Down Another Notch Page 2

  A week was what they had left of the tour. He didn’t know how they could work it out exactly. Airport security, for instance. He couldn’t go through that with it on. But the rest of the time—what if Cris unlocked it beforehand and gave it to him to lock back on at the other side of the checkpoint? It would mean it’d be in his bag; it would have to go through the x-ray. It would show up on the screen, the ratchets of the cuff white as teeth against the dark display. He’d stand there, swallowing hard, wiping his palms on his jeans, waiting for his stuff to come out so he could grab it and get away from looks he’d get for it. But it could work. They could do it that way.

  Cris slipped a lock of hair behind his ear.

  Nicky’s feet were rooted to the carpet, the door just behind him. The exit. Standing there like he’d just come to pick something up: don’t mind me, I’m not staying.

  “Jesus, don’t just stand there,” Cris said.

  He was aware of his cock straining against cotton as he walked into the suite’s living room. Which brought the question of how they’d even get the thing on in the first place. He hadn’t come in days. He’d been hornier than he’d ever experienced before—for days.

  “Drink?” Cris asked.

  Nicky nodded, with a glance toward the couch. Different couch, different room, different city. Cris said, “Have a seat,” while he opened the minibar.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” Nicky rubbed his palms against his thighs.

  “Nope.” He walked over with two glasses in his hands. And kept walking, right up between Nicky’s knees, his shins stopping against the edge of the couch. “What’re you going to do for your drink?” he asked.

  Nicky looked up. He was so close. There was no one around, absolutely no one. The two glasses hovered in the air.

  Nicky clasped his hands around the backs of Cris’s thighs.

  Cris handed down one of the glasses.

  While Nicky threw the alcohol back—liquid courage—Cris put his knee on the couch, near but not against Nicky’s crotch.

  His balls gave a throb, as if they could sense Cris’s proximity, and he looked down at that inch of space between them.

  “So,” Cris said. “What thing is it you want to know if I still have?” He put a hand in Nicky’s hair, petting it almost.

  “The lock.” His gaze climbed Cris’s thigh. The silk shirt was black today, and long enough to lick at his bent leg. His fingers itched to feel its cool smoothness between them.

  Cris laughed. “Well that one I wouldn’t have guessed, as eager as you were to get out of it.”

  His glass was empty. He didn’t need it. He leaned it against the couch cushion so he could hold onto Cris’s hips. He pressed his thumbs against him, feeling muscle and bone. “But do you still have it?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “I want it.” He slid his thumbs higher up that silk shirt.

  Cris backed away. Nicky caught the tail of the shirt just long enough for it to slip between his fingers.

  “What if,” Cris said, “I didn’t want to take it back off this time?”

  Nicky’s balls felt like a fist had just squeezed them. His face beat hot, fast. “You’d need to take it off for airports. Otherwise—” He didn’t know what to do with his hands without Cris to put them on. “Otherwise I don’t care.” A chill flooded in after the flush. He reached for Cris again, and Cris let him pull him by the hips, until his shins were against the couch again. The drink in his hand was untouched. Nicky could use that drink. He touched the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

  He could use a lot of things.

  Cris lifted Nicky’s chin with a finger. “What if after we’re done with airports, I refused to take it off again?”

  “Okay.” His mouth was like cotton. He wanted that drink. He wanted to bury his face in Cris’s shirt. He wanted his dick locked up. His hands locked up. Everything taken away from him, except Cris.

  He wanted to wake up in the morning with his dick as sore as a toothache, and the key in Cris’s pocket.

  Cris braced his hands on the back of the couch and leaned down, his hair sweeping forward like curtains. “What are you going to do for me?”

  Nicky held onto Cris. “Whatever the fuck you want.” It was worth that much. His mouth was so dry, he didn’t have spit to speak with; the words came out like wind over the desert.

  Cris’s knee nudged his crotch. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” His voice was as quiet as Nicky’s.

  Nicky nodded, a quick jerk of his chin. He had every idea, and no fucking idea at all. His grip tightened. He shifted a foot on the carpet. Heat roiled in his groin.

