Locked Away
An SPH Experience by baddecisions74.
Not completely.
I’m 4.75 inches hard. Uncut. I know that’s below average. I’ve known it since I was old enough to start comparing in locker rooms and porn and every other place where you see what other men are working with. But knowing it and admitting what it means for your relationship are two different things, and it took me most of those seven years to close the gap between the two.
—
It started with oral. I got good at it — really good, if I’m being honest. I learned what she likes, how to use my tongue, how to read her body when she’s getting close. I spent long stretches between her legs, working her clit with my mouth while my fingers curled inside her, and I could make her cum like that. I could make her shake and grab my hair and push her hips up against my face. I took pride in it.
But it was also a compensation. We both knew that, even if we never said it out loud.
When it came to actual sex — penetration — I could feel the difference. I’d slide inside her, and she’d make a sound, but it wasn’t the sound I wanted. It was more like an acknowledgment than a reaction. I’d thrust and feel her warmth around me, but there was space. I could feel it. That extra room where my cock couldn’t reach, where it wasn’t pressing against anything firmly enough to make her gasp.
I’d fuck her and watch her face, and most of the time she looked patient. Supportive. Like she was enjoying it enough to stay present but not enough to lose control. And I knew — I knew — that if she’d been with someone bigger, someone who actually filled her, her face wouldn’t look like that.
She’d look overwhelmed instead.
—
Then the premature ejaculation started. Or maybe it had always been there and just got worse.
In the early years, I could last a respectable amount of time. Ten minutes, maybe more if I focused hard enough on something else — baseball scores, work deadlines, anything to pull my mind away from how good it felt. But over the years, that window shrank. Ten minutes became five. Five became two. Two became under a minute.
Now, sometimes I cum in seconds.
Literally seconds. She’ll stroke me through my underwear or press her body against me during a makeout session, and I’ll feel it building — that unstoppable rush — and before I can even think about slowing down or pulling back, I’m done. I’ll spasm in my briefs, groaning into her mouth while we’re still kissing, and she’ll feel the wetness spread through the fabric against her thigh.
The first few times it happened, I was mortified. I’d pull back, stammer something about being too turned on, and she’d say it was fine. But “fine” isn’t the same as satisfied, and we both knew it.
Lately, she doesn’t even bother taking my cock out.
—
That’s the part that gets to me the most. The way she’s adapted to it — adapted to me — with a kind of casual amusement that makes my stomach drop and my cock harden at the same time.
We’ll be on the couch, watching something on TV, and she’ll reach over and tap me through my sweatpants. Just a light tap with her fingernail, right on the tip of my cock where it’s sitting soft and small against my thigh. Tap tap tap like she’s checking if it’s still there.
I’ll look at her, and she’ll be smiling. Not looking at me — looking at the screen — but smiling.
“Hard yet?” she’ll ask.
Sometimes she doesn’t even ask. She’ll just trace the outline of it through my pants with her fingernail, dragging slowly along the length of it — which doesn’t take long, given the length of it — and I’ll feel myself stiffening under her touch. She’ll trace it again, following the shape of my erection through the fabric, and I’ll feel every nerve lighting up because that light pressure through the cotton is somehow more intense than being inside her.
“Go ahead,” she’ll say. “Make a mess.”
And I will. I’ll cum in my underwear while she traces the outline of my cock with one fingernail, barely touching me, and she’ll giggle when she feels the fabric get warm and wet. Not a cruel laugh — a giggle. Light, almost playful. Like she thinks it’s funny how easy it is. How little it takes.
I’ll sit there afterward, breathing hard, with a wet spot spreading across my briefs, and she’ll pat my thigh and go back to watching TV.
That’s the part that makes me realize how far we’ve gone. Not the teasing itself, but how normal it’s become. How she doesn’t even need to see my cock anymore to make me cum. How she’s reduced it to an outline and a fingernail and a giggle.
—
I brought up the strap-on.
