by Zoe X Rider
Cris brushed hair back from Nicky’s forehead. “You’ve been good, though. You deserve something for that.”
Nicky dragged his attention from the Alcatraz.
“I thought for sure you were going to haul off and punch me that first day,” Cris said, setting his new prison on the nightstand.
“I still might.” He rolled half onto one hip, the belt digging into his wrist. He pulled his thigh up until it nudged Cris. That was as far as he could reach. He turned his cheek against his arm, getting another look at the Alcatraz.
Rivets. He was exaggerating, right?
His balls throbbed.
Cris nudged his hip back down, laying him flat on the bed.
Outside, the sky was bruised purple, the treetops dark shapes against it.
Cris could keep him here for days, belted to the bed. The thought made his bladder panic. He tried to pull his arm over so he could wipe his brow. All he did was strain his neck.
“Fuck.” He stirred restlessly against the mattress. “What do I get for being good?”
“I’ll show you my cock.”
A week ago, he’d have asked if he got a free magnifying glass with that.
A week ago, he might have skipped the quip and gone straight to punching him in the mouth.
“And if you don’t come,” Cris said, “I’ll let you kiss it.”
“I want to suck it.”
Cris smirked. “I’m sure you do.” He touched Nicky’s lips. “I remember how you took to sucking things. But I’m not sure I trust you not to chomp on it yet.”
Nicky wrenched his arms against the belts, wanting to pull Cris down on top of him.
Cris sat back. “First you have to show me you won’t come.” His finger trailed down Nicky’s chin. When his fingernails scratched his chest, Nicky parted his lips. His hips rose as the fingers moved lower. His cock leaked a thin trail on his stomach. It twitched as Cris’s fingers passed right on by, moving to his thigh, dipping downward, bringing a shiver through him as he caressed the bottom of his cheek.
He crooked a knee and pressed his heel against the mattress, all his nerves wide awake.
Cris cupped his balls.
Nicky closed his eyes and let out a soft breath. His cock ached for contact. It felt as thick as a baseball bat.
Cool air swirled over his shaft. He opened his eyes to see Cris’s lips pursed, a smile playing at his eyes. He moaned as another stream of air buffeted his over-sensitive head. It wanted to jump right up into Cris’s mouth, but all it could do was twitch and throb.
Cris’s tongue touched his skin—slow and light and hot, and then gone. A hot tingle swept up Nicky’s jaw. He dug his fingernails into his palms.
“Don't you dare come,” Cris whispered, his lips brushing Nicky’s swollen head. The skin around his dick felt stretched taut, stretched almost to splitting. His body felt brittle, like his nerves had turned to crystal, ready to shatter.
Again Cris gave him the tip of his tongue, just in that small space—not even an inch of flesh, making Nicky tip his head back, arching his spine, pushing his cock toward Cris.
Cris’s breath skated over his heated skin as he laughed. Nicky growled in frustration.
“Shhh,” Cris said. “It’s all right.” He leaned his chest on Nicky’s thigh so he could nip the inside of the other. And suck. And lick, all the way up to Nicky’s groin, Nicky flinching and twitching and gasping at the touch of Cris’s jaw against his swollen balls.
Grinning, Cris held Nicky’s hip down and dipped his face back into Nicky’s crotch, taking a mouthful of inner thigh and sucking it like he was trying to draw snake venom out.
“Fuck,” Nicky breathed. He clenched his hands. His toes curled. He tightened the muscles in the leg Cris was lying on, pushing it as straight out as it would go, flexing his toes, trying to survive the torture.
Turning his head slightly, Cris licked Nicky’s sac, like a cat with a bowl of milk. He drew them into his mouth, sucking lightly, his hand flat on Nicky’s thigh. Then he pushed them back out with his tongue, smiling, planting a kiss on the base of Nicky’s cock. Nicky’s cock jerked at the attention.
“I’ve never sucked a guy’s balls before,” Cris said, his lips moving against Nicky’s skin.
Nicky said, “Oh god,” as Cris drew them back into his warm, wet mouth. The hand on his thigh moved closer to his cock, but not. close. enough. Nicky moaned, his shaft prickling, like it could feel the energy coming off the tips of Cris’s fingers. So fucking close.
