Private Produce
It started like every other morning—protein shake, cold from the fridge, thick and gritty on my tongue. I chugged it without thinking, standing there in my boxers, the chill from the tile floor waking me up inch by inch.
But something felt... off.
Halfway through the glass, my phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up with a message from Lacey. “Party at mine this weekend—parents gone. You better come, stud.” A second later, a photo followed: her bent over in front of a mirror, thong cutting high across her hips, ass round and barely contained, perfectly lit like she knew exactly what she was doing.
She wanted to fuck. I knew it. I'd known it for weeks. And yeah, part of me responded—to the image, the curve of her body, her big round ass begging for attention. Not her. Not really. Still, I typed out a quick “yeah I’ll be there” and slammed back the rest of my shake, hoping it would drown out the twisting, unfamiliar hunger already pooling low in my stomach.
My skin prickled. My chest flushed. Heat crawled under my skin like fire ants, working its way down my spine and into my gut. My nipples stiffened, overly sensitive, brushing against the soft cotton of my shirt with every breath. I was so fucking horny. Out of nowhere. It had been like this since Coach agave me the new formulae, every cell of my body burning with desire barely able to function
It hit me hard. No warning.
It wasn't normal horny. It was feral.
I glanced down and sure enough, my cock was already pressing violently against the inside of the cage, fat and dark, pushing at the plastic like it could break out. It twitched—angry and useless—and a pathetic spurt of precum was already seeping out, painting the inside of my briefs, sticky against my thigh.
I growled under my breath and pressed the heel of my palm down against the bulge, trying to soothe the ache. Nothing. No relief. Just more pressure, more pulsing, more need.
It had been days of turning the house upside down frantically searching for that damn key. Every time I thought I had realised where it might be hiding, I came crashing down harder than the last when it was still nowhere to be seen. Eventually I had resigned to my fate – whoever had planted the chastity cage in my bag would reveal themselves soon enough, even just to laugh at how I had actually gone through with it. Then I’d get freedom I was sure of it!
"If I could just... get it off," I muttered, yanking at the base. But the lock was there, same as always. I was still owned. Still locked. Still fucked.
I couldn't take it. My shirt dragged across my nipples and it made me whimper. Whimper. Like some fucking needy slut.
My hands roamed before I could stop them. Shirt lifted. Fingertips brushing my abs, tracing the ridges. I was sweating already, skin glistening, nipples tight and aching. I pinched one, rolled it between my fingers—fuck. A jolt ran through me like electricity, straight to my balls.
I shoved the boxers down and stood there in the kitchen, panting, cock locked, balls low and aching. I gripped them, rolled them in my palm. They were heavy. Full. My thighs were slick with sweat, with the mess dripping down from the cage.
They hung heavy, full, useless. I tugged them gently, then rougher, needing something, anything to ground myself. The cage throbbed, my dick twitching helplessly inside it. My fingers dipped lower, exploring behind. I spread my legs, breathing sharp, and reached for my hole. The moment I touched it—just a brush, barely there—I shuddered.
I was so wet back there. Slippery with sweat and desperation.
And all I could think about—obsessively—was my hole.
I'd fingered it before. Late at night, quietly, when the need got too much. Just a little pressure. Just enough to feel wrong.
But now... it wasn’t enough. I needed to be filled. I didn’t know why. I didn’t care.
Shaking, I dropped to my knees on the kitchen tile. It was cold against my skin, grounding. Humiliating. Like I deserved it. No planning, no thought. Just instinct. Need. I opened the fridge with one hand, digging blindly into the drawer. My fingers landed on a fat cucumber—cold and rigid. I grabbed a thick carrot too, rough and unwashed. I didn’t even care. My brain was screaming at me to stop, but my body knew exactly what it wanted.
I spit into my palm and rubbed it along the carrot, bringing it to my hole as I spread my cheeks with trembling fingers. The touch alone made my hole clench. Nervous. Hungry.
I pressed the tip in. Slow. My breath caught, body locking up. It stretched me wide—more than a finger ever had—and I groaned. The stretch made me gasp. Cold. Huge. Perfect. The burn was real, deep and primal.
I wanted more. Needed it.
My hips bucked as I worked it in slowly, inch by inch, fucking myself down onto it. Shame clawed up my spine and curled around my neck like a collar. On the kitchen floor, vegetables scattered around me, ass stuffed and dripping, cock still trapped and leaking.
But I couldn’t stop.
I was fucking myself in the kitchen. On my knees. On the goddamn floor.
I worked it in deeper, gasping like a bitch in heat feeling it stretch me open wider as I descended. My hole was sucking at it, pulling it in greedily even as it fought the stretch. I moaned, desperate and cracked, humping the air like I could fuck back.
The cage throbbed painfully with every thrust. My balls slapped the tile, slick with sweat and leaking need. I pulled out the carrot and grabbed for the cucumber needing something bigger and more intimidating. I was on autopilot, my gaping hole hadn’t even had time to close before the cold blunt end was rammed inside dry. It hurt. It felt so good. My balls pulled tight, slapping against the tile with every thrust, groaning as my hole clenched.
My body protested, stretched wide, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My fingers were shaking, nails scraping the floor, muscles clenching as I fucked myself harder.
It hurt. It felt filthy. I loved it.
I was panting, a sweat-slick mess, thrusting down onto cold produce like a bitch in heat. Someone could come home at any time, but I didn’t care, the only thoughts were to satisfy my hole anyway I could. My hands were grabbing at everything—rubbing my chest, teasing my nipples, clawing at my abs, anything to help ride it out.
And still I couldn’t come. Not with the cage. Not with the lock. Just endless, cruel pleasure, with no way out.
Tears welled in my eyes, not from pain—but from how badly I wanted to come. From how low I’d sunk. From how good it felt.
I used to be straight—football, girls, parties, the usual bullshit. But here I was on all fours, hole stretched open around filthy vegetables, skin flushed, thighs slick, cum drooling from a locked cock that hadn’t been hard in days.
What the fuck was happening to me?
What was I becoming?
And why did it feel so right—so good—like this was the real me, finally clawing my way out from under all the lies?
Somewhere deep inside, something purred as I reached back, fingers trembling, and pushed the cucumber in just a little deeper.
My hole was drooling, stretched, used. My face was flushed, chest heaving, lips parted in broken gasps. I was a mess. A worthless, leaking, locked-up mess with a fridge drawer full of dirty vegetables and a useless dick that couldn’t even get hard.
The pressure built fast. Too fast. Not from the cage, but around it—deep inside. My balls pulled up, tighter and tighter, like something was going to snap.
And then—
A twitch. A single pulse.
A thin string of cum forced itself out of my caged cock. Barely a drop. Just enough to dribble down the plastic and smear against my thigh. No orgasm. No relief. Just the cruel aftershock of a ruined, stolen climax.
I froze. My body shook. My hole throbbed around the stuffed vegetable, still clenched halfway down it. My cock twitched once more in its cage, already softening from the ache.
And I was left there. Used. Empty. Stretched and leaking on the floor.
Hating it.
Needing more.
