Whatever It Takes Pt. 02: Truth

Note from author: This is the second of a three part series and will not make sense without having read part one. I do not offer a recap.

Again, fair warning: this story covers a range of kinks and fetishes. And so if that isn't your thing, beware - and don't say you weren't warned. Enjoy.

I woke at just gone midnight, balls aching and the steel of the cock cage pinching against my shaft and cockhead. I clutched at the cage and pulled up in an attempt to relieve the pressure. I turned to Sarah, the key, threaded on a silver chain, hung between her breasts. I thought to wake her, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the whistle of her breath as it cut between just parted lips. She shifted, a little, and her slip rode up revealing milk white thighs and the suggestion of her blonde trimmed pussy. I could still smell her, the scent of her need, her sex, her fuck, and I thought to reach out and run my palm across the swell of her tits, trace the darkened turn of her areola with the flat of my tongue, the twist of her hardening nipple.

None of which was helping, all of which tightened the steel cage as my cock filled and pressed against the mesh.

I turned, half-sat, my hand still clutching at cold steel. My thickening cock had pushed the cage away from my body pulling the steel base-ring tight against my balls. I pressed the cage back into my body and cupped and tugged at my scrotum, the tightness tormenting with pain and pleasure in near equal measure.

'What's wrong?' Sarah mumbled, half turning, eyes lidded, her breath still soft.

'Uncomfortable is all.'

'Go to the bathroom then,' she said. 'Try passing water - it'll help.'

In the cold white light of the bathroom I stood naked before the mirror. My hairless cock and balls looked tiny and the cage protruded, swollen flesh squeezing and purpling against the confines of the steel mesh.

I lifted the toilet seat and pissed.

'Fuck,' I said, as the cage constrained and redirected the piss-spray splattering the toilet seat and against the floor.

'From now on, you'll need to do that sitting down,' Sarah said, 'Like a good sissy should.' She stood at the bathroom door, her smile cruel, but not entirely and not quite.

'Sit. Try again,' she said, 'and then clean up your mess. A good sissy always cleans up her mess.'

I wiped the seat, sat, and discovered that Sarah was right. Sitting was easier, necessary even. I pissed down into the bowl and, as I did so, my cock returned to it's flaccid state, partly resolved through the physiological act, and partly through the realisation that Sarah wasn't entirely wrong. Sissies do, indeed, piss sitting down, and, here I was, my tiny cock locked, inaccessible, making me tinier still.

Later, I lay against the pillow thinking about Kayla, thinking about Sarah, thinking about how we'd arrived at this. I thought about it all and mostly I thought about how I'd fucked up and how I might begin to make it right.

Sarah turned towards me, I reached for her hand - she pulled away.

'I'm sorry,' I said.

'It'll take time,' she said. Her eyes were bright, but sad. Sad, but not like before. This was a different Sarah. This was a harder Sarah. This Sarah was in control.

'I want to fix this,' I said.

She held my gaze, not saying a word. She took the cage in her hand, made a fist and swallowed my cock and balls whole.

'It really is a ridiculous thing,' she said, now I could feel the pressure, the pressure of her hand rather than the cage. 'A silly thing even: a silly thing serving next to no purpose.'

She held my dicklet for a moment and moment longer. She swiped at her right eye with her free hand smearing the wetness across her cheek. She swiped at her right, not her left, her left eye remained dry.

'I'll do whatever it takes,' I said.

'I want to believe you,' she said, as her expression turned from sadness to indifference to anger and then to something else, something that I did not recognise.

She squeezed and harder and my dicklet began to stiffen. I winced, shifted, uncomfortable. She let me go.

'It'll get easier,' she said, 'You'll adjust. You'll see.'

I pulled the covers across my crotch, my chest and up to my neck, willing my cock not to harden, not now and not again. Sarah saw me squirm, laughed, but the sound was hard and with sharper edges. She leaned towards me and I thought, for a moment, that she might kiss me. But, instead, she reached out one last time, patted my dicklet as if it were a small pet, turned away.

The night shrank down to nothing and, instead of counting sheep, I tried to recall how many times the average man might expect to suffer an erection while sleeping. I counted, and, as I did so, my cock again began to harden.

The morning and Sarah woke first, showered, and returned clutching the towel against her slight body, holding it tight from beneath her arms just across the curve of her areolas. She pulled back the bedsheets with a flick of the wrist.

'Shit,' I said with a gasp, pulling my knees up to my chest.

