by Zoe X Rider
“Well stop getting hard then.” His voice carried the hint of a smile.
“Easy for you to say.”
“I guess it’s catch-22, isn’t it?” He tucked Nicky’s briefs beneath the cuff. “You can’t get hard, and that makes your dick want to get hard, which makes it realize it can’t get hard, which makes it want to get hard even more.” He looked up. “What are you gonna do when I get this thing off and you walk out of here, and it gets hard?”
It was trying to get hard now, jamming against the sides of the tube. He adjusted without thinking, not that it helped any. “Nothing,” Nicky said.
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
He wished Cris had bought one of those silicone ones he’d mentioned, along with the ‘right’ kind of lock, whatever that was. Something that could go through metal detector. Wouldn’t they still see it in the body scanner, though?
He gripped Cris’s hips. “I’m not gonna touch it. Except to get it back in its cage.”
Cris leaned against him. His skin still held heat from the shower. It bled through both their shirts.
He put his hand on the back of Cris’s neck, pulling him toward him. Kissing him. His stomach fluttered when Cris’s lips met his, parting, his tongue flicking like it wanted in. He pushed his useless crotch against Cris’s thigh and let him in his mouth.
Cris’s body relaxed against him. His hands slid around Nicky’s waist, drawing them closer.
He tasted like toothpaste and mystery and familiarity all at once.
When pulled away, Nicky dropped his head back against the wall.
Cris touched the corner of his lip. “I have an interview.” He studied Nicky’s mouth, looking for a moment like he was about to taste it again. Then: “We have to get you out of here.” He used the wall to push himself away, fishing in his pocket for the key.
In another moment, the weight was lifted from Nicky’s crotch, and a new weight rushed in, his cock thickening in its newfound freedom. Cris veed his hand around Nicky’s groin, and Nicky looked down, their heads bent together.
The device left bright welts where the teeth had bit in.
“Here.” Cris backed away to duck into the bathroom. He came out with a small bottle—complimentary body lotion. He pressed it in Nicky’s hand. “Use this before you lock it back on. But don’t fucking jerk off with it.”
Nicky nodded.
“Say it.”
“I won’t fucking jerk off with it.” His cock jerked. His shaft nudged the crook of his fly, the jagged edge of the zipper sending sparks of pleasure through him.
“Put that thing away before you hurt somebody,” Cris said. “Car’s waiting downstairs.” He walked off.
Nicky tucked himself in, his toes digging against the bottoms of his sneakers with every nudge of fabric against his cock.
The TV came blaring on, a news show. Talking heads, stock tickers running along the bottom.
Nicky stuffed the cuff in his bag and took off, free for the moment.
***
His boarding pass was on his phone. He let them scan it, then moved into the security line and crouched to undo the laces on his sneakers. Crouching was a piece of cake—no pinching, no jabbing, no crowding. He stood and stepped on the heels of his sneakers to pull them off. Onto the conveyor went his bag, into a bin went his shoes, wallet, the quart bag of toiletries—including the little bottle of lotion—and the slip of paper with the room number on it. He went through the scanner, more relaxed without the rest of his band around. His bag came down the conveyor, and he put everything back where it belonged.
Walking without the cuff was nice. A luxury. Thirsty, he stopped into an airport bar for a few beers. Then he took a stroll, enjoying his freedom of movement. When he reached the end of the terminal, he started back. His thoughts were telling him he could hold off putting that thing back on until the Fasten Seatbelts light went off on the plane. He could put it off till they were on the ground. He could wait till they got to the venue, or even avoid Cris all night and put it on in the morning, before Cris accosted him to take it back off.
He walked the wide aisle, finishing up his soda and imagining what could have happened in Cris’s hotel room if he hadn’t left: mouths on each other, crotches rubbing, the two of them grinding on the bed.
Shooting his load all over Cris’s stomach, or his fist, or his face. His load had to be huge by now. A veritable flood.
