(to treat as nonexistent)
§
You’re trying hard to appear
interested in what this guy is saying, but it doesn’t seem to be working. You manage to latch onto every third or
fifth word, throw in the occasional ill-timed sympathetic nod, but this
character’s got to be pretty hammered to think you’re actually paying
attention. Not that you aren’t a little
tipsy yourself. All night C.C.’s been
feeding you strange frothy drinks that tasted deceptively weak, and you can
definitely notice the first signs of being good and drunk: the numb lips, the
concentration it takes to walk, the way your head feels a good ten pounds
heavier than it should.
Suddenly, you feel a pair of warm
and distinctively male hands cover your eyes, and for just a second you flinch
and make sure of your footing, but then you notice a few things. The hands smell of sweat and cigarettes, and
somewhere underneath that, the faint scent of coconut. Idly, you wonder if he rubs that cocoa
butter on his entire body. You can feel
the metal of his rings pressing into your face.
You chuckle self-consciously and
let your weight fall partially against him.
To everyone else, you’ll just look like the drunken idiot who lost his
footing, and maybe even Bret will think that.
You can feel through the flimsy tee shirt you’re wearing – how the hell
did you end up wearing that, anyway? Who
the hell does it belong to? – that his abdomen is slick with sweat.
He lets go of your face then, and
you blink at the sudden increase in light.
You feel one of his hands grabbing at your wrist. “Come with me,” he says so that only you can
hear.
For just a moment, you
hesitate. Are you really up for this
tonight? Who knows what he has in
mind. The thoughts pass quickly,
though. You know better. When have you ever been able to turn him
down, especially when he’s pressed up against you and talking to you in that,
“I need to have you right now” voice?
You can’t help but laugh then, a nervous, inappropriate sound. Screw asking yourself when you’ve ever been
able to turn him down. The question is,
when has he ever let you turn him down?
Bret lets go of your wrist and
starts weaving his way through the crowd toward the exit. You watch him for only a minute, his sinewy
body effortlessly winding through the groups of people, like some kind of
sexually electric Moses parting the sea.
Then you hurriedly follow after him, knowing that he hates being made to
wait.
You stumble in his wake like a
well-trained puppy, out of the club and up the sidewalk and onto the bus that
the two of you share. You close the
bus’s door behind you without even noticing you’re doing it.
He moves aside to get you in front
of him, then wastes no time shoving you roughly towards the back. You sigh.
Maybe you’re really not up to whatever crazy power games Bret’s got up
his sleeve tonight. “Bret…” you begin
uncertainly. By now you’ve reached the
bunks. He pushes you again and you
nearly trip, the action catching you completely off guard. It’s obvious that he’s leading you to the
back lounge. What’s not obvious,
however, is why he’s doing it.
“Don’t defy me,” he growls in your
ear. Somewhere in your mind, you think
it almost sounds like a purr. Despite
your growing sense of unease, you feel yourself begin to grow hard. Maybe that’s because you could swear that
underneath the command, his voice sounded desperate.
He shoves you a final time, more
roughly than the first two, and this time you do fall. You put your hands out in enough time to
avoid going face first into the Formica table, but not in enough time to keep
your chin from bouncing off the edge of it.
From underneath the alcohol, you feel your teeth trap your tongue
between them. The pain is sharp and
sudden for only a second before it begins to dull, but you can taste the
coppery heat of blood on your tongue.
You barely have a chance to so
much as contemplate getting up before you feel yourself being pulled off of the
floor by the back of your shirt. He
whirls you around and looks at you, his blue eyes half-closed in an expression
of ferocity and lust, and for a minute you wonder if he’s just going to beat
the snot out of you. Moreover, you
wondered if you’d like it.
“Bret,” you say again, less
certain this time. Before you have a
chance to say anything else, he is upon you, his mouth pressing insistently
against yours. You try to resist, but
when you feel his tongue snaking against your lips, something snaps and you
open your mouth to accommodate him. He
tastes like whiskey and another taste, one that is indefinable and yet
undeniably Bret. He is an incredible
kisser, and no matter what is on his sadistic menu, he rarely forgets to start
things out this way. Perhaps it’s
because he knows how quickly you become powerless when he slides that silken
tongue across yours.
You realize that you’ve lost
control of your hands when you notice that they’re already fumbling with his
belt. His belt with that ridiculous
gold buckle that says USA, as if anyone’s thinking of politics when they’re
touching it. You unzip his jeans and pull
it out. He’s already hard and it
doesn’t really surprise you; he must have been pretty worked up to just pull
you away from the party like that. Bret
doesn’t like having to make excuses.
“What are you waiting for,” he
says then, his voice gruff. It is less
of a question then a statement.