I don’t remember exactly how I worded it — I’d been thinking about it for weeks, turning it over in my head, trying to figure out how to say it without sounding pathetic. But there’s no way to say “I think you need a bigger cock than mine, so let’s buy one” without sounding pathetic, so I just said it.
“I want to try using a strap-on,” I told her one night. “Something bigger. Something that can actually satisfy you.”
She looked at me. I could see her processing it — not the suggestion itself, but the fact that I was the one making it. That I was voluntarily acknowledging what we’d both been circling for years.
“You want to fuck me with a dildo,” she said.
“I want to fuck you with something that fills you,” I said. “Something bigger than me. You should pick it. Order whatever you want.”
She studied me for a long moment. I could see something shift in her expression — not surprise, exactly, but a kind of recalibration like she was seeing me differently. Like my offering this up changed the dynamic between us in a way neither of us could take back.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
—
About a week later, the package arrived.
I was at work when it came. She texted me a photo — just the box, with the sender’s label visible. No caption. I stared at that photo for five minutes before I could put my phone down and focus on anything else.
When I got home, she’d already opened it. It was sitting on the bed — the strap-on, I mean. The harness and the dildo, laid out neatly on the white sheets.
It was big.
Not absurdly, comically big. Not porn-proportion. But big. Eight and a half inches, thick, with a realistic shape and a slight curve. I stood there looking at it, and my first instinct was to compare. I couldn’t help it. I’m 4.75 inches hard, and this thing was nearly double my length. And the girth — I wrapped my hand around it, just to feel it, and my fingers didn’t meet. My cock, even hard, is thin enough that my fingers overlap when I grip it. This one, I couldn’t close my hand around.
She walked in behind me and saw me holding it.
“Like what I picked?” she asked. There was something in her voice — a lightness, a teasing edge, but underneath it, something more serious. Something that felt like she’d been waiting for this.
“It’s big,” I said.
“It is,” she agreed. She walked over and took it from my hands, holding it up next to my crotch. I was soft, visible through my sweatpants, and the contrast was — I don’t have a word for it. Humiliating. Arousing. Both, tangled together so tightly I couldn’t separate them.
“This is what I need,” she said. Not cruelly. Just factually. Like she was reading the label on a product.
I nodded. My mouth was dry.
—
The harness was different from what I expected. It wasn’t just a standard strap-on setup — it was designed to work with a chastity cage. A flat one. The kind that sits flush against your body, holding your cock pressed down and locked, with the strap-on mounting directly over it.
She showed me how it worked. The cage pieces, the lock, the harness straps that would hold the dildo in place over the cage. It was a system, designed so that while I fucked her with the strap-on, my own cock would be locked underneath, invisible, irrelevant.
“Try it on,” she said.
I did. I stripped down to the waist, and she helped me fit into the cage. It was flat against my body — my cock pressed snug underneath it, the plastic cool against my skin. She fastened it, adjusted the ring around the base, and then clicked the lock shut.
The sound of that lock was louder than it should have been. A small, metallic click, and something in my chest tightened.
“There,” she said, turning the key over in her fingers. “How does it feel?”
“Tight,” I said.
“Good tight or bad tight?”
I paused. “Different tight.”
She smiled. Then she attached the strap-on — the thick, 8.5-inch dildo mounting over the flat cage, jutting out from my body where my own cock would normally be. I looked down at myself and saw this large, thick cock where mine should be, and underneath it, locked flat against my body, my actual cock — small, soft, trapped.
She looked at me wearing it and bit her lip.
“That looks right,” she said.
—
The first time I fucked her with the strap-on, she came in a way I’d never seen.
I moved slowly at first, pushing the head inside her, watching her face. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. I pushed deeper, inch by inch, and I could see the moment it hit the place I’d never been able to reach — her back arched, her breath caught, and she grabbed the sheets.
“Oh fuck,” she whispered.
I kept going. I thrust into her, watching the dildo disappear inside her, watching her body take it — all of it, every inch — and her reactions were like nothing I’d gotten from her before. She was loud. She was grabbing at me, pulling me deeper, wrapping her legs around my hips. Her face was contorted in a way I’d never caused — not with my cock, not with my mouth, not with anything.
