"I don't think you'd like it," she said. Just in passing. Like, I don't think you'd like roasted garlic, or I don't think you'd like skinny jeans.
And it wasn't an invitation, I don't think. Not really. More just an observation.
You know, like: 'I know you. And what I know about you tells me you wouldn't want to be told when, where, and how you can cum. That just isn't your kind of thing.'
And she was definitely right. It wasn't. It isn't. My kind of thing, that is.
I'm not some kind of macho guy, that has to face fuck a girl and then smack her ass twenty times before plowing her. I'm totally cool with strong women. With independent women. In the bedroom and in life. I'm a partnership kind of person. A meeting of equals kind of person. These power exchange dynamics, well, they just really aren't my kind of thing.
So when she said, "I don't think you'd like it," she was definitely right. I wouldn't. Like it, that is.
The next time it came up we were planning a little outing. To a restaurant with a bunch of friends for someone's birthday. She was telling me about this guy she was having some kind of thing with. And I was excited for her, because it had been a while since she'd dated. And if anyone deserved, no, needed, something good in their life, it was her.
And then, in passing, she mentioned she hadn't let him cum all week.
Let him.
"Really? Let him?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, really," she said. "He's slowly going out of his mind," she laughed. "I'll get his cock out and get him super turned-on. Till he's panting and begging. And his hips are starting to go. And then. I'll go make popcorn." She said it with a laugh while working on the computer.
She wasn't watching me. Checking out my reaction or anything. She was just telling me what was going on in her life. That's the kind of friendship we have.
"Oh, sorry," she said. "I know that's not your kind of thing."
"Yeah, sure, it's not for me. But you can tell me about it. I'm just happy to be part of your life. And if you're into it, and everyone's consenting, I'm not judging. I just don't think I'd like it. For me, you know. But clearly your guy likes it," I responded.
"My boy," she clarified.
"Your boy. Your very good boy," I laughed.
"Oh yes, he is. Very good. Very good and very desperate. I'm thinking of putting him in a cage, though. Because even though he's very good, I can't be there all the time."
"When would you sleep?," I quipped.
"Well exactly, when would I sleep?" she answered back.
I asked about the cage. I'd never seen one. Not in person. And she told me about it. How you could live in it. How you could still pee. How you could still wear normal clothes. You just couldn't get hard. It was physically impossible.
"He'll be fine," she assured me. "I wouldn't get one of the painful ones."
That caught me by surprise. "Painful ones?" I asked.
She told me about the ones with spikes on the inside. A punishment for getting turned on.
"That's a bit mean. Even for me." she said.
She showed me a picture of the one she had in mind. It had a little gap on the underside, just below the head. Maybe the size of a quarter.
"What's that about?" I asked.
"Oh," she said distractedly, "I can lick my finger or whatever and rub there. It's the most sensitive spot ... Well, presumably you know that."
And it's true. I did.
"But I thought the point of the cage was that you weren't allowed to get turned on?" I wanted to know.
She let out a short laugh. "Oh no. The point is very much to get turned on, but then to not be allowed to do an-y-thing about it."
"That's fun?" I asked.
"It is for me," she said with a laugh.
I asked when he was going to start wearing it and that's when she explained he hadn't agreed yet.
"That's why I'm not letting him cum. When he agrees. Then he can cum. Once."
The edge in my friend's voice. My friend who'd held me when my cat died. Who helped me pick out birthday presents for my nephew. It surprised me. To be honest, it thrilled me a little bit.
But, really, it wasn't my kind of thing. Calling a partner Miss or Mistress. Or, god-forbid, mommy. Jesus! Then it's not even a partner. It's some kind of master or something. I dunno. It's just not my kind of thing.
I asked after her boy and his cage two weeks later. We were playing a game together online. She was beating me soundly and taking a ton of pleasure in giving me shit about it. Which is fine. I love her and I'll take shit, when deserved.
"Oh yeah," she told me. "He folded like a two-dollar bill. A week and a half of teasing and denial and he could barely walk straight." She laughed at the memory. "I let him cum all over my tits. I made him ask first, of course. And then forbade him from cumming before I said it was time. But he's a good boy, and did what I asked. He ate me to three pretty decent orgasms. So he got to cum and now he's in the cage."
"Is he ok?" I wanted to know.
"He likes it, deep down. I know it isn't your kind of thing, but some guys want to be told and to be managed, and to be treated like a thing. I'm sure you'd hate it," she said.
And I would. Hate it, that is.
But then she told me the cage was old news. The new challenge was getting him to eat his cum.
I almost lost it.
"What!? What are you even talking about?" I asked.
"Oh yeah," she said. "That little bitch boy is going to be eating his own cum by the end of the month. I tease him at night in his cage. And when he begs to be let out, I make him swear he'll eat his cum."
"I can't believe anyone wants to do that," I said.
