10. Ford
Ford
The morning after the storm led to a grim assessment, even though the rain had weakened to a mere drizzle and the sun was already attempting to pierce through the lingering clouds.
We still had no power, and Dylan’s bedroom was a disaster.
I texted Melissa, telling her what happened and asked if it was still the same insurance company. It was better to get the ball rolling as soon as possible.
The room was bathed in an eerie blue light because of the tarps covering the jagged maw in the ceiling.
His bed was a mangled mess and directly beneath the point of impact.
The large branch sat there like a monument to the storm’s fury.
Below where there used to be a window, shards of glass glittered on the floor amidst bits of insulation and shingles.
The only positive was that the tarp had held through the night, and the water damage—to the room, at least—seemed to be minimal.
"Well," Dylan said, his voice quiet. "At least it was just my room."
I nodded, carefully nudging a broken lamp to the side. "And not you, thank God. This was way too close."
“At least you were there for me.”
Thank God for that, too.
Dylan said he needed the distraction and since the pain in his arm was manageable—his words—after a small, cold, breakfast, we spent the better part of the morning sifting through the debris.
Our main priority was collecting his belongings out of the room before any more storms decided to test my hastily-stapled tarps.
“Should we just pile it in the hallway?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah, for now. I can bring it up to my room later.”
“Your room?” Dylan stopped what he was doing and stared at me.
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
Dylan ran his fingers through his hair, then put his hand on his hip. "So…we just keep sleeping in your bed?"
“I mean, if you want to.”
“Yes!” Something unreadable flickered in his eyes before he glanced away.
"Unless you'd rather sleep on the couch," I added.
His response was immediate. “No! Your bed’s fine. It’s…comfortable.”
His cheeks grew pinker by the second and it made my stomach flip, but just like that, the decision was made.
Most of Dylan’s possessions were as lucky as he was; they were relatively unscathed.
All but two of his books had been on the bookshelf in the far corner, and most of his clothes were in his now-battered dresser.
It was the scattered belongings that were wetter and harder to find.
We worked in silence, punctuated only by our grunts of effort and the occasional crunch of debris underfoot.
Whenever I found something of his, I’d hold it up and he would tell me where he wanted me to put it.
“Should I clear out my bathroom?” Dylan asked.
“It’s up to you, but probably. Until everything’s back to normal anyway.”
We used his empty suitcases to pack up his books and clothes, then I hauled them up to my room, which was now our room, followed by the empty bookcase. Together, Dylan and I carried the dresser up the stairs, after taking each drawer separately first.
"Looks like most of your clothes are okay," I commented.
Dylan nodded, while surveying our progress. "Yeah. It's mostly the little stuff that got buried or smashed."
I’d uncover items, brush off dirt and bits of wood, and hand them to Dylan, who would then sort them into one of three boxes we’d scavenged from the shed. His laptop, thankfully, had been on his nightstand, and by some miracle had avoided any damage.
"Huh, I forgot about this," Dylan said, his voice muffled, as he pulled a small, dusty shoebox from under what used to be his bed. "My old photo box."
After getting off his hands and knees, he brushed himself off and opened it, revealing a jumble of faded photographs and what looked like magazine tear-outs.
My curiosity piqued, I came over to glance over his shoulder.
Most of them were childhood photos, snapshots from his past life.
Then, my eyes landed on a series of items at the back of the box.
My breath hitched. There were photos from summer vacations past, from years ago when Dylan was a teenager.
They were pictures of me.
Shirtless, on the old dock, muscles flexing as I posed for the camera.
Bent over and toweling off after a swim in the lake, water dripping from my shorts, the fabric clinging to my ass.
Bare-chested, leaning back in a camping chair, a beer in my hand, sitting around the fire.
Clippings from the Olympics, from gymnastic competitions before I was even a coach. I wondered where he would’ve even gotten those.
The photos were candid, some taken from a distance. Photos I didn't even know existed. Photos Dylan had taken.
A sudden, fierce heat bloomed in my chest and shot straight down to my cock.
He'd kept them. All these years.
