Locked：03
My name is Alin. I’ve been secretly playing with chastity locks since my freshman year.
It started simply: in my final year of high school the pressure was overwhelming. Too much masturbation was hurting my studies and basketball performance, so I searched online for “the most effective way to quit masturbation.” I ended up on a forum where someone posted “Wearing a chastity lock is the most thorough method.”
The silver-black titanium cage in the photo looked cold, yet unbearably sexy.
I got hard instantly.
Not because I wanted to jerk off, but because I imagined it locking me up, controlling me.
That feeling of “not even being able to touch myself” somehow made me feel… safe.
So I gritted my teeth, spent half a month’s allowance, and bought my first beginner plastic cage.
The first time I put it on, the frustration of not being able to get hard drove me crazy, yet it also made me tremble with pleasure.
From that day on, I knew there was no going back.
In my sophomore year I upgraded to a custom titanium model and wore it for longer periods—three days, then a week, then a month.
I hid the key at the very back of my drawer. Checking that the cage was still in place before leaving the dorm every day became a ritual.
During basketball practice the lock swung inside my shorts; sweat soaked the metal until it grew warm from friction. After sitting through long lectures, morning wood was painfully trapped, leaking and soaking my underwear. At night, alone in the dorm, I would lie in bed gently tapping the front of the cage, listening to the soft “ding ding,” as if it were reminding me: you are no longer free.
I loved that feeling.
Eventually, playing by myself wasn’t stimulating enough.
I started fantasizing: What if someone knew my secret? What if someone held my key? What if that person was my roommate I saw every day?
Then you appeared, Acheng.
You’re usually loud and carefree, aggressive on the court, with a bright smile. But sometimes the way you look at me feels… different.
For example, when I come out of the shower wrapped only in a towel, your gaze lingers a couple of extra seconds. When I change clothes and accidentally show my waistline, your Adam’s apple moves.
I tested you deliberately. Once after practice I hung my soaked underwear at the head of my bed, the dark wet patch especially obvious. You stared, but said nothing.
That’s when I knew you were curious.
That night I waited for you to come back. After my shower, with the towel loosely wrapped, I turned my back to you while changing. When the light came on, your eyes locked straight onto my crotch.
I turned around and saw you staring at the silver-black cage, pupils dilated, breathing ragged.
My own heartbeat went wild—not from fear, but excitement.
Finally someone had seen it.
Finally someone… wanted to know what was inside.
I pretended it was nothing and shrugged. “Chastity lock. Been wearing it for three months.”
My palms were already sweating.
You asked, “Why lock it?” I deliberately answered in a lewd tone, “It feels good. Getting so hard it hurts but not being able to come—anyone who’s tried it knows.”
I dropped the towel so you could see clearly: the cage was deformed from being pushed outward, the glans pressed against the bars and leaking, the skin at the base pinched red, the balls swollen as if about to burst.
You didn’t look away; your eyes were glued to it.
I thought: Got you.
The next night I laid out the new pink cage.
When you came back from your shower I sat on your bed, the velvet pouch spread open, key dangling from my fingers.
I said, “Give me your key and I’ll hold yours. We’ll lock each other. Whoever begs first becomes the slave.”
I explained in detail: locked during class, locked while sleeping, locked while playing ball. If you begged me to unlock you, I’d give you five minutes. If I wasn’t in the mood, you’d stay locked and take a cold shower.
Staring into your eyes I added, “Scared? Then I’ll just fail to masturbate in front of you every day—let you listen to me panting and watch me leak while you can’t touch. How long can you last?”
You were silent for a long time, gripping the key so hard your knuckles turned white.
Finally you whispered, “Put it on me.”
In that moment I almost came inside the cage.
I knelt down, licked you wet first, then slowly fitted the cage on.
When the “click” of the lock sounded, I felt myself locked even tighter.
We locked each other and swapped keys.
From that day on, you became my lock-mate.
But I didn’t expect you to go further than me, and faster.
At first you were shy, wearing baggy pants outside so no one would notice the outline.
Within two weeks you started changing.
First it was swimming—you wore tight swim briefs into the water. The cage outline showed clearly through the fabric, yet you deliberately stood up straight in the shallow end, letting water run down while people looked. Instead of hiding, you thrust your hips forward.
