Friend Finds My Account
A Gay SPH Fictional Story by Just_Dirt8509.
Dave’s the sort of bloke who fills a room without trying. Broad shoulders, thick forearms covered in faded tattoos, a shaved head that makes him look harder than he actually is. He laughs loudly, drinks heavily, and has never once made me feel like anything other than his mate. In all the years we’ve been drinking together, he’s never looked at me the way he looked at me today.
It started innocently enough. He texted me on Tuesday asking if I could help him assemble some flat-pack furniture in his new flat. He’d finally moved out of the house he’d shared with his ex-wife and into a small two-bedroom across town—a fresh start, he called it. I said sure. What else was I going to do on a Saturday morning?
When I arrived, the place smelled like fresh paint and cardboard. Boxes everywhere. A new sofa still wrapped in plastic. And in the corner of the living room, three huge IKEA boxes were waiting to be turned into shelving units.
“Cheers for coming, mate,” Dave said, clapping me on the shoulder with one of those big, calloused hands. “I’d have done it myself, but you know how useless I am with instructions.”
I laughed. “That’s what I’m here for.”
We got to work. For the first couple of hours, it was good—easy conversation, shared frustration over missing screws and confusing diagrams, the kind of mindless manual labor that makes the time pass quickly. We talked about football, about his new place, about the divorce.
“Best thing that ever happened to me,” Dave said, tightening a cam lock with more force than necessary. “Seriously. Should’ve done it years ago.”
I made some noncommittal noise. I knew the broad strokes—his wife had found out something about him, something he’d never told me the specifics of, and the marriage had imploded. I’d never pushed for details, and he’d never offered them. That was the nature of our friendship: comfortable silences, unspoken boundaries.
But today, something was different. Dave had this energy about him—restless, eager, like he was waiting for the right moment to say something. And after we’d finished the first shelving unit and started on the second, he found his opening.
“You know what I’ve been doing since the divorce?” he asked, not looking at me. “Besides drinking myself half to death?”
I shrugged. “No idea. What?”
“Got really into Reddit.”
That gave me pause. I tried to keep my voice casual. “Yeah? What for?”
Dave grinned—a slow, knowing grin that made my stomach drop. “You’d be surprised what’s out there, mate. All these subreddits where blokes post pictures of their cocks and compare sizes. Some of them are into some proper kinky shit too.”
My mouth went dry.
I have a Reddit account. I’ve had it for years. And on that account—under a username I’d never shared with anyone—I’d posted hundreds of photos. Explicit photos. Photos of my tiny little dicklet, my chastity cage, my shaved balls. I’d written confessions too. Detailed confessions about being a submissive cum-slut, about loving humiliation, about craving men who could dominate me completely.
For a moment, I told myself I was being paranoid. Lots of people have Reddit accounts. The chances of Dave finding mine—of Dave even being into that kind of thing—were astronomical.
But then Dave pulled out his phone.
“You want to see something interesting?” he asked, his voice dropping just slightly.
I watched, frozen, as he opened the Reddit app and navigated to a profile. My profile. The name at the top of the screen—a name I’d chosen years ago, thinking it was clever—made my blood run cold.
dirt
That was me. That was my account. And there, on the screen, were my posts. Photo after photo of my pathetic little cock, some of them soft, some of them straining against the metal bars of my chastity cage. Confessions about how much I loved being degraded. Comments on other men’s posts, begging them to humiliate me, telling them how small I was, how worthless, how desperate.
I couldn’t breathe.
Dave scrolled slowly, letting me see every post. My face burned. My hands trembled. And under my jeans—under the chastity cage I’d put on that morning out of habit—I felt my tiny dicklet twitch and leak.
“Found this a few weeks ago,” Dave said, still scrolling. “At first I thought it was a joke. Some wind-up. But then I started reading the comments, and… fuck me, mate. This is really you, isn’t it?”
I opened my mouth to deny it. To say it was someone else’s account, someone who’d stolen my photos, someone who looked like me but wasn’t me. But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, what came out was a small, broken sound that might have been a whimper.
Dave looked up from the phone, and there it was—that smile again. Only this time, there was no warmth in it. Just amusement. Just power.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to explain. I’ve read everything. The posts about being a ‘dicklet.’ The ones about wearing a cage ’24/7 like a good little cum-slut.'” He laughed, shaking his head. “Fucking hell. I’ve known you for six years, and I never would’ve guessed you were such a dirty little pervert.”
I was shaking now. My whole body was trembling with a mixture of fear and shame and something else—something hot and unwanted that was spreading through my chest and pooling in my groin.
“Is it true?” Dave asked. “All of it?”
I couldn’t meet his eyes. I stared at the floor, at the half-assembled shelving unit, at anything but him. But after a long moment, I nodded.
Dave let out a low whistle. “Fuck me,” he breathed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I knew you were a bit… different. But this?” He gestured at the phone, at my posts, at me. “This is something else.”
He stepped closer. I could smell the sweat on him, the faint trace of deodorant and sawdust and beer. He was taller than me—he’d always been taller—but right then, he seemed to tower over me like a giant.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “I’m bisexual. That’s why the marriage ended. Well, that and the fact that I was a coward about it for years.” He shrugged. “But now I’m out, I’ve got my own place, and I’ve been thinking about what I want. And what I want…” He reached out and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “What I want is a submissive little cock-sucker who’ll do what he’s told.”
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“And here you are,” Dave continued, smiling. “My old drinking mate. The bloke who’s been posting pictures of his tiny caged cock for the whole world to see. Begging for attention. Begging for someone to use him.”
