Down a Notch

by Zoe X Rider

  Down a Notch

  This is a work of fiction, etc. etc. All characters depicted are over the age of 18. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 by Zoe X. Rider

  Published by Hela Press

  http://www.helapress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquiries, contact Zoe Rider at zoexrider@gmail.com.

  Cover design by Heather Lackey. Images © Depositphotos.com/feedough, Danussa

  ISBN: 978-1-940635-08-8

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  Summary

  Guitarist Nicky Hazard has a drinking problem, an aggression problem, and, when he wakes up in his hotel room in the middle of his band’s latest tour, a serious dick problem. The problem is he can’t get to his dick, thanks to the metal tube locked around it. With no recollection as to how or when this thing got put on him, he goes banging on his bandmates’ doors, demanding answers, but no one has any. When he receives an enigmatic invitation to the presidential suite at the hotel across the street, he hobbles over, the steel cuff digging into his groin with every step. His intention is to pound on whoever opens the door until they relinquish the key, and he doesn’t care how many teeth he has to break against his knuckles to make that happen.

  But when he gets there, things don’t go at all the way he’s planned.

  “Down a Notch” is a 14,500-word gay (m/m) erotic story featuring chastity, bondage, extortion, oral training, domination, submission, keyholding, self-control, and more.

  Down a Notch

  Nicky Hazard woke to a throbbing head and a throbbing bladder. His mouth tasted sour. He groaned and rolled off the hotel bed, landing on one knee. Something hard and foreign bumped his thigh. A part of his brain that was a distant third for his attention tried to put a puzzle together: It felt like he had a beer bottle in his shorts. Grimacing, he pulled himself to his feet.

  His groin felt at least as heavy as a beer bottle, and it ached.

  He’d be happy as fuck when this tour was over. Touring was a crazy way to live to begin with, but supporting Comelian was so far the craziest yet. The band partied hard, most of them, and they could afford both the good liquor and the good drugs. The only one in the band he hadn’t puked in front of yet was Cris, Comelian’s elusive lead singer, who either preferred private parties or went back to his hotel room to slip on a pair of glasses, listen to opera, and read classic literature. Nicky hadn’t been able to decide which yet. What he did know was the guy raised the hairs on his arms on the rare occasion they happened to be within ten feet of each other.

  He cracked his eyes open and aimed himself toward the hotel room’s bathroom. Shuffling up to the toilet, he stuck his thumb under his waistband and yanked it down to free his cock.

  “What the—?” He blinked and swayed on his heels. “What the fucking fuck...?”

  He grasped the steel tube around his dick. Welded to the tube was what appeared to be a handcuff, locked shut around the base of his shaft and balls. The tube curved downward, making the act of pissing while standing up impossible. If he could manage to get past the shock long enough for his bladder to let go, urine would splatter his toes.

  What the fuck?

  He turned and dropped onto the toilet seat, cradling his throbbing skull in his hands as he waited for his bladder to do its thing. Every time his muscles started to loosen up and let it go, the alarm went off in his head again: BRMPT! BRMPT! SOMETHING’S SERIOUSLY FUCKING WRONG.

  He scrubbed his eyes, his elbows propped on his knees.

  Finally, the flow got underway—and the way it flowed reminded him acutely of the hunk of metal locked around his dick. He blanked his brain and kept it blank until only drips hit the surface of the water.

  Heaving himself to his feet, he grabbed his shaving kit to dig out a bottle of headache killers. After swallowing two pills dry, he stared at his red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. His shorts were pulled back up—he didn’t want to look at the thing on his dick. Yet. He just wanted to look at himself, make sure he was actually fucking awake. He’d slap himself in the face if his head didn’t already hurt so much.

  What the fuck did I do last night?

  He cranked on the water faucet and stuck his mouth in the stream.

  Maybe the thing was gone now. Maybe he’d just hallucinated it. His dick still hurt, but maybe his brain made up this whole metal torture device to explain the pain.

  He pulled his waistband and looked down, then caught the edge of the sink with one hand. Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck happened last night?

  He clamped his eyes shut. They’d done their set, got off stage, took advantage of the venue’s showers, then hung around in back while Comelian did their thing. After that, everything was more or less black. He didn’t remember getting in the van to go to the hotel, didn’t remember fucking anyone—didn’t remember meeting anyone he’d been thinking about fucking.

  He just remembered being exhausted, sitting on that uncomfortable folding metal chair in the green room, about to fall over. Thinking how comfortable the floor looked.

  He tugged at the handcuff. It was on good. He stooped over, shoving his hips forward, looking like an idiot as he tried to get a look at the lock to see if it was something he could pick. If he had anything to pick it with….

  Maybe he could borrow a handcuff key from one of the kinkier crewmembers.

  Contorting his spine another few degrees, he decided it didn’t look like a normal handcuff keyhole. It didn’t even look like a normal handcuff: the shackle was thicker, the circumference smaller.

  He tried pulling it off. That hurt. There were goddamned teeth running along the inside of the cuff.

