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The lock clicked shut with a sharp, final snap that echoed into the room. I took a deep breath and reached down to feel it. Cold, hard metal with a little padding on either side. I ran my fingers along the length where the metal met the crest of my upper thighs and tried to get my fingertips under it. Nothing. It fit so snugly that there was no way I’d be able to touch myself, even if I wanted to. Even if I could get away with it in the hours we were apart every day.

“Perfect. You won’t be needing that pussy anymore,” he said with a casual grin, walking over to the fridge to get a beer.

Did I really just let him do this? I definitely did. I knew that. I had practically begged him to lock me away. It was the only way things were going to progress between us.

I shifted my legs and tested the limits of my new device, essentially my second skin. I couldn’t move as freely, and I could feel it pressing against me uncomfortably. It wasn’t painful, though. Not exactly. I could get used to it. I’d have to, I guessed.

Okay. Let’s try sitting down.

I took a few steps toward the sofa and lowered myself, feeling the belt tighten against my pussy. When I looked up, he was standing in the middle of the room, cold beer in hand, just watching me with a smile on his face. He hadn’t changed yet. He was still in his work clothes: button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened at the collar, slacks sharp and creased. The contrast hit hard. He looked composed. In control. And I was there, naked but for the metal locked between my legs.

A blush crept up my cheeks at being watched like that. I felt exposed and humiliated, on show for him. And yet, there was a throb building low in my belly, a sharp, traitorous ache I’d felt around him before, like my body hadn’t gotten the message that this was supposed to be shameful. I felt it when he would bring me home after a date to suck his cock, holding my jaw firmly while he fucked my mouth like there wasn’t a person behind it. And I felt it again when he wiped himself off on my cheek and said he had to get to bed, so it was time for me to leave.

“You’ll get used to it. Soon you’ll feel weird without it,” he said in a calm voice, and I nodded. I wondered if I nodded because I agreed or because I couldn’t admit I was scared. It hadn’t even been two months since we met. And yet, there I was, with my pussy locked away, squirming and blushing on his sofa, desperate for him to touch me.

We’d met on a dating app and talked for a few days before deciding to meet. On that first date, in a high-end restaurant in our city, he set the stage for what our relationship would become. I’d dated before, of course. A few boyfriends here and there, and many more dates in between that didn’t go anywhere. And I always went for the same guy: sensitive, politically con