INITIATE
(to cause the beginning of)
§
You fly past Smoothie and onto the
tour bus, making sure the door closes behind you. There are at least seventy-five fans waiting in the venue that
are going to be disappointed, but you don’t care. You’re too fucking pissed off
to care.
It has just been one of those days
where everything seemed to be slightly to the left of where it should be, like
some cosmic alignment shifted just a bit for no other reason than to annoy
you. The little things just kept
building up until now, and you’re ready to snap. You’d woken up late.
Sound check had been awful. CC
was trashed, and while he managed to keep it together during tonight’s show,
you’d been petrified the entire time that they were going to have to carry him
out of there on a stretcher. You’d
gotten hit in the face with a water bottle.
Security had sucked and people were practically climbing up on stage
with you. And so on. Your obsessive and controlling nature just
didn’t mesh well with this series of small and tedious mistakes.
You wanted to break something, but
practically everything on the tour bus was yours, and that would only piss you
off more later.
You make your way to the back of
tour bus and see Rikki sitting there with his laptop. For some reason, this infuriates you.
“You know, sometimes it seems like
that thing is more important to you than anything,” you say angrily.
He looks up, clearly surprised at
the tone of your voice. “What?” he asks
dumbly.
“There’s about a hundred
half-naked women out there, and you’re in here typing away on that fucking
computer!”
“I don’t see you out there,
either,” he says pointedly.
These seven words are enough to
take the anger meter up a good five notches, and with a growl, you reach out
and snatch the computer away from him.
For a moment, you consider smashing it, but decide against it, and
instead toss it down on the couch, out of his reach.
He watches this all happen as if
he’s seen it before, which he has.
“What did you do that for?” he asks simply.
You glare at him. His simple question is embarrassing since
there is no answer to it. You know you
had no good reason to take his computer from him. You’re just angry and he’s always been an easy target. “You don’t need to sit on the fucking
Internet all night,” you say finally.
He just continues to look at you
with that same bored stare. “What else
am I supposed to do,” he says flatly.
“I don’t fucking know,” you say,
your voice raising. “Maybe go to the
meet and greet you’re supposed to be at?”
“You mean like the one you’re
supposed to be at?” he retorts, not missing a beat.
It’s not so much what he’s said,
but the look on his face that finally makes you snap. It’s not even him, really, just his flippant attitude on top of
everything else that’s already gone wrong today. The last thing you need is your vegan bitch of a drummer getting
snappy with you.
In a moment, you are on the table,
leaning over and pulling him roughly to his feet by his shirt. The look of complete surprise on his face
pleases you more than it probably should.
You’re not entirely sure what’s gotten into you tonight. You just know that you need to hurt
something, and Rikki’s the only thing you’ve got in front of you.
At first, he puts his hands up in
at attempt to stop you, but then they fall back down to his sides. Years of
being in close quarters with you have taught him not to waste his time.
But for some reason, tonight, the
fact that he’s not fighting back only serves to anger you more. Idly, you wonder if maybe you’ve got some
sort of intermittent rage disorder, but the thought quickly passes. You give him a shove, releasing your grasp
on his shirt, and he stumbles backwards, but doesn’t fall back onto the
couch. He just stands there, looking at
you like you’ve entirely lost your mind.
“God,” you say, “you’re such a little bitch sometimes.”
He adjusts his shirt, watching you
warily. “Well, what the fuck do you
want me to do, hit you?”
You study him for a moment, trying
not to laugh at the idea of him ever actually raising a hand to you. “Yeah, that’s what I want,” you say, barely
realizing what’s coming out of your mouth.
“I want you to fucking hit me.”
You are awarded with a blank stare.
“I fucking dare you to hit me.”
“Bret, for Christ’s sake, come
on,” he says. “Why would I—“
You climb down off the table so
that you’re standing in front of him, and you absent-mindedly shove it back a
few feet with the backs of your legs.
“That’s what I fucking thought,” you growl at him.
You start to turn away, and just
as you do you feel something connect with your ear. It takes you a good ten seconds to realize that the little punk
has actually just punched you. In the
ear. You turn back to him, unconsciously
raising a hand to rub at the sore spot, and for a minute, you just look at him,
incredulous. He looks pretty surprised
himself.
