I choke instantly. The intrusion is too big, too sudden. My body tries to convulse, to gag him out, but the ring gag holds my mouth wide open, preventing any resistance. I can’t close my lips around him. I can’t suck. I can’t do anything but be still and take it.
He sets a punishing pace immediately, fucking into my throat with short, brutal thrusts. Each one rams the back of my mouth, hitting the sensitive spot that triggers my gag reflex over and over. Tears flood my eyes, blurring his face above me into a dark, swimming shape. Drool spills out around the sides of the gag, mixing with the older, dried mess on my face. My nose runs. The sounds I’m making are awful—wet, choking gurgles, desperate attempts to drag air through my nose around the obstruction in my throat.
His grip on my hair is merciless, holding me perfectly in place for his use. I’m just a thing to him right now, a warm, wet hole for him to fuck. The pain in my jaw is sharp, combining with the suffocating pressure in my throat. My body shakes with the effort not to vomit, my stomach muscles clenching violently.
He doesn’t speak. He just uses me, his breathing becoming slightly heavier, his thrusts losing their initial sharp rhythm andturning more frantic, more demanding. I can feel him swelling in my mouth.
He pulls back suddenly, just enough that the head of his cock is resting on my tongue, still inside the ring. He lets out a low, strained groan, and I feel the hot, sudden splash of his release hitting my tongue, filling the confined space of my mouth.
It’s too much. I can’t swallow. The gag holds my mouth open, and the come just pools on my tongue before overflowing. It spills out over my lower lip, warm and thick, joining the slick mess of drool already coating my chin. It drips in heavy drops onto my chest.
He pulls out of my throat with a slick, wet sound. I gasp, sucking air through my nose in desperate pulls. My throat burns. Tears blur my vision, mixing with the sticky filth on my face.
Suha’s hand doesn’t leave my hair. His fingers are still tangled tight in the strands, holding my head tilted back at an awkward angle. He looks down at me, his dark eyes scanning my face with a kind of cold, appraising interest. He’s studying the mess he made.
With his free hand, he reaches down and tilts my chin up further, forcing me to look directly at him. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, smearing the mix of spit and come that’s pooled there.
I am open. The ring gag ensures it. But I understand what he wants. I let my tongue loll forward slightly, pushing past the metal ring to show him.
His come is a thick, pearlescent pool on my tongue, stark against the pink. More of it drips over the edge, sliding in a warm, heavy drop down my chin to join the mess on my skin.
A slow, satisfied smile touches his lips. It’s not a warm expression. It’s the look of an artist stepping back from a finished canvas. “Good,” he murmurs. “That should leave a lasting impression.”
Then his gaze drops to my chest. To the two silver bars piercing my nipples. The flesh around them is swollen and angry red.
He reaches out with his index finger. He doesn’t grab the bar. He just flicks it. A quick, sharp tap against the metal.
The vibration shoots through the inflamed tissue like a live wire. A wounded sound tears out of me, mangled by the gag in my mouth. My whole body jerks, a violent, involuntary spasm that makes the welts on my thighs scream and the plug in my ass shift uncomfortably. Fresh tears well up and spill over, cutting clean tracks through the grime on my cheeks.
He watches my reaction, his head tilted slightly. He seems to be memorizing the exact shade of pain on my face, the way my muscles tense and tremble. After a moment, he gives a single, slow nod.
He releases my hair finally. The sudden lack of pressure makes my scalp tingle. He steps back and sets about unbuckling the leather strap of the ring gag. The pressure on my jaw releases with a pop that sends a new wave of ache through my teeth. I work my mouth closed, my lips feeling numb and foreign. My throat is so dry it feels lined with sandpaper.
I keep my head down, my eyes on the carpet. I don’t look at him. I just breathe, in and out, trying to get some feeling back into my face.
I hear the soft clink of metal, the rustle of his clothes. When I dare to glance up through my lashes, I see he’s taken a small key from his pocket. He crouches in front of me, his expensive suit trousers pulling tight across his thighs. He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for the tight silicone ring cinched around the base of my cock and balls.
The key turns in the small, integrated lock with a faint click. The ring loosens and he pulls it away. The relief is immense. Blood rushes back into the constricted flesh, a hot, pricklingflood that’s almost as painful as the restriction was. I can’t stop a low groan from escaping my bruised lips.
But the relief is short-lived.
He doesn’t stop there. From his other pocket, he produces something else. It’s made of solid, polished steel, and it catches the low light of the bedroom. It’s a cage. A small, solid sheet of metal, shaped to enclose a cock.
My breath hitches.
He fits it over me without ceremony. The metal is cool against my overheated skin. He guides my soft, spent cock into the central tube, then folds my balls through the base ring. The fit is... snug. Too snug. It’s not just restrictive; it’s crushing. The metal constricts, smaller than my natural shape, making my already-tender flesh protest.
He brings the two halves together. They close with a soft, definitivesnickof a mechanism engaging. Then, from the same pocket as the key, he produces a tiny padlock. It’s a simple thing, brass and steel, no bigger than my thumbnail.
He threads the shackle through the hasp on the cage. The click of the lock engaging is the loudest sound in the room. It’s a clean, sharp, final sound. It echoes in the quiet, and it echoes inside me.
A full-body shiver works its way up my spine. The metal is a cold, hard presence against my skin, a weight and a confinement that is utterly inescapable. I can’t get hard. The cage won’t allow it. Any attempt at arousal is met with the immediate, punishing pressure of steel. It’s a denial that’s built into the device itself, a permanent state of frustrated semi-arousal.
“You’ll keep that on from now on,” Suha says as he stands up, brushing the wrinkles from his clothes. He looks down at me, his expression cool. “You need to learn, once and for all, that your pleasure belongs to me. Not to you. To me. You’ll earn theprivilege of having it removed. Occasionally. When you’ve been good.”
I just duck my head lower, my hair falling forward to curtain my face. The submission is automatic, ingrained now. A survival instinct as deep as breathing.
The cage is more than uncomfortable. It’s a presence. With every slight shift of my hips, every brush of my inner thigh, I feel it. The hard edges. The unyielding grip. It’s a clamp that never loosens. It keeps me trapped in a state of perpetual wanting, a low hum of frustration that sits right at the core of me. It’s a reminder, etched in steel and locked in place, of who owns this body. Of who decides when it feels pleasure, and when it doesn’t.
