The Will Of The Wongs

The three weeks that followed were Arthur's personal, quiet hell. He tried everything. He researched the company that made the cage, finding a German specialist in bespoke BDSM equipment. The email response was apologetic but firm: the design was a masterpiece of engineering; the special key was the only safe method of removal. Any attempt to force it could cause lasting, severe tissue damage. The cage was, in effect, a permanent part of him until Mei—or her family—decided otherwise.

The absence of Mei was a physical pain, a void far greater than the ever-present throb from the metal prison around his cock. Nights were the worst. His sleep was a fragmented series of nightmares and waking moments of stark reality. In the darkness, his mind played traitor. It backed away from the rage and the betrayal, trying to sanitize the vision of Mei with another man. She always came back to me, it would whisper. You know you're not built with enough to please her. It's understandable. It's just... sex. He almost convinced himself he could live with it, that her eventual return was all that mattered.

The change was noticeable to others. His usual razor-sharp focus was dulled. In a crucial board meeting, when challenged on the projected revenue from a new development, he faltered. He fumbled. He forgot the second-quarter figures he himself had drafted. William, the company's oldest board member and a mentor over the years, waited until after the meeting and took him aside.

"Arthur, son, are you alright? he asked gently.

"No, no, it's nothing," Arthur lied, forcing a smile. "Just been burning the candle at both ends."

But he couldn't burn it at both ends anymore. One end was snuffed out, and the other was flickering. He knew he had to do something. The desperation was a cold, heavy stone in his gut. He had to find his peace, even if it meant crawling back for a handful of ashes.

He sat in his office, late on a Friday afternoon, the twilight deepening over the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He picked up his phone, scrolled to a number he had nearly deleted in a fit of fury, and pressed dial.

Mrs. Wong answered on the second ring, her voice as clear and commanding as if he were in the same room. She didn't ask who it was. She knew. "Yes, Arthur?"

"Mrs. Wong," he began, his voice sounding alien and thin. He swallowed his last bit of pride. "I need to see you."