Chapter 5: The Consent

Sean’s condo was all smooth edges and cold surfaces—brushed hardwood floors, matte-slate cabinetry, soft lighting that pooled in corners like secrets. It smelled faintly of leather and cedar, rich and masculine, like the inside of an expensive car. Just as I remembered. The moment I crossed the threshold, it felt like I no longer belonged to myself.

Sean closed the door behind me with a quiet click, the sound final in a way that made my pulse spike.

I stood there awkwardly, still in my jacket, clutching the strap of my bag like a child unsure where to put his shoes. My heart thudded in my chest—slow, loud, stupid. Sean’s presence behind me radiated heat, pressure, gravity.

“Drop your clothes,” he said.

No greeting. No small talk. Just that.

I turned slowly to face him.

He was barefoot, still wearing the same pair of soft grey sweatpants from the doorway. His bare chest was gone now—he’d pulled on a dark henley shirt, rolled to the elbows. His hair was slightly tousled, golden in the low light. He looked maddeningly comfortable, maddeningly in control.

I hesitated for only a breath. Then I began to undress.

Jacket first. Then shoes. Belt. Shirt. Trousers.

Each movement felt exaggerated, slow, as if I were underwater. The silence between us thickened with every item I peeled away. I couldn’t look at him. Not directly.

When I finally stepped out of my briefs, I was left in nothing but the stainless-steel chastity cage—a small, merciless device that clung to me like shame itself.

Sean’s eyes swept over me with clinical detachment. He said nothing at first. Just let me stand there, exposed.

“Good,” he said at last. “You’re learning.”

He turned away and walked deeper into the condo. I followed automatically, naked and barefoot on cold concrete, the hum of the fridge and the low notes of a jazz piano from hidden speakers my only companions.

The living room opened wide—floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the dark city skyline. A single armchair was positioned to face it, minimalist, unwelcoming. Sean gestured toward the couch.

“Sit.”

I sat. Carefully. The cage pressed uncomfortably against me as I shifted to find a tolerable position. I folded my hands in my lap instinctively, but Sean gave me a sharp glance.

“Don’t cover yourself.”

I dropped my hands.

Sean moved to the open kitchen and retrieved a short glass of something dark. He poured only one. Then he turned and leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, studying me like a problem to solve.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

I blinked. “Sir?”

“The cage,” he said. “How does it feel—right now.”

I flushed. “Tight,” I admitted. “It’s ... uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “But you’re hard.”

I looked down. I hadn’t even noticed—my cock, as much as it could, was pushing helplessly against the cage, the skin around it flushed and swollen. The pressure was immediate and sharp.

Sean smirked. “That didn’t take long. You always get hard the moment you’re humiliated, or is that just with me?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, and sat in the armchair opposite me, legs spread slightly, drink still in hand. He looked completely at ease. I sat naked before him like an animal on display, the cage gleaming in the dim light.

“Answer the question.”

“I ... I don’t know, Sir.”

“Try again.”

“It’s worse with you,” I said quietly. “Sir.”

Sean sipped his drink, watching me over the rim. “That’s not a bad answer. But I think you do know. I think you’ve spent a long time trying not to know it.”

He set the glass down on the side table, then leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the chair.

“You like being stripped. Caged. Watched. You like being made small. That’s what gets you hard—not just the stimulation, but the position. Isn’t it.”

I couldn’t speak. I was too busy trying not to squirm. The cage pulsed again against my skin, the pressure unrelenting.

Sean laughed softly. “You’re throbbing now.”

I nodded, shame burning behind my eyes, the pulsing of my cage stretched out obscenely from my crotch confirming his assessment.

Sean just smiled approvingly.

Sean let the silence hang, just long enough to feel strategic.

I sat motionless, my skin flushed, the chill of the room doing nothing to ease the constant, aching heat pulsing beneath the cage. My cock throbbed with every heartbeat—swollen, contained, humiliated. And he knew it.

He didn’t stare. That would have been too easy. Too generous. Instead, his gaze wandered—unhurried, detached—pausing occasionally to note the way I sat, how I shifted, how I struggled not to cover myself again.

