Author's note:
This story was written while I was self-locked in chastity, and the locations are loosely inspired by real locations that I have been to with friends. This is otherwise a work of fiction which involves accounts of some things I haven't done (yet!) so hopefully it mostly rings true. Your comments and constructive criticism are more than welcome.
*****
It was day sixteen and once again I was checking the chastity website to see if it would give me the combination to the realtor's lockbox in my closet. The lockbox held the keys to the chastity case locked around my cock and balls. As I refreshed the site, my cock was attempting to get hard in its pink plastic cage and yet again I wondered which I wanted more - to be released or to be locked up for longer.
bzt bzt bzt
The vibrations of my phone pulled me back into reality. I tapped the screen and saw it was a message from my friend James.
"going out drinking wth the boys wanna come out?"
Part of me didn't want to go out. Social activities felt a little weird while I was locked up, and besides thinking that everyone could see an unusual bulge in my pants, I also felt super-conscious that because with the cock cage on I had to use sit down to pee - and someone might think it was weird that I wasn't using the urinal. I realized this assumed people spent more time looking at my crotch and analyzing my bathroom habits than would ever happen, but that didn't reduce my insecurity.
Still, I could use a drink
, I thought to myself. And a distraction from checking the chastity site every ten minutes. "Sure thing," I texted back, and we made arrangements to meet up.
There was another layer of awkwardness in going out with James and his friends. I'd gone to college with James and we lost touch for a few years before we reconnected over facebook. Over that time, he had come out of the closet (I had no idea at the time!) and had a whole new group of friends. They were all cool, and their gayness didn't bother me at all. In fact, I was "one of the guys" when I went out with them, and I think they tried sometimes to see if they could shock me with some graphic detail or other about gay sex thrown into the conversation.
I was outwardly nonplussed by it all. But in fact, I was secretly very interested. For as I've gotten older, I've realized I'm very...
curious
about a lot of things. The porn I watch has changed, and what I fantasize about when I jerk off is increasingly cocks instead of pussies. And when I bought my first chastity device - a cheap knock off of a Rikers' type cage, I fantasized about having a man to hold my keys, not a woman. A man who I could satisfy with my mouth and my asshole and who would decide when I would be allowed to be unlocked, and when I would be allowed to come.
I was turned on a lot by the idea of chastity, but that cheap cage wasn't comfortable. I saved up until I could get a short Holy Trainer v2 (in pink!) and it turned out to be amazingly comfortable. I was being pretty cautious about how long I was locked up, but it felt like I could keep it on forever without any physical discomfort or problems. I had gone three weeks continuously locked last month, and I was pretty sure that this time I would break that record easily. But in any case, being locked up and without an orgasm for sixteen days was a slightly-strange headspace to go barhopping in the gay district.
It was a Wednesday night, but all of us were on weird work schedules, so we were out for a night on the town while the strip was a lot less bustling than it would be on a weekend. I met my friends at a place I'd gone to with them before. It was a slightly-seedy joint at the end of the strip that catered to an older, less-cruise-y sort of clientele. It had a "everybody knows your name" kind of vibe, a lot of regulars, and the bartenders didn't stint when they poured. James plus his friends Edward and Tony were already there. We laughed and got caught up and had a couple rounds.
After a while a young guy started setting up an electronic keyboard and quickly there was a rousing karaoke party starting around us. It seemed like fun, but my friends were ready to move on.
"We should go to the strippers," Edward said.
"What about...?" Tony said, his eyes gesturing toward me.
"Meh, I'm sure it's nothing I haven't seen before," I said, as always trying to show I was a good sport.
So we ended up down the street in the strip club. The cover charge was a little steep, but when I was inside it actually turned out to be less annoying and depressing than a straight strip bar, which was the sort of place I disliked intensely. There were several levels of tables in a half-circle around a stage with a tall firemen's pole. We took one of the tables and watched as a blond twink started his act. There was less pretense of "stripping" here than at a straight club. He came out in a jockstrap and got rid of that pretty quickly as he swung around the pole.
Although I'd been increasingly interested in cocks, I'd never really developed an appreciation for the male physique overall. I still was aroused by a woman's curves more than male muscles. But there was, admittedly, something appealing about this twink's smooth, taut body, and his pretty cock flopping around. Which I observed without trying to seem
too
interested. My own cock stirred a bit in its cage.
A song later, as he gyrated and twirled his floppy dick around, I turned to ask my friends, "what - doesn't he get
hard
on stage?"
