Stealing packages was just one of my side hustles then. I also drove Ubers. I played the crypto market. I delivered party favors. I was a brand ambassador for multiple multilevel nutritional supplement marketing schemes. I saw myself as a burgeoning entrepreneur and thought I was doing decent.
Taking boxes from people’s porches was more like an impulse. Maybe I’m a kleptomaniac. I got a little thrill from sneaking up to houses and getting away with it, often right in front of Ring cameras. There was the anticipation of what the score might be. Half the time it wasn’t worth much: toothpaste or some Shein and Temu nonsense. But once in a while there’d be some AirPods, expensive Louboutins, or a Tom Ford cologne – something I could take for myself or resell.
I justified my crimes against Prime members because I targeted houses I knew received more packages than they knew what to do with. I bet a lot of them didn’t even realize things were missing. And if they did, Bezos would replace whatever it was free of charge and at no expense to the seller. He was making so much money, too much in fact, that everyone would end up happy even if I did steal.
That’s how I found myself swiping parcels from a luxurious suburb that fateful day. I was barely thinking as I strode toward what must have been a multi-million dollar, six-bedroom McMansion made of ash-gray limestone. I had a practiced posture to conceal my face with a large ball cap and balaclava. I carried another box to look like a delivery guy as I knelt down and took an unassuming package that was sitting in front of the house’s grand oak door. I didn’t detect a surveillance camera. The richest people are sometimes surprisingly lackadaisical.
It was only when I was back in my downtown loft with my entire haul that I realized what I had. Or who I had, rather. The package from the McMansion was addressed to Zack Taylor. Inside was a curious black plastic gadget I had never seen before. It had a ring and a tube. And a baggy filled with odd shaped pins that said “KEYHOLDER” with serial numbers. I looked at the accompanying paperwork and found some brand names: “KINK3D” and “Cobra.”
A few Google searches later and it was all clear. This was a sex toy. A “chastity cage.” Apparently, Zack Taylor was a submissive, kinky guy. Probably gay. I realized I had seen these cages in porn, the few times I strayed away from rough straight fare toward some femboy/trans stuff. I had some inclinations I had questioned and flirted with the idea I was “bi,” but ultimately, I told myself, I preferred the feminine. The submissive. Sure, I liked to be dominant in bed. But all men do. Real men, anyway.
I found all I could about Zack Taylor. I was surprised to say the least. He was good looking. Pretty and brawny. A brown-haired preppy jock who had played soccer in college. Apparently he now worked for his dad’s company. I had been expecting a creepy nerd.
I scrolled through Zack Taylor’s Instagram. He was at least presenting as straight. I enlarged a picture of him posing shirtless with his friends at some beach. He was over six feet tall. He was toned with actual biceps and abs.
Sometimes these gym types made me feel self-conscious. I was an alternative sort of guy: a skater-type: tattoos, piercings, black clothes, and a little older than Zack. I was just over 5’ 10”, naturally slim, and didn’t do much in the way of exercise. The girls never complained though. I was toned enough. My seven inch dick more than got the job done.
I wondered if Zack’s friends knew he was a little freak who wanted his dick locked up. I pictured him wearing the device. I pictured him on his knees, looking up at me with his big chestnut eyes like a girl, his friends’ cocks slapping him in the face along with mine. I was hard. Jesus, was I hard. I liked the idea of me having a massive hard-on while this jock was completely emasculated by this device.
He was a dumb jock. Like all those butt slappers back in school who seemed queer to me even though they supposedly got with the hottest girls. He was pathetic for wanting to wear this device. Like the women in porn who let themselves be slapped and spat upon and dressed up like schoolgirls.
It crossed my mind that Zack had maybe bought this cage for a lover of his own. I looked deeper into Zack’s eyes on the Instagram photo. Nah. The cage was for him. I could smell it through the screen. This rich alpha-looking bro was a little bitch boy.
I always separated my hauls into "keep" and "sell" piles. I threw Zack’s box into “keep.”
Fuck. I knew I should have delivered the package to a locker at the grocery store. But that came with its own anxieties: wouldn’t people be able to tell I was being dirty when I went to pick it up? What if it wasn’t there and I had to ask someone for help?
But the package being completely gone was even worse. The status page said it was delivered and there was a picture of the box at the door. Someone must have taken it from the doorstep. My parents were at their vacation home – it could not have been them. What if a neighbor had taken it? We had asked each other to be vigilant. Would they open it? Had someone stolen it? Would the thief somehow expose my submissive tendencies? Fuck. Why did that idea get me a little excited? I didn’t want to contact customer service. They might be able to see what I had ordered for myself.
Worse, I wanted to be locked. I had eagerly awaited the package and wanted to finally know what it felt like. I wasn’t sure where my infatuation with chastity cages started. Was it the femdom porn? Was it when I started consuming gay porn? I wanted the cage so I could emulate the countless amateur caged boys turned influencers on dirty Twitter. Now I would have to wait even longer to lock up my dick.
It was not lost on me how I appeared to the rest of the world. An All American guy. That I seemed like I had it all. The entire package if you will. I had told a few friends I was bi. Perhaps that’s why I felt more shame about my kinks than the average man. Everyone expected me to be a certain way. Wholesome. Straight. Alpha. Truth be told, I didn’t identify as straight, or gay, or anything. I identified as submissive and kinky. I liked the idea of being owned. Controlled. Of being on display. Of serving. Of being locked.
I came to my senses and duplicated my order online. Worse case scenario was that if the package was stolen, the thief would just throw it away, and I would just have to wait a little longer.
It turns out the worst case scenario was much worse and, oh, so much better.
