by Zoe X Rider
A folded slip of paper. He drew it out with two fingers and flipped it open.
This key goes back in my hands as soon as you get to the venue. Sorry I couldn’t make it in person. Meant to.
He couldn’t breathe all over again, relief choking him. He pushed the note into his pocket, still clutching the key. Picked up his bag.
The key meant he didn’t have to take it off yet. He could get all the way to the airport with it on. He clutched it so hard, it left an imprint in his palm long after he pushed it into his front pocket.
“Well don’t you look like shit,” Blake said as he climbed into the van.
“Don’t like it, don’t fucking look.” He dropped into a seat, wincing at the metal jamming into his crotch. He repositioned himself and sat back again, rubbing at the key through his jeans, making sure it was still there. If he lost it, he was fucked.
At the airport, he bullied Dan for his boarding pass, then took off for the restrooms, telling them not to wait up.
He pulled the cuff off, checked out the wear and tear from its teeth. Slathered his dick with body lotion. He expected the thing to get so hard so fast it’d almost poke him in the eye, but it lay there, slug-like, until the lotion started to warm. Life stirred into it.
He jammed the tube around it before it could get very far.
Somehow that was a bigger thrill than having it free. He sat on the public toilet, feeling his balls throb, feeling his cock going, “Hey, what the hell?!”
Reaching underneath, holding the tube in place without locking the cuff, he fondled his balls. His cock tried again to stretch itself out.
When he opened his eyes, he realized he was smiling.
Fucking idiot.
He pulled the tube off, wiped its inside with toilet paper, and shoved it in his bag. The key went back in his pocket. He headed through security and out the other side, and back onto another plane.
***
“One more airport,” Cris said, pocketing the key.
“Then what?” They were in a hallway, each leaning against an opposite wall.
“Then…I’m still not gonna let you come.” His gaze swept the hall, looking for anyone about to head their way.
“Just gonna send me home?” He stretched, putting his hands behind his head. “I guess I could forget to lock it back on after that last airport.”
“Oh, that’s how you’re gonna be now.” He turned his gaze toward Nicky, and Nicky smiled a little, stretching some more.
“I’ll be giving you an address,” Cris said. “You’ll need to drive there, obviously.” His eyes flicked to Nicky’s crotch. “It’ll be worth it.”
“If you say so.”
“Brian said you were looking for me last night.”
Nicky pushed his fingers in his pockets.
“Anything wrong?” Cris asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Don’t worry about it.”
He watched Nicky for a moment longer, and Nicky enjoyed the attention, until Dirk yelled for him. He pushed off the wall, saying, “Gotta go.”
“I’ll have that address for you in the morning,” Cris said, hanging back.
“Better not be to a locksmith.”
***
For the final flight, Nicky headed to L.A., Cris to Denver. The address stuffed in his pocket was just outside of Denver. A long drive. He looked forward to sun’s heat beating through the car window, the hours of scenery, the gas station food, the anticipation—the road trip he hadn’t gotten this tour.
As his rental car climbed the mountains, his ears popped. The pressure in his balls was unchanging, no matter the elevation. If Cris just took the thing off and sent him on his way, fine: he was jerking off in the driver’s seat before he even turned the key. Maybe he’d stop a few miles down the road and jerk off again. His dick leaked constantly, his balls full beyond capacity. He thought his body was supposed to absorb unspent cum, but clearly it wasn’t doing it fast enough.
The dull ache was like an old friend now, ever present. He’d kept himself from imagining exactly how this might go down, refused himself the daydream of tangled bodies and sweat and grunts of satisfaction.
He had no way to contact Cris if something went wrong. Just the address. Just the faith he’d make it there in one piece, to the key, finally.
His foot pressed on the gas, but his body held back, squeezing the steering wheel, wanting to put it off a little longer.
He could do this on his own—buy a cock lock, put the key in the mail. Over a holiday, that would give him three days. Keep dropping it back in the mail. Every day’s a new opportunity to let himself out—or get that envelope back into the letter box before he can change his mind.