She came hard. Twice. The second time, she was shaking, and I felt it through the harness — the way her pussy clenched around the dildo, the way her whole body seized up.
Afterward, she lay there catching her breath, and I was still locked underneath the strap-on, my own cock straining against the cage, harder than it had ever been and completely unable to do anything about it.
“That was incredible,” she said. She looked at me, then down at the strap-on, then at the cage underneath. “That’s what I needed.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Because as much as the words stung, they also made me harder against the unyielding plastic of the cage, and that contradiction — the pain and the arousal, the humiliation and the desire — was something I couldn’t untangle.
—
Two weeks. I’ve been locked for two weeks now.
She said it plainly, the day after that first time with the strap-on. We were in bed, and she’d just removed the harness but left the cage on. I was lying there, caged, and she was sitting beside me, still flushed.
“If it’s too useless for its intended use,” she said, tapping the cage with her fingernail — that same light tap she used to use on my cock through my sweatpants — “then it should be locked away.”
I looked at her. She looked back at me. Neither of us blinked.
“Okay,” I said.
She smiled. And that was it. Two weeks.
—
Two weeks of waking up with my cock straining against the cage, pressing against the flat plastic, unable to get hard, unable to touch myself, unable to do anything except feel the pressure and the frustration and the slow, building need that has nowhere to go.
Two weeks of her using the strap-on whenever she wants. She’ll call me to the bedroom, tell me to put it on, and I’ll fuck her with that thick 8.5-inch dildo while my own cock stays locked underneath, leaking precum into the cage, aching.
Two weeks of her casual touches — the tap of her fingernail on the cage, the way she traces the outline of it through my pants the same way she used to trace my cock, except now there’s nothing to trace, just the flat surface of the locked cage.
Two weeks of her giggling when she sees me shift uncomfortably, adjusting myself, trying to find a position where the cage doesn’t press so hard against my trapped cock.
Two weeks of knowing that she’s right. That it is too useless for its intended use. That its intended use — satisfying her — is something it can’t do. And that something else, something bigger, something she picked out herself, does it better.
—
Today, I made a mistake. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I did exactly what she was waiting for.
I asked for relief.
We were in the kitchen, and she was making coffee, and I’d been thinking about it all morning — the pressure, the ache, the two weeks of buildup with no release. I walked up behind her and said it.
“Can I get some relief?”
She stopped what she was doing. She didn’t turn around right away. I saw her shoulders move — a small shake, like she was suppressing something.
Then she turned around, and she was smiling. That smile. The one that makes my stomach drop and my cock twitch against the cage at the same time.
She giggled.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” she said.
My heart rate spiked. “What does that mean?”
“It means I knew you’d ask eventually. Two weeks seemed about right.” She set down her coffee mug and walked toward me. She reached out and tapped the cage through my shorts — tap tap tap — and I felt my cock try to get hard inside the cage, pressing uselessly against the plastic.
“Tonight,” she said. “Wait till tonight, and I’ll give you relief.”
“What kind of relief?” I asked.
She just smiled. “You’ll see.”
She walked past me, patting my chest as she went. I stood there in the kitchen with my cock locked in a cage, my mind racing through every possibility of what “tonight” could mean, and the ache building in my gut — part dread, part desperate arousal, all of it tangled together in a knot I couldn’t undo.
—
It’s hours later now. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, still locked, waiting for her to come in. I don’t know what she has planned. I don’t know if “relief” means she’s going to unlock me and let me cum, or if it means something else — something that involves the strap-on, or her fingers, or her mouth, or something I haven’t imagined yet.
I don’t know if relief means I get to feel my cock get hard again, or if it means she’s going to edge me through the cage until I’m begging, or if it means she’s going to unlock me just long enough to remind me how small I am before locking me back up.
I don’t know. And the not knowing is the worst part — and the best part — and I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I hear her footsteps in the hallway.
The door opens.
The End.
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