It Takes a Village

The hair spilling out of v-necks on men with dad bods. Tats on the toned biceps of aging hipsters. The haughty look on guys a few years younger than me. The bulges of all of them peeking out of their khakis, packed against skinny jeans, freeballing in gray sweats meant to show off their sizable prints. It didn’t seem to matter. Straight. Gay. Athletic. Fat. I knew that all the customers were free men: uncaged and unplugged. Even the female customers took on a goddess flare for me. I felt like such a little bitch and it was making me so horny.

 “There you are, Sir,” I would say, trying to casually throw in the honorific at the end of my sentence as if I weren’t a submissive faggot who got hard just from being deferential. Most of the men didn’t notice or care as if they expected a demure twink like me to show them some respect. Others raised an eyebrow – did they know what I was getting at? If they didn’t, they still appreciated it. They all seemed to. “Remember. All the men are superior to you. And you’re just a faggot,” Henry had said. And I did remember. I had never worn the cage this long or gone this long without cumming. All the other times I had cheated or just did it for play. But there was something about Henry that made me want to do it for real. Concentrating on the task at hand was the only way to stop my intrusive, freaky thoughts.  

I really began to feel the plug as I entered the fourth hour of moving between my spot at the espresso machine and milk steamer to the customer pick-up spot. Even my fellow co-worker (and fellow gay twink, verging on twunk) Finn, with his jet black hair, milky skin, and kissable face was making me leak in my cage. “You’re going to get wet, just like a girl does when she’s excited,” Henry had predicted.

I excused myself to the employee restroom. Per Henry’s instructions, I stripped completely naked for my mid-day cage check. I used the mirror to film my caged nub and twisted my lower half forward to show the plug. I sent the video. 

“Don’t hide your pretty face from me, fagboi,” he replied in a message back. I began to sweat as I recalled more of Henry’s lessons. “I want you to lose your inhibitions,” he had said the other night as he filmed me taking his mammoth cock down his throat with his phone’s flash light shining in my eyes. “Faggots don’t deserve privacy or dignity and faggot doesn’t want it either. You’re going to be my personal porn star.” Was this dirty talk? The truth? Both? I was always leery at going this far. I hated the permanence of videos and pictures but there was a part of me that desperately wanted to fulfill Henry’s requirements. Be a true fag. Be owned by him. 

I retook the video with my face and entire body in frame. Like stripping off a band-aid, I quickly sent it. Seeing that Henry read my message and his follow-up of “Good boi,” had my balls and clit red with struggle. There was no going back – he had the footage and I was further under his control. “Another one in just the apron with cage visible. And then get back to work,” came another message. 

I snapped another photo with my green Starbucks apron tied around my waist, lifted slightly to show off the cage. I whimpered as I sent the pic. Then, I realized I actually had to use the facilities. To minimize a mess and because it felt like the plug might fall out, I sat on the toilet, carefully relieving myself and flexing my ass muscles to keep the plug in place. Besides, Henry had forbid me from standing to pee.  

I went back to work behind the counter. Finn flashed me a toothy grin and, knowing I was nervous for my first day, said, “You’re doing great buddy.” I bet the smile on my face was pretty stupid. But bois like me crave validation. I wondered about Finn’s cock. He was taller than me. He could easily be one of those tall, hung, twink tops. 

A rugged guy in a baseball cap and Eisenhower jacket who normally would not have been my type at all came to the counter. “Mobile pick-up for Jeff,” he said. Fuck, I just wanted to kiss his chest and suck his dick. I felt like I could convince any guy to let me if they could only see how submissive and good I was. 

“Here you are Sir,” I said, again rolling the “are” into the “Sir” in a sing-song voice so as not to sound so kinky, but probably enhanced what I knew was stereotypical "gay voice." He nodded with a curt “Thanks,” and I wish he hadn’t said any niceties. I hated how society had made some guys feel so awkward to be treated like alphas.

I realized this is what Henry wanted. He wanted me horny for men. All men. He wanted me to have stray thoughts about how I’m inferior to them and about what they deserved. All while serving them drinks and hoping to take their cocks in my holes. 

“Fuck,” I thought again as a particularly large leak pulsated from my caged nub as I kegeled to work the plug and added to the stickiness in my ruined jockstrap.