by Zoe X Rider
He swallowed before he said, quietly, “Name it.” He pictured himself on his knees, holding his arms behind his back, opening his mouth for Cris. Pictured himself bent over the couch, Cris’s hand on the back of his neck, Cris’s cock pushing into him. Name it. Anything.
Cris’s hand was on his stomach. His other still holding his neck. He leaned against Nicky’s shoulder again, pushing his hand up to his chest, digging his fingers in. His words were short and clear: “I want you to leave.”
His balls gave a desperate ache. Emotions stirred, squeezing into his chest. His breath caught, stealing his voice.
“Get dressed and get out,” Cris said, walking away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Cris—”
“‘Cris’ what? You wanted your cock locked up, you got it. I’ve got shit to do. Get out of here.”
His fingers vibrated as he reached for his jeans, every muscle stiff but one.
Cris uncapped another tiny bottle. Splashed the liquid almost forcefully into the glass.
Nicky pulled his zipper up over the bulge, adjusted his crotch. Buttoned up and buckled his belt.
Cris took a drink, watching the sky beyond the balcony.
Nicky pulled on his shirt before sitting down—carefully—to get into his socks and shoes. His heart thudded. His fingers trembled as he tied the laces. His wallet dug into his ass. He was completely normal on the outside now. Completely fucked on the inside.
“Tomorrow,” he started to say.
“Let me worry about tomorrow.” He dumped the last of the liquor down his throat, shutting his eyes at the bite of it. He kept them closed, head tilted back to expose his neck—waiting for Nicky to do as he’d been told.
Nicky grabbed the sunglasses that had fallen from his pocket and took off, the lock digging into his groin the whole way out. His face was hot, his mouth dry. His heart raced. He was walking out of there with the thing locked on, just like he’d wanted—right? Vertigo drove through him as the elevator doors swept open. He stepped inside and grasped the handicap railing, pushing his forehead against the elevator wall. The doors stayed open. His grip tightened. The doors wouldn’t fucking close. He jabbed the button to make them shut, then just leaned there with his eyes closed.
He clasped the steel cage through the front of his jeans.
No key, no way out.
He took one deep pull of air after another.
The vertigo settled in his groin, roiling.
With an unsteady finger, he pushed the button for his floor.
When he got back to his room, it had been straightened by the maid, his bed put back together, the litter thrown away. Beyond the window, the light was just starting to fade. He pushed the drapes all the way open and looked out. He could feel the weight of Cris, all those floors above him, sitting in that chair, drinking.
Thinking about him.
His breath fogged the glass.
He needed to see a therapist or some shit after this tour, because this was fucked up.
And he wanted it so badly.
He couldn’t think of the last time anyone had made him want anything so badly.
He called room service for dinner, spent the evening with a bottle and the TV, his hand cupping his crotch. Rubbing it. Even if he wanted to break down and come, it wasn’t up to him anymore. He pushed his hand into his underwear and played with his balls until he couldn’t take it anymore.
His shower was hot for a change—no need to freeze his hard-on away. Water beat his back, his chest, his legs. He cleaned inside the steel tube as best he could.
He squirted shampoo down there too, to see if he had any better luck getting it off this time than last. Nope. He was stuck with it.
And fucked, if he didn’t see Cris in the morning before the van took off for the airport.
He leaned against the shower wall. “This was a stupid fucking thing to do.” Which only made his balls throb again, even as his legs went rubbery at the thought of standing in the lobby, searching desperately for Cris while everyone yelled at him to get in the fucking van.
Water pattered his stomach, ran down his thighs. He bumped his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
The image hit him like a freight train: Cris’s body, hot and wet from a shower, jammed against his, pinning him to the wall. Cris’s mouth on his, his hands gripping his hair, pulling at his scalp as he pushed his tongue deep into Nicky’s mouth.
His balls throbbed, heavy with pent-up cum, desperate to empty themselves.
Sorry, Charlie.
He cranked the faucet off.
His cock kept him awake most of the night—he couldn’t even lie on his stomach. His legs tangled in the sheets. The blankets wound up on the floor.
No need to force his arms under the pillow to keep from playing with himself, though. He curled his fingers around the metal tube. Played with his balls. Rubbed his thumb uselessly over the rounded end of the tube. Its pee hole was a tease, like he could almost get up in there and touch himself. Almost. But no.
Slick precum dribbled out.
He splayed his legs wide, grasping the tube. His back heaved against the mattress as he breathed quick, hard breaths.
***
After an eternity of darkness, the first light of morning filtered through the window.
He was up and packed by six a.m. Finished with his coffee by seven. Checked out and wandering the lobby with his bag over his shoulder by eight.
Some of the crew straggled down after nine. Michael and Blake passed on their way to breakfast. They were all assembled by ten thirty, ready to go.
The van pulled up outside at quarter till.
Shit.
He knew Cris’s room number; he could run up there—or “run,” at least. But what if Comelian had already taken off? Slipped out the back door to avoid any fans hanging around the lobby?
Shit.
“You coming?” Dirk hoisted his bag onto his shoulder.
“Yeah, just a minute.”
