There is a very specific kind of frustration that only exists when you are being pegged while caged. It’s not just physical. It’s mental. It’s emotional. It’s humiliating in a way that rewires your brain.

I love getting pegged. I’m not shy about that. She knows exactly how to hit my spot, how to make my body melt and tense at the same time. She’s practiced. Confident. Cruel in the best possible way. When she’s inside me like that, my whole system lights up.

And that’s where the problem starts.

Because my cock is locked. Trapped. Straining against metal like it’s trying to escape a prison it agreed to be in. I can feel it swelling, leaking, twitching with absolutely nowhere to go. Every thrust sends another signal down there that gets answered with nothing but pressure and frustration.

She loves this.

Sometimes she’ll do it in front of one of her bull friends. Not to impress them. To humiliate me. They’ll laugh when they see how wrecked I get. How my breathing changes. How my body is obviously desperate, while my cock is completely useless. They know what’s happening. I know they know. That’s part of it.

The worst part isn’t even the physical discomfort. It’s knowing she’s probably not going to unlock me. That this isn’t foreplay leading somewhere. This is the whole point. She gets to take everything she wants from my body while denying the one thing my cock is screaming for.

By the time she’s done, I’m a mess. Shaky. Swollen. Leaking. Mentally fried. My cock maxed out inside its little metal cage like it’s trying to burst through sheer willpower alone. And then she just… stops. Smiles. Pats my thigh. Tells me to clean up.

No release. No relief. Just the aftershock.

It’s brutal. It’s unfair. It’s one of the clearest reminders that my pleasure is never the goal, even when I’m enjoying every second of it.

And yeah… I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

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