Jesus, he really was crazy. He clenched and unclenched the wheel. The sign for the town he was looking for came up on his right.
He wondered, if he did it on his own, and if he mailed the key to the address sitting on his passenger seat, would Cris mail it back? Eventually? What if Cris was away for a week, a month, a half-year tour, the key just sitting there among the bills and pizza flyers, Nicky with no way of knowing when he’d have his next chance to be free.
Jesus but he wanted to fuck Cris. His head swam. A deer burst through the trees and dove across the road. Nicky stomped the break. Gravity threw him forward. The deer was already gone by the time the car rocked back.
Jesus but he wanted to fuck Cris.
The address turned out to be a lodge. The car’s tires crunched gravel as he approached the main building, and in front of it, Cris leaned against a Ferrari, his arms crossed, the late afternoon sun glinting off his shades. As Nicky eased in behind, Cris opened the Ferrari’s door and dropped inside. The taillights came on. Nicky followed slowly, past cabins tucked into the landscape, around switchbacks, and out to what looked like a bootlegger’s hideout, encroached upon by pine trees.
He parked and watched Cris get out.
His own bills and mail and responsibilities piled up back home, but they could wait a few more days. He climbed out, his knees popping from being bent so long, and followed Cris up the porch.
The raw spots the cuff had worn into his skin were like fire. He could have left the thing off till he was near Denver, but he’d gone straight to the restroom after that final pass through TSA, and snapped it on before he could reason himself out it. He’d had the thing on for two and a half days straight. He hadn’t come in more than a week. His underwear was in a constant state of damp.
Without a word, Cris let them into the cabin, and Nicky followed him through the living room and around the corner to a bedroom with a set of French doors that led to a little deck, the tops of trees, the pinkening underbellies of clouds.
The room’s walls and furniture were cedar, the bed done up in plaid. Cris stripped the covers to the foot of the bed. “Take off your clothes.”
Nicky had no problem with that. The cabin felt more private than any hotel room, like they might be alone together in the entire world, just them and the cicadas calling back and forth. He shrugged out of his jacket, peeled off his too-tight shirt. Air spiraling against his skin felt like freedom; the heat in his groin like fire. He braced a hand against the wall to toe his boots off. His socks came free with his jeans. He straightened. The steel trap pushed out the basket of his blue briefs. He could do an underwear ad with this kind of package.
Cris was looking at the bulge when Nicky slipped his thumbs under the waistband. Turning it downward, he exposed the steel cuff, the metal warm with trapped body heat. He slid the cloth down the curve of the tube, giving Cris plenty of time to watch before taking them off and standing naked.
Cris gave a nod of his chin, toward the bed. “Lie down.”
“Yes, sir.” The sheets were like spun webs of silk against his back. His cock tried to twitch in its cage as Cris looked down at him, Cris’s hair sliding forward, hiding his expression. Nicky looked at his hand, cupped at his side, his thumb rubbing the side of his finger. He drew a breath in, wan
ting to feel that touch on his skin.
Cris held out his arm. “Wrist.” Nicky give it to him.
Cris opened the drawer beside the bed and drew out a leather belt. Nicky’s attention was torn between the thumb pressed against his pulse and the black strip of leather. With a few twists, the leather, his wrist was caught. His muscles relaxed into the mattress. No panic, no anxiety, just a feeling of “finally.” Cris buckled his wrist to the bedpost.
Nicky’s breaths came quicker. His eyes followed Cris as he made his way around the bed with a second belt. At the first touch of it against his skin, his muscles stiffened, then relaxed as he let Cris take control. The strap snugged around his wrist. The buckle held it fast to the post. The bed was a king; his arms were stretched. He lifted his head so he could look down his stomach to the dull gleam of metal he’d been walking around in all week.
Cris trailed his fingers down his chest as he walked along the bedside—down his belly, down to the cuff on the chastity device. “Now that there’s no risk of you playing with yourself, I think it’s safe to take this off. But first, tell me.” He climbed on the bed. “Did you play with yourself at the airport at all?”
