INFURIATE

(to make furious)

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Bobby starts playing the opening chords to “Fallen Angel” and you grin, first at him and then out over the crowd.  The place is absolutely packed and everyone’s screaming, girls everywhere and you feel like you’re high.  There’s no better feeling in the world.

 

You shoot a glance in Rikki’s direction.  He’s staring at you, just like he has been every time you’ve looked back there, and this gives you a perverse sense of satisfaction.  Now if you could just figure out why Bobby seems so off tonight, everything would be perfect.

 

You nod at Rikki, and he begins the drum intro to the song.  Then you turn back to the crowd, ready to sing, and just as CC comes in, you hear a crash from behind you.

 

You nearly jump, startled, and whirl around to see what caused the sudden noise.  Immediately, you frown.  You should have known that only one thing could have made a sound quite like that one.

 

One of Rikki’s cymbals is lying on its side. You look at him, and his expression is positively panic-stricken.  It’s only a matter of seconds before one of the drum techs rushes out to correct the error, but that small span of time where everything is not exactly as it’s supposed to be is enough to make your veins course with anger.  You hate to be embarrassed.  What the fuck is the matter with him? 

 

You turn back to the crowd, plastering your signature grin across your face.  “How about this idiot?” you say into the microphone, gesturing towards Rikki.  The crowd cheers and laugh.  Hell, you could get up here and start reading the dictionary and they’d still cheer. “Let’s try this again!” you say then, and shoot Rikki a warning glance.

 

Again the song starts, and this time, everything goes as it should.  You power through a few songs, every note where it should be, and the crowd is eating out of the palm of your hand.  Just like always.

 

But that doesn’t make you forget that he fucked up.  And now it’s time for CC’s solo, and you have ten minutes to correct his mistake.

 

You’re standing in the shadows as he saunters off stage, casually twirling a drumstick between his long fingers.  His self-assuredness makes you smile, if only because you know how quickly you can strip it away from him. 

 

Before he even has a chance to notice you, you wrap your hand around his wrist and tug.  The drumstick clatters to the floor and you both ignore it, and then you’re dragging him into the small utility closet to the left of the stage.  You know that no one spotted you; CC’s already starting his solo, and Bobby’s walking off the stage in the other direction, his back to you.

 

“Bret, what are you—“

 

“Be quiet,” you command.  Your senses are super-charged and flooded with a mixture of excitement, anger, and arousal.  You were hard on stage, and now that you’ve got him alone, you’re even harder. 

 

You push him against the wall and tug on the cord above your head.  The harsh light of a single bulb illuminates the cramped room.  As you reach over to close the door with one hand, you’re already unzipping your jeans with the other.  You don’t have much time, after all.

 

For a moment, he just looks at you.  His expression is one of confusion, and somewhere underneath that, fear.  You know that he knows he fucked up, and you know that he’s expecting punishment.  These thoughts make you smile, and they also make you even more aroused.

 

But now your annoyance is growing in addition to other things.  “It’s not going to suck itself,” you tell him, a hint of warning in your voice.

 

Instantly he is on his knees before you, his hand coming up and closing around your cock, and seconds later you feel the wet heat of his mouth wrap around you.  A low groan escapes your lips.  This is exactly what you need to feel.  You look down at him and see that he is looking back up at you imploringly.  He knows just how you want this to be – quick and powerful and subservient – and he is doing his best to deliver it.  You can tell that he is desperate for some sort of praise or encouragement, but you have no intention of giving him any.

 

Even though it’s not as if he doesn’t deserve it.  No one has ever been able to do to you the things that he can, and god knows you’ve had enough blowjobs to compare it to.  He’s the only one who could ever make it feel like you were going to get your entire being sucked out through the head of your cock, and he’s the only one who could ever make such a thing seem like a good idea.

 

But still, he’s being punished, not rewarded.  Forcing yourself to keep your wits about you and not let on how exquisite he is making you feel, you reach into your pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes.  You watch him as he watches you remove one with your teeth and light it, and you can see how disappointed he is that he’s clearly doing such a bad job of pleasuring you that it makes you want a cigarette.  Never mind the fact that this couldn’t be further from the truth.  The truth is, maybe the distraction of smoking will keep you from shooting off, which you’re already dangerously close to doing.

 

Your free hand snakes into his hair, pulling hard enough that he whimpers, the sound reverberating up through your cock and into your entire body.  Everything about him turns you on; his submission and his skill and the way that he looks at you.  Your stomach muscles contract and relax, over and over.  You know you aren’t going to last much longer.

 

He clearly senses this as well.  He’s working even harder now, sucking you at a feverish pace.  You take a shaky drag on your cigarette and can’t help but groan as you exhale.  Your hips begin to thrust involuntarily, and now you’re fucking his face, trying to get as deeply into his throat as you possibly can.  You can feel his throat muscles constricting around the head of your cock, and you look down. 

 

Seeing him there on his knees, so submissive and so very yours, is all it takes.  With a final guttural groan, you thrust as hard as you can and feel yourself begin to come.  The orgasm is so overpowering that you nearly lose your footing, but you can’t let that happen.  You wrap your fingers more tightly around a fistful of his hair.

 

When the spasms finally subside, you pull back and look down at him, your hand still wrapped in his hair.  He stays perfectly still, just looking up at you, waiting for your next command.  The very idea of this makes your muscles contract and relax again.

 

And then you pull him to his feet roughly, by his hair, and you can see his face distort from the sudden jolt of pain. 

 

Now you are eye to eye with him, and you release your grasp on him and readjust your pants.  You study him for a moment.  “That was good,” you say, weighing each word carefully.

 

Although he tries to hide it, you can see the joy plainly across his face.  “Thank you,” he says softly, and you know that he really means it.

 

You take a long drag on your cigarette, glance down at the burning cherry.  “But not good enough to make up for what happened on stage,” you say.

 

His eyes dart nervously from your face to your cigarette and back again.  “I… I’m sorry,” he stammers.

 

“Of course you are,” you reply.  “Quite sorry, indeed.”  Your voice has taken on a mocking, lilting tone.  With your free hand, you reach out suddenly and grab his crotch, and at first he is startled, but then he presses his hardness into the palm of your hand.  “I’ve turned you on,” you note.

 

“Of course,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.  “You always turn me on.”

 

“Is that why that little mishap took place on stage a little while ago?” you ask, although you already know the answer.  “Because I turn you on?” 

 

He gives you a barely perceptible nod and his eyes close as you unzip his pants.  He whimpers as you take him into your hand and give him a few short strokes.  You lean forward so your face is next to his.  “Do you want me to touch you like this?” you whisper into his ear, gripping his cock firmly.

 

“Yessss,” he hisses.  “Please.”  His head is thrown back now, his eyes still closed.

 

In one fluid motion, you bring the hand holding the cigarette down and press the lit end of it into the flesh of his abdomen as hard as you can.  He jumps backwards and lets out a cry of shock and pain. 

 

“Too fucking bad,” you say, and then you turn and open the door, leaving him there with his pants undone.