Chapter 14A tiny torturous birdhouse for dicks.
FOURTEEN
A tiny torturous birdhouse for dicks.
Trace
The world comes into focus a moment later and I’m not in the tattooing chair.
Ivy’s not gripping my cock.
Hell, I don’t even think she’s here.
But I am at work.
Wait, no, this isn’t work.
Fuck. I was dreaming, and dreaming deep.
Groggily blinking, I try my hardest not to move as I mentally work out my surroundings.
I’m… on the floor, wherever I am. That much is obvious in the way my hips ache and my lower back throbs. Sleeping on the fucking floor is not a thirty-eight-year-old man’s game.
My head swims, but I force myself to focus as I slowly roll onto my back and blink up at the ceiling. At some point, I believe women were here. Or… I was with women.
Cheap perfume clogs my nostrils as I reach up to push my hair from my face. Turning my head, I take in the shiny floor, mostly covered in blankets.
I’m home.
In my new home, next door to Deuce.
But I can’t remember getting here, and I sure as shit don’t remember what happened before I got here, either. Solving my evening feels tiresome, so I close my eyes, trying desperately to get back to the dream. The dream where Ivy held my cock in her hands, where she was just about to control me.
But I can’t find it. The dream is gone. With my eyes pulled shut, darkness engulfing me, in the distance, I hear the faint dripping of a sink not fully shut off.
The dream is gone forever, and I’m on the floor, sore and aching, hungover and… oh yeah, mad.
I got mad last night. If mad were a synonym for jealous rage, then yeah, I got mad last night. I groan as I bring my hands down my face, scrubbing away the lethargy. I need to get up and get a fucking shower and a cup of coffee.
Of everything I can’t remember, what I can remember is being a prick to Ivy.
Sickness rushes through me, and I move to my elbows and knees like a sick animal scrambling to my feet. I make it to the sink in time to empty the limited contents in my stomach, blinking madly from shock.
I didn’t drink that much. I mean, for me.
That sounds bad.
When I think of what I did, how I behaved last night… I’m so ashamed that a second wave of nausea hits. But I grab a bottle from the pack and twist the top off, drinking it faster than I can get sick. With the crumpled bottle rolling in the sink, I grip the edge of the counter and summon a deep, steadying breath, trying desperately to calm the sickness sweeping over me.
Ivy went out to dinner with the guy who needed extra numbing cream.
I could’ve watched her like a total creep through the fucking shop window. Seriously. Goode’s is right across the street. And yeah, that would’ve been weird but it would’ve been a lot better than what I did.
A memory of a dark-haired girl flashes through my mind. “Your friend can’t come,” her voice knocks into me like a boulder, and I lean over the sink to prevent the dizziness from taking me out.
I called Tre, I remember that now. And he called me back right after Ivy took off. Couldn’t find his keys? Was that what he said? I don’t know. But it was too late. I’d already slammed the fifth and invited the girls to party.
“Jesus Christ,” I bellow, shaking my head over the sink as a third round of sickness hits.
After cleaning out the sink, the most painful of all memories come thundering back.
Ivy’s face. The sadness buried in her eyes as she watched me command another woman to her knees as if it all meant nothing. Right in front of her.
I’ve never told Ivy that I have an insanely fucked-up crush on her. I barely admitted it to myself until recently. How could she possibly know that everything I did last night was because of how jealous she made me? She’ll think it’s just the asshole being the asshole, yet again.
I picked the girl with dark hair so I could at least pretend it was Ivy. I grip the top of my jeans, trying hard to remember if anything actually happened.
Squeezing my eyes shut, echoes of laughter tumble through my brain, and the taste of Jack burns the back of my nose. No—nothing happened.
After Ivy left, I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t do anything but think of her.
She gives as good as she gets, and I like that. She’s challenging and smart, and drop-dead gorgeous. She wears what she wants, she says what she thinks and she follows her goddamn dreams.
Not to mention she’s got roots. People who love her here in Bluebell. A small, quiet life but one still bursting at the seams with dreams and goals, passions and dedications.
She’s what I want and she’s got what I need.
Despite the booze and regret, my lower half awakens, throbbing at the thought of Ivy in that bodysuit and tiny skirt, all her ink exposed through the tears in those sexy tights.
Fuck. I may be more hungover than I thought.
I feel hard. Or.. I’m aroused but…
Panic slaps me across the face like I’m on Maury .
Did I finally break my dick? Did I drink so much that even in the light of day, hours of sleep and a bottle of water under my belt, and I still can’t get it up?
My hands fly to my belt, which I struggle to unbuckle. It’s like I’m trapped in a nightmare where I’m trying to dial emergency services, but my fingers won’t find the right keys, or the keys won’t press. That’s this, only more urgent because this isn’t a dream, I’m awake and it’s my cock on the line.
The more panicked I become, the slower my belt slides from the loops, all the while, my aching cock is just that… aching .
“Jesus, finally,” I crow, whipping my forearm with the edge of the belt as I jerk it free. “Fucking button fly piece of cocksucking…” I grumble and curse as my big fat thumbs struggle to pop open the buttons on my fly. Finally, after my forehead is covered in a thin sheen of boozy sweat, I shuck my jeans down, leaving them banded below my ass as I shove down my boxers.
