Chapter 5: The Cage and the Dildo
The dressing room smelled like cheap perfume and desperation.
Logan had been in this particular store a hundred times before—back when he was just a software developer with a wife and a mortgage and a life that made sense. He'd sat on the uncomfortable bench outside while Samantha tried on jeans. He'd held her purse. He'd been normal.
Now he was on his knees, his ridiculous skirt hiked up around his waist, his mesh top pulled down to expose his chest, and Samantha was standing over him with that look in her eyes—the one that said she was about to ruin him.
"Open your mouth," she said.
He obeyed.
She kissed him hard, forcing her tongue between his lips, and he tasted himself on her—salt and musk and something bitter underneath. His own come, still warm in her mouth. She'd scooped it off her tongue with her fingers in the car, laughing as she made him lick them clean, and now she was sharing the rest.
"Swallow," she commanded.
He did.
She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting their lips, and smiled. "How do I taste?"
"Like us."
"Good answer."
She pushed him backward, and his shoulders hit the narrow bench in the corner of the dressing room. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Somewhere outside, a mother was arguing with her toddler about the difference between a thong and a bikini.
Samantha didn't care.
She straddled him, her knees pressing into the cheap carpet, and ground her cunt against his face. No preamble. No warning. Just wet heat and the overwhelming smell of her, still slick from earlier, still swollen and sensitive.
"Lick," she said.
He licked.
His tongue found her clit and she gasped, her hips jerking forward. He worked her with long, slow strokes, then faster, then slower again, teasing her until she grabbed his hair and yanked.
"Don't play games," she growled. "Make me come."
He buried his face in her cunt and obeyed.
She tasted like Amber's mouth and her own arousal and something deeper—something primal that made his cock strain against the pleather skirt. He ignored it. This wasn't about him. This was about her. This was about the way she moaned when he sucked her clit between his lips, the way her thighs trembled against his ears, the way she cursed under her breath in that sharp, filthy voice.
"That's it," she panted. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
She came with a strangled cry, her body convulsing against his face, and he drank her down like he was starving. Which he was. The hunger was still there, always there, but this—this was different. This was about her. About them.
She climbed off him and stood, adjusting her sweater with shaking hands.
"Bedroom," she said. "Now."
They barely made it through the front door.
Logan's keys clattered to the floor. Samantha's purse followed. Shoes were kicked off in the hallway, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs that led straight to the living room.
The apartment was a disaster—remnants of their morning frenzy still scattered everywhere. A discarded bra hung from the lampshade. An empty lube bottle rolled across the hardwood. The coffee table was covered in the wreckage of their earlier exploits: a torn condom wrapper, a half-empty glass of water, the remote control buried under a pile of clothes.
They didn't even make it to the bedroom.
Samantha grabbed him by the collar of his mesh top and shoved him toward the couch. He stumbled, caught himself on the armrest, and turned to face her.
Her eyes were wild.
"Strip," she said.
He hesitated. Just for a second.
It was enough.
She crossed the room in three strides and slapped him—not hard, but enough to make his cheek sting, enough to make his cock twitch against the cage of his skirt. His breath caught. Since when did he like being slapped? Since when did any of this feel good?
"Don't make me repeat myself," she said.
He stripped.
The skirt came off first, peeled down his legs with trembling hands. The mesh top followed, discarded into the growing pile on the floor. He stood there in nothing but his socks, his cock already leaking onto the carpet, his chest heaving with anticipation.
Samantha circled him like a predator.
"Look at you," she murmured. She reached out and traced a finger down his spine, and he shivered. "So eager. So desperate."
"I want—"
"I know what you want." She stepped back, reaching into her purse. "But I'm going to give you what you need."
She pulled out a small box—pink, glossy, the kind of thing that would have made him blush a week ago. Now he just stared at it, curious and terrified in equal measure.
"What is that?"
"Something I picked up." She tore the packaging open with her teeth, spitting out a piece of cardboard. "Roxy mentioned it. Said it would help."
"Help with what?"
"Keeping you focused." She pulled out a small metal object—a cage, delicate and cruel-looking, with tiny bars that gleamed under the dim light. "You're going to wear this tonight."
His heart stopped.
