Chapter 1: Caged Silence 

The silence roared in my ears. The rubber hood amplified my pulse, the hiss of filtered air slipping in and out of the breathing tube, and the subtle, maddening sound of latex creaking as I shifted the barest fraction of an inch. 

I was sealed in, encased from scalp to toe in black rubber, bent at the knees, and arms folded tight to my chest in the smooth, padded hollowness of a hidden chamber. Anyone glancing at it saw nothing more than a piece of designer furniture, a custom walnut bench beneath the living room window. Seamless, elegant, and dead silent. 

But inside, I was slick with sweat. Plugged, locked, and pulsing. 

And listening, too. 

Outside my secret prison, Brian’s voice floated through the air. He laughed. He asked who wanted another beer. He told dumb jokes that played well to his suburban audience, voice light with that easy charisma he never had to try for. I could hear the others, too. The house was full of neighborhood dads, the straight-backed, beer-swilling suburban men who’d taken to Brian like he was one of their own. 

There was a grill going out on the back deck. I could smell the smoke through the vents. Meat and charcoal. The sounds of a football game murmured from the TV. Male voices rose and fell with laughter and playful arguments as glass bottles clinked against each other. 

I didn’t recognize any of them. They all sounded the same to me. 

In another life, I might’ve walked among them. It could have been me out there shaking hands, grilling steaks, and complaining about HOA overreach. But such thoughts of freedom were hard to hold in my head for too long. The details faded quickly, like a dream worn thin with time. Inside my confinement, in the dark and the sweat and the pulse of my own breath, all I had were the fragments of who I used to be and the man I belonged to now. 

Brian. My once boyfriend, legal husband, and permanent Master. 

The plug shifted inside me as I unconsciously flexed, a tiny, futile rebellion against the ever-present fullness. My cock throbbed helplessly in its chastity cage, achingly erect but trapped, denied even the hope of relief. The summer heat had become its own kind of pressure, too. Rubber on skin, sweat in rivulets, and a deep ache from the restraint and confinement that never truly left. It only deepened. 

This wasn’t punishment. This was routine. This was my normal. 

I’d been stored like this before. For hours. Sometimes days. I didn’t always know how long. Time blurred when you had no sunlight, no clocks, no voice. Brian decided when I went in and when I came out. Not that he needed to take me out often. He liked having me close by. Accessible. Owned. 

Still. 

Obedient. 

And dammit, I wanted that. I had craved it. 

Even now, I strained to hear his voice again, like a tether in the dark. My entire world had narrowed to his every syllable, his every breath. I rose and fell with the sound of him. He could be across the room, and I’d know. He could laugh, and I’d twitch like a conditioned dog. 

God, I ached when he laughed like that so freely and easily. Because he was happy. Because I had given him this life. Because I had given him me. 

I remembered our conversations about it. Could they still be called conversations by then? Brian did most of the shaping and tone setting. I just nodded along with an occasional soft, needy yes. 

He told me that furniture didn’t need to be seen to be appreciated, and being out of sight wasn’t the same as being forgotten. 

“Invisibility is purpose, Charlie. It’s devotion in its purest form.” 

I had believed him because I wanted to. Because something deep and dark inside me, something truer than anything I’d ever admitted to myself, needed to belong to someone that completely. 

So I let him store me. Disappear me. 

And now, here I was: invisible beneath polished wood, soaked in my own heat and lust, plugged and denied, listening for scraps of sound that would remind me I was still his. 

Another laugh. Closer this time. 

My heart leaped. The furniture creaked, just a whisper of weight above me. A brush of his fingertips? I couldn’t be sure, but I felt it. A soft moan slipped out. It wasn’t a sound, exactly, but more of a pulse. A tight exhale into my mask’s breathing port. I pressed my cheek into the lining and tried to remember what kissing felt like. To be spoken to. To be seen. 

“I love you,” I whispered. The words were unintelligible, garbled to hell by the gag and breathing mask. Still, they resided in my mind, echoed only by the pulse of my blood. 

Brian didn’t hear me. He didn’t need to. He knew. 

Above me, life went on. Beer bottles clinked. Jokes were told. Men laughed. 

And I waited because that’s what I was now. 

Something that waits. 

Chapter 2: The Confident Man 

The present faded, as it often did. 

When you’re sealed away like this—sightless, weightless, sexless, alone with the wet sound of your own body in latex—your mind drifts. It doesn’t ask permission, either. It finds cracks in the silence and slips through, down into memory, because what else is there to do but remember? 

This time, I fell into a different kind of quiet. One from long before the cage, before the contract. Before I knew what it meant to belong to someone so completely that you forgot how to belong to yourself. 

