Chapter Text
John Meyer’s hand shook a little as he added his signature to the line underneath the block of bullet points. It was a dizzying amount of information, and he had spent the last days on the floor of the town hall, listening to every argument from both sides of the issue shout back and forth. He had spent most time trying to keep his head down and not attract as much attention as he took his minutes and tried not to think about how during the recess he would be dragged aside by someone with a GOP pin and a thick envelope would be pressed into his hand.
And then John would return to his seat. A vote would be called and John would vote with his party, like he was supposed to.
His mind couldn’t help but picture Marty’s disappointing face, just a tight-lipped look but with heavy emotions creased into the edges. The corners of his eyes would dip down a little and then he would click his tongue. Then he would sigh and clap his hands on his thighs and move directly onto finding a solution.
The pen scratched against the paper, the ending curl of his signature almost sliding off the designated line, and he had just added his efforts against any solution Marty might be working towards.
That was how the construction worker was--no time to wallow in whatever problem or mess that had been created, just dust off his hands and start working on how to fix things.
Spilled milk was spilled and you couldn’t get it back in the glass, the best you could do was mop it up and find a better way of drinking.
John’s hand trembled as he set the pen down and sat back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut as the vote was called and his party was in the majority.
He wanted to slink out of the room, every dismayed groan from other voters and shaking of the cameras as the media captured the results and broadcasted it out for the rest of the world to see.
John knew he was a single face in the massive crowd, but he couldn’t help but tremble when the blinking red eyes of every camera swept over his section of seating. He felt like the lights were all focused on him, his name highlighted out of the dozens on the paper, the center of attention that made his skin crawl.
The dismissal of the hearing seemed to drag on, and John couldn’t get out of the room fast enough when the session was finally called. He pulled on his jacket, thin but necessary against the somehow appropriate drizzle of slow rain that had been hovering over the city for the past week.
He kept his head down as he hurried along, unable to pull his hand away from the envelope stuffed in his left pocket.
It kept the corruption hot in his mind, the ball of guilt twisting in his stomach, and it felt like every eye on the street was boring into him. While he would have preferred to duck into the privacy of his own car and disappear from the public sidewalks, he forced himself to turn at the subway turnstile, hurrying down the cement stairs and into the dark shadows of the underground.
He hunched his shoulders against the cackle of twenty-something college students, though the group of boys only pushed past him, focused on their own antics.
John pulled his wallet out of his pocket, fumbling with his subway pass to swipe himself in.
A sudden push from the crowds behind him slammed into his back and the card flipped out of hand.
John dropped to his knees with a mumbled apology to no one in particular, snatching up his card before it would be trampled and ruined under the near constant crowd of wet boots. He was still on his hands and knees as he looked up, watching the rowdy group of boys hop the turnstile and disappear into the crowds.
John should have said something, called them out or directed the attention of the police officer who was too busy tucking into a coffee and a donut on the opposite side of the metal turnstiles.
He didn’t, but he should have.
John sighed, dropping his head and pushed himself back to his feet, muttering apologies to the people who didn’t care enough to give him room or help him up. He swiped through, listening to the metal unlock and let him through.
Riding the train was something John had never done before he met Marty, and the crowded, smelly, shaking metal boxes were hardly an appealing means of getting from one place in the city to another. John wished he could propose some sort of increase in funds to public transportation maintenance, or at least start the conversation around making the trains at least half suitable for riding.
But the money in his pocket kept him quiet.
He would always keep quiet.
He ended up crushed between two other men in suits, their arms raised with two fingers hooked in the loops that dangled from the ceiling. They were too busy scrolling through their phones to pay attention to John as he wiggled his way in between them, but John didn’t mind.
The trains made him nervous, packed in tight with a group of strangers he didn’t know. Every jostle sent him knocking into someone else and he was sure that someone would feel the hard press of metal around his waist, above where a belt would be, and his cover would be blown.
John didn’t like the trains for many reasons, but the claustrophobia of the loud, rattling box of metal just made him even more aware of the constricting metal around his own waist.
The sleek chrome tube encircling his cock had a single hole at the very tip, to let him piss without too much trouble. He had to sit down, of course, but that was the least of John’s worries.
The tube had a metal ring around the base of his balls, pulling them away from his body into a tight little package. The way the tube curved downwards made his balls bulge out on either side of it, taunting him with the way he could look down and see them brimming with cum that had been backed up for over a month now.
The metal looped back between his legs, another ring of metal settling over his ass so he could still use the bathroom there as well. The whole device was locked in place with a thick band of metal around his waist, just under his bellybutton, a couple inches wide and obvious even if John layered clothes on top of it.
He wore a suit most days, but if he needed to take the jacket off, the awkward bulge of it through his button-up would immediately draw questions. He was left to swelter in his office, keeping the air conditioning turned up high so that he didn’t sweat through all the layers.