'Present,' she said.

I blinked like a dumb animal.

'Let me see,' she said. 'Present.'

I remembered my promise to fix this. 'Whatever it takes,' that's what I'd said. And so I straightened my legs and lay flat against my back. My steel sheathed cock hardened, painful, and pressed upright.

She cupped my balls, and then raised her long finger from my taint to the cold of the steel cage.

'Good girl. Nice and smooth,' she said, 'and you better be sure to keep it that way. Because I will be checking.'

I showered, taking care to soap and clean the cage. Sarah readied herself in the bedroom.

'What's this?' I said, into the bedroom, towel wrapped around my waist.

Sarah had laid out my suit, a tie, a white cotton shirt, socks, and a red lace thong.

'Dress,' she said.

I slid open my draw to grab a pair of boxer shorts. My underwear had gone, all of it replaced with thongs, g-strings, lace panties, red, black, pink, yellow, and electric blue.

'Where have my things gone?' I asked.

'I've made some changes,' Sarah said. 'Now get dressed.'

I held up the red lace thong. 'You can't be serious?'

'Completely,' she said.

'But I'm going into the office.'

'And?'

'What if someone sees?'

'How will someone see?' she said, 'unless you're planning on dropping your pants.'

'But...' I said and then shut my idiot mouth.

'Do I need to remind you why we are here, Tom?' she said. 'That had you been capable of keeping your pants on, things might look very different this morning.'

'I'm sorry,' I said.

'I don't want to hear sorry. Now put the fucking thong on.'

I pulled the lace against my legs.

'Wait,' Sarah said. She was behind me and stretched around to clutch at the cage. She tugged at my dicklet to position me, red panties around my ankles and threatening to trip. She ran the flat of her hand against my ass.

'No, no,' she said, 'This won't do.' She led me by the dicklet into the bathroom and, again, reached for the foam and razor.

'Bend,' she said.

I leaned forward as she used the showerhead to rinse and then lather up my back, legs, ass cheeks and crack.

'Hold still,' she said, beginning with my back and then my legs. I trembled as she worked the razor along my thighs. 'Enjoying this, are we?' she said as blood surged, my dicklet filling the cage.

She traced the swell of my ass with the blade. 'Now spread,' she said, and I reached back, clutched and pulled both cheeks apart.

'Cute,' she said, and ran the thick of her thumb across my starfish. My hole winked and my dicklet ached. 'Hold,' she said as she swiped with the razor working out from the centre to the rise of my ass. She hosed me down with the shower, rubbed cream into my legs and crack, and then finished the job.

She positioned me before the mirror and swept her hand across the smooth of my skin. I shivered, the chill of the morning, the vulnerability of what she had done to me, the thrill of what I might become.

'Pretty,' she said, 'Now dress.'

I pulled the lace against my calves, over my knees, and along my thighs. My dicklet twitched, my dicklet throbbed, my dicklet thrummed.

'Wait,' she said, and scooped up a dribble of precum which had begun to gather at the tip of the cage. She fed it to me and I sucked at her thumb like a starving thing.

'Good girl,' she said.

I pulled the thong on tight, the crotch cupping the cage which, despite my unimpressive size, now bulged obscenely.

'It doesn't fit,' I said.

'Please,' she said, 'There's more than enough room in there for that tiny dicklet.'

The crotch began to darken as my dicklet pulsed and oozed within the tightness of the cage. Sarah sniggered.

'I should take those off you and make you suck them clean,' she said.

My chest fluttered and the cage pulled up as I hardened. My chest fluttered and I began to flush worrying that Sarah might see. But it was too late, she grinned, pressed the palm of her hand against the sodden lace and held it up to my face. I understood and lapped at her hungrily with my tongue.

'See,' she said, 'just like a sissy. And sissies wear panties. Always.'

I pulled my trousers up and over the thong, the sensation of lace causing my skin to crackle and my cock to pinch. I fastened my belt and checked myself out in the mirror. The presence of the cage was not visible through my trousers, but the thong straps cut up in vivid red against my hips.

'You're going to need to be careful about that,' Sarah said. 'Unless, of course, you want people to know.'

And although I wasn't expecting it, and although I couldn't explain, the thought of being seen, perhaps by Charlie from Accounts, caused my skin to prickle and thrill.

Charlie, head shaven clean. Charlie, stacked like a boxer. Charlie, sneering and mean. The Charlie who knows what he wants. The Charlie who takes what he needs. The Charlie who never apologises.