And then you’re on top of him,
pushing him down onto the couch and pinning his thighs down with your knees,
grabbing his wrists and pushing so that he can hardly move at all. Your rage is so sudden and fierce that he
emits a cry and just looks up at you, wide-eyed.
“You did not just fucking
hit me,” you say. You’re so surprised
and angry that you almost laugh at him.
“You told me to,” he replies
immediately. You know he’s trying to
stand his ground, but that’s no easy feat when he’s immobile with you on top of
him, and you can hear the alarm in his voice.
It’s almost exciting. No, it’s
definitely exciting.
“I can’t believe you actually
fucking hit me,” you say again. In all
of your years of coexisting with this man, he’s never dared to get in a
physical confrontation, and frankly, you weren’t prepared for it now. Really, you feel as though you should just
climb off of him and walk away, but something inside of you won’t let that
happen. You have a reputation to
maintain, after all.
You let go of one of his arms long
enough to pull back and smack him across the face, the kind of smack that’s
only ever been delivered to you by an angry woman.
His hand immediately flies up to
his face and he makes a sound that’s almost a whimper. “Why did you do that?” he asks, and the look
in his eyes makes you hesitate for just a second. It is the look of a child who has just been rebuked by the center
of their universe.
You chuckle. “Why did I do that? Why did I just smack you like the little
bitch that you are?” you ask. “Because
you just fucking hit me, that’s why.”
He’s still rubbing at his face and
you let go of his other wrist, figuring there’s no way the little pansy is
going to retaliate further. Surely
you’ve taught him a lesson already.
There’s no way he’d try a move like that again.
It is this train of thought that
makes it so much of a surprise when you feel hot red pain explode under your
left eye. For just a second, everything
is black, and then you see him looking up at you with a mixture of satisfaction
and fear, his left hand still curled into a fist.
And that’s all it takes.
You jump backwards and off of him
in a move worthy of a gymnast, and within seconds you’re pulling him to his
feet. “Didn’t I fucking teach you this
lesson already?” you demand. You whirl
him around so his back is to the table.
“Come on, Bret,” he says, back to
his usual pacifistic self. “Let’s not
do this.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” you
growl. “You don’t punch me in the
fucking face and then just walk away from it.”
You’ve got a fistful of his shirt
in your right hand and you’re holding him up by it, and you didn’t even realize
that you were pulling him so hard that his feet are barely touching the
floor. Chalk one up for not realizing
your own strength, but it’s a satisfying realization to make. Now he just looks scared.
“Bret,” he says, failing in his
attempt to keep his voice steady. “I’m
sorry, I—“
“You’re gonna be fucking sorry,
all right,” you say, and then you ball your other hand into a fist and punch
him as hard as you can in the stomach.
You would have preferred to hit him with your right hand, but that one
is busy, and besides, it’s fair. He hit
you with his left.
You let go of his shirt and he
doubles over. It’s obvious you’ve
knocked the wind out of him, and for just a second, you feel guilty, but it
quickly passes. After all, the little
shit hit you. Twice. You could really kill him right now, with
him bent over like that, but you just stand there, waiting.
Eventually, he straightens back
up, and the expression on his face registers pain, fear, confusion… and
something else, but you can’t figure out what.
You stare him right in the eye.
“You done now?”
He looks back at you for a moment,
and it’s obvious that he’s considering his next move. Rikki’s face has always been expressive, and besides, you’ve been
friends with him for the better part of your life. It’s usually not hard for you to figure out what he’s thinking,
and right now you know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that he knows it would be a bad move to hit you
again, but you can see that he wants to.
And so you just wait, looking at him, flashing your signature cocky
grin, just daring him to do something.
You see him raise his fist and you
don’t even move. You don’t quite know
what’s gotten into you tonight, but you actually want the fucker to hit
you. It’s exhilarating, and it’s nice
to see him actually standing his own ground for once. Or trying to, anyway.
You’re both perfectly aware of the fact that he doesn’t stand a chance.
