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.
“Am I enticing you?” he said in a terrible Spanish accent. “Are you filled with desire? Must you have me now?” He laughed at his own performance and then dropped the sheet and the act. “Well, too bad. That softball between your legs isn’t going to do much of anything until Friday.”
Paul piled the covers in a messy heap atop the bed and then leaned over to kiss me. His hand wandered down my naked chest and belly, finally settling on my cage. I bucked my hips against his greedy palm. I loved when he groped my cage. For such an intimate and sensual gesture as it was, the mindfuck of receiving no stimulation or pleasure from his touch left me doing mental somersaults.
“I’m already regretting agreeing to this,” I said, playfully wriggling out of his reach. I rolled over onto my stomach and unconsciously started to grind my seed pod into the mattress.
“Too. Late,” he said, each word punctuated with a slight smack on my bare ass. “I’ve got the keys.”
Paul was already dressed in his “flying for work” outfit—a black sport polo and a smart-looking pair of khakis—and I rolled back over to admire my stud of a husband. The sport polo’s faint sheen emphasized every curve of his beefy, bearish upper body, and the khakis were made of stretchy fabric, which highlighted his juicy ass and bulge. Paul claimed the outfit was chosen for comfort in the tight quarters of an airplane, but I suspected he hoped that an admiring chaser flight attendant might take notice and bump him up to business class.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stepped into the boxer shorts I’d discarded on the floor last night. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you?”
“I get back late on Friday,” Paul said, shaking his head. “It’ll be easier to leave my car at the airport than try to catch a cab home.”
“Cheaper, too,” I said. The banality of our conversation helped to stem my growing erection, although it didn’t look like it. The cage was large and round, creating a tantalizing-looking bulge in my boxers, but appearances were deceiving. There’d be no action below the belt until my husband returned home on Friday.
Paul slipped into his jacket and then slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. The wide, black strap cut diagonally across his chest, accentuating his pecs and amplifying the signals sprinting back and forth between my brain and my cock. There had been a time, years ago, when I might have preferred my guy to look like a Greek statue or a Muscle Mary, but those days were long behind me. The slabs of former college athlete muscle with more than a hint of middle-aged man boob drove me wild.
“Hey, take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
I laughed. How long had I been staring? Frustratingly, arousingly, the cage seemed to hypersexualize everything I saw, heard, and touched. When denied access to my own pleasure, my brain and my body quickly adapted to seek it out elsewhere. My skin became extra sensitive, and my eyes interpreted everything as if through a porno filter. I closed my eyes as I moved in for a kiss, and Paul’s lips against mine gave me actual chills. I leaned into the kiss, enjoying the scratchy texture of our beards against each other. He fondled my caged cock through my boxers.
“You’ll be on my mind every second until you get back,” I said after breaking the kiss. I glanced down at my bulge, steel rather than arousal tenting my shorts. “I promise.”
Paul fished his keys out of his pocket and jangled them teasingly. “I better go. Milwaukee awaits.”
We took our time saying goodbye. After another dozen deep kisses and some clumsy dry humping, we pulled ourselves off each other. Paul descended the stairs, and I started my morning routine. I was in the middle of brushing my teeth when I heard the garage door open and close. I instantly looked down at my crotch. The toothbrush dangled awkwardly from my mouth as I felt the steel bulge in my boxers. I had seen the chastity keys on Paul’s keyring before he left. They would be in his pocket, hundreds of miles away until Friday.
“Fuck,” I said to myself, the toothbrush muffling my speech. My skin tingled, starved for attention and needing to be touched. I felt like a character in one of those old school educational films about party drugs, and all I wanted to do was grope myself. I finished brushing my teeth with one hand and tweaked my nipples with the other. Fuck, it felt so frustratingly good to know that no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t get off until my husband got home and released me.
Without a round of morning sex with Paul or my backup option—a solo wank in the shower—I started my workday early but a little distracted. More than once, I caught myself palming my cage while immersing myself in spreadsheets. Despite the lack of sensory stimuli on my cock, I found it calming to tap and roll my fingertips across the smooth, steel surface. My body heat kept the metal nice and hot, warming my entire crotch as a result.
I had never been less invested in a workday. I even interrupted a boring business process analysis meeting with an untimely gasp as a bead of sweat rolled down my balls. My coworkers shot confused looks into their webcams as I fumbled through my part of the presentation and ultimately resorted to simply reading the bullet points off my slides. After the meeting, a teammate DMed to check on me. I assured them that everything was fine and that I was just missing my husband. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth, either. I didn’t miss my husband as much as I missed having access to my own cock. It was just a coincidence that one happened to be dependent upon the other.
I managed to get through the rest of my workday through a combination of frequent coffee breaks—okay, if I’m honest, fondling breaks—and setting my status in our workplace chat client to “Do Not Disturb.” To my credit, I funneled my excess sexual energy into project work and completed everything on my task list by lunch. I even jumped into the task queue and helped a few of my teammates out with their projects. By the time four o’clock rolled around, I made the executive decision that I’d done enough for one day and signed off early. The last couple hours of the workday had been the hardest because my cock had stayed vexingly half hard despite my efforts to will the erection away. In an achingly pleasurable cycle, my shaft pressed against its confinement, sending a low-level throb of arousal through my body. Then inevitably, I grew too big for the cage, and the pain of overfilling the device caused my arousal to abate temporarily.
This happened again and again as afternoon gave way to evening, and there was nothing I could do about it. Sitting on the living room sofa, I tried to distract myself with bad television while my cock rode wave after wave of arousal and denial. With no way to get myself off, my thoughts turned to the stash of sex toys we kept under our bed, but I had never successfully achieved orgasm that way. Our modest collection of plugs and dildos merely served as a fun prelude to fucking each other with what God gave us.
I got four episodes into a terrible, low budget series about the Byzantine Empire before I finally gave up and went to bed. As I slipped out of my clothes and crawled into bed, I wondered just how much worse this chastity experiment was going to get. Wednesday had dragged on, but it was only the beginning of my torment. Paul wouldn’t be home until late Friday.
I played a couple games on my phone and downloaded one of those trendy meditation apps, but nothing could take my mind off my locked cock. I finally set my phone down and pulled Paul’s pillow from his side of the bed. I held it close, inhaling his scent, and hoped that sleep would come.
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