Cracks in the Golden Armor
Day 8 (continued)
Crashing out of the gym’s side exit, Jett slammed the metal door so hard the glass rattled. He was still wearing only a towel. “This is fucking bullshit!” he roared into the empty parking lot. “I’m done! I’m fucking done with all of it!”
He reached his car, yanked the door open, and threw himself inside. In pure frustration, he ripped the towel off his body and hurled it violently onto the asphalt of the parking lot. “Fuck this program and fuck this thing on me!” he snarled. He quickly pulled on his clothes, then slammed the car into drive and tore out of the lot without a backward glance at the discarded towel.
Two blocks later he snatched the phone from the cupholder. Doctor Woodlock’s number was still the most recent call. He stabbed dial.
The deep voice answered on the second ring. “Mr. Whitaker. Everything all right?”
“I’m done!” Jett blurted angrily. “I’m finished with this whole program! No more injections — and no more of that fucking thing locked on my dick. I just left the gym and saw Magnus acting… It was messed up. Really messed up.”
Doctor Woodlock’s calm tone rolled through the speaker. “Jett, take a breath. Tell me what’s going on.”
Jett was almost shouting. “Your so-called treatment is turning my teammate fucking queer! I saw it tonight, doc. I’m not letting it happen to me. I’m straight! I cannot —”
The doctor’s voice came back steady. “I understand you’re upset, Mr. Whitaker. But whatever you think you saw, let me assure you that no medical regimen can make a person do what he does not choose. That's simply not how it works. You know this.”
Jett’s trapped cock gave a helpless throb. He could still feel the heat of the shower room, the way the air had thickened, the way his own body had reacted. “Doc, these side effects are getting worse,” he muttered. “My mind keeps drifting to shit it shouldn’t. I can’t deal with it anymore.”
“I can't help but wonder if you are still upset about your recent break-up,” the physician replied with the same smoothness he’d used when he first slid the chastity cage into place. “But let’s look at the facts. Look at what you’ve already accomplished in just eight days. You’re stronger. Faster. I bet your coach was singing your praises again this morning. The scouts are noticing, Mr. Whitaker. You’re becoming exactly what you always deserved to be.”
“But doc, the side effects—”
“And I want to remind you that the protocol requires the full twenty-eight days,” the doctor cut in gently but firmly. “Walk away now and every single gain disappears. All that redirected energy, all those measurable improvements—gone in a matter of days.”
Jett’s eyes narrowed. The scouts. The coach. Eight days. He could still feel the power in his legs from the drills. Going back to watching Magnus pull ahead was worse than staying locked.
“Whatever is happening with your teammate is his own business,” the voice on the phone continued. “You’re built for something bigger. You should consider carefully before you throw away the success you’ve been working for.”
Jett exhaled slowly. The car hummed along the dark road back toward Lockridge Valley. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.” There was satisfaction in the doctor's tone. “Come by the clinic tomorrow afternoon. We check that everything is all right, update your measurements, and talk through any lingering effects in person. Sound good?”
“Okay, Doc. Tomorrow.”
“Excellent. Rest up until then, Mr. Whitaker. You’re doing the right thing.”
The call ended. Tossing the phone into the cupholder, Jett kept driving. Magnus… what the fuck is happening to him?
But whatever it is, it sure as hell is not gonna happen to me.
Day 9
“Come on, Jett… Hailey’s never gonna know. Just this once. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
Lila was already in his lap, topless and eager, her bare tits pressed against his chest as she kissed him. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, pulling her tighter against him. She was warm and willing and exactly what he wanted. His cock was hard, throbbing with the need to get inside her. He reached down to free himself, already grinning, already certain—
His fingers hit cold, hard resin.
The black cage was locked tight around him. Panic. No—no, it can't be! He tried to cover it with his hand, desperate to keep Lila from seeing. She couldn’t know. No one could know.
A deep voice boomed from outside the car. "Does that cage feel tight, white boy?"
Jabari stood there, red shorts pulled down, one big hand slowly stroking his massive Black cock. The thick shaft gleamed. Jett’s eyes locked on it and could not look away. Jabari watched him with that same knowing leer from the showers, and his voice cut through the dream again:
“Don’t try and tell me you don’t want this.”
Jett jolted awake, heart slamming against his ribs, the sheets under him damp.
“What the fuck was that?” he muttered, dragging a hand through his short dark hair. His cage was wet, his balls ached, and the image of Jabari’s cock was still burned behind his eyes.
