A giant black tuft of hair zoomed right in and blotted out
the world with measured sweeping strokes. The pale tip fumed with paint odor,
quickly applied over my head. Cold and wet, it tickled my hairline before
running down my face, over and over.
Anya’s fuzzy outline watched as my skin was gradually turned
black. One of the brush bristles kinked off from the others, accidentally
spearing up my nose. The drug had dulled my reflexes so much that I barely
flinched, though on the inside, my brain was protesting.
The brush continued to swirl over my features, dipped down
my neck, coating my torso, digging up under my arms. The cold wet trail swept
over and under my shaft. My butt cheeks were separated and the brush plume was
run repeatedly up and down my crack, and cold paint was dabbed over the back of
my balls, creeping under and around my groin.
Once this weirdly stimulating procedure ended, I was given a
rest while the paint dried. Anya came back into the room wearing her gig
clothes: a tight pair of leather pants and cut-off tank top. Her chest pushed
the top up and out, keeping her stomach exposed. Heavy black fox eye makeup,
accented her eyes, her lips painted dark plum.
"YO,” she said smugly, eyeing me. “TONIGHT YOU'RE GONNA
HAVE THE PUREST EXPERIENCE OF ANYONE." She began to adjust her thick black
studded belt with silver chains hanging down. "THINK OF THE CLOSEST SEAT
IN THE HOUSE, AND WHAT I GOT FOR YOU IS EVEN CLOSER."
She slid a finger up under my prick and poked it into an
upright position and held it there. With her other hand, she fit a soft black
sleeve around my genitals to keep them firm. By protest, my voice came out a
gravelly squeak. With the band pushed right down to the base of my penis, my
erection twanged with every heartbeat.
Unable to form words, I silently begged for it to come off. She wiggled my shaft until satisfied
with the position of the band. My legs kicked and spasmed; every touch to my
member was agony.
“THAT’S
ONE,” she murmured. “NOW THE OTHER END…”
Her fingers
snapped around my head like a vice as a second thick sleeve was fitted over my
head, stretched to maximum to fit around my skull, crushing my face as it was
forcibly slid down before snapping close around my neck. The insult to my
throat made me cough.
There was a
rustle and a metallic click, and a thin metal chain hung from the neck band.
The other end was gripped in her hand. She began to strap this to her belt. Without
warning it was yanked, the metal chain went taut, and my neck responded with
dreadful pressure, as if being screwed up tight. My eyes bugged out and my face
went red. I was winched onto her belt, and something else pulled across my
stomach, gripping; a leather strap. With every slight flex or twist of her
waist, I was forced to follow.
“HARDCORE!” she enthused, admiring me. I tried to imagine
how I looked; my skin painted all black, I looked like part of her belt. Even
if anyone noticed me, they might have dismissed me as a little voodoo doll
accessorizing her outfit – which totally fit with her style.
*
Outside, and we were heading towards a shiny black Mercedes
sprinter van. The door opened and Anya pounced onto the black leather seating.
As her legs bent into a sitting position, my spine folded forward at the insistence
of her firm stomach wall and became trapped in the crease between her waist and
upper thigh. All through the drive it felt like someone was sitting on my
mid-back, bearing down as Anya intook a breath, relaxing only slightly as she
exhaled. And she was deep breathing in preparation for the upcoming concert,
which made my spine flatten against my legs, and held there, trembling for
release.
The van whirled down the streets and rolled into a reserved
area behind an enormous building. Out of the van and we were wandering through
a dimly lit, dark-walled building, accumulating a small crew of guys in black
t-shirts and hoodies, tour roadies, as Anya chanted under her breath:
“UH, YOU’RE MY BEAUTIFUL ACCIDENT…WOULD NOT BELIEVE YOUR STRANGE
LUCK, BLABLABLA…YOU NEVER WANTED SO BAD TO FUCK UP.”
“ONE WORD,” said a male voice, one of the crew. “THEY WANT YOU TO CHANGE ONE TINY
WORD AND YOU’RE PERFECT.”
YOU NEVER WANTED SO BAD TO—.” She made a self-censoring
sound.
“PERFECT.”
A door creaked open and a weird silence dropped as if
someone was about to make an important announcement. We were staring a line of
young people pushing against a barricade, by a chain-link fence.
“UM,” Anya said with false modesty, “HI.”
A cacophony of squealing filled the air.
“OHMIGODANYAANYAILOVEYOUCANYOUSIGNMY—!”
The squeals bled into my brain, at a pitch so intolerably
high that it actually made my eyeballs vibrate. Flanked by the roadies, we were
moving quickly, into another building. It was dark, a high ceiling. We moved in
and out of sudden bright spots of light, past dressing rooms. A small group of
crew congregated; Anya embraced some people, one after another, smushing me
between several pairs of hips. My body rolled with her slightly springy step.
Stuck at hip height, waistlines and groins of crew members scrolled right past,
jeans-clad butts flexed as people turned. The bottom hemline of loose t-shirts
flapped past my face.
Voices galloped nervously, running through schedule as
people set up the gig. In a backstage room, Anya dropped into the low seat of a
faded leather couch and chatted with some people for several moments, with me
fighting for breaths sandwiched between her thigh and pelvic bones.
Then we were in an airy hall, on stage and it was soundcheck
time. Stagehands murmured, instrument suitcases rolled over the floor. A drum
beat repetitively from one corner, and keyboard and guitar played some chords.
Microphones rang. The overhead lights gradually shifted across the color
spectrum.
My trapped body was rocked up and down the stage as Anya
then ran through some choreograph rehearsals with her backup team. I closed my
eyes to forestall the nausea as I was bounced, twirled and shaken. My head
pounded at the thought this was only the rehearsal, we still had a full
performance to get through.