It made John paranoid, almost, terrified that he would be caught at any moment.
Just like the money in his pocket made him feel.
The chastity belt kept his cock bent permanently downwards, tucked discreetly between his thighs so that the front of him was almost smooth. He didn’t even have a bulge to show off, not that John was taking pictures to send to anyone.
It also meant that anytime he leaked precum through the small hole at the tip, it soaked directly into the fabric between his thighs.
Most days, he could make it through the day without any obvious stains by frequent trips to the bathroom and a joking gesture at his water bottle. On the train though, he didn’t have that luxury.
As the weeks dragged on and he went longer and longer without release, the problem got even worse.
Now, John just accepted the humiliation that the sticky fabric of his pant legs would be clinging to his thighs by the time the train arrived at his stop. He soaked himself through nearly every time, which made the crush of people around him even worse.
It didn’t help that John knew the train was taking him to Marty.
Marty .
The one good thing around the train.
When the train finally pulled to a stop and the intercom announced his stop, John was more than eager to push his way through the doors like every other rider, tugging down the hem of his coat in an effort to hide the growing mess between his legs and hoping no one asked any questions.
Marty’s place was only a couple blocks from the subway station and thankfully the incessant drizzle of rain had mostly stopped at that point, though the looming grey overcast remained. Still, John was waddling by the time he scrambled up the steps to his front door, unable to stop the awkward dance as he tried to subtly shift and tug the clinging fabric away from his skin.
It was starting to itch at that point too, and the promise of being able to strip naked as soon as he stepped through the front door into Marty’s home just made John more anxious as he raised his hand and knocked politely on the forest green door.
He chewed his bottom lip, rocking back on his heels and he waited anxiously for Marty to answer.
The heavy clunk of the lock disengaging had him straightening up, habit making him tug the labels of his coat even as he made himself presentable. As presentable as he could with his legs cocked half-open to try and minimize the amount of soaked fabric that clung to his skin.
The door opened and John’s breath caught in his throat.
He didn’t know Marty’s schedule and hadn’t been able to puzzle through it by keeping track of when he was allowed over and when he wasn’t. Marty seemed to call him on whim rather than let him come over with any sort of regularity.
And today, he seemed to have caught Marty at the very end of a shift.
Marty’s face was still covered with soot and grime except for an area around his eyes that made it obvious he had been wearing goggles for most of his shift. His mop of messy black hair was plastered back with sweat and grease, probably from spending hours under a hard hat, and he still wore the neon yellow vest from his construction site.
He had almost a foot on John, which meant that John had to crane his head up a bit, licking his lips as he finally made eye contact with the man.
“H-hi,” he said, his voice squeaking up with his nervousness. He shouldn’t be nervous, but he was.
He always felt smaller than he actually was standing in front of Marty.
He couldn’t help it. The man hauled steel beams at his job and it showed . His long-sleeved shirt was rolled up to his elbows, his forearms tanned an even darker brown, almost leathery from the sun, the patches of hair tangled with sawdust and chips of metal.
His gut pushed at the front of his shirt, hanging down over the waistband of his pants but not in a way that made him look out of shape. He looked like a strongman from a circus, at least, in John’s mind he did.
He looked like some sort of god to John, and he couldn’t help but feel small in that presence.
The moment of admiration was broken as Marty smiled, laughing in a half-embarrassed way as if John wasn’t the one having to shift his hips in an effort to get the clinging fabric away from the bulge of his balls.
“I thought I would have a little more time to wash up,” Marty said.
And John’s breath hitched, terrified that he would be turned away because of his horrible timing.
“But come in,” Marty said, bracing one hand on the door and stepping to the opposite side of the frame, leaving a little archway for John to duck through.
“Thank you,” John said, unable to get his voice louder than a squeak as he squeezed past Marty’s bulk.
He had to step through the cloud of woody, smokey scent from his workplace, and John took the small, private moment to breathe deep through his nose, taking in as much as he could before he was past and fully inside the house.
“You can wait in the living room, if you want,” Marty said, pulling the door shut behind them. “I’ll just be a moment.
John was shaking all over again, trembling and itching with anticipation as he toed off his shoes at the door and then padded as quietly as he could down the familiar halls. But this time it was different from his nerves when he was in the voting hall, a good type of shaking.
Marty kept his place neat but well furnished, the odd collection clearly taken off street corners or gifted second hand from friends. There were two loveseats crammed into the space with a coffee table between them, as well as an overstuffed recliner that had had a corner shredded by a cat at some point.
It took John a couple tries fumbling with the zipper on his coat to get it to unhook from the hem and then he quickly shrugged it off, debating for a moment before hanging it over the back of a loveseat. His suit jacket quickly followed, this time neatly folded and starting a pile.
It was a relief to peel all the layers away after spending hours sweltering at the office.
His button up followed, folding just as carefully, and John had to bite back a moan of relief as he finally was able to pull away the soaked fabric of his pants.