They laughed and explained that privilege was saved for people who paid for private lap dances, which was where the big money was for the strippers. The stage dance was just an advert for the real action upstairs. At first they were stinting on the details out of respect for my straight modesty but they implied that with money the "lap dances" could go pretty far, and that a gentleman could find himself having spent a week's wages rather quickly.
Soon after that, though, they were exchanging stories about various humorous incidents that had happened to them up in the booths. Edward was eyeing the next boi that went on, but it didn't seem like they were inclined to spend the money for a lap-dance on this occasion.
"Let's go," Tony said. "There's no one here anyway."
We headed for another joint. Again, my friends were vague as we walked over, but they gave the impression that this place we were going to had big sex parties - leather and bondage - on the weekends.
"Oh Jesus," I said in mock exasperation, "I'm not going to end up calling some guy 'daddy' while he fists me, am I?"
My friends laughed. "You should be so lucky!" James said.
"Ugh,
I
should be so lucky," Edward said, and I wondered to myself for a second just what he was into.
The joint was actually even less busy than the strip club. I was expecting Sodom and Gomorrah, but after we went up a flight of stairs I was a little surprised that we ended up on a fairly nice patio. Of course, to get there, we went past a bar that was showing hardcore gay fucking on a big screen. On the other side of the bar was a whole other darkened area that was closed off with a velvet rope - probably just used on the busy weekend nights. Between them there was a curious open area broken up by what looked like office cubicle dividers (but in metal). As I saw some metal rings in those mini-walls it occurred to me that that must be where the "action" would take place during the sex parties. I bit my lip, wondering what happened at gay sex parties, wondering what people did (or allowed to be done to them) in such a public place.
But out on the patio it just seemed like a regular bar, just a nice night out with friends. At least until an older guy sidled up to us and sat down, asking if any of us wanted to get our cocks sucked. My friends all laughed and waved him off, and once again I realized I'd forgotten how much more open the sex was on the gay side of the tracks.
Imagine not having to hint and dance around it forever and ever
, I thought to myself.
The drinks were starting to add up, and though I tried to ignore it for a while, I had to take a leak.
I stood up. Edward had gone to piss just after we arrived, so I headed in the direction he'd gone in and I found the bathroom back past the bar where we came in. I pushed open the door and entered. It was actually, to my surprise, reasonably clean and well lit, not the sodomy pit my mind had imagined. I stepped toward the row of urinals out of habit before I remembered I had to pee sitting down now. I pivoted and started for the stalls.
I stopped short when I got to them as I realized they had no doors.
Oh shit! What am I supposed to do now?
I stood there for a few seconds.
Well, it's not like I have a choice, I really have to go.
Fortunately there wasn't anyone else in the washroom... and the bar wasn't that busy, so hopefully I'd be spared the embarrassment of someone seeing me using the toilet. Choosing the stall further from the door, I stepped in. I noticed that contrary to my initial optimistic assessment of the washroom's cleanliness, this toilet wasn't very clean. The seat was up but it looked like the last several users didn't worry too much about their aim. I'd gotten used to this while I'd been locked up, though, so I dropped my jeans and my underwear and squatted a few inches above the seat. One hand pushed my cock cage back a bit and I exhaled, trying to relax and start pissing.
It took a few seconds, but I felt a wave of relief as I felt it coming, and then heard the splashing into the bowl below. The corner of my eye caught some movement and I looked up just as the door opened.
Ah, fuck!
A man walked a couple steps in, then stopped as he registered my presence. I was hoping he'd just give me my space and head over to the urinals, but with barely a pause he walked over until his form filled the doorless entry in front of me.
Meanwhile, I was still pissing, even as a burst of shock and embarrassment went through me. The man was tall and thick - obviously strong, but not a muscle type. If I wasn't entirely distracted, I would have laughed at being able to identify him as a "type" - he was wearing heavy boots, leather pants, a sleeveless denim vest over a t-shirt, and his bald head was offset by a big handlebar moustache. All he was lacking was a captain's hat and a thick cigar.
He was looking down at me. The room was quiet, except for the now-dwindling sound of my piss-trickle. It stopped. I hovered there, frozen for several seconds.
Then he put a hand gently on my shoulder. "Sit down," he said in a quiet but firm voice. My thighs were starting to burn from holding myself above the toilet, and at his touch my muscles turned to jelly and I settled, somewhat gracelessly, onto the rim of the toilet. I could feel the wetness on my thighs of all the stray piss from the toilet's previous indifferently-aiming users.
His left hand grabbed the lower flap of his vest and he flipped it back. Dangling from a metal link in his belt loop was a large, ornate antique key. He dropped his vest back in place.
"So you're a chastity bitch? How long have you been locked down?"
