The package was small. No return address. Just a single pink wax seal with an "M" pressed into the top. Nick stared at it for ten minutes before opening it. His clit had been locked again for two days, but it didn't matter. He didn't grow. Didn't twitch. Mistress had broken that part of him, and he knew it. The wand had been his last pathetic attempt at manhood, and she'd seen it. This was her answer. Inside the box, nestled in soft black velvet, was a new chastity cage—if it could even be called that. It wasn't a tube. It wasn't shaped like a cock. It was a small, cold, curved plate of polished stainless steel with a recessed hollow in the center. Barely an inch and a half deep. Rounded. Smooth. Designed not to cage—but to swallow. A design meant to press the shaft inward, into the body, until nothing remained. The base ring was already attached. Narrow. Inescapable. There was a note: "Since you clearly have no use for it, I've given it a place to hide. Let's make things neater, shall we?" Nick's chest tightened. He stripped, sat down, and took the cage in his hands. It felt heavier than it looked. Final. When he spread his legs and positioned the base ring behind his balls, his hands shook. Then came the final part. The hollowed cap. He angled it, breath catching. His soft, tiny clit barely protruded anymore—shriveled, passive, almost afraid. As he pressed the dome over it, he felt it give. Fold. Retreat. The pressure forced the skin and soft tissue back inside his body, slipping into the space where it once rose proudly. Now it was absorbed. Gone. Like it had never existed. The plate sealed flush with his groin, smooth and round. No bulge. No curve. No cock. Just a soft indent under the metal, and his balls hanging helpless and heavy beneath like the last part of his masculinity she hadn't bothered to take yet. The lock clicked into place. Tight. Silent. Permanent. Nick stood. Looked in the mirror. And nearly collapsed. The tattoos on his lower belly framed the new device like a punchline—Tiny Clit – No Cock Here. It wasn't a lie. It was biological truth. Mistress had sent him a coffin for what used to be his manhood. Not to contain it—but to erase it. Bury it. Deny it. The app buzzed. "Now you match what I've always seen. A smooth, needy little sissy. With nothing left to touch. Just an aching hole and balls too stupid to know they don't matter." Nick couldn't respond. He couldn't think. He ran his fingers across the metal. There was no give. No slit. No shaft to shift or stroke. Just his body… with nothing in front. A blank space where his cock used to be. And beneath it, dangling stupid and exposed, were his balls—unlocked, useless, and still leaking for her.