"Samantha—"
"You're going to wear this," she repeated, "and you're going to do everything I say. And if you're good—" She smiled, slow and wicked. "—maybe I'll let you come."
The words hung in the air between them.
He should have said no. Should have drawn a line. This was new territory, dangerous and unknown.
Instead, he nodded.
"Good boy."
She shoved him down onto his knees.
The carpet was rough against his bare skin. He knelt there, hands on his thighs, and watched as she grabbed a bottle of lube from the coffee table—the one they'd used that morning, still half-full. She tossed it onto the rug beside the cage.
"Don't move," she said.
She circled behind him, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, pushing him forward until his chest pressed against the seat of the couch. His ass was in the air, exposed for her. He could feel the cool air on his skin, the anticipation building in his gut.
She reached around and touched his cock.
Finally.
He moaned, the relief almost overwhelming. She stroked him slowly, once, twice, and then her hand was gone.
"No touching," she said. "Not yet."
"Samantha—"
"Shut up."
The cage came next.
He felt the cold metal ring slip over his balls, then the cage itself, sliding over his shaft with an almost surgical precision. It clicked into place, and he let out a strangled moan—half pleasure, half despair. His erection strained against the bars, thick and red and useless.
"It hurts," he gasped.
"It's supposed to hurt." She tightened a screw with a tiny key, then tossed it aside. "That's the point."
She stepped back to admire her work.
He looked down at himself and almost came right there—the sight of his cock trapped in that tiny cage, swollen and leaking and completely helpless. He'd never seen anything so obscene in his life.
"Beautiful," she murmured. "Now spread your legs."
He obeyed.
She knelt behind him, and he felt her breath on his ass, warm and teasing. Then her tongue, wet and rough, tracing a circle around his hole.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She didn't stop. She licked him open, slow and patient, pressing her tongue against him until he was gasping and pushing back against her face. Then she pulled away and spit—a thick, wet glob that landed right where he needed it.
"That's it," she said. "Nice and wet."
A finger pressed against him, slick with lube. He tensed, then forced himself to relax, and she slid inside.
"How does that feel?"
"Good." His voice cracked. "More."
"Greedy."
She worked another finger in beside the first, scissoring them apart, stretching him slow and steady. He groaned, his hips rocking back, and she laughed—that low, cruel laugh that made his skin prickle.
"Look at you," she said. "So eager to be filled."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
She pulled her fingers out, leaving him empty and aching. He heard her rummaging through the box, and then something pressed against him—something bigger than her fingers, cold and hard and unyielding.
"Relax," she said.
He felt the plug slide in—the smallest one, tapered and smooth. It stretched him wide, and he gasped at the pressure, at the fullness. She pushed it in all the way to the base, then patted his ass.
"There. Now you're ready."
"For what?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she pulled the plug out and replaced it with the next one—bigger, thicker, the stretch making his eyes water. He bit his lip, tasting blood, and tried not to scream.
"Breathe," she said.
He breathed.
The second plug came out, and she pressed the third against him—the largest, a monster of silicone and steel that made him feel like he was being split in two.
"Last one," she said. "Be a good boy."
She pushed it in.
He screamed.
Not loud enough to disturb the neighbors—they'd learned that lesson the hard way—but loud enough that his throat went raw. The plug settled inside him, impossibly big, filling him completely. He could feel it pressing against something deep, something that made his vision blur and his cock twitch futilely against its cage.
"Good?" she asked.
"Yes." His voice was barely a whisper. "God, yes."
She grabbed the dildo.
He saw it in his peripheral vision—a monstrous thing, longer than his forearm, thick as his wrist. The kind of toy that would have terrified him a week ago. Now he just stared at it, mouth watering, and wondered how it would feel.
Samantha lubed it up. The squelching sound was obscene.
"Ready?"she asked.
"Ready."
She pressed the tip against his stretched hole.
The third plug came out with a wet pop, and the dildo slid in, smooth and relentless. He screamed again—loud enough to rattle the windows—as it filled him, stretched him, claimed him. His body trembled. His mind went white.
"Fuck," he gasped.
"Just getting started."
She pulled back, then drove forward again—harder this time, her hips slapping against his ass. He grabbed the couch cushions, fingers digging into the fabric, and let her fuck him. There was no other word for it. She wasn't making love. She wasn't teasing. She was fucking him, brutal and fast, that monster dildo slamming into his prostate with every thrust.