The thought of it, the thought of him, caused my dicklet to swell and pulse and ooze. Now shaved bare for the first time and I could feel my boy-hole twitch at the thought of him, the thought of Charlie.

And remembering, Samantha and Jill at the coffee machine and me, pretending not to hear, but listening to every word.

'He's the biggest I've ever had.'

'How big?' asked Jill.

And me, measuring the milk into my mug, but watching Samantha at the very edge of my peripheral vision gesture with her hands, widening and widening and widening, all to denote a size and scale that I could but only imagine.

'Oh god,' said Jill, 'I'm surprised you're still walking.'

Samantha and Jill giggling, only now, the constriction of the cage, the softness of the lace, those same giggles were now transformed into sniggers. Sniggers because Samantha and Jill had been able to guess how unlike Charlie I might be.

All because of my tiny cock. No, my dicklet. My boy-clit. My cute boy-cage tucked into red panties. My smooth boy-hole. This thing I was becoming. This thing perhaps I'd always been.

At the thought of it my dicklet twinged, my dicklet seeped, my dicklet pulsed, the crotch of the thong now a darker red. My dicklet pinched and my boy-hole blinked.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck was happening to me?

And Sarah, Sarah watched, Sarah watched it all. Unreadable, immovable, serene.

I pulled on my shirt, my tie, my jacket, and leaned to kiss Sarah's cheek. She pulled away, and instead squeezed at the cage through my pants.

'Tonight you're taking me for dinner,' she said, 'And tonight we talk. I want to know everything. I want to know the truth.

'Whatever it takes,' is what I'd promised. And so I worried through the day. I worried about that night. I worried about what Sarah might ask. I worried about what I might say in return. And I worried whether the shape of the cage might be visible through my trousers, and I worried whether the vivid red strap of the thong could be seen through the white of my shirt.

I worried about it all and I worried about what any and all of it might mean.

By lunch I desperately needed to piss. I'd put it off, not wanting to risk the restroom, worrying that others might guess at what I was hiding beneath my clothes. Worried that others might see what I was becoming.

I needed to piss and so I rushed to the bathroom without thinking it. Except Charlie was there. Right there. Shoulders wide, arms thick, frame solid. Charlie was there, right there, pissing at the urinal, and I thought to turn, I thought to leave, but he caught me.

'Hey,' he said with a lazy familiarity.

Without understand it, without knowing why, I began to redden. But my dicklet tightened, just a little, but enough to feel.

I mumbled something in return and lined up beside him. I dropped my hand to my zipper, knuckles brushing against the hardness of the cage, and I remembered and then hesitated.

Charlie turned.

'All good?' he asked.

And I didn't intend it. I swear to the infernal gods above that I gave it no thought whatsoever. But, as he turned, gravity took hold and my eyes tipped down, down to his waist, then further still, down and down to where his cock hung. His cock, a slab of thick white meat. His cock, flaccid, but twice the length of mine, and maybe more besides.

I caught myself, but not before Charlie had seen, had seen it all.

'All good?' he asked, but this time his lips a crooked grin, sly, sneering.

I stepped back, half stumbled, trying to look away, but his body square, following me, his right hand gripping his thickness, shaking ever so, as if to entice me, as if to draw me back, as if to draw me to my knees, as if to tempt me to press my palms against the tiled wall, arch my back, present myself before reaching with hands and fingers to spread the smooth tightness of my cheeks.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

I turned the catch with a click. In the dim of the cubicle I stood panting. Panting and listening to the sound of his footsteps as he made his way from the urinal, to the sink, and then back again, pausing there, right there, just beyond the door.

'Good talking,' he said, his voice loud, too loud, reverberating, and I worried that someone might hear and I worried that someone might know and I worried that someone might understand. That someone might understand that which I did not. My dicklet spasmed and although I did not intend it and would have not, I groaned. I groaned and then worried that Charlie might have heard.

He stood for a moment more. I imagined that I could hear the soft sigh of his breath, the soft thump of his heart, the scent of his fresh sweat. I leaned back against the door, the turn of the world steadying by perceptible degrees. He tapped his foot, once, twice, and then the trip of his step as he walked away, the door swinging shut behind him.

