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fucking CCTV. I’ll—”
    “
If
you catch me, Jack. Your security is pointless without a face-to-ID check.”
    That was all the fight I could manage. Chin to chest, I blew deep breaths and tried to concentrate on the rhythm of breathing, just ignore the heat between my thighs. Instinct wanted to rip the cage off, stop its asphyxiation of my cock, but now I couldn’t even remember what a key looked like. Too many stars danced around my vision, too much heat, too much blood bubbling between my thighs, too much need to slide my hand down my cock.
    “Coil springs on a Land Rover 110. Don’t... tell me how you replace them.”
    “What?” I forced out.
    “You heard what I said.”
    He knew my profession,
that
registered somewhere among the chaos and was enough to throw a little cold water on the fire. Enough to force my head into gear and recite the process in my head.
    “No. Out loud. Don’t... Jack.”
    The mechanics fell from my lips before I knew what I was doing. His calm voice interrupted in parts, inquisitive at times, calming the next. Everything began to ease; I began to breathe. The restricted blood flow between my thighs had left a bad ache in its wake, and for a moment, I couldn’t move. His calm voice broke my groans, and I found myself going through the whole process backwards, naming each part and stating its relevance. I’d used that technique enough times with my trainees; having someone oversee me do it had my body cooling to arctic temperatures and body parts more than unwilling in the sex department.
    Eventually, my body uncurled, relaxing into the bed with a more insistent morning need to piss taking over everything else.
    “Better?”
    I frowned into my pillow. “I—”
    “What, Jack?”
    “I need to go to the bathroom.” What else did he know—who else did he know? My work colleagues? My father? Mother? People from this new Strachan deal I was working on? Webcams meant one major fuck-up for me on his part; everything could be spread over the Internet. I hated the fucking Internet.
    I threw the covers off and covered my groin as I got off the bed. It was a stupid reaction, covering up; he’d seen nearly everything I had to offer, but it gave me some comfort as I headed for the bathroom.
    Relieving myself was just as cheek burning as I stood there holding that silver casing, waiting for the burn to push through the soreness going on with my cock. But the worst part came in the shower. Did cock cages fucking rust? I looked down. Yeah. Just how fucking stupid would I feel facing the doctor and asking for a tetanus jab while explaining the weird shit I’d gotten myself into?
    At least a long shower had me more than willing to face the day in the garage as I stepped out, and—
    Shit. I stopped wiping the towel against my abs. Work hadn’t occurred to me. I had to go out in public with this thing on. I’d never be able to look anyone straight in the face. Not Steve, not without pissing humiliation over the floor, and all the other guys? Sue? Fucking Sam?
    And fuck rusting, what about welding? I had a big weld job on today and sparks flew in the literal sense. Melted through clothing, burnt skin. What if?
    I’d have to run with the idea that these things came all rust and weld proof. The humiliation I couldn’t get away from.
    Back in my bedroom, I slipped boxers and jeans on before grabbing a fresh T-shirt. Sorting through my coveralls, I chose the loosest pair possible (brake cables weren’t the only things I’d be adjusting today, so discretion was the key). T-shirt and coveralls in-hand, I paused by the computer desk, looking at the Polaroid, fingers digging hard into my palm. Fuck it. I didn’t need to straighten it, the need to eat burying anything else as I headed down for some breakfast. Seems I could eat through my shame.
    I headed through to the kitchen, poured some cornflakes into a bowl, and sat at the breakfast bar in just jeans, the cool tiles under my feet. Part of me was