Down Another Notch

by Zoe X Rider

  Down Another 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 2014 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: 978-1-940635-12-5

  Join Zoe’s mailing list for a head’s up when more stories & novels are released.

  (Plus: First look at new book covers, exclusive giveaways, free excerpts and stories, m/m reading recommendations and more.)

  Summary

  The heat’s cranked all the way up in this steaming sequel to “Down a Notch.” Guitarist Nicky Hazard no longer has a chastity device locked on, but he’s in no way free. Needs he doesn’t understand send him back to enigmatic singer Cris Warren, where he begs for the game to continue.

  “Down Another Notch” is a 24,000-word gay (m/m) erotic story featuring chastity, edging, denial, bondage, domination, submission, control, release, and a connection neither man can understand or walk away from.

  Down Another Notch

  Nicky caught the stares out of the corner of his eye: businessmen in J.C. Penny shirts, couples in shorts and tees, families on vacation, their kids fooling around with the make-’em-yourself waffle machine. They were all getting their eyeful of one half of Outright Disaster, their shitty hotel breakfasts forgotten for a moment.

  Dirk dragged his attention from his iPhone to shoot Nicky a grin. Nicky dropped into a chair across from him.

  “Get that problem taken care of?” Dirk’s grin slipped wider.

  “Yeah.” It was a quick short syllable as he wrenched around to see where the coffee machine was. That’s all he wanted: black, hot, strong.

  “So? What the fuck happened? Who did it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “All right then. What happened to your lip?”

  “I got punched in the mouth.”

  “No fucking shit. I mean, what happened?”

  “I need coffee.” He shoved his chair back and headed for the stack of Styrofoam cups. A couple of kids batting each other with pool noodles got in his way; he veered around them. When he got back to Dirk with a tiny cup filled to the brim with tepid coffee, he put his elbow on the table and propped his forehead against the heel of his hand.

  “You don’t have to tell me now,” Dirk said, tapping away on his screen, “but you’ll tell me eventually. I have ways.”

  The last thing he wanted to think about right now was ways.

  Michael showed up with a mini box of cereal and a carton of milk. He dragged the chair next to Dirk out with his heel, giving Nicky a cautiously questioning look at the same time.

  Nicky ignored it.

  And then Blake, strolling in with a grin. He grabbed an apple on his way by the food, deflected a flying pool noodle with his wrist, and took the seat by Nicky, throwing his arm around his shoulder. “Heard you had a little, uh, situation yesterday.”

  “Solved now, thanks.” He sipped at the coffee and made a face.

  ‘Hollowed out’ were the words that came to mind when he thought about how he felt. Fantasies involving Cris—insane fantasies, fantasies that reached levels he’d never imagined possible—had tossed and turned him in the uncomfortable hotel bed all night. Pain and torture and helplessness, and Cris’s hot, greedy mouth. Even when he caught sleep, it was only to wake a few minutes later with the sensation of Cris’s weight pressing him against the mattress. His body buzzed from exhaustion. He could have brought it all to an end any time with a few tugs on his dick, but the denial was addicting. Torture of the best kind. He’d shoved his arms under the pillows, pretending they were bound to the corners of the bed. His hips had stirred restlessly all night, his legs never finding a comfortable place to rest. His cock leaking on his stomach.

  And now in the light of day, he just wanted to get in the van and get to the airport and pretend he’d had some kind of 24-hour bug. A fever. He’d been sick with it, and then it had broken, leaving him weak and wiped out. And feeling like an idiot.

  It was a new day. He was leaving the craziness behind.

  “So how long were you stuck with a hunk of metal locked on your dick?” Blake asked.

  None of your business would just drag this out. He lifted the coffee to his lips and said, “Not that long,” before subjecting himself to another bitter sip. It was like they’d used Tuesday’s grounds to make today’s batch.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “It was uncomfortable.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Like fuck it doesn’t,” Dirk said. “I want to know if I have to worry about waking up with my dick locked up.” His voice quieted the room. A few adults gave him looks. Only the kids with the pool noodles seemed oblivious.

  “Don’t worry about,” Nicky said lowly. “It was just a practical joke.”

  “More like an impractical joke,” Blake said. “I can’t think of anything less practical than not being able to use your cock. What’d it look like?”

  “Get up,” Nick said with a nudge. “I’ve gotta use the bathroom.” He was penned against a wall.

  “Checking to make sure it didn’t come back?”

  “You’re a fucking comedian. Move.” He got out with the coffee clutched in his hand.

  He needed to get his shit ready to go anyway.

  ***

  Comelian flew private. Outright Disaster made do with commercial air travel—the security checkpoints, sitting around at the gate, the chance their flight would be delayed, or worse, cancelled. Nicky walked away from the band and dropped on the floor with his back against a wall. Dirk was on his phone. Michael chatted up some guys in Comelian T-shirts. Blake had fucked off to the bar. Nicky put his head back and closed his eyes. It was a relief, not having to see Comelian hanging around at the gate, but eventually he was going to catch a glimpse of Cris. And Cris was going to catch a glimpse of him. He was going to give that asshole the bird, and that would be the end of it. All the closure he needed.

