Denied & Dripping
The sheets were tangled around my legs, still sticky in spots from the mess I’d made the night before. My chest felt dry and tight where cum had dried against my skin, and the faint scent of sweat and something dirtier still lingered in the air. I didn’t move for a while—just stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the heaviness settling in my chest.
What the fuck had I done?
I’d been so deep in it, so far gone. Now it felt like I was standing on the other side of a line I hadn’t even seen coming. My hole still ached in the best kind of way, but that ache came with a twist of guilt. I’d given in—so fast, so easily. No self-control. Just a hungry little body desperate to be filled, touched, used.
I rubbed my face and sat up with a groan, trying to shake the thoughts loose. Just a horny night, I told myself. Just a fantasy that got out of hand. Nothing serious. Nothing real.
But even as I stood and started to get dressed, I felt it still clinging to me—that heat, that curiosity.
I bent to grab a pair of underwear left forgotten on my floor, but as I did my elbow bumped into my backpack, knocking it on its side. Something clattered out and hit the floor with a dull, plastic thud.
I froze.
There, lying on the floor between my feet was something small, black, and unfamiliar. I crouched and picked it up. Smooth. Cold. A strange kind of curve to it and undeniably sexual.
A cage?
My throat went dry. I turned it over in my hands, the weight of it sinking in. Where the hell did this come from? I couldn’t remember packing it. Couldn’t imagine why I’d have one. But the moment it touched my skin, something stirred in my stomach—tight and electric.
The guilt came rushing back. I’d jerked off last night. I wasn’t supposed to. Coach had told me not to. That it’d mess with my discipline, my chances. And still, I gave in. I always did.
I turned the cage over in my hands again, more slowly this time, letting myself really look at it.
It was smaller than I expected—sleek, almost minimalistic. The main shaft was curved, following the natural angle of a soft cock, and smooth all over except for a small slit at the tip. Like a teasing little reminder that you could leak in this thing but never get hard. The ring was thick, meant to sit tight behind the balls, and it had that cold, firm kind of weight that made it feel serious. Not a toy. A device.
I kept running my fingers along the inside, imagining what it would feel like to slide my cock into the narrow tube, soft and obedient.
My stomach did that fluttering thing again, low and weird and not entirely comfortable. But not bad either. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t look away from it. Why the idea of putting it on—of not being able to touch myself—was making my skin prickle and my pulse pick up.
I’d jerked off last night like an animal, stuffing filthy underwear in my mouth and fingering my ass like I’d been waiting my whole life to do it. And now here I was, the next morning, holding a chastity cage in my hand and feeling… curious. Intrigued. A little freaked out. But definitely turned on.
My cock gave a lazy twitch, still too drained to get hard, but not completely numb to the sight of it. Imagining what it would feel like wrapped around me, tight and locked, unable to touch myself no matter how badly I wanted to.
The thought made my stomach twist—half dread, half something else. Something deeper.
Why the hell does this feel hot?
Maybe it was the idea of losing control. Or maybe it was the opposite—giving it up on purpose. The thought of choosing to deny myself, following Coach’s orders, to put something on that would take the option away entirely… it shouldn’t have made me horny.
But it kind of did.
Maybe this was what I needed, I justified. Some kind of control. Something to keep me from giving in again. Maybe if I wore it… just for a little while… I could stop thinking with my dick.
I swallowed hard and sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the cage in my hands.
Just to try it on, I told myself.
Just to see how it feels.
I sat back on the edge of the bed, the cage still cradled in my hands, my heart thudding a little harder than it should’ve. I told myself again that I was just curious. Just trying it on. Just… experimenting.
But the truth was, I was already halfway hard, and the idea of sliding into it was doing something to me I didn’t quite understand. Something that felt way too big for something this small.
I leaned forward, legs spread, and let my briefs fall to the floor. My cock was twitching, trying to stir, like it didn’t quite know what I had planned for it. I reached down and took a breath, willing it to soften. It had to be soft to fit.
The ring went on first. Thick, circular, stretching open just enough to fit behind my balls. I worked them through one at a time, then my soft shaft, tucking it carefully forward. It felt strange—vulnerable, kind of exposed—but not bad. Once it was in place, the weight of the ring pulled a little on my balls, grounding, firm.