He released my chin and stepped back. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached down and unzipped his jeans.
I knew what was coming. I could have stopped it. I could have walked out, could have stood up and left and never looked back. But I didn’t move. I didn’t say a word. I just watched as Dave reached into his boxers and pulled out his cock.
It was already semi-hard. Seven inches, maybe more, thick and heavy and veined, with a dark, flushed head and a pair of heavy balls hanging low beneath it. I’d never seen another man’s cock in person before—not like this, not up close—and for a moment, all I could do was stare.
It was so much bigger than mine. So much thicker. Compared to the tiny little nub trapped in my cage, Dave’s cock was monstrous.
“Open your mouth,” Dave said.
It wasn’t a question.
I opened my mouth.
Dave stepped forward, guiding his cock toward my face. The head pressed against my lips, hot and hard and tasting faintly of salt and sweat, and then he pushed inside.
I gagged immediately. He was too big, too thick, and I’d never done anything like this before. But Dave didn’t care. He grabbed the back of my head with both hands and held me in place, forcing more of his cock into my mouth.
“That’s it,” he grunted, thrusting his hips forward. “Take it, you little slut. This is what you’ve been begging for, isn’t it? A real man’s cock?”
I couldn’t answer. I could barely breathe. Tears streamed down my face as he fucked my mouth, each thrust pushing deeper, hitting the back of my throat, making me gag and choke and drool all over myself.
“You’re my own personal cum slut now,” Dave growled, his grip tightening on my hair. “I found you. I know your secret. And I’m going to use you whenever I want.”
He pulled back just long enough to let me gasp for air, then shoved his cock back in. This time, I was ready. I relaxed my jaw, opened my throat, and let him slide deep.
“Fuck yeah,” Dave groaned. “That’s it. Take it all.”
He fucked my face for what felt like hours. My jaw ached. My throat burned. But through it all, I could feel my tiny caged cock leaking against the metal bars, could feel the wet spot spreading on the front of my jeans, could feel the shame and arousal building inside me like a storm.
Finally, with a grunt, Dave buried his cock in my throat and came.
The taste was intense—salty, bitter, thick—and I swallowed it all, every drop, just like he told me to. When he finally pulled out, I collapsed forward, gasping for air, my face wet with tears and spit and cum.
Dave crouched down beside me, grinning. “Good boy,” he said, patting me on the head like a dog. “You took that better than I expected.”
I couldn’t speak. I just knelt there, trembling, my throat raw and my mind reeling.
But Dave wasn’t done.
“Strip,” he said, standing up. “Now.”
I looked up at him, confused.
“Get up, take off all your clothes, and let me see that tiny caged cock of yours.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Come on. We’ve got furniture to finish. And afterward…”
He smiled—that same knowing smile.
“…I’m going to fuck your arse.”
My hands shaking, I reached for the hem of my shirt.
—
I’m not sure how long it took me to undress. The minutes blurred together, my fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers, my face burning with shame. But eventually, I stood in the middle of Dave’s half-furnished living room, completely naked except for the metal chastity cage locked around my tiny, shriveled cock.
Dave leaned against the wall, watching me with a slow, lazy smile.
“Fuck me,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s even smaller than the photos made it look.”
Instinctively, I tried to cover myself, but Dave grabbed my hands and pinned them to my sides.
“Don’t,” he said. “I want to see it.”
He circled me slowly, examining every inch of my body—my flat chest, my soft stomach, my shaved groin, and of course, the cage. The tiny, pathetic cage that held my even tinier cock, the metal bars pressing into my soft flesh, the lock glowing faintly in the morning light.
“You really weren’t joking in those posts, were you?” Dave said, crouching down to get a better look. “I mean, I’ve seen some small cocks before, but this…” He reached out and flicked the cage with his finger, making me flinch. “This is something else.”
I whimpered. The sound was small and pathetic, like an animal that knew it was about to be eaten.
Dave laughed. “Still,” he said, straightening up, “you’ve got a mouth on you. And I bet that arse is tight as fuck, given how you’ve been keeping yourself locked up for so long.”
He reached down and gave my caged cock a gentle squeeze. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”
He turned and walked back toward the pile of IKEA boxes, his cock still hanging out of his open jeans, glistening with my saliva.
I stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to do. Part of me wanted to run, to grab my clothes and bolt, to put as much distance as possible between myself and this situation. But I didn’t. Because Dave already knew everything. Because Dave had seen it all.
And because, deep down, some part of me had been waiting for this for years.
So I followed him.
Naked except for my cage, still shaking with a sick mixture of fear and arousal and shame, I helped Dave finish the furniture. And the whole time, he kept his eyes on me, making little comments under his breath, occasionally reaching over to squeeze my cage or slap my arse or pinch my nipples just to watch me squirm.
“You like this, don’t you?” he said at one point, sliding a shelf into place. “Walking around like this, knowing everyone at the pub would lose their fucking minds if they could see you right now.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
But my caged cock ached and leaked and strained against the metal bars, and that was answer enough.
—
We finished the furniture just after one o’clock. The flat looked good—shelves assembled, boxes flattened, windows open to let in the afternoon light. But the whole time we worked, I could feel Dave’s eyes on me. Could feel the weight of his presence. Could feel the promise of what was coming.
And now, as the last screw was tightened and the final shelf slid into place, Dave turned to me with that same slow, predatory smile.
“Bedroom,” he said. “Now.”
I didn’t hesitate this time. I walked down the hall, my bare feet quiet on the new carpet, my caged cock swinging slightly with each step. Behind me, I heard Dave’s heavy footsteps, his breathing, the soft jingle of his belt as he undressed.