His skin was sticky and clammy, his balls throbbing now that he was finally with Marty. Even as he watched, a clear drop of precum collected at the tip of his cage, and he had to hold his hand between his legs to catch it, not wanting to drip on the hardwood floors of Marty’s place.
He stood, in just his socks, hand cupped between his legs as he struggled to think of what to do next.
The shower was running elsewhere in the apartment, meaning that John had a couple more minutes before Marty returned, and sitting on the furniture was out of the question.
Finally, since the awkwardness of standing in the room and shifting from foot to foot was starting to make him feel more and more nervous, John snagged a dish towel from the small half-kitchen, flapping it open and spreading it across a section of the floor big enough for him to kneel down.
It felt . . . good, waiting for Marty like that--knees spread on either side of the towel as he slowly dripped away, his own little hourglass to measure the second and minutes. When he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands, John folded them in the small of his back and ducked his head.
Without his jacket and the bundle of hot money practically burning against his skin, John could almost relax.
Still, he jumped when he heard the water shut off, a signal that Marty was almost about to return, and John adjusted his posture, making sure he was presentable.
When Marty stepped back into the living room, he only wore a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, rubbing a towel through his hair as he dried himself off, but he smiled wide when he saw John. Without a shirt, John could see the scars that stretched across the broad expanse of Marty’s chest, the only evidence left from a surgery he had had years ago, long before John had even met him.
“Aw, thanks for waiting for me,” he said, stepping around the couches and in front of John.
John wasn’t going to raise his head, but Marty’s hand caught his chin and pulled his face up. He fought not to press his cheek into the warm hand, biting his lip to unsuccessfully hold back a whimper as Marty appraised him.
His hand was almost hot from the shower, and he hadn’t managed to catch all the water droplets on his chest and shoulders, and John’s mouth watered before he was aware that he was staring.
“Hm? Yanaiti ?” Marty asked, a mischievous smile curling one side of his mouth as he cocked his head, considering John and his new position.
John almost melted into a puddle on the floor, feeling his cock throb inside its stiff metal tube. If the cage wasn’t so firmly locked around his waist, John was sure it would have jerked. As it was, John could only drip onto the towel, whimpering as Marty stood over him.
The first time Marty had used the nickname, John had been confused until the Sri Lankan man had explained what it meant.
“It means elephant, in my native language,” he had said.
At the time, it had only been a week since he had been locked in the chastity belt and he still fumbled through his interactions with Marty. The nickname had first been said when John had been kneeling at Marty’s feet after a long day at the office.
Marty had had the TV on, but John had been content with just sitting at the man’s feet, eyes closed, sort of meditating after the stress of such a long day. He hadn’t been so zoned out that he didn’t hear the late night news coverage of a certain caucus that had been held earlier that day.
“The new zoning laws will be coming into effect later this month,” the news anchor had been saying, “according to local government officials. In a public press statement during the recess of their last jury, they said that city zoning had been far too lax in the past and that the new, stricter ruling would provide a better basis for construction throughout the city. More to come, after these short messages.”
Marty’s boot had slid forward just enough, the metal-covered toe rising just enough to tap against the recently installed tube of John’s chastity belt.
“That was you, wasn’t it?” he said, the first time John had heard him talk without a hint of humor.
John just whimpered, ducking his head in shame as he remembered voting and the fat wad of envelope that had been slipped into his hand, disguised as a handshake.
“Y-yes,” he had said, unable to meet Marty’s eye.
The man had just tsked, clicking his tongue and taking a sip of the beer he had cracked open for the night and sitting back in his chair.
“I should have known,” he had said. “ Yanai .” Before John had been able to question the foreign word, Marty was already correcting himself, an affectionate smile on his face as he leaned back down to address John. “Or maybe yanaita ,” he had said, settling one massive hand on John’s head to ruffle his hair, messing up the perfect styling he maintained for the office. “My little elephant.”
At the time, John had been confused, but now, the nickname never failed to make his cage leak a little faster, a blush heat his face, and his knees go a little weaker.
“Please,” he whimpered, his chin still caught in Marty’s hand making him unable to look away from Marty’s face.
“What did you do this time, yanaita ?” Marty asked, idle amusement twinkling behind his dark eyes. “I haven’t eaten yet, do you want to tell me over my dinner?”
And that alone was enough to make John mewl, hips twitching with desperation as he tried to rub his cock on something and failed.
‘My dinner.’
John wasn’t even hungry, not that he would dare make the assumption that he was even worthy to sit and eat at the same table as Marty. Still, it made his cock drip to hear the man say it--while he sat and ate, John would be waiting nearby, attending to Marty’s other needs.
“Grab my boots,” Marty said, finally letting John’s chin go as he turned back to the kitchen. “And come back to the living room.”
John was nervous about leaving the safety of his towel, scared of making more of a mess around Marty’s house than he needed.