Then the cage.
I picked it up with a shaky breath and lined it up, easing the shaft of my cock into the narrow tube. It was snug—very snug—but smooth. My skin slid in, compressed and contained, with barely enough room to shift. I felt the cool press of the tip against the front, the little slit brushing the very head of my cock.
Fuck.
It felt like being sealed up. Like putting my dick in a prison cell and turning the key.
My fingers hesitated over it.
I slid the cage into place on the ring—there was a slight snap as it connected— clicking shut with a soft snick, and suddenly it was real.
That thought made something tighten deep in my stomach.
The cage hugged my cock so tightly it was impossible to get hard. Even the faintest twitch met firm resistance. I could feel my body trying—responding to the idea of what I was doing—but it couldn’t swell, couldn’t grow. The cage refused. Denied.
That… did something to me.
Running my fingers down the front of it I tested the fit, the way it shifted slightly with my movements, changing the center of gravity ever so slightly. The pressure was constant. Subtle, but present. Like my cock was wrapped in a reminder that it didn’t belong to me anymore. That I didn’t get to decide when or how I touched myself. Not while I was in this.
I let out a shaky breath, surprised to find my thighs trembling a little. I wasn’t even touching my hole, but I felt almost as exposed, as opened, as I had last night.
I didn’t know what this meant. I didn’t know why it was turning me on.
But it was.
My fingers were still trailing along the edges of the cage when I heard it.
“Jamie! Luke’s here!” My dad’s voice, calling up the stairs.
My stomach dropped. Shit.
Luke. I’d totally forgotten we were supposed to meet up before college today— and here I was sitting on my bed with a fucking chastity cage locked around my dick!
Panic surged through me. I grabbed at the cage, fingers fumbling over the smooth finish, desperately tugging.
Nothing happened.
It wouldn’t come off! I tried to twist it and pull it, anything I could think of to get this damn thing to release. I only wanted to see what it felt like, and now if I’m not quick I’ll be discovered wearing this … contraption. I’ll never live it down.
I took some deep breaths, calming myself and then I saw it.
How the hell had I missed this?
There it was—snug at the top, clicking the ring and cage together like handcuffs – a tiny lock, and no key in sight.
Fuckfuckfuck.
“Coming!” I called out, voice cracking. I’d have to figure this out later, there must be a key somewhere.
I scrambled to my feet, yanking on the briefs that started this all. The cage bulged slightly beneath the fabric, but it wasn’t obvious—not unless someone looked too closely. I threw on my trousers and a T-shirt in seconds, trying not to focus on the slight pressure against my cock with every movement. The cage shifted slightly with each step. I could feel it.
I didn’t have time to think. I grabbed my bag and the rest of my uniform and bolted downstairs.
Luke greeted me with his usual grin, completely unaware of the chaotic storm happening in my pants.
“Yo,” he said, clapping my shoulder. “You look like you just rolled outta bed.”
I forced a laugh. “Yeah. Late night.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
We headed out and the whole time I was hyper-aware of everything: the way the cage tugged slightly every time I took a step, the way my cock kept twitching against it, trying to swell but having nowhere to go. It didn’t hurt—not exactly—but it was frustrating. Teasing. Every time I got the smallest bit hard, the cage punished me for it. A reminder: No. Not today.
Luke was talking about some girl he’d been texting, and I tried to follow along, nodding, smiling at the right moments. But my thoughts kept drifting back down. The cage had warmed to the heat of my body by then, becoming this constant, low buzz of pressure. It was like being edged without ever touching myself. I was stuck in a state of half-arousal all morning. Curious. Horny. Confused.
And underneath it all… shame.
Why was I like this?
Why did part of me like it?
Every time I shifted in my seat, or bent over, or adjusted my trousers, I felt the cage tighten, press, restrict. And every time, a little shiver of heat curled low in my gut.
By the time my first class ended, I was exhausted—not from anything we’d done, but from the weight of carrying this secret around. From pretending I wasn’t locked up, pretending I was just like every other guy walking around with free access to their own cock.