“It’s funny how quickly you got used to being locked,” Sean said mildly, as if commenting on the weather. “Four days in a cage and already you twitch like a trained thing every time I look at your cock.”

My breath caught. I hadn’t realized he was watching that closely.

“I guess I’m just good at following orders,” I said, quietly.

Sean raised an eyebrow. “No. Following orders is what good boys do. This—” his voice dipped slightly as he gestured toward the gleaming cage, “—this is something else. This is need. Don’t dress it up like discipline.”

I tried to hold his gaze, but I couldn’t.

“I saw the photo you sent Wednesday night,” he continued. “You thought you were being obedient. But I could see it in your eyes. That tight little smirk you couldn’t hide.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“You were proud of being locked. Weren’t you.”

I hesitated. “A little. Sir.”

“A little,” Sean echoed with amusement. “That’s cute. You’re proud because someone finally made the decision for you. Because deep down, you didn’t want the responsibility of your cock anymore.”

He didn’t need to say it louder. The sentence cut all on its own.

I shifted in my seat, the cage now a hot, painful weight between my thighs.

Sean let his eyes flick lazily downward. “Still hard,” he noted. “Of course you are.”

He stood and crossed slowly to the far wall, one hand drifting lightly along a cabinet edge as he walked. The city lights outside caught on the curve of his jaw, his silhouette clean and tall in the soft glow. I watched him like something tethered, helpless to move.

“You ever think about what it means that you’re like this?” Sean asked. “Naked. Leaking. Hard inside something designed to deny you relief. And not only do you accept it—you obey without question. You send proof. You report in.”

He turned, drink in hand.

“Does it make you feel small?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And that’s what gets you off. The smallness.”

I nodded.

Sean returned to the armchair, slow and unhurried. He sat with his legs slightly parted again, drink poised lightly in one hand.

“You like being stripped. Watched. Owned. You like being made to want things you can’t have. That’s the part that turns you on. Not just the restriction—the imbalance.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

“You ever tasted someone after they’ve worked out?” Sean asked suddenly, changing direction without warning.

I blinked. “No, Sir.”

He nodded slowly. “You will.”

Then silence again. Heavy. Absolute.

I sat naked before him, heart hammering, cock swollen inside the cage, thighs trembling from the tension in my own body. He hadn’t laid a finger on me.

He didn’t need to.

Sean hadn’t moved for nearly a minute. He sipped his drink like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was deliberate. A leash made of stillness.

Finally, he broke it.

“What do you jerk off to?”

I blinked, startled. “Sir?”

He didn’t repeat himself. Just watched me.

I swallowed. My throat was dry again.

“It depends,” I said carefully.

Sean’s brow arched. “You mean it used to depend. You haven’t touched yourself in four days. So I’m asking—what was it, before I locked you up? What really got you off?”

I shifted on the couch, every movement making the cage grind a little tighter against swollen skin. The answer swelled in my chest before I could stop it.

“Submission,” I said.

Sean tilted his head. “Be specific.”

“I liked imagining ... being used. Being told what to do.”

He nodded. “Men? Women?”

“Men.”

“Rough? Gentle?”

“Rougher,” I admitted. “Usually.”

“Usually,” he repeated, his tone dry. “What else?”

My face burned. I was sweating now, though the room was cool.

“Control. Restraint. Sometimes ... being gagged. Or blindfolded.”

Sean gave a faint, amused exhale through his nose. “You do like not seeing what’s coming, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

He watched me a moment longer, then leaned back slightly, setting his drink down again.

“What about rimming?”

The question hit me low in the gut. My whole body tensed.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Giving or receiving?”

“G—giving,” I said, voice tight.

Sean’s smile barely curved. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He didn’t press further at first. Just let the confession settle between us like smoke.

“You like worshiping a man’s ass,” he said eventually, calm and clinical, as if he were reciting a file note. “You like spreading him open with your hands and burying your face where it’s hottest. Don’t you.”

My cock throbbed painfully against the steel.

“Yes, Sir.”

He gave a satisfied nod. “I suspected.”

He stood again, stretching slightly. The hem of his shirt rode up just enough to reveal the V of muscle leading below his waistband. I stared too long. He saw.