He doesn’t like hearing excuses,
either, and so you quickly tighten your grasp around him, tentatively flicking
your tongue over the head before taking him fully into your mouth. You are rewarded with a low moan, quiet but
audible, and you steal a glance upwards.
His blond hair falls in his face.
His jaw is slack and his eyes are closed, his breathing ragged with
desire and need. How you hate to love
to please him.
Already he’s fucking your mouth,
his hands on your head, his back arched.
You breathe deeply through your nose so that you don’t gag from his
sudden movements. You curse your body
for betraying you as you strain against the tight fabric of your jeans.
His hands weave into your hair,
pulling through those tangles that only a packed arena and a case of Aquanet
can create. It hurts, but you don’t let
on; it isn’t as if he doesn’t already know.
Bret’s motions are becoming more
erratic now, more insistent. He always
comes at least twice every time, sometimes more, and the first one usually
doesn’t take long. Sometimes you allow
yourself to entertain the notion that it’s because you turn him on so much, but
really, you know that’s not what it’s about.
It’s some kind of bastardized version of a rape fantasy, and it’s all
about the power games. Not that there’s
anything terribly game-like about it; it’s not as if you have a shot at
winning.
He’s really moaning now, head
thrown back and it’s like something out of Pretty Boys Discover Bondage Volume
Six, and you really have to concentrate so you don’t choke. He’d laugh at you if you did, and tonight
you’d like to avoid that smug laugh, and just pretend that maybe he feels a
tenth for you what you—
And then you feel him start
spurting hot into your mouth without warning, and he’s gasping and groaning and
you suck him harder while you try to swallow fast enough. Then it’s over and he pulls out of your
mouth with a sort of wet sucking sound.
You look up at him, and when your eyes meet, you feel your stomach give
an involuntary lurch.
As always, you find yourself
scanning his expression for any sort of positive reinforcement, but you know
better. His flavor lingering on your tongue is all the thanks you’re going
to get. His eyes register only that
same cocky look he gives his fans: that
“I own you and you wouldn’t have me any other way” face. And he was right, of course. Mr. Bret Michaels owned each and every one
of those screaming girls in the audience.
Hell, probably some of the guys, too.
And maybe that’s all you were, too, just another fan desperate for even
the slightest recognition from him.
But no. It wasn’t like that, not really, at least not all the time.
Sometimes you were just Bret and Rikki, two rock stars who had been best
friends for the better part of your lives, although you supposed even then it
was always like that. Bret and
Rikki. Never Rikki and Bret.
You realize just how long the two
of you have been staring at each other, although you know he’s not really
looking at you at all. Rather he is
looking through you, looking straight through everything in his field of vision
and staring into that boundaryless space between his brain and his insatiable
libido. You shudder, knowing that he’s
trying to decide what to do to you next.
You had dimly hoped that this would be the end of it, that he had girls
or drugs or sleep waiting for him, but it’s clear that tonight he’s got more in
store for you.
You lean back so that you’re
sitting on your heels. Your eyes light
on a torn patch of leather on the couch that wraps around the cramped room and
your vision blurs as you lose yourself in thought.
Sometimes you wonder how you ever
ended up here, on your knees on the back of a tour bus that always smelled of
cigarettes, whiskey, and sex. You
wonder what all of those barely-dressed girls out standing outside of the bus
think is going on inside. You can just
hear your tour manager now, making lame excuses, tired old clichés like “Bret’s
checking his blood sugar,” and, “Rikki’s with family.” You almost laugh out loud at that last
one. Your parents are out there right
now, talking to fans and wondering what you’re up to just as much as the
groupies are. If they only knew how
much you looked like a girl tonight.
And then he’s pulling you roughly
to your feet by your shirt, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to bring you
back to reality. Well, the reality he’s
created for you, at any rate. One of
the first things you learned when you became a rock star was that reality is
subjective. Reality is created for you,
and when you compare the realities created for you by various people – your
parents, your fans, Bret – they really couldn’t be more different. And which one of them is the truth? Are any of them?
You’re eye to eye with him now,
and as your fear escalates, so does your excitement. Perhaps the two are interchangeable. One thing he’s never failed to do is turn you on. No matter what you’re doing, or thinking, or
feeling, just one of his cocky smirks is all it takes and it’s like you’re
fourteen again and just found your first issue of Playboy. You’re straining against your jeans and he
knows it and that makes it better and worse all at once and the liquor isn’t
helping, and oh god, now he’s reaching for your zipper and tugging it down
roughly…
And then his hand is on your cock
and you have to consciously remind yourself that breathing is a necessary
function. You feel yourself thrust
against him, and the motion is involuntary, reflexive, and immediately you
tense up and take a step backwards. You
know that being eager won’t get you anything you want; in fact, quite the
opposite.
