The message came in the morning. After the video. After the cum. After hours of aching silence. Mistress had finally replied. Not with punishment. Not with silence. But with a gift. "You've earned it. Your key is waiting at the PO box. You have one day to use it. Make it count." Nick's hands shook as he dressed. The cage pulsed with every step. He hadn't been unlocked in weeks. The idea of finally seeing himself—touching himself—relieving the pressure made his head spin. He drove straight to the box, heart pounding. The key was there. Real. Cold. Waiting. He took it home like it was sacred. Sat on the edge of the bed. Stripped. Held his breath. Inserted the key. Turned. The lock clicked open. The metal slid off. And he looked down… and froze. Nothing happened. His cock—no, his clit—stayed exactly as it was. Soft. Small. Two pathetic centimeters of flesh, limp and barely twitching. He tried to touch it. Stroke it. Tease it. But it didn't swell. Didn't grow. Even after minutes of stimulation, of whimpering, of begging… it stayed the same. Thin. Useless. Like the cage had trained his body to forget what it meant to be hard. To be male. He rushed to the mirror. Looked down. His tattoos glared back at him—Tiny Clit – No Cock Here. It wasn't a joke anymore. It was the truth. Mistress hadn't just locked him away. She'd rewritten him. His hands trembled. His clit dribbled a drop of precum, but that was all it could do. Even unlocked, he couldn't perform. Couldn't get hard. Couldn't be a man. He was a thing now. A plaything. A hole. A bitch. Mistress hadn't stolen his cock. She'd reduced it. Forever. The app buzzed. "Touch yourself. Try." He obeyed. Slowly. Desperately. But no matter how long he stroked, how much he moaned, how many times he whispered her name—he never reached full hardness. Never even got close. The app buzzed again. "That's all that's left of you now." He sobbed. Sat on the floor, naked, spent, useless. But the need didn't stop. The ache only got worse. His body screamed for release. Not because of arousal—but because he couldn't remember what pleasure felt like. So he did the only thing his broken mind could come up with. He drove to the adult store. Hood up. Sunglasses on. No one could see his face. He bought a wand vibrator. Sleek. Strong. Quiet. He didn't even wait until he got home. He stopped in a secluded lot, reclined the seat, slid off his sweats, and pressed it to his clit. The moment it touched him, he gasped. His body spasmed. His legs trembled. The buzz hit something his hand never could. It bypassed pride. Bypassed identity. Went straight into his nerves. And within seconds, his caged, pathetic clit twitched once—twice—and then released. The orgasm ripped through him like lightning. Dry. Violent. Unforgiving. He cried out. Shook. And kept it pressed there until his body went limp and sensitive and raw. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't stop. He did it again in the bathroom. Once more before bed. It was the only thing that worked now. Not friction. Not fantasy. Vibration. A toy. A wand. His new god. Mistress didn't even reply that night. She didn't have to. Because Nick already knew what she'd say. "Good girl."
