Locked：02
I've now been wearing it continuously for 47 days.
The pink resin cage stays on 24 hours a day. The transparent lock ring at the base has become slightly shiny from body heat and friction.
Every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do isn't brush my teeth—it's lower my head to check if it's still in place. The aching swelling, the leaking, the metal bars slightly deformed from being pushed—these have all become “normal.”
The biggest change is that I've started daring to go out wearing it.
Not the kind of exposure play where tight pants show the outline, but deliberately wearing the loosest, baggiest pants—baggy basketball shorts, cargo pants, oversized sweatpants, even the gray harem pants Alin lent me.
The crotch space is ridiculously large. When I walk, the fabric sways and occasionally brushes against the front of the cage, which only makes it more stimulating.
Today is Saturday noon. We planned to go to the commercial street near school for lunch and then hit the supermarket for snacks.
I wore a loose white T-shirt and, on the bottom, Alin's old basketball shorts—black, with an oversized crotch, the legs hanging below the knees, swaying like a skirt when I walk.
Of course, I'm locked inside.
No underwear, just the cage pressed directly against the fabric.
With every step, the metal part gently sways and bumps against my inner thigh, making an almost inaudible muffled sound.
The worst part is that precum has already seeped out, staining a small dark patch on the inner crotch of the shorts. But because the pants are so loose, you can't see anything from outside—only when I sit down occasionally do I feel a wet spot sticking to my skin.
Alin walks beside me, dressed even more casually: gray baggy sweatpants + sleeveless tank top.
His silver-black titanium cage faintly shows through his pants—not obviously, but in that subtle bulge that anyone who knows would immediately guess.
He deliberately takes big strides so the crotch sways heavily. Once he even pretended to squat down to tie his shoe, letting his waistband drop two centimeters to show me the top edge of the lock ring.
“Hot?” he asks in a low voice, smirking. “I'm already soaked inside. What about you?”
I glance down at my own crotch: “……Leaking so much the inside is stuck together.”
He reaches out, pretending to brush dust off me, but actually slips his fingers in from the side of the pant leg and quickly gropes the front of the cage.
“Tsk, only half an hour out and already this wet?”
He holds his damp fingers up to my face. “Smell it.”
I turn my head away, but I've already caught that familiar musky-sweet scent.
The supermarket is crowded. He suddenly pulls me into a corner of the beverage section.
Hidden behind the shelves, he leans back against the fridge, presses me in front of him, and whispers in my ear:
“Want to leak even more right now?”
One hand props on the shelf, the other reaches through my shorts and grabs the front of the cage, gently rubbing.
The fabric is so loose it can't block any force.
My legs instantly go weak. I grit my teeth and whisper: “……Not here.”
“Why not?” His voice drops lower. “No one can see.
Your pants are so baggy, people will just think you've got something…… big down there.”
He presses harder with his thumb, exactly catching the glans trapped between the bars and circling it.
I grip the shopping cart handle, knuckles turning white.
Precum flows even faster. The inside of my shorts is soaked, cool liquid trickling down along my inner thigh.
“Fuck…… it's going to leak down to the pant leg……” I pant.
He laughs so hard his shoulders shake: “Then leak. When you walk later, feel it running down your leg—how good would that feel?”
He lets go, licks his fingers, then casually pushes the cart forward.
I follow behind him, legs trembling.
With every step, the slick fluid rubs between my thighs. The cage gets even more swollen from stimulation, pushing forward against the fabric. Under the loose shorts, that little pink thing seems to be secretly protesting, yet also enjoying this semi-public shame.
On the way back to the dorm after shopping, he suddenly stops and turns to look at me:
“When we get back tonight, I'll let you hold the key for three days.”
“The condition is—you wear these pants and jog five laps on the track.
No changing underwear, no wiping.
Show me how soaked your crotch is when you get back.”
I stare at him, heat rising behind my eyes.
“Okay.”
……I'm already completely hooked.
That feeling of “nothing shows on the outside, but I'm completely controlled inside” is so fucking addictive.
The baggy pants have become the perfect cover.
Every time we go out, it's like playing a game only the two of us know.
