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Fuck it. I had nothing to lose.

"Hey, Dean, uh...can I ask you a question?"

The aloof Mexican wolf looked at me from across the small office. "What is it?" He asked in slight disinterest, returning to his laptop on the conference table. "I'm busy."

We were at the Paranormal Hunters Society's main headquarters, and the afternoon sun had started to descend downward. Lauren and Samantha weren't in yet for our latest case, something which I prayed to God would remain that way until I got myself freed. Of all the coworkers I needed to know about my predicament, they were 100% the last who needed to be aware. Samantha would die of embarrassment, Lauren would never let me live it down, but Dean...he'd likely just tease me more about my 'superstitions' than what I've gotten myself into.

Either way, I was desperate. Really, desperate.

Desperate to the point I almost considered going to the hospital.

"A couple of weeks ago, I had a...certain key for a certain lock lost," I said. Daring not to move my legs or focus too intently on how much the cage around my aching crotch dug into my fur, I continued, "A-At first, I panicked, but then called a number so it can be mailed here. Have you seen any packages?"

"Why didn't you mail it to your place?" He dodged my question.

At first, I ignored his wry smirk.

"Well, it's private," I explained hesitantly, ears slightly folded as I tapped my foot. "Ever since my neighbor next door found out I came from a rich family, she's been stealing my packages. At least, I think she's the one doing it. Can't prove it, so I didn't wanna risk her getting the key and having to wait another two weeks."

Dean didn't say anything, but I could tell from his wagging tail and grin that he knew something.

"Dean?" I asked.

He paused his typing. "Yes, Bram?"

"Do you have my package?"

"...what's in the package?" He queried not-so-innocuously. "Well?"

"It's your next paycheck unless you tell me where you put it, Dean." I glared at him, to which he began to laugh. "I mean it, tell me what you did with it, or I'll--"

"I'm just fucking with you, Bram!" He reached underneath a blind spot in the conference table, revealing a small cardboard box the size of his palm. "If I were the manufacturers, I'd not put their brand name on the packaging."

"That we can agree on," I rushed over to snatch it from his reluctant paws, "Now, excuse me!" With that, I whisked myself away to the office's bathroom corridor.

Two weeks. After waiting almost two full fucking weeks, I didn't wait. My fingers gripped the metal key, slipped it into the lock of the chastity cage, and I gasped once I turned it, squeezing my eyes in satisfied ecstasy when the metallic prison fell right off my crotch. I didn't flinch when it hit the bathroom stall's linoleum floor, but I did suddenly feel the blood rush to the tip of my now-freed cock. It throbbed in the open air, leaking copiously down the neglected shaft coming back to life.

As much as I didn't bother hiding my pansexuality, I did have standards. I never brought up my sex life at the PHS office, nor did I do something as degenerative as masturbate in said office's bathroom. Not once, until then. However, after two full weeks without attention to my own cock, two damn weeks without giving it a good stroke within its hellish cage, I desperately needed release. So, I did just that.

I bit my lower lip, then exhaled in near-orgasmic relief. Grasping the twitching, wet base of the emancipated cock, I gave myself one stroke. That was enough to make me moan. My face winced at it likely being loud, at least from the way it sounded to my perked and heated jackrabbit ears. Stifling myself again, I leaned against the back of the toilet and stroked my cock a second time. Followed by a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and many more times.

They say a man's best friend is his left paw on lonesome nights. I liked to agree on some level. Whenever I didn't have any luck in the department of hookups and escorts--an organization I often wished would become a real thing--my left paw and it's slender fingers were the most reliable buddy of mine to use. It helped me throughout my teenager years, between girlfriends, boyfriends, slow nights, and beautiful mornings involving Ye Olde Morningwood.

Most of the time, I didn't even depend on porn. More often than not, I only needed my own memory of getting knotted, of fucking, getting fucked, and more to help me climax. As I sat in the men's bathroom of the paranormal investigation office, finally no longer trapped in horny jail thanks to a chastity cage manufacturer's shitty design, I scoured through my mentor library of the hottest scenes I could remember. A titillating treasure trove from my personal spank bank; getting railed by two canine jocks at once in the high school locker room, to celebrate a victory made by two beefy rivals. Making out with and getting fucked by an ursine professor after my last day of class with him. My first experience with going down on an andromorph, or a male-identifying fox with the lower genitals of a vixen in heat. My first time with a male calico boyfriend back in college, before things went wrong. Letting a vampire bat cosplayer swallow my cum like it were blood.

All of it combined it together into a single splurge of pent-up semen. It shot out in buckets, staining my fingers, the floor, the sink too, and I collapsed backwards. The back of my skull likely left a dent in the plastered wall, but I could've cared less. That singular orgasm left me panting like a canine, sweating heavier than a sinful priest, and with legs or toes that refused to move. Even after a knock at the bathroom door startled the daylights out of me.

"Hey, Bram," Dean's smug voice carried it through the wooden barrier. "Lauren and Sam are wondering when you're coming."

I just did.