And then his fist connects with
your mouth, and you’re taken aback by how much it hurts. He must have thrown all of his weight into
that punch. The pain shoots through
your face and you can taste coppery hot blood from where he’s split your lip. The pain and the taste of blood and the
audacity of your drummer makes you feel as though your entire body just got hit
with a jolt of electricity.
A jolt of electricity that you can
feel in places you really shouldn’t.
You ignore this last thought and
lunge forward, wrapping your hands around his neck and shoving him
backwards. In a matter of seconds,
you’re on top of him again, this time on the table, and again he’s got that
“what the fuck did I just do” look in his eyes, and it’s even more satisfying
this time. “You little fuck,” you spit
at him. “What the hell do you think
you’re doing?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t answer because he can’t answer as
long as you’re choking him. You’re
amazed at how good it is to feel his pulse as you squeeze his throat. It’s a kind of power you’ve never felt
before. You push your entire weight
against him, still staring him straight in the eye.
And that’s when you notice
something strange. The drummer has an
erection, and it’s pressing against your thigh.
Surprised, you release your grasp
on his throat. He coughs a few times,
his eyes watering, but he doesn’t make a move to defend himself, just keeps
eyeing you with that same fearful look.
“What the fuck?” you ask,
incredulous. “This fucking turning you
on?” Never mind the fact that you’re
feeling a stirring in your own tight jeans.
That’s not the point. It’s just
from the adrenaline, you tell yourself.
You see his eyes jump from you to
his crotch and back again, and suddenly you realize it’s not just the
adrenaline. For the first time, you
realize just how attractive he really is, how alluring his childlike features
are. And the fact that you’ve got him
on his back like a bitch, well, that doesn’t hurt, either.
You grab his arms and pin them
above his head on the table. He doesn’t
even struggle.
“I asked you a fucking question,”
you snarl. He just looks at you. “I said, does this… fucking… turn… you…
on?” You say each word slowly, firmly,
and with each intake of breath you ever so slightly thrust your hips against
his. He closes his eyes. You release one of his hands just long enough
to smack him across the face again, and he still doesn’t open them. “Fucking answer me.”
For a moment, he is silent. Then, barely perceptible, he nods.
Your stomach twists. “Say it,” you command. Jesus, Michaels, you think, what the fuck
are you doing?
He bites his lip and opens his
eyes, looking everywhere but at you.
“Yes,” he says softly.
You have to take a deep breath and
compose yourself when you hear him confirm what you already knew. By this point, your own cock is straining
against denim, and you’ve just realized that you wanted him to say yes. The situation is making your head feel like
you just took one too many shots of something potent. As you look down at his nervous, angelic face, you have to fight
off the urge to kiss those pouty lips.
That wouldn’t do at all.
“Well, fuck all,” you say, forcing
yourself to chuckle. “Mr. Animal Rights
is a fucking queer.” You see him flinch
at the tone of your voice, and your stomach muscles contract
involuntarily. It’s almost scary how
easily you can see yourself getting used to this.
You let go of him and stand up
straight. Finally, his eyes seek out
yours again, but he doesn’t move. He’s
too afraid to move, and you love it.
“Well, since you’re such a fucking
queer,” you say, “then get up here and suck my fucking dick.” You feel as shocked at your words as he
looks, but you don’t let on.
“What?” he asks, as though he
thinks he couldn’t possibly have heard you correctly.
“You fucking heard me,” you growl
at him. Without waiting for him to
move, you reach down and grab him by the shirt again, pulling him up so he’s
eye-level with your crotch. He just
looks at it. “You’d better get moving,”
you command.
He looks up at you. The fear in his eyes is plainly apparent,
but so is the lust. “Bret…” he begins
uncertainly.
“Shut up!” you bark. “Do it.”
You’ve never been in a situation quite like this before, but you find
yourself hoping this isn’t the last time.
You’ll just have to brush up on your lines a bit more.
Still he makes no move, and you
curl your right hand into a fist. He
eyes it warily, and you can tell he’s wondering which would be worse – being
forced to suck off his best friend, or getting the absolute shit beaten out of
him. And you can tell by the way your heart
is pounding in your chest that you want nothing more than his mouth around your
cock, but that if he doesn’t deliver, you will hurt him.
