Chastity at the gym (1)

One more day, you walk into the gym locker room feeling like the fucking king because you’re wearing your chastity cage nice and tight, your ass shaved and clean, and your smallest pants barely covering your huge ass. But as soon as you arrive, you see someone waiting for you. Your tormentor. Your fucker. Your owner. You expected to see him, but not so soon before training. From the look on his face, you know you must not keep him waiting. He’s a textbook chav, built like a tank with tattoos and legs like two columns, and between them you can already make out a half-hard, drooling cock outlined in his sweatpants.

You bring your hands to the back of your neck without anyone ordering you to, because you know what’s going to happen. You know they’re going to bend you over the wooden bench in the locker room and open up your ass with the coconut oil you always carry in your backpack. You know that even if you whimper and beg, no one will hear you because the locker room is empty at this hour and the metal lockers echo with every pant.

Maybe he’ll fuck you against the lockers, your forehead pressed to the cold metal and your hands cuffed to the ventilation grate. The chastity cage will press against the metal every time he thrusts into your ass, and later maybe he’ll take you in front of the mirror so you can watch your own submissive face while he penetrates you all the way, but you know the mounting always comes first....

You kneel down and place your hands on the cold tiled floor. The contact of the artificial marble against your knees makes you feel the weight of your decision. Behind you, he slowly pulls his sweatpants down to his ankles. Your breathing quickens as you feel his breath behind you.

He kneels behind you, and the first thrust goes in dry, without lubricant. Your ass presses the chastity cage against your balls while he grabs your hips. Your nails dig into your palms as you try to endure the pain.

“What the fuck, faggot,” he mutters in a rough voice. “If your ass dries out, I’ll spit on it and that’s that.”

You spit onto two fingers and stick them into your own ass, hurriedly, while he holds you steady with his other hand on the back of your neck, pressing your cheek against the cold floor. The smell of chlorine and sweat from a thousand workouts fills every one of your gasps. From your position you can see the white and gray lines of the tiled floor, some black scuff marks from sneakers, a strand of blond hair caught in one corner.

You hear his breathing grow uneven. The thrusts get shorter, faster.

Then he comes inside you, in silence, only a restrained grunt and the tightening of his fingers on your hips. You can tell he’d gone days without emptying his balls and couldn’t hold back against the squeezes of your little cunt.

He stands up, pulls up his pants, and heads toward the showers whistling a reggaeton song.

You...