The bedroom was small and bare—just a mattress on the floor, a few boxes piled in the corner, some clothes thrown over a chair. I stood in the middle of the room, waiting, as Dave came up behind me.
“Hands and knees,” he said. “On the bed.”
I obeyed. The mattress dipped as I climbed onto it, positioning myself exactly how he wanted me: arse up, face down, completely exposed.
I felt Dave’s hands on my hips, rough and warm. Then the head of his cock, pressed against my tight, untouched hole.
“Relax,” he said, leaning over me, his breath hot against my ear. “This is going to hurt.”
I closed my eyes.
And then he pushed inside.
—
The Handyman’s Discovery: Fucked Raw and Left Slick Before the Pub
The pain was immediate and blinding.
I’d never been penetrated before—not by anything bigger than my own fingers, and even those only rarely, always through the bars of my cage, always furtive and shameful in the dark. But Dave’s cock was nothing like my fingers. It was thick and hard and relentless, and as he pushed inside me, I felt something tear.
Not physically, not really. But something inside me—some last shred of dignity, some final barrier between who I’d pretended to be and what I actually was—split open and dissolved.
“Fuck,” Dave grunted, his hips pressing forward, forcing another inch into my untouched hole. “Fuck, you’re tight. Like a fucking vice.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. My hands clawed at the mattress, my face buried in the cheap sheets, my whole body rigid with pain and shock and a shame so deep it felt like drowning.
Dave didn’t wait. I didn’t have time to adjust. He grabbed my hips with both hands—those thick, calloused hands that had assembled shelving units and clapped me on the shoulder and held pints of bitter in smoky pubs—and pulled me back onto his cock, burying himself to the hilt.
I screamed.
Or tried to. What came out was a strangled, broken sound, muffled by the mattress, swallowed by the room. My legs shook. My caged cock, trapped in its pink metal prison, throbbed and leaked against the sheets beneath me.
“That’s it,” Dave growled, starting to move. Slow at first, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Take it. Take every fucking inch, you dirty little slut.”
The rhythm built quickly. He was rough—rougher than I’d imagined, rougher than I’d ever admitted I wanted—and each thrust drove the air from my lungs, forced tiny, humiliating whimpers from my throat. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the small, bare bedroom, mixing with Dave’s grunts and my pathetic, animal noises.
“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” he said, leaning over me, his chest pressed against my back, his breath hot against my ear. “All those posts. All those comments begging for someone to use you. And now here you are, getting fucked raw by your drinking mate while your tiny cock’s locked up in a pink cage.”
He reached around and grabbed the cage, squeezing it hard enough to make me yelp.
“Where is your cock gone?” he laughed, mocking me, echoing the words from my own posts. “Huh? I can’t even feel it. Just this little lump of metal and this pathetic excuse for a prick.”
I whimpered. The sound was high and thin and utterly, utterly degrading.
Dave kept fucking me, kept talking, kept squeezing my cage until I thought I might come from the humiliation alone.
“Look at you,” he said, straightening up, grabbing my hips again, pounding into me with renewed force. “My mate. My drinking buddy. The bloke I’ve been buying pints for six years. And you’re bent over my mattress, taking my cock like a bitch in heat.”
He punctuated the last words with three brutal thrusts, each one deeper than the last, each one forcing a fresh yelp from my throat.
“You know what’s really funny?” he continued, not breaking rhythm. “I used to feel sorry for you. Thought you were just quiet. Shy. Maybe a bit lonely.” He laughed—a harsh, breathless sound. “Turns out you were just waiting for someone to bend you over and show you what you’re good for.”
He reached down and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back, forcing my spine to arch, changing the angle so that his cock hit something deep inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say what you are.”
I couldn’t. The words were there, right on the tip of my tongue, but my throat was too tight, my mind too scrambled, my shame too overwhelming.
Dave pulled my hair harder, slamming into me at the same time. “I said say it, you pathetic little fuck. What are you?”
“I’m—” I choked out, tears streaming down my face. “I’m your cum slut.”
“Louder.”
“I’m your cum slut!”
“That’s right,” he said, releasing my hair, letting my face fall back into the mattress. “And don’t you ever forget it.”
He picked up the pace, fucking me harder now, faster, his balls slapping against my perineum, the head of his cock battering against my prostate with each thrust. I could feel myself unraveling, feel the pressure building despite the cage, despite the pain, despite everything.
“Dave,” I gasped, “Dave, I’m—”
“You’re what?” he interrupted, slamming into me. “You’re going to come? From this? From getting your arse wrecked by another man?”
He laughed.
“Go on then. Show me. Show me how much of a desperate slut you are.”
And I did.
The orgasm hit me like a freight train. My whole body convulsed, my hole clenching around Dave’s cock, my caged dicklet spurting pathetically against the metal bars, coating the inside of the cage with my own cum. I screamed—a raw, ragged sound that didn’t even sound human—and collapsed forward, my limbs giving out completely.
Dave didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, riding out my orgasm, using my spasming body for his own pleasure. And when I finally went limp beneath him, he grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled my head back, and leaned down to whisper in my ear.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
—
He used me three more times that afternoon.
The second time, he bent me over the new IKEA shelving unit—the one we’d just assembled, the one that still smelled faintly of particleboard and cardboard—and fucked me from behind while I stared at my own reflection in the window. I could see everything: my flushed face, my heaving chest, the pink cage between my legs, and behind me, Dave, his body slick with sweat, his expression one of pure, predatory satisfaction.