"Tsk, tsk," she purred. "Look at you. So hard for me."
He wasn't. Not really. His cock was trapped in its cage, swollen and purple, leaking a steady stream of pre-come that dripped onto the carpet below. But the feeling—the feeling was something else. Something beyond pleasure. Something beyond pain.
"You love this," she said. "Tell me you love this."
"I love this."
"Tell me you're a dirty little slut."
"I'm a dirty little slut."
"Tell me you want to come."
"I want to come."
She laughed. "Too bad."
She fucked him harder. The dildo was a blur now, a relentless piston that drove into him again and again. He was weeping—honest-to-God tears streaming down his cheeks—and he didn't care. He didn't care about anything except this feeling, this perfect, impossible fullness.
"Please," he begged. "Please let me come."
"No."
"Samantha—"
"You're not coming until I say so." She grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to arch his spine. "And I'm not saying so until you've been good."
"I've been good. I've been so good—"
"You've been adequate." She drove the dildo deeper, bottoming out, and he screamed. "But I want you wrecked. Ruined. I want to look at you and see nothing but a desperate, cock-hungry mess."
"I am. I'm a mess—"
"Not yet. But you will be."
She pulled the dildo out and he collapsed, boneless. But she wasn't done. He didn't relax. He couldn't relax. The hunger was a living thing, coiling in his gut, refusing to be ignored.
And then he felt it.
The come was building, pressure in his balls, a tightening in his core. His cock strained against the cage, desperate for release, and he knew—he knew—that he couldn't hold back.
"Uh-uh," Samantha said. "Don't you dare."
"I can't—"
"You can. And you will."
But he couldn't.
The orgasm hit him like a freight train—sudden and devastating. His cock pulsed against the bars, his entire body convulsing as he came in the cage. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, and it didn't stop. It kept going, wave after wave, until he was sobbing and shaking and completely spent.
Samantha watched.
"Pathetic," she said.
He collapsed to the floor, chest heaving, tears streaming down his face. His cock was still twitching in its cage, still leaking that pathetic dribble through the bars.
"That was..." He couldn't find the words. "That was..."
"I know." She knelt beside him, stroking his hair with a gentleness that contradicted everything she'd just done. "And I told you—we're just getting started."
The words sent a shiver down his spine.
He looked at her—really looked—and saw something in her eyes that he hadn't seen before. Something hungry. Something cruel. Something that matched the thing inside him, the thing that had driven him to his knees in that mall bathroom and made him beg for a stranger's cock.
They weren't done.
They were just beginning.
The carpet burn on his knees was going to be a bitch tomorrow.
Logan lay there, cheek pressed against the fibers, breath coming in ragged gasps. His ass throbbed—a deep, full ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The cage around his cock felt heavier now, more restrictive, like it was shrinking.
Samantha stood over him, the dildo still glistening in her hand. She looked like a goddess. Or a demon. He couldn't decide which.
"You made a mess," she said.
He followed her gaze to the carpet—the small, pathetic puddle of his release, already cooling. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." She dropped the dildo onto the coffee table with a wet slap. "Clean it up."
He blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." She pointed at the stain. "Lick it up."
The command hung in the air, obscene and impossible. He should have refused. Should have laughed. Should have done anything except what he actually did.
He crawled forward and pressed his tongue to the carpet.
The taste was bitter and salty and wrong. Cheap carpet fibers scraped against his tongue, and he gagged, but he kept going—lapping at his own come like an animal.
Samantha watched.
"That's it," she murmured. "Good boy."
When he finished, she pulled him up by his hair and kissed him. He could taste himself on her lips, mixed with the lingering flavor of her cunt. The combination should have disgusted him. Instead, it made his caged cock twitch.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Like I need more."
"I know." She released him and stepped back. "But first, we need to talk about tonight."
The word was a bucket of cold water. Tonight.The transformation. The full moon.
He sat back on his heels, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he was—naked, caged, covered in sweat and come and carpet fibers.
"What about it?"
"I've been thinking." She paced the living room, stepping over the trail of discarded clothes. "Roxy said the hunger peaks at sundown. She said we shouldn't fight it."
"She also said it could kill us if we do it wrong."