Dirk looked him up and down, like, You’re just standing there with your bag; what do you need another fucking minute for?
“I’ll catch you in the van,” Nicky said.
“Don’t make us fucking late.”
Late to sit around at another airport gate, twiddling their thumbs?
The thing on his cock gained two pounds as he stood there.
The lobby’s rug—huge, oriental, some kind of busy pattern—started to swirl under his feet. He pressed his hand against his eyes, clamping them shut. Grimacing.
His heart banged like it was trapped.
He could not go through the fucking metal detectors. But what if that was Cris’s plan? What if he was getting a good laugh out of it?
How well did he know Cris Warren and what the man might or might not do?
He knew dick about Cris Warren.
Not one member or crewmember of Comelian had shown their face all morning. They had to be fucking gone already.
He spun, heading for the elevators, his pulse racing. He wiped the back of his arm across his upper lip, his eyes on the button that would open the elevator for him.
Before he could reach it, the doors slid open.
Cris.
Finally.
His face was tense. He grabbed Nicky’s arm, pulling him around the corner. “I overslept.”
What Nicky would have given to have slept at all. He felt like the bottom of an ashtray. Cris dragged him through a door marked ‘Gentlemen.’
He let Cris shove him into a stall, and before he could drop his bag, Cris was loosening his belt, popping the button on his jeans. He tugged them down, along with Nicky’s underwear, making Nicky’s hips sway. Taking the key from between his teeth—Nicky hadn’t even seen him put it there—he unlocked the cuff and pulled it off.
The cuff left angry marks along the base of his cock.
“We’re going to have to do something about that sooner or later. Get dressed. Quick.”
He didn’t
need to be told twice. As soon as he had his zipper up, Cris pressed the cuff into his hand. “Right after you go through TSA.”
Nicky nodded.
“Say it.”
“Right after I go through TSA.”
“Don’t fucking touch yourself before then, and don’t play with yourself when you’re putting it on.”
Nicky nodded.
“All right. I’ll see you in New York.”
“Yeah.”
Cris bumped against him while he was getting the stall door open. Nicky caught his hip, for half a second. Felt a rush of wanting to pull him against him, but he was already gone.
The stall door swung lazily shut as Cris yanked open the main door and left the restroom.
Nicky stuffed the warm steel in the bottom of his bag before fastening his belt.
***
TSA was a white-knuckled ride. He dropped his bag on the conveyor, his shoes in a bin right behind it, and tried not to watch its progress into the machine as he waited for his turn in the body scanner. He wondered if the people who checked the scanner images could see the distress on his face. He closed his eyes as the machine scanned him, his hands in the air. Then the door behind him opened, and he turned and walked out.
His bag came out the other side of the conveyor, followed by his shoes and wallet and his stupid quart bag of dangerous toiletries. That was it, then. He was through. He sat to put his sneakers on, enjoying the feel of nothing between his dick and balls. When he stood with his bag, Michael got up right beside him. They started walking together.
He spotted the first restroom, not twenty feet beyond the security gate. “I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” he said.
“Me too.”
Great. “Don’t wait up for me.” He headed for the stalls.
Pulling the cuff free from the bag, it clinked conspicuously, its shackle having worked itself all the way through so it swung free. He hushed it with his hand.
How long would it take Michael to finish up and move off? Why couldn’t it have been Dirk? Dirk didn’t wash his hands afterward unless he’d peed right on them. Michael scrubbed like a surgeon.
He started undoing his jeans. Faucets came on, went off. The air dryer came on. Feet passed back and forth. Underwater announcements came over the PA—don’t leave your bags unattended, now boarding flight two-seven-eight…. His dick hung out of his jeans, half hard, enjoying the air. He lifted his chin and stared at the backside of the stall door, thinking about the coming flight: fastening his lap belt, thumbing through a magazine he’d already read four times. Maybe today was the day they put out new issues.
He thought about the endless wait for the flight attendants to come through with beverages. How good a rum and Coke over ice tasted in that dry cabin air.
He kept his mind on that mundane flight while he spit in the metal tube, thinking about being jostled by passengers making their way up the aisle to the lavatory, music spilling from Blake’s noise-cancelling headphones beside him. He lowered the cage to his pelvis. Crammed his soft dick inside while thinking about flying through the whiteness of clouds buffeting an airplane wing. He pulled in a breath and held it as he brought the cuff around.
Sweat beaded his forehead.
His toes dug into his shoes.
His cock was already fighting the tube, like Hey, man, what’re you doing?
The lock went click. Just the once.
He breathed, his stomach going hollow with each exhale. Thinking about how he could still change his mind, pull it right back off. He could stuff it in his bag and wait until they got to the venue. How would Cris know, right?
He squeezed the shackle before he could talk himself out of it. His groin turned to warm syrup as the lock went clickclickclick.
Click.
His breath flooded out of him.
He was done. It was done.
He was about to get on an airplane, surrounded by people, with a chastity device locked on his dick.
He tugged his jeans back up and left the stall on shaky legs.
***
The tight seats normally made it difficult for him to stretch his legs on a plane; today they made it difficult to ignore the hunk of metal in his jeans.
