Ruairí - Chapter 4

As always, this is fiction only. All characters in this story are 18 , all characters are considered to have consented within their fictional world. This is fiction, this is a story, any resemblance to real people or situations is unintended.

Check out the other chapters of this story using the links in my bio.

Stumbling to his feet, Mark went to the sink and began cleaning the toy, and then cleaning his asshole. He started when he heard his phone ring a text message. Mark stumbled back to his phone and hardened in his cage instantly as he saw that it was from Ruairí.

“Do you want to come over and hear the new track?” Mark blinked once, twice, three times, and realized that Ruairí couldn't have helped but overhear his obsessive horny jerk-off-session just now. Fuck. He couldn't go over after that.

Ruairí must think he was some kind of pervert. But Mark shook his head. Ruairí had a pair of the headphones too.  Surely, he hadn't heard anything. He had probably used his own headphones after that first night to prevent hearing Mark's inappropriate sounds ever again. Mark nodded to himself, comforted in the thought that his floor mate would definitely have protected his own privacy and insulated his own experience in the same way that Mark was doing.

Nodding to himself, reassuring himself that everything was okay. Mark put on his clothes once more and headed next door. 

Ruairí was already standing there with the door wide open.  He was sprawled across his bed as usual, shirtless, casual, and gorgeous. As soon as he saw him, Ruairí gave a big grin. 

“Hey, mate.  I haven't seen you in ages.  You must have been dead busy with schoolwork, eh?” Mark blinked.

He'd been staring at Ruairí's chest and hadn't totally heard what he'd said. His mind had to review, and it was a split second too late when he answered. Yeah, work.

“Uh…yah… lots of work. You said you wanted to show me a new track?” 

“Yeah, for sure.” Ruairí said. “But, uh, come on in for a sec. I don't want it to be a public concert.”

Mark stepped in and closed the door.

He took up his place on Ruairí's floor as usual, and Ruairí began strumming his sitar. God, he looked gorgeous when he did that. His hair seemed to flow like water, even though there was nothing for it to flow from or towards.

And something about his jawline seemed to entrance Mark. As the sitar played, Mark calmed. His breathing deepened, his eyes glazed over. All thoughts of the previous night, the previous week, seemed to fade away as the music took the most important part of his brain and ran away with it. A blankness came over his entire being.  …and that beautiful Cheshire grin appeared on Ruairí's face as he watched Mark's jaw slacken. 

“Looks like you've been coming along quite nicely,” Ruairí said. His fingers still plucking at the sitar, gentle cadences washing over Mark's brain like water.

“You've been using your headphones daily?”  Ruairí asked. Mark's jaw opened and his brain shrugged as he struggled to think.

Ruairí saw something in his eyes and removed a finger from the sitar and clicked his fingers.

“No thinking,”  he said. “Just answer.”  His fingers went back to the sitar and the cadence began again. 

“You've been listening to the headphones every day, right?” 

“Yes,” Mark said. And his mouth just said it without any seeming force or input from his conscious mind.  And once again, the part of Mark that was trying to think slipped back into the background and Ruairí continued playing. 

“Good,” Ruairí said. His fingers played across the sitar lovingly as if it were, as if his hands were stroking a thigh or a chest.  A distant part of Mark wished that he could touch Ruairí's chest like that. Ruairí played a gentle cadence downward and that thought along with whatever other thoughts Mark had been trying to think slipped away again. 

“Good, good,” Ruairí said again.  “Then take all your clothes off”. Mark's body rose and his hands lifted his shirt off and deposited on the floor. 

It was at that point that his mind tried to come back and click in, but it was like trying to look through fog, like trying to make out a coin at the bottom of thick soup or porridge. He didn't seem to be able to intervene or even think about intervening as his hands went next to the waistband of his trousers and pulled them off and then to his underpants. His hands paused there as something in his brain clicked in and he tried to regain control. Mark blinked and saw that he was standing in front of Ruairí's bed and only his underpants.  He knew dimly that underneath he was locked, helpless and that he was about to expose himself to the biggest crush he'd ever had in his entire life. Dimly, he knew that he shouldn't be doing this, that it would be embarrassing, humiliating, wrong, but it was as though he was calling to his body from the end of a long tunnel. He was able to slow his hands, but ultimately not stop them from removing his underpants and then depositing them by the side of the bed as well.  He stood exposed, hands by his side, face utterly calm. 

As Ruairí continued playing, Ruairí smiled. His grin got wider and wider as his eyes raked up and down Mark's live frame.

