This story was written as a collaboration with fetish artist Strikt. You can find links to his DeviantArt, X and Bluesky accounts below. He created the dazzling image, and I made the prose to accompany it. I firmly believe he is one of the most exciting Femdom artists working today, and I’m overjoyed to have shared a space with someone of such obvious talent. Please check out his other work, it’s sensational.
DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/striktart
Bluesky: @striktart.bsky.social
X: https://x.com/Strikt_Art
Caged.
When we were first dating, she joked that she owned a cage. She laughed and called it her “spice rack.” I didn’t believe she actually had one, maybe because I find the idea of not just a cage, but a woman who would want to own a cage, so intoxicating that I have trouble being rational. She had to be kidding, right? I’ve come to learn that she always means business, especially when she’s joking.
From within the cage, I hear her steps approaching on the wooden floor and look up. Through the bars, I see her stride into the room and place several items on the mantel: a gag, a crop, and some kind of plastic jug. Then she turns to face me. As I’ve been trained, I lower my eyes to the floor. I catch just the lens flare of her haughty, disdainful grin.
The cage is long enough that I can fully lie down, and just tall enough that I can sit cross legged. The floor of it is a black vinyl that reminds me of the chair at the bowling alley where I had my first kiss. I’m sitting on my flank now, because I know this position turns her on. I’m naked except for her collar and a chastity cage that she uses whenever I’m locked in here. She put me in here an hour or so ago. I’ve gotten better at guessing the time, but I’m still not good.
When she first showed me the cage, I made a little gasp, and she said “I call it the spice rack, because it seasons you. I put you in there, and it flavors the meat, softens you up and makes you more delicious.”
At the time, I was so taken aback that I merely uttered a breathless, “How?”
“You’ll see.”
When she eventually put me in, I did see, looking out through the black metal bars.
Now she reclines against the mantle, studying me, savoring me. I want to look up, but I don’t. She can tell.
Her voice is confident, “Look at me, boy.”
I lift my eyes to see her exquisite form framed in a devastating bra and harness set. Her face is haughty and disdainful. Her nipples set my mouth watering. She’s wearing an empty strap on harness, but I can’t see a dildo to mount in it, which is, of course, disturbing. Terrifying shadows of enormous phalluses haunt the periphery of my thoughts like the shark in Jaws, cruising below the surface, more fearsome for being unseen. Compared to that, the crop and ball gag are almost comforting, at least these make me reasonably sure of what they herald. She really likes to gag me when she’s hurting me. She says she likes the look of helplessness that takes over my face. When she said that to me the first time, I got so hard. But none of these things are the source of my fear, that honor falls to the bottle.
The first time she put me into the cage, naked, thrumming with lust for her, hard as a rock, I thought it was only going to be for a minute or two to tease me. I thought sex with her was imminent. Then she walked out of the room. My confidence evaporated in minutes. As time dragged on, I rapidly shifted through denial and acceptance like I was speedrunning the stages of grief. I felt paroxysms of visceral terror, gripped by a sense the bars were literally squeezing in on me. My mind raced through so many possibilities, I actually talked myself into believing I had been left there all night. When she came back after what I later learned was a mere 30 minutes, I was on the verge of coming unglued.
She just laughed. Then she said, “Oh yeah, beating you is going to taste so much better now.”
I don’t want to overstate my breakdown that first night. I was fine, but I truly felt the fear of captivity for the first time, that it’s bite could be as sharp as any whip. When she came back into the room thirty minutes later, well, I agreed to do horrible things to get her to let me out of the cage. And then I worshipped her, and it was incredible. I held onto her boots through her glorious savagery, and came as hard as I ever had, my face pressed in her leather skirt, made slick with my own tears.
But it wasn’t until the next morning that I got my first real vision of the power of the cage. As I was leaving, she took me in her arms and whispered, “Next time, I’ll put you in the cage all night.”
I shivered with fear, the kind you feel when you first glimpse the monster in a horror film.