Whoever begs to be unlocked first loses.
But right now, I don't think I want to win anymore.
First, swimming.
The school pool is quiet on Wednesday afternoons. Alin and I arranged to go together.
I picked a pair of deep blue tight quick-dry swim briefs—not the loose beach type, but competition style, thin and stretchy fabric that hugs the crotch very tightly.
After putting on the pink resin cage, the outline is actually quite obvious: the small bulge at the front is pressed out by the fabric, the lines of the bars faintly visible, even the position of the base lock ring leaves a shallow indentation.
Standing in front of the mirror after changing, I was stunned myself.
Not completely obvious, but if someone pays even a little attention to the crotch area, they'll notice “something's wrong down there.”
My heart was racing so fast it rang in my ears. I was already leaking, staining a small dark patch on the briefs' crotch.
Alin came out of the changing room, smiled the moment he saw me, and stared straight at my crotch. “Fuck, you actually dared.”
He was also wearing black tight swim briefs. The outline of his silver-black titanium cage was even more defined and obvious—because his cage is larger, the fabric is stretched tighter.
We got in the water together.
The water was a bit cool. As soon as we went in, the tight fabric clung even tighter. The cage was slightly deformed by water pressure. The flesh inside the front bars was stimulated by the cold water, instantly swelling and pushing forward against the briefs.
I swam breaststroke slowly on purpose.
The sunlight reflecting on the water made details hard to see from above, but I knew: if someone looked up from underwater, or when I got out and water ran down, the outline would be completely exposed.
The most stimulating part was the contradiction—
On one hand, desperately staying in the water, pretending to swim normally, legs kicking and letting the water flow brush the front of the cage, feeling like countless little tongues licking;
On the other hand, secretly hoping someone would notice.
Hoping the guy in the next lane suddenly stops and his gaze drifts downward;
Hoping the lifeguard glances over from the high chair and frowns slightly;
Hoping Alin deliberately pulls me to the shallow area, makes me stand straight, pretends we're chatting, but actually exposes my crotch completely above the water.
Halfway through, Alin suddenly swam behind me, reached into the edge of my briefs underwater, and quickly pinched the front of the cage.
“Leaking this fast?” he whispered in my ear. “Your briefs are soaked—not from water, from you.”
I gritted my teeth, legs trembling in the water.
When I got out, I walked quickly wrapped in a towel, but when the towel loosened, the briefs clung to my skin, the outline completely visible.
In the changing room, a few guys were chatting. One clearly stared at my crotch for two seconds before quickly looking away.
In that moment, I didn't feel embarrassed—instead…… it felt so good my scalp went numb.
From that day on, swimming became a regular activity.
Every time I wear tight swim briefs and go in the water locked.
Getting less and less careful, even deliberately going when it's crowded.
Later, running also became tight.
I bought several pairs of compression running tights—black, dark gray high-stretch fabric, seamless crotch design. Originally meant to show off leg shape, now they became the perfect “display platform.”
The pink cage is squeezed tightly, the outline clear to the point of exaggeration: front bulge, bar lines, even the small protrusion of the lock hole are all visible.
The first time I wore them to jog on the track was at 8 PM. The lights were dim, not many people, but there were a few night runners, girls and guys.
I deliberately ran the outer lane, taking big strides so the crotch moved noticeably.
Every time my foot landed, the cage bumped against my inner thigh with a muffled sound. Every time I lifted my knee, the fabric tightened and the outline became more pronounced.
I could feel several gazes—first sneaking glances, then lingering, then pretending to casually look a couple more times.
Once, a guy wearing earphones ran toward me from the opposite direction. When he passed me, he clearly looked down, and his steps faltered.
My heart was pounding. A large gush of precum came out, staining a dark patch on the front of the tights.
After running 5 kilometers back, the front of my pants was shiny wet, like I'd wet myself, but it was all from leaking.
Alin was waiting in the dorm. The moment the door opened, he pushed me against the wall and reached straight into my waistband to feel the wet spot. “How long were you watched?” His voice was hoarse. “Feel good?”
“……So good I wanted to cum.” I panted.