Some time later, we migrated backstage again. Anya’s voice echoed
through the cavernous space as she ran through a motivational chant and a
ghostly chorus of voices echoed the chant back to her, like some football game
warm-up. As she bounced on her toes, the chains of her belt rattled while my
body flopped helplessly at her waist.
She was moving purposefully one way, the crew going another.
Her chunky black heels were clomping down LED-lit stairs into a shadow zone
that was intense, UV blue, so dark that it was a safety hazard and orange LED
strips lined the walkways.
Then the opening melodic blasts of music sounded through the
hall, backgrounded by cheering and applause. The stage slowly seemed to lower
as we rode a rising platform up, at the same time the audience exploded with lights
and noise as the show came to life.
Anya began to sing and the drums jangled my bones like
repeated hammer blows. Her microphone-amplified voice resounded through all the
air spaces in my body like tiny explosions were going off in my lungs and head
and stomach. Her voice even seemed to pulse up and down my penis, causing it to
vibrate and ache. I was reduced to a tiny instrument through which her blaring
vibrato hammered like a train. My lungs trembled to bursting point as she
sustained lengthy notes. Her wailing highs threatened to shatter me like glass,
while her lowest notes made the blood throb in my head.
It seemed suddenly I was moving against my will; bounding
around and sashaying as she danced with her crew. Her hips shook vibrantly
under the warm lights, and I felt like I was taped to a big tree during a
cyclone. The audience was a giant cloud composed of murky facial features, and cheered
as if hypnotized by my objectification, even though they weren’t really looking
at me at all.
And I could barely see them through the blinding stage
lights, and constant movement flinging my line of sight one way, then another,
left, right. My vision went black altogether as Anya rocked her hips against a
backup dancer, grinding me into his pelvis. Then the glaring lights jumped back
into my eyes and I was thrashed about to another rousing dance sequence between
vocal parts. I rose and fell with her hips, was shaken until my muscles burned,
swooped and lifted and twisted around until my stomach rose into my mouth. The
stage lights seemed to smear across my eyes like spray paint while the audience
roared and whistled with excitement.
Trying to speak, I could only utter some small sounds which
were swallowed in the noise, before my head whipped around and was tossed back
and forth, up at the ceiling where Anya’s breasts shivered under the tight top,
in time with the music, passing back and forth over the stage lights like
eclipsing moons. The porcelain skin of her bare stomach gleamed with the
glitter of sweat beading in her pores, sticking to my back and scalp as it
pressed into me. Her sweat slid down and salted my eyes.
The crowd roared for song after song…
As I grew light-headed, the rest of the concert melted into
a series of disorienting flares of sight and noise, sudden and jumbled. I
blacked out for an instant. Then came to. Then blacked out again. The music
turned into white noise and insect buzzing and Anya’s voice reduced to a
washing machine drone. And then the music segued back in, and the vocals
sharpened again. The microphone gave her wail a hallucinogenic echo. The stage
lights flared with refracted halos. My head tapped her hipbone repeatedly,
painfully, as she shook her butt. My limbs went limp again as my brain
disappeared into a dreamless void, and was then jolted back to life seconds
later, as the energetic dance sequence turned her waist into a kind of
defibrillator that sent shocks through my core.
“—YOU NEVER WANTED SO BAD TO FFFF — SHIT.” She caught her
breath before hollering at the crowd. “YOU KNOW THIS PART. SING IT FOR ME!”
The amorphous bobbing sea of heads trilled the lyrics back. While
Anya’s voice took a moment of respite, fans took the opportunity to holler at
her:
“ANYA YOU’RE THE GREATEST!” girls shrieked.
“ANYA, OVER HERE!”
“YOU’RE AMAZING!”
“JERRY, I LOVE YOU!”
I blinked rapidly, sweating, searching the chaotic masses.
Surely I had misheard that last one. The noise was deafening. I was seeing
things; hearing things…
My view of the crowd closed up entirely as the backup
dancers shuffled in to pose around and vogue with the singer. One female backup
dancer backed into Anya, her tight spandex-covered moons looming full in my
face as she bent gracefully. Anya laviscously ran a hand down her spine while
the dancer’s generous backside grinded her crotch. My entire world zoomed into
this swollen, muscular butt cleft that rolled back and forth over my entire
body, massaging me into Anya’s hip. The dancer gave her butt a vigorous shake
as if her waist was fuelled by a two-stroke engine, the cheeks flapped into my
head like repeated, open palm slaps, motorboating my face hard.
The spotlights bloomed as the dancer rose and moved away. Anya
took over for the final chorus of the song. As the last note struck, the
audience buzzed with applause. But there were more to go.
The concert carried on into the night, me riding Anya’s bucking,
shimmering hips like a never-ending rollercoaster. My overstretched brain
collapsed under the weight of stimulation and splintered into a series of pure
hallucinogenic fantasies. The music wavered into a low dull heartbeat: BOOM
BOOM BOOM. My head clapped with whoofing flaps, like a helicopter was touching
down.
Somewhere towards the front row, Jennifer’s face seemed to
leaped out of the crowd. Her hand reached towards the stand, fingertips
straining, grabbing for me. But it could not be her; the nails were too short.
The likeness dissipated like a mirage. As the audience drifted away behind a
smartly assembling line of backup dancers, a tiny spasm of reality hit me; she
could not possibly be here. She was in Bayside. My scalp began to freeze with
chilled, feverish sweat.
But her face kept bleeding into the picture, sometimes
multiplying. She accrued at the edges of the crowd, and evaporated when I
searched for her.
I wondered if, somewhere far away, she was searching for me…