Locked In Pt.2

The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality, the soft snick of the latch echoing louder in his head than it had any right to. The suite was dark but not silent — the city murmured gently through the massive windows, the occasional car horn or burst of laughter rising from the streets below. Kieran leaned back against the door for a moment, exhaling slowly as his forehead pressed against the cool wood.

He was warm. Too warm. Not like a fever, not sick — but flushed. His cheeks had been pink all day, and not from blush. His chest, too, and the insides of his thighs… a kind of low, persistent heat that didn’t leave even when he tried to ignore it. Every step, every movement, had felt like it stirred something under his skin. Buzzing. Tingling. Like static in his bloodstream.

It’d been subtle at first — just a strange calmness in the morning, a sense of being “floaty,” like the world had slowed down half a second. Colors had looked a little richer. The texture of the sweater against his arms had felt impossibly comforting.

But as the hours passed, it deepened. Became something more intrusive.

His skin had felt like it was glowing — not in the way Celeste talked about during skincare, but like he was lit from the inside. And his body kept giving him these strange signals. Like when he’d crossed his legs on the couch and the fabric of his leggings brushed between his thighs just so, and he’d had to fight not to shiver. Or when he’d seen his reflection in the mirror and felt... oddly proud of how soft he looked. The shape of his lips. The gentle fall of his hair.

He’d never felt so put together, so at ease — and yet so completely, maddeningly unfulfilled.

Now, alone in his room, the sensation had sharpened into something undeniable.

Need.

Not just physical, not just the throbbing pressure behind the cage — although that was getting unbearable, too. No, this was emotional. Longing. Like there was a phantom ache inside him that needed something deeper than just touch.

He peeled the oversized sweater off with slow hands, the movement making him wince as the cool air kissed his overheated skin. The cotton clung slightly as it left his body, dragging gently across his breasts — or the forms, really, but they felt heavier today. More real. More his.

He stepped out of the leggings next, trying not to let his thighs rub too much on the way down. That friction had become dangerous. Electric. His skin was sensitive, almost hypersensitive — each shift of his hips made his breath hitch.

The panties hugged his hips like a second skin, delicate and seamless, with a butterfly lace pattern stretching across the smooth, caged front. That image in the mirror — feminine, unassuming, harmless — stared back at him as he slowly approached the vanity.

He sat, crossing one leg over the other out of habit. His posture was immaculate. Wrists loose, back gently arched. He even tilted his head the way Celeste had shown him, so the light would catch his cheekbones.

Even alone, in private, he moved like her now.

And the cage between his legs pulsed.

He closed his eyes.

This wasn’t normal. This feeling — it was too much. He wasn’t just aroused. He was starving for it. ****. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to cry and melt and rocks his hips against some sexy girl until he exploded.

And he couldn’t.

His hand trembled as it drifted toward the waistband of his panties — not to take them off, just to press. Just to feel something. A little pressure. A little friction. But the cage was there, cold and firm beneath the soft satin.

Locked.

His breath caught in his throat. A soft, broken sound escaped — not quite a whimper. His thighs clenched together, squeezing the cage deeper into that impossible position, pushing against nothing. No pleasure. No escape. No release.

He wanted to scream. Or sob. Or collapse into the bed and writhe until the ache subsided. But he knew it wouldn’t. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

He reached for the drawer and pulled out the nightgown Celeste had given him for “calmer nights.” It was ivory silk, bias-cut, with delicate lace along the cups and hem. He’d hated it at first. Too feminine. Too elegant. Now, he just slid it over his head with practiced hands, the material falling effortlessly into place. It clung to his figure the way it was designed to — smoothing over his waist, brushing softly along his thighs, dipping gently between his non-existent breasts.

When he looked at himself in the mirror again, he didn’t see Kieran at all.

The girl looking back was flushed, glowing, pink-cheeked and glossy-lipped. Her lips were slightly parted, her breath uneven. She looked needy. Tense. Pent-up.

Beautiful.

He hated how true that felt.

His fingers brushed his collarbone, trailing down slowly. His body wanted — God, it ached to fuck. But there was nothing he could do. No way to relieve it. Even grinding against the mattress wouldn’t work with the cage. It just pressed deeper into him, making the frustration worse.

He slid into bed and curled on his side, silk rustling against silk. The sheets were cool. Too cool. He wanted warmth, contact, someone to hold him through this strange, unbearable craving.

Maybe this was just part of being Kiara.

He bit his lip, squeezing his thighs again, trying to create some kind of pressure. The cage shifted slightly, pressing against nerves that sent little shocks of pleasure up his spine — but never enough.

His eyes fluttered shut, breathing shallow, thighs tensing over and over, as if that would satisfy the deep, aching heat growing inside him.

But it wouldn’t.

It couldn’t.

And so, for the first time, Kieran truly understood the nature of the cage.

It wasn’t punishment.

