The Cage: Chapter 1

10 min read

photo: The Life Erotic

I wake up in the cage.
I can’t remember how I ended up in the cage.
I remember going home with her, with him.
I remember mounting him, taking him inside me, it had been so long since I’d been with someone.
I remember being above him, his hand on my throat, and I was scared, but not scared enough to stop.
He felt so good inside me.
And I was getting close. I could feel the tiny spasms inside me, building and building.
And then her left hand, the one with the sharp fingernails, digging into my back, raking down slowly. I could feel the red welts appearing.
And it hurt.
I don’t like to hurt.
I didn’t like to hurt.
But I made…I heard myself make…a soft ‘Ohhhh’.
I heard myself say “Please. Please. Again.”
I felt pain mix with the orgasm building inside me.
I tasted metal and wanted more and she gave it to me, even as his grasp on my throat tightened until my vision blurred at the edges.
I reached back, took her hands, and put them on my breasts.
I let her mark me, deeply, as I grunted, growled, came.

I can’t remember how I ended up in the cage.
Was it even that night?
I think…I think I spent days with them.
I don’t remember leaving them.
I remember…beautiful brutality.
And wanting more.
He forced his cock into my mouth.
I choked on it, and dug my hands into his ass to force him deeper.
He pushed my head between her thighs, and I feasted on her cunt.

I can’t remember how I ended up in the cage.
But I think…I think they showed it to me.
I think I crawled into it on my own.
I didn’t want to.
But I understood.
The cage, or goodbye.
For me, there wasn’t a choice.
So, I got down on all fours, and crawled inside.
I curled up, into a ball.
To them.
They watched, laying in bed together.
Staring at me.
They left the door open.
I could have crawled out, still.
I could have left.
They wanted me to have that choice.
For me, there wasn’t a choice.
I was afraid, terrified.
I knew I was doing the stupid thing.
I know I was doing what I had to do.
They left the door open.
I hated it.
I hated that fucking door, just hanging there.
I hated having to choose, again and again, every fucking second, to stay.
I hated that they were doing that to me.
I hated them so much.
I wanted them more, and more, each passing second.
Each second I didn’t leave.
Finally, oh god, finally, she came over, and cooed softly, calming me.
I had been making sounds, I guess.
Desperate, pathetic sounds.
She closed the door, and I heard the beautiful noise of metal on metal and latch closing and lock clicking into place.
“Shhhh,” she said.
I slept.

I don’t know how long I slept, but it feels like it might have been a very long time. My body aches all over, but that could be because I slept on the floor of my cage. The ache feels good.
I don’t see him anywhere, but I can hear her, somewhere nearby. Her heels click on a hard floor. I catch a glimpse of movement. A moment later, she comes into our room…our room…dressed perfectly, in a long, grey, knit dress, and heels that cost more than my paycheck. She’s carrying two bowls, and slips them inside my cage, through a gap in the bars.
One is filled with a thick, ground paste.
The other water.
Of course.
They are for me.
She crosses her arms and stares down at me.
Everything in my head says “Don’t do this. This is humiliating. This is demeaning. You aren’t a fucking animal.”
But, still.
I lap at the water a couple of times. It’s surprisingly hard to get much in my mouth. I try kissing the water, instead, and slurping it up. That works markedly better, and, glancing up, she nods with approval.
The food is a little trickier, though, because my hair keeps getting in it, which, even as I eat out of a bowl, on the floor, without my hands, in a cage, is gross. There isn’t much taste to it, but what flavor there is is pleasant, and I’m much hungrier than I realized. I stop paying attention to my hair and eat as much as I can, licking up every bit.
My first breakfast.
She removes the food bowl, and vanishes for a moment back into what I assume is the kitchen. I’ve smelled dog food plenty of times. This wasn’t that. I think…I think she cooked for me. That thought makes me blush. I don’t know if anyone has ever done that for me, before. Outside of my parents.
When she returns, she opens the door to my cage and leads me out by hand. We end up in a large bathroom with a massive tub. One of those big, deep, old school ones with the claw feet. She leaves me for a moment, clearly to take care of my business, and returns the instant after my flush.
She doesn’t speak.
She runs the bath with water so hot I can feel it against my skin from feet away. Taking my hand, she guides me into the steaming water. I try to go slowly, it really is way too hot, but her hand on my shoulder, and then her hand in my hair, make it more than clear that this isn’t acceptable, and she pushes me into the painfully hot water.
It hurts.
But only for a few moments.
She rolls up the sleeves of her dress, and picks up a loofah, placing a dollop of soap on it. She runs it over my neck, my arms, then my tummy and legs, under the steaming water. I move, at one point, in order to help her reach better, and she slaps my face. Not hard, just enough. Do not move. She lifts my leg, herself, to get where she needs to go.
Again, this is a strange thing, but also nice. I feel pampered. I feel controlled. The two, combined, are intoxicating.
But none of it compares to when she washes my hair. Her hands work the shampoo into everywhere. Her fingertips massage my scalp, and her fingernails, from time to time, scrape along, which makes me shiver, all down my spine. I could live here. I miss my cage, I do. I don’t have the words for it, but I do. This, though, makes a fine substitution.
I think I moan.
And then I am underwater.
I don’t have much air.
The soft hands are now hard.
One on my throat, pinning me.
The other in my hair, yanking, and squeezing, and forcing the soap from it.
It takes too long, and I begin to see stars, begin to feel a darkness deeper than what is behind my eyes.
And then I’m up, and gasping for air.
I don’t like the angry look she gives me.
I don’t want to ever see it again.