When Cris turned his mouth back to Nicky’s thigh, Nicky bucked his hips, trying to get closer to Cris’s hand. His cock bounced and slapped down against his belly, smacking into its own leaky mess.
Cris circled its base with a thumb and forefinger, lifting it upward, holding it so it wouldn't smack anymore. Nicky’s balls felt like they were going to explode. He bucked his hips again, but Cris’s hand stayed with him, giving him no friction. Just the grip of his fingers felt good, though, and he did it again. Cris smirked. Then his eyelids slipped down. His tongue reached out.
At the first light touch, Nicky tipped his head back, his throat opening. The long, flat-tongued, ice-cream-cone lick all the way up the underside of his cock was almost too much to handle. He quivered, every muscle straining—muscles he’d never thought about before, in his dick, in his ass, pulling tight.
“Stop.” Oh god. He was so close he could feel his weight tipping toward the abyss. “Stop,” he breathed, clenching every muscle, trying to hold it back.
Cris grinned at him from behind his cock.
Dazed, Nicky stared at him. He was caught between two wants: come, finally—or lose the game. Cris rolled his tongue out, making like he was going to do lick him again, and Nicky gripped his hands into fists. He moved nearer, his mouth stretching into a wide smile, and Nicky forced out a “Don’t,” shoving his heel against the mattress, pushing himself back.
Cris’s tongue licked, languidly, an inch away from Nicky’s skin, close enough for Nicky to feel the heat of his breath. He quivered. The edges of the belts bit into his wrists. His arms trembled.
Cris kissed just below the head of his cock, a light and fleeting touch, before he pulled away.
“Fuck.” Nicky dropped his head back. His fingertips felt jittery. His toes buzzed. His hips nudged toward Cris, wanting to finish, and his heel dug into the mattress, trying to turn him away, save him before it was too late.
Cool air broke across the head of his dick. Another smile from Cris as Nicky clenched his teeth.
Cris pulled himself up, still smiling, one knee between Nicky’s thighs. “Have you been wondering how we compare?” One-handed—still gripping Nicky’s cock by its base—he unbuckled his jeans. If he used that other hand to stroke—just two, maybe three times—it’d all be over. Nicky’s abdomen beat with each quick breath. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. He swore softly and fisted his hands again.
Cris dug his cock from his jeans, long and hard, with a head like a thick bullet. He tipped his cock toward Nicky’s, bumping lightly against it.
“What do you think?”
“Mine’s fatter,” Nicky said.
“Yeah, you’ve got a fat head in more ways than one.” He rubbed his cock over Nicky’s, and Nicky had to grit his teeth against the pleasure it stirred. “I wouldn’t kick mine out of bed, though.” He slapped Nicky’s dick with it. “Would you?”
“No,” Nicky said. Keep up the conversation. It helps.
Cris straddled him, nudging Nicky’s legs together with his knees. He drew his hand up the length of Nicky, his thumb taking care to give attention to the ultra-sensitive underside of Nicky’s head before letting go.
Precum leaked from Nicky’s cock, dribbling in a thin trickle down the side of his belly.
“You leak a lot,” Cris said.
“I haven’t done it this much since I was nineteen.”
“Looks like we’ve found the fountain of youth.” He smiled.
�
��You want to take your turn at it?” Nicky pushed his shoulders against the mattress, trying to get comfortable. The stretch had set into his arms, reaching all the way to his pits, and there was no getting away from it.
Cris said, “Nah, I’m good. Nineteen wasn’t the highlight of my life anyway.” He tilted his cock to rub it in the puddle of precum on Nicky’s belly.
Nicky ached for Cris to touch his cock again, but Cris just hooked it with a finger to draw it out of his way. He slid his thumb over his own cock, slick now with what Nicky had leaked out, and all Nicky could do was watch helplessly, wishing it was his cock getting the attention instead.
Cris settled back, pinning Nicky’s thighs together, trapping his over-full balls between them. As Nicky tried to shift to a more comfortable position—which was impossible under Cris’s weight—Cris stroked his own cock, his head bent, watching his fingers work. His gaze traced to Nicky’s neglected member, and Nicky could feel it almost as sure as a touch. The corner of Cris’s mouth slid upward. He stroked, long and slow and expert, while he held Nicky’s hip down. Every now and then he pushed his cock downward, making it kiss Nicky’s, and then pulled it back up, resuming his strokes.
