Numbers. Columns of numbers that had resolved into meaning every morning for eight years, and now they were just shapes. Gray smudges on a white screen. Warren blinked at the quarterly projections and saw nothing but the ghost of pressure against his groin, the flat steel cap of the chastity device pressing into the wool of his trousers every time he shifted in the leather chair.
He'd been sitting in the same position for forty minutes. He knew because the clock on his monitor said 4:47, and the last time he'd registered it, it had said 4:07. Somewhere in between, his mind had gone soft and white, like static on a dead channel. He blinked. The numbers stayed gray.
"Warren."
He looked up. Marcus from Mergers stood in the doorway, a manila folder tucked under his arm. Warren's hand moved before his brain caught up, sliding the top drawer of his desk closed — the drawer where his phone lay face-up, screen dark.
"Yeah." His voice came out rougher than he meant. He cleared his throat. "What's up?"
"The Whitmore file. You were supposed to have comments by four." Marcus tilted his head. "You okay? You look—" He made a vague gesture at his own face.
Warren's hand went to his jaw before he could stop it. Smooth. Shaved clean, the way he'd always shaved. But his fingers remembered what the skin felt like everywhere else — bare, hairless, soft as a woman's. He dropped his hand. "Fine. Long week. I'll get you the comments tonight."
Marcus didn't look convinced, but he nodded and left. The door clicked shut, and Warren was alone again with the gray numbers and the pressure between his legs.
It wasn't pain, exactly. The cage was fitted too well for that. It was presence — a constant, low-grade insistence that he was locked, that he was smooth, that he belonged to someone who wasn't in this building, wasn't in this world of quarterly projections and merger spreads. The cage was a secret he carried in his trousers, and every step across the office floor had felt like a confession.
He'd walked from the elevator to his desk that morning with his jaw tight and his shoulders squared, the way Warren Cole walked. And underneath the suit, under the starched shirt and the silk tie, the harness had pressed against his chest, the steel ring had pressed against his balls, and he'd felt — for one dizzying second in the elevator with a stranger in a gray suit — the shape of what he really was. Willow. Locked. Taken. Owned.
His cock twitched in its cage. Ached. Swelled against the unyielding steel until the pressure turned sharp, and he had to shift in his chair again, crossing his legs to hide the bulge that the cage couldn't quite suppress.
The spreadsheet blurred again. He stared at it, and the numbers rearranged themselves into nothing.
His phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the fog like a blade. Warren's hand was already moving, reaching for the drawer, pulling it open, grabbing the phone — and his heart was already pounding, because he knew, he knew before the screen even lit up, who it was from.
The text glowed on the dark glass: Come home, pet. I have something for you.
He was out of the chair before he could think. The spreadsheet could wait. The Whitmore file could wait. Marcus and his comments could wait forever. His body was already in motion, crossing the office in four long strides, his hand on the door, and the cage pressed against him with every step, a reminder and a promise.
He didn't run. Running would draw attention. But he walked fast, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor of the hallway, his tie still straight, his jacket still buttoned. To anyone watching, he was Warren Cole, investment banker, heading home after a long day. No one could see the way his cock strained against the steel. No one could see the wetness at the tip, the desperate ache that had been building all afternoon, the way his mouth had gone dry the moment he'd read her words.
I have something for you.
He was in the elevator, jabbing the lobby button, watching the floors tick down. His reflection in the polished steel doors stared back at him — a small man in a charcoal suit, brown hair neatly combed, brown eyes wide and hungry. He looked like a banker. He felt like a whore.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and his cock throbbed again, a pulse of heat against the cage.
The cab ride was a blur of gray streets and yellow lights. He leaned his forehead against the cool window, watching the city slide past, and thought about her. Dawn. The way she'd looked at him in the hotel room, her hand on his back, her cum cooling on his thigh. The way she'd promised him something — something he hadn't understood yet, but wanted anyway, needed anyway, with a hunger that scared him.
His phone buzzed again. Another text. The bedroom. I'll be waiting.
He swallowed. His throat was dry. His hands were shaking, just slightly, and he pressed them flat against his thighs to still them.
The cab stopped. He paid, tipped, and was out on the sidewalk, walking toward the gleaming tower of his building, his key already in his hand. The doorman nodded at him. He nodded back. The elevator took him up, floor after floor, and the whole time he stood very still, hands clasped in front of him, hiding the way his cock was straining against the steel cage, the way his nipples had gone hard and tight under the starched shirt, the way his skin — smooth, hairless, soft — was prickling with anticipation under the wool of his suit.
The door to his apartment opened onto silence. He stepped inside, closed it behind him, and the city noise vanished. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning, the scent of something floral in the air — her scent, Dawn's scent, synthetic and sweet and familiar.
He didn't call out. He didn't need to. He knew where she'd be.
The bedroom door was open, spilling warm light into the hallway. He walked toward it, his heart hammering, his mouth dry, his hands trembling at his sides. The heavy wool carpet was scratchy under his shoes. The air was thick with leather and her perfume.
He stopped in the doorway.
She was on the bed. On her back, propped up on the pillows, her platinum hair spread around her like a halo. She was wearing black lace — a bra that barely contained the heavy swell of her breasts, a garter belt and stockings, nothing else. Her legs were spread, one foot planted on the mattress, the other dangling off the edge, and between her thighs, hard and thick and glistening, was her cock.
Warren's breath caught in his throat.
He'd seen it in the hotel room, in the dim light, but this was different. This was bright and clear, and he could see every inch of it — the flushed head, the thick shaft, the way it curved slightly upward, the way it twitched as she shifted on the bed. It was beautiful, in a way that made his stomach clench and his mouth water.
Dawn smiled. It was a slow, knowing smile, the kind that said she knew exactly what he was feeling, exactly what he wanted, exactly what he was going to do.
