He just went downstairs. When he got out of bed, I pretended I was still asleep, but he knew I wasn’t. He said, “Whatever you do, don’t pout about it. You’re not the only faggot that got caged this weekend.”
He had never called me a faggot before he caged me. He locked it on me last night about 8 o’clock and said, “It looks phenomenal on you. You’re a very good looking faggot.” I bristled, and he continued. “You should get used to that word. You’re caged now. You’re a caged faggot. Here, I was going to do this later, but you might as well start wearing a collar too.” That’s when he put the chain around my neck and locked it. He said, “I own you boy. You are an owned fag. You might not know it now, but you’re a very lucky boy.”
I got no sleep as I kept waking up straining in my cage. When I told him about it later, he said, “Good. That’s part of the process. Eventually, your brain will realize that your holes are your sex organs and your cock will stop working altogether.”
I had sometimes thought about being a caged and collared fag, but the reality of it was overwhelming. The night before he told me to take some pictures of myself, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. In the morning I did and seeing myself like that was amazing. I’m going to serve a real man. I am owned. I am a caged and collared faggot. He’s right, I am a lucky boy.
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