Mistress hadn't spoken to him in two days. No commands. No teasing. Just silence. It was worse than pain. Worse than the cage. Nick couldn't stop checking his phone, hoping for a buzz, a voice, even just a word. Nothing. Just the ache in his locked clit and the burn in his still-loose hole. He couldn't ride. Not without permission. Couldn't cum. Couldn't do anything. But the thought wouldn't stop circling his head: maybe she's waiting to see if I'll do it without being told. Maybe she wants proof I'm hers even when she says nothing. And he needed her to see. To know. To claim him again. So he acted. He opened Grindr. The profile Mistress had created—still live. Dozens of messages. Most ignored. One caught his eye. A man across town. Thick. Direct. "You serious?" Nick typed back, Yes. He didn't ask for permission. He wasn't ordered. He just needed to show her. That night, he parked in the far end of a grocery lot. A black SUV pulled up beside him. The window rolled down. A nod. That was it. No words. Nick got out. Opened the back door. Climbed in on his knees. His heart raced. His cage ached. His mouth burned with the anticipation of use. He looked up into the man's lap—unzipped pants, thick shaft already halfway out. Bigger than any toy Mistress had sent. The kind of cock that made him hesitate for half a second. Then he leaned forward, opened his mouth, and took it. He gagged almost immediately. It was wide, warm, musky. Not like silicone. Real. The taste, the weight, the skin—he felt everything. The man didn't say a word. Just let him work. Nick bobbed, lips stretched wide, tongue licking the underside like he was grateful to be allowed this. Saliva coated his chin. His jaw ached. His throat burned. But he didn't stop. Couldn't. He moaned around it, drool spilling onto his chest. The cage throbbed below, untouched, grinding into the seat. He felt like a toy. Like a thing. Like exactly what Mistress wanted him to be. When the man groaned and his hands locked around the back of Nick's head, Nick didn't resist. He let it happen—let himself be shoved down, used, pumped full. The warmth hit his tongue and spilled across his lips, face, chin. He gasped for breath when it was over. Blinking. Covered. Humiliated. And hard as he'd ever been in the cage. He pulled out his phone. Turned on the camera. Held it up. He was dripping—face wet, lips red, eyes dazed. He looked into the lens, scooped a streak from his cheek with two fingers, and sucked them clean. He swallowed. Then whispered, "Thank you, Mistress." He sent the video. Mistress didn't reply. Not right away. But hours later—just as he was falling asleep—his phone buzzed. One word. "Finally."