"You've been so good at work, Warren," she said, her voice low and soft, that eerie monotone she used that somehow made his knees weak. "Now come taste what you've been missing."
He was on his knees before he knew he'd moved. The carpet was scratchy under him, the wool rough against his knees through the fabric of his trousers, but he didn't feel it. All he felt was the ache in his cock, the throb of his own desperate need, the sight of her cock standing thick and hard between her spread thighs.
He crawled toward her. The carpet scraped his knees. His hands found the edge of the bed, gripping the duvet, pulling himself forward until he was between her thighs, his face inches from her cock.
He could smell it. Musky, warm, intimate. His mouth fell open.
"Go on, pet," Dawn murmured. Her hand came down, fingers threading through his hair, gripping gently. "Take it."
He leaned forward. His lips brushed the head of her cock, and he felt it twitch against his mouth, felt the slick smear of pre-cum on his lower lip. He opened wider, took the head into his mouth, and the taste hit him — salt and skin and something darker, something that made his head swim and his cock ache in its cage.
He moaned. It was a desperate, pathetic sound, muffled around her cock, and he didn't care. He wanted this. He'd wanted this since the hotel room, since the club, since the moment he'd seen her hidden beneath her dress and known, somehow, that this was what he was for.
Her hand tightened in his hair. "More," she said. "Take more."
He did. He pushed forward, taking her deeper, feeling her cock slide over his tongue, thick and hot and heavy. His eyes watered. His throat resisted. He gagged, and she didn't stop, didn't pull back, just held his head and pushed forward, and he felt her cock slide down his throat, felt the stretch and the burn and the overwhelming fullness of it.
Tears spilled down his cheeks. He gagged again, saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth, and she pulled back just enough to let him breathe, then pushed forward again, setting a rhythm. Slow at first, then faster. The wet sound of her cock sliding in and out of his mouth filled the room.
"That's it," she breathed. "That's my good little cockslut."
He moaned around her, the vibration making her twitch. His hands gripped her thighs, nails digging into her stockings, and he took her deeper, desperate to please her, desperate to be good.
"Look at you," she said, her voice soft and cruel. "Dressed in your suit, still wearing your tie. And here you are, on your knees, choking on my cock." She thrust forward, hard, and he gagged, tears streaming down his face. "This is what you are, Warren. This is what you've always been."
He couldn't answer. He was too full, her cock filling his mouth and throat, his nose pressed into the soft skin of her belly. He could smell her, taste her, feel her pulse against his tongue. His own cock was throbbing in its cage, leaking, desperate, and he wanted — he needed —
She pulled out. He gasped, air rushing into his lungs, saliva and pre-cum stringing from his lips. He looked up at her, eyes red and wet, mouth open, panting.
She was stroking herself. Slow, deliberate strokes, her hand gliding up and down the slick shaft, her eyes locked on his face. "Open your mouth," she said.
He obeyed. His tongue lolled out, his jaw wide, his eyes fixed on her cock, on her hand, on the flushed head glistening with his spit.
"Good boy," she whispered, and then she was coming, her hips jerking, her hand moving faster, and the first hot rope of cum splashed across his face.
He gasped. It was warm, thick, sliding down his cheek. Another rope hit his lips, his chin, his closed eye. He opened his mouth wider, desperate to catch it, and she obliged, aiming the next shot into his mouth, filling it with her cum.
She kept stroking, kept coming, painting his face with it — his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, his tongue. He was covered in her, dripping with her, and he didn't care. He swallowed what was in his mouth, licking his lips, tasting her, wanting more.
She finally stopped, her hand slick with her own release, her cock still hard, still twitching. She looked down at him — her pet, her sissy, her Willow — with cum running down his face, dripping from his chin onto the collar of his starched white shirt.
"Please," he whispered. The word was thick, wet, desperate. "Please, Dawn, I want—"
His voice died in his throat. The word hung there, unfinished, a plea with no shape. He could feel her cum drying on his skin, tightening like a second layer of shame, and he didn't want to wipe it away. He wanted to wear it. He wanted her to see him like this, marked and dripping and still hungry.
Dawn's hand came down. Not to his hair this time, but to his face, her thumb tracing the line of come along his jaw, gathering it, pushing it gently between his lips. He opened for her, took her thumb into his mouth, and sucked it clean, tasting her, tasting himself, the salt and the musk and the surrender.
"That's my girl," she said softly. The words landed in his chest like a physical weight. "You want more, don't you? You want me to use you until you can't think."
He nodded, his mouth still around her thumb, his eyes fixed on hers. The cage was a dull, insistent pressure against his groin, his cock straining uselessly inside it, leaking onto the steel. He didn't care. He would have stayed on his knees forever, like this, her come on his face and her thumb in his mouth, if she'd asked him to.
"Then ask me properly," she said, pulling her thumb free. She settled back against the pillows, her cock still half-hard and slick, her legs still spread, watching him with those pale blue eyes that saw straight through the suit and the tie and the banker's mask. "Tell me what you want, Willow. Say it out loud."
His voice came out raw, broken, like it had been scraped out of him. "I want you to fuck my mouth. I want to choke on your cock until I can't breathe. I want—" He swallowed, his throat clicking. "I want to be yours. Completely. I want you to use me until there's nothing left but this."
She smiled, slow and satisfied, and reached down to thread her fingers through his hair again, tugging his head back gently. "Good boy. Now open wide."
He opened. His jaw ached, his throat was raw, but he opened, and when she guided her cock back between his lips, he took her without resistance, without hesitation, his eyes watering and his hands gripping her stockings and his whole body singing with the wrongness and the rightness of it. He was Warren Cole, investment banker, and he was on his knees in his own bedroom, choking on his owner's cock, and he had never felt more like himself in his entire life.