Gym is the same.
I started wearing tight gym leggings to the gym.
Dark gray compression pants + loose tank top, locked underneath, the cage outline especially obvious under the lights.
When squatting, the pants stretch tight, exposing all lines of the butt and crotch. When doing deadlifts, the crotch pushes forward, making the bulge even more prominent.
There are lots of mirrors in the gym. I deliberately stand in front of them doing movements, watching my own crotch outline, watching others sneak glances from behind or the side.
Once during leg presses, a trainer came over to adjust my form. His gaze clearly swept downward, paused for two seconds, then said “straighten your lower back a bit more.”
In that moment my mind went blank, only one thought left:
I've been found out, they've seen, they know I'm wearing a lock while working out.
I've already gone all out mentally.
From fearing exposure, to secretly hoping for it, to actively creating opportunities.
That feeling of “everyone's looking but no one dares to say anything” is so fucking addictive.
One night, lying in bed with the cage aching from swelling, Alin lying on top of me, the silver key hanging from his neck swaying.
I suddenly said: “You should try it too.”
He paused.
“Wear tight pants when going out. Running, gym, swimming—all while locked.
Together. Whoever can't take being stared at and begs first gives the other a month of blowjobs.”
He stared at me for a long time, fire slowly igniting in his eyes.
“Deal.”
The next day, he also changed into black tight compression pants.
The outline of his silver-black cage was even more defined than mine. The crotch swayed noticeably when he walked.
We went running on the track together, squatted together at the gym, swam together at the pool.
People looked at the two of us, their gazes moving from one to the other, expressions growing more complicated.
We exchanged glances, as if saying:
Look, they've noticed.
Look, they're guessing what our relationship is.
Look, they want to know what's locked inside.
That sense of complicity is a hundred times more stimulating than being watched alone.
Now when we go out, we almost always default to wearing tight clothes.
Running side by side, spotting each other at the gym, touching each other's cages underwater while swimming.
Every time we're stared at, it's like we're igniting each other.
We're no longer just playing with the lock.
We're playing the game of “letting the whole world know we're locked, but no one dares to ask.”
And this game has only just begun.
The first time we were truly “discovered” was on a Friday afternoon at the gym.
By then we'd already been playing pretty openly. Wearing that pair of dark gray compression gym pants to the gym had become routine for me. The fabric is extremely stretchy with a seamless crotch design, clearly outlining the pink resin chastity cage: the small bulge at the front sticks out like it can't be hidden on purpose, the vertical and horizontal lines of the bars faintly visible beneath the fabric, even the base lock ring pressing out a shallow circular mark. Every movement stretches the fabric tighter, pushing the cage forward and making the bulge more obvious.
That day I went alone. Alin had class and didn't come.
The gym wasn't too crowded but not empty either—several freshmen bench pressing, two trainers giving instructions, and some regulars in the free weights area.
I warmed up first, doing a few sets of jumping jacks and dynamic stretches. Every time I landed, the cage “smacked” against my inner thigh with a faint but audible muffled sound.
I deliberately chose a spot near the mirrors, pretending to check my form while actually sneaking glances at my own crotch outline.
The reflection in the mirror made me even harder: under the dark gray fabric, the pink cage was squeezed into an obvious protrusion, the shadow of the front bars seeming to mock me with “can't hide it anymore.”
Then came squats.
I grabbed a 60kg barbell and stood right in front of the mirror.
The first squat, sitting back, the pants instantly stretched to their limit.
The cage was clamped between my thighs, pushing forward so the bulge formed a round little package, the fabric stretched shiny, even revealing the grid texture of the front bars.
I squatted all the way down, held for two seconds, then slowly stood up.
With every rise and fall, that bulge swayed along, as if greeting the me in the mirror.
During my third set, something felt off.
The tall freshman in the black T-shirt next to me (about 1.8m, broad shoulders, looked like he was on the freshman basketball team) had been doing dumbbell curls but started glancing my way.
At first just a quick side glance, then looking away. On the second squat, he stopped his movement completely, dumbbells still raised halfway, staring straight at my crotch.
