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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.  

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.  

Clang.  

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.  

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. 

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. 

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.