The third time, he made me sit on his cock, riding him while he lay back on the mattress, his hands on my hips, guiding my movements. It was worse than the other times, somehow—more intimate, more degrading. I had to look at his face, had to watch him watching me, had to see the amusement in his eyes as my tiny caged cock bounced uselessly against my stomach.
“You’re not even hard,” he observed, reaching down to tap the cage. “I mean, you can’t be, can you? Not in this thing. But that doesn’t stop you from being a desperate little cockslut, does it?”
“No, sir,” I heard myself say, and the word came out before I could stop it.
Dave’s eyes lit up. “Sir,” he repeated, grinning. “I like that. Say it again.”
“Sir,” I said, my voice small and broken.
“Good boy.”
The fourth time, he pulled out at the last moment and ordered me to my knees.
“Open,” he said, standing over me, his cock slick with my own juices, red and swollen and glistening. “I want to see you swallow it all.”
I opened my mouth. And Dave came, shooting rope after rope of thick, hot cum across my face, my lips, my tongue. Some of it landed in my hair. Some dripped down my chin onto my chest. And the rest, I swallowed greedily, just like I’d been trained to do by every fantasy I’d ever written down.
“Good little cum slut,” Dave said, patting my cheek. “Now clean me off.”
I did. I licked his cock clean, every inch of it, tasting myself on his skin, tasting him, tasting the raw, animal reality of what I’d become. And when I was done, Dave tucked himself back into his jeans, zipped up, and looked down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Right then,” he said, checking his phone. “It’s nearly five. We should get moving if we’re going to make it to the pub.”
I blinked up at him, my face still sticky with his cum, my hole still gaping and sore, my cage still leaking the evidence of my own humiliating orgasm.
“What?” I croaked.
“The pub,” Dave said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Janet will be starting her shift soon. We don’t want to be late.”
My blood ran cold.
“Janet?”
“Your mistress,” Dave said, grinning. “The one holding your keys. The one who’s been keeping that little thing locked up.” He reached down and gave my cage another squeeze. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, the three of us.”
I stared at him, barely able to breathe. “You can’t—”
“Can’t what?” Dave interrupted, his expression hardening. “Can’t tell her? Can’t tell your mistress that her little locked-up cockslut has been taking it up the arse from his drinking mate all afternoon?” He laughed. “Mate, I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”
He turned and walked toward the bedroom door, pausing in the doorway to look back at me.
“Get cleaned up,” he said. “You’ve got cum on your face. Though personally, I think it’s an improvement.”
He disappeared down the hall, and a moment later I heard the shower start.
—
I sat there on the floor for a long time, my back against the wall, my knees drawn up to my chest, my whole body trembling. The reality of what had just happened was starting to sink in—not just the sex, but everything. The discovery. The blackmail. The way Dave had looked at me, the way he’d touched me, the way he’d made me say those things.
And now, the pub.
Janet.
The thought made me feel sick with fear and arousal in equal measure. I’d met Janet two years ago at the same pub where Dave and I drank every Friday. She was a barmaid—a proper one, with a loud laugh, a wicked sense of humor, and the kind of curves that made men forget their own names. She was also, as it turned out, far more open-minded than anyone would have guessed.
I’d confessed my desires to her one night, drunk on Strongbow and self-loathing, and instead of laughing at me or running away, she’d listened and asked questions. Then, slowly, over the course of several months, she’d become my mistress.
She held the keys to my cage. She decided when I was allowed to come, if I was allowed to come at all. She called me names—her little cockslut, her tiny-clit boy, her pathetic cum-dumpster—and I’d never been happier in my entire life.
But Dave didn’t know that. Dave thought he’d stumbled onto my secret by accident. He didn’t know that Janet was already in on it, that she’d been in on it for years, that half the things he’d read on my Reddit account were things she’d written for me, posted on my behalf, curated like a gallery of my own degradation.
And now he wanted to tell her. Wanted to share control. Wanted to turn me into their joint property.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
In the end, I did both.
An hour later, I was standing outside the pub, wearing the same clothes I’d arrived in—jeans, a plain grey t-shirt, the cage hidden beneath my boxers—and waiting for Dave to finish locking his car.
The walk over had been surreal. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement. People passed us on the street—families with pushchairs, couples holding hands, teenagers on their phones—and none of them had any idea what had happened in that little flat. None of them knew that the tall, broad-shouldered man and his quiet friend had spent the afternoon doing unspeakable things to each other.
None of them knew that I could still feel him inside me, a phantom ache that pulsed with every step.
“Ready?” Dave asked, coming up beside me, clapping me on the shoulder like he always did, as nothing had changed.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
The pub was busy for a Saturday evening. The usual crowd of regulars was scattered around the bar, their laughter and chatter washing over me like white noise. I scanned the room, half-hoping Janet wasn’t there yet, half-hoping she was.
She was.
There, behind the bar. Pulling a pint. Laughing at something one of the punters had said. She looked the same as always: dark hair tied back in a messy bun, black t-shirt stretched tight across her generous chest, a silver chain around her neck that I knew ended in a tiny key.
The key to my cage.
I heard myself make a small, strangled sound, and Dave looked down at me.
“There she is,” he said, his voice low and full of dark amusement. “Your mistress.”
I swallowed hard.
Dave started walking toward the bar, and I followed. My legs felt like they were made of lead. The cage felt tighter than usual. The ache in my arse was a constant reminder of everything that had happened, everything that was about to happen.
Janet looked up as we approached, and for a split second, something unreadable flickered across her face. Then she smiled—that familiar, wicked smile that always made my stomach drop.
“Hello, Dave,” she said, her voice warm. “Hello, little one.”
