The story that follows is fiction. To Yoda, that would mean "true this story is not." The characters portrayed in this work of fiction should not be considered to reflect accurately on any actual person, living or dead since the invention of hydrogen molecules.
WARNING: This story is sexually-explicit and involves involving homosexuality, mild domination, and throw pillows.
If this offends you, do not continue. If accessing this story causes you to break any local laws applicable to your area, do not continue. If you have ever voted for a political candidate whose opinions you disagree with just because he was probably going to lower your taxes, do not continue.
No pop singers were actually spanked in the writing of this story.
ANNOUNCEMENT: The old #boybands chat room is all but deserted now, but it still exists. I've gone to great expense to hire it for another of my virtual parties on the evening of Friday, August 8th, at 7pm CST (Dallas time, for the rest of you). The chatroom is accessible at via a link at the top of the Nifty Boybands stories list or on IRC by connecting to irc.nevernet.net then joining #boybands.
I hope you can join us. Virtual drinks are on me, but BYORB (bring your own real bottle). You will not need formal dress, a gift, or any childish temper tantrums.
EMAIL still reaches me at michaelwashere@pop3.netzero.net.
My Little Randy, part 2
Mike Ellis strikes again!
I didn't hurt him too much of course. Not the first time. The first session is all about getting to know the client, both what he tells you and what he won't or can't tell you. Finding out his limitations, his desires and needs, his physical and emotional sore spots.
So for the first round, I didn't hurt him too much. Just five or six hard swats with my hand on his bare butt to make him feel it through whatever macho posing he felt he had to do. This was the point where his muscles would tense the most as he tried hard to hold back what he felt, determined to win the battle of wills and hide his discomfort. I wondered for a second if he were from the South because I thought I'd heard a bit of the accent in his speech: in my experience, latinos and Southern boys could be a bit more stiff and macho than most.
Then, once the skin was pink and a little tender, five more to get through the genuine toughness and discipline he'd developed during years of grueling performances. Then, when his skin was really red and beginning to welt a bit, a few more, fast and stinging, to push him to his emotional edge. To get him where he needed to be to get any benefit from this.
Four more was enough. I was raising my stinging hand for the fifth when I saw his shoulders quiver and heard a slight sob escape him. Instead of hitting him again, I reached down and took his chin very gently - no doubt he could feel the heat of the skin of my hand on his face - and turned his face toward me. His mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes were red and watery. He had a look of exhaustion on his face, but the tension I'd seen when he walked in was gone. He wasn't a celebrity trying to be composed and charming anymore. He was just tired. More tired than someone his age should be.
Taking hold of his shoulders, I helped him off my lap into a kneeling position beside my chair. I stood up, but I pressed my left hand into his shoulder when he tried the same thing. He looked up confused for a second then lowered his chin. I reached down and took his hand to lead him, walking on his knees in the thick carpet, to the quilt-covered mat near the wall.
"Lay down for a bit, Justin," I said softly, calling him by his first name for a while. "I'll get you a bottle of water."
His eyes sought mine again. "I don't think I..."
"On your stomach," I interrupted him. "Lay on your stomach." I stayed long enough to see him get comfortable. After he'd been prone on the mat for a few seconds, he let out a long exhalation. The tight muscles in his smooth bad visibly relaxed, and he sank his head into his crossed arms.
I stepped over to the bar and took a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. Glancing at him lying face down again, I took off the cap and grabbed a straw from the drawer in the bar.
"Here, Justin," I whispered after I'd arranged myself on the big pillows beside the mat, one under my ass left hip and two for me to lean sideways against. He raised his head a bit, and I put the end of the straw to his lips. Nice lips, I thought for a second as he sucked at the straw , then I made my brain go back to work.
"Tell me what's been going on with you at work," I said simply as I reached behind me to set the bottle down somewhat out of the way.
"Didn't R.J. tell you?"
His confusion sounded genuine, but it wouldn't do to have him disobeying me at this stage. I tucked my chin in and gave him a stern look. "I want you to tell me."
"Oh," he began, his eyes going down toward the carpet. At that second, he looked very much like a little boy who'd done something wrong and regretted having earned someone's disapproval. I took that as a very good sign: I could take a feeling like that and use it.
After a couple of seconds, he went on. "I'm not sure what it is. I've just been really stressed, really tempermental lately. I get all uptight in the studio so a track comes out sounding like shit, so I yell at somebody, then they get mad and I get more uptight, and everything just keeps getting worse."
I moved my left arm up on the pillow and sank closer to the floor, putting my head closer to his. My right hand reached over to rest with deliberate casualness on the small of his back. "How long has this been going on?" I asked gently, my voice almost a whisper.
He shook his head slightly. "Weeks. Months. But lately it's been worse. For four days now, I haven't recorded anything that we can use. All I've done is waste hours of studio time and piss off just about all the producers. I've heard a couple swear behind my back that they'll never work with me again. Their assistants avoid me; the technicians stop talking when I come in the room. Even the receptionist at the studio talks to me as little as possible. Everything with her is one-word sentences now.
"It pisses me off that they're treating me like this. But it pisses me off more that it's my own damned fault." He was talking more freely now, louder and faster, without hesitating to find the politic words to use. Another good sign.
"And what do you think is making you so stressed in the first place?" Another simple question, gently delivered. My right hand was working lightly on his back, fingers spread wide and flat and my fingertips massaging the muscles beneath the skin. The human body carries a lot of stress in the lower back, and I wanted my hand to subtly work on breaking up some of the physical tension while our conversation worked on the emotional kind. People underestimated just how interwoven the two could be.
"It's my album!" he let out, staring at some point on the floor, not looking me in the face. "I mean, it's all mine. Not NSYNC, just me. If it fails, then there's no one else to blame. It's just me. All alone, just fucking me!" He paused for a second to take a couple of heavy breaths.
"And all those people working on this - the producers, the musicians, the execs, the lawyers, the marketing people, everybody - they're counting on me to make them all famous or make them shitloads of money. Just fucking using me. They're all just waiting for me to deliver, like some kind of farm animal at the state fair. 'Show him off and win the ribbons.' Then, when he stops winning ribbons, you carve as many steaks out of him as you can, then move on to some other fucking cow."
His voice had sustained quite an angry tone during all that, but when he finished speaking he just let his breath out like the anger was going with it. The anger was no doubt still there, but he was done talking about it for now. He finally looked up from that area of carpet that he'd have had memorized by now if he'd really been seeing it. His eyes found mine looking back into them, poker face in place again.
For a few seconds, the only real movement was his torso rising and falling with his own breaths and my right hand, now at work kneading the middle of his back.
"Bull," I finally said simply.
"What?" he asked surprisedly, like I'd just called him a liar. Just the reaction I'd wanted so the weak joke that was coming would be funnier. Levity, too, was a way of breaking through stress.
"Bull," I repeated. "They won't go looking for another cow, 'cause you wouldn't be a cow to them. You'd be a bull. Remember: I've seen you naked."
I gave him a bemused smile, and I was rewarded with a grin from him, not the rehearsed, show business grin I'd seen earlier, but the real thing. Relaxed, casual, and very sexy. I reminded myself, not for the first time, that I'd have to be careful not to get too attached to this boy.