Still, Marty had given him an order, and John clung to that.
He crawled off his towel, bringing his legs together instinctively to prevent his cage from dripping onto the floor as he hurried back down the hall towards the front door.
Marty’s boots had been kicked off where John had taken off his, though the difference between the heavy, scuffed work boots and his own, gleaming dress shoes made John’s stomach flip.
And that’s how it always was, between John and Marty. Marty never made a point of treating John differently, acting cordial and inviting, always ready to a kind word or a suggestion for his work, though John wouldn’t dare try to talk with Marty in public, dressed as he usually was as a red-tie politician. He couldn’t face the man then.
It only felt right when he was on his hands and knees.
And even then, John couldn’t remember a time where he had ever seen hate or malice behind Marty’s eyes. He almost wished he did, because that would make his job easier, but Marty always had an easy smile, a laugh, a little teasing rib whenever John showed up at his doorstep with his thighs clamped together.
In John’s eyes, they were so different, his career as a politician and Marty’s work in construction, Marty’s honest paycheck and his modest living and the suspicious fat envelopes John took back to his Brownstone at the end of the day, and Marty’s heavy, dusty, steel-toed work boots and John’s gleaming dress shoes.
John pulled them into his lap, always heavier than he expected, and started the long crawl back to the living room.
Marty was already waiting for him, just finishing up pulling a plate of bright yellow curry served over rice out of the microwave. The smell did nothing to settle the twisting knot in John’s stomach, spices and lentils perfectly cooked together making his eyes water at the potency.
Marty was just settling into one of the loveseats but smiled when he spotted John hovering near the door to the living room. He clicked his tongue, glancing briefly at the towel that John had left, and John didn’t need a better invitation than that.
He set the boots down with a thud in front of the towel, breathing a sigh of relief as he was finally able to pull his thighs apart without the risk of dripping onto the floor. He glanced shyly up at Marty, wondering if he would be told he did a good job, but Marty was busy stirring the contents of his bowl together before taking a large bite, closing his eyes as he savored the good meal after a hard day’s work.
“So,” he said, having to talk out of the corner of his mouth as he chewed. “How did the little goppy spend his day, hm?”
The other pet name Marty had for John was no less humiliating, and John moaned, ducking his head in shame.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he blurted. “There’s a lot of turning gears and it’s always complicated--laws and such, I mean--and I never mean to do things like this and--”
He blushed a hot red as Marty used a single foot to nudge his boots a little closer to John’s spread thighs, but other than that, he didn’t lift his face from his bowl. John didn’t need any other instructions.
Still blushing bright red, he wiggled forward, whimpering as he once again left the safety of the towel. He didn’t stop until he could rub the hard metal tube containing his cock against the toe of one of Marty’s boots. If he pressed harder, he could feel the rough leather scratch against his over-full balls in a way that was almost satisfying.
“Go on, yanaita ,” Marty said, once again mumbling around a bite of food.
“F-Fuck,” John moaned, unable to stop himself as his hips worked furiously.
He clutched the boots tighter, pulling them closer, as he dragged his caged cock and sensitive balls over the dusty leather of Marty’s work boots.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he said, out of breath with how the pleasure made his body tingle, hot and tight. “I had to sign. I didn’t mean to. If I didn’t . . . the party . . .”
Every excuse trailed off in his mouth, feeling dry and useless, and John knew that nothing he could say would make his actions any better. He moaned, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his caged cock against the boot, the laces dragging over his balls. He was aware of his asshole now too, clenching and desperate, as if it didn’t like being ignored, even though John hadn’t worked up the courage to do anything back there.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he moaned, feeling himself squirt in his cage, and then he was apologizing for ruining Marty’s boots as well.
Tears were starting to well up in his eyes, just as burning and hot as his embarrassment, and John felt even worse when a few spilled over, sliding down his cheeks in fat droplets that splattered onto the floor between his knees. It all mixed with his precum anyway, but it made the mess even bigger.
Marty’s spoon clattered along the edge of his bowl as he caught the last pieces of rice, and as he hummed in consideration, John worked up the courage to peek his eyes open and look up at the man.
Part of John was aware of how pathetic he looked, humping Marty’s work boots while the man ate his dinner disinterestedly. But most of John didn’t care.
“Come here, yanaita ,” Marty said, patting his thigh.
John almost didn’t want to leave his spot on the boots. His thighs were clenched tight around the leather, his hands cupping them to his crotch. He could almost imagine he felt the residual heat coming from the soles after spending the whole day on Marty’s feet while he worked. That thought alone made John’s head spin, and his cock squirted a second time, though there was no relief.
“Goppy,” Marty said, his tone almost stern, and John knew he wouldn’t push his luck.
With a mewl of defeat, John opened his legs again, blushing at the wet sticky mess he had rubbed onto the toes of the boots. He crawled over them then, leaving them and the towel behind.