“I think…” Cris said, “…it needs to be more wet. I like it wet, don’t you?”
Nicky tried to shift his hips again, the pinch in his balls edging toward unbearable.
“Stick your tongue out for me,” Cris said.
Nicky stared at Cris’s grip as it slid up and down the length of his cock, his strong fingers, his sure hold. He was so intent on it, he didn’t see Cris’s other hand moving, didn’t see the fingernail cocked against the pad of his thumb.
The flick brought a sharp cry out of him.
“Stick out your tongue,” Cris said.
His mouth was already open from the surprise of the attack. The flick stung, and kept stinging. Cris’s eyebrow rose. Nicky rolled his tongue out.
Cris crawled, one knee then the other, up the bed, freeing Nicky’s thighs to open a little, give his nuts some relief.
The crotch of Cris’s jeans scraped across Nicky’s dick, drawing a soft gasp out of him. Cris’s legs pressed against his sides, hemming him in. He put a hand on Nicky’s forehead, holding it down, and pointed his cock toward his face.
Nicky stretched his tongue toward it, but Cris’s hand kept him back.
His breaths rasped across his tongue. His neck muscles were taut. He could smell everything: his own pre-ejaculate on Cris’s cock, the musk of Cris’s groin, the sharp cleanness of soap. Even the heat coming off Cris had a scent that made his nostrils flare and twitch.
Cris slanted his cock toward Nicky’s mouth, touched its head on Nicky’s tongue. Salt blossomed. Nicky stretched his tongue farther, and Cris slapped it with his cock while Nicky strained against the belts.
He rubbed the head of his cock over Nicky’s tongue, and Nicky’s balls throbbed. His own cock pulsed with the beat of his heart, a beat that quickened as Cris pushed just inside his mouth. He rounded his lips against his teeth and tried to pull Cris’s cock in with his tongue, but he was in no position to control anything. Cris popped his dick back out and smacked him at the corner of his lips with it. When he pointed his cock down again, Nicky opened up and let it in, hugging it with his lips, feeling its tug on them as Cris pushed in and out. He lifted his head, trying to capture more, but Cris had all the control. He gripped the back of Nicky’s head, holding it off the pillow, and fucked him with the first few inches of cock. Nicky moaned, his own dick weeping and aching all by itself below them.
Cris moved his knees a little higher, pushing his cock down at a sharper angle, a better angle to get into Nicky’s mouth.
God his dick ached.
He fought to keep his teeth from scraping. Fought to keep his head up, despite the strain in his neck muscles. Fought to get more of Cris into his mouth, despite the awkward angle. All he could do was suck its head, lick it, groan as it pushed in again.
Cris gripped the headboard. His hips worked—short, quick thrusts—and Nicky was just a receptacle for it. Nicky studied the lines of Cris’s throat, the taut muscles in the arm holding the bed. He pulled against the belts, wanting to grab Cris by the waist and drag his cock into him, cross his arms behind Cris’s back and hold him down against him, his meat stuffed down his throat.
Cris’s cock popped out of his mouth. Cris stroked it, his hand pumping just above Nicky’s chin.
Nicky watched, rapt, hungry. A drop of precum welled, slid along the curve of that bullet head. The side of Cris’s finger swept it up. Another drop welled. Nicky stuck out his tongue, trying to reach Cris’s cock. Cris pushed the head against it, slick and salty, and then gone again. Nicky stretched his tongue farther.
Cris’s mouth twitched toward a smile.
“Please,” Nicky whispered, digging his toes into the mattress, pushing one hip off the bed. “Please.”
Cris pointed his cock downward.
Nicky arched his neck and flicked, his tongue barely reaching.
“Yeah,” Cris said. “Yeah, that’s it.” He pushed his hand inside his jeans, clutching his balls. Nicky stretched for the head, his tongue flattening along the underside. Cris pushed it down, right into his mouth, and Nicky sucked while Cris stroked himself. “Shit. Yeah. Open wide. Wider. Stick out your tongue. Yeah.” His hand worked so fast it blurred at the edge of Nicky’s vision. His fingers covered then exposed the head, covered then exposed it. He switched to short jerks, right up at the head, aiming it toward Nicky’s mouth, Nicky’s tongue stretched beneath it.