He makes a noise that is something
between a sigh and a whimper, and then he is tentatively reaching out and fumbling
with your belt. You draw in a breath as
he manages to get it undone and unzip your jeans, and the next thing you know,
he’s holding you tentatively in his hand like a virgin on prom night. The sight and feeling of his hand wrapped
around you makes you shudder involuntarily.
“That’s right,” you breathe.
Slowly, cautiously, he opens his
mouth. His tongue flicks out and licks
the head of your cock, and you have to really concentrate to keep from losing
it right there. You must have had sex
with a thousand women by this point, but you know in this moment that you’d
give women up forever just to have the wet heat of his mouth around you.
Not that you’d ever admit to him
that you wanted it that badly.
He opens his mouth wider and you
watch, entranced, as your cock slowly slides between his lips. The feeling is one unlike anything you’ve
ever experienced. You’re amazed at how
hot and smooth his tongue is against your hardness.
And then he’s really sucking you,
sucking you like a woman would suck you, and your eyes close and your head goes
back and you nearly lose yourself entirely in this new and incredible
sensation. You groan involuntarily and
in the back of your head a voice wonders if he’s ever done this before. You twirl your fingers into his hair and
pull, satisfied when he whimpers around you and the sensation goes through your
entire body. Yes. You could definitely get used to this. And you plan to.
You bring your head forward and
look down, watching in awe as your dick slides in and out of his mouth. Despite years of being the front man for one
of the most sexually deviant bands in America, this might just be the most
erotic thing you’ve ever seen. And you
don’t think you’re going to last much longer.
Your hips thrust involuntarily as
you begin to fuck his mouth, and he reaches up with the hand that isn’t wrapped
around the base of your cock, using your hipbone to steady himself. The sensation of his fingers pressing into
your bare flesh makes you shiver.
And then you can’t take it
anymore. If this goes on for thirty
more seconds, you’re going to lose it, and you suddenly realize that there’s no
way you can let this end here. You have
to push this for everything it’s worth.
You have to know how far he’s willing to go, because you know that
you’re going to take this all the way.
And so despite how desperate you
are to come, you pull away from him with a wet sucking sound. Clearly surprised, he releases his grasp on
you and looks up at you with his green eyes that are filled with lust. Lust, and more intoxicating than that,
submission.
Your eyes stay locked with his for
what feels like an eternity, but is really only seconds. You want to tell him that he’s incredible,
that you’ve never felt anything like that before. Wherever this place is, you like it, you like it a lot and maybe
you like it too much, and although you’ve never been here before, you already
know that telling him how good he is, is just not how this game is played. It’s your anger and dominance that landed
you here to begin with, and you know it’s those same things that are going to
keep it going and make it even better, if that’s even possible.
You take a step backwards, taking
your cock in your hand and slowly stroking it.
“Stand up,” you demand, and it’s a struggle to keep your voice
steady. He complies immediately, not
even a hint of hesitance anymore.
“Strip.” You want to say more,
but don’t quite trust yourself to not sound choked.
At this command, he falters, but
only for a second and then he’s clumsily pulling his shirt over his head. You watch his stomach muscles tense and feel
your cock throb painfully in your hand.
You stop stroking and just hold it, knowing that it would be all too
easy to slip over the edge, and you don’t want to do that. Not with what you have planned. It feels like forever, but finally he
manages to wriggle out of his pants and then he’s standing before you,
completely naked and looking embarrassed.
Your chest constricts. You know
you are in total control of the situation, and nothing could possibly make you
happier.
“Turn around,” you tell him. The look on his face tells you that he knows
exactly what you’re going to do, but instead of arguing, he does as he is
told. In fact, he doesn’t even wait for
your next directive before climbing onto the table on all fours. You smile at his back. What a good little bitch he’s turning out to
be.
For a second, you panic as you
realize you’ve got no lube. It’s not
like you’d planned to fuck your drummer tonight. But then you realize how much your cock is already dripping. You spread your own juices along its length
and then position yourself behind him, the head of your cock just barely
touching his ass. His entire body
shudders.
“Is this what you want?” you ask breathily.
“Yes.” No hesitation in his voice, just desperation and honesty.
