Page 32 of Taste Test

The interrogation had been going on all day.

“But does it shrink your dick?” Jared asked, sprawled across our couch with an after-dinner beer in hand.

He’d stripped down to just his socks and boxers—something he did most evenings.

The boxers were a faded navy pair, loose around the thighs, riding up slightly when he shifted. Nothing flashy, just classic cotton.

“No, it doesn’t shrink anything.”

“What if you wore it nonstop for weeks though? Months?”

“I don’t know, Jared. Google is your friend.”

Ever since the massage this morning, he’d been relentless.

The moment I’d slid off the massage table, the questions had started.

Robo-cock this, robo-cock that . Twenty different ways to ask about my supposed chastity kink, each more mortifying than the last. I’d even resorted to escaping outside to mow the lawn just to get away from him.

The worst part? I had to keep pretending it was real. That I enjoyed having my dick locked in plastic instead of admitting it was Dash’s joke gift that I’d worn specifically to avoid getting hard during Jared’s hands-on massage assessment.

“Do you have to sit down to piss?” he asked.

I pondered that for a moment. Would fictional Casey the chastity enthusiast sit down to pee?

“Yeah,” I went with. “I have to sit to pee.”

“So you’re basically pissing like a girl. That’s brilliant.” He snorted. “Does that mean I have to start leaving the toilet seat down for the lady of the house.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m just trying to understand the culture here. Are there support groups? Little meetups where you all compare your cages?”

“If there is I haven’t been to them.”

“But you must know other people who are into it, right? It can’t just be you wandering around Hamilton with your knob locked up.” He leaned back, plopped his feet onto the coffee table, belched beer-gas. “Who’s got the key anyway?”

“What?”

“The key. Someone must have it, right? Isn’t that how it works? You have a keyholder or some shit.”

“I’ve got the key.”

“That defeats the purpose though, doesn’t it? Having your own key?” He shifted, flexing his ankle absently, and the motion fascinated me more than it should. “I could be your keyholder if you want. I reckon that’d be fun knowing I have power over when you get to jerk off.”

I fed him some side-eye. “In your dreams.”

“Can I see it again?” He swung his feet back onto the floor and sat up straight. “The cage?”

“I’ve taken it off.”

“What? Why?” He looked disappointed. “Go put it back on.”

“No.”

“Just for five minutes. I promise I’ll stop calling you robo-cock.”

“I said no.”

“Aww but I didn’t really get a proper look. I was too busy focusing on the massage.”

To his credit, he wasn’t lying. I’d been amazed at his ability to not tease me while he’d finished massaging my front—asking questions focused on his assignment, staying professional.

In fact, I’d been so impressed I’d thought he wasn’t gonna say fuck all about the stupid cage.

Oh, but no. The moment my arse had slid off that table, it had been open season.

“Give it a fucking bone, Jared,” I snapped. “I’m not putting it back on just so you can gawk at me like some sideshow freak.”

“Okay.” He was smirking like an arsehole. “There’s no need to get so cagey with me.”

He burst out laughing at his own terrible pun.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I said.

“Course I am. It’s fascinating. My uptight flatmate’s got a secret kinky side. It makes me wonder what else you might be hiding. Leather harness? Whips? A wardrobe full of buttplugs?”

“I’m not hiding anything else.”

“I bet you’ve got a drawer,” he said. “A secret one. Under your socks or something. Full of gear. Sex toys. Maybe a collar.”

I didn’t answer.

That made him light up. “Oh my god, you do. You totally do.”

“Jared.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed again. “You know I’d be good at it, right? The keyholder thing. I’d make you beg. Maybe even make you write me a little note. ‘Dear Sir, may I please have permission to come.’ ”

I stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

“Aww, don’t go to bed,” he whined. “It’s still early.”

“I’d rather go to sleep early than put up with your horny stand-up routine.”

He clutched his chest theatrically. “Oof. Brutal. I’m just trying to educate myself.”

“On chastity cages?”

“On you. But fine. I’ll shut up.” He then added, “Besides, you can’t go to bed yet.”

“Why not?”

“You’re meant to be letting me rub your feet, remember?”

I hesitated.

“You didn’t forget, did you?” he asked. “I said I’d stay in and watch Netflix with you if you let me give you a foot rub.”

