ABROGATE

(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.