His balls ached with pent-up cum. It wasn’t unpleasant—more like the memory of a hard day’s work. His jeans bulged like he’d put the metal cage back on after all, but it was all him.
After ten circuits of the terminal and the purchase of a paperback thriller, he headed into a bathroom stall to take a piss.
Red marks crossed his dick. He shook it, then turned and sat on the toilet, his bag between his feet.
Whether he put the contraption back on or not, he needed to lotion up those marks. And do it without getting off, which was going to be the tricky part. He was an unstable stick of dynamite, ready to blast.
He dabbed the lotion on, cool and white.
It was bullshit, having to take it off and put it on and take it off and put it on. He wished they were touring by bus, like they usually did. It had been easier this time, this tour, to fly. They could afford it, finally. Dirk had argued that it would actually be cheaper. Whatever. This would have been better by bus: lying awake in his bunk, knowing the thing wasn’t coming off, at all, ever, until and unless Cris decided to unlock him.
He fished it out of his bag. Managed to get it on while thinking about the economics and logistics of bus travel.
The lock clickclickclicked into place.
There was no way he would have put up with this from a chick, locking his dick away, teasing him, making him put the thing back on without getting to slide it in her pussy first.
So why Cris?
Why Cris at all?
He wasn’t into guys. He couldn’t say for sure he’d turn down a blowjob if he were drunk and someone were to discreetly offer it—and he couldn’t honestly say for sure that hadn’t already happened. He’d been blackout drunk more than once; he could have fucked a donkey and not remembered. But he was not into guys.
Unless you counted goofing around with Danny Lipman when they were, what, fucking thirteen? Trading handjobs behind a woodshed, closing his eyes when it was his turn, so he could pretend it was Kitty Carmenetti, who was fifteen and rumored to be easy, though he wouldn’t fucking know because his throat closed up whenever he happened to be within twenty feet of her.
And there’d been that weird thing with whatshisname—Carter something. Chest bumping, shoving, a few friendly throwdowns. Waking up tangled up in him on the floor of someone’s house, beer cans and empty plastic cups scattered around them.
He pressed his eyes into his hands. Shit. He’d come to another time, after passing out on someone’s couch, and Carter was on his at the couch knees, his hand pushing against his chest—his other hand in Nicky’s jeans. He barely remembered it. Remembered not stopping him, though.
Remembered watching his face as he jerked him off, then pretending to sleep when Carter looked up.
Remembered rolling over, moving his crotch away.
Remembered wondering if Carter was going to press up against him and reach between him and the couch to go back to what he was doing. Instead there’d just been the weight of Carter’s forehead on his side, and that’s all he had. He couldn’t even remember what the fuck ever happened to Carter.
What he did know was that the hairs on his arms stood up when Cris was around. And he could get him off his fucking mind.
The toilet flushed automatically as he stood. He picked up his bag and headed to his gate.
***
“Two motherfuckin’ dates left,” Dirk said as they sat at the gate. He stretched in his seat, his back arching, his t-shirt riding up to expose a flat tummy with a line of hair riding down to his waistband. “I liked this tour. We sho
uld fly more often.”
“Eh.” Nicky had his bag on his lap as he slouched in an uncomfortable plastic chair.
“What the fuck’s up with you anyway? You disappear into your room like a fucking hermit anymore.”
“Just tired I guess. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” He stretched his legs out and slid lower in the seat.
At the venue, he had no contact with Cris, just a fleeting electric meeting of eyes before Cris was carried away to one obligation or another.
He had a hard time focusing on the interview he’d been assigned to give a guitar magazine.
Crammed in the van with the others after the show, he felt tight all over, his body railing against spending another night locked up, alone in his room. The hotel bar whispered to him. It was late enough to be crowded and loud, and not yet late enough to empty out. He elbowed his way to a spot where he could get a steady supply of alcohol, and leaned against the bar, tossing back whiskey.