"I know." She stopped by the window, looking out at the gray afternoon sky. "But I've been feeling something. All day. A kind of... loosening. Like something inside me is unclenching."
He knew exactly what she meant. The same thing had been happening to him—a slow erosion of his inhibitions, his shame, his sense of self. Every hour, it got worse. Or better. He couldn't tell anymore.
"I feel it too," he admitted.
"Do you?" She turned to face him. "Because you've been fighting it. I can see it in your eyes. You're still holding back."
"I'm not—"
"You are." She crossed the room and knelt in front of him, taking his face in her hands. "Logan, I need you to let go. Not just for tonight. Not just for the transformation. I need you to stop pretending you don't want this."
"I don't—"
"Bullshit." Her grip tightened. "You dropped to your knees for a stranger in a mall bathroom. You let me cage your cock and fuck you with a dildo the size of my arm. You just licked your own come off the carpet. Don't tell me you don't want it."
He couldn't argue.
The truth was, he did want it. All of it. The humiliation. The pain. The complete surrender. It was like a door had opened inside him—one he'd never known existed—and everything he'd ever repressed was flooding through.
"I want it," he said.
"Good." She released him. "Then stop fighting."
She stood and walked toward the bedroom. He watched her go, confused. "Where are you going?"
"To get ready." She paused in the doorway. "The sun sets in three hours. I want you to stay here. Think about what you want tonight. What you really want. Because once we start, there's no going back."
She disappeared down the hallway.
Logan sat alone in the living room, surrounded by the wreckage of their day. The infomercial on the TV was advertising something called a "Transformation Wand"—some kind of makeup tool. He almost laughed.
Three hours.
He looked down at himself—the cage, the marks on his knees, the faint bruises forming on his hips from Samantha's demanding grip. He should have been horrified. Disgusted. Ashamed.
Instead, he felt something else entirely.
Peace.
The afternoon crawled by in a haze of half-sleep and vivid fantasy.
Logan dozed on the couch, drifting in and out of dreams that were less dreams than previews—fragments of sensation, flashes of skin, the phantom taste of come and cunt and sweat. Every time he woke, he felt less like himself.
Or more like himself. He couldn't tell anymore.
The apartment darkened. The infomercials gave way to a cooking show, then a sitcom, then the evening news. He watched none of it. His mind was elsewhere.
He thought about the mall. The taste of Marcus's cock—that heavy, muscled weight on his tongue. The way his throat had stretched, the way his eyes had watered, the way he'd choked and loved every second of it.
He thought about Samantha. The strength in her hands. The cruelty in her voice. The way she'd looked at him like he was nothing, like he was everything, like he was hers to break and rebuild.
He thought about tonight.
The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it made his caged cock ache with want.
When Samantha finally emerged from the bedroom, the light outside had gone gold and amber. Sunset. She was wearing something he'd never seen before—a black corset that cinched her waist and pushed her breasts up, leather leggings that hugged her curves, boots that made her look like she could stomp a man to death.
She looked like a stranger. A beautiful, terrifying stranger.
"Well?" she asked. "What do you think?"
"I think I want you to ruin me."
She smiled.
"Good answer."
She crossed to the couch and hauled him to his feet. He went willingly, already dizzy with anticipation. His body was humming—not just with arousal, but with something deeper. Something that felt like the moment before a thunderstorm.
"The transformation starts in an hour," she said. "I can feel it. Can you?"
He nodded.
The hunger was no longer a hunger. It was a living thing. A second heart beating inside his chest. A voice whispering filthy promises in his ear.
"Here's what's going to happen," Samantha said. "I'm going to unlock that cage. I'm going to let you come. And then—" She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "—I'm going to tie you to the bed and ride your face until I can't walk. And then I'm going to sit on your cock and fuck you until you forget your own name."
"Why?"
"Because tonight isn't about control." She pulled back, her eyes gleaming. "Tonight is about surrender. Both of us. Together."
He didn't understand. Not fully. But he nodded anyway.
She produced the key. It glinted on its little silver ring. He watched her unlock the cage, and when she pulled it away, his cock sprang free—swollen and purple and so sensitive that the cool air made him gasp.
"That's better," she said.
She stroked him once—just once—and he almost came right there. Pre-come pearled at the tip, and she gathered it with her thumb, brought it to her lips, and sucked it clean without breaking eye contact.