You press yourself against him a
bit more. “How badly do you want
it?” You feel as though if you don’t
get inside of him soon, if you have to wait one more minute before experiencing
this delicious forbidden fruit, that you’re just going to completely lose your
mind, but you know that this is how it must be done.
His voice is barely a whisper
now. “I want it more than I want
anything.”
And that’s it. Your mind snaps. Your body betrays any conscious thought you might be having and
you feel yourself plunge into him in one motion. He screams and the sound is nothing but pain. You freeze, realizing that you’ve gone about
this all wrong and that you must have seriously hurt him.
And then the pang of guilt
immediately gives way to another series of emotions. Satisfaction. Power.
Fuck foreplay. The little shit who is now on all fours in
front of you punched you three fucking times, and you told him he’d be
sorry. And sorry he was going to be.
You pull out slowly and ram into
him again, not quite able to believe just how tight he actually is. No woman could ever feel like this. Another thought hits you then. You realize that he’s never done this
before, either. You are his first, and
you don’t doubt that you will be his only.
With a thrust of your hips, you have claimed ownership of this man, and
the thought is dizzying.
It feels like a storm, you
think. This is what it must feel like
to physically be a storm.
Lightning and thunder, where love and hate collide. It feels so unbelievably good, and so
terrifyingly right. It feels like
coming home.
Again you pull out, inch by inch,
and slowly drive yourself in as deeply as you can go. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that in this position,
there’s no way you’re going to last more than a few minutes. So fuck it.
You might as well enjoy this as much as you can.
You begin to fuck him faster,
harder, and you can tell by the noises he’s making now that you’re giving him
pleasure as well as pain. He begins
moving against you, thrusting back as you thrust forward. You say a silent thank you to nobody in
particular that his back is to you, because if he could see the look on your
face, he’d know that he’s giving you the most wonderful feeling you’ve ever
experienced, and you can’t have that.
He can never know that.
You were close before you even got
this far, and now you’re really close.
You want to make this last, but you know it’s not going to happen that
way. “Do you like that?” you ask him.
“Yesss,” he answers, the word
coming out in a long hiss.
“Then make yourself come,” you
breathe, your voice thick with lust but still commanding. “I want to hear you come.”
He doesn’t need any further encouragement
before he grabs his cock and starts pumping it furiously. His moans turn into screams, and idly you
wonder what everyone outside must be thinking, but you can’t bring yourself to
care. Not when you’re this close to
coming, not when you’re about to pitch off of the edge of something into a
feeling you can’t even imagine.
“I’m coming,” he says, and his
voice is high-pitched and choked and you don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone
so clearly illustrate pleasure with only two words.
The sudden contractions around
your cock are far too much to bear, and you bite into your already-split lip
hard enough that you find your entire tongue coated with fresh blood. And then your orgasm hits you. Hard.
So hard that your eyes squeeze shut and you see little white points of
light on your eyelids. “Fuck,” is all
you can think of to say.
Your climax seems to last for
hours, and when it ends you stay perfectly still, afraid that if you try to
move, you’ll sink right to the floor.
And then finally you feel as
though you might be able to stand up on your own, and you pull out him with a
popping noise. He collapses onto the
table on his stomach.
You watch him, lying there and
panting, as you quickly readjust yourself and zip your pants. You reach into your pocket, pull out a
cigarette. Light it. Inhale deeply and force yourself to check
your emotions.
You walk a few steps forward so
you’re standing next to where his head is lying on the table. He doesn’t make any move to look up at you,
and you wonder what he’s feeling right now, lying there in a puddle of his own
fluids after just being fucked by his best male friend. You chuckle.
“You’re a fucking queer, Rockett,”
you say, your tone mocking. “And if you
don’t behave yourself, I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”
You wait for just a moment to see
if he’ll react, and when he doesn’t, you walk away, leaving him there to
collect himself. You saunter casually
through the bus and outside to where Smoothie is waiting.
He looks over his clipboard at you. “What happened to your face?” You shrug noncommittally. He studies you more closely. “What the hell were you two doing in there,
anyway? I thought you were going to
flip the bus on its damn side.”
You grin at him. “Nothing,” you say casually. “Lovers’ quarrel.”