  Cris tossed his head to move his hair out of the way. He pressed his chin against Nicky’s jaw, and in his ear he said, “I’m never going to let you come.”

  His fingers gripped Cris so hard he could feel muscle move under them. He almost lost it over those words, over the hot breath of them rushing into his ear. Digging his voice up like he was unburying it from the ground, he said, “I haven’t come in days.”

  “We’d better get you locked up then, before you have an accident.” The words were like a hot iron against his nerve endings, turning them molten. Cris pulled out of his grip. His heat lingered against Nicky’s body. As Cris headed for the bedroom, Nicky dug his fingernails into his thighs, and even that felt too good.

  Cris’s glass sat on the coffee table, untouched.

  He took it and downed it, feeling the burn through his chest. Feeling the hot ache of his groin.

  When Cris returned, the lock’s shackle swinging from his hand, he said, “They make better ones, you know. Some you can wear, well, pretty much forever.”

  Heat rushed through him. He shifted on the couch. His gaze was on the metal tube, the flash of sunlight against its curve.

  “They’ve got plastic and silicone ones you can get through a security gate, with the right kind of lock.” His looked at Nicky’s crotch. “This is never going to go on that. You’re gonna need to do something about it.”

  The thought of jerking off while Cris watched pulled his groin even tighter. But that would mean coming, and coming would mean losing his personal challenge. A cold shower was a better option, but before he could suggest it, Cris said, “We need ice.”

  He tossed the cock lock on the couch, just beside Nicky’s leg. Nicky followed its bounce, remembering the weight of it. The security. The inescapability.

  “I’ll be back,” Cris said, ice bucket in hand.

  As the door clicked shut, Nicky picked up the lock, weighing it in his hand. He pushed the shackle through, listening to the ratchet as it clicked into place. With nothing trapped inside it, it went all the way through and swung free. He closed it back and pushed against it with his thumb. Click. Click. Click. His cock throbbed along.

  A sane smidgen of brain matter was saying, “What the fuck are you doing? Have you thought this through?” But he had. He’d been thinking it through for days. Airports, planes, vans, backstage, at bars, lying awake in anonymous beds in anonymous beige rooms. He liked sex. He had plenty of sex at his disposal.

  He’d never had this.

  Cris had to think he was nuts. He probably thought they’d have a little fun this afternoon, then take it off.

  The lock went click. click. click, its steel warming against his fingers.

  If it came to that, he’d settle for the afternoon fun. But what really got the darkness inside him flowing was the thought of being at the mercy of this thing for a period of time he was not in control of.

  The snick of the door opening tensed his shoulders. The lock in his hand went click one more time, the cuff becoming just big enough to accommodate his dick. The teeth that lined it, their tips were duller than he’d thought they’d be, but he could remember how firmly they’d held.

  “Open your fly,” Cris said, setting the bucket on the coffee table. Ice cubes mounded from the top of it. The sight sent a shiver through him as he unbuckled his belt.

&
nbsp; The suite’s carpet was thicker than the one in his low-rent room. His sneakers sank into it as he got to his feet.

  Cris leaned his hip against the bar, his arms crossed. He watched Nicky’s fingers work his button open. Unzip his fly.

  “That’s enough.” His fly was halfway down. Cris picked up the bucket.

  The bulge in Nicky’s underwear jutted against the zipper’s opening, the cotton damp from the near-constant leakage.

  “Hold them out.”

  Nicky shoved his waistband forward with both thumbs. He dug his toes into his sneakers.

  Cris pushed a handful of ice deep inside, between his underwear and the denim. A cube slipped down the leg of his jeans, dropping too fast to be cold until it came to rest against the top of his sock. He shook his foot, carefully, while Cris pushed another handful in. At first it just felt like hard edges against his underwear, but as Cris fished up another handful, the cool started to seep through. Cris reached in the bucket for more. Cool started to move toward cold. Cris pushed more ice in. Cold started to burn. Nicky drew his lips back, cold throbbing into his balls. The base of his cock was too hot for the ice, melting it into water. His underwear clung to him.