It was training.

The lights were off, the door locked, and the moonlight bleeding in through sheer curtains bathed everything in soft silver. Kieran stood in the middle of his bedroom, arms limp at his sides, breathing just a little too fast. His skin felt warm — still. It had been like this all day. A low-grade heat crawling under his skin, centered mostly in his face, chest, and thighs, like he was perpetually blushing from the inside out. He was flushed without reason. Hyperaware of every movement, every shift in fabric, every breeze on bare skin.

And underneath all of that, something else had been building.

Something needier.

The dreamy, floaty calm from earlier had turned into something more fevered. A constant hum under his thoughts, a kind of emotional horniness that didn’t just live between his legs — it was in his chest, in his stomach, in the back of his throat. It felt like being hungry and homesick and aroused, all at once.

And now, standing in his soft robe and nothing else, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Kieran dropped onto the edge of the bed, tugging the robe open and tossing it aside. His skin prickled at the sudden exposure, nipples tight against the chill, his thighs pressed together as if trying to squeeze the ache out of himself. The little satin cage nestled perfectly between his legs was smooth, silent, and maddening.

His hands went to it automatically. No thinking. Just need.

He cupped himself first, gently. That familiar heaviness should’ve been there — the weight, the tension, the pulse. Instead, there was just sleek metal and pressure. Cold and humiliating. He ground the heel of his palm into the cage, pushing. Then again. A sharper press. Nothing. His hips rocked forward instinctively, but there was no give, no friction that actually did anything. Just a dull, muted throb that grew worse the more he tried.

He leaned back on one elbow, legs falling open without thinking, and reached again — fingertips dancing around the base of the cage, tugging at the waistband of his panties and trying to find just the right angle. A groan slipped from his lips, soft and frustrated, as he tried to stroke over the device with his palm, as if maybe enough friction through fabric could simulate pleasure.

But it was locked. Everything was contained. No shaft to grip, no head to stimulate. Just the polished curve of the cage pressing into his swollen frustration. And worse — his cock, aching and straining, had nowhere to go. The harder he got, the tighter the cage bit down. The more he needed, the less he had.

He tried grinding. Against his palm. Against the bed. Against a pillow. The silk of his robe. A corner of the mattress. Anything.

At one point, he was on his hands and knees, hips rocking back into the plush throw blanket balled beneath him, moaning quietly into the crook of his arm. The position felt obscene, pornographic — his back arched, his thighs squeezing involuntarily, ass tilted in a way that would've made him blush even a week ago. Now, it just felt ****.

Nothing helped.

Even when he rolled onto his back again and tried thumbing over his nipples — just to give his brain something to respond to — the sensation fizzled out uselessly. His chest had become more sensitive, yes. His skin softer. But not enough. It wasn’t relief. It was just another tease.

Another reminder.

He clenched his jaw and tried again, grinding the cage harder this time, wincing as the metal dug in against his body. The heat in his gut bloomed higher, like an orgasm that couldn’t crest. A tight knot that kept drawing tighter. There was no outlet. No finish line. Just this spiraling torment.

He let out a whine — high and thin and needy. His hand flew to cover his mouth, heart hammering.

Had he just whined?

That wasn’t his voice. That wasn’t his reaction. But it had come so easily. So naturally. Just like how he kept his knees together without thinking. Just like how his wrists now curled delicately when limp. Just like how he moved his hips when he walked — that subtle, swaying rhythm that had replaced his old stride.

Celeste had drilled it into him. Posture. Grace. Control.

But now, in this state — flushed and caged and aching — he wasn’t in control at all.

He collapsed back onto the bed with a sob of frustration, kicking the sheets off entirely. Sweat clung to the hollow of his throat and the undersides of his thighs. His whole body felt wrong — hot and electric and wet, like some part of him was aching in a way that wasn’t even masculine anymore.

He tried again. And again. Soft whimpers escaping. Fingers trembling. He rocked. He squeezed his thighs together. He even tried humping a pillow like some pathetic girl in heat.

Still nothing.

And the worst part? Every single attempt _felt _like something a girl would do.

It wasn't that he wanted to be that. He didn’t. He hadn’t asked for this. But he could see it — in the mirror. In the way his lips parted and his eyes fluttered and his cheeks flushed. His movements. His reactions. His need.

Trained. Softened. Bent into something that could feel this much without release.

He was panting now, legs spread wide, one hand over the cage, the other twisted in the sheets. His hair was clinging to his cheek, mascara faintly smudged from earlier when he’d rubbed his eyes without thinking. He looked like a mess.

A ****, flushed, denied little mess.

And still. Still the cage held. Still it denied him. Still it whispered, silently: No. Not yours anymore.

Kieran bit back a sob, curled into a trembling ball, and finally gave up.

There was no orgasm coming. No satisfaction. Just more ache. More heat. More… need.

And no way to let it out.