Marty had his hand down, fingers cupped in the perfect position for John to slide his chin into, slotting in a perfect way that felt right .
“Have you ever washed dishes before?” Marty asked.
John whimpered and didn’t know why the question made him blush.
“No?” he offered.
His father had also worked in politics and his mother had been the furthest thing from a stay-at-home parent, spending long shifts at a local hospital as a nurse while also finding time to help her husband’s campaign on the side. A lot of the more unsavory media outlets liked to call John a nepotism baby, but he swore he earned his position through hard work and hard work alone.
He wasn’t the only one who knew that was a lie.
He hadn’t grown up in a mansion, not really, but they had had staff to clean the Brownstone John would inherit and enough money left over to vacation more than a couple times a year.
There was never a reason for John to find himself cleaning up the kitchen at his own home, and he had skipped any jobs in the food industry to jump straight into politics.
Now, instead of commenting on the mess John had dripped all over his boots, Marty just gave him a soft smile and an affectionate pat on the cheek.
“Kitchen,” he said, dragging a thumb through the tear tracks that were already starting to dry on John’s cheeks, and John mewled.
He felt awkward clambering to his feet, letting out a squeak of surprise as Marty’s hand wrapped around the back strap of his belt and yanked him upward. There was a dull pull on his balls, crushing them even smaller than the belt normally did, but then he managed to get his feet underneath him, clinging to Marty for support as he struggled to orient himself again.
Like always, Marty just chuckled and patted his head.
Marty was the one who carried his dishes to the kitchen, added the bowl he had just been eating out of to the small pile in the sink. It was nothing out of control, only a couple meals’ worth and a few pots and pans that had been used for cooking, but still somehow a daunting mountain in John’s eyes.
“Here,” Marty said, handing a pair of yellow rubber cleaning gloves.
John felt out of place, standing next to the man on two feet and being given items that he had no idea what to do with. He tugged on the stiff rubber, the ends of the gloves nearly up to his elbows.
“Do I . . . do I need an apron?” he asked, picking at the tips of the rubber fingertips. He had faint memories of the maids at home tying the fabric around their waists to keep their clothes dry as they cleaned up.
Marty had been dumping soap over the small pile of dishes but at John’s question, he paused, looking over his shoulder with an amused look.
“Do you want an apron?” he asked.
John didn’t know what the right answer was, wringing his hands and staring down at his feet. He was dripping in his cage again and he pulled his legs together, pressing his thighs together and feeling the squish and slippery slide.
“Yes?” he finally offered.
Marty smiled, flicking drops of water from his hands.
“Sure, yanaita ,” he said.
John fidgeted, shifting nervously on his feet as Marty opened up a cabinet on the other side of the kitchen, sorting through the small stack of kitchen towels printed with flowers and fruits, until he pulled out a small ruffled bundle from the very bottom of the stack. He turned back to John, unfolding it and flapping it open.
John’s stomach flipped as he took in the lace and ruffles.
It wasn’t quite what he had in mind, and he almost thought to question why Marty had the apron in the first place.
“My friend was having a garage sale,” Marty said with a wink, as if he could read John’s mind. “And I realized it was the perfect size for my yanaita . I don’t think you’d fit mine, anyway.”
John blushed, squirming as he pictured Marty seeing the apron and thinking of him, picking it out and buying it knowing that it was the perfect size. His cock throbbed in his cage while his heart hammered nervously in his chest.
“Good?” Marty asked.
With his lip trapped between his teeth, John nodded silently, ducking his head to let Marty thread the top loop over his head. The lace tickled more than John thought it would, and he blushed as he realized his nipples were hardening, pushing against the fabric.
Marty’s hands on his hips weren't helping, spinning him around to tighten the ties around his waist, warm and sure as John braced his hands on the counter. The rubber gloves squeaked, and John couldn’t help but let out a moan as the apron ties were pulled tight, the bottom half of the lacey fabric wrapped perfectly around his hips.
Marty’s hands pulled away then, and John finally had the chance to look down at himself.
While lacey and hemmed with ruffles, the apron wasn’t overly feminine. The skirt was a checkered light red-- not pink, John told himself, just the dye faded with time--and the front was only lined with a tasteful stitching of red embroidery.
At least it was long enough to cover his belt, though John could see his soaked thighs easily enough.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Marty said, tucking a sponge into John’s hand and once again using the back of his belt to yank him over to the sink, positioning him in front of the mess.
John yelped, jumping in surprise as Marty slapped his ass sharply and pulled open the fridge, whistling as he grabbed a beer out of its cardboard case and cracked it open with a hiss.
He left John there in the kitchen, walking back to the living room to sit down and kick his feet up. The click of the TV turning on made John’s breath catch in his throat, but then the droning of the afternoon news filled the apartment and it was clear that Marty’s attention had been turned elsewhere, besides John.