The memory of sliding the tube back on before he could get hard, then playing with his balls came to him. That wasn’t what Cris was asking; Cris wanted to know if he’d cheated. He shook his head.
“Really?”
“Really.” His stomach rose and fell with his breaths.
“Okay,” Cris said, pulling out the key. He worked deftly, the key going in, turning, the cuff popping open. His eyes followed Cris as Cris carried it to the nightstand and set it down.
Currents of air swirled over irritated skin.
His cock started to rouse itself, sluggish like it had just been prodded out of a sound sleep.
Cris took Nicky’s penis between two fingers, lifting it, examining it. “I shouldn’t have gone for the cheap scare. But when I bought it, I didn’t think you’d want to walk around with it for a week.” The raw marks were bright red. “Let’s do something about that.” He set Nicky’s penis back down before walking out of the room.
Nicky’s neck muscles complained, but he wanted to see his dick. It’d been days. It looked foreign—not just the chafing, but like it was someone else’s pitiful cock he was looking at. It twitched a little, starting to get some life in it.
His sides heaved as he watched it grow, like a science project.
Feeling came, a pleasant tingle. Warm.
Cris’s footsteps returned.
Nicky dropped his head, his cock nudging his thigh. It was more than pleasant now. A rush of feeling.
“Any allergies?”
He opened his eyes to see a tube of Bacitracin hovering over his face.
Nicky blinked, then shook his head.
The mattress dipped. Cris’s knee pressed Nicky’s side. The first cool touch of ointment warmed under Cris’s fingertips. All of him warmed under Cris’s fingertips. His cock thickened.
“Well that makes it easier to apply.”
Nicky swallowed, closing his eyes, his hands gripping into fists, trying to hold back the pleasure of it. Cris dabbed, but only where it was irritated, ignoring the rest of him. The Bacitracin stung, but it was no match for the pleasure. He cocked a knee, rubbing his bare foot against the sheet.
Cris lifted his cock with two fingers, looking underneath. He lifted his balls, looking to where the other side of the cuff had held. Another cool touch of ointment, more soft dabbing that made Nicky stir his hips. Nicky let his knee fall toward the side, opening his thighs, and Cris’s finger slipped lower.
A shivered breath passed through Nicky’s teeth.
“Down,” Cris said, capping the tube.
Nicky set his ass back on the mattress.
“When I saw at you guys stumbling in for that first show, you were snapping at Dirk, pissed off from the moment you came in.”
“He’d been a pain in the ass the whole fucking flight.” He tugged at the restraints. His dick ached for attention.
Smiling, Cris veed his hand just above the base of Nicky’s cock, his palm resting on Nicky’s abdomen. Nicky’s cock jumped, ramping over that hand, oozing a thin drop of precum.
“I get irritable,” Nicky said.
“You do. Are you irritable now?” His fingers closed around the base of Nicky’s cock.
His “no” came out as a breath. He pulled at the belts. “Do you do this a lot?”
Cris shook his head, stroking his thumb and finger up Nicky’s shaft, bringing a gasp from him.
“Don’t you dare fucking come,” Cris said, squeezing the base of his head.
Fuck. “What if I do?”
“We’d have to start all over again.” He slid his fingers back down. “And maybe I wouldn’t want to be bothered with it.”
Nicky’s head fuzzed, like the crackle of an amp that had a wire coming unsoldered. His fingertips tingled—not loss of circulation, just loss of his mind.
“I think we should let this sit a while,” Cris said, looking at the marks again. He lowered Nicky’s cock and got up. Nicky’s stomach heaved, his cock wanting more of Cris’s touch. Cris walked off with the Bacitracin. After a few minutes, a toilet flushed. Water ran. Nicky’s cock started to flag, until he moved his wrists and felt the pull of his belts, and his cock stretched tight again, arcing above his stomach.
No one knew he’d come out here. His phone was still out in the rental car, sitting in the console. If anyone was trying to reach him, they were getting no answer. If he wanted to reach anyone…they were out reach.
