Chapter 18: Walkup Whore

I woke up to the thin mattress sighing under my weight, the cheap blanket sticking to my sweat‑slick skin. It wasn’t a dream. This tiny room was now my world, it was a far cry from the luxurious Midlevels apartment I used to share with Van. I could taste the stale air and mildew on my tongue, metallic and stale. The air conditioner droned weakly and water dripped from the faucet.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold floor bite into my bare feet. My chastity cage sat snug against my pelvis, the flat metal pressing into my skin, the urethral plug a constant, uncomfortable reminder that I was no longer the man who used to dominate whores in rooms just like this one. I took the tiny key and cupped it in my palms, its metal cool against my sweat‑slick fingers, and thought about how many times I’d wished I could just throw it away and feel my own cock again: hard, thick, demanding. Instead, my tiny cocklette was locked, small, pathetic, and the key a perpetual reminder to the choice that had been forced onto me yet something I persisted in holding onto, out of a perverse connection with Van. My cock twitched inside its cage, a useless throb that only reminded me of what I’d lost.

I had just started slurping into a bowl of cup noodles for breakfast when the first knock came. I smoothed the bedsheets and put the cup noodles away, adjusted the lace bra that barely covered my nipples, and opened the door to a man in his late fifties, his skin leathery from years of sun and smoke, a gold chain glinting at his throat. He smelled of cheap whiskey and betel nut, his breath warm and sour as he stepped inside. “Hi,” he said, his voice gruff but polite. “I want you to suck me first, then I’ll fuck your ass.” I nodded. “That’s $500.” I said, my throat dry. He grimaced and paused. “Gimme a discount, bitch. $400, or I’ll go to the girl next door.” I nodded submissively, and let him into the room.

He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, his cock already half‑hard, veins bulging like ropes. I knelt, the cage pressing painfully against my pelvis as I leaned forward, my lips parting to take his shaft. I could feel the heat of his skin, the salty tang of precum on my tongue, the way his cock throbbed as I sucked, my cheeks hollowing, my eyes watering from the effort. I focused on the rhythm, up, down, suck, swallow, while my mind wandered to the way my old self would have grabbed my head, thrust deep, and gagged the slut. Now I was the slut, just a mouth, a hole, a thing to be used. His hand tangled in my hair, pulling gently, urging me deeper. I gagged slightly, the cock hitting the back of my throat, tears spilling over my cheeks, mixing with the sweat on my forehead. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through my chest, and then he pulled me off, his cock slick with my saliva.

“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice rough. I obeyed, presenting my ass, the cage digging into my flesh as I bent over the mattress. He spat on his hand, rubbed it over my hole, the cold saliva making me shiver. He pressed the tip of his cock against my sphincter, the pressure intense, the stretch burning. I breathed in through my nose, trying to relax, feeling the burn as he pushed forward, inch by inch, until he was fully inside. The sensation was a mix of pain and a perverse pleasure that made my clit throb despite the cage. He began to move, slow at first, then faster, his hips slamming against my ass, each thrust sending jolts of pain up my spine. I could feel the cage rattling with each impact, the metal pressing into my skin, a constant reminder of my imprisonment. My thoughts flickered to the gym—how I used to love the feeling of a heavy barbell on my back, the burn in my quads, the sense of control. Now I was being used like a ragdoll, my body a conduit for his pleasure.

He came with a grunt, his semen hot and thick, filling my ass, leaking out around his cock as he pulled out. I collapsed onto the mattress, breathing hard, my ass sore, my cheeks wet with tears and sweat. He tucked himself back into his pants, tossed a few crumpled notes onto the table, and left without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.

I lay there for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the city, the smell of his sweat on my skin, the taste of his cock still lingering in my mouth. I felt a strange mix of humiliation and a perverse thrill, my body responding despite my mind screaming for escape. I pushed myself up, wiped my face with the towel, and prepared for the next client.

The second knock came an hour later. This time it was a young expat, maybe twenty‑five, blond hair messy, wearing a faded band tee and ripped jeans. He smelled of cologne and cheap beer, his eyes bright with nervous excitement. “Hey, are you the new lady boy slut?” he said in accented English, “I heard you’re ... good. I want to try something different.” He glanced at the cage, smirking. “Can I ... see you without it? I wanna suck that little thing of yours and feel how small it is.”