The memory of finding him masturbating on the bed, surrounded by my underwear, huffing one of my used jocks, flashed through my mind.
I could no longer deny that I’d seen his long-standing attraction to me in his eyes before and chose to ignore it.
This was physical proof. These photos were a silent testament to a history I had never fully acknowledged, feelings I’d only recently begun thinking of reciprocating.
Dylan, oblivious to the implications of his find, was sifting through the clippings.
"Oh, wow, this is from when you were on the cover of Men’s Health, remember?
" he said, holding up the centerfold from that issue that featured a younger, leaner version of me at the gym. "I used to look at these all the time."
He looked up then, meeting my gaze, and a faint blush crept up his neck. The implication, unspoken, hung in the air. He used to look at them. All the time.
And now we were face-to-face and he was looking at me .
The all-too-familiar tension seemed to shrink the room. My gaze dropped to his hands, to the box of images of our family and of me, then lower, to where I could see the faint outline of the cage beneath his sweatpants.
How could I have been so oblivious?
After we had taken care of his belongings and cleaned up his room, we had the rest of the day to relax. With Dylan taking a nap—in my bed—I used the last of my phone battery to google what he was wearing. And after doing plenty of research, I realized I was pretty vanilla when it came to sex.
But neither him nor I had said a single word about it since I had seen him naked.
It was a very kinky elephant in our room.
In the days after the storm, I stayed busy trying to settle into our new routine.
The insurance agent had come and gone, and our power was back.
The tree, debris, and broken furniture had all been removed and an appointment with a recommended roofing contractor had been set for next week.
A new bed frame and mattress for Dylan were ordered.
Everything was normal…except he and I were sleeping in my bed every night, and I’d blown two loads a day watching chastity porn.
In the shower, in the middle of a run through the woods, in the bathroom. It felt like whenever I had a few minutes alone, I was jacking it.
The image of the cage on Dylan's cock was burned into my memory. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Did he wear it all the time? Was it his choice, or was it like a weird bet with some friends?
Is that what he meant by a sexless summer?
If he was at the point where he needed a chastity cage to control his urges, then…
damn. How out of control was his sex life?
My mind raced, thinking back to every moment we had shared this summer. Had he been wearing it this whole time? Was he going to wear it the whole summer? When would he decide to unlock it?
As a distraction, I tried to lose myself in the mundane.
I went through the house, picking up stray socks and wiping down counters, but every polished surface showed me my own reflection and my face said it all.
It didn’t matter what I did or pretended to do; my mind kept thinking about the smooth black finish of that hard plastic and the way it had encased his dick.
Late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I attempted to read, but the words blurred. The story felt trivial compared to the real-life adventure Dylan and I were having. Giving up, I found myself watching him while he slept instead, a soft groan escaping every now and then.
Was he dreaming of release? Did it turn him on to be confined like that?
The questions felt like tiny, annoying gnats buzzing around my head.
The whole situation was like a funhouse mirror distorting my perception of what was real and what was fantasy, though the ache in my ever-hard cock was very real to me.
Whenever he was around, I studied his movements, searching for answers. Did he wince when he sat down? Was there a subtle stiffness when he walked? I was like a dick detective. I could see The Hardy Boys title now: The Secret of Dylan and his Captivating Cock Cage .
Hypnotized by it, I caught myself staring at his crotch more than once, then quickly averted my eyes, hoping he hadn't noticed. A nervous energy constantly rippled under my skin, and as if it were a fidget spinner, I played with the key on my chest as if that could release it somehow.
Every night I’d scroll on my phone, catching up with clients, while I let Dylan use the bathroom first to get ready for bed. At first he was modest, coming out of the bathroom wearing shorts and a t-shirt, but tonight he was wearing only briefs. I tried not to stare.
He slipped under the covers with a low groan that made my cock take notice, and said, “Your turn.”
“Thanks.”
While the water warmed up, I started teasing myself with gentle strokes. Watching myself in the mirror harden, I imagined Dylan looking at my body, getting on his knees…
Fuck.