"Jesus, Clay," Roque says. "What the hell are you trying to do?"

Another late night. This time, it's the inside of Clay's cheek that aches, the skin cut from where his teeth clamped around it. He keeps poking at it with the tip of his tongue, can still taste copper from when it bled. It almost hurts more than the kick to the ribs.

"Right now," Clay answers, grin as big and wide as he can manage. His lip splits; there's a sharp, sweet zing just before the blood starts to well up. "I'm trying to go to sleep."

When Clay wakes up, he's not surprised to feel the plastic snug around his sac and cock. He curls his fingers around the device, stares at the ceiling -- the room chilly and the bed empty except for him -- and slowly strokes it. He bites the inside of his cheek and breathes past the slow, building pressure of the pain until his breath involuntarily hitches. He squeezes the cock cage, exhales, and then starts his day.