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.
When my husband traveled for work, I often spent the evenings in front of the TV, playing video games or sprawled out on the bed edging to porn. But with my junk locked in the steel cage, there was no way for me to act on the horniness that had been building all day. The weight of the metal between my thighs was a constant reminder of my self-imposed denial, and even the slightest movement sent my sex-starved brain into overdrive. I had never felt this desperate for release, as my thirsty, unhinged text messages to Paul clearly demonstrated.
All I could do was lie atop the covers, remain as still as possible, and try to fall asleep. But my hypersensitive body pathetically overreacted to even the slightest stimulus. Something as insignificant as a blast of warm, dry air from the heater kicking on prompted me to roll over and grind my crotch against the bedspread for 20 minutes.
I had just started to nod off when my phone vibrated. At this hour, the only person whose texts triggered notifications was Paul. I rolled over and grabbed my phone from the nightstand so fast that I bashed my knuckles against the hard, wooden surface. My face lit up, and my pathetic cock throbbed when I saw the message, but reading Paul’s simple response to my litany of clingy texts plunged me from euphoria to crashout.
P: Sorry babe. Phone died at dinner. Hotel reservation got messed up. Just now heading to bed. Love you.
Eighteen words? Eighteen fucking words? That’s all I got from him after everything I had said? My negative thoughts went into overdrive, spiraling as all of my insecurities hijacked my sense of logic. I imagined Paul in his hotel room, boxers around his ankles, fucking some hotshot up and comer or sexy executive daddy. I hammered out a frantic, incoherent text message and hovered my thumb over the send button for a few seconds before I finally came to my senses.
What the fuck are you doing, Dylan? I thought. I dropped my phone onto my sweaty chest. What was happening to me? After barely 24 hours in chastity, I had transformed from a mild-mannered, middle-aged gay husband into a crazy, jealous weirdo.
This wasn’t like me. If I were more clearheaded, I might have been sympathetic to the fact that my husband had to work late at a social function, which he hated. Or I might have imagined him slowly jacking off to our secret shared photo roll of sexy pics and videos. Instead, my mind plumbed the depths of decade-old insecurities that I thought I had overcome and put to rest years ago.
I picked my phone up and deleted the rambling, ranting message I’d drafted. I tried my hardest to push away all the chastity-influenced thoughts on my second attempt. My cock wasn’t hard, but trying to think clearly was. I finally decided the best response was the simplest.
D: Get some rest. Love you, too.
I lay awake for another hour, periodically checking whether Paul had read my text before I finally drifted off to sleep. Almost immediately, I started dreaming about my sexy, beefy husband fucking a never-ending cast of characters: jocks, twinks, polar bears, leather daddies. Even a pair of frat boy twins with matching Tom of Finland tattoos wormed their way into my subconscious and haunted my dreams.
I woke up halfway through a dream-turned-nightmare of Paul gagging an airline pilot with his own necktie and fucking him in a sling. I threw the covers off my body, and the sheets underneath were stained with precum. I had never spent 24 uninterrupted hours in chastity before, and I wasn’t prepared for the fact that it would make me leak like a faucet.
I got out of bed, deciding that there would be no more sleep for me that night. Instead, I wandered the house, rearranging items in the pantry and organizing bookshelves. A small part of me hoped I would find the keys to the chastity cage, but of course they were nowhere to be found. Eventually, I crashed on the sofa and binged half a season of Honest to Todd, some dumb sitcom from the ’90s. Its banal, cliché humor and canned laughter soothed me and took my mind off my troubles. Just before dawn, I drifted off into a restless, uncomfortable sleep.
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