  On the flight, he got sleep—just an hour of it. The plane circled the airport for fifteen minutes before finally coming in to land. The band and crew booked it to the transportation level to pile into a waiting van and ride straight to the venue. Dinner was platters of lunchmeats, raw veggies, fresh fruit, all laid out on a set of folding tables pushed up against a concrete wall. The room was more of a pass-through area than a place to sit and relax with your food.

  While Nicky laid ham and cheese on an onion roll, conversation around him bounced off the hard walls—someone laughing too loud, someone bitching about one of the venue staff, someone telling a story that made Nicky’s ears prick toward it until he was sure it wasn’t about him. He squeezed mustard on the cheese.

  The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, like lightning was getting ready to strike.

  He set the mustard down. Pressed the top of the roll onto the sandwich. Tugged grapes off their stems and dropped them onto his paper plate, where they rolled against his sandwich. He nudged one out of the mustard oozing from his sandwich, then turned, slowly, the plate in hand.

  His eyes went straight to Cris on the other side of the room, standing with his elbow on a pile of flight cases, noddi
ng at Comelian’s road manager, who had a sheaf of papers gripped in his hand, his glasses pushed up on top of his head.

  Cris slid his eyes Nicky’s way.

  Nicky had mustard on his finger. He put it in his mouth, hugging his lips around it. With his eyes on Cris’s, he sucked it clean. And slowly lifted the middle finger of that same hand.

  The corner of Cris’s mouth twitched. He turned his attention back to his manager.

  There. Done. He grabbed a beer from an ice bucket and dropped into a metal folding chair at one of the tables. When he glanced up again, it was in time to see Cris leaving the room.

  He opened his teeth and tore off a hunk of sandwich.

  ***

  Outright Disaster left the venue while Comelian was still on stage, the band booking out to try and get some sleep—or get laid or high or all of the above—before they had to crack their eyes open again and head to another airport.

  When Nicky woke in his hotel room needing to piss, he rolled onto his back and hooked his waistband up with a thumb. All he saw was dick, stretched hard with morning wood.

  It wanted him to touch it.

  He let the waistband snap back into place.

  His bladder could wait. He buried his face in the pillow, shoved his arms underneath it, enjoying the dull ache of horniness.

  In a second, Cris was in his head, holding him down. Teasing him. Extracting promises.

  He woke to the shrill shriek of the room’s phone—Dirk telling him to get his ass downstairs.

  ***

  Another night, another show. He didn’t get a glimpse of Cris before they had to go on and play to what was more or less an arena full of Comelian fans. A few of the guys smashed against the barrier at the front yelled along with their lyrics at least. He stepped up to the edge of the stage, and they pumped fists and horns in the air as his fingers flew over the strings, his stance wide, his crotch canted against his guitar. He grinned like he had something on them before he turned away, his hand a blur as he picked the strings.

  It was another night where the band didn’t stay till the end of it. They headed for the exit just as Comelian was coming off stage, taking their break before the encore. Joe, their drummer, nodded as he passed, his dark curls plastered to his skull, a white towel over his shoulders. Their lead guitarist’s skin was drenched, his shirt thrown over his shoulder. His soft belly lapped the waist of his too-tight jeans.

  Moving a step to the left to let Brian by, Nicky sensed Cris’s position just by which side of his body the hairs were raising up on. Without looking Cris in the face, he plowed his shoulder into him.

  After a count of three, he glanced back. Cris had turned, walking backward. He gave Nicky the finger, and a smirk.

  Nicky grinned and kept going down the hall, toward the exit.

  ***

  Another morning in another hotel bed, and Nicky lifted the waistband on his underwear again. His dick took it as a chance to center itself, hovering over his stomach. His piss hole was like an eye, staring at him accusingly. Why do you ignore me? A drop gathered, glistening. He eased his waistband down, trapping his cock with it, and put his hands under his head.

  He could have brought someone back to the room last night. He’d had offers to chose from. He’d stayed at the bar getting drunk instead, eventually disentangling himself from whoever had draped herself around his shoulders. He’d stumbled upstairs alone. The alcohol had knocked him out, but the twisted the sheets said it hadn’t been a peaceful sleep.

  His cock gave a throb, trying to get his attention.

  He sat up, swung his legs over the side, and went to take a cold shower, and a piss while he was at it.

  At this point, it was getting to where it was a game: how long could he hold out? He was competitive as hell, and a shitty loser on top of it. He dressed while he was still chilled from the shower and went down to the lobby to find something to eat.

  ***

  In Baltimore, as he passed the open door to Comelian’s dressing room, he slid his eyes over to get a peek. Cris sat at the head of a table, one knee pressed against it, his chair tipped back. Joe was with him, and his eye caught Nicky’s. Just as Nicky was passing out of sight, he called to him.