It was the silence before I met Brian. 

Seven years ago, I was 46 and untouchable. Trim. Confident. Always a step ahead of every other man in the room. I wore expensive suits the way medieval nights wore armor, crisp and precise. I got out of bed every morning, ready to close any deal, win any argument, and command any space I went into. It’s hard to believe this latex gimp trapped in a box used to be a senior vice president at a venture capital firm downtown, isn’t it? People didn’t just listen to me. They obeyed me. 

I didn’t know that one fateful day would change my life forever. It had been a brutal slog of meetings, hostile boardroom tension, and passive-aggressive chaos when too many powerful men tried not to say what they all know is true. I wasn’t in the mood to be around anyone, but I needed the hum of life near me. I needed the illusion of control through proximity. 

So I ducked into a bar. It was one of those trendy but anodyne new upstarts that sprout like weeds in the ground floors of downtown office buildings every six months. Sleek, dimly lit, with mid-century light fixtures and overpriced cocktails, it was the kind of place built for beautiful people who didn’t have to worry about the bill. I ordered something neat and sharp and sat near the bar’s far end. 

And then I saw him. 

Brian. 

He was leaning against the far corner, one elbow on the bartop like it had been carved for him. He wasn’t dressed for work—he was dressed for attention. Faded black jeans, worn leather jacket, and tousled hair that walked the line between effort and art. But it was his eyes that stopped me. Cool, knowing, and unflinching. When they locked with mine, he didn’t look away. 

He smiled. Not a boyish grin, and not shy. A slow, deliberate curl of the mouth, like he already knew what he was going to do with me. And when. 

I smiled back. Of course I didn’t. I was curious. I was amused. 

But I wasn’t ready. 

He approached like he didn’t need to ask permission, slid onto the barstool next to mine, and said, “You need a better drink than that.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “Think you know what I need?” 

He looked me up and down. “I have a good idea.” 

He flagged the bartender and ordered for both of us, unapologetically. 

That should have bothered me. I’d spent my entire career being the one who chose, who led, who decided. But at that moment, I was too surprised to push back. I was too intrigued by his raw confidence as if gravity had shifted, and I was just now starting to lean. 

The drink was excellent. The conversation, even better. We talked politics, art, and books. Brian didn’t agree with everything I said, but he didn’t argue for the sake of it, either. He challenged me like someone knew saw straight through every defense I’d spent years perfecting. It was surgical. Controlled. I loved it. 

His flirting came fast, and then slow. Glances that lingered just a moment too long. A brush of his fingers across my wrist when he made a point. I became hypersensitive to the sound of my own laugh—genuine and warm, yet self conscious. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that particular kind of electricity: the thrill of being seen and appreciated. 

He’s dangerous, I remember thinking. And I want to know how far he’ll go. 

But that first night didn’t end the way I expected. He didn’t come home with me or invite me back to his place. He didn’t even try. He just stood, touched my shoulder lightly, and said, “You’re not ready for me yet.” 

Then he left me there, stunned, flushed, and hard, watching the door swing shut behind him. 

No one had denied me anything in years. And now here I was, checking my phone every ten minutes, replaying the night like it was something holy. Waiting. Wanting. Aroused by the memory of a man who hadn’t given me anything except the feeling that he’d already claimed me. It was… exhilarating. 

When the message finally came two days later, there was no greeting, no effort to make small talk. Just an address and a time. I showed up early. 

From there, things escalated fast. Dinner dates turned into weekend stays. Banter became foreplay. Somewhere along the way, Brian stopped asking for things and started simply expecting them. He chose the restaurants. He drove the car. He handed me shirts and said, “Wear this tonight.” If his smile didn’t win me over immediately, a quick “You look best when you’re mine” did the trick. 

It was half a joke. Except it wasn’t. 

I let him take the lead more and more. That wasn’t like me, but it felt right. I felt seen. Directed. Owned. 

The first time he asked me to kneel, it wasn’t in the bedroom. It wasn’t even foreplay. It was on my living room sofa as we binge watched an old series. I hesitated, but only for a moment. Then I dropped to the floor. 

He placed a hand on the back of my head, fingers sifting slowly through my hair, a gesture so tender it made me tremble. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. 

I didn’t understand what was happening then. I thought it was just love. Just kink. Just a power game that I could still walk away from if I needed to. 

But looking back now, from where I ended up—sealed, silent, sweating—I should’ve known better. 

That was the first time I felt myself begin to disappear. And I didn’t stop it. 

Want to find out how the story ends? Buy the complete novelette “Stored“ on Kindle now.