Male Chastity Cage

My First Chastity Cage: How My Girlfriend Took Control

It started with a simple conversation, the kind you don’t expect to lead to a locked cage around your manhood.

My girlfriend, Bella, had always been the more adventurous one in the bedroom. She loved teasing, control, and—more than anything—denial. One night while we were curled up in bed, she ran her fingers down my chest and casually said, “I’ve been thinking… I want you in a chastity cage.”

I blinked. “Like, locked up?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she purred. “I want to be the one who decides when you get to cum. I want to own your cock, not just borrow it.”

I laughed nervously, unsure if she was joking. She wasn’t.

A few days later, she sent me a link to a sleek, transparent polycarbonate cage. “Order this,” her text read, followed by a winking emoji. I hovered over the “Buy” button, feeling a cocktail of fear and excitement. I clicked it.

When the discreet box arrived, Bella insisted on opening it. She held the cage up like a trophy, smirking. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

That night, she had me lie back on the bed, shaved and clean. She carefully slipped me into the cage, adjusting the ring and locking it with a tiny brass padlock. The click echoed in the room and in my head. I was locked. Really locked.

“Perfect,” she whispered, admiring her work. “Now you belong to me.”

The first few hours were strange. Every little movement reminded me that I was caged. I couldn’t get hard, not without an ache. And Bella? She loved it. She flaunted her body more than usual, knowing full well I couldn’t do anything about it. Skimpy panties, tight yoga shorts, bending over “accidentally” while brushing her hair…

Over the next few days, she ramped things up. “How’s my little locked boy?” she’d ask sweetly while grinding on me. At night, she’d tease me mercilessly, kissing and licking until I squirmed, then rolling over and falling asleep, leaving me throbbing inside my cage.

But strangely… I loved it. The loss of control, the ache, the submission. I started craving her approval more than release. She had total power over my pleasure, and I was addicted to it.

She kept the key on a necklace, often pulling it out to dangle it in front of me. “Maybe tonight,” she’d say… and then laugh.

Weeks passed before she finally unlocked me. And when she did, the orgasm was explosive. But it wasn’t just the release—it was the buildup, the denial, the feeling of having to earn her permission. That’s what made it incredible.

Now? I wear my cage most days. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for weeks. And Bella? She thrives on the control. She tells me when, how, and if I’m allowed pleasure. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because from the moment that lock clicked shut… I was hers.

Her Rules, Her Game

Bella didn’t just love control—she thrived on it. After that first unlock, she made it clear things were only just beginning.

“You did good,” she said, brushing her fingers over my soft, sensitive skin as she refit the cage. “But from now on, things are going to get… stricter.”

Stricter meant new rules.

Rule one: I don’t cum unless she says so.

Rule two: I don’t touch myself without permission.

Rule three: I wear the cage 24/7 unless she decides otherwise.

Rule four, and this one made me gulp: She could tease me anytime, anywhere—and I had to take it like a good little locked boy.

She tested that one right away. We went out for dinner a few nights later, and she wore a low-cut dress, no bra, her legs crossing and uncrossing like she was hosting a private striptease at the table. Under the tablecloth, she slipped her foot between my thighs and pressed it right against my cage.

“You’re already hard, aren’t you?” she whispered, amused at my discomfort. “Well… trying to be hard.”

I nodded, cheeks burning.

“Good. Then suffer. That’s your job.”

She giggled sweetly as she sipped her wine, acting innocent while I sat there throbbing and helpless.

Later, in the car, she straddled me in the passenger seat, kissing me fiercely, grinding her perfect body into mine while whispering, “You’re not cumming tonight. Just so you know.”

She made me beg that night—on my knees, naked, caged, desperate. She ran her nails down my chest and told me how hot it made her knowing she had the key, that I couldn’t touch her or myself unless she allowed it. She even made me repeat after her: “My cock belongs to you. I exist to please you. I wear your cage because I’m yours.”

After a week locked, she upped the ante again.

“I want you to wear it when we go shopping,” she said one Saturday morning. “No exceptions. I’m going to try on lingerie and tease the hell out of you in public. Let’s see if you can stay composed.”

That day at the mall, she turned the heat up to eleven. She took me into Victoria’s Secret and tried on lacy bras, thongs, silk robes—and made sure I got a full show behind the curtain. Once, she even opened the changing room door for a split second to give me a flash of her body, then giggled as I panicked.

“You’re so red,” she teased, brushing her lips against my ear. “Are you afraid someone might notice your cute little cage bulge?”

That night, she didn’t unlock me. She edged me. Again. And again. And again. She whispered the dirtiest things in my ear. And when I begged her for release, she just smiled.

“Not yet, baby. I’m really enjoying my power.”

And I was too far gone to argue. I was hers. Caged, aching, aroused beyond reason—and more fulfilled than I ever thought possible.