Page 30 of The Key Holder

“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.