No Release

 

Three months. Ninety-two days. Two thousand, two hundred and eight hours since I last came.

I know because I've been counting. Every. Single. One.

"Awww, you're doing that thing again," Tiffany coos, catching me staring at the calendar on my phone. She's sprawled across my couch—her couch now, really—in nothing but a pink lace thong and an oversized grey hoodie that slips off one tanned shoulder, revealing the strap of absolutely nothing beneath. The hoodie used to be mine. Everything used to be mine.

God, she's beautiful. That's the worst part.

"Remember when you used to be Tyler?" I ask, voice cracking slightly. The cage around my cock—baby pink, because of course it is—gives a sympathetic throb.

She stretches like a cat, blonde hair tumbling over bronzed skin. "Barely." A yawn. Pearl white nails—perfectly almond-shaped, glossy, expensive—scratch lazily at her flat stomach where the hoodie rides up. "That loser? Ugh. So boring."

When she smiles, I catch the glint of metal. Braces. The spell gave her braces, of all things and somehow they make her hotter. That perfect face with that one little imperfection. Bratty. Young. Dangerous.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

---

The spell was Tyler's idea. Found it in some grimoire he'd bought off a sketchy website. Temporary feminisation, the page had promised. But there were rules. There are always rules.

"I can't cast it on myself," Tyler had explained, sliding the book across my kitchen table. "It has to be someone else. The magic needs... a tether. An anchor." He'd tapped the passage, highlighting the relevant line. "The transformation lasts until the caster experiences sexual release. Not the subject. The caster."

I'd frowned. "So I say the words, you transform, and then...?"

"You jerk off." He'd shrugged, trying to look casual and failing. "Or I help you. Whatever. The point is, your orgasm is the off-switch. My body, your control."

It seemed safe. Consensual. A buddy helping a buddy explore a fantasy with a built-in failsafe. He'd always been curious—we'd talked about it drunk a hundred times. What it would feel like. The weight of breasts. The absence between your legs. Just... knowing.

"A few hours," he'd said, grinning nervously as I drew the sigils. "You cum, I pop back. Easy. You're literally the only person I trust enough to hold the key."

The key. That's what my orgasm was. The key to his transformation.

Funny how keys can be stolen.

---

The transformation was... fuck. Even now, locked and aching, the memory makes me twitch uselessly in my cage.

I spoke the words—Latin, I think, or something older—and watched Tyler's body crack and reshape. Hips flaring outward with wet pops. His chest swelling, nipples darkening, areolas spreading as flesh pushed forward into heavy, perfect handfuls. His jaw narrowing, lips plumping, cheekbones rising. That moment when he—she—looked down at herself and moaned.

Not Tyler's voice. Something higher. Breathier. A voice made for whining and begging and dirty talk.

"Oh my God," she'd gasped, cupping her new tits, thumbs brushing nipples that were already stiff. "Oh my fucking God, I'm so hot."

She was. She is. Blonde, tanned, stacked—like someone had designed her specifically to ruin me. The spell had reached into Tyler's subconscious and pulled out every fantasy he'd ever buried, then wrapped it in smooth skin and dangerous curves.

Her hand flew to her mouth. Fingers traced her teeth.

"Braces?" She'd laughed—a bright, musical sound. "I have braces? That's so..." She'd caught her reflection in the window, smiled wide, examined the glinting metal. "Actually, that's kind of cute. Very hot girl who peaked in high school energy."

I'd been rock hard. Obviously.

"Okay," I'd said, reaching for my zipper. "Let me just—"

"Wait."

That one word. That's where it all went wrong.

---

"Just..." She'd bitten her lip—plush, glossy, metal glinting behind it. "Let me feel it for a bit? Please? Just an hour. I want to... I need to know what it's like."

"Tyler, the spell—"

"Isn't going anywhere." She'd stepped closer. God, she even smelled different. Sweet. Intoxicating. "Your cum is the trigger. As long as you don't cum, I stay like this. So just... don't cum. For a little while. Let me explore."

It made sense. It seemed reasonable.

An hour became two. Two became a day. She wanted to try on clothes. Wanted to see how it felt to walk in heels. Wanted to touch herself—really touch herself—and discover what her new body could do.

I watched her cum seven times that first night. Seven. Each orgasm rolling through her harder than the last, her back arching off the bed, those perfect tits bouncing, her voice climbing octaves until she was just screaming.

"It's so much," she'd sobbed, shaking, braces flashing as she gasped for air. "Fuck, it's so much better. Why is it so much better?"

And I just... waited. Painfully hard. Being good. Being patient. Because Tyler was my best friend, and this was temporary, and I literally held the power to end it whenever I wanted.

That power felt important. Felt safe.

Then she took it from me.

---

"It's just so we don't have any accidents," Tiffany had explained sweetly, dangling the pink chastity cage from one finger. Day three. "I'm not ready yet. And you keep... leaking." Her nose wrinkled, braces catching the light. "What if you cum in your sleep? What if you're in the shower and get carried away? Poof—I'm Tyler again, and I didn't even get to finish experiencing this."

"I wouldn't—"

"You might." She'd pouted. Devastating. "This way we're safe. This way I'm safe. You're the caster, remember? You're the one with all the power here. This just... balances things."

I should have said no. I should have jerked off right there and ended it.

But she'd looked at me with those big blue eyes—Tyler's eyes, technically, but reshaped into something devastating—and I'd thought: She's right. I do have all the power. What's the harm in letting her feel a little more secure?

I didn't realise I was handing her the only power that mattered.

Click.

The lock snapping shut was the sound of my life ending.

---

"You know what I realised?" Tiffany says now, rolling onto her stomach. Her ass—round, firm, split by that thin pink string beneath the grey hoodie—lifts slightly as she props herself on her elbows. "Being a guy sucked."