I am clean.

The shaving cream comes next. It takes both her hands to coat one leg, and keep it above the water. I love the patience she has. There’s no rush. No bus to make, no meeting to run off to. There is nothing but the long, slow, perfect movement of perfectly sharp steel along hot, wet, vulnerable flesh. Over, and over. I don’t have to look to know there wouldn’t dare be a stray hair left. I watch her, more closely, as she does my left leg. It isn’t a chore for her. It is something she loves. Like polishing a cherished keepsake. A task, but one deeply enjoyed. Almost meditatively.

Lastly, she pours oils into the water, onto my skin, her hands roaming freely, missing no spot. She pays special attention to my breasts, kneeding them, sometimes gently, sometimes roughly. Her fingertips pull at my nipples and I bite my lower lip to keep from moaning, to keep from arching my back. She pulls again, harder, twisting. I’m so proud of myself for staying still, staying silent.
It is much more difficult when those fingers move between my thighs. When they find my clit, and tease it, slick with water and soap and oil, and slip inside, one, then two, and work me. It is different than last night. More focused, and my orgasm hits me quickly. I can stay still, I can stay silent, but I can’t contro
l the flush of my skin, or the depth of my breathing, or how ragged it becomes, how rapid.
I feel a couple of tears as I close my eyes, tightly, and surrender, again, to her.
I can’t make myself cum like that.

I’m dizzy as she guides me out of the tub.
I’m barely breathing.
The air is hot, humid, heavy, and I’m still lost in orgasm, still weak.
But she keeps me standing, and the towel is absurdly thick and soft. I’m dry far too quickly, for my taste. She takes a new towel to dry my hair, and brushes it out.
And soon, again, far too soon, she is leading me out of the heaven that is the morning ritual, and back into my cage. But, that’s OK. It is very much where I belong. As much as I loved her ministrations, our morning ablutions, as much as I loved her care, and force, and punishment, and attentions, I loved the sound of the metal on metal as the cage door closed, and the clicking of mechanisms unseen as the lock slides into place.
I kiss the water in my bowl again, drinking in my new life, then curl up on the floor with a smile.
I hear her, hours later.
Did I sleep? I must have. Already, though, time is becoming difficult to track. I can see sunlight coming in through a window, somewhere, but that’s all I know of the outside world. It’s day.
I can hear her in the kitchen, the sound of metal clinking against ceramic. Something with a motor, then scraping.
Then her heels click, and the sound of a perfect dress along lean lines, if there is such a sound.
She’s bringing me lunch. I swear, I almost giggle with delight. I didn’t know I was hungry, but she did. And yes, I like being taken care of, by her. And I know it is that. She’s not my servant. I’m her possession, and I require maintenance. I’ve never thought of myself as requiring maintenance. It’s always been about getting through, never taking care. Surviving, not thriving. I’m writing inspirational quotes in my head, but I don’t care.
I’m hungry, but I try to show some kind of composure as I eat, instead of wolfing it down, as I did breakfast. I can’t be neat. I can’t be delicate. Not like this. But I can have some amount of pride. I can show her that I am worth having and keeping. I can make her proud to have me in her home, her bedroom, her cage.
I think I almost make her laugh. In my head, her laugh is a sweet thing. Distant, but not cruel. Really, though, I’m certain she has a great, cruel, laugh as well. And I like that.
Eaten more slowly, the flavor of my food is more enjoyable. It is a little like sushi, in that sense. Light, but deep. It has to be eaten with intent to be enjoyed. And so I do. I lick up every bit from my bowl, not out of hunger, or need, like this morning, but out desire, and out of appreciation. She makes this for me, from scratch, from nothing. I should appreciate what she does, and this is how I can show it. For now.

