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.  

Clang. Mike grunted in what sounded like self congratulation.  

My dick twitched in its cage. Paul and I also enjoyed watching the rapid transformation of Mike’s physique. Over the last few months, our newly single, thirty-something neighbor had gone from an average-bodied suburban dweller to a wall of thick, developed muscle. Initially, the changes were hard to notice, but as Mike grew physically, he became more comfortable showing off his “gains.” Paul and I couldn’t help admiring how the glistening beads of sweat cascaded down Mike’s newly sculpted back the first time he mowed the lawn shirtless.  

If he noticed us ogling him, he didn’t seem to care. Paul and I suspected that Mike might’ve even enjoyed the attention his middle-aged gay neighbors paid to his physical transformation. Why else would he eschew his new, fully furnished home gym and do his sit-ups and push-ups in the driveway, right outside our living room window?  

As the rhythmic clanking of metal weights continued outside, I tried in vain to ignore the mental images my sex-starved mind served up. I pictured Mike’s muscles straining and flexing with each lift, his biceps bulging, his veins pulsating. The pressure of my hardening cock against its steel prison sent bolts of pleasure and frustration through my body. The mere thought of Mike’s sweat-slicked shoulders and pecs made my fingertips tingle with imagined touch, and I longed to trace the path of those droplets as they cascaded down his chiseled abdomen.  

Somewhere between the sofa cushions, my phone vibrated, shaking me out of my pornographic haze. When I’d located and retrieved it, I had a missed call from Paul. A moment later, a text from him appeared on the screen.  

P: Happy Thursday, sexy. Hope you’re having fun in that cage. I’ll be in meetings all day, but I’ll call after dinner. 🔒😉  

I replied with a few heart emojis and then dropped my phone on the sofa, eager to resume lusting after my hunky neighbor. I pathetically padded across the living room, my steel cage bouncing off my thighs with each step, and peered through the blinds. If I’m lucky, I thought, I might catch a glimpse of him while he’s still pumped from lifting.  

I was lucky. Mike had emerged shirtless from his garage and started sweeping autumn leaves down the driveway. With a voyeur’s indulgence, I watched his muscles undulate in perfect coordination with each sweeping motion. His broad shoulders and chest tapered toward his narrow waist, and a trail of sweat-matted brown hair accentuated the abs that dominated his midsection. I palmed my steel bulge, more a superficial gesture of sexual desire than of actual self pleasure, and admired the living sculpture outside.  

A tapestry of fantasies recaptured my imagination, only this time, they weren’t of my husband Paul fucking his way through the attendees at a work conference in Milwaukee. They were of Mike, my brawny amateur bodybuilder neighbor, with whom I’d exchanged fewer than a dozen words since we’d met. At light speed, my brain cooked up a dozen different scenarios in which Mike and I fucked each other senseless.  

After sweeping the driveway, Mike turned and walked back toward the garage. His shorts, damp with sweat, clung to his thighs, and I could see the outline of his cock. It was bigger than I expected, extending down to the middle of his left thigh. He adjusted himself and then ran the same hand through his hair. I watched transfixed, mentally recording every moment for when I’d finally be able to beat off again. As he approached his open garage door, he stopped and, to my horror, looked directly into the space I’d made in the blinds. He grinned and gave a condescending salute in my direction, then walked a little taller the rest of the way until he disappeared into the garage.  

I gasped and stepped back from the window. My face flushed with embarrassment at being caught staring, but my trapped cock also released a bead of precum at the same time. Raw, yet repressed, sexual drive absorbed whatever lingering humiliation I might have felt. In just one day, the denial of my ability to orgasm had twisted my sexuality just enough that I didn’t care that Mike had seen me. I liked it. I wanted Mike to know that I was at home alone, pathetically caged by my absent husband and using him as an outlet for the perverse, chastity-induced sexual haze in which I found myself.  

Upstairs in my home office, the faint ringing of an incoming video call pulled me out of my stupor, for real this time.  

“Fuck!” I shouted. I was late for my first meeting of the day. I raced upstairs to shower and dress for work, but Mike’s sexy, confident grin upon catching me had burned itself into my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. So self assured. So cocksure. As I sat down at my computer and rehearsed my excuse for missing a meeting, I silently wished that Paul would come home early and release me before I did something desperate and stupid. 

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