His head lightened, even if the metal around his dick didn’t. He was restless, itchy. And who said that just because he couldn’t come, no one could. He could get on his knees. Make someone else happy.
He stopped being coy with himself—he knew exactly which someone he had in mind.
The bartender dropped off another glass of amber, and he pulled up Brian’s number in his messaging app.
Looking for Cris again. You got a number?
Room number, phone number, he’d take anything. Hotel across town? No problem. The desk could get him a cab. He laid the phone screen-up on the bar and tapped his fingers on the wood.
“You’re somebody, aren’t you?” asked a girl in a button-up top that had been unbuttoned down to her cleavage.
“Nope.” He threw his drink back. Eyed the phone.
The guy on the stool he’d been leaning beside got up, heading off in the other direction, and she swung his stool her way and perched up on it. “Well, you have the look of being somebody. What are you in town for?”
“Went to a concert.” The bartender wasn’t too far off. He nudged his glass toward the edge.
“Which one?” She leaned against the bar, and her shirt splayed open, giving him a view of the curve of a blue bra cup.
One thing was sure. She wasn’t getting any action out of him. Even if he wanted to. He nodded at the bartender. Definitely another drink. “Comelian.”
“Really? I had no idea they were playing here.”
“You’re into them?”
She laughed. “Well, not lately. I went through a phase a couple years ago. That Cris Warren….” She laughed again.
Nicky woke his phone screen up, just in case. No messages.
She told him her name, which he forgot as soon as it was past her lips, and he told the bartender, as he dropped off his shot, to get him a double, and a beer too.
And his credit card.
“Leaving already?” she asked as he downed the shot.
Man that was good. “Early morning. Sorry.”
“Yeah, I should be in bed too. Meetings first thing. But I hate to waste the night in town, you know?” Which was probably when he was supposed to ask where she was from, or if she wanted to continue the party upstairs.
“Well, good luck with those.” He signed his receipt.
“I’m running you off, aren’t I?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about it.” He managed to pick up the beer bottle and phone in one hand, his double with the other. “Have a night.”
“You too….”
Walking brought home the number of shots he’d managed to down during the half hour he’d stood at the bar. He wasn’t stumbling, just loose. Good. And all he needed to go from good to great was for Brian to get back to him.
The room was dark when he let himself in, cradling the phone, beer and glass against his chest. He felt for the light switch, lit the room up. Let the door fall shut behind him.
The drinks went on the nightstand, the phone on the bed. He yanked off his shoes and joined it, checking the screen again.
Drinking his beer.
Checking the time.
He leaned against the headboard. Metal jammed the crotch of his jeans. His fingers buzzed as he imagined running them up Cris’s trousers, undoing his belt, cupping Cris through cloth.
Just because he wasn’t allowed to get off didn’t mean everyone had to miss out.
Cris could benefit from the lessons he’d given him the other night. No dildos this time. No risk of anyone’s cock being bitten off. Nicky’d treat it real nice.
The teeth on the cuff chafed. He pushed a leg straight to make more room for it.
He wondered what he looked like with that thing on. He’d seen himself through steam-fogged mirrors, but he hadn’t stopped to look at himself the way Cris would see him.
No messages on the screen yet.
He dragged off his shirt. The room’s air skimmed his bare chest, waking his nerves. He took off his shirt every night, but tonight he was doing it for Cris, whether the fucker was there or not.
He pushed his palm over the crotch of his jeans. The thing was a part of him now. He remembered what it was like to have a dick nuzzled in his underwear, something he could tug on while he watched TV. Remembered it like it was another life.
He peeled his jeans and underwear off and stepped out of them.
As the cuff unsupported weight tugged on him, its teeth pulled at raw skin. He sat on his knees on the bed, thighs open, ass on heels, and looked down at himself. Cupped his hand around the steel. Ran his other hand up his thigh.
The phone stayed silent.
If nothing else, something needed to be done about the chafing.