“Lovely,” Ruairí said, not pausing in his sitar playing for an instant. Mark was gradually coming back to the space behind his eyes and could notice Ruairí's appraisal of him. He was looking at Mark like Mark was a piece of delicious meat.

Ruairí licked his lips, strengthening the image. 

“We'll make something of you, don't worry,” Ruairí said, fingers plucking before releasing another trill. Mark's assessment of Ruairí's appraisal fell away.

“Come over here,” Ruairí said. He patted the bed in front of him between his legs. 

“On your knees.”

Mark's body obeyed thoughtlessly. He took one, two, three steps towards the bed, put one hand on the bed, brought his other knee up and then both knees until he was kneeling directly in front of Ruairí. Ruairí… where he thought he would never be.

He was completely naked and his cock was already beginning to stiffen in his prison. Ruairí played a final, extremely complicated lick that seemed to do something to Mark's brain and then he stopped and put the sitar down. Whatever that last loop was, it was a tangent that seemed to rattle around Mark's brain and prevent him from coming back up that tunnel toward his eyes.

Mark felt like a doll as Ruairí leaned forward and touched his chest, his nipples, grabbed at the small amount of flab on his stomach. 

“We'll have to do something about that.” Ruairí said, tutting.

His hands went around behind Mark, grabbed his ass. Ruairí made a small hum of approval and then slid one strong hand between Mark's cheeks, feeling for his boyhole. Mark protested internally, trying to regain control of his body.  But his body betrayed him. His asshole only pressed backward into Ruairí's hand. His throat and mouth forming a mewl of pleasure.  Mark was humiliated. He tried to shake himself, tried to bring himself back. He couldn't be doing this with Ruairí.  He wanted Ruairí's respect. He wanted Ruairí to like him. He wanted Ruairí to be his friend.  He couldn't act like some wanton slut. And just then Ruairí pressed on his boyhole again and Mark felt the cadence of the music that he'd been listening to for weeks crash through his head again unbidden. His thoughts seemed to slip away and whatever control he was beginning to get on his eyes or his ability to call to his body was wrenched from him like a man caught in a river's torrent, his consciousness swept back downstream by the music before he could think. Ruairí was apparising his boyhole and Mark's body was enjoying it. His conscious mind could do nothing about it.  Ruairí licked his lips once more. His index finger now swirling lovingly around Mark's hole. 

“You've been practicing with this,” Ruairí said.  He leaned closer to Mark. His jaw coming up to the boy's ear. His lips close enough that Mark could feel his breath.  Ruairi’s body was close enough that Mark could smell the intoxicating mix of vinegar and sweat and wood varnish that seemed to permeate Ruairí to his core. Mark’s dick throbbed again.  

Ruairí reached a hand up and tussled Mark's hair as though he were an adorable pet. And then lay back down on his bed. He opened the desk drawer of his desk and pulled out a key that as soon as he turned and brought it into Mark's vision, caused Mark's brain to collide back into his body with a terrible and sickening urgency.

“Recognize this?” Ruairí said. 

Internally, Mark wanted to scream. That was his key.

‘That was the key to the chastity device. That was… give it back. Give it to me.  Give it back now!’

…this was what he wanted to say. But the music in his head, the conditioning from the headphones, everything that had led up to this moment contributed to making him a prisoner.

Helpless in this moment. 

Helpless in his own body. 

As his eyes fixed on the key, he railed from within, trying to get his arms to move, trying to reach out to grab the key, trying to scream at Ruairí to give it back.

…but all that escaped was a small huff of air. 

Mark’s eyes were no longer glazed. They fixed on the key with an alarmed look, but every other part of his body was smooth, calm, undisturbed.

Ruairí leaned close with the key, looking deep into Mark's eyes and noted what he saw there. His nose crinkled in amusement. 

“So you can see me.  And you do know what's going on.”

‘What did you do to me?’ Mark bellowed from within. 

Once again, only a small huff of air escaped. 

Ruairí leaned back and put the key back into the desk drawer and then closed it.

“All you need to know for now,” Ruairí said, smiling, “is that you are stuck like this now. You cannot touch yourself without my permission. You cannot orgasm without my permission.  You can't even get gratification without my permission. You know that this is true.” 

Mark didn't want to believe it.  He tried to shake his head in disbelief. All that reflected was a gleam of panic in his eyes. Ruairí tilted a corner of his lips upward.