  His cock strained to stay hard, pulsing against the cold as Cris packed more in. He stretched his waistband farther out, making more room. Another cube slipped down his leg.

  The bucket was more than half empty when Cris pushed a last few cubes in and said, “Okay, sit.”

  Gingerly Nicky let the waistband go.

  He tugged the zipper up, carefully, pulling the ice against him.

  The cubes scraped and jostled as he settled onto the sofa.

  A trickle of cold eased down the inside of his thigh.

  “Comfortable?”

  It hurt a little, the cold. He shifted the hips, making the ice gnash—feeling and hearing it at the same time. He wanted to shove a hand down there and hold the ice away from his crotch. It was cold. Instead he gripped the back of his neck, keeping his hands out of the way.

  His cock was still trying to stay hard. It throbbed with the thrill of being tortured.

  He gritted his teeth as the melting ice slipped a little.

  Cris set the bucket on the sofa. Nudging Nicky’s knees closer together, compressing the ice between his thighs, he straddled him, putting his hands on Nicky’s shoulders. Looking into his eyes.

  “Getting there,” Nicky said, barely a whisper. He only thought he might be getting there because he couldn’t quite feel anything down there anymore. Just cold and numbness.

  Cris picked up the cock lock and click-click-clicked the shackle through the ratchet, making Nicky’s heart beat harder. He held onto Cris’s ass, wanting to put his forehead against Cris’s chest, but the lock was in Cris’s hands, and he couldn’t stop looking at it.

  “So, you just tour around with that shit?”

  “Actually, I bought it just for you.” Click click.

  The metal caught the sunlight through the balcony doors. “Why?”

  “I wanted to get your attention.”

  “You got it.” Another near whisper. Ice slid, settling against his ass, the cold like a burn. Another trickle dribbled downward. “Why me?”

  “You got my attention.” He tossed his hair back.

  Nicky had no idea what he’d done to get any attention. He was an alcoholic guitar player who, until recently, had walked as quickly as he could from any room Cris Warren was in.

  And he didn’t know what that was about either. Electricity came off the man, and shot right to him every time, like lightning to ground. His instinct had been to take cover.

  “Think you’re ready?” Cris asked.

  “Sure as fuck hope so.” Except for where it hurt, everything was numb in his crotch.

  Chris shifted to the side, keeping a leg hooked over Nicky’s knee as he tugged Nicky’s zipper down.

  Ice spilled toward the opening.

  One by one, Cris plucked the cubes out, their sides slick and glistening, their edges softened. He dropped them in the bucket: thunk against the side, click against the other cubes. Water soaked through Nicky’s jeans. Melting pieces of ice jammed themselves between the denim and his thighs. He tipped his head up, looking at the ceiling. Breathing slow, patient, torturous breaths.

  “Stand up.” Cris backed off him, pulling him to his feet by his shirt. Stray cubes dropped through the legs of his jeans, leaving trails down his calves. As soon as Nicky was steady, Cris was shucking his jeans and underwear down. The room’s air felt warm compared to his skin.

  Cris fished a bottle of hotel body lotion from his pocket. Nicky’s shrunken penis was numb to the point where it almost felt like Cris was rubbing lotion on someone else’s dick. Just as feeling started to come through, Cris crouched, reaching for the lock. He gathered Nicky into his hand and pushed the tube in place, until the locking cuff was seated against Nicky’s pelvis.

  Nicky held his breath. His heart beat fast. Panic started spinning through him. His hands clenched. His nails dug into his palms.

  Cris adjusted the cuff, making sure nothing was going to get pinched when it closed.

  Jesus, this was a stupid idea. This was a really fucking stupid idea. (Do it already! Before I change my fucking mind.)

  The ratchet gave its first click. Nicky clamped his eyes shut. His body felt like it was swaying. He pushed his weight onto the balls of his feet, clutching his hands as tight as he could. The ratchet clicked again, then three more, fast, before he could even draw a breath. The dull teeth lining the cuff pressed his skin.

