(to make furious)
§
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.