“Do you need me to prove it to you? Very well.” Ruairí leaned back and picked up his sitar once more. He played one single chord that was jarring and arresting, and it caused all of reality to whoosh back inward all at once.

All of a sudden, Mark was aware of exactly where he was, exactly what had happened, and exactly what Mark had just said. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mark squeaked. It sounded cuter than he'd wanted it to, but there was something about being completely naked in the room of a gorgeous man who, up until recently, you'd had the biggest crush on in your entire life.  Right up until you discovered that he'd done something to your mind and trapped you in a chastity cage, up until that point…there was something about that scenario that just made one a little bit nervous. 

Mark reddened and tried to cover himself with his hands, but as usual, any attempt to bring his fingers towards the cage for any reason other than using the bathroom didn't work. His hands remained by his sides, and Mark reddened as he attempted to bring his hands in front of him and felt only vestigial twitching in his forearms, wrists, and fingertips.  Ruairí’s eyes gleamed. 

“Like I said, you know it to be true. Here,” Ruairí, leaned back.

“I give you permission to touch yourself.” Mark looked at Ruairí strangely, certain that this had to be some kind of weird trick. 

Surely it didn't work that way, right? But when Mark went to reach toward his cage, he found that he was able to touch it, that he could grip the front of his tube.  He couldn't feel it on his dick, of course, but he could feel the tube of his cage. Having not even done that for so long, it felt so good to be able to touch something that was somehow related to him. He vibrated the tube back and forth, his other hand reaching down towards his balls.  Oh, damn, that felt so... 

“I revoke permission.”  Ruairi said suddenly.  “You can't touch yourself anymore.” 

Mark's hands fell away like dead jellyfish, flopping by his sides.  He shook them and then went back to touch himself and found that, as before, his hands and fingers would only twitch in the direction of his cage. 

They wouldn't actually come anywhere near it. He looked at Ruairí and... alarmed and afraid.  Ruairí was... poised, fingertips over the sitar. Mark looked like he was ready to scream at the other man. Animalistic fear.

Something like a cornered prey animal was lighting up in Mark's eyes. Ruairí glared him down and said clearly and confidently, 

“Be careful how you speak to me. One wrong word and I'll take your brain away again.”  Mark closed his mouth, realizing that he had, in fact, been about to scream at the other man and that Ruairí must have seen it in his eyes. 

Mark's gaze darted from the sitar back up to Ruairí's face, which was set, immovable. Mark licked his own lips and said, as calmly as he could manage, 

“...what have you done to me? What do you want?” Ruairí smiled and began playing the sitar again.  It didn't wash Mark's brain away, but it calmed him. Him…his breathing deepened and he seemed more able to focus on what Ruairí was saying. 

“I want…” Ruairí considered, “I want what I'm pretty sure you want.  …kid, I saw the way that you looked at me the first time you saw me and I heard the way that you jerked off to thinking about me. You aren't as subtle as you might think with the way that you look or the way that you act around someone that you think is hot. What I've done to you is simply this.  You can't orgasm without my permission. You can't get any gratification without my permission and you can't touch yourself without my permission. Because you can't touch yourself, there's no way of getting that cage off, even though it's plastic.”  Mark’s eyebrows raised in confusion, his mind caught on the last word.  Plastic?  But the cage he had ordered had been metal, that’s why he hadn’t been able to get it off earlier.  No, that couldn’t be …  but when Mark looked down, he realized his dick cage was, in fact, a simple, sleek, black plastic.  How had he not noticed?  How long had it been like that?  What the fuck was going on…?

“And because you can't orgasm,” Ruairi continued,  “I've made you dependent on me.” 

“But…why?” Mark said. The question seemed to raise a quizzical expression in Ruairí.

“Why?” Ruairí continued playing the sitar as though tasting the word ‘why’. 

“Well, because I'm a young dude and I need to fuck every now and again.” Mark's dick throbbed in its cage.  Ruairí went on, 

“All the other blokes around here will be competing over a limited amount of pussy and ass. But me?” The sitar trilled and the feeling of an entire week's worth of stress being lifted washed over Mark.

“Me? I'm going to have a reliable lay with you. Because you're not going to be able to cum without my help. And I'm not going to help you until I get what I want first.”  Mark swallowed. Ruairí patted him on the head again, removing one hand from the sitar. Mark looked down at his cage and the reality of his situation hit home to him.

“The headphones?” Mark asked. Ruairí nodded. 