  Cris tugged a little, his face close as he examined it. One more click then, its sound reaching right to Nicky’s core, because he knew with that one—that last click—there was no getting out.

  You’re fucking fucked now, idiot.

  Cris dug in his pocket, and came up with the cuff’s key. For a second Nicky thought he was about to have a chance to change his mind, but Cris flipped the key over so the point at the top faced the cuff. He pushed that point into a matching hole on the cuff, double-locking it so it wouldn’t accidentally tighten any further.

  “Done.” Cris rocked on his heels to stand up.

  The weight of it pulled at him, familiar and strange at once. His privates were still half-numb with cold. The whole thing felt unreal. He grasped it. The slightest tug was a quick reminder that it was absolutely fucking real.

  “Take your clothes off,” Cris said, pulling another bottle from the mini bar. Just the one this time. Nicky sat to untie his sneakers, the metal jutting upward against the couch cushion.

  Cris cracked open the liquor and poured it.

  Nicky set his sneakers aside, stuffing his socks in them. The carpet hugged his bare toes as he stood to push his jeans down the rest of the way. When he straightened, the cuff pulled at him again. Cold crept up his spine. What the fuck have I done? He couldn’t even see his dick anymore, just his balls squeezed through cuff—pillows for the metal tube to rest against.

  He dragged his shirt off as Cris dropped into a chair, hooking a leg over the arm. He sipped whiskey and watched Nicky let the shirt drop softly to the floor.

  He had to be a sight, buck naked with machined steel for a cock. He started to sit on the couch.

  “Unh-uh.”

  He pulled himself back up, looking toward Cris.

  “Straight ahead.” Cris pointed the glass toward the balcony, until Nicky’s chin followed. “Good.”

  He heard Cris take a sip. Felt his gaze looking him over. Instinctively he moved his arms behind his back, clasping his wrist to hold them there. He lifted his chin, looking at the view of the sky and buildings beyond the balcony. All those people out there, going about their day in their offices and cubicles, and here he was, a freak on show for Cris Warren. The weight of steel tugged at him. The tube started to feel constrictive. Sweat dampened his forehead. He thought of the keyhole, of the key Cris had possession of. He thought of leaving here with this thing still on his dick, dis
missed. Denied.

  “I’d reprimand you,” Cris said, and Nicky looked up—only realizing then that he’d been staring at the steel tube—“but I like the expression on your face. That ‘what the fuck have I done’ look.”

  His eyes were pulled back to it.

  Fabric rustled. Bare feet over carpet. Cris’s chest bumped his shoulder. He spoke right in his ear, his breath carrying whiskey on it. “What are you going to do when the next hot chick tells you all the ways she’s going to suck your cock? When her hand starts to slide up your thigh—” His fingers dragged searing trails up Nicky’s skin. “—heading for the inevitable.”

  He curled his fist around the steel tube.

  Nicky lifted his chin, his chest tight. The sky was actually ‘sky blue.’ Just a puff or two of clouds. An airplane floated serenely across.

  “What about tomorrow night, when it’s time to jump in the showers after the show?” The side of his hand leaned against Nicky’s balls. A chill zig-zagged through Nicky’s chest, like a piece of ice melting its way through. “What are you gonna do, wait for everyone to finish and try to slip in before we come off, wanting our own showers?”

  His throat clenched, making it hard to swallow. Cris made it hard to think. Images just bounced around in his head. The airplane started to vibrate in the sky. He pressed his eyes shut to clear it.

  “Or are you just gonna get in the van and go back to the hotel sticky with sweat and stinking like a pig?” His lip tickled the edge of Nicky’s ear.

  Nicky was putting dents in his wrist, behind his back. Somehow, he dug up words and found the breath to push them out. “Have you done this before?”

  The silence was like a vacuum, drawing Nicky’s attention into it.

  Cris leaned toward the coffee table to set his glass down. “The only thing that matters to you is what I do now. And what you do now.” He gripped Nicky by the back of the neck.

  Shivers jittered down his spine. His shoulders tensed.

  “I gave you what you wanted,” came Cris’s breath, hot and fast in his ear. “You owe me something I want.”