Page 44 of His Holy Chaos

"Noooo… fuck! Please…"

"Language," I say mildly. "I won't count this one."

"I don't care about the… Daddy, please, come on…!"

I wait. Thirty seconds. A minute. Long enough for the desperate flush to fade slightly, for his breathing to slow, for his cock to twitch against his stomach in frustrated protest.

I wrap my hand around him again.

The noise he makes this time is louder, rawer, and I build him back up with the same patience. His head presses back into the pillow. His mouth falls open. His hand finds my forearm and grips hard.

"Daddy… Daddy, please…"

I stop.

"Nooooooooooo!"

His whole body convulses, his hips bucking into empty air, and he sobs. His cock is flushed, leaking steadily onto his stomach, twitching with each heartbeat. He's shaking. Genuinely shaking, his fingers white-knuckled in the sheets.

I do it again. And again. Four times total, each one building him higher, each one pulling my hand away at the exact moment his body begins to tip, until he's a trembling, incoherent mess against the pillows, his skin slicked with sweat, tears clinging to his lashes, his cock so hard it must be painful.

"Please," he whispers, and his voice is destroyed. "Please, Daddy, let me come. I'll do anything. I'll be so good. Please."

I pick up the cage from the nightstand.

His eyes focus on it. I watch comprehension dawn. His expression shifts from desperate to something closer to outrage, his mouth dropping open, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline.

"You're… no. No, you can't. You just did all of that and you're going to lock me up? Without letting me finish? That's… that's cruel and unusual punishment, that's a war crime, that's…"

"Hold still," I say.

"At least let me come first! Just once! I'll be quick, I promise, I'm right there, you know I'm right there, just… one more stroke, Daddy, please, I deserve at least that before you put me in that thing…"

I wait for him to finish. I let him get it all out. The protests, the bargaining, the way his voice pitches higher with each increasingly creative argument for why he should be allowed to orgasm. I listen patiently.

When he finally runs out of steam, chest heaving, looking at me with those enormous wounded eyes, I speak.

"Five days," I say. "This isn't a negotiation."

"What?" he breathes.

"Five tallies. You've racked up five tallies for cussing since we discussed the rule. Every tally is a day of orgasm denial. That's five days in the cage."

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"Five… five days?"

"Five days. Starting now."

"But! I said some of those before you even! That's not! You can't retroactively!"

"I can. I did. The rule was established, and you continued to break it. Enthusiastically, I might add." I let the corner of my mouth twitch. "Would you like to keep arguing? I'm happy to add more."

He snaps his mouth shut. His jaw works, the muscles bunching, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes: the brat screaming to fight back, the sub recognizing the boundary, calculating that more words will only make this worse. It's magnificent to watch. Like a symphony.

"That's what I thought," I say. "Now hold still. I mean it."

His erection has flagged slightly during the argument. Adrenaline and indignation are effective coolants, and I use the opening. I apply a thin layer of lubricant to the ring, warming it between my fingers first, because I am strict, not heartless. I slide the ring into place, settling it snugly at the base, and he hisses through his teeth at the contact, his hips twitching involuntarily.