Was this normal?
John wasn’t sure if it was supposed to feel normal.
The dull hum from the TV and Marty’s occasional chuckle at a particularly amusing commercial brought the racing, anxious thoughts in John’s head down to a more manageable speed, and after a moment of just standing there, staring down at the dishes, he finally reached down and picked one up.
The sponge was hard and dried out, and John dragged it awkwardly across the surface of the plate a couple times before he realized he needed to add water. He knew enough to use hot at least, pulling the faucet to the left and waiting until he could see steam.
He quickly worked up a froth of bubbles, scrubbing away the dried smears of curry and sauces and grains of rice that had been missed by Marty’s fork or spoon. John figured out how to rinse the suds off the clean plates and bowls, setting them aside to dry in the plastic rack. His heart rate settled down, not slamming so hard inside his chest, and the faint heat from the water seeped through the rubber gloves just enough to warm his hands.
He had finally managed to quiet the constant clamor of noise in his head to a quiet din, almost meditative, and he realized that his stomach wasn’t fluttering with the constant cloud of butterflies it usually had.
He felt . . . calm.
His bottom lip trembled, and a new knot tightened in his throat. John sniffled, trying to blink back the burn of tears starting to fill his eyes, and the slowly shrinking pile of dishes blurred in front of him.
He paused, trying to suck back his emotions as he dragged his arm across his nose, struggling to wipe away the snot starting to drip down his upper lip. It was a little awkward in the gloves, suds and water still dripping off the sponge. His breath caught in his throat and he hiccuped, stifling a whimper as he moved to pick up the next dish.
The sink was an indistinguishable blur in front of him, and he fumbled, finding the edge of a bowl and picking it up. He scrubbed at it blindly, tears spilling down his cheeks as he struggled to keep his noises down, not wanting to bother Marty.
His shoulders shook, and he hunched over the sink, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to will the tears away. At first, he wasn’t sure where it all was coming from--he had been feeling nice, calm, good washing dishes.
And then he felt it.
The pit in his stomach and the pang in his heart. He could distract himself from the guilt but he couldn’t get rid of it. And that’s all he was doing, distracting himself.
He jolted as warm, heavy hands enveloped his waist, wrapping easily around his stomach and sliding under the apron, pulling him back until he was pressed firmly against Marty’s chest, and he could feel the tickle of his breath in his hair. He froze, unsure of what was happening, listening to the low rumble in Marty’s chest as the man hummed.
“You should keep your grip firm,” Marty said, pulling his hands out of John’s apron and catching his wrists instead.
He puppetted John, pulling the sponge back to the plate and directing his hand in small, firm circles.
John hiccupped, sniffing hard as he tried to pull back the tears and finish the washing like he was supposed to. Marty was so warm and firm against his back, his chin resting on the top of John’s head and his hips slotted so perfectly against his ass.
He could feel himself dripping in his cage, and then he was worried about ruining Marty’s sweatpants with his filth.
With Marty’s help, John finished the bowl he had been working on, rinsing it off and setting it aside. As soon as Marty’s hands left his wrists, John threw the sponge aside, ripping off the gloves and spinning around.
It was a tight fit, and he was still pinned up against the counter, bracing his hands on either side of him as he craned his neck up and up. His balls pulsed, and John blinked back his tears.
“What’s wrong?” Marty asked, cupping John’s hips and pulling him forward, slotting the front of his cage against his hip.
“I . . . I can’t do this,” John said, bringing a balled fist to his eye to scrub at the tears, as if he could get rid of them that way. There was an ache in his chest, almost painful, and he couldn’t bear to look up into the soft brown eyes that were no doubt looking down at him curiously.
“Do what?” Marty asked. “Wash the dishes?”
John buried his face in his hands, tempted to shove away Marty’s hands.
They were so close, and John could feel his willpower crumbling. The front of his cage was pressed tight to Marty’s thigh, just the fabric of the apron between them, and John just wanted to wrap his arms around Marty’s stomach as far as he could manage and grind his worries away, humping until the horny desperation that was throbbing like a second heartbeat in his balls took over all his panicked thoughts and he was mindless and drooling.
He bit down hard on the meat of his hand to stifle his moan, his ass tightening as he twitched forward, failing to resist the temptation of Marty’s touch.
He groaned as Marty grabbed his wrist again, pulling his hand away from his face and thumbing over the teeth indentations already pressed into the skin. Marty’s other hand cupped his ass, keeping his hips close and not letting him pull away.
Or hide.
“The truth, yanaita ,” Marty said sternly.
And John sobbed, turning his face away as he felt himself squirt in his cage. Marty had to feel it, the sopping wetness dripping down his thighs, no doubt ruining the apron, and Marty’s pants . John moaned, the sound trailing off into a choked up sob as Marty pressed his cage more firmly against the hard bump of his hip.
