Witchy Games

Friday morning begins exactly as the three days before it. You wake him with your weight already settled on his chest, your wet pussy smeared across his mouth, the key dangling from your fingers like a taunt he is not allowed to touch. The cage has been locked since Monday. Ninety-six hours. His cock inside the clear plastic is a deep, angry red, the head flattened and shiny, the skin looking almost bruised from constant pressure and denial. His balls are tight and dark. When your tongue first touches the plastic he flinches hard enough to shake the bed.

“Still no freedom,” you whisper, grinding down until he has no choice but to open for you. “Not until I say. You’re going to work locked for the fifth day. You’re going to hurt. And if you’re very good… maybe tonight.”

You use his mouth until you come, slow and mean, then supervise every second of his shower and dressing. Tighter underwear again. The cage forced against his body with every step. At the door you crouch, lick a long, wet stripe up the plastic, and send him to the convenience store with the same hourly photo order as Thursday.

Your workday is a haze of wet heat and anticipation. You edge through two meetings with your skirt pulled up and two fingers moving under the desk. The private browser stays open. You watch the most vicious chastity content you have found yet, saving clips, refining ideas, your clit swollen and throbbing against the seam of your skirt. Every hourly photo from Jake shows the same ruined, leaking cage. You reply to each with a single word: *Mine.*

At 2:17 p.m. the delivery notification lights up your phone. The package is waiting at your front door. The trick fabric tape. The one you ordered in a haze of mean inspiration three nights ago. The tape that lies in the most perfect way: every real inch is measured as three-quarters of an inch. One and one-third real inches reads as one inch. Two and two-thirds real inches reads as two. Three and ninety-nine hundredths reads as three. Five and one-third reads as four. His actual three-and-three-quarters-inch erection will measure almost exactly two and three-quarters inches on the tape. His soft two-and-one-sixth will measure barely over one and a half. The numbers will look devastating on camera.

You text him immediately.

*Freedom tonight. New role-playing porno session. Be ready.*

His reply is almost instant: a smiling devil emoji and a party-popper meme that somehow still looks desperate.

You leave the office early.

At five o’clock sharp the front door closes behind him. He is still in his work clothes, the cage a visible, painful-looking bulge. You are already naked except for a soft measuring tape draped around your neck like a seamstress’s scarf—the trick tape, the lying tape. The phone is on the tripod. The lights are arranged. Three separate recordings will be made before the night is over.

You point to the center of the living room.

“Strip. Stand on the sheet. Arms out. You’re being fitted for a suit, and I am your seamstress. The camera is rolling the moment your clothes hit the floor.”

**First porno creation – The Seamstress Fitting**

The red record light blinks. Jake stands naked on the white sheet, locked cage heavy between his thighs, wrists crossed behind his back as instructed. You circle him slowly, the soft yellow trick tape trailing from your fingers, your bare breasts brushing his arm as you pass.

“Good afternoon, sir,” you say in a bright, professional, slightly bored seamstress voice. “We’ll be taking a full set of measurements today for your new suit. Please remain still. Any movement will be noted as non-compliance.”

You start with his chest, his waist, his inseam—perfectly accurate numbers spoken aloud for the camera. Then you drop to your knees in front of him and lift the locked cage with two fingers as though it is a mildly distasteful piece of fabric.

“And finally the most important measurement for the trousers, sir. We must know exactly how much room to leave for the gentleman’s… endowment.”

You unlock the cage on camera. The sound of the padlock opening is loud in the quiet room. His cock springs free, already half-hard, marked with deep red lines from the plastic, the head almost purple. You stroke it once, twice, until it stands fully erect—three and three-quarters real inches of desperate, leaking meat. Then you lay the trick tape along the top side from the base to the tip, careful not to press into his body.

The number that shows is two and three-quarters inches.

You make a soft, polite sound of surprise and write it on the little notepad you prepared.

“Two and three-quarters inches erect. Girth…” You wrap the lying tape around the shaft just under the head. The number reads two and three-quarters again. “Two and three-quarters inches around as well. My. We shall have to take the trousers in quite a bit in the front, sir. Most of our gentlemen require significantly more room. I’ll make a note that the client is… compact.”

Jake’s cock twitches hard in your hand. A thick drop of pre-cum rolls down the underside. You look up at him with perfect seamstress innocence and give the head a soft, pitying pat.

“It’s quite all right, sir. Many men are smaller than they believe. We’ll simply tailor around the limitation. Please turn to the side so I can check the hang of the fabric over the area.”