I wasn’t.
And the longer I wore it, the more that did something to me. Not just physically. Mentally. Emotionally. It wasn’t just about the horniness anymore. It was about the control I’d given up. The part of me that had decided, even if only for a moment, that maybe I didn’t deserve to touch myself whenever I wanted.
That maybe someone else should decide that for me.
I made it through most of lunch trying to act normal, poking at my sandwich while Luke rambled about some new gym routine, but the pressure in my bladder was getting impossible to ignore. I’d been holding it since morning—too distracted by the cage, too nervous to try earlier—but now it was urgent.
“Be right back,” I muttered, standing a little too fast.
The cage shifted with me, pulling against the base of my cock and balls. I winced, adjusted my trousers quickly, and made my way across the cafeteria toward the bathroom, trying not to walk like something was wrong.
The men's room was mostly empty—thank God. Just one guy washing his hands, not even glancing my way as he left. I went straight to the urinals, unzipping quickly, fumbling past my briefs to get to… well, what I could get to.
And that’s when I realized the problem.
The cage.
It was still on, still locked tight, and even though there was that tiny slit at the tip, it wasn’t designed for pissing on the go. Not for someone who’d never done it before, not for someone panicking and full to bursting.
I tried to aim. Tried to push the stream through the hole.
Instead, piss sprayed everywhere.
It hissed out in chaotic little jets—some straight, most not—ricocheting off the inside of the cage, dribbling along the plastic, and splattering against my thighs, the floor. Everything. I gritted my teeth, trying to adjust the angle, but it was too late. The front of my pants darkened with a subtle but unmistakable sheen.
Fuck.
I stood there, frozen, cock still caged, warm piss soaking in. I felt humiliated. Frustrated. The weird pressure of the cage against my skin, combined with the wet fabric, made my whole lower body feel alien. Like it didn’t belong to me.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps—heavy, casual—echoed on the tiled floor.
Shit.
My heart jumped into my throat. Without thinking, I scrambled backward into the stall and yanked the door shut, careful not to let it slam. I hovered there, breath shallow, knees slightly bent like I could somehow make myself invisible, cage still hanging out of my trousers.
It wasn’t soaked, but there was a definite patch. Darker, obvious if you looked. The kind of stain that could pass as “just washed my hands and wiped on my pants”—if no one looked too closely. I pressed some toilet paper to it, trying to blot it, but it was no use. My crotch still smelled faintly like piss.
I sat down on the toilet lid and held my head in my hands.
What the fuck was I doing?
Locked in a cage. Pissing on myself. Acting like this was just a normal day.
And worst of all?
Even now—humiliated, pissed on, panicked—part of me was still hard. Still trying to get hard. Still throbbing uselessly against the walls of the cage like it liked being denied.
And I didn’t know how to make that part stop.
The guy didn’t stop at the urinals. Instead, he moved to the stall right next to mine.
Another creak. The rattle of the lock sliding shut. The dull thud of a backpack or jacket hitting the wall.
Then the telltale sound of a belt unbuckling.
Trousers dropping. Skin hitting cool seat.
I stared at the floor, my soaked jeans clinging to my thighs, the cage pressing tight against my cock. Every nerve was lit up with tension. I couldn’t get caught like this—locked up, half-damp, hiding like some freak. My skin prickled with heat, not just from embarrassment but from the still-throbbing, low ache between my legs. My cock kept twitching uselessly against the inside of the cage.
I strained to stay still. To breathe normally. To not exist.
The guy next door exhaled—long and low—and I heard the rustling of clothes. The faint sound of fingers adjusting. A shift of weight on the seat.
My heart hammered faster.
What the hell was he doing?
I didn’t want to guess, and it’s not like I could look. But the longer I sat there, the more charged the air felt. My body was locked, trapped, uncomfortable—but still hopelessly aware. Still tuned to every movement, every sound.
I wiped my palms on my top, accidentally brushing across my sensitive nipples hiding underneath. My face burned. I prayed he’d finish and leave, not glance under the stall, not hear me breathing like I’d just run five miles.