“I've been conditioning you for weeks now.  You no longer have a say in this, Mark. If you hadn't been so dumb and thirsty earlier, you wouldn't be in this situation now. But you kept listening to the headphones and you kept feeding your horniness, your desire for me.  This is just the way it is now.” Mark swallowed. 

“And what if I just, like, tell someone? I mean, like, you can't just do this to me.”  Ruairí chuckled. And that beautiful sound still filled Mark's soul, even terrified and as he walked away. He paused.  Ruairí shook his head. 

“Who would believe you? I mean, listen to yourself. ‘The guy next door brainwashed me with magical music and now I can't cum without him?’ Honestly, you sound like some fantasist.”  Mark wanted to scream. He wanted to punch the other guy. If what he said was true, then Mark needed him.

Mark's gaze fell downward. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do.

He was at a complete loss. Ruairí played his sitar once more. And the boy's brain relaxed.

All anxiety fell away. All worry fell away. All that was left was Ruairí.

As the sitar music changed, the calmness that washed over him also gave him a sort of compliant complacency. 

“Do you want to orgasm?” Ruairí said, interested, curious. The well of emotion within Mark blew past the calmness induced by the sitar, and though his body remained calm and slack, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Yes, please, please let me cum, please.” Ruairí strummed again, and the cadences washed over his mind, swept him away from the control that he had over his lips, his mouth, and again to that place where his body was compliant, and his mind somewhere distant. Ruairí unzipped the fly of his jeans and pulled them down, unbuttoned his boxers and pulled out a manhood thicker and juicier than Mark could have imagined.

It was perfect. The base lost in a forest of fiery red cubic hair, the circumcised head swooping at him majestically, the vein running up one side, curling almost lovingly. 

Mark wanted to curl his tongue around that dick so badly, and whatever thought he had of being upset or afraid of his condition, his situation, was lost in desire for that man's beautiful, beautiful cock.

Ruairí strummed the sitar in that complicated, complicated pattern that seemed to rattle around Mark's brain and prevent him from returning to himself, and then he sat the sitar down. Ruairí snapped his fingers. Without hesitation, Mark's body lunged forward, his mouth devouring Ruairí's dick hungrily.

He bounced up and down on the dick, like he needed it, like it was providing air. His locked dick flopped between his legs helplessly as he bounced upward and downward, his whole winking for anyone who might happen to be behind him if the door should open, his cage dangling between his legs, and bouncing upward and downward with the rhythm of his sucking. Mark had never tasted or felt anything so amazing.

Ruairí's dick was like silk on his tongue. The precum out the slit was like the wines of heaven. The vein pulsing along the bottom was like the vine of life.

Every part of him hungered to serve. His hands formed into fists, gripping the bed sheets as he sucked hungrily. Somewhere distantly he could hear that Ruairí was moaning, grunting animalistically.

One hand strong and firm crawled in Mark's hair as Ruairí began forcing him down deeper onto his dick, thrusting upwards into the back of his throat. Even though he had never deep-throated before, somehow Mark's body knew what it was doing. It must have been part of the conditioning.

The back of Mark's throat widened, the cavern of his soft palate expanding, increasing as Ruairí's dick slammed the back of his throat. 

“Yeah,” Ruairí grunted, fucking Mark's mouth relentlessly. Mark gradually began to come back to awareness.

The minutes passing as he slurped and sucked, spit and drool running freely from his mouth, tears beginning to stream from his eyes as Ruairí continued to fuck his skull. His dick wept with unspent cum and he felt that he could almost orgasm with the amount of shaking and stimulation his cage was getting just from bouncing his head up and down on Ruairí's dick. 

Ruairí was really getting into it now, pounding deep into Mark's throat with each thrust, forcing him deeper and deeper.

Mark's nose slammed into the bright orange bush of Ruairí's pubic hair. Over and over, the musky scent of his balls and his ass overwhelmed Mark. Even as he began to come back to himself, the rattling music fading from his mind, Mark found that he couldn't move his body.  His body remained perfectly in place, perfectly formed to serve. Gradually, Mark found that all that had returned to him was his voice. He tried to protest…as he began to come back to himself, he realized that he didn't want this. He just wanted to cum. Yes, he fantasized about sucking Ruairí, but not like this.  He wanted to make love to the man's dick. He wanted to pleasure the man, not to be used like some fuck toy. Mark felt humiliated and more he felt trapped.

The more he tried to move his body, the more he couldn't. The more he began to feel scared. This man was using him like a fleshlight.