No, I hadn’t forgotten. It had been the main thing I’d been thinking about all day—when I wasn’t trying to bat off questions about chastity culture and plastic cages.

The thought of Jared’s hands on my feet, his mouth.

.. it had been running through my mind on repeat, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

I’d found myself staring at his lips during dinner, wondering what they’d feel like against my skin.

“I remember,” I said.

He patted the couch beside him. “Then come here. I’m not gonna bite.”

“You sure?”

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, man. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

That made my stomach flip. I tried to play it cool. “Fine. Just let me take a quick shower first.”

He groaned. “There’s no need. Your feet are already out. They’re right there. I’ve seen worse.”

“I’m having a shower first.”

Jared frowned. “You’ve already had a shower today. You don’t need another.”

“Yes I do. I mowed the lawn earlier, so they might be a bit pongy.”

He snorted. “Mate, it’s just your feet. A little sweat never hurt anyone.”

“Still.”

“You’re overthinking this,” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. “They’re fine.”

“They’re not fine.”

“Alright, alright. Go scrub your precious toes then. I’ll get Netflix set up.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was still in the shower, scrubbing my feet with the kind of manic focus normally reserved for prepping surgical instruments.

Apparently, I was really going to do this.

I was going to let Jared rub my feet—maybe even suck my toes—while we watched Netflix.

And I was going to sit there and pretend it was totally normal flatmate behaviour.

It’s not about Jared, I told myself, working soap between my toes. It’s just curiosity. No one’s ever sucked my toes before. It might be nice.

The lie tasted bitter even in my own head.

Because the truth was more fucked up than simple curiosity.

The truth was that earlier today, Jared had stuck his finger inside me—just the tip, barely anything—and somehow that shallow little invasion had felt more significant than any of the actual sex I’d had.

The guys I’d been with before had fucked me properly, gone deep, made me come.

But none of them had made me feel owned the way Jared did with one fingertip.

And man, the way he’d called my hole pussy.

I should have hated that. Should have told him to fuck off.

Instead, I’d nearly come from it. There was something about being reduced like that, feminised, made vulnerable—something that cut right through all my defences and left me twitching around his finger like I was begging for more.

Maybe it was because Jared wasn’t some twink with skinny-boy abs and a playlist of recycled porn lines.

He was a man. An alpha male. The kind of bloke who could bench press me without breaking a sweat, then tell me I was pretty while wrecking my hole like it was his birthright.

And even though I was more of a top, I could imagine letting a man like Jared annihilate my sphincter.

Not just fuck me, but ruin me. Stretch me open until I sobbed. Make me feel it for days.

Get a fucking grip, Casey! Get a fucking grip! You don’t fancy him at all!

My inner voice was having a right fucking meltdown, but it was also right.

This was the same self-centred arsehole who left dishes in the sink for a week, who’d die of hunger if you ever dropped him in a mirror maze, and who thought “vacuuming” meant kicking the crumbs under the couch.

The same guy who’d eaten my leftover Thai food three times this month and acted surprised when I got pissed off about it.

I couldn’t let Jared switch me into some eager bottom slut just because he’d slipped the tip of his finger in my arse and called it pussy. That was ludicrous. I had more self-respect than that.

Didn’t I?

When I finally returned to the lounge with my freshly scrubbed feet, Jared was still on the sofa but now with the remote, scrolling through Netflix options. I almost wanted to tell him to go put some more clothes on—sitting there in just boxers felt too exposed for whatever this was turning into.

I settled onto the sofa beside him, hyperaware of every movement, every glance.

“Right,” he said without looking up. “What’re we watching then?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Are you sure? I thought we agreed you get to pick.”

“I don’t mind. You pick.”

He turned back to the telly, eventually settling on some mindless action film about a heist in Las Vegas. He grabbed a cushion from behind him and placed it across his lap, then patted it.

“For your feet,” he said. “More comfortable than just resting them on my legs.”

For the first half hour, we watched in relative silence. My feet were propped up on the cushion in his lap, and I could feel the warmth of his thighs underneath. His hands rested casually on my ankles, not quite massaging but definitely touching.

“This alright?” he asked quietly, his fingers starting to work at the tension in my feet.

“Yeah.”