It had to be the built-up tension playing tricks in his sleep. Yeah, that was it. Nothing more. He wasn't like Magnus. Pushing the dream aside, Jett swung his legs out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
A quick shower did little to ease the ache in his balls, but as he toweled off he stopped to admire his reflection. The treatment was working; he could feel it in every muscle. He quickly clicked his daily injection home with the insulin-style pen, a warm bloom spreading through his groin almost immediately. I've made the right call. Three more weeks and I’ll be unstoppable. Dressing in his letterman jacket and jeans, the varsity quarterback flashed his million-dollar smile at the mirror.
"Don't let some weird dream fuck you up," he said out loud.
Moving through the hallways of Lockridge Valley High, Jett spotted Magnus early—his blond teammate lingering by the lockers, chatting with a couple of other players. Magnus' eyes lit up when he saw Jett, waving him over with that same friendly grin from the night before. Pretending not to notice, Jett veered sharply toward the library, his eyes fixed ahead.
Throughout the morning classes, he kept his distance from his teammate. When Magnus texted him during history—"Hey bro, about last night... we cool?"—he ignored it, shoving his phone deeper into his pocket. At lunch he started toward the jock table, Tyler’s loud laughter already carrying over the noise, then saw Magnus already seated there. Jett cut away, grabbed a sandwich from the vending machine, and ate alone in the weight room, pumping iron until the clank of the plates drowned out the rest of it.
The moment afternoon practice ended, Jett left. The drive to the clinic felt longer than before. He parked in the same discreet spot, pulled his hoodie up, slipped on sunglasses, and went inside.
The waiting room was empty. The inner door opened almost at once. Doctor Woodlock stood there in his white lab coat, calm and composed.
“Mr. Whitaker. Right on time. Come in.”
Jett followed him into the private office and sat down, lowering his hoodie. The cabinet against the far wall remained closed, but he could still picture the tray of black resin cages inside it — one of which was locked around him right now.
The Black Power pin glinted on the lapel of the physician’s crisp white lab coat.
“So, Mr. Whitaker. You’re looking calmer than you sounded last night.”
"Yeah, Doc. Last night was... intense. But you're right—I can't throw it all away now."
The tall Black doctor nodded approvingly, idly turning the large hourglass on his desk between his fingers.
“Wise choice. Your progress is evident even from here.” He leaned back, slowly stroking his salt-and-pepper goatee. “About last night. You were clearly shaken by what you saw with your teammate.”
Something in the older man’s tone — and the relentless trickle of black sand through the glass — made Jett uneasy.
“I saw some weird shit, Doc…” Jett blurted.
Woodlock’s voice was fatherly. “No treatment can change who a person is. What a journey like this can do is bring certain things to light. That is normal. Sometimes the body knows what the mind hasn’t yet discovered. Self-reflection is part of growth. And your growth is excellent, Mr. Whitaker. Let’s focus on your path.”
Jett nodded slowly, the words sinking in. “Yeah, okay... Makes sense.”
"Now, about the side effects," the doctor continued. "Any specifics since our call?"
Jett shifted. “Ache in the mornings. Hard to focus. And the dreams are…” He stopped. Woodlock waited. “Weird sex stuff, Doc.”
"Perfectly expected at this stage," Woodlock reassured. "Boys' bodies adjust to concentrated energies. We will keep monitoring that. Let's do a quick evaluation of your progress." The doctor gestured toward the open space beside the exam table.
"Strip fully and stand for the measurements first, Mr. Whitaker."
Jett's hands hesitated on his jacket zipper. With a deep breath, he stripped down completely.
Doctor Woodlock nodded approvingly and pressed a button on the intercom.
“My assistant Jamal will help me with the measurements while I record. I’m sure you don’t mind.”
The door opened before Jett could even think about covering himself. Jamal stepped in — a tall Black man in his late twenties. The smooth ebony skin of his face and the sharp intelligence behind his stylish glasses gave him an air of authority. Fitted dark-gray medical scrubs hugged his broad shoulders and wide sculpted chest.
“Ready, doctor.”
Too late to protest. The naked white athlete was already standing between two fully clothed Black men. The air felt suddenly colder as they appraised him under the bright fluorescent lights — one in a white lab coat, one in professional scrubs — the black cage heavy between his thighs, every inch of fair skin on display. There was nowhere to put his hands. Nowhere to hide. He swallowed hard and forced himself to stand tall. This is just medical. It doesn’t mean shit.
Jamal stepped forward, calm and precise. Full black beard, cornrow braids swept back into a top knot, longer braids falling along his neck. The thin fabric of his scrubs did little to hide the heavy meat resting against his thigh.
“Arms out, please, Mr. Whitaker.”
Jamal’s large bare hands closed around Jett’s bicep, smooth and professional. The metal end of the measuring tape was cold against his skin while the dark fingers themselves were hot. A wave of tingles ran up Jett’s spine. He kept his face as neutral as he could, but the flush was climbing his neck. What the fuck, he thought, jaw tightening. Need to keep it cool.