The pressure in my bladder was fading now, replaced by something worse: the pressure in my head, in my gut, in the cage.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t touch. Couldn’t do anything but sit there, painfully hard, locked tight, and try not to give myself away.
I’m trapped, swollen and aching, my dick twitching uselessly against cold plastic.
There’s a soft rustle, then the slick, unmistakable sound of a wet hand sliding over skin. Slow. Rhythmic. I know exactly what he’s doing, memories of last night flood my brain and I can’t tear my ears away.
A soft moan, low and breathy, curls under the partition like smoke.
All I can do is listen.
It starts soft. Barely there. A shift in breath. Then the faintest squelch—skin on skin, wet and slow. It sends a bolt straight through my chest. My cock tries to swell and slams into the walls of the cage, the unforgiving plastic bringing me back to my current situation instantly. I grunt, sharp and helpless. My thighs tense, desperate to move. My fingers twitch toward my thighs, needing to do something, but they just hover there, useless.
The sound keeps going. Thick and slick. A slow, obscene rhythm. Slap, drag, twist. Slap, drag, twist.
He moans, low and lazy, like he’s stretching into it. Fuck.
I can hear everything. Every tiny sound. The squish of precum spilling down his shaft. The sticky glide of his palm working up to the head and squeezing there, tight, before slipping back down. I swear I can hear his fist clenching. I imagine his knuckles brushing his thigh, his muscles twitching under the strain of holding back.
And me? I’m shaking. My thighs are clenched, my toes curling inside my socks, the damp patch on my briefs cold against my balls. I can still smell the piss from earlier — sharp and bitter and mine. The humiliation clings to me like sweat.
And I’m so turned on.
He lets out a grunt—quick, needy. The tempo speeds up. The slapping is louder now, more desperate. I can practically picture the shine on his cock, the redness at the tip, his chest heaving.
“God,” he pants. Just that one word.
It wrecks me.
I ball my fists, nails digging into my palms. I want to touch, to grind, to move. Or anything but this useless, throbbing ache inside a fucking cage that’s way too tight!
I’m jealous of him, but there something more. I want to be the one doing that. Or watching. I don’t have time to register what I just thought.
Another moan. Louder. He’s closer now, and I swear I can hear the exact moment that more of his precum slickens his shaft. He’s showing off for me, isn’t he? He knows I’m listening. He wants me to hear how good it feels for him—how free he is.
A small whimper escapes me before I can stop it. My cheeks burn. A new warmth is coming from my cage to join the stale piss from before. I’m leaking precum. Buckets of it. Long strings spreading out sticking to me in the worst way. Fresh and wet and shameful.
And I can’t stop listening.
His breathing picks up. The rhythm gets faster. I imagine the way his hand must look, tight around his cock, pumping toward the head, twisting a little— I guess.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
I bite down hard on my lip. I want to beg. I want to look. I want to touch anything.
His breathing's shallow now, broken. The wet sounds are frantic, sticky, messy. I think I can hear his balls slapping against his fist.
Then—he gasps. A full-body sound, choked and raw. And then silence. Just the faint, broken hitch of breath as he shudders beside me.
He came. Right fucking next to me.
I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. My cock twitches furiously in the cage. I feel another drop leak out, slicking the inside of my soaked briefs. My whole body is a live wire of shame, heat, and something I don’t even have a name for.
I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t.
I hear him buckle up his trousers, making him presentable for the rest of the world as he opens the stall door. I can’t help but look. I have to know who it was that was living rent free in my head right now. Short dirty blonde hair was all I could see, spiked up in a perfect messy style that screamed ‘I don’t care what you think’ exuding attitude. I knew that hair.
Kyle Knight.
Fuck! My bathroom wank buddy was fucking Kyle! I felt even more ashamed, did he know I was there? Was he showing off? Was it all a big coincidence? My mind was spinning, but one thing was clear to me, I wouldn’t forget this any time soon.
The bell rang signaling the end if Lunch. I didn’t move, I just sat there panting and dripping. Replaying it all in my head.
His groans, the sudden gasp, the hitch, the wet slap of his palm landing one last time before everything goes quiet. I can smell it now—him, thick and warm in the air.
He came.
And I wished I could have seen it…