Hours later, I’m awakened by activity.
He’s home.
I’ve been left alone most of the afternoon, but I’m hoping that is going to change.
What do I know?
I hear them talking, but it’s a vague, distant thing. I don’t remember their house as large, so I wonder if they are doing this deliberately. Letting me feel their presence, but not their words, their intent.
That’s fine, I guess.
That’s more than fine.
I’m in my place.

More sounds from the kitchen. More almost-glances of her activity. Smells of cooking, and food, very much not meant for me. And the sounds of eating, the clinking of metal on china, and the tone of light-hearted conversation. I wonder if they are talking about me.
Please be talking about me.
I don’t need it.
All I need is to be here.

An hour passes.
Then two.
I know this because I’m stupid, and I’m literally counting seconds.
Because I don’t know what is happening, and I’m not secure yet.

Then they both appear. I don’t squeal with joy.
Mostly because I’m not sure I should be allowed to do so, but also because I’m a little bit afraid. So, I stay quiet, on all fours.
This is new.
Our first time.
His eyes clearly demand mine stay on him, as she moves behind me. I hear sounds of something moving, something wheeling along the floor. But I don’t dare break his gaze.
He opens a chest at the foot of the bed, and pulls out what looks like a collar with a couple of extensions.
He passes the thing through the bars of the cage, and wraps the collar around my throat. The extensions attach very securely to the cage.
He pulls the collar tight. Very tight. I have to struggle, a bit, to breathe.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, my neck is held in place. I can still move, but only the barest of milimeters.
My face is almost up against the cage itself.
All of this was done without him so much as grazing my flesh with his fingers.
All of this was done with my full attention on him.
Now he sits in a leather chair, several feet from me.
Legs spread.
As if I were being summoned to crawl to him.
I swallow, and it strains a bit against the collar.
I’ve forgotten her.
I refocus, and can hear her breathing. I hear her moving something against the bars behind me.
I smell lube.
I hear that lush, wet sound.
That dirty sound.
And a slight clank against the bars.
Then I hear something mechanical.
Something is inside me. Something phallic. Something moving. But it moves…it moves wrong. I don’t like it. And then…then I do. I like it. It touches places it shouldn’t. It makes me move. It makes me move against it. It fucks me. I fuck it back. I fuck it like the first time I liked sex. I clamp down on it, like my cunt could hold it, but it can’t. It breaks free and fucks me, it fights me, it forces me. I fight back, because I like it. This thing, this machine, is breaking me. I want it to never stop.
Each thrust almost puts my face into the bars of my cage, moves me, just for a moment, closer to him.
He’s rubbing his erection through his bespoke suit.
I can’t hear her, not over the sound of the machine, not over the sound of my cunt being taken, over and over, not over the sound of my moans.
I want to know what she is doing, feeling, seeing.
I’m fucking cumming.
I don’t want to think about them.
I want to fuck this monstrosity they’ve set loose on me.
I cry out, and want to collapse, but that isn’t how this works.
It keeps going.
And so I keep going.
Fucking back on it, impaling myself with intent and violence.
I will break this thing with my sex.
I will make it cum for me.
And it is going even faster now.
It hurts.
I don’t care.
It can fuck me like this all day, every day.
It goes on and on, until I’m so weak I am only able to hold position because I’m literally held in place by my throat.
I can’t even be wet.
It has fucked me, taken me.
I don’t hear myself moaning, just breathing.
Until I feel the thing pulled from me.
Then I hear myself give a tiny sob.
I miss it, already.
As broken as I am.
I look up, and see the wet stain in his pants.

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