But he doesn’t let go, just grips
you harder and begins to stroke in a slow, agonizing rhythm. You can feel every beat of your heart along
the entire length of your painfully hard cock and you choose to ignore the fact
that he’s laughing. The pleasure for
once is overriding the shame, and you’d like to ride that wave as far as it
will take you. And with the way he’s
touching you, the way he knows every inch of your flesh better than you do, you
don’t know how much longer that will be.
Which could be problematic, seeing
as you’re not supposed to come until he tells you to.
He’s working faster now, more
insistently, and it’s becoming a real struggle to hold back. Think about something else. Anything else. Think about how much you hate him. Except that you don’t, only you do, but really, that just turns
you on more. You bite your lip hard to
keep from groaning.
“You want to come, don’t you,” he
says then, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words are not a question.
You can only whimper in response.
He continues to stroke you, and you wonder if he’s going to let you
finish. If he doesn’t stop soon, you’re
not going to have a choice in the matter.
You’re close. So close.
He brings his other hand up and
grabs you by your chin, still not being blatantly rough, but firmly enough to
remind you who’s in control here. You
meet his gaze despite how looking into his blue eyes makes you feel. You’re spiraling rapidly out of
control. Now he’s gripping you so hard
that pain swirls with the pleasure, forcing you closer to orgasm and making
your vision swim. “I don’t think so,”
he says evenly, his voice cruel and cold through his smirk as he lets go. You can’t stop the moan from escaping your
throat this time.
He takes a step backward and grabs
a fistful of your shirt as though he’s going to pull back with his other arm
and punch you in the face. You flinch
involuntarily. He’s hardly ever hit you
in that way, but it wouldn’t exactly be a first.
Instead, he tugs as hard as he
can, and you can feel the flimsy fabric of your tee shirt pull taut against the
flesh of your back before you hear it tear.
Another pull and it’s off, and as he tosses it to the floor you can feel
the stinging heat on your back.
Combined with alcohol and arousal, it’s enough to make you clamp your
teeth down on the inside of your cheek to keep from visibly swaying.
“Off,” he says. “Now.”
You know that he’s referring to
your pants, and you hesitate for only a second before quickly shedding
them. The whiskey and lust make you
less self-conscious than you probably should be. There isn’t enough whiskey in the world to make you feel less
vulnerable, but physical nudity on top of psychological nudity makes for one
hell of a self-effacing cocktail. You
stand before him, completely exposed, barely able to hold his gaze. This should be easy for you by now, you
think. How many nights has he played
this game with you? How many after-show
events were cancelled because he was using you as an outlet for his
psychosexual pleasure? You can remember
the first time it happened… but you don’t want to think about that, not
now. Not while he’s pulling his shirt
up over his head and you can see every muscle in his arms glistening with a
light sheen of sweat.
As he deftly strips himself of his
tight jeans that you’re relatively positive were tailored for a woman, you find
yourself watching in awe. He moves with
a self-assured grace that oozes sexuality.
Everything he ever does is foreplay.
You envy him as much as you hate him as much as you love him. The only time you ever feel even half as
confident as he does is when—
Suddenly his hands are on you,
pulling you towards him while at the same time attempting to turn your body
away from him, and the action catches you completely off guard. Your arms flail wildly, grabbing at the air
in a desperate attempt to keep from falling again, and you feel your hand graze
his side, your nails digging into his flesh.
You somehow manage to steady yourself and your eyes widen when they see
the blood welling up in the fresh welts you’ve torn into his skin.
For a moment, time stands
still. He looks at you, then down to
the cuts, bringing a hand to his side and dipping his finger into the blood
you’ve caused him to spill. Then his
eyes are boring into yours again, clearly surprised but fiery with anger. He pulls back and backhands you hard, and
there are a few seconds between impact and the bright flash of pain in your
cheek and jaw. You reflexively bring
your own hand up to your face, averting your eyes as you feel hot tears
threatening behind them.
“Look at me,” he commands.
You blink a few times and turn
back to him, letting your hand drop again to your side. You no longer feel as though you’re about to
cry, thankfully, but the fear of what he might do next is nearly all consuming
now.
“Tell me that you deserved that,”
he says then.
You blink, but his expression
doesn’t soften. You swallow. “I deserved that,” you say quietly, drowning
in shame.
He nods slowly, looking
contemplative. His cock is once again
rock-hard, and you know that hitting you turned him on. He reaches down and begins to slowly stroke
himself, still giving you that angry, pensive stare. “And you’ll deserve everything else you get tonight,” he says
finally. He motions to the couch. “Bend over.”
For just a second, you consider
refusing, jumping out of the window stark naked just to get away from whatever
he’s got planned. That would be
something for the groupies to talk about, now wouldn’t it. You swallow hard and turn away from him,
placing your hands on the top of the couch and closing your eyes.
