 hours since Paul had locked me in chastity, and already my pent-up sexual energy was taking a physical toll. I reached down and fondled the steel cage encasing my junk. The tight fit prevented me from getting fully hard, but that didn’t stop my desperate cock from leaking precum all night long. I sighed in defeat and got up off the sofa. That the cruel device might have slipped off overnight was too much to hope for.  


I recognized the noise coming from outside. Our next-door neighbor, Mike, was lifting weights. When his ex-wife moved out six months ago, Mike gradually converted the empty half of their two-car garage into a home gym. Delivery trucks arrived at our cul-de-sac every week or two with new equipment—a rowing machine, a squat rack, and a trendy Wi-Fi-enabled boxing bag were just some of the latest additions. Paul and I had made a recurring game of trying to guess the next fantastic contraption.  

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Husband, Husband, Neighbor (Part 3)

Read part 2 of “Husband, Husband, Neighbor” to get caught up before reading on…

Sleep didn’t come. It was well past midnight, and I laid on my bed, exhausted and sweaty, scrolling through the increasingly desperate text messages I’d sent to Paul that evening. 

D: Hey babe, how was the flight? 

D: Wish you were here, sexy. 

D: Thinking of you. Hope Milwaukee is treating you well. 

D: Miss you, stud. Horny and locked thinking about my big, sexy man. 

D: Everything OK, babe? Your dick is on my mind. 

D: Fuck I want you so much. 

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Husband, Husband, Neighbor (Part 2)

Read part 1 of “Husband, Husband, Neighbor” to get caught up before reading on…

The next morning, I awoke before dawn. My half-erect cock pressed against the inside of the cage, veins throbbing in sync with my heartbeat. My head still foggy from sleep and last night’s sex, I reached down to adjust myself. My fingertips ran into the steel barrier encasing my junk, rocketing me back to stone cold reality. Before I even opened my eyes, I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down. It was in vain. 

“Rise and shine, beefcake.” 

A rush of cold air swirled around my naked body as Paul yanked the covers away. I shivered. When I finally opened my eyes, he was standing at the foot of the bed, holding the bedsheet like a matador’s cape. He whipped it around with a campy flourish and winked. 

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Husband, Husband, Neighbor (Part 1) 

I dropped the laundry basket on the bed. It bounced and turned onto its side, spilling clean clothes onto the bedspread. It was after ten o’clock at night, and my husband Paul, procrastinating as usual, sat shirtless atop the covers. He smirked and nudged the basket with his size 13 foot.  

“Can I talk you into folding that for me?”  

My playfully defiant expression was just a performance and a transparent one at that. Before Paul finished asking, I had already started picking through the pile of clean clothes, sorting out which were mine and which were his. I balled up a pair of his socks and lobbed them his way. They landed on his thick pecs and rolled down his furry belly. I bit my lip when they stopped right between his thighs, resting against the bulge in his briefs. Lucky socks.  

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The space bears, part 1

I had been based out of Artemis Station for several years, doing long-distance runs to minor colonies and galactic backwaters. Six months to Vesta. Fourteen months to New Rockall. The occasional 10-week jog to Hyperion and back. Interstellar cargo is a boring industry, but the work was steady, and the pay was good. 

The long periods of deep sleep freaked some guys out, but I didn’t mind it too much. I had no loved ones waiting back home who went on living—and aging—while I spent most of my time in a sleep chamber, exempt from the passage of time. Coming home to a new kid you didn’t recognize or watching everyone you’ve ever cared about move on with their lives without you must make you think twice about the job. Of the 200 graduates of my training group, fewer than 50 signed up for a second run. After my third run, I think I was the only one still with the company. 

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Countdown to midnight (My perfect dad 46)

It was getting late. Empty beer bottles and pizza boxes littered the living room. The TV screensaver stopped looping and plainly asked, Are you still watching? Zach and I lay sprawled out on the couches, lethargic from too much food and even more alcohol. A pack of cards rested on the coffee table between us. It was still in the plastic, evidence of my underwhelming party-planning skills.  

“Thanks for hanging out, Trev,” he murmured. “You don’t have to wait up with me until midnight.”  

I looked at my watch. It was 11:53 p.m. “Not much longer to go,” I said. “Besides, I’m as curious as you are.”  

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The first meet

I stood alone in the empty corridor. A few yards away, an ice machine rumbled. Further down, the elevator chimed. I jerked my head in its direction like a startled animal and waited to see if anyone had emerged from the vestibule. No one did. I willed my nerves back down.  

Horny online chats were one thing. Coming to Sir’s hotel room was another. I wanted this so badly, but my anxiety and apprehension threw up barrier after barrier to sabotage me. There would always be work projects that demanded my attention. There would always be friends who wanted to make plans at the last minute. I committed to dismissing every one of those mental roadblocks when they arose. I was proud of myself for getting this far.  

I already flaked on Sir once before. He graciously accepted my apology and backed off while I sorted myself out. It wasn’t long before I started messaging him again. He was patient yet firm in guiding me toward a second meeting. It was inevitable. I knew I wouldn’t get another chance if I flaked again. This was it. Now or never.  

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Black Friday (My perfect dad 45)

Every store in the Commonwealth trotted out their old, unshifted merchandise on Black Friday. As a date on the calendar, it was a quaint holdover from the pre-Reform, back when people sold you stuff you didn’t need just because you had money, and they could convince you to spend it. It was harmless cultural theater, like those recreations of historic villages with actors churning butter and feigning shock at your zippers. 

My best friend Adrian and I ventured into the old commercial sector this year for some Black Friday window shopping. Our dads tried to talk us out of it, saying it was rude to waste a shopkeeper’s time if we had no intention of buying anything. Typical dadNet programming, trying to guilt us into staying home. We went anyway and had a great time trying on boots and coloring in mood panels with hand gestures while our dads remained docked at home. We had just left a home appliances warehouse and were about to break for lunch when I saw him standing in the window. 

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Thanksgiving in a box (My perfect dad 44)

The box showed up on our doorstep a week before Thanksgiving. We were confused. It couldn’t possibly have been the prep-by-step Thanksgiving dinner we ordered. It was way too early, and the box wasn’t nearly heavy enough.  

“Do you think we got scammed?” I asked my boyfriend Paul.  

“What do you mean we, Mr. Subscription Delivery Service Addict?” he said with a smirk. “I’m not the one who ordered it. I told you I’d be happy with pizza and beer.”  

We’d done pizza and beer for two consecutive lockdown Thanksgivings. I was ready for something special, but neither of us was a great cook. I wanted premeasured ingredients and a simple chart to follow. Thanksgiving-in-a-box was the answer, or so I thought.  

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