My husband Terry squeezed me awake, and I looked around the living room bleary eyed. I could never stay awake in front of the TV. The Christmas movie we’d started watching was over, and a poor cover version of “Jingle Bell Rock” played over the closing credits. Instinctively, I reached for my phone to check the time, hoping I hadn’t overslept.
I felt his beard graze my bald scalp as he moved in to kiss me. The scratchy sensation sent shivers down my spine. “I’m sorry I passed out,” I said. I stood up and stretched, already missing the warmth radiating from his body. I rechecked the clock more surreptitiously this time. It was 11:54 p.m. Only six minutes until Christmas.
“It’s okay,” Terry said, reaching out to me. I grasped his hands and pulled him into a standing position. We laughed as both of his knees cracked on the way up. “I love napping on the sofa with you, but if I don’t get in bed, I’ll be a pretzel when I wake up tomorrow.”
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.
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.
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.
I hated my HOA. It was full of boring old people with nothing better to do than micromanage the lives of others. I paid my dues on time every month, but only to keep the pool open and keep the dreaded condo board off my back. I ignored their emails, and whenever a new notice was posted in the elevator, I made a point of looking the other way while I rode from the parking garage up to my unit.
Every summer, they held elections for the condo board. As usual, I threw my ballot in the trash without even looking to see which of my neighbors were candidates. It was always the same handful of people who probably just rotated offices among themselves like a twisted, incestuous merry-go-round. One morning, I found a note shoved under my front door thanking me for my vote. I didn’t recognize who it was from, but I didn’t much care, either. The $400 a month I paid in dues should be more than enough to be left alone.
Eric and Max’s predicament comes to an end, of sorts, in the conclusion from “To chase and be chaste, part 4.”
With his pants around his knees, Eric waddled back behind his desk and flopped down into his chair. “Come on,” he said to Max. “Get your phone out and do this with me.”
“I’m not sure,” Max said, taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite Eric’s desk. “I’ve been trapped in this thing for a week, and I haven’t found a way out of them. I don’t think there is a way.”
Eric opened a private browser window and pulled up DateMaker. “I can’t take it anymore, man. That meeting was a nightmare. My hands go numb every time they get near my cock. I keep knocking my bulge, and it’s like there’s nothing there. DateMaker can fuck off.”
Eric comes up with an idea for how to get out of his predicament, continued from part 3 of “To chase and be chaste.”
Trapped inside DateMaker’s underwear prison, Eric felt frustrated, empty, and hopeless. That night, he whined whenever he felt the impenetrable barrier between his fingertips and his cock and realized how often he unthinkingly groped himself. Periods of furious humping punctuated a fitful, dreamless sleep, and he awoke the next morning with bloodshot eyes and an incurable horniness that gave him no pleasure.
He stumbled through his workday like a zombie. The combination of sexual denial and enforced numbness had affected his behavior in the office, and more than one colleague observed that he didn’t quite seem like himself.
If they only knew, Eric thought as he tried to make it from the conference room to his office without anyone noticing or stopping him to talk. He was just a dozen paces away from the safety of his office when a gravelly, baritone voice called his name.