“I didn’t know they had open-ended cock cages,” I say, marveling at the metal tube. “Or that they could be solid like that.”
“I, uh…I needed something that would let me touch myself. It takes a lot to get an orgasm out of a caged cock, so…”
“I’m guessing your browser history is—”
“Deleted often.” He smiles, running his fingers through my hair. "I think that if you put your mouth on me, I might be able to forget my knee for a while."
I return his smile, and when he sits down on his bed, I go to my knees in front of him. We kiss and then he pulls back. “Fuck, I need to calm down, or I won’t be able to get this thing on.”
I sit back on my heels, bouncing slightly. He takes a few deep breaths, getting soft enough to tug his sack and cock through the ring.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask, grimacing.
He laughs. “No, the skin is technically healed. It just looks like I’m torturing myself.”
Next, he slides the solid stainless-steel cage over his soft cock, leaving his head peeking out, a small pearl of precum dripping from the tip. The silver cage looks amazing against his skin.
“That’s…surprisingly erotic.”
“Yeah?” he asks, locking the device in place.
I look up, making sure we have eye contact. “Yeah.”
Pushing him gently back onto his pillows, I breathe out as I climb between his legs. “Fuck, your body.”
My fingers trace the breadth of his shoulders down to the sharp, tight V of his waist. Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever realized that one of his legs is so much thinner than the other. Spent too much time ogling his ass, perhaps.
Chuckling, he flexes his arms, popping the veins. His eyes dart to mine, searching.
I wink and let my gaze meander down his body again. “Unfair. Fuck, D. This is some live-action vein porn.”
His answering smile is prideful, and I love to see it.
Biting my lip, I grin broadly as I reach down and cup the one ball he’s got left. “Did you know that when Lance Armstrong opened up his bike shop in Austin he had a café there?”
His eyebrows are comically acrobatic and damn near meet in the middle. “Why are we talking about Lance Armstrong’s café?”
“Because it was called Juan Pelota,” I say, laughing. “Because of his cancer.”
“I don’t get it.”
Pulling on his nut, I tease him further. “I thought you know Spanish?”
“Kinda. Remind me—what doespelotamean again?”
“Ball,” I say with a smirk.
He mutters the name under his breath. “Juan Ball.”
He groans as the pun reaches its intended target. I continue to caress hisone ballwhile delicately circling the head of his cock, learning his ridges and dips.
“Whatever,” he grumbles, but his eyes shine as I lean in.
I lick my lips, looking up at him through my lashes, desperate to taste him. “Any requests? Favorite dick-sucking techniques? Toys I can add to the proceedings?”
“For fuck’s sake,” he says, holding back a grin, “just be careful with your teeth.”
Still smiling, I take his flared head into my mouth, the steel ring of his cage pressed against my lips. My tongue searches and explores the section of ridge lost to the explosion. DeShaun starts getting loud.