I dropped my pants, my thong, the swell of my dicklet forcing the cage away from my body, the back-ring tugging at my balls, tightening them, the flesh darkening from pale to blue. I adjusted, steel now warm, my cock flesh angry red and squeezing through the tip of the cage like a clit, my foreskin pulling back like a hood.

I grabbed at the cage and jacked at it, trying to stimulate my cock, desperate to resolve the need, the maddening need, but nothing but the hardness of steel and the near frictionless slide against my dicklet.

Fuck. I felt nothing. Fuck.

My dicklet dripped precum. I dabbed at the angry-red tip with my finger and shuddered at the near painful sensation. That was something. I sucked at my finger, the taste salt and sweet but now craving more, now needing this. I wet my finger with drool and worked at the tip of my dicklet, fingers swirling across the nub as if it were a clit, hips thrusting as if to increase pressure, as if to create friction.

Fuck. But needing more, more to tip me over, more to get me off, the pressure and tightness and pinch of the cage counteracting any suggestion of pleasure.

I thought to call Sarah, I thought to say that this is enough, I thought to say that this is too much.

But I'd promised. Whatever it takes. That's what I'd said. I'd promised and to turn away from that, to turn that promise in on itself, threatened everything and more.

That afternoon passed in a blur. The need lingering, the need ebbing, the need surging, the need forever there but with no resolution. The weight of the cage a constant reminder, tugging at my dicklet, pinching at my dicklet, tightening against my dicklet. The world fogged, obscured, distorted and I at the centre of it all.

It was too much. Yes, I'd promised. But not this, no, not this.

I arrived home intending to ask Sarah to remove the cage. Whatever the outcome, whatever the consequence, this needed to end.

Instead, I found her waiting for me.

'Jesus,' I said.

Sarah, red dress, moulded tight against every dip and swell and curve. I'd always wanted her to wear red, I'd always wanted this for her, but she would not.

'I'd feel slutty,' she'd say, with a blush.

Only this dress cut short, two inches, perhaps three, below her pantie line, the suggestion of more each and every time she moved. The milk-white curve of her breasts accentuated by the cut of the chest. Her finger, her long finger, wedding ring sparkling, tugged at the silver chain. She tugged and the key, the small key, lifted and then sank back between the deep valley of her tits.

'Well?' she asked.

'You look perfect,' I said.

In the bedroom she watched me undress. She tugged at my balls with her left hand and pawed at the cage, now a sticky mess, with her right.

'This will never do,' she said, holding her palm against my mouth. I lapped at it, the bitter taste causing my dicklet to twitch. 'Go clean up,' she said, 'I'll pick you out something to wear.'

I emerged from the shower to find that she'd laid out dark trousers, black socks, a crisp white shirt, and electric pink panties. I held the panties, an open question.

'What?' she asked with a smile. 'Tonight I'm feeling playful.'

I pulled the panties along the smoothness of my legs and then tight around the cage. I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror. Naked, shaved bare, wearing pink too-too small panties, two words stitched across the crotch, 'Dirty Girl.' Sarah, behind me, ran her hand along the smooth curve of my ass. She reached up, fingernails sharpened, and tweaked at my nipples. I shivered, hardened, pinched, diminished.

'Such a cute sissy,' she said and, without understanding why, I shuddered with something like pleasure.

Sarah scooped up precum from the tip of the cage, fed it to me, I sucked at her finger.

'What do we say?'

'Thank you,' I said.

'Good girl,' she said. My dicklet throbbed. 'Now get dressed,' she said.

We arrived at the restaurant and the Maitre d' led us to a booth in the far corner. He lit a candle and we sat at the table amidst flickering shadow.

The waiter, dirty blonde, young, smug, stacked, took our drinks order. Sarah ordered champagne.

The waiter took it down and, as he turned to leave, Sarah called him back, leaned forward, her breasts threatening to spill out onto the table. She took his nametag between her fingers, her ring finger sparkled.

'Jordan,' she paused, holding my eyes while I held my breath, 'thank you.' She said it, her hand against his, fluttering, restless, for but a moment.

'A pleasure,' he said. He looked to me and winked, smug, then to his friend behind the bar. 'What the fuck?' That's what his expression said. His friend shrugged with a grin that suggested he'd seen it all and more besides.

Jordan left and I reached for Sarah's hand across the flat of the table. She withdrew, but with a smile, with something like playfulness.

'Tonight is for me,' she said.

Jordan returned, poured the champagne, Sarah emptying the flute with a single swallow. 'More please Jordan,' she said and he refilled the glass.