“I . . . I can’t do this ,” John managed to choke out, wrenching his wrist from Marty’s hold and pushing away from the man.
He staggered, thighs instinctively coming together as he fisted a hand in the skirt of the apron. The fabric was drenched. John stumbled, having to catch himself on a wall, and he pressed his forehead into the plaster, struggling to catch his breath.
An orgasm was burning between his thighs, building up hotter and hotter, and John was terrified of cumming, squirting in his cage.
Making more of a mess.
He pushed himself forward, moving into the living room, and the toe of one foot caught on the lip between the two rooms. His knees hit the hardwood first, the jolt rattling John to the core, but he managed to get his hands up to catch himself.
He was sure he would bruise from it later, but he didn’t care.
He crawled over to the couch, where he had left his pile of neatly folded clothes, and tore into it, throwing it aside as he scrambled for his jacket. His hand closed around the envelope, somehow thicker and heavier than he remembered, and he wrenched it free.
John didn’t even bother getting back to his feet, dragging himself back to Marty’s feet and slumping back. He couldn’t bear to lift his head, instead lifting the white rectangular envelope, offering it up to Marty with open palms.
“This,” he said, and he could hear his own anxiety in his voice, strained and tight, wavering and unsteady. “Please,” he moaned. “Take it. I can’t . . . I can’t do this anymore, I feel horrible .”
He waited, expecting Marty’s soft hand to gently scoop the money out of his hands, take away all his worries and pat his head. He expected Marty to laugh and tell him John was stressing over nothing, that this was all just a small blip that would go away after a good night’s rest.
But Marty didn’t.
“I can’t take that,” he said, and John blinked, the unexpected reaction pulling his attention away from the growing pressure in his chest.
He looked up then, up and up over the curve of Marty’s stomach to his concerned face, eyebrows pulled together in a pinch and his mouth pressed into a worried line. And at first, John didn’t understand.
“Of course you can,” he said, pushing the money higher, his arms starting to quiver. He wanted to shake it at Marty, throw it in the man’s face. “I’m . . . I’m giving it to you.”
Marty just clicked his tongue.
“I’m not going to take it,” he clarified, and John felt the air leave his lungs in a gust.
He slumped, like a puppet with cut strings, hands dropping to his lap, and he stared down at the wad of money in his hands. Heavy, like a rock in his lap, pinning him in place.
“Then . . . then I’ll spend it on you,” he said, straightening hopefully as the ideas came together in his brain. “Your . . . your groceries. New furniture. Clothes. Bills. Rent . I . . . I can pay for it all, if you won’t take the money.”
Marty sighed, and it was the first time John had seen the man actually frown.
“No, you’re not,” he said. He stepped around John’s kneeling form, walking calmly to the living room and stooping down as he began collecting the scattered clothes.
“What do you mean?” John asked stupidly, unmoving from where he knelt on the kitchen floor.
“You can’t buy your way out of guilt,” Marty said. “Not like politics can be bought.”
On the TV, the commercials had switched to the evening news, the b-role images of a packed, bustling legislative floor of town hall were scrolling behind the two anchors that were discussing the recent changes to the budgeting plans for the city’s parks. Their tone was even and unbiased, but John could see the wrinkled concern in their foreheads and the frustrated pinch of their mouths as politicians made decisions they clearly didn’t agree with.
And just like John expected, he couldn’t pick himself out from the meaningless crowd of faces.
“Get dressed, yanaita ,” Marty said, offering the bundle of clothes to John. “And go home.”
Go home.
Go away from Marty.
Because John didn’t belong here.
The neighborhood wasn’t the slums , but the working class citizens all worked awkward hours, coming home early in the morning and leaving late at night, sweaty and exhausted from their jobs. Nothing like the quiet, well-kept streets of the neighborhood around John’s Brownstone.
He mewled, clenching the envelope tight and feeling the thick wad of bills bend ever so slightly, and his thighs squelched as he squirmed.
“Can I . . . I want to stay with you, for the night,” he said, blinking wet, watery eyes up at Marty.
That wasn’t unusual. Marty had let him stay the night before, putting towels down on the couch so John wouldn’t soak through and ruin the fabric. And John would curl up, content, under an old, slightly tattered quilt with uneven stitching and a frayed corner, and wake up to Marty leaving for his own job at the construction site long before the sun was even up.
But this time, Marty shook his head.
“Not tonight,” he said, and John wanted to melt into the floor. When Marty smiled, John could tell it was forced this time, the corners of his mouth twitching just a bit. “Buy yourself something nice tonight, hm? As a treat.”
John felt numb, like all the air had been sucked out of his chest.
But Marty was still waiting for him, and it was useless to try and argue with him.
John pushed himself to his feet, grimacing at the sticky, tacky pull of his thighs opening, and he braced his hand on the counter, supporting himself as he limped along. He whimpered as he finally stepped into Marty’s shadow, taking the bundle of clothing and hugging it to his chest.