His dick was still throbbing in his cage, and he didn't like that his body seemed to be getting off on the situation. Everything about this was wrong. He was Mark.

He was an accountant. He didn't get used like a fuck toy. What the hell was going on? What was wrong with him? He tried to protest, tried to plead with Ruairí.

‘Please stop. Please, I don't want this. Please, please let me go.’

But Ruairí refused to let Mark off his dick, and Mark's body refused to obey his commands. So his pleading only came out as unintelligible muffled garbled grunts, whines, and screams around Ruairí's dick. Ruairí moaned low, almost a guttural growl.

The more that Mark whined and complained and screamed around the other man's cock, the more the vibrations at the back of his throat, him trying to scream, trying to communicate, just made his mouth feel better and better for Ruairí. Something about it continued to stiffen Mark's cock. He felt like his cock could burst out of its cage.

The pre-cum was flowing like a faucet now. Ruairí shuddered, grabbing the bed with one hand and holding Mark's head with the other. 

“You have permission to cum,” Ruairí said.

And a few seconds later, he held Mark's head down firmly on his dick as he thrust upward, slamming into the back of Mark's throat. The whole of Ruairí's body spasmed and Mark gagged as a jet of hot warm seed spilled down his throat and across his tongue. The instant that Ruairí climaxed, Mark felt a crashing through him, like a dam bursting open.

His own boy-dick exploded in its cage and he squirted his own load out of his tiny cage. The splooge landed on Ruairi's bed and Mark's complaints immediately sank to whimpers and then to moans as Ruairí held the boy on his dick, forcing him to swallow all of his cum, forcing him to continue sucking his still erect cock until it was clean. 

Eventually, Ruairí released the hand that was holding Mark's head and enough of Mark had come back to himself that he was able to lift his head and slowly, as if moving through molasses, sit up.

“Ooooohh,” Ruairí sighed. “Good toy.” Mark swallowed, his entire face red, beaten like a cherry tomato.

He’d just sucked off Ruairí. No, a part of his brain corrected him. Ruairí had just violated his mouth.

He didn't want that. Then Mark's eyes trailed back to the puddle of cum on Ruairí's bed. He didn't want that or did he? Mark swallowed.

He looked back down at his cage and went to touch it to feel some of the cum but found that his hand wouldn't move off his thigh. Quivering, Mark stifled what felt like the beginnings of a sob. The fuck was he supposed to do about this? He looked back over to Ruairí who was still stroking himself, watching Mark.

“That was really good,” Ruairí said. Mark's mouth worked upward and downward like a fish. He didn't know how to form the question.  He didn't know what to say but the look on his face made what he was thinking clear enough. A smirk played on Ruairí's lips again. 

“No,” he said simply.  “...If what you're thinking is, when am I going to let you out of this? The answer is just no.” Mark's eyes fell downward again. 

“So you're not gonna take the cage off,” Mark said slowly,  “...and you're gonna keep doing…that to me?” the caged boy’s voice was quivering slightly.

Ruairí sat up and came next to him, put one arm around Mark’s naked shoulder. It was a gesture that was almost loving. Ruairí pursed his lips.

“I'm not going to let you out of your cage, no. The conditioning works better with the cage on and I have no intention of releasing you from your conditioning. Not until we graduate….at the very least.”

Mark swallowed. And in his mind could only think, ‘at the very least?!’. Mark looked up at Ruairí.

“…So that means…” Mark started, a question in his voice.  Ruairí tapped his cage and then turned away, lying back on the bed. 

“It means that I'll text you when I want you. And apart from that, go do your own thing.  I'm not your boyfriend or anything. You're just my fuck toy.” The word rang in Mark's ears.

That was exactly what he'd been made into. And it seemed there was nothing he could do about it. He began to collect his clothes and began to put them on again, noticing that that didn't seem to be a problem anymore.

Ruairí sighed and picked up his sitar again. 

“Don't look like such a hurt little puppy, boy. I mean, I let you orgasm today, didn't I?” Mark nodded slowly, looking, turning around once he was clothed. 

“Yes, you did. Thanks, Ruairí.”  Ruairí tutted and shook his head. 

“You know, you're shite at pronouncing my name. From now on, call me ‘Sir’.  Understood?” 

Mark swallowed, something about that seemed so final. But what was there to do? 

“Yes, sir,” he said, and felt his dick twinge in its prison.  And then Mark left the room…and closed the door.