On the third squat, his brows furrowed slightly, mouth slightly open, as if confirming he wasn't mistaken.
My heart rate instantly shot to my throat.
Not fear, but a current mixed with shame and extreme excitement shooting straight from my tailbone to my brain.
I deliberately stood up slowly, pushing my hips higher to stretch the pants even tighter.
The front of the cage was pushed painfully, and a rush of precum soaked a small dark wet mark on the crotch fabric—not sweat, but obvious leakage, especially glaring on the gray fabric.
He saw it.
His expression went from confusion to shock, then to something indescribable…… curiosity? Or excitement?
He put the dumbbells back on the rack, pretending to drink water, but his eyes never left me. I could feel his gaze like a laser, fixed on the bulge in my crotch.
I didn't stop. I continued with the fourth set.
With every squat, I deliberately spread my knees a bit, pushing my hips forward to make the bulge more prominent.
The wet mark grew larger, the fabric clinging to the front of the cage, faintly revealing the pink shadow underneath.
He finally couldn't hold back and walked over, pretending to grab the weight plates next to me.
“Bro…… that……” His voice was low, eyes still staring at my crotch. “You…… down there is……?”
He didn't finish, but the meaning was obvious.
In that moment, my mind went completely blank.
My face burned like fire, but my legs were so weak I almost couldn't squat.
I glanced down at myself: the crotch of my pants was soaked in a large patch, the cage outline crystal clear under the lights—front bar lines, small lock hole protrusion, even the red marks from being squeezed were visible.
I didn't deny it or cover up.
Instead, I took a deep breath, slowly stood up, put the barbell back on the rack, then turned to face him.
“Yeah.” My voice trembled a little but I kept my tone deliberately calm. “Chastity lock. Just playing around.”
His eyes widened even more, Adam's apple bobbing.
“……Really?”
He instinctively looked down again, as if wanting to confirm details, then quickly looked away.
I nodded, voice lower: “Locked for almost two months. The key isn't with me.”
His breathing obviously heavier, face red to his ears.
“……And you still dare to wear such tight pants to the gym?”
I shrugged, pretending it was nothing: “Didn't dare at first, but later…… got addicted. Being looked at, guessed about, stared at for the outline…… feels fucking amazing.”
He was silent for two seconds, then suddenly laughed, a bit awkward but also excited.
“Fuck…… badass.”
He paused, then added, “Can I…… touch it? Just…… through the pants.”
My heart was about to explode.
There were still other people in the gym, but we were standing in a corner, the mirror blocking most of the view.
I didn't say anything, just slightly thrust my hips forward.
He reached out, fingertips hovering for a moment before gently touching the bulge in my crotch.
Through the thin layer of compression fabric, he first pressed the front, then traced along the bar lines in a circle.
“……So hard.” His voice was completely hoarse. “Inside…… swollen like this, and still leaking this much?”
I gritted my teeth, panting low: “Been holding it too long.”
His fingers moved lower, pressing on the base lock ring position, gently rubbing twice.
The cage twitched from stimulation, precum flowing even faster, the wet mark spreading to my inner thighs.
Suddenly footsteps approached. A trainer walked by. He quickly pulled his hand back, pretending to adjust the weight plates for me.
The trainer glanced at us as he passed but said nothing and left.
He turned to look at me, eyes full of red veins: “……Does your roommate wear one too?”
I nodded: “Together. His is even more obvious.”
He swallowed: “Next time…… bring him too?”
I smiled, voice soft: “Depends if he wants to be touched by you.”
In that moment, I completely let go."
It wasn't the shame of being discovered, but the…… liberation after being discovered.
That feeling of “finally someone knows what I'm playing with, and he even wants to join” was a hundred times better than any secret leaking session.
From that day on, whenever I went to the gym, I deliberately chose the same time slot.
He would always show up too.
Sometimes just watching, sometimes finding excuses to get close and grope a couple times through the pants.
Sometimes he'd ask: “How much did you leak today?”
And I always answered honestly, then deliberately did even more exaggerated movements to let him see more clearly.
Being discovered for the first time wasn't the end.
It was a brand new beginning.