She laughs at him every morning.
And maybe without the cage it wouldn't burn as badly as it does, her low mocking chuckle bringing him into the world of the conscious. Drew always clutches his balls, squeezes them too hard. She loves when they're especially swollen and full, pulled high against his body while his cock tries, futile, to swell against the hard plastic she's bound him into.
On the mornings he's particularly desperate, in more pain than usual, rubbing his sterile plastic-cased cock against her smooth warm thigh, she takes extra time to tease him. She kisses him hard, bites his lip until he tastes blood. He pulls her close, some animal part of his brain insisting he'll rut against her until he comes or dies, goddamnit, but she's lithe and slippery and always pulls away. There's always a moment when Drew escapes, just for a second, and comes back with the oil.
She always uses more than necessary. She orders him to stand next to the bed, his wrists crossed behind his back, and she tucks a towel on floor between his ankles. He has a hard time not wiggling with dread and delight, knowing what will come. Drew pours baby oil over his cock and balls, watches him shrink slightly as the cool viscous liquid drips over his most sensitive skin. Her eyes on him are worse than the chill-she kneels, leaning in close, like she just might undo the plastic lock on his junk, like she just might take him in hand and stroke stroke stroke soothe his hot needy flesh, like she just might take him in mouth and let him fuck her throat until he explodes-but it doesn't happen.
She watches the oil drip in long strands from his caged cock and then she begins to touch him, makes sure the oil gets under the seal behind his balls, the one holding his poor penis captive. Drew strokes and massages, runs her slick hands over his thighs, breathes hot breathes onto the plastic barrier, bites his hips and his curves until he is struggling to stay still, until Sam's cock is filling all the crevices of the lock and if it doesn't come off and if he doesn't come it will be the end, he can't stand it, he can't stand another fucking day please Drew please-
She laughs.
If he's lucky he wakes up before she does and burrows under the sheets. He can please her, he will please her, and he nuzzles at her breasts while his fingers stroke the fur between her legs, that rapidly wetting silk almost as mesmerizing as the folds and curves and valleys it hides. Sam sucks one nipple into his mouth and he can taste the exact moment she wakes up, the half-second of stunned silence before she arches up into him, pressing her breast into his mouth and her cunt into his hand. He licks and bites, just enough to make her gasp out loud, and it's only fair he pays the other nipple just as much attention.
"Eat me out," she orders, which is convenient because the taste of her pussy is all he can think about, the dizzying delight of her writhing and thrusting and clenching around his fingers as he licks up the sweet clean taste of her musk.
Sam travels down her body, leaves the lovely swell of her belly and the curve of her hips to be lavished with adoration another day. He's already two fingers sunk deep into her and she purrs, a low deep thrum that sounds through her whole body when he adds his tongue to the mix, sucking and flicking and thrusting. If these were her most intimate places he could play a concerto on her strings, but Drew plays it close to the chest. He can make her swear in unknown languages when she comes, wrapping her thighs around his head and tensing so hard he's half-afraid she'll break, but he knows so little about what makes her tick.
He's willing to push boundaries, this time, knows at worst she won't let him free, so he takes a chance, keeps his first two fingers sunk deep into her cunt and his thumb below her clit, ghosts his ring finger and pinky across the pucker of her ass. Drew bucks like a horse and he's pretty sure he hears the names of god in Hebrew, Greek and Enochian, but Sam hangs on gamely until her legs lock wide and her hips are thrusting in inchoate rhythm and her voice doesn't sound like her own anymore.
She hauls him up, grinds her pussy against his cage, kisses the taste of herself greedily from his mouth and chin. Sam sighs, pulls her in closer, whispers against her ear.
"Please." He kisses the nape of her neck, nuzzles the sheath of her hair, beseeches the hard line of her jaw. "Please, let me. Please, let me come."
But she laughs, and she waits.
She waits until a rare morning he's not hard and unlocks him while he sleeps. He's so shocked by the feel of his cock free and a hand wrapped around it that he can't remember how long it's been-two weeks? Maybe less?-before the slide of oil wipes his mind clean. He's begged a hundred times before so it should not be a surprise when she presses her forehead against his, her eyes bright and manic, and whispers, "What do you say, pretty boy?"
"Please, ma'am." The words don't even stick in his throat anymore, he wants it so bad. Her hand is on his hip, pressing him into the bed, but he thrusts up anyway. "Please ma'am, please let me come."
"No." She says, and locks him up again.
He has to wait three more days, three days of obsequious servility, his hands and mouth at her disposal while his cock hangs hard and compressed, painfully cramped. Every time he retreats to the bathroom to piss-the times she doesn't follow him, anyway, to mock that he has to sit-he fiddles with the lock, tries to find a weak spot, tries to convince the fucking thing to fall off already. But he knows how lonely he would be without it, without a reminder of her squeezed around his skin every moment, waking or sleeping.
Drew's brand of mercy is a rough thing. He knows today is the day because she's laid out the leather cuffs and the ropes and the short vicious cane he hates. She used to use a ball gag, but she decided it got in the way of hearing him scream. If she wants to muffle him, lately, she just sits on his face.