Right now, the thing that’s scaring me is the large plastic bottle she placed on the mantle beside her. It’s a translucent milky gray color and looks like it will hold a gallon. It’s topped with a large rubber nipple, the kind used for nursing wild animals. I don’t know what’s in it, but I can see a line near the top of the bottle that shows it’s 2/3 full. I can also tell the bottle is new, that means she bought this for something special. Whatever is in there, I don’t think it’s water.
Thinking about what it might be makes my stomach clench. I don’t even want to name the most obvious potential revolting humiliations for fear I will ideate one into existence like some nauseating vision board.
She didn’t put me in the cage all night that second time, it took her a few months to work up to that. But my fear that she would was always intense. Whenever she walked out of the room in those days, I literally began to shiver. I came to learn that the cage was like a treadmill for your mind, exhausting your will to resist the way a flogger exhausts your muscles. I came to understand how the cage conditioned me to accept her orders for fear of being sent there, and yet to feel turned on by the punishment as well. Beatings after the cage were almost euphoric, and orgasms after the cage were utterly transcendent.
I mentioned that to her at dinner once, that I thought I finally understood what she meant by “seasoned.”
She said, “Just you wait, you won’t believe how good it’s going to make you feel.”
And she was right, I came to yearn for the feeling of being in it, for the Pavlovian way it turned me on. The feeling of hearing the click of its locked door over and over in my head like the ratchet of a roller coaster car as it climbs toward the drop. When she would let me out, I would feel a dizzying rush of lust or fear, so much that it overwhelmed my senses. But in the cage, I could experience those two sensations perfectly. It was like emotional padding that blunted just enough of the stake knife of terror that I could taste the juice running from its blade.
Now, as she looks down on me, savoring my fear, I feel that once more. I feel the memory of her torments, all the pain she has delivered unto me. The cage gives me a place of safety from which to observe her succulent impending violations. In the cage, it’s like looking at her through bullet proof glass, as if she were the dangerous beast who was confined, and I was looking in through the bars, instead of out. Temporarily safe in the clutches of the lioness.
What the fuck is in that bottle?
She’s joked about making me eat cum. Well, not my own, she’s already made me eat that several times. No, she was teasing me with the idea of eating someone else’s. But how could she have gotten so much? Her elbow bumps the jug, and it sloshes slightly, in a way that shows it has a viscosity near clam chowder. I suppress the urge to gag.
Her grin curls ever tighter, and she can see my questions. I have no secrets in the cage.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, boy?”
My stomach twists further.
“That bottle is for feeding lambs.”
Her eyes fix on me, sparkling diamond hard.
“Lambs get slaughtered. When I slaughter you, how will you scream?”
She took a Polaroid of me the fourth night she put me in the cage, this time for long enough that we worked out a bathroom protocol, by which I could press a little button to summon her when I needed to pee. She tucked the photo into the mirror that looks down on the cage. I asked her why, since it wasn’t a vanity or some other mirror that she spent time looking into.
She said, “It’s not for that, it’s so that a part of you is always looking at the cage, like a little voodoo doll. I’m training you to be obsessed with it.”
“So I’m always trapped there?”
“Trapped? Oh no, boy. In time, you will come to feel liberated in the cage. It will set you free.”
And it was true. In the cage, I came to feel released from all the concerns and fears that animated me outside of her control. In the cage, I am free to feel nothing but her will. In the cage I have nothing to worry about except what will happen when I leave. In the cage, I am always correct. Locked in the cage and the chastity, I am unable to touch myself without her permission. I can steep in my lust for her, and never fear I will lose control. In the cage, I am always in the right place, always wearing what pleases her. I can say nothing wrong, or make a mistake folding her clothes or break some rule. In the cage I am freed from all worry.
When I feel stress at work or out and about, I yearn for the feeling of the cage, for the click of its lock to tell me I am free from the shackles and burdens of the world.
Right now, in the cage, I am free.
I can’t even see the bars anymore.
Double caged