“Impressive growth—nine percent already in only nine days.”
Jamal moved lower, bare hands and tape sliding over Jett’s chest, then down to his thighs, palpating for muscle density. The touch deepened, more intimate now. Every slow press of those dark hands against white skin sent another uncontrollable pulse into the locked cock. The black resin began to fill. Jett’s face burned hotter. He shifted his weight, trying to angle the cage away from their view. It only made the swelling more obvious.
The doctor watched quietly, his expression revealing nothing as he observed every involuntary twitch. On a shelf behind him, his decorative African totem — a dark, phallic symbol of fertility — seemed to watch the action.
“Turn around,” Jamal said, voice professional, dark eyes unblinking behind the glasses.
Jett obeyed. He turned in place, presenting his bare ass to both men under the bright lights. Jamal’s hands moved over his back and calves before sliding higher. When those dark fingers closed over his buttocks, Jett’s whole body went taut. His buttocks quivered under the contact. His hole clenched hard. The two Black men glanced at each other. This is so wrong, Jett thought, teeth gritted. I’m the alpha. Why the hell does his touch feel…
Jamal pressed and palpated with clinical thoroughness across the plump, firm swell of his ass. Then, without warning, he gave the right cheek a small, possessive smack — not professional at all. The sharp contact was electric. A clear bead of precum pushed out of the cage and dropped to the floor between Jett’s feet. It made a small smacking sound as it hit the tile. Jett tried to voice a protest, but the words stuck in his throat.
“A strong candidate, don’t you think?” the doctor said to Jamal.
“Excellent development overall,” Jamal answered, stepping back. Jett’s eyes darted briefly, uncontrollably, to the noticeable bulge outlined in the assistant’s scrubs.
Woodlock was looking at the data on his tablet. “See, Mr. Whitaker? The program’s working. Side effects will fade as you adjust.” He got up and moved to the exam table, patting its padded surface. “Now lie back on the table for the cage check—legs spread.”
Without a word, Jett climbed onto the exam table. The paper cover crinkled under his bare back. He spread his thighs as instructed. The two professionals stood next to the table.
Jamal stepped between his knees. Heat came with him, or so it felt — a low warmth that Jett could have sworn radiated from the bulge in the scrubs. When Jamal leaned in, one of the longer cornrow braids slipped forward over his shoulder and hung close enough to touch. His exhale brushed hot across Jett’s lower belly.
“I’ll check the base ring seating while the doctor records.”
Bare fingers slid under the ring and cupped Jett’s balls, lifting and testing the fit — smooth ebony skin against the most sensitive white flesh. Jett could feel his own pulse jumping. The cage tightened as his cock tried to swell inside it. His thighs tensed hard. He wanted to close his eyes, but the sight of those dark hands on his white body and genital area held him. His caged cock responded with another hard pulse. Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, Jamal's dark eyes stayed on the cage, calm and precise. Next to him, the doctor made quiet notes on the tablet.
Jamal’s fingers moved along the shaft of the cage next, checking each vent, circling the bars. Then one hand settled lower, pressing firmly against the sensitive strip of skin behind the balls. He rubbed slow, precise circles there while the other hand kept the cage steady, the braid swaying with every small movement.
The touch was calm and controlled. The pressure on Jett’s taint made his locked cock strain hard. His eyes jerked up off the hands on him and hit the front of Jamal’s scrubs. The mass inside the fabric seemed bigger, denser. Jett tore his gaze sideways. The turn put his eyes right on the doctor’s bulge, thick behind dark slacks, so close he could almost feel the heat. His cock kicked in the resin. He felt another drop of precum oozing out.
“This subject shows excellent aptitude,” the doctor commented, eyes still on his tablet. “I’d say another six or seven days until we see the boy’s full potential unleashed.”
Jamal’s dark eyes had never left the cage, still locked on it with unblinking intensity. His fingers lingered a moment longer on the taint, then finally withdrew. He stepped back. The braid swung back into place.
“All secure, Doctor. Vents clear; no hygiene issues. No chafing. Still a perfect fit.”
Satisfied, the broad-shouldered physician stepped back to his desk. He was smiling at Jett. “That’s all for today, Mr. Whitaker. You can get dressed.”
As Jett slid off the table and began pulling his clothes back on, Jamal gave a respectful nod to the doctor and quietly slipped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him. Doctor Woodlock sat back in his chair, watching the young quarterback dress.
“Outstanding results today, Mr Whitaker. Your muscle density is up across the board, your broader posture will provide more stability on the ground, and those glutes are developing exactly as we projected. The scouts are going to notice this kind of explosive progress—Riverside State, maybe even bigger programs, are going to be fighting over you. Your college career is right there on the horizon, exactly what you deserve.”