He's naked, sitting on the bed with locked cuffs around his ankles by the time she arrives. Something about the pleasure in her smile, the way she looks him up and down with razor focus before she grins and pats his head and murmurs, "Good boy," makes him shiver in delight and anticipation and a little disgust, too, for how deep those words cut into his soul.
She finishes restraining him, spread-eagled on the bed, and picks up the quirt. His eyes must give him away, because she laughs. "You thought you were going to get to come, didn't you?"
When he starts to beg forgiveness for he knows not what, she cuts him off. "I haven't decided if I'm going to let you. We'll see how you perform."
She tickles his armpits with the cane, strokes it lovingly up his sides, runs a line around his nipple with it. Several times she feints, threatening to lash his soft belly or the front of his thighs, only to laugh when he cringes away.
"Poor baby," she purrs, and kisses his temple. "Am I cruel to you? Be honest."
"Yes," he says, but she just smiles. Drew quickly strips naked, no artifice to her actions, climbs on top of him. She straddles his chest, facing his cock, so his view is of the long lithe line of her back and the sweet roundness of her ass. Her body is her only softness and he craves it, his fingers in her hair and on her breasts and sunk into the meat of her thighs as he fucks into her.
She finally stripes him with the cane when he won't lay still, when he moves to press more of his body against her. One sharp crack against his inner thigh, and she doesn't even bother to turn around when he yelps. "Do you love when I'm cruel?"
She must have put the cane down because she's unlocking the cage and it's only the residual sting of the cane that keeps him from moving greedily. When the cage is off she slaps his cock roughly. "Answer me."
"Yes! Ah, yes."
"Yes, what?" She slaps his cock again and his jaw clenches of its own accord with the shock of it. It doesn't matter-he's getting hard anyway, the freedom too precious and too intoxicating.
"Ah! Yes, ma'am, I love it when you're cruel."
Drew picks up the cane again. Her voice is low and dangerous. "Do you love me when I'm cruel?" She stripes him three times, quick and sharp, right above his knee.
"Yes," he gasps. "I love you when you're cruel."
"Good," she purrs, and the stormclouds are gone from her voice. That doesn't stop her from hitting him twice more, once on each thigh, making him grunt. He struggles not to tense against the blows, to accept the pain as sensation which will take him to transcendence, but Drew is careful not to give him the chance to surrender. She wants him to feel every bit of her ministrations. But she puts the cane down, takes his hard cock in hand, gently this time.
She is so careful, so delicate and thorough he almost cries. When they first began this game he'd try to come as quickly as possible once she'd freed him, but he knows better these days. He knows what comes after his orgasm is so much worse than the torment that precedes it, so he tries to live for these moments when she frees him, even though they only exist to make his time caged that much more confining.
When his achingly full balls pull up against his body and he's about to come, she removes her hands from him and waits while he pants and curses and begs. Her silence reminds him of an awful game she played, once, letting him fuck her hand while she used a cattle prod to shock his back and armpits and ass. He'd screamed and blacked out when he came that time, woke up limp and cold and sore in the restraints, cock locked again.
When she resumes it's with that same strange tenderness she knows he needs just as much as he needs the cage and the cane. She pauses to lube him up, wraps both hands around his shaft, pumps and twists with a smoothness that turns his words into mush, a long string of mumbled petitions that end with a groan because she stops touching his cock again. Drew hasn't spoken to him in long minutes, instead runs her hands over his flanks and his stomach and the inside of his thighs and he is so close, so terribly close, all he needs is a brush of her hand against the head of his cock, some kind of friction, something-
He wiggles and thrusts and fights the restraints, tries to force her to touch him, trick her into it, anything, he's sobbing now, but she silently pins him, watches him struggle helplessly and uselessly.
"I need it! Drew, I'm going fucking crazy. Please!"
She flicks the head of his cock, hard and dismissive. The shock of pain is enough to do it, send him over the edge in a dark, awful burst. His brain pulses and his cock throbs, spattering Drew with come, and he pants his way through it. There's no relief with this release, Drew makes sure of that.
She gives him no time to adjust. The coldness of her back to him is worse, he thinks, and he begs her to look at him, to tell him he's good. She doesn't. She continues to pump his cock, slick with come, but the tenderness is gone. She milks him, squeezing the oversensitive head again and again, cupping his balls and fondling them. It's too much. His cock, begging for contact, now wants nothing more than to be left alone, but she keeps her hands working and teasing and pulling until he's sore but reluctantly hard again.
She begins to alternate rough pumping strokes of her hand and slaps to his balls, the cane to his legs, until he's floating somewhere he can't come but he can't escape, either. When she drops the cane to lube her fingers and begin to slide them against the pucker of his asshole, he cries out and cringes away. He hates it the powerlessness of being penetrated, hates that she takes even this territory away from him, but as one finger pushes inside he comes again in a raw rush.
When he wakes up, the room is cold and empty. He's untied except for the plastic cage around his cock, chafing yet again.