In the dungeon Miss Medea and I keep our sub locked and kneeling. We make it clear the chastity keys stay unavailable and that we have no interest in retrieving them.

When the man in black latex enters, we guide the sub onto his knees and direct his mouth onto the cock. We stay close, adjusting his position and requiring that he serves with clear lust rather than hesitation.

We watch the oral service closely and state that a complete climax on his tongue is the standard we expect. The sub continues under our steady instruction while the shiny latex and our presence define every moment.

I sit on the sofa in sheer black and leather, gloves already wrapped around the cage that owns him. He stands in front of me, hooded, collared, waiting while I decide whether that locked cock gets out at all. Lately I choose the treatment. He never knows which one it will be.

I turn the metal in my hand, feel how little room he has left, and tell him the truth with a smile. If he wants a smaller cage, he has to earn the empty one first. I put him on the sofa, wrists bound, knees padded, and take my time. Leather fingers work him while I watch his face through the hood. He is allowed to leak. He is not allowed to pretend this is his release.

When I drain him, it is not a gift. It is maintenance. I keep stroking until there is nothing useful left, then I laugh because the next cage is already waiting. He sits there spent, cuffed, and smaller than he was when he walked in. I turn, show him the view he does not get to touch, and remind him who decides when that dick comes out again.