“Fuck!” I scream, literally scream. Blinking, eyes wide, I stand there, staring down at where my cock normally is. And it’s there but… “Ah!” I scream again, only this time, no words, only pure terror. “Ahh!!” I howl again, making myself jump.
And when I jump, my cock does, too, but within the confines of a tiny metal dick cage. Reaching down, I cautiously cup my balls which are shoved through the contraption by a ring that loops my entire package. I stare at my cock all compressed, the bulge and veins reduced to a handful, all shoved into a metal cage.
It’s like a tiny torturous birdhouse for dicks.
I hate it.
“What… what the fuck?” I can’t stop staring at my locked-up dick. Seriously. The last time I stared at my dick this hard was after the first time I ejaculated. I remember staring at my cock, thinking, what the fuck? I’d trade that what the fuck for this one any day of the damn week.
With my locked dick just hanging out because, again, what the fuck? I pick up my phone from the floor and dial Deuce, my heart absolutely racing.
“Welcome back to Bluebell,” Deuce answers, making light of my drunken stupor last night.
“Are you mad?” I first ask, because even with my dick in a birdcage, I fucked up last night. But I’m at my house. The last thing I remember last night was being at Ink Time.
There are no half-dressed cowgirl singers around this place. Deuce has to be the one that brought me home. He has to.
“Mad? No. Disappointed, yes, but mostly for you,” he says, thanking Ev quietly in the background.
“Wh—” I start my sentence but no words adequately fit the what on God’s green earth is happening right now mindset that I’m in. “What… happened last night?” I ask, still staring at my locked-up guy. Maybe whatever Deuce has to say will make my dick prison make sense.
Deuce sighs. “Thanks, baby,” he says, likely to Ev, but I don’t care to clarify. All I want to know is why I need a treasure map to take a fucking piss this morning. “Well, you got butthurt that Ivy went out to eat with Jeremy. Then you got shit-faced too fast and passed out, and the women you invited over to party tried to rob the shop. They were sticking needles in the side of the till when Ivy came back and pulled a knife on them.”
“What—”
“Then,” he continues, speaking more loudly to not let me get a word in edgewise. “She held them at knifepoint till Bluebell PD got there. Arrested them. By the time the security company called me to tell me we left the alarms off, the PD had it all taken care of. I showed up at Ink Time, watched the footage while Ivy got you dressed?—”
“Ivy dressed me?”
Wait—I know I didn’t fool around with any of those women. I remember when I helped her off the floor and told her I couldn’t. She called me a pussy. And that’s when the bottle entered the chat. Still, I don’t understand.
“Why was I naked?”
“I don’t know, big dog, you tell me.”
I hold my eyes closed, trying desperately to remember last night. I can hear her calling me a pussy, the others laughing as she did. I sat down on the chair, the one Jeremy had been in and Ivy had sat next to just a few hours before.
“Oh fuck,” I breathe, the unfortunate memory worming its way to the surface. “I, yeah, I, uh, I remember.”
“Do tell,” Deuce says, playfulness making his voice light. I guess I should be glad he isn’t gonna fire me for almost getting his shop robbed.
“I was having a… drunken.. Oh God,” I moan, grabbing my head as I sink into the couch, still with my jeans around my thighs. I look down at my caged cock and the mess of blankets and pillows on the floor in the new place. “Can you come over?”
There’s a pause. “I ain’t home,” Deuce finally answers, likely calling into question his own idea of me living next door. “I gotta tell you something.”
My stomach drops despite the fact I’m seated. “What?”
“I watched the security footage.” He pauses. “I saw you strip and I saw you looking for Ivy.”
“How do you know I was looking for her?” I ask, not denying he’s right. I don’t remember looking for her or saying her name, but she was the only thing on my mind last night. Add in some heartache and booze and what he’s saying is wholly believable. Sadly.
“Anyway,” he says, “she asked me after I watched the footage. Asked me if you and those women were intimate.”
Silence eats up the line.
“You coulda got me robbed last night,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I grovel truthfully, hating how in the span of one night I managed to upset the only two people I really care about. “I’m… it won’t happen again.”
More silence but I take the time to get to my feet and grab another bottle of water, pinching the phone between my ear and shoulder as I open it. Finally Deuce says, “Know what else I saw on that footage?”
“Oh my God,” I breathe, relief flooding me. If he saw which one of those women did this, then we know where we can find the key or… code or… I grab my package and lift it, hissing as the cage pinches my ball sack. There is a tiny internal gold lock, the perfect size for a little key. “I’m freaking the fuck out right now.”
His laugh is booming, and I deserve for him to take joy in this. I do. But right now, I don’t give a fuck what Deuce deserves because my cock is IN A FUCKING CAGE.
“Well, get showered and come to work and freak out because it’s a work day and the great Trace Calhoun owes me eight hours.” He sniffs, letting the last of his laughter play out. “And maybe if you’re lucky, Ivy will give you the key.”
Ivy.
Ivy has the key.
That means… “Ivy locked up my dick?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, still unable to shake the laughter. I’m gonna sock him so hard when I see him. “She wore gloves.” More laughter. “And she kept the key.”
I let Deuce enjoy this because the only thing on my mind? Getting to my little Firecracker.