  Nicky took a step back to the doorway.

  “Come settle this argument,” Joe said. He had a plastic cup in front of him—probably not ginger ale. He tapped a folded pocketknife against the scarred tabletop.

  Nicky stepped in. “What?”

  “Between Lemmy and Ozzy,” Joe said, “both at the peaks of their careers, who would win in a fist fight?”

  Really? He glanced toward Cris, who had his hand around a bottle of Dos Equis. Cris didn’t bother to look up. Nicky looked back to Joe. “That’s a stupid fucking thing to argue about.”

  “Because Lemmy would totally kick Ozzy’s ass,” Joe said.

  A corner of Cris’s mouth twitched, so subtle you could almost miss it.

  At least Nicky knew the lay of the argument now. He leaned on his knuckles on the table. “Lemmy would put Ozzy on his knees and fuck his mouth with his fat cock till Ozzy couldn’t see straight,” he said.

  Cris’s mouth twitched higher. Then his lips curved to say, “But would Ozzy enjoy it?” His fingers gripped the neck of the Dos Equis bottle.

  “I don’t think Lemmy gives a fuck if Ozzy enjoys it or not,” Nicky said. He rapped the table with his knuckles before giving Joe a nod and walking out of the room, his heart banging. He heard Joe say, “See, there you go,” and the tinkle of Cris’s bangles as he lifted the Dos Equis to his lips.

  ***

  Nicky woke the next morning still in Baltimore. His temples pounded from drinking too much. It took effort to roll himself onto his back, and he did it without opening his eyes. When the throbbing died back to a dull ache, he cracked an eye open and lifted his head. He hooked his thumb in the waistband of his underwear.

  Again just his cock inside, permanently hard it felt like anymore. Its slit seemed to wink at him. Precum leaking out. His underwear was damp with it.

  He dropped his head and let the waistband snap back.

  How much longer was this tour?

  And how ridiculous was what he was doing? He should be banging groupies. Travelling with Comelian got them access to a higher class of them. Or he could have banged the desk clerk. Or that journalist who’d interviewed him before yesterday’s show, her eyes on his crotch every time he answered one of her questions. Or the bartender from that place down the street—he’d been looking Nicky over pretty hard.

  He gave that last one some more thought: he could have brought him back to the room and….

  And what?

  He squeezed his cock through his underwear.

  The touch made him want to pull it out and stroke it.

  He rubbed his face instead.

  Touring made you crazy.

  Crazy enough to wake up every morning hoping to discover your dick imprisoned in steel.

  His cock twitched, hard, pulsing against the cotton.

  Baltimore meant he had no place to be. First chance to catch a breather in days. He took a cool shower, then pulled is jeans on, buttoning and belting them before his dick had a chance to warm back up.

  He had no idea which hotel Comelian was at. He could probably get in touch with one of their guys, who could get him in touch with Cris—but then what? Schedule a play date over the phone? He went downstairs for black coffee instead. Breakfast was already over, so breakfast was a hamburger, his jaw working it to a pulp while he stared into space. While his cock shoved itself against his jeans.

  He took his over-eager crotch for a walk downtown, the sun warm on his arms. He found sunglasses and bought a pair. Found a bar that was open and had a drink. He was on the road with a whole crew of people, but they either got on his nerves—with stupid arguments on par with the Lemmy/Ozzy thing, or by bitching about their ingrown toenails and the brand of bottled water they’d been handed. Or they weren’t around at all. Tour
ing was lonelier than you’d think.

  He had Brian’s number from texting when they were barhopping in St. Louis. He slipped his phone out and sent a call to Comelian’s guitarist, listening to it ring as he walked past window displays and business people returning from late lunches.

  “Yo,” Brian said.

  “Hey, it’s Nicky. I need to find Cris.”

  “Okay. That shouldn’t be hard.”

  Not hard at all. They were staying in the same hotel. He got a room number and clicked off. He had probably a mile to walk back, with the sunshine warming his crotch and dirty thoughts tucked behind his sunglasses.

  And, also, the fear that Cris wouldn’t want to have anything to do with those thoughts.

  He was prepared to say, “I was heading out to grab something to eat. You interested?” But when Cris opened the door, his hand sliding up to grasp the top of it, his hip leaning against it, his soul-devouring eyes looking right into him—Nicky’s throat tightened.

  They just watched each other, until Cris dropped his arm and turned back into the suite.

  The door started to fall shut.

  Nicky put a hand against it.

  Cris picked up the remote from the coffee table. He pointed it at the TV, and the TV went off.

  Nicky slipped through the door, holding its handle until the latch caught quietly.

  “So?” Cris asked from across the room.

  Words banged against themselves trying to get out of his throat.

  “Do you still have it?” was what made it out.

  “Have which?”

  Nicky swallowed. His armpits grew slick. The sunglasses dangled from his hand, his thumb rubbing an earpiece.