The sound of that nickname, spoken out loud in front of Dave, made my face burn. We’d always been careful and always kept things discreet. But now, standing there in the crowded pub, with Dave’s cum probably still leaking from my hole into my boxers, the word felt heavier than it ever had before.
Janet’s eyes moved from me to Dave and back again. Her smile widened.
“You two look like you’ve had an eventful afternoon,” she said, leaning on the bar. “Do anything interesting?”
Dave matched her smile. “You could say that.”
Janet raised an eyebrow.
“Found something rather interesting on the internet a few weeks ago,” Dave said, his voice casual, conversational. “Turns out our little friend here has a Reddit account. Goes by ‘dirt-to-cock’. Posts all sorts of things about his tiny locked-up prick and his desperate need to suck cock and get fucked raw.”
I wanted to die. Wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
But Janet just tilted her head, her smile never wavering. “Is that right?”
“Oh yes,” Dave said. “Hundreds of posts. Dozens of photos. You should see them. Proper filthy stuff.”
Janet straightened up, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m sure I don’t need to see them,” she said, her voice dropping just slightly. “I’ve seen the real thing.”
There was a moment of silence. I watched as the implication of her words registered on Dave’s face—the faint flicker of surprise, followed by something that looked almost like respect.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “You know? You already know?”
Janet laughed—a bright, delighted sound that turned a few heads. “You think I’d let a cock like that wander around unlocked? You think I’d let him post all that filth without knowing exactly what he was writing?” She shook her head. “Darling, I’ve been holding his tiny little key for over a year now.”
She reached up and pulled the chain from beneath her shirt, revealing the small silver key that hung between her breasts.
I watched Dave’s face as everything clicked into place. The surprise gave way to understanding, and then to something else—something that looked a lot like delight.
“Well,” he said, grinning. “Looks like we’ve got something in common then.”
Janet glanced at me, her eyes glittering. “Looks like we do.”
They both turned to look at me at the same time, and I felt the weight of their combined gazes pressing down on me like a physical force. I was trapped between them—my best friend and my mistress—and there was nowhere to run.
“Sit down, little one,” Janet said, gesturing to the bar stool. “I think we’ve got some things to discuss.”
—
The next hour was the longest of my life.
They talked about me like I wasn’t there—or maybe like I was there, but only as a prop, only as the subject of their conversation. Dave told Janet about finding my account, about the photos and the comments, about the hours he’d spent scrolling through my filth. Janet, for her part, nodded along, occasionally adding details of her own—little anecdotes about my training, my punishments, my most humiliating tasks.
“He’s actually quite obedient when he wants to be,” she said at one point, topping up Dave’s pint. “Though he does need a firm hand.”
“Oh, I noticed,” Dave replied, smirking. “Bent over my mattress like a proper little bitch, begging for it.”
I felt the stares of the other pub customers on my back, wondering what we were talking about, laughing at jokes they couldn’t hear. And all I could do was sit there, my face burning, my hands wrapped around a glass I didn’t remember ordering, my caged cock leaking steadily into my boxers.
They didn’t say anything directly to me for the first thirty minutes. Not a single word. It was as if I’d ceased to exist as a person and become something else entirely—a pet, a toy, a shared possession that they were negotiating over.
And then, finally, Janet turned to me.
“Keys,” she said.
I blinked, confused.
“The house keys,” she clarified. “Yours. I want them.”
I opened my mouth to ask why, but the look on her face shut me up. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small bundle of keys, sliding them across the bar toward her.
Janet picked them up, examined them for a moment, and then handed them to Dave.
“You shouldn’t have to knock,” she said to him, as if I wasn’t sitting right there. “Not anymore.”
Dave pocketed the keys and raised his glass. “To new arrangements.”
“To new arrangements,” Janet echoed, clinking her glass against his.
I sat there, frozen, as the reality of what had just happened washed over me. They weren’t just talking about what had happened this afternoon. They were talking about the future. About a future where Dave had the keys to my flat, where Janet and Dave coordinated my cage, my training, and my punishments, where I was nothing more than a shared hole for them to use whenever they pleased.
It was everything I’d ever wanted. And it was terrifying.
“Right then,” Janet said, setting down her glass. “I think it’s about time we all had a little chat somewhere more private. Don’t you?”
Dave nodded, reaching for the keys in his pocket.
“Darts game?” he suggested.
“Darts game,” Janet agreed, pulling off her apron. “You know how I love watching him bend over.”
They both looked at me, and I felt my face flush even darker. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could say. I was completely, utterly theirs.
“Come along, little one,” Janet said, stepping out from behind the bar. She paused just long enough to lean down and whisper in my ear, her lips brushing against my skin, her voice soft and cruel and beautiful.
“Drink up,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”
—
The Pub’s Back Room: A New Arrangement Is Sealed
The darts game was a farce, and everyone watching knew it.
The back room of the pub was quieter than the main bar—just a few tables, a jukebox that only played 80s power ballads, and the dartboard mounted on the far wall. Janet had led us there with the casual authority of someone who owned the place, which, in a sense, she did. She’d worked there long enough that the landlord let her do whatever she wanted, including commandeering the back room for “private functions.”
Dave had set the rules before we’d even picked up the darts.
“Loser takes a shot,” he said, grinning at me. “And by shot, I mean the loser has to drop his trousers and let the winner give his little cage a flick.”
I’d opened my mouth to protest, but Janet had cut me off with a single look.
“Those are the rules,” she said, settling into a chair with her drink. “Unless you’d rather we make it something worse.”
So I’d played darts. Badly. Deliberately.