A moment passes and you feel him
behind you, his erection pressing against your ass, and you realize with
sickening dread that he’s got no intention of making this comfortable for
you. You clench your jaw. “Please,” you say between your teeth.
The head of his cock is already
seeking entry. He laughs in an unamused
way. “Please me, you mean.” Thus saying, he slams into you all at once,
and you grip the couch so hard your knuckles turn white. Your breath comes out all at once in a
hiss. The pain is so intense that you
can barely think, but all you’ve ever wanted is to be one with him, and it
didn’t get much closer than this.
He begins to fuck you furiously,
sawing in and out of you at a feverish pace.
Somewhere in your mind you wonder if it would have been different if you
hadn’t cut him, and you’re sure it would have been.
After a few minutes, the pain
starts to tickle around the edges and you are more able to focus on how good it
feels to have him inside of you. With
as much practice as he’s had, Bret knows exactly how to fuck you, he knows
exactly what angle to be at to make you writhe and twist beneath him. Before long, you find yourself thrusting
back against him, matching his movements.
Your cock throbs almost painfully
beneath you and you are desperate to touch it, but it’s only on rare occasions
that he allows you to do that, and you’re certain that tonight isn’t one of
those times. Not after the way you
disrespected him. You thrust against
him, wanting him to be somehow even deeper inside of you.
“Harder,” you breathe, and he
wastes no time in honoring the request.
Now he’s fucking you as hard as he can, and the pain and pleasure swirl
together, becoming one impossible friction as you struggle to stay lucid. He’s groaning loudly and you can feel the
front of his sweaty thighs against the back of yours. All you’ve ever wanted was to make him happy, and if it meant
being bent over and used on the back of a tour bus, then so be it. You know that in his own way, he loves you,
even if only as a possession.
You feel your control
slipping. Your fingers hurt from
clenching the leather of the couch so tightly.
He’s going to get you off without touching you at all if he keeps going
at this rate. You can’t help but cry
out.
“Do you like that?” he asks
breathily, and his words roll out of his mouth like wet velvet.
“…so fucking good…” you manage
between gasps, and you aren’t lying.
Nothing in the world can make you feel as wonderful and terrible as he
can.
The flesh of your back screams in
bright red pain as he rakes his nails across the sweaty skin, from just below
your shoulder blades all the way down to the base of your spine. You don’t need to be able to see it to know
that he’s definitely drawn blood, maybe even cut deeply enough to scar.
But you don’t care. In fact, you love it. You’re close. Really close, dangling over the precipice of an orgasm that might
be too much to bear. You can tell by
the now erratic movements of his hips that he’s right behind you.
Suddenly you feel his hand
gripping your cock, and you tense, surprised.
You wonder if he feels guilty for hitting you like that. And then that thought doesn’t matter, no
thoughts matter, because he’s jerking you hard and fast, and he’s going to make
you come because he wants it that way, and you never could say no to him.
Oh god. Almost there, you’re almost… jesus. “Bret… I can’t…” you manage before your orgasm crashes into you
hard and your knees go weak. You almost
pitch forward onto the couch, but his other arm comes down and grabs your hip,
not letting you fall as you shoot furiously onto the leather.
As he feels you tense around him,
he lets out a cry, nearly a howl, and you know your orgasm is triggering his
own. His hand grips your hip tightly,
as though he’s afraid without the handle, he’ll fall. He thrusts into you all the way a final time, and then remains
still and you feel him pulsing, spilling hotly deep inside of you. You are dimly aware of the fact that he is
clearly doing this for you; Bret likes to keep moving while he comes. It is you who likes to feel it as it
happens. This thought makes your orgasm
even more intense, if that’s even possible.
After what seems like hours, your
cock finally stops pulsing. You feel
him slip out of you and you let your weight fall against the couch so that you
are kneeling over it, the cool leather comforting underneath your feverish
skin. You stay this way for a few long
minutes, letting your world slowly stop spinning as your breathing returns to
normal.
By the time you manage to pull
yourself into an upright position, Bret is already dressed. You don’t have the energy for that yet. From his pocket he retrieves a pack of
cigarettes, then takes two out and lights them. Still smirking, he hands you one and you take a long drag, the
nicotine helping to calm your ragged nerves a bit.
For a long moment, you just look
at each other, and you wonder if he’s going to say anything. You wish that you could tell him that you
loved him, but that would be ridiculous, and the idea of him reciprocating the
sentiment would be even more absurd. He
looks at your naked, limp body and chuckles, then reaches for the door.
After he opens it, he turns back to look at you. His eyes are as cold and cruel as they were before. “I didn’t tell you to come,” he says, and the door slams.