He was at that point of exhaustion where everything around him came through a thick soup. Blake prattled about something in the magazine he’d brought on board, and all Nicky could do was lean his head back, close his eyes, and grip the armrests like he was afraid they were going to crash.
When they got to the venue, Comelian was already soundchecking. Nicky stepped to the wing of the stage to watch. During the show, this area would be lost in shadows, but with the house lights on so the techs could see what they were doing, Nicky felt exposed.
Brian, seeing him, gave him a friendly wink. The others threw a nod or smile his way, except Cris, who was checking his mic.
They went straight into playing the start of a song, going to the end of the first verse before stopping so monitors could be adjusted.
Cris glanced over then, his gaze going straight to Nicky’s crotch, then up to Nicky’s face with the arch of an eyebrow. Nicky gave the slightest of nods before Cris’s attention went back to soundcheck.
When they were done, it was the Outright Disaster crew’s turn to move their equipment up from the floor to the stage. Nicky backed up so Comelian could get by. He got a friendly swat to the side of the arm from Joe. Brian drank from a squeeze bottle. Cris, he thought, was going to walk right on by, but at the last moment he caught Nicky’s arm, pulling him along, around the other side of the stage backdrop where he pushed him against one of the lighting rig pillars. Thick power cables coiled between their feet.
Cris cupped Nicky’s crotch, holding him still with a hand on his chest.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Good boy.”
Heat washed down Nicky’s scalp. This was what he’d come to: being praised like a dog.
“Am I gonna get anything out of this?” Nicky asked.
“Not tonight. I have prior engagements.” The way his mouth formed those syllables: prior engagements. “We’re at different hotels this time, so it’s going to be trickier in the morning, but don’t worry—” He gave Nicky’s crotch another squeeze, for all the good that did. “I won’t forget you.”
Nicky hooked a finger in Cris’s belt loop, part of him angry. What fucking engagements? I think you’re lying just to fuck with me. He could already feel how tonight was going to go: tossing and turning, his dick aching. The words, You know what, just fucking forget it and give me the key, gathered in his throat.
Cris leaned close, chest to chest, and said in his ear, “You having fun yet?”
“Fuck you.” But he rubbed Cris’s hip with his thumb, his skin vibrating from the touch.
“You’re going to be begging me for that before this is done.” His fingers clasped the front of Nicky’s shirt, pulling it tight. They both had their chins jutted out. Eye to eye.
Nicky could see himself begging, someday. If he was lucky.
Cris shoved him against the pillar with the one hand.
A long second stretched out, neither of them seeming to be able to break it.
Finally Cris let go and strode away.
Nicky’s breath ran from his lungs.
***
The hotel room was nicer than usual—modern furniture, lush bedding, marble counters in the bathroom. The shower had a massager. He unhooked it from its bracket and cleaned inside the steel tube with it, which was torture, and he didn’t stop doing it until, with gritted teeth, he admitted he wasn’t getting off from it.
Still wet, still naked, he dropped on the bed and lay on his back until a chill crept over his skin. Then there was nothing to do but go to bed. As the sheet settled against his body, his skin prickled, like the whole of him was becoming as sensitive as his dick.
Somehow he managed to sleep, waking only once with a sharp ache from his dick trying to do its normal overnight thing. Taking a piss and spl
ashing his face helped ease the problem.
In the morning, as he was stuffing his shit back into his bag, the room phone rang so shrilly he almost jumped out of his skin.
The desk clerk informed him that his car was here.
Car? He zipped his bag and headed down.
The driver waited by the rear door of a Lincoln Town Car, sweeping it open as Nicky approached. Before Nicky could get in, the driver presented him with a folded slip of paper.
Nicky ducked into the car with it. The door shut behind him.
All the note had on it was a room number.
He settled back, spreading his knees to make room for the metal cuff.
The car glided into traffic.
At an even nicer hotel than the one he’d just left, the driver opened the door for him. Nicky stepped out with his bag and the note. He tipped his head up, wondering if Cris was on this side of the building, looking down at him right now.
The first thing he said when Cris opened the door was, “They’re going to be wondering what happened to me.”
Cris was in jeans and a T-shirt. It was the first time Nicky had seen him ‘dressed down.’ His hair was damp from a shower, comb grooves visible. “Dan knows you’ll catch up with them at the airport.” Dan being Outright Disaster’s road manager. “I’ll get you there before them, don’t worry.”
Nicky slipped into the room, his bag over his shoulder. He waited while Cris closed the door, and breathed in the fresh shower smell of him—soap and deodorant and shaving cream.
They didn’t go any farther inside. Cris put him against the wall with the heel of his hand. Nicky let his bag drop as Cris tugged at his belt, freeing it. He undid Nicky’s jeans, peeling them open around the bulge of metal.
Having him at his crotch was starting to become familiar. Almost comfortable.
“How’s it feel?” Cris asked.
“Hurts like a bitch,” Nicky said.
Cris bit his lip as he pulled Nicky’s waistband away to have a look. “Is it the teeth?”
“Them too, but mostly just from being crammed in there.”