  Great. Just what I need.

  He dumped hotel shampoo on his shaft to grease it up and tried again. It still hurt. He reasoned that he could grit his teeth and rip it off—but at what cost?

  When I get a hold of the fucker responsible....

  He jerked the shower tap on and dropped his underwear to the floor.

  All right: possible suspects. He might have taken someone back to the room last night. If he did, she was long gone, and with her the fucking key, unless it’s out in the room somewhere. Leaving the tap running, he stomped into the bedroom to check the nightstand, shake the bedding, feel his pockets, run his palm over the dresser that held the TV. He even pushed the TV back to look under it.

  Well, that was too much to hope for.

  Not even a fucking note.

  Back in the bathroom, steam billowed. He bowed his body to get another look at the lock. Fucking Christ. It could have been one of the guys in his own band—those assholes. It could have been all of the guys. He’d pranked each one of them recently, thanks to a joke shop he’d come across when he’d wandered the streets of Cincinnati during an afternoon off. Dirk had gotten itching powder in his underwear, since he was always scratching his nuts anyway. Michael had opened his duffle bag to find a hundred fake cockroaches. He’d gone pale and unmoving until Nicky’d thwacked the bag with the side of his hand and made the plastic bugs—and Michael—jump.

  And he’d handed Blake an exploding pen to sign something with. Kid’s stuff!

  Hot water battered his back as he stared down at the cock lock. Not kid’s stuff. Whoever’d come up with this idea, he was going to knock their teet
h through the back of their throat as soon a they got the fucking thing unlocked.

  Blake. The freak. It had to be Blake. Nicky stepped under the stream of water. He scrubbed at the shampoo foaming in his pubic hair. Fucking Blake.

  Three minutes later, dripping wet, he pounded on Blake’s door.

  No answer. He pressed his ear to it. Nothing. He pounded again, using both fists. An older couple making their way down the hall pressed close to the opposite wall as they passed him.

  He listened at the door again. Fuck.

  He moved Blake to the bottom of his list for the time being and proceeded to the next suspect.

  Michael opened his door on the second bang. “Hey, what’s up?”

  Nicky pushed into the room. “Where’s Blake?”

  “Dunno. I haven’t seen him since...last night sometime.”

  “When last night?”

  Michael shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he took off after the show.”

  “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  Nicky looked at him and crossed him off his list. Michael wouldn’t know where to get the thing that was locked around his cock; likely, he didn’t even know these things existed. Nicky sure as hell hadn’t. Where the fuck do you even get something like this? “If you see Blake, tell him I’m looking for him.”

  “Sure.”

  He pummeled Dirk’s door with the side of his fist. It took a full minute, but the door opened to reveal a disheveled Brit in a hotel bathrobe.

  “The hell?”

  “Let me in,” Nicky said.

  “No. What’s the fucking emergency?”

  “Let me in.”

  “Fuck it.” Dirk moved out of the doorway and headed back into the room, scratching his crotch. “Sorry about this, ladies,” he said to the naked women lounging on the bed.

  “Have you seen Blake?”

  The women made room for Dirk to fit himself in between them.

  “Nope.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

  “Am I his fucking baby sitter now?”

  “Fuck.”

  Nicky went back to his own room, where he at least had the comfort of Jägermeister tucked in the mini fridge. He dropped—gingerly—into a chair by the window and took a long pull. Then he lowered the bottle to his lap.

  The device in his pants grew uncomfortable, forcing him to shift in the chair. Each new position lasted a minute or two. At least the headache he’d woken up with had faded to mere annoyance.

  And this was supposed to be a day off. Some fucking way to spend it.

  After a while, standing became an attractive option. He leaned his shoulders against a wall while he drank the discomfort away. He’d gotten nowhere with his plan of attack. Well, duh; he hadn’t actually told anyone what the problem was. Either Dirk or Michael could have done it—or been in on it—and could now be laughing their asses off, knowing he’d come to them with this vise around his dick but hadn’t been able to bring the subject up.

  He pictured the chicks laughing too. Everyone finding it hilarious.

  Fuck ’em all.

  But the thought of telling anyone....

  He was going to need more Jäger. He brought the bottle to his mouth, closed his eyes, and swallowed.

  His brain was on its way to going pleasantly fuzzy.

  His crotch wasn’t pleasantly anything.

  Michael again answered his door quickly. Nicky shoved past him.

  “What’s going on?” Michael asked.

  He paced to the curtains, then back while Michael watched, waiting.

  He stopped in the bathroom doorway. The goddamned sink looked like it was ready for a military inspection, all of Michael’s toiletries lined up from smallest to largest. If he had a ruler handy, he could confirm that they were all exactly the same distance apart. How the man managed to tour with a rock band…. He must be on fucking medication or something.

  He walked two more circuits before stopping in front of Michael and popping the button on his jeans.

  “Uh...Nick....”

  “This is what the fuck’s up.” He yanked his zipper down and spread his jeans open, hooking his shorts out of the way with a thumb.