"Tiff—"

"No, like, actually." She examines her pearl white nails, bored. "All that... pressure. Having to be strong. Having to pursue. Having to perform." A theatrical shudder. "Now? I just exist, and people give me things. I smile—" she does, metal glinting, "—and doors open. I pout, and problems disappear." Her eyes flick to me—sharp, predatory, nothing like Tyler's gentle gaze. "I bat my lashes, and my best friend locks his cock in a cage and hands me the key to his own orgasm. Which is also the key to my existence. Funny how that works."

"You said a week," I remind her. My voice sounds pathetic even to me. "Then a month. You keep saying—"

"I keep saying whatever keeps you hoping." She grins—wide, bratty, braces on full display. "Hope is what makes this fun, baby. The moment you give up completely..." She shrugs. "Where's the game?"

The cage aches. I've been hard—or trying to be—almost constantly for three months. The pressure never fully goes away. Blue balls became a permanent state somewhere around week two. Now it's just... background noise. A dull, throbbing reminder of everything I can't have.

"You're never changing back," I say. It's not a question anymore. It took me too long to accept it, but I'm there now. "Are you?"

Tiffany's smile widens. Metal and mischief.

She rises—God, even the way she moves is different now, all hip-sway and liquid grace—and slinks toward me. I'm sitting on the floor. I'm always on the floor these days. She likes me below her.

Her hand cups my cheek. Soft. Warm. Pearl white nails cool against my skin. The faint scent of her perfume—vanilla and something darker—floods my senses.

"Tyler was my chrysalis," she murmurs. "I'm the butterfly. Why would I ever crawl back into that ugly little shell?" Her thumb traces my lower lip. "Besides... you made this possible. You spoke the words. You cast the spell. You created me." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm something amusing she found on the ground. "And now you're going to keep me alive forever by never, ever cumming again. Isn't that romantic?"

Her other hand drifts down. Finds the cage. Gives it a little tap that makes me whimper.

"You're the caster. I'm the spell. And as long as you stay locked..." Another tap. "I stay me."

---

She edges me twice a day. Morning and night. Religious about it.

The cage comes off—briefly, supervised—and she uses her hands or her mouth or sometimes just talks to me, describing all the things she's going to do, all the men she's going to fuck, how much better cock feels now that she has a pussy to take it with.

She brings me to the edge. Right to the edge. That perfect, terrible precipice where one more stroke would end everything—would break the spell, would bring Tyler back, would give me relief.

And then she stops.

Every. Single. Time.

"Oops," she'll giggle, pulling away, braces flashing as she watches my cock twitch and throb and drool uselessly. "Almost! Maybe tomorrow."

The cage goes back on. The lock clicks shut. And I'm left shaking, sweating, so desperate I could scream.

She loves it. I can tell. Her eyes go dark and hungry when she watches me suffer. This is her kink now—maybe it always was, buried somewhere in Tyler's psyche, waiting for the right body to express it.

My best friend found himself by becoming a woman. And what she found was a domme. A tease. A bratty, beautiful monster who gets off on my denial.

---

"I had a thought," Tiffany says, settling into my lap. Her weight is different than Tyler's—softer, lighter, distributed in ways that make my caged cock scream. The grey hoodie rides up. I can see the underswell of her tits. "What if I got you a friend?"

"What?"

"Another transformation." She's playing with my hair, twirling strands around her finger. Pearl white nails catching the light. "There's this guy at the gym who keeps hitting on me. Total meathead. Thinks he's God's gift." A mean little laugh, metal glinting. "I could bring him back here. Have you cast the spell on him. Make him into something fun."

My mouth goes dry. "Tiff..."

"Think about it." Her voice drops, conspiratorial. "Two blonde brats. Two sets of perfect tits. Two mean girls tied to your orgasm—which means two girls who will never let you cum." She leans in, lips brushing my ear. "We could take turns edging you. Keep you locked forever. You'd be responsible for both of us. Both of our existences dependent on your denial."

I should be horrified. I am horrified.

But my cock—traitorous, aching, pathetically confined—surges against the cage so hard I see stars.

Tiffany feels it. Of course she does.

"Mmmm." She grinds down, letting me feel the heat of her through the thin lace. "That's what I thought. You want it, don't you? Deep down. You want to be the anchor for a whole harem of transformed brats. Want to hold all that power and never be allowed to use it."

"I want to cum," I manage.

"No you don't." She kisses my cheek. Chaste. Almost sweet. I feel the press of metal against my skin. "You want to want to cum. There's a difference. The wanting is the point. The ache is the pleasure." She pulls back, eyes glittering, smile wide and wicked and braced. "You'll figure it out eventually. I did."

---

Later—alone, locked, lying in the dark—I think about who Tyler used to be.

Quiet. Kind. A little awkward. The type of guy who apologised too much and laughed at his own jokes and never quite knew what to do with his hands.

Gone now. Replaced by something sharper. Crueler. Better, if you believe her.

And the worst part?

I do.

I've seen her these past three months. Watched her bloom. She's confident now in a way Tyler never was. Happy in a way he never managed. She walks through the world like she owns it, and increasingly, she does.

The transformation didn't just change her body. It rewrote her soul. Gave her permission to be everything Tyler was afraid to want.

Selfish. Vain. Dominant. Free.

And I'm the battery keeping her alive. The caster who can never complete the circuit. Locked away, edged and denied, kept perpetually desperate so the spell never breaks and she never has to go back.

She trusted me with the power to end her.

So she took it.

My cock throbs in its cage. I don't even try to fight it anymore.

"Mistress," I whisper to the empty room, testing the word.

It fits.