He drew his hand across his chest, pinching his nipples. The nerves there were hypersensitive, like thin electric wires lighting up all the way to his groin. Was this what happened when you didn’t get off?
He brought back body lotion from the bathroom and sat with his legs spread, his back rounded. He squirted lotion around the cuff, using his pinky to push it underneath, shifting the cuff this way and that as he worked—flinching and hissing a little when the teeth touched a tender spot.
He lay back, naked, his fingers slick with lotion, and played with his nipples, the nerves sending quiet, spiky shivers down through his legs.
He thought about Cris kneeling over him, pinning his arms, putting his cock into his mouth. Or maybe not pinning his arms: he saw his hands sliding up Cris’s sides.
He thought about Cris turning him over and pushing inside him.
Brian wasn’t fucking getting back to him. He rolled onto his side, the shifting of gravity causing the bottle of lotion to tumble against his hip. He swallowed back half of his double as he eyed his phone display.
Fuck this. He unlocked the screen and made a call to Brian’s number, taking another drink while it rang. And rang. Voicemail picked up eventually, and Nicky ended the call. Tossed the phone on the mattress.
He lay back, caressing himself absently.
The bottle of lotion warmed against his side.
His thoughts were on Cris fucking him again, taking him for his own pleasure. And Nicky giving it to him.
Would that be so horrible?
One time a chick had tried to put a finger up there, and he’d jumped to his feet. “Don’t fucking go there. I’m not a fucking fag.” That had been, what, eight, nine years ago? He rolled onto his hip, a knee canting out to keep his weight off the metal.
Canting his knee spread his legs. He could feel air on his asshole, or imagined he could.
He spread his thighs wider.
The bottle of lotion was trapped under his side. He dug it out.
It was just to see. Just to know. No one around to spread rumors about him liking it up the ass.
The lotion was cool, and his asshole bunched at its touch. But it was slick too. When he closed his eyes and pushed the tip of his finger over the bundle of nerves, his eyelids twitched. He spread his legs wider. His ass pushed back. H
e bit his lip as he pressed his finger against the hole—and then let go of his lip, opening his mouth around a soft sound as his finger pushed in, like it was being swallowed, his muscles hot and hugging around it. He imagined Cris behind him, a hand on his hip, the other between his cheeks. I’m going to loosen you up, so you can handle me. Wouldn’t want to tear you to shreds the first time, right?
He pushed as far in as he could go, thinking about Cris inside him.
His cock swelled till it ran out of room. The ache was dull, almost good. Just on the very edge of good. He fucked himself with one finger, the tube on his cock sliding in the leakage that dribbled from his useless dick. Somewhere he’d heard you could get off from having your ass played with. He used more lotion and got two fingers inside, and fucked himself until his thigh muscles trembled. Until he was gripping the bedspread so hard his fingers felt locked. Until he was panting and his jaw hurt from clenching.
Until he couldn’t do it anymore and lay there exhausted, his balls swollen tender with cum.
Eventually he got up, washed his hands, and took a piss.
He checked his phone, going as far as double-checking he’d sent both the text and the call to the right contact. Then he gave up and pulled the covers over him, hoping for a few hours’ sleep, and maybe the restoration of some of his sanity.
***
He was washed out. It took two tries to zip his bag. His teeth hurt. He’d gotten pissed as hell trying to take a leak with the fucking tube on his dick. He hiked his bag over his shoulder and came around the corner, ready to get the fuck out of the hotel room. It smelled like whisky and desperation.
He stopped at the sight of a white envelope on the carpet, just in front of the door.
He set the bag down and crouched. Something small shifted in the envelope as he lifted it.
A cold weight dropped through his stomach.
Was the whole thing coming to an end, the exact way he’d wanted it to end all those days ago—with the key to freedom in an envelope?
He tore the end off and dumped the object into his hand. So small in his palm. An ache swelled in his throat. He clutched the key in his fist and peered inside the envelope.