7. Dylan
Dylan
I’ll hold your rod any day.
I replayed Ford’s words over and over in my head as I laid on my bed. After the shower disaster, I had managed to get shorts and a shirt on without assistance, and then Ford had brought me a snack and bag of ice for my ankle.
I bet his cock is a snack.
My accident-prone ass was completely lucid by now, but I was still horned up from our lakeside day in the sun. I couldn’t get his bulging banana hammock out of my mind. Which was why—even with Cheez-It crumbs all over my chest—I was playing with myself.
It turned out even though it was straining to bust out of the cage, I could move the whole thing back and forth enough that it felt almost as good as jerking off.
Fuck.
I was desperate for it.
Surely he wouldn’t be a poor choice of a partner.
He obviously cared about me. The man had carried me through the wilderness twice in one week.
I closed my eyes and thought of how his body felt against mine.
Morgan and I couldn’t have predicted that the first man I’d fallen in love with would be the one I’d be spending my sexless summer with.
Over the next hour, and with no guilt that I had found a way to cheat the cage, I brought myself to the edge multiple times. It was only the thought of Ford—of the possibility that he could be the one to help me cross the finish line, so to speak—that kept me from cumming.
“I’m back!”
My hand came out of my shorts faster than I spent my paychecks. “Did you get everything you needed?”
“That and more!” he yelled back.
What does that mean?
I didn’t want to keep yelling so I waited to see if he was coming to my room. Of course waiting meant looking at my phone. And looking at my phone meant scrolling through porn GIFs because I was a glutton for punishing my aching balls.
“I hope you’re thirsty,” Ford said. I could hear him coming down the hall.
I could definitely swallow something right about now. “Yeah, a little,” I said as I watched him enter my room carrying a glass filled with a light pink liquid and so much ice it was clinking against the side.
“You said you wanted a margarita so I stopped at the store after I got the stuff for the shower. It’s watermelon.” He held it out and I gladly took it.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
I shrugged. “You said you wanted margaritas.”
“I did say that.” The first sip told me it was just what I needed. “Oooh, and a sugared rim!”
“The rim’s my favorite part,” he said, watching me take another sip.
After an afternoon of edging, I threw caution to the wind and licked some of the sugar off in a not-so-subtle way before swallowing. “Mmmm, I don’t know what to say other than it’s delicious. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Ford smiled and crossed his beefy arms, lingering. “And you actually said you wanted to get drunk on margaritas, so there’s more where that came from.”
“So now you want me to get drunk?” I asked. “Weren’t you the one that grounded me for a month for sneaking a beer when I was fifteen?”
He shrugged. “I’m just trying to give you what you want.”
Then get over here, pull my shorts down, and get your tongue to work on your favorite part.
“That’s very kind of you.” I smiled, masking the onslaught of pornographic images my imagination was conjuring up at the same moment. I wondered if his cum erupted out of his cock like a thick syrup or it shot out all over the place like a cannon.
“You mind if I get to work on the drywall?” He gestured to the bathroom. “It’s gonna have to set for a while and then I can figure out where to put the tension rod maybe tomorrow.”
Fuck, this was torture.
“Sounds good.”
I lost track of how many margaritas I drank, but I didn’t care. It took my mind off my ankle and the cage and lowered my inhibitions enough that I could stare at Ford while he worked and not feel like a pervert.
Watching Ford get all sweaty while wearing a toolbelt and a tank top was now a core memory.
Though it had kept me half-hard the entire evening. I warned him when he got spackle on his face, but he just smiled at me, tried to wipe it off and made it worse.
I giggled—me, a grown ass man giggled at the sight of him—but he seemed to like it because he just kept smiling. Seeing him all dirty like that only made me imagine what he’d look like showering it all off later.
Staring had its benefits too. At one point when he bent over, his tank top rode up and I could see the waistband of what I hoped was a jockstrap. Unfortunately, his pants hadn’t dropped low enough for me to conclusively determine.
“Are you wearing a jockstrap?” I blurted.
“Pardon?” He stopped what he was doing and glanced over his shoulder.
Shit. “Nevermind.”
“Did you ask if I was wearing a jockstrap?” He came into the bedroom and wiped his brow, smearing more white spackle across his forehead.
“Just curious.” I shrugged. “You’ve got spackle all over you by the way.”
“It’ll come off in the shower,” he said, glancing at his arms. “And yes”—he winked—“it’s a jockstrap.”
“I knew it!”
Ford smiled. “I’ll have to get you drunk more often,” he said, then headed back into the bathroom. “Drunk Dylan is kind of fun.”
“Yeah, but what’s drunk Ford like?” I yelled
A dull throb behind my eyes mirrored the ache of my cock. The pain of my ankle was like a distant memory compared to the headache splitting my skull apart.
Fucking margaritas.
I picked up my phone which was almost dead since I didn’t plug it in last night.
It’s almost ten.
“Ford?!”
I waited a few seconds. Nothing.
Hopping to the bathroom on one leg while my chastity cage squeezed the ever-loving fuck out of my dick wasn’t the best way to keep a bladder like an overfilled water balloon from exploding all over my bedroom.
