Nobody knows the secret I’ve got hiding under my clothes.
My look is wholesome, neat and tidy. Understated, and pretty unremarkable. I have this innocent face and this clean-cut look about me. If you saw me you’d think, here’s a guy that follows the rules. Someone who does what he’s told. The kind of softly spoken gay that all the middle-aged ladies in the office find polite and non-threatening.
But underneath my pants I’m hiding a secret that’s on my mind constantly. It’s this ever-present thrill, lurking underneath everything I do all day long. My secret kink hidden under my everyday life. Thinking about it would be enough to get me hard. If I could even get hard. But not being able to get hard is the whole point.
I love knowing that underneath my clothes I’m not the man they think I am. Hell, some people would think I’m barely a man at all. Because can you really call yourself a man if your dick’s locked away in a cage where you can’t even use it?
Not that I’m upset about that. I chose this, I do it to myself. I mean, I wish I didn’t have to do it to myself, and that I had someone who’d force me to lock it away no matter whether I wanted to or not. But I haven’t met Mister Right yet, or anyone else who’s expressed an interest in being my keyholder. So I do the next best thing: I lock my own dick up, my secret act of service to the as-yet unmet man — or men — who I’m hoping will undress me and find it under there, and realise that they can take the key to that cage and own it if they want to.
It’s kind of crazy just how much I think about my caged dick. It’s funny: the whole point is that you can’t be stimulated when you’re caged. But actually it feels like I’m constantly stimulated, like my dick is being held firmly but gently every single moment. It’s this strange feeling of being completely untouched but constantly touched at the same time. I barely go five minutes at a time without remembering it’s there.
Sometimes I think about how all these other guys — nine-hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand I come across, I bet — are just going about their lives with their cock and balls cradled in fabric, with room to shift, adjust, react to stimulus the way they were designed to.
Not me though. No soft fabric against the skin of my cock. Only rigid plastic. My cock entombed.
Most people would think it’s embarrassing. Some would probably think I was disgusting. Others wouldn’t judge but would be totally incapable of understanding the appeal of locking away the most fun part of your anatomy where you can’t use it.
Some guys would get it though. The guys like me who understand what it’s like to experience the frustrating rush of being denied your main source of pleasure and forced to find other sources. And the guys who’d understand what to do with someone like me, the ones that would call me a good boy and use me for their pleasure.
Those are the guys I’m always hoping to encounter.
