I can hear you in the next room and I strain my ears to decipher your sounds. I hear the jingle of buckles and hardware, the creak of the lid of the trunk at the foot of the bed, the rattle of keys and the click of a lock. Private. Hidden. Secret. I don’t know what’s coming, or what awaits me, so I myself wait, eyes shuttered by the leather hood, curled in my cage, naked and waiting.

[Content Warning: captive/cage play, erotic asphyxiation, rough sex] 

Your footfalls are heavier than when you left your office, the same room I am in. You’ve put on boots. My skin prickles at the thought of being taken outside like this, played with in the grass, or pushed into the dirt, with only the high cedar hedges to protect us from prying eyes.

Private. Hidden. Secret.

I know it’s fourteen steps for you to leave the bedroom where your secret box is kept, hidden in plain sight at the foot of the bed; the one that holds the instruments of pain and pleasure that I have never seen, only felt. I count in my head when I hear you coming, picturing your steady stride, shoulders back. You arrive in only twelve steps; you must be eager, as is your right. Again, the tinkle of keys and this time the lock is right in front of me, the bolt slides and I hear the cage door open and your fingers graze my lips, the only part of my face exposed to you.

Private. Hidden. Secret.

My cunt throbs at the warm of your skin and I whimper as your fingers push into my mouth. This is our usual greeting, I would know your taste anywhere. I can hear the leather of your boots squeak as you shift your weight, crouched at the door of my cage and I follow your hand as you draw me out: slowly pulling your hand from my desperate mouth, giving it back as I move closer. Once upon a time my obedience was humiliating and confusing to me, now it is second nature. You ask and I do, you tell and I respond, you touch and I give. No one knows we’re like this.

Private. Hidden. Secret.

I feel the tug of the zipper that exposes my nose when undone, I feel the teeth releasing from one another and it’s glorious to smell more than the leather of the mask. I can smell the rain outside the open window, I can smell soap on your skin, I can smell my own cunt; heady and sweet, like the taste in your mouth when you first wake up. Without warning the tip of my nose is crushed between your finger and thumb and you pull me close against you. You’re sitting, and my scrambling hands tell me you’re sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, I can feel the cool brass studs that decorate the fronts of the arms. Your boot swipes my knees wider, pushing me into place and I feel the cold tip of a metal cock part my lips. Immediately I realise it is strapped to your boot as you unforgivingly push me down onto it. I grunt as it overfills me, grinding down onto it. You like it this way, making me fuck myself for you without warning or preamble. You never wait to prime my cunt for entry; it should always be ready, a secret only we know.

Private. Hidden. Secret.

Your thumbnail dents the side of my nose sharply as you put me exactly where you want me, your foot tapping the floor, a pulsing metronome, forcing my cunt full of steel. I hear your zipper and the sound of your belt slipping from its loops; it is a comfort when it encircles my throat and you yank it tight, still holding me by my nose, your other hand invading my mouth. I will breathe when you let me and until then I ride the cock strapped to your foot and whimper around your fist as it pushes my jaw to its widest. No eyes, no air, no choice, I feel my mind start to fracture and shift. The fear is the thrill and it moves through me like smoke, impossible to catch, shapeless and evasive. There’s only blackness and the sound of your breathing, heavy and ragged as you let me gasp a lungful of air before the belt tightens again and your hand in my mouth is replaced with your cock. My thighs are slick with fear and delight as I fuck your boot and you press my head down into your lap, your throbbing cock filling my throat. You come quickly; no edging, no playing, nothing but the tang of your ejaculate as the sounds and sensations of you slide sideways and the darkness of the hood becomes the darkness of my mind.

Private. Hidden. Secret.

When I wake up, I’m in the bed. The room is empty, the hood is gone, the late afternoon light is flat and grey; it is still raining. I can still taste you and I smile as I realise I’m wearing a clean t-shirt, yours, and there is water and chocolate on the bedside table. I stretch, toes curling, and I luxuriate in the softness of the bed, a far cry from the bare floor of the cage. I listen for you and hear you downstairs, common household sounds, and I wonder how long I slept, if it’s even the same day. As I stretch and move in the bed, the quilt pushes down onto the top of the locked box and I hear a metallic jangle. I flip back the blanket to see the keys sitting atop the box they lock and my pulse thuds in my temples. Curiosity crawls up through me and I tentatively reach for them but my hand retracts as I hear your steps coming up the stairs. Eighteen steady steps to the top, another twelve and you’re in the doorway, smiling. Your eyes move from mine to the keys, back to me, and you chuckle. Two strides take you to the foot of the bed and the keys clink as you clip them to your belt. My hand touches my neck, the bruises softly blooming, marked by that same belt. Your smile is kind as you sit beside me and hand me the glass of water. I try not to look at the keys at your hip, but I do, and you laugh softly again and push my hair back and off my brow.

We both know I’d never open the box. We both know you will never reveal its contents. We both know how this works: Private. Hidden. Secret.


The Blog Days of Summer


Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.