Later, running: you switched to compression tights. The bulge swayed as you ran, wet marks gleaming under the track lights. Your face flushed, but your eyes shone.
The gym was even more extreme. During squats you stuck your ass high, the fabric outlining every detail of the cage. Knowing people were watching, you deliberately rose slowly so the wet spot spread.
Watching you go from “afraid of being discovered” to “wanting to be discovered” completely broke me.
I had wanted to be the one in control, to watch you beg and break.
Instead you turned around and seduced me.
One night you lay on your bed, cage swollen and leaking, looked up at me and said, “You should try it too. Wear tight pants outside, run, work out, swim together. Whoever can’t stand being stared at first and begs loses—they have to orally serve the other for a month.”
I froze.
Your eyes were full of fire, brighter than when I first pulled you into this.
I swallowed and said, “Fine.”
From that day on we went out in tight clothes together.
The first time I wore black compression pants to the track, the silver-black cage outline jutted out hard and obvious, swinging as I walked. A few girls stole glances; guys’ eyes lingered. My face burned, yet I got even harder.
In the gym during squats, when someone stared at my crotch, my heart raced until my ears rang—yet I deliberately did extra sets to make the bulge more prominent.
While swimming you touched my cage underwater; my legs almost gave out.
I thought I was the hunter, but you reversed it.
You moved too fast for me to keep up, yet I couldn’t stop following.
That shared feeling of “being exposed together by my roommate, being watched together” was a hundred times more thrilling than doing it alone.
Then I was “discovered” for the first time.
It happened at the gym on a Saturday evening—busier than usual.
I was doing deadlifts. The black compression pants were skin-tight; the silver-black cage outline was exaggeratedly clear: the front bulge, the bar lines, the lock hole—all completely visible.
As I lifted the barbell and thrust my hips forward, the fabric stretched shiny and the front was already leaking, the wet mark obvious against the gray-black cloth.
A senior wearing earphones who had been doing leg presses suddenly fixed his eyes on me.
I racked the barbell. He walked over, pretending to ask if I needed a spot, but his gaze was locked on my crotch.
“Bro… down there…” His voice was almost inaudible. “Is that… a lock?”
My heart skipped a beat.
My face instantly burned, but I throbbed even harder below.
I didn’t deny it. Looking straight into his eyes, voice slightly hoarse, I said, “Chastity lock. Just for fun.”
His eyes widened, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“…Fuck, really?”
He leaned in for a closer look—the wet spot, the outline, even the deformed shape where the glans pressed against the bars. He saw everything.
I didn’t cover up; instead I thrust my hips forward a little. “Locked for over three months. My roommate holds the key.”
His breathing grew heavy, voice shaking. “Your roommate too…?”
I nodded, corners of my mouth lifting. “We’re in this together. His is pink—cuter.”
He was silent for two seconds, then suddenly smiled—shocked and excited at the same time.
“Damn… Can I touch it? Just over the pants.”
There were still people in the gym, but we were in the corner, shielded by the rack.
I didn’t answer, just pushed my hips forward.
His fingers reached out, first pressing the front bulge, then tracing along the bars. Through the fabric he pressed the trapped glans; I let out a muffled groan, knees nearly buckling.
“…So hot,” he said hoarsely. “Leaking this much and still this hard?”
I gritted my teeth. “Going insane from it.”
His fingers moved lower, pressing the base ring, gently rubbing.
My whole body trembled; precum flowed faster, the wet patch spreading.
Someone walked by and he quickly pulled his hand back, pretending to adjust the barbell.
He turned his head, eyes bloodshot. “Next time… both of you come together?”
I smiled softly. “Depends if he’ll let you touch.”
In that moment I finally understood why you got hooked so quickly.
The instant of being discovered isn’t humiliation. It’s complete, irreversible liberation.
That feeling of “someone knows I’m locked and wants to be part of it” made me feel, for the first time, that I truly belonged to this game.
Now when we go out, tight clothes are basically the default.
Being watched, guessed about, touched.
We exchange glances as if saying:
Look—they noticed.
Look—they’re wondering what our relationship is.
Look—they want to play too.
I originally wanted to trick you into the pit.
Instead you dragged me in deeper.
Now… I don’t want to climb out anymore.