A breeze picked up outside, swaying branches beyond the deck.
Cris came back with a drink, and stood looking down at him.
A drink sounded good, but there were things he wanted more than a drink. He tried to detect the edges of a ridge in Cris’s dark jeans, but Cris was standing half-shadowed in the fading light.
“You could kiss it and make it better,” Nicky said, shifting his hips upward. His cock pulsed a little at that.
“You wish.” He knocked back his drink, the bottom of the glass catching the last traces of orange sunlight.
After setting the glass on the dresser, he got on the bed, using his knees to nudge Nicky’s legs together so he could take a seat on Nicky’s thighs.
A pearlescent drop hung pendulously from the head of Nicky’s cock.
“I have to be in L.A. in a few weeks.” Cris tossed his hair behind his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll let you come then.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“You’re the one who came to me.” He put his hand on Nicky’s hips, his thumbs pointing inward. Nicky’s cock ached to be closer to either hand, to be touched by any of those fingers.
“You’ve had a lot of chances to change your mind,” Cris said. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the mattress. The hem of his shirt hung down, brushing Nicky’s cock, making it jump eagerly. “Wait’ll you see what I have for you, though. No more heavy, awkward cuff.” He stretched forward, his thighs pressing Nicky’s, the crotch of his jeans coarse on Nicky’s shaft. Nicky’s breath hitched, his stomach shallowing, his toes curling.
“No more teeth,” Cris said, “but still inescapable.” His face hung right above Nicky’s. Nicky lifted his chin to look in his eyes. “The drawback would have been the padlock, bumping and rattling against it. But I solved that too.” His weight pressed on Nicky’s cock, too heavy for Nicky to grind his hips and get some friction against it.
“How do you feel about rivets?” Cris asked.
Rivets. Riveted. Riveted by his stare, by the way his mouth made the words, by his white teeth, the tip of his tongue as it touched his lip. Rivets. Nicky fisted his hands.
Rivets.
Cris whispered, “Don’t move. If you come, I’ll plug that hole up for the rest of the time you’re here and make you beg me to let you take a fucking piss.”
That alone almost did it. Nicky squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his tee
th together. Tried not to so much as breathe.
“That’s better.” Cris’s lips brushed Nicky’s. Nicky wanted to lift his head and capture his mouth—kiss, but even the thought of it made him have to hold himself back again, his body straining not to come.
“Do you want to see it?” Cris asked.
Nicky didn’t even know what he was talking about anymore. “Yes,” he said. Yes, anything.
As Cris swung himself off him, the brush of denim against his cock made Nicky’s toes curl, his sac pull tight. Think about baseball. He hadn’t thought about baseball since he was a kid. He worked to pull up memories: the feel of a ball landing solid in a mitt, the crack of a bat, the smell of cut grass and sunbaked dog shit. Sweat and leather and post-game pizza.
The mattress dipped. He opened his eyes.
Cris clicked on the lamp by the bed.
A steel cage gleamed in his fingers, about four inches long. It looked like the frame of a tiny, snub-nosed rocket. Cris turned it so he could get a better look. His breath stalled. A thin rod came up from the bottom of the device, reaching up inside, and his only thought was that Cris’s threat of plugging him up wasn’t an empty promise.
His chest felt like someone was tightening metal strapping around it.
You couldn’t plug up someone’s piss hole. That would be inhuman.
“I picked it up in a few sizes, just in case,” Cris was saying, “but I think this one will fit. It’s called the Alcatraz, by the way, because once your dick is locked up, there’s no escape.”
“What the fuck’s that rod in it?”
“Makes for a neater job when it comes to pissing.” He tilted the cage, and Nicky saw that it wasn’t a plug after all but a thin tube.
Even so. It would have to go in him. He twisted his wrists in the leather belts.
“To get out of those—” Cris nodded toward Nicky’s wrist. “—you have to be in this.”
Nicky watched him set it on the bedside table, imagining his cock locked—no, riveted—into it. My god, he had said rivets.