  “Uh....” Michael swiped his forearm across his face. ”What the fuck is that?”

  “Insanity. Any idea who might have done it?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Would I fucking ask if I did?” Without the crotch of his jeans supporting his junk, the metal cuff and tube weighed even more.

  “But...I mean…weren’t you there at the time?” Michael asked.

  He yanked his underwear back in place and zipped his jeans. “In body, apparently, but not in spirit. Or maybe it was too many fucking spirits....” If this wasn’t a clear signal that he should rethink his alcohol hobby.... “Shit.”

  “So, you think Blake....?” Michael asked.

  “Not if he wasn’t around all night. Dirk looks like he was pretty busy last night too.”

  “You don’t think it was me!” His eyes were wide. He backed up a step. If you cut the guy’s hair and put a button-up shirt on him, you’d mistake him for a science teacher.

  “Fuck,” Nick said, rubbing his forehead. Michael would have had to wear latex gloves to touch another guy’s balls. He probably wore latex gloves to touch pussy. For all Nick knew, Michael wore latex gloves to touch his own did. God, he was probably shit to sleep with.

  “I don’t remember a fucking thing after the show,” Nick said. “Do you remember seeing me with anyone?”

  “Nope. You weren’t looking so good though. Last I remember you headed to your room to crash.”

  “Alone?”

  He nodded.

  Fuck. Maybe someone had been in his room waiting for him. In which case, this hotel was going to have a lot to fucking answer for. If he had the balls to tell them what’d happened. He swore again.

  “Have you talked to Dirk?” Michael asked.

  “Not in so many words.”

  After a silence, Michael said, “The hotel probably has bolt cutters....”

  Nick’s eyes bulged. The last thing he wanted was a pair of bolt fucking cutters near his dick. Although if this went on long enough, it might move to the second-to-last thing. He adjusted the hunk of metal. The thing must weigh half a pound. And it wasn’t exactly roomy. If he hadn’t had other things on his mind, the scene in Dirk’s room might have caused a whole new issue.

  No wonder his dick had hurt so much when he woke up. It was trying to go for its usual morning wood and couldn’t.

  “Maybe Dirk has a better suggestion,” Michael said. “Maybe he’s a little more...um, familiar...with....” He waved a hand toward Nicky’s fly.

  “Maybe. Or maybe he’ll just fucking torment me about this for the next twenty years.”

  He banged on Dirk’s door anyway.

  “What the fuck now?” His face was flushed, his mouth and chin glossy.

  “I need to talk to you.” He peeked around Dirk’s head. One of the women on the bed slid her hand under the other’s breast and lifted it to her mouth. “Um, alone?”

  Dirk started to step into the hallway; Nicky shoved him back inside. “In the bathroom.”

  After Nicky pulled the door shut and locked it, Dirk said, “So what the fucking fuck is up?”

  Nick turned the faucets on full, first in the sink, then in the bathtub. When he felt confident the women wouldn’t hear—unless Dirk shouted it out—he unzipped his fly and displayed his wares.

  “What the fuck is that?” Dirk asked with the same tone he’d use if someone put a plate of jellied squid nuts in front of him.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  He whistled. “Who put it on there?” He gave the cuff a little tug, and Nicky, wincing, clamped a hand over his fingers. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  A grin started to spread on Dirk’s face. “No fucking way.” The grin stretched as Nicky’s scowl deepened. “No f
ucking way. How do you not know someone’s locking shit on your tackle?”

  “I was probably passed out, all right?”

  “Jesus, I think I’d have to be in a coma. I might have to be flat-out dead.” He reached toward it again, and Nicky yanked up his fly, hiding it away.

  “Shit,” Dirk said, still grinning. “What are you going to do?”

  Nicky turned his palms up.

  “There must have been a note or something.”

  Nicky shook his head.

  “Maybe they left the key at the desk?”

  That possibility hadn’t occurred to him. If that was the case, it didn’t matter who did it—not right this second at least— just so long as he could get free of it.

  He kind of wished he’d thought of it before spilling the beans to half the band—because he was never going to live this down.

  He called the front desk from Dirk’s phone as Dirk slipped out of his robe and into the space the women made between them. The way one of them took Dirk’s half-hard cock in her hand forced Nicky to turn his back, before things got painful in the metal tube again.

  The desk clerk left him hanging while she went to check. When she came back, she said, “Yes, we have an env—”

  He dropped the phone onto its cradle and hurried to the lobby, the hunk of metal causing his upper lip to twitch with every fucking step.

  ***

  His room number was inked in small, right-leaning letters on the front of an otherwise plain envelope. Just by feel, he knew there was no key inside. Standing in the lobby, vulnerable to being hit up by a random fan while he had half a pound of metal bulging in his jeans, made him jittery. He went around the corner, behind a potted tree, and slit open the flap with the edge of his thumbnail.

  A white card was tucked inside. A key to the key?

  The name of the fancy-dancy hotel across the street and a room number were printed in the same right-leaning letters.