“Here,” Marty offered, plucking at the apron ties. “Let me help you.”
John couldn’t even enjoy Marty’s touch as the man undressed him, pulling the first loop over his head and then turning him to untie the ones behind his back. He just let himself be moved, holding back another wave of tears and useless emotions. He did blush, squeezing his eyes shut in humiliation as Marty used the folded apron to wipe between his thighs, a cursory cleaning before he rubbed a soothing circle in the small of John’s back to dismiss him.
Putting his clothes back on felt wrong, like John was dressing for his own funeral.
He stuffed the envelope back into his pocket, pulling his jacket back on. He wished he could ignore the heavy lump it made, but it pressed against his stomach, as constant and firm as the belt around his hips.
He hovered in the living room, trying to think of another excuse to linger, but Marty was at the sink, his back to John as he finished up the dishes that were still left. That failure was another punch to John’s gut, and he dropped his gaze, looking to the floor in defeat.
His eyes settled on Marty’s boots, the metal toes still gleaming with precum where John had squirted during his pathetic humping, and the knot of guilt in his stomach only grew knowing he was leaving more little messes that Marty would have to clean up later.
His throat was starting to tighten up again, fresh tears pooling in his eyes, and John turned, flipping up the collar of his coat so he could hunch his face down and attempt to hide from the world.
He hated putting on his fancy dress shoes most of all, his feet slipping easier into the tailored fit, and then he didn’t have any other excuses stopping him from slipping out the front door.
The rain hadn’t let up from before, and John was almost happy for it, letting it soak his hair and pants and hide the damp mess he had left between his thighs. He hurried down the street, glad that the weather kept the streets mostly empty as everyone shuttered their windows and bundled up for a warm night in.
John stepped into the orange rectangle of light that spilled from a corner store’s front window and he paused, Marty’s parting words still echoing in his mind.
“Buy yourself something nice.”
Spend the money on himself.
A wooden display of half wilting bouquets of flowers were all propped together, looking miserable in the rain. They would most likely get thrown out once the rain stopped and the owner could come outside without the risk of getting drenched.
John snagged a bunch of stems of sagging roses, swapping it with the envelope of cash and hurrying away.
He made it just out of the second square of warm light when the hardened ball of guilt in his stomach won in his brain, and he spun around with a grimace. Quickly, checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he snatched the money back up, checked the price of the flowers, and made quick change.
His heart was hammering in his chest as he hurried away a second time, a voice in his head screaming at him and demanding what he was doing. He was supposed to be getting rid of the money, not keeping it, and yet here it was, tucked safely back into his pocket with a dripping, useless bouquet of half-dead roses the only thing he could show for it.
“Fuck!” John spat, wanting to slap himself across the face. He couldn’t even do charity right.
He had to ignore the extra pang of guilt in his gut as he hurried past the entrance to the subway, instead choosing to hail a taxi and duck quickly into the privacy of the backseat. He rattled off his address, barely giving the driver a second glance.
“Tough night, buddy?” the man asked, intent on making conversation as he pulled back into traffic.
John wanted to snap at him that he wanted a quiet ride, but as he raised his glare to the rear view mirror, he saw only kind concern in the man’s eyes. He slumped back into the seat, the fight flooding out of him.
“You have no idea,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Some idea,” the driver said with a chuckle. “You pick up a guy in a soaked suit with roses, you can make a good guess on how his day is going.”
And the small gesture of kindness just made John’s cock throb, and he moaned, bringing his thighs together. They were pulling up in front of his house all too quickly, and John hesitated with his seat buckle, not wanting to leave the presence of the kind stranger so quickly.
He took extra time pulling the correct bills out of his pocket to pay for the trip, and his fingers hovered over the rest of the envelope. He bit his lip.
“Do you . . . do you take tips?” he asked.
The man sighed. “Used to,” he said. “Before some hoity toity politician updated the labor laws to prevent cab drivers from making commision. Apparently there was too much cash floating around undeclared. We make flat rate now. Personally I think it was ‘cuz it gave the business a huge tax cut but--” He heaved a sigh, staring out through the front windshield. “Who really knows.”
John’s thighs were soaked again, and he wanted nothing more than to nuzzle between the man’s legs to give him some sort of relief. Instead, he wordlessly passed over the payment for his ride, unable to meet the man’s eyes.
“Have a great rest of your night,” the driver said as John finally climbed out of the backseat. He gave him a little two-fingered salute before putting on his blinker and pulling away from the curb.
John just stood there, letting the rain soak him further and the roses dangle limply through one hand.
The money still in his pocket and the guilt still firmly wedged in his stomach.
He wished the chastity belt wasn’t locked so tight around his waist, so he could strip his cock raw and cum all his worries away. He fisted a hand in the crotch of his pants, groaning as he felt the heat pouring off his overstuffed balls.
Unsatisfied.