Professor Abullah x Male Reader
A request from @princeasimdiya12
You feel the cage before anything else.
It’s heavy between your legs, snug, unforgiving. The polished gold presses against your skin—cool at first, now flushed warm. Every tiny movement makes it shift, grind. You’re already hard inside it, which only makes it worse. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t care.
Even now, standing in line with four other harem boys in the waiting chamber, arms behind your back, eyes lowered—you can feel it pulsing.
Your body is lean, clean, oiled. Strong legs. Trim waist. You’ve kept yourself toned, flexible, exactly how clients prefer you. The towel sits low on your hips, but the outline of the cage still shows. That’s intentional. You’re meant to be looked at. Not touched—unless chosen.
The other boys are just as still. One is tall and broad, arms thick with muscle. Another has sharp shoulders and smooth skin, standing loose but ready. A third is dark-haired, mid-thirties, with a chest full of quiet control. All trained. All caged.
But you know—none of them are you.
Footsteps. Slow. Steady. Heavy.
You feel him before you see him.
Professor Abullah doesn’t speak. Doesn’t announce himself. His footsteps are steady, slow, and confident—just enough weight to remind the room who walks in.
He’s taller than you remembered. Broader, too. His body is solid, not sculpted—he’s built like a man who doesn’t have to impress anyone. His chest is wide and f dusted with hair, his arms heavy with quiet strength, forearms slightly rough. The towel he wears is simple—black, low on his hips. His belly rounds subtly, strong and relaxed, like he eats well, sleeps well, and never lets anything interrupt him.
He walks the line slowly.
And when he stops in front of you…
There’s no hesitation. He lifts a single hand.
The private suite is warm, soaked in gold light and soft steam. The door closes behind you with a whisper. You keep your posture low. Waiting.
He doesn’t say anything. Just moves across the room and drops his towel like it means nothing. And there it is again—his cock, thick and relaxed, heavy between his thighs. He doesn’t look at you when he climbs onto the massage table. He lies on his stomach, arms resting loose at his sides like he owns the space completely.
He speaks, finally. “Oil. Back first.”
You move quietly, dipping your fingers into the warmed bowl. The oil glides between your palms. You walk to the table, towel still knotted at your hip, and start at his shoulders. His skin is warm, the muscle underneath hard and tense.
You press your palms down, working carefully, not too fast. You don’t want to mess this up. Your cock is swelling again inside the cage, the pressure intensifying. The gold rings are tight. You can’t get harder—but your body tries anyway.
By the time your hands move lower—past the ridges of his spine, toward the deep slope of his back—your breathing is uneven. Your towel shifts with every step. The knot at your side loosens slightly.
“You’re hard,” he says, voice quiet but clear.
You flinch. “Yes, Professor.”
He still doesn’t look at you. “Towel.”
The fabric drops to the floor with a soft whisper, and now you’re bare. The air brushes your thighs, cool against hot skin. Your cock is trapped—locked in the tight curve of shining gold, gleaming under the low lights, already red and swollen at the tip.
You see him glance down. Once. Calm.
“Dripping in gold,” he mutters. “But still completely fucking useless.”
You don’t answer. You don’t dare.
He rolls onto his back, his cock now resting heavy against his stomach. Half-hard. Waiting.
You oil your hands again, trembling a little, and reach out. He’s hot in your palm. Thick. The skin silky over iron. You stroke him slow, keeping your grip steady. His cock grows under your hands, swelling full and hard.
Your cock pulses behind the cage, fighting against the metal. The tip is wet now. It stings. But nothing escapes. You’re not allowed to come. You can’t.
You sink to the floor without thinking.
“Now use your mouth. Just the tip.”
You lean forward. Lips parting. You kiss the flushed head softly, then again, then drag your tongue around it slowly. He groans. Low. Approving. One hand settles on the back of your head.
“That cage bouncing while you suck me off?” he murmurs. “Might be the best thing I’ve seen all month.”
Your hips jerk forward before you can stop them. The cage grinds against the floor. You whimper.
You stand. Your knees feel weak. Your cock aches violently behind the gold.
Your heart pounds as you turn.
You brace your hands on the edge, chest lowered, back arched. Your ass is exposed now. Your caged cock hangs, pulsing. Waiting.
You hear the oil again—then feel it, warm and heavy, poured straight down your crack. It slides between your cheeks in a slow trail, rolling over your hole until you’re slick, wet, exposed.
His hand follows. He spreads you open like he owns the view.
Two fingers slide through the mess, lazy and slow. He doesn’t rush. Just rubs circles, letting you clench around nothing.
“Still twitching,” he murmurs. “Haven’t even fucked you yet.”
Then one finger sinks in.
You gasp, forehead pressed to the table. It slides deep, all the way down to the knuckle. Then another joins it, stretching you open, slick and hot. He moves them slow at first—just enough to make you moan—but it doesn’t stay gentle.
His hand slaps your ass hard, leaving heat behind.
“I told you not to talk.”
You bite your lip. Your caged cock pulses violently, the cold gold digging against your skin. The ring behind your balls is too tight. You’re swollen, aching, dripping with nothing.
The table creaks. Your thighs shake. You’re already flushed, open, dripping.
“I could make you come from this,” he mutters. “Just fingers. Just this hole.”
You’re too fucking close, too wound up, your body trying to do something it physically can’t. That fucking cage holds everything back. Even your orgasm feels caged—stuck, silent, screaming.
Then he pulls his fingers out, slow and cruel.
You hear him spit again. Then feel his cock.
Hot. Thick. Pushing right against your hole.
“You’re going to take it all,” he says, pressing in. “No whining. No pulling away. You wanted this.”
Your body splits open around him.
You cry out—loud, filthy, desperate—as his cock stretches you wide and slides in deep, deeper than you thought possible. The sound of it is obscene—wet, slick, skin against skin, cage tapping faintly beneath you with each shake.
“You fucking love this,” he growls. “Being used like this. Bent over. Caged. Leaking. And you don’t even get to come.”
He pulls out just enough to make you gasp, then slams back in. Hard. Over and over.
You’re drooling into the table. Your moans go hoarse.
His hand wraps around your throat from behind, pulling you up slightly so your back arches harder. His cock hits deeper that way, dragging against your spot with every brutal thrust.
“Louder,” he hisses against your ear. “I want them to hear you on the other side of the wall.”
You’re sobbing now. Not from pain. From frustration. From being so full and so completely unable to do anything but feel him.
“Say what you are,” he growls.
“I—I’m your hole,” you moan, barely able to speak. “Locked—just a locked fuckhole—please—”
He starts pounding you. Brutal, rhythmic, relentless. The sound of it—smack, smack, smack—echoes around the room. Your cage bounces with every thrust. Your cock tries to throb. It can’t.
His cum is already building—you feel it in the way his grip tightens, in the growl in his throat, in the sharp slap of his hips.
And then he slams deep, groans into your neck, and fills you.
You can feel it inside you. Dripping back out. Leaking down your thighs.
Still aching with every second.
He pulls out slowly, letting his cum spill from your hole. You collapse forward onto the table, arms weak, body ruined.
“You’ll stay like that,” he says. “Don’t clean up. Walk through the spa like this.”
And behind you, that gold cage pulses uselessly. Heavy. Beautiful. Unforgiving.
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