"Now," she said. "On the bed."
The bed was a disaster—sheets tangled, pillows scattered, the comforter half on the floor. They'd made it that way earlier. They'd make it worse before the night was through.
He lay back against the pillows and she straddled his chest. Her leather-clad thighs pressed against his ears, and she lowered herself until her cunt was an inch from his mouth.
"Lick," she said.
He licked.
She tasted like salt and arousal and the chemical tang of the lube from earlier. He drank her down—slow strokes, then faster, then slower again. He traced patterns with his tongue. He wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked until she gasped.
"That's it," she panted. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
She rode his face with abandon, grinding against him, using him like a toy. Her thighs tightened around his ears. Her breath came in jagged gasps. He couldn't breathe, didn't care, didn't want to.
"Don't stop," she repeated. "Don't you fucking stop."
He had no intention of stopping.
She came with a scream that echoed off the walls. Her whole body convulsed, and for a moment, he was afraid she might crush him. Then she collapsed backward, panting, and he sucked in a desperate breath.
"Good boy," she said.
She didn't give him time to recover.
She grabbed his cock—still hard, still leaking, still desperate—and positioned herself above it. This time, he was inside her. This time, it was his turn.
She lowered herself slowly, taking him inch by inch, and he moaned at the feeling. She was so tight, so wet, so perfect. He wanted to thrust up, to fuck her hard, to chase his own release.
But she didn't let him.
Instead, she pressed a hand to his chest and leaned forward, pinning him down. She began to move—slow, deliberate rolls of her hips that made him see stars. She was in complete control, and he was nothing but a vessel for her pleasure.
"Don't you dare come," she said.
"I can't—"
"You can. And you will. Not until I say so."
He gripped the sheets.
She rode him harder, faster, and the sounds she made were obscene—wet and wanting. He was sweating. He was shaking. He was so close he could taste it.
"Please," he begged.
"Not yet."
"Samantha—"
"Not.Yet."
She slowed. Stopped completely. He almost sobbed with frustration. She remained there above him, impaled, and he could feel every pulse of her cunt around his cock. He was losing his mind.
"You've been good," she said softly. "You've been so good. So obedient. So eager to please."
"So please let me come."
She smiled. That cruel, beautiful smile.
"Not yet. I want to show you something first."
She climbed off him and produced a bottle of lube. He watched, confused, as she poured a generous amount into her hand. Then she straddled him again—but this time, she reached behind her.
He felt her fingers brush his hole.
"What are you—"
"Hush."
She pressed a finger against him, slick and demanding. He gasped. She pushed inside, and it was like a circuit completing. The cage had shown him something. The plugs had shown him more. Now she was giving him the full experience.
"How does that feel?" she asked."Good. Too good."
"That's the point."
She worked another finger in beside the first, stretching him slowly. He could feel his cock twitching inside her, and he knew she could feel it too. She laughed.
"You're close," she said. "I can feel it."
"I'm so close—"
"Then come."
She didn't stop moving her fingers. She didn't stop riding him. She fucked him front and back, and the combination was too much, too perfect, too everything.
He came with a roar.
The pleasure was blinding—white-hot and infinite. His hips bucked upward, driving deeper into her, and she rode him through it, milking every last drop.
When it was over, he lay there, spent and trembling, and she finally pulled her fingers out.
"Good boy," she murmured.
He tried to speak. Nothing came out.
The transformation was coming. He could feel it—a pressure building behind his eyes, a heat spreading through his limbs. His mind was going soft at the edges, his shame dissolving like sugar in water.
He loved this. He loved all of it. The cocks. The cunt. The ache, the fullness, the way the cage had made him focus on his holes like they were the only thing that mattered.
He was getting hard again. Already.
Samantha felt it and smiled.
"Round two?" she asked.
"Please."
This time, she didn't tease. She didn't play games. She just mounted him and rode him hard, her hips slapping against his, and the feedback loop between them—her dominance feeding his submission, his submission feeding her dominance—spiraled into something uncontrollable.
When she came, he came with her.
And when they collapsed together, gasping and sweating and completely destroyed, he knew that tonight was just the beginning. The hunger wasn't satisfied. It was growing.
They had until dawn.