He had second thoughts. Panic. What if it repulsed him? And then hot seed shot at him, splattering his tongue, his lips. Cris kept stroking. Another, smaller shot hit his teeth. And still Cris kept stroking. Nicky arched his neck and swallowed, Cris’s cock bumping his lips, his chin—Cris rubbing his head against his throat.
When he let out a breath and lowered his chin, Cris’s cock was waiting for him, softening a little. He licked it, cleaning it off, letting Cris push its head back in his mouth, and then Cris sat back, his weight heavy on Nicky’s stomach.
“You did good.” He pushed a hand through Nicky’s hair. “You did good.” He leaned down and kissed him on the mouth.
Nicky’s feet pushed across the mattress. His mouth didn’t want to let Cris’s go. He tried to reach Cris with his hands, hold him there, but the restraints fought him.
Cris shifted backward, igniting all the nerves in Nicky’s cock. He pressed his mouth against Nicky’s again, forcing it open, pushing his tongue where his seed had been. Kissing him hard and deep.
Nicky lost himself in that kiss. Wanted it to go on endlessly. For a while, it seemed like it would. Even as Cris rolled off him, they stayed attached at the mouth. Cris stretched alongside him. His open fly tickled Nicky’s hip. His palm was warm on Nicky’s thigh. They were joined at the mouth, Cris’s lips soft and giving, his teeth hard and unforgiving behind them, his tongue was hot and quick, then slow and teasing. Nicky sighed into it, forgetting the cum he’d swallowed, forgetting his fear. Wanting only to stay like this, on the edge of coming, consumed by Cris.
When Cris pulled back, he traced Nicky’s lip with his thumb. “We should see how that’s doing.” He slid his eyes downward.
Nicky could tell him exactly how it was doing. The red marks ached exquisitely. His skin felt stretched thin. His cock and his heartbeat throbbed in time with each other. And the damned thing was never going to stop leaking.
Cris moved down the bed, his fingers dragging along Nicky’s chest. He bent his head and kissed the weeping, straining tip of Nicky’s cock, and Nicky shivered and moaned. Cris lifted it carefully with a finger, looking at the marks. He touched them with the pad of his thumb. “I think you’d be okay to get in the new cage, if you wanted. Once the swelling goes down I mean.” He gave Nicky that wolfish smile.
Yeah, like that was gonna happen.
Sitting up, Cris opened the bedside drawer. Pulled out a remote.
The blank, dark screen of the TV across from the bed popped to life. “Let’s see.” He clicked through the channels: news, sitcom, crime drama—shopping channel. Ladies handbags. “Maybe you’ll see one you like.” He shut the remote back in the drawer. Standing, he stretched, his jeans still open, his stomach flat.
The Alcatraz gleamed on the table, a steel prison waiting to lock him up.
Cris left him with the handbags.
Two women, surrounded by purses, gabbed about what it was like to have a newborn, then handbags, then teething. Handbags. Being woken up at all hours of the night. Handbags. Nicky felt like he was watching verbal ping-pong.
Irritation crawled through his nerves. He’d gone from hot and sexy to diaper changes and quilted tangerine-dyed leather.
He stared at the bedside table, trying to tune the women out—gorgeous silver hardware, fabulous vibrant seafoam color, generous backwall zip pocket.
My god, it was just a bag.
He stretched his fingers as far as he could and didn’t come close to reaching the table, much less the drawer with the fucking remote in it.
God damn Cris Warren.
Every day bag. Work bag. Triple compartment. And Jesus Christ, all that for just $250. He’d gotten his duffle bag at a Dick’s Sporting Goods for forty bucks, and the thing had held up for over four tours now. He hadn’t had to listen to a fifteen-minute spiel on it. It was black. It held things.
Rich, luxurious, the detailing, so chic—iconic really.
It’s a fucking bag!
He clamped his eyes shut, his temples throbbing.
Shoes. Shoes came up next, strappy suede pumps with cut-out details. He focused on breathing. Turned his head and focused on the Alcatraz. That’s what he was doing this for. He bent his knee and lifted his hip, stretching his body toward it. Examining its details. He wished they’d do a segment on these things. Medical-grade stainless steel. Fine details. Polished joins. Restrictive. Escape proof. You won’t be getting out of this anytime soon!
Heat spread through his groin.