CHAPTER 1
MILES
In less than 12 hours,the resident bully on campus, Brett Calloway, would be standing in front of me, shorts around his thick thighs, wearing a steel chastity cage, and begging me to make him cum.
This wasn’t my typical Friday night.
But before we get to that, let me explain how we got here.
I was at Token & Slice, which had been my favorite hangout since my first year of college. Officially, it was a pizza joint, the best pepperoni slice within walking distance of campus, cheap enough for a college budget, and open until midnight on weekends.
The front room was exposed brick and neon signs buzzing overhead, with old-school arcade games glowing along the walls. An air hockey table was in the corner, and a pinball machine was near the door.
In the back, through a wide arch, were three pool tables under low-hanging lights. That’s where the louder, more social crowd gathered to perform for each other.
That was Brett Calloway’s territory. The back room was always Brett’s territory.
You could find me in the front. Specifically, in front of a 1994 fighting game calledSteel Fist. Nobody else on campus took it seriously because it had a learning curve that required actual dedication. I claimed 17 of the top 20 high scores. I’d been working on the other three.
The two rooms shared an ordering counter and a small seating area in the middle, which meant occasionally our worlds overlapped. Brett had a laminated certificate on the wall. He had the house record for Pocket Billiards — Singles Play, with his name printed in bold like it meant something. To Brett, it meant everything. He strutted past it every Friday night like a king reviewing his own portrait.
Tonight, I was ready to take the king down.
Brett Calloway had spent the last two years systematically making my life at college hell. He mocked me in front of crowds almost daily, shoulder-checked me in every hallway, spread rumors that I was a limp-dick who cried during sex, and once told a packed party that the only way I’d ever get laid was if someone pity-fucked the campus nerd.
He’d also taken to calling me Kilometers, because my name is Miles. (Miles/Kilometers, get it?) Apparently Brett Calloway considered unit conversion the height of comedy. His friends thought it was hilarious, and the nickname caught on.
Somewhere between hating his guts and being unable to stop fantasizing about him, I’d developed a plan.
The plan had two parts. Part one: learn to play pool well enough to destroy him at his own game. Part two: make sure there were stakes worth winning. That’s where the chastity cage came into play.
Part one involved several months of early mornings at the student union, geometry proofs applied to felt and slate, and an embarrassing amount of YouTube videos teaching me different techniques, which I’d quietly mastered.
Part two involved a cock cage I’d ordered online. It was discreetly packaged in a matte black box, tucked in my desk drawer, waiting for exactly this moment.
The cage had been there for three weeks. I’d taken it out and held it over and over, feeling the cold steel in my hand, imagining this perfect scenario unfolding...
Brett’s thick, veiny cock crammed helplessly inside the short steel tube, his heavy balls bulging through the ring, his usual swagger cracking as he leaked and begged.
Here’s what I’d never told a single person: I’d had this specific chastity fantasy for a while. I always imagined a big, dumb, gorgeous man, completely at my mercy.
He would only be unlocked when I decided he’d earned it, desperate in a way he couldn’t charm his way out of. And Brett Calloway, with his square jaw, obscene shoulders, and the way he filled out a t-shirt like the universe was personally showing off, had walked directly into the starring role without knowing he’d auditioned.
I thought about him a lot. I thought about him in the shower, stroking myself while picturing his flushed face and straining cage. I thought about him at 2 AM when I should have been sleeping, imagining what it would look like to watch all that easy physical confidence dissolve into raw, needy trembling, directed entirely at me. I thought about him saying, “Please, Miles, can I cum?” And I’d smile, shake my head slowly, and say, “Not tonight.”
Then I’d go back to practicing my bank shots.
So when he swaggered up to me on that Friday night with four of his idiot friends and said, “Hey Kilometers, you up for a game?” I put down my drink very slowly and said, “Sure.”
It was the first time I’d ever said yes. He’d asked every Friday like clockwork, more ritual than genuine invitation, laughing when I turned him down like my refusal was the joke. Thistime, the laugh didn’t come. For one unguarded second, Brett Calloway looked genuinely surprised. Then the smile slid back into place, easy and automatic, and he acted like he’d seen it coming all along.
He grinned at his friends. God, he was beautiful when he was being stupid.
“Stakes?” I said.
He shrugged, already certain he was the champion. “Loser does the winner’s laundry for a month.”
His friends laughed. I let them.