Fresh from his ordeals in the HQ re-education centre and then with Raquel the serial killer, Nick is taking some well-earned time off. Of course, Nick doesn’t know how to relax, so most of his downtime involves scouting for his next lover. Cue gorgeous young twink Rafe … Rafe is failing his way through life. First as a writer, now as a waiter: he comes to Nick’s attention when he gets fired from the bistro Nick happens to be in. It’s clear Rafe has zero confidence. He’s been living a cycle of self-denial, meaning he’s long overdue a good time. Nick decides he has the goods to rock Rafe’s world AND shake up his worldview a little.
Little does Nick know that Rafe has a few surprises himself …
DOWNTIME is explicit M/M erotica. PLEASE NOTE: This story is for adults only and contains homoerotic content, as well as depictions of flogging, exhibitionism, religious iconography, mild horror as well as commentary on life choices, mental health and self-care
Rafe didn’t think much of the fact the tube station was deserted, nor was he concerned when the next train came in without passengers. Listening to his ear pods, his head bobbed up and down to his favourite, Ariana Grande. Thank u, next.
He dragged his tired self through the automatic doors, letting them swish shut behind him. It was only just seven o’clock in the evening; Rafe left his home twelve hours ago but it felt like years. In the winter he’d leave in the dark and arrive home in the dark. His feet throbbed; his back ached from standing all day. Rafe let himself fall onto the scratchy fabric seat, breathing in the musty, stale air through his nostrils. A momentary wondering bubbled up in the surface of his brain.
Where was everyone?
This concern disappeared as the train shuddered, moving away from the vacant underground platform. The lights overhead flickered as the tube plunged into the dark tunnel; for a moment, all illumination was gone.
Rafe was alone, in the dark.
Discomfort rose in his chest in that microsecond. Darkness brought with it unwanted memories of childhood, hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe with his sister while their mother indulged in drunken rants about their no-good father who’d run out on them. Yet as quick as it disappeared, the light was back, casting its fluorescent glow around the carriage.
As Rafe blinked, allowing his eyes to readjust, he discovered he was no longer alone. Another man stood four or five feet away from him.
A fluttering of anxiety surged in Rafe’s chest at the sight of him: where had he come from? Was this an ambush? Rafe knew, from bitter experience, certain violent types liked to hunt down those they deemed ‘weaker’ by isolating them, like a lion separates a gazelle from the rest of the herd.
No, Rafe was being over-cautious. He’d not seen a living soul at the station; nor had there been anyone on board the carriage. The stranger would have needed to be psychic to know Rafe was alone and vulnerable. He can’t have appeared out of thin air; he must have been moving from another carriage to this one as the lights went out.
It was just a coincidence.
The stranger held on to a commuter rail above him. He didn’t look like he really needed to; he was a huge, solid biker guy, broad in the shoulder. He had a swarthy complexion, blue eyes and skeins of silver-grey in his long hair and beard. He stood with feet wide apart, his other hand in his leather jacket pocket. He wore blue jeans, work boots, a bandanna, and a gold earring, like a pirate.
Rafe felt a stirring in his groin at the sight of the biker. He reminded him of the iconic homoerotic work of Artist Touko Valio Laaksonen aka Tom of Finland. Rafe had grown up watching movies and TV shows about motorcycle gangs and this guy looked like he’d walked straight out of one.
He realised he was at eye level with the biker’s crotch. He willed the biker to turn around so he might catch a glimpse. To his delight, the other man obliged, as if he’d received Rafe’s instruction via telepathy.
Rafe drank in the sight of the stranger’s bulge: it was big, but not too big. Just the way he liked them. He had never met a biker before, never even served one at the bistro. He supposed the average outlaw type didn’t go in for pots of tea, cinnamon buns, or soup of the day.
Thank you, Mia Ryder and Zooloo’s Book Tours
About the author
Mia Ryder writes bitesize filth to devour before bed as part of the SEX. DIE. REPEAT series.
Contains sexual content, swearing, crime, religious iconography & commentary on relationships & mental illness. DO NOT follow if of a delicate disposition!!
Twitter : https://twitter.com/Bang2write
Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B09SBHVFXF
Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09SBHVFXF