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…