However, I had barely sat on the toilet after yanking my shorts down before the torrent let loose on the bathroom floor. “Shit!”
I leaned forward and pushed the cage down to keep the rest of it contained. Caged, it was much easier to pee in the shower, but that was out of the question this morning.
No shower and all.
It was also easier to sit backwards, facing the tank as there was more room to maneuver the cage—something I had learned earlier this week.—but in my rush, I sat the normal way and this morning…it was a struggle.
I cleaned up the floor as best as I could manage and flushed.
A glance in the mirror made me smile. I looked exactly how I felt—absolutely wrecked—though my torso was definitely more tan than yesterday, which was nice.
Leaning down, I sucked a few mouthfuls of water and swallowed.
I needed Tylenol, something to eat, and about two gallons of Gatorade.
I took a deep breath. “Whew!” I needed a shower too. But one glance in the mirror reminded me that wouldn’t be happening in this room today.
I could try to hop up the stairs myself…though based on my track record that would likely end up with me falling out of the window on the landing and ending up in the hospital.
Ford could help me when he got back.
Mmmm .
Ford was all sweaty yesterday.
Jockstrap!
Oh my God, that actually happened. Could I be any more desperate?
I rubbed my eyes and limped towards the kitchen. At least I could blame my word vomit on the alcohol.
It was a struggle but I made it. Of course there was a plate of freshly-baked muffins on the table and a handwritten note from Ford.
Morning, Dylan. These are banana nut. Made them this morning. I’m out for my run, and I’m wearing a jockstrap. See you in a bit. Love, Ford
I wasn’t sure what to focus on first: the fact that he brought up his jockstrap or he signed the note ‘Love, Ford’.
Surely that was just a reflex, a habit.
Yeah, that was it.
Like signing a birthday card to your best friend.
I grabbed two muffins, popped them in the toaster oven, and reread the note.
The sounds of rhythmic footsteps across the driveway gravel broke through the silence of the cabin until they stopped. My stomach clenched when I heard the cadenced thud of Ford’s steps climbing the stairs and crossing the porch.
Ford, back from his morning run, came into the kitchen shirtless and glistening with sweat.
His shoulders were still heaving, his blond hair was damp with sweat, and the defined lines of his abdomen disappeared into his way-too-small-but-exactly-the-right-size-for-all-of-my-fantasies shorts.
The big smile he was wearing made me reciprocate until my gaze caught on the silver chain, holding the tiny key, nestled against his chest.
“You’re alive and you made it all the way to the kitchen! I take it you’re feeling better.”
I groaned. “I think my massive hangover is suppressing my ankle pain.”
“Your body has priorities.” Ford nodded. “Nice. You want a Gatorade.”
“We have Gatorade?”
Ford smiled as he opened the fridge. “Picked it up yesterday with the margarita mix.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Ford chuckled and handed me a bottle, which I promptly opened and chugged.
“Wow.”
“What?” I covered my burp.
“That was impressive.”
I smirked. “I was thirsty.”
“I can see that. You want another?”
“Sure.”
The toaster dinged and I snagged a plate from the cupboard.
“Butter?” Ford asked.
“Yeah, thanks.”
As I took my seat at the table, my gaze drifted to Ford’s throat as he finished off his bottle. After a loud and expressive “Ahhh,” he asked, “You good if I finish your shower repair today?”
“Yeah, but before you start, can you help me upstairs? I’d really like to shower sooner rather than later.”
“Of course,” Ford answered. “I’ll go rinse off real quick then come back down for you.”
“Great, and thanks for the muffins.” I took my first bite.
Damn.
Was there anything he couldn’t do?
I debated asking Ford to help me down the stairs while wearing just a towel or to have him go downstairs to grab me some clothes.
“You all good in there?”
Fuck it.
“Um, I feel like I'm gonna have a hard time keeping my towel on if you’re helping me down the stairs.”
“I can grab you some clothes, or you can wear something of mine.”
As tempting as that sounded…he didn’t give me enough time to decide.
“I’ll be right back,” he said through the door, so I waited.
A minute later, there was a knock on the door. “Dylan?”
I cracked open the door and accepted the neatly folded pile of clothes from Ford. “Thank you.”
“Let me know if you need a hand.”
“This part I can manage.”
I placed the pile on the vanity next to the sink and dropped my towel. The shirt was the easy part; it was the shorts that’d be tricky.
Oh God.
He didn’t.
Folded neatly on top of my shorts was a purple Andrew Christian jockstrap.
Ford had opened my underwear drawer and selected this pair.
The idea that he’d know exactly what I was wearing underneath my clothes was arousing to say the least. Even though we had just spent almost the entirety of yesterday wearing barely there swim briefs by the lake.
This was a little different.
With great care not to fall on my ass, I pulled the jock on, followed by the track shorts. After hanging the towel to dry, I made it to the door where Ford was still waiting for me.
He said nothing about the jockstrap. I could’ve sworn he was going to—especially after last night and the note this morning—but he didn’t. As requested, he helped me down the stairs and to the couch, since he was going to be finishing my shower repairs today.
I couldn’t handle another day of staring at him.
My poor dick needed a break.