Jett zipped the letterman. The smile was back. The gains are real. The program is working.
“Thanks, Doc. For the program, for everything. I’m all in.”
Leaving the clinic Jett felt back on track. Destined for glory. But there was an issue. Magnus wasn't himself. That was a problem. If the two-back slipped, the offense slipped. If the offense slipped, so did the quarterback everyone was watching.
He pulled over and texted: Hey, sorry for blowing you off today. We cool?
Magnus' reply came quick: Yeah bro, no worries. Wanna hang out? My place? I'm at the pool.
Jett stared at the screen. Going to his house to hang out, after last night's freak show? But what bad could happen to him? As long as Magnus stays solid in the backfield, the offense clicks and I remain the guy everyone cheers for.
He replied: Sure, be there in 30.
The sun was dipping low by the time he pulled up to the Ashford house. Jett tilted the rearview mirror toward himself, taking an appraising look. The handsome face staring back was still unmistakably his. He flashed his smile, the one that could disarm critics and charm admirers in an instant, and felt a flicker of the old confidence return.
Jett strode up the driveway. He headed straight to the poolhouse door. Magnus opened the door almost immediately, his blond hair still damp from swimming, clad in a loose tee and shorts. He avoided eye contact. “Hey, bro. Glad you came. Come on in.”
Jett stepped inside. The poolhouse living room was dimly lit, the sliding glass doors to the sheltered patio closed. They stood there for a moment.
“So, uh… yesterday,” Magnus began, rubbing the back of his neck. “The cage messes with your head sometimes, you know?”
Jett's reply was blunt. “Yeah, it was fucked up.”
Jett moved to the couch and threw himself down on it. Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Then Magnus spoke: “The treatment… it’s been killer on the field, right? Feels like I’m finally hitting my peak.”
Jett nodded. “Yeah. The coach was all over my throws today. Whatever the Doctor is cooking up, it’s legit.”
Magnus’s eyes lit up. “I’m blowing past my old PRs like they’re nothing...”
Jett cut in before Magnus could start naming his PRs.
“Went to see Doctor Woodlock today. His assistant measured me to track progress. Said I'm doing great. And it’ll get even better.”
Magnus' eyes widened slightly at the mention of the assistant. He didn't say anything.
“Bro, you okay?” Jett lowered his voice like they were in a huddle. “You can't fall apart now. The scouts are coming. And that thing you said yesterday about needing… whatever. What the hell was that about? Is this Jabari guy doing something to you?”
Magnus flushed, his face and chest turning a deep, embarrassed pink beneath the loose tee. “Shit, man… I shouldn’t have said that. Jabari is just… helping with the side effects. Physical therapy, you know? That's all.” He rubbed his hands together nervously.
Jett stared at him, unconvinced. Physical therapy? It almost made him laugh. He was the one who powered through anything on pure talent and will. Needing some Black guy to “help” him with side effects that were really just in his head? Insulting.
Magnus stared at the silent Jett. “It’s just… this treatment, man. It’s shown me... Unexpected shit.” He looked away.
Jett sat there, thinking what to say. “Hey, uh… Doc said something today. No treatment changes who you are. Journeys like this just… bring stuff up. Self-reflection or whatever. Maybe that’s it?”
Magnus nodded. “Yeah… maybe. Thanks, bro.”
Jett shifted on the couch. “Look, I gotta head out,” he said finally, standing up. “Early practice tomorrow. We’ll crush it on the field, right?”
Magnus stood too, forcing a smile. “Yeah… definitely. See you, bro.”
Jett headed for the door. Outside, the evening air was cool and clean.
As he turned toward his car, Jett’s eyes lifted to the second-floor window of the main house. Magnus’ brother Rhys — the college athlete, a golden legend Jett had idolized for years — stood framed in the light of his old bedroom, shirtless, staring down at the driveway. Their eyes met for a long second. Rhys raised his hand in a slow, casual wave of recognition, the same confident gesture that had once made him untouchable on the field. Jett responded in kind. Rhys had always been both a buddy and an idol.
Whoa, Rhys is back in town? Jett’s mind raced. Why the hell didn’t Magnus say anything? This would’ve been the perfect timing to pick his brain for ten minutes — I need to know what the pro coaches are really looking for.
Rhys reached out and drew the curtains closed. In that final instant before the fabric met, Jett glimpsed a tall, lean Black guy with long limbs stepping into view right behind Rhys, a thin silver chain with a small cross pendant glinting at his throat. He couldn’t make out the guy’s face.
Jett froze for a moment, keys heavy in his palm. Then he yanked open the car door and dropped into the driver’s seat.
Who the fuck was that? What the hell is going on in that house?
End of Chapter 3.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I rely on AI assistance to polish the text.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