And now, three rounds later, I was bent over the pub table with my jeans around my ankles and my bare arse on display, while Dave lined up his finger against the pink metal cage that held my useless little cock prisoner.
“Ready?” he asked.
I whimpered.
Flick.
The pain was sharp and immediate and somehow, impossibly, also pleasurable. I yelped, my hips jerking forward, my caged cock twitching uselessly inside its prison. Dave and Janet both laughed.
“Again,” Janet said, her voice cool and amused. “He missed. Didn’t hit it squarely.”
Dave flicked the cage again. I yelped again. And this time, a thin trickle of pre-cum leaked from the tip of my caged dicklet, dripping onto the sticky pub floor.
“Look at that,” Janet observed, leaning forward. “The little slut’s enjoying it.”
“Course he is,” Dave said, straightening up, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Bent over a pub table with his bare arse out while his mistress watches his mate flick his tiny locked cock. This is probably the best night of his life.”
He wasn’t wrong.
—
They made me keep my jeans down for the rest of the game.
Every throw, I had to walk to the board, bend over, retrieve the darts, and walk back. Every trip gave them a full view of my bare arse, my pink cage, my tiny balls swinging between my legs. Every trip made my face burn hotter, my humiliation deepen, my arousal spike.
The other pub-goers couldn’t see us—the back room had a door, and Janet had locked it—but I could hear them: laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses. Normal people doing normal things. And here I was, locked in a back room with my best friend and my mistress, being treated like a piece of property.
“Missed again,” Dave announced, retrieving his darts from the triple twenty. “That’s another flick.”
I bent over without being told. It was easier that way. Easier to just accept it, to lean into the shame, to let it wash over me like warm water.
Flick.
Flick.
Flick.
By the end of the game, my cage was slick with pre-cum, my arse was red from where Dave had occasionally landed a playful slap, and my face was streaked with tears I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying.
“Good game,” Janet said, standing up and stretching. “I think that deserves a reward, don’t you, Dave?”
Dave looked at me, his expression appraising. “What did you have in mind?”
Janet smiled, that slow, wicked smile that always made my stomach drop and my caged cock twitch.
“I was thinking,” she said, walking over to stand beside me, “that we should make this official. Lay down some ground rules. Decide exactly what’s going to happen from now on.”
I swallowed hard. The tears were still wet on my cheeks.
“We’ll need somewhere comfortable,” Janet continued, reaching out to trace a finger along my jawline. “And private. Somewhere the three of us can talk without interruption.”
She turned to Dave. “Your flat’s not far, is it?”
Dave shrugged. “Ten minutes in the car. Maybe less.”
“Perfect.” Janet pulled the silver chain from beneath her shirt, letting the tiny key dangle in the dim pub light. “You drive. I’ll keep an eye on our little cocklocked friend in the back seat.”
She looked at me then, her eyes glittering with amusement and cruelty and something else—something that looked almost like affection.
“Pull your trousers up, little one,” she said. “We’ve got plans to make.”
—
The drive to Dave’s flat was the longest ten minutes of my life.
I sat in the back seat, my jeans done up, my cage still wet with pre-cum, my arse still sore from the slaps and the flicks. Janet sat in the passenger seat, her hand resting casually on Dave’s thigh as he drove. Every so often, she’d glance back at me, her expression unreadable.
“Look at him,” she said at one point, not taking her eyes off me. “Quiet as a mouse. You’d never know he was a desperate little cockslut who just spent the afternoon getting his arse wrecked.”
“I can still smell him on me,” Dave replied, his voice casual. “Tastes sweet, too. Like shame and cheap lager.”
Janet laughed. “Doesn’t he always?”
I sat there, staring out the window, watching the streetlights flash by. My mind was racing. Was this really happening? Was this really my life now? Had I really just spent an afternoon being fucked raw by my best friend, only to now be driven to his flat by my mistress so they could draw up a contract for my ongoing humiliation?
The answer, apparently, was yes.
—
Dave’s flat was exactly as I’d left it a few hours earlier. The IKEA shelving unit we’d assembled stood against the wall. The living room still smelled faintly of cardboard and cheap air freshener. And somewhere, tucked under the bed, the sheets still bore the evidence of what we’d done.
But now, instead of being led to the bedroom, I was pushed down onto the sofa. Janet sat in the armchair across from me, crossing her legs. Dave leaned against the wall, arms folded. They both looked at me with expressions of calm, confident ownership.
“Right,” Janet said. “Let’s get a few things straight.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. The same notebook, I realized with a sudden jolt of recognition, that she used at the pub to take orders.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” she continued, not looking at me. “Ever since I first took his keys. But I always thought it would stay a two-person arrangement. Me and him. Mistress and pet.” She glanced at Dave. “Now, it seems there’s a third player.”
Dave nodded. “I’m not looking to take over. Just… help.”
Janet smiled. “Help. I like that. Because let’s be honest, I can’t be everywhere at once. I work evenings. He works days. There are whole stretches of time when he’s unsupervised, getting himself into who knows what kind of trouble.” She shot me a sharp look. “Aren’t there, little one?”
I squirmed. “Yes, Mistress.”
“And you’ve already demonstrated that you’re more than willing to take matters into your own hands,” she said to Dave. “Or should I say, your own cock.”
Dave laughed. “Fair point.”
“So.” Janet uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, the notebook resting on her knee. “I propose a partnership. We share him. We coordinate his training, his punishments, his privileges. When I’m not available, you have full authority. When you’re not available, I have the same.” She looked at me. “And he has no authority at all. Ever.”
My cock twitched in its cage.
