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.