The package was already waiting when Nick stepped outside. Plain brown box. No return address. Just his name. His stomach dropped. He already knew. He carried it inside like it was radioactive. Set it on the table. Stared at it for a long time. The app buzzed. New Task Assigned. He opened it. There was no buildup. No seductive phrasing. Just cold instruction: "Put on the chastity cage. Film the lock snapping shut. Seal the keys in the prepaid envelope and mail them to the address provided. Do not hesitate. Mistress is watching." He opened the box with trembling hands. Inside: a flat-head stainless steel chastity cage—cold, smooth, unforgiving. It wasn't decorative. It wasn't cute. It was industrial. Designed to hurt if you got hard. Designed to keep the wearer small, soft, obedient. Beneath it sat a return envelope already addressed to a P.O. Box. No name. Just numbers. And taped to the cage, one silver key. His hands shook harder. This wasn't temporary. This wasn't for show. He could back out. He should back out. But the moment he touched the cage, something shifted. His cock twitched—nervous, traitorous. His whole body buzzed with the thought: Mistress will own this now. He stripped, breath shallow, skin hot. Fitting the base ring around his shaft and behind his balls was awkward—his clit already swelling, resisting. Six inches of flesh that had once made him feel like a man now stood stiff, vulnerable. He looked down at it—hard, pulsing, unaware it was about to be erased. The cage was tight—cruelly short. Not built for six inches. It was built for failure. He gripped his cock, trying to calm it down, to make it soft enough to force in. As the shaft softened, he pushed it into the tube, folding it in like shame. Inch by inch, it vanished into cold metal, the tip pressed tight against the front slit. There was no space. No dignity. Just pressure and heat and helplessness. What had once been six inches of manhood was now reduced to two pathetic centimeters of exposed skin, barely visible, caged and silenced. He looked down—there was nothing left. Only a smooth, steel curve and his balls hanging beneath, heavy and untouched. The lock clicked shut with a tiny metallic snap. It echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. He filmed it. The final proof. He picked up the key—his key—and slid it into the prepaid envelope. His fingers hesitated at the seal. One final moment. But he pressed it shut. Then stood. Dressed. Walked to the mailbox. And dropped it in. Gone. He was locked. Mistress had his key. His clit—no longer a cock, never again—throbbed against the unforgiving metal, desperate and already denied. The app buzzed. Task Complete. Funds Released: $15,000. Then: Mistress has your key. You are locked until further notice. And finally: You're not a man anymore. You're mine. Nick looked down again. No bulge. Just steel. Just silence. And inside that silence—shame, arousal, and something dangerously close to peace.