“He’ll need his tasks,” Janet continued, tapping the pen against the page. “Daily check-ins. Photo evidence. A rulebook.” She smiled. “And of course, we’ll need to set up a schedule for who gets to use him and when.”
“Use him?” Dave asked, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s a cockslut,” Janet said simply. “A locked-up, tiny-dicked cockslut who gets off on humiliation. We’d be doing him a favor, really. Giving his pathetic life some structure. Some purpose.”
Dave nodded slowly, considering. “And the cage? Who holds the keys?”
Janet held up the silver chain, letting the key catch the light. “Me. For now. But I’m open to negotiation.” She glanced at me, then back at Dave. “Maybe we get a timed lockbox. Something we both have access to. That way, if one of us is away, the other can… deal with any needs that arise.”
“I like it,” Dave said. “And what about his flat?”
“His flat?” Janet tilted her head, pretending to think. “What about it?”
“I’ve got his keys now,” Dave said. “On top of everything else. Seems a waste not to use them.”
Janet’s smile widened. “You’re right. It does.” She turned to me, her expression sharp. “From now on, little one, your flat is not your home. It’s just a place where you sleep and eat and wait. Dave and I can come and go as we please. If we want to use your bed, we use it. If we want to come in while you’re working and make a mess of your kitchen, we do it. And if we want to leave you tied up in your own bathroom while we go out for dinner…” She shrugged. “Well, that’s our right.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. What could I possibly say? This was everything I’d ever fantasized about, even if I’d never admitted it. And now it was being offered to me on a silver platter.
“Any objections?” Janet asked, her voice dangerously soft.
“No, Mistress,” I whispered.
“Good boy.” She wrote something in the notebook, then tore out the page and handed it to Dave. “Rules,” she said. “For now. We can expand on them later.”
Dave looked at the page. His eyes moved slowly down the list, and with each line, I saw his lips curl into a grin.
“Number one,” he read aloud. “The subject is to refer to Mistress Janet as ‘Mistress’ at all times, and to Dave as ‘Sir’ when instructed.” He looked at me. “I’ll be expecting that from now on.”
I nodded quickly. “Yes, Sir.”
“Number two,” Dave continued. “The subject’s cock is to remain locked at all times, except when unlocked by the keyholder for supervised cleaning, exercise, or punishment.” He raised an eyebrow. “Punishment?”
“Ruined orgasms,” Janet said, as if discussing the weather. “Post-orgasm torture. A few CBT sessions if he misbehaves. We’ll work out the details.”
My caged cock twitched again.
“Number three,” Dave read. “The subject is to keep a daily journal of his thoughts, feelings, and physical states, to be submitted to Mistress and Dave every evening. Entries are to be honest and explicit.” He looked at me. “You’ll start that tonight.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Number four. The subject is not permitted to touch any genitals—his own or anyone else’s—without explicit permission from Mistress or Dave.”
“Especially in the shower,” Janet added, smirking. “He’s always trying to sneak a little rub in there. We’ll have to start timing his showers.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Number five,” Dave continued, his voice dropping slightly. “The subject is to accept any forms of physical use, service, or correction determined by Mistress or Dave, including but not limited to anal penetration, oral service, public exposure, and non-genital orgasms.”
I felt my face go red. “Yes, Sir.”
There were more rules. Many more. Dave read each one aloud, pausing occasionally to ask Janet for clarification or elaboration. I knelt on the floor, listening, my caged cock leaking steadily, my whole body trembling with a mixture of fear and arousal so potent I thought I might pass out.
And when he was done, they both looked at me.
“Any questions?” Janet asked.
I had so many. But I couldn’t voice them. I just shook my head.
“Good. Then I think it’s time we sealed the arrangement.” She stood up, smoothing down her shirt. “On your knees, little one.”
I was already on my knees.
“Dave,” she said, holding out her hand. “Pass me the keys.”
Dave reached into his pocket and pulled out my house keys—the ones he’d taken at the pub, the ones Janet had slipped him without me realizing. He handed them over. Janet examined them briefly, then turned to me.
“Open your mouth.”
I opened my mouth. She dangled the keys above my face, letting them swing back and forth, catching the light. My keys. The keys to my flat. My home. My last private space.
“You’ll get these back when we decide you’ve earned them,” she said. “Until then, your front door belongs to us. Understand?”
I nodded, my mouth still open.
“Close it.”
I closed my mouth.
“Now, Dave…” Janet turned to him, that same slow smile spreading across her face. “I believe you’ve already had the pleasure of breaking him in. But I haven’t seen it for myself yet.” She looked at me. “Strip. All of it. And then bend over the arm of that sofa.”
My heart was pounding. My hands moved to the hem of my t-shirt, lifting it over my head. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, and slid them down my legs along with my boxers. The cage glinted in the dim light—small, pink, ridiculous.
“And leave your socks on,” Janet added, smirking. “I like a man in socks.”
Dave laughed. “Proper naff, that.”
I stepped out of my clothes and walked to the sofa, bending over the arm, my bare arse raised, my face pressed into the cheap upholstery. I could hear them moving behind me, could feel their eyes on my exposed body, could smell the faint traces of Dave’s sweat and my own shame in the air.
“This, Dave,” Janet said, “is a locked cock.”
I heard footsteps, then felt fingers—Janet’s fingers, I knew—lifting the cage, tilting it this way and that, inspecting me like livestock.
“A very small locked cock,” she continued. “Tiny. Pathetic. Useless.” She gave it a little squeeze. “And yet, look at it. Leaking like a tap.”
“Beautiful,” Dave murmured, his voice close behind me. I could feel his breath on my arse. “Struggling even to get hard. Begging for something it can never have.”