You spend the next twenty minutes measuring him again and again with the trick tape, each time announcing the reduced numbers in the same calm, professional voice while the camera drinks in every detail. You compare the tape to his cock. You hold the small dildo beside him and note that even the four-and-one-half-inch toy is “noticeably more substantial than the client’s current measurement.” You make him read the false numbers aloud for the camera. By the time you finally stroke him to a shuddering, untouched edge and then lock him back into the cage “for the remainder of the fitting,” he is dripping and glassy-eyed. You end the first video with a close-up of the notebook page: *Client endowment: 2¾" × 2¾". Recommend extra tailoring. Very little fabric required.*

**Second porno creation – The Keyholder’s Inspection**

You give him ten minutes to drink water and breathe. Then the second recording begins.

This time you are pure keyholder. Black slip, the real measuring tape (the honest one) around your neck for contrast, the trick tape still close at hand. Jake is on his back on the bed, wrists loosely tied to the headboard, the cage locked again.

“Inspection day,” you tell the camera, voice low and proprietary. “My locked clit dick has been in chastity for five days. We’re going to see exactly how small it is when it’s finally allowed to get hard, and then we’re going to put it right back where it belongs.”

You unlock him. His cock surges upright, darker than you have ever seen it, the veins standing out, the head almost shiny-black with blood. You stroke it slowly while staring into the lens.

“Look how angry it is. Five days of denial and it’s still only…” You lay the trick tape along it again. “Two and three-quarters inches. Adorable. My little micromachine. My favorite baby dick.”

You spend the entire second video edging him with one hand while the other holds the lying tape against his shaft so the camera never loses the false measurement. You slap the head lightly with the tape. You wrap the tape around it like a tiny leash and tug. You make him thank you for every stroke. When he is shaking and begging in broken syllables you lean down, take the entire three-and-three-quarters real inches into your mouth, and suck him with long, wet, filthy pulls while the trick tape is still looped around the base like a tag. You bring him to the edge four separate times and stop completely each time, wiping the tip with the tape and showing the camera how the false numbers never change. At the end of the video you lock him back up while he is still throbbing, kiss the plastic, and smile at the lens.

“Still two and three-quarters when it’s hard. Still mine. Still locked.”

**Third porno creation – Freedom, With Conditions**

It is past eleven when the third recording starts. Jake’s eyes are wet. The cage is fogged. The sheets are a disaster of pre-cum and sweat and your earlier wet spots.

You unlock him one final time and do not lock him again.

“Freedom,” you tell him, voice soft and dangerous at once. “But you’re going to earn every second of it on camera.”

You push him onto his back and sink down onto his cock in one slow, liquid motion—every real inch of his three and three-quarters disappearing inside you until your ass meets his thighs. The trick tape is still in your hand. You hold it up to the camera, then lay it against his lower belly so the false two-and-three-quarters-inch measurement is visible in the same frame as the place where his cock is buried inside you.

“Look at that,” you pant, beginning to ride him in tight, deep circles. “Two and three-quarters inches of freedom after five full days. And it’s still so small I can barely feel it stretching me. My adorable little unlocked baby dick. My clit dick. My favorite micromachine.”

You fuck him slowly at first, then harder, one hand braced on his chest, the other holding the lying tape against his stomach so the camera never loses the humiliating number. You make him read the measurement aloud every time you bottom out. You bounce until your breasts are moving heavily and your voice has gone hoarse. When he starts to swell and throb inside you you lean down, press your forehead to his, and whisper the final order of the night.

“You’re allowed to come. But you have to thank me for letting this tiny two-and-three-quarters-inch cock finish inside me after five days locked. Say it.”

He breaks on the third thrust after that. The orgasm that rips through him is violent and almost silent—his mouth open, eyes rolled back, cock kicking hard as five days of denial empty into you in thick, endless spurts. The volume is shocking; you feel it flooding you, leaking out around his smaller shaft, running down his balls. The feel of it triggers your own climax. You grind down hard, the trick tape crumpled in your fist, and come with a long, broken moan while the camera records every pulse of his cock and every drop that escapes.

You stay seated on him until he softens completely. Then you lift off, watch the thick mixture of your combined cum slide out of you onto his spent, shiny cock, and reach for the real measuring tape just for the camera’s benefit. You measure him soft one last time with the honest tape—two and one-sixth inches—then with the trick tape—barely over one and a half—and hold both numbers up to the lens side by side.

“Real size. Fake size. Still mine either way.”

You stop the recording at 1:47 a.m.

The rest of the night is quieter only in volume. You clean him with warm wet cloths, feed him water and bites of cold pizza by hand, and keep the unlocked cock in your palm like a pet while the three videos upload. Every few minutes you give it a soft, proprietary stroke and watch it try, weakly, to harden again. At 2:03 a.m. you finally turn off the last light, pull him against your chest, and let the heavy, satisfied silence of five days of absolute ownership settle over both of you. His breathing eventually slows. Your fingers stay curled around his soft, spent, newly freed cock until sleep takes you too—already deciding that the lying tape will never be far from the bed again.