JUSTIN’S POV
You wait in the strong, dark cocoon of Brian’s arms, wait to be flooded with the grease of his perverted imagination, and because he loves you, he doesn’t make you wait long. “Your cock is in a cage because I could care less about it,” he says. To be fair, you suspected this, that the over-attention you paid to your dick the past week would backfire. You close your eyes, breathing in the musky scent coming from under his arm. You love that smell – quite desperately; your index finger draws a circle around one of his nipples as you listen to him, “I didn’t build this dungeon for your dick; I built it for your tight little asshole, and the beautiful bottom that escorts it everywhere.” You nod and press yourself against his chest; his hand trails down your back just like you want.
don’t stop…
please…
Brian’s lips rest on your forehead and then leave to skim down your nose before they kiss you, “But that isn’t news to you, is it?” he asks. You smile and it triggers the same response from him. He starts kissing you… your chin, your neck, your collarbone wet from his tongue…. He urges you flat on your back, holding you still as he moves down your body. His mouth dips into your belly button; his cheek bumps up against your shackled cock. You reach down and stroke his hair as he teases you, kissing the acrylic cage, tonguing the grooves in the device. When he moves a little lower, when you feel him breathing on your balls, your knees bend…
"Good boy,” he says, moving lower still. You moan and spread your legs for him. They could reach from coast to coast and it still wouldn’t feel like far enough. He rubs his face along your inner thigh, just enough stubble to illicit discomfort from the welts the cane left behind; he touches every inch of you… your knees, your calves, your feet. You open your eyes when you feel his body shifting and there he is, kneeling between your feet. He just stares at you as he picks one of them up and presses your fresh pedicure against his cock. “You’re right; they did a very good job,” he admits, guiding your foot up and down his erection. You curl your toes and slide them over the tip of his dick. Brian’s eyes are half-closed; his face tilted back enough to catch the glow from the fireplace. The bliss he’s emitting, it soaks through your skin. It tickles when he lubes your foot, but then you’re touching him again, and he’s moaning as his cock explores the bottom of it, sometimes trying to push between your toes. You marvel at how aroused he gets as his dick peeks in and out of the narrow space, reminding him, “You have an appointment tomorrow morning.” He grins, and you raise your eyebrows as your free foot pokes one of his. “Pedicure pussy?” he teases, “I guess you think you’ll be out of this cage by then.”
“You always know just how to bring me down,” you pout, and your comment seems to concern him. He lays your fucked foot down and crawls so that he’s back over your body again, domination on all fours, a cage you’re used to. His upper body leans down as he speaks, “The only time I want you down is when you’re ‘going down.’ Understand me?”
“Yes.”
He straightens back up, kneeling between your legs again, spreading them apart and tracing the welts, two on each thigh, with this fingers. “These hurt?” he asks. You shake your head. “Too many endorphins,” he admits. “You’ll feel them tomorrow.” Your gaze floats back to his erection, beautiful and pointing straight at you; you ask him, “Shouldn’t we take care of that?” He smiles as his hand moves from your thigh…down and lower; his fingers still slick from playing with your foot. “Spread yourself,” he says, so you reach down and open your cheeks for him, making it easy for him to finger you. “Earlier, when I milked you,” he says, “We’re gonna do that again—“
“I can’t. I’m shackled,” you protest (quite desperately) as he presses on the exact spot that always makes your cock fill up. You start to get anxious; the bizarre sensation damming up against the walls of your cage. “It’s going to happen, Justin. You need to let it.”
“Brian, no.” You feel almost queasy as he increases the number of fingers inside you. You want to squirm away from this, but then he stops, pulls out, and you can breathe – in and out – in and out – realizing that there are beads of sweat on your forehead. You wipe them away and look back at him in time to see him sliding his hand into a long latex glove, a towel that came from somewhere laying beside you. He’s going to fist you like this, in this fucking contraption. The glove is wet with lube when he slips a few fingers inside you again. “You come in your cage for me, and you earn your freedom,” he says.
“And if I can’t?” you ask.
"There is no ‘can’t,’ Justin. There’s only how long it takes.”