“That’s the thing about these—” Janet flicked the cage, hard, and I yelped. “—they make him more desperate, not less. Every day locked up, he gets needier. More submissive. More willing to do just about anything for a crumb of attention.”
She released the cage and stepped back. “So, Dave. Would you like to do the honors?”
I heard the clink of a belt buckle. The rasp of a zip. And then, a moment later, the blunt, slick head of Dave’s cock pressing against my still-sore entrance.
“You sure?” Dave asked, his voice rough with want. “He’s probably still loose from earlier.”
“Then it shouldn’t take long,” Janet said, settling back into the armchair. “Go on. I want to see him break.”
And with that, Dave pushed inside.
—
This time was different.
It wasn’t rough and frantic like before. Dave took his time, easing in slowly, letting me feel every inch. Janet watched from the armchair, her feet up on the coffee table, occasionally offering instructions.
“Slower,” she would say. “Make him wait.”
Or: “Deeper. Right in. He likes it deep.”
Or: “Grab his cage. Twist it a bit. Not too hard. We want him to feel it, not pass out.”
I bit the upholstery, my hands gripping the cushion, my toes curling inside my socks. Dave fucked me with a steady, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pained pleasure through my body. The cage did nothing to contain my arousal; if anything, it amplified it, the pressure building behind my balls with no release.
“He’s close,” Janet observed, leaning forward. “Look at him. Look at his face. Is that all it takes, little one? A cock in your arse and a cage on your tiny clit?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Could only whimper and writhe and push back against the thing inside me.
“Don’t let him come,” she said to Dave. “Not yet.”
Dave laughed and slowed, pulling almost all the way out, holding just the tip inside. “You hear that?” he said. “Not until we say so.”
I sobbed. The pressure was unbearable—the need, the humiliation, the feeling of being so utterly owned. I’d never felt anything like it.
“Now,” Janet said, after what felt like hours. “Finish him.”
Dave slammed back in, and this time, the orgasm crashed over me like a wave. But instead of the white-hot release I’d imagined, it was… wrong. Somehow muted. Denied. My caged cock twitched and spasmed, but nothing came out—just a thin, watery dribble that leaked down the bars and onto the sofa cushion.
“That’s called a ruined orgasm,” Janet said, her voice soft and satisfied. “You’ll learn to love them. Or learn to live with them. Either way, it’s all you’ll be getting for a long, long time.”
Dave pulled out, and I collapsed, my body limp and trembling on the sofa. I could feel his cum dripping out of me, could feel the wetness on my thighs, could feel the cage still locked firmly around my useless little cock.
“Good boy,” Janet said. “Now, clean yourself up. And don’t forget your journal. I want three pages by morning.”
She stood, stretched, and looked at Dave. “I’ll get a taxi. You two have fun. And Dave…” She paused at the door. “Tomorrow, we’ll start on the flats. I want to see this place from top to bottom.”
Dave nodded. “Looking forward to it.”
Janet left, and I heard the front door close behind her.
Dave walked over to the sofa and looked down at me—naked, exhausted, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and shame, still wearing only my socks. He smiled.
“Welcome to your new life, mate.”
—
EPILOGUE
Three Months Later
The flat was quiet, but not empty.
Dave and Janet were in the kitchen, leaning against the counters, cups of tea in their hands. They were discussing something—work schedules, probably, or maybe what to cook for dinner. The conversation was casual, comfortable, the kind of conversation two people have when they’ve become used to sharing a space.
I knelt in the corner of the living room, just as I’d been told. My arms were folded behind my back, my knees spread wide, my cage on display. I was naked, except for the collar Janet had bought me last month—a simple black leather band with a small bronze tag that read “property.”
My “uniform,” they called it.
There were other changes, too. The IKEA shelving unit had been rearranged to make room for a small display case. Inside the case, arranged with almost ceremonial care, were my house keys, still on their original ring, still warm from the hands that had held them.
A reminder of what I’d given up.
A promise of more to come.
The walls of the flat were covered in new photographs—candid shots of me in various states of undress and distress. Janet had started the collection as a joke, but it had quickly become something more. Now, there were over two hundred photos, each one cataloged in a leather-bound book she called “The Album of Shame.”
My journal had filled three notebooks so far. I wrote in it every night, as required, documenting every thought, every feeling, every humiliating moment. Sometimes they would read it together, laughing at my desperation, or quoting passages back to me to make me blush.
I had not had a proper orgasm in three months.
Dave sometimes let me lick his cock while Janet watched. Janet sometimes let me go down on her, my face pressed between her thighs for hours, until my jaw ached and tears streamed down my cheeks. They took turns using my arse, often passing me between them like a toy, their laughter mixing with my moans.
I had friends. I had a job. I had a flat.
But I was not free. And I didn’t want to be.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. I heard the pour of water, the clink of spoons. Then footsteps, and Dave appeared in the doorway.
“Alright,” he said, looking down at me. “Janet wants to know if you’ve finished writing your journal for tonight.”
I nodded, my eyes lowered. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Then you can come and kneel by the table while we eat. And if you’re very, very lucky…” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “Maybe I’ll let you clean my boots after.”
I shivered with a mixture of dread and longing. “Thank you, Sir.”
Dave turned and walked back into the kitchen.
I followed on my hands and knees, the wooden floor hard beneath me, the collar heavy around my neck.
Behind me, on the wall, I heard Janet’s voice: “Come along, little one. Dinner’s getting cold.”
I crawled faster.
The flat smelled of roast chicken and fresh tea and something else—something sharp and sweet and utterly, completely beguiling.
Home.
The End.
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