“It’s not just the act,” he said. “It’s what it means. Getting off on having your tongue somewhere no one else wants to be. Loving the taste of filth because it makes you feel owned.”

“Yes, Sir,” I breathed, too humiliated to hide how much it hit.

Sean stepped closer. I could smell his skin—clean sweat, soap, and something warmer beneath. My eyes dropped, instinctive. He let them linger there.

“Even now,” he said, almost amused. “Just the idea of it has you hard. Caged and leaking. All because I’m talking about letting you lick my hole.”

I nodded, unable to look away.

Sean tilted his head.

“Look at you. Just a few words and you’re trembling.”

I was.

My thighs quivered from the effort of staying still, from the ache building between my legs, from the heat radiating out from every corner of my exposed skin.

Sean smiled faintly, then turned his back again, walking toward the hallway.

“Don’t move,” he said, voice even.

I froze in place, breath shallow, every muscle locked.

He didn’t leave. He just stood there, taking another slow sip of his drink, as though we were at a cocktail party instead of me kneeling naked and dripping on his bedroom floor.

“I could watch you squirm all night,” he said after a moment. “But I’m more interested in what’s going on inside that pretty head of yours.”

Sean didn’t leave.

He just stood over me, one hand loosely holding his drink, the other in his pocket, studying me like a painting he hadn’t yet decided to keep. The silence stretched, deliberate. Unyielding.

“You haven’t moved,” he said quietly. “That’s good.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“But you’re not still because you’re obedient,” he added. “You’re still because you’re afraid of what happens if you aren’t.”

The words hit somewhere between bone and breath.

Sean crouched slowly, bringing himself back to my eye level. Not to meet me there—never that—but to remind me how far above me he stood, no matter our position.

“You’re not thinking right now, are you?”

I shook my head, voice low. “No, Sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what I’m allowed to say.”

Sean’s lips twitched slightly at the corners. It wasn’t quite a smile.

“And because,” he said, “you like not having to think. Isn’t that right?”

The words lodged deep. I wanted to deny it. I wanted to pretend I had some piece of self-respect left to wrap around my nakedness. But there was no point.

“Yes, Sir.”

Sean nodded slowly, as if that answer merely confirmed something he’d already filed away.

“You’re a lawyer,” he said. “A professional. A man people trust to hold their future in his hands.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And yet here you are—naked, caged, and dripping. Letting me strip you of everything you use to feel powerful. And not only letting me ... thanking me for it.”

I looked down, shame burning hot behind my eyes. But Sean didn’t allow it.

“Eyes up.”

I obeyed.

“You’re not weak for wanting this. You’re not broken. But don’t pretend this isn’t exactly where you belong.”

He stood again, effortlessly reclaiming the height difference like it was armor.

“And since you’re finally learning to shut off that overworked brain of yours,” he said, “why don’t you sit back and reflect on why that makes you so fucking hard.”

Sean didn’t move. He just stood above me, radiating patience, his gaze unwavering.

“Do you remember how you felt the first time you put that cage on?”

I hesitated. “Yes, Sir.”

“Nervous? Excited?”

“Both.”

“Why excited?”

“Because it made everything real.”

Sean nodded once. “And what part of it felt the most real?”

I swallowed. “When you held the key. When you walked away and I knew I couldn’t change my mind.”

“And that turned you on?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sean paced slowly behind me now, out of sight, but I could feel him moving like pressure in the room.

“When did you first realize you wanted this kind of control?”

“I don’t know exactly. I think ... I always wanted it. But I didn’t know what it was until—”

“Until what?”

“Until you showed me.”

He stopped walking.

“So I gave you language for your craving?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He stepped into view again, just to the side, drink still in hand.

“Do you like that you’re caged?”

“I hate it, Sir,” I said truthfully. “But I also want it.”

“That’s not a contradiction,” he said. “That’s obedience.”

Then another pause.

“What do you think I see when I look at you like this?”

I blinked. “I don’t know, Sir.”

“Try.”

“A toy?”

“A toy,” he echoed, amused. “Is that what you are?”