The Cast:
Lance Bass
The boy sat in the back of the room trying to act as if he were enjoying himself. This was difficult, as the room was filled with a multitude (well, okay maybe 50) screaming starry-eyed girls and a handful of clean-cut boys all giddy with anticipation over meeting their pop music singing heroes, NSYNC.
This was the usual Meet & Greet party held for a small group of fans selected supposedly at random to have their very own up-close and personal encounter with the five "dreamy guys" who comprised their ultimate band. The boy looked more than a little out of place there. He was dressed entirely in black, with baggy shorts that came down to about mid-calf, making them less "short" than they could be. A dangling silver chain link necklace hung low atop his black tee, and a dark charcoal baseball cap rested backwards atop his dirty blond hair. You could tell from across the auditorium that he was a skater kid, and not a common sight at a concert attended mostly by girls ages 13-16. He had lost his wrist manacle at the door. It's multiple chains and buckles "could conceivably be used as a weapon" he was told. He wanted to smack the jerkoff guard who lifted it off him with a spinning back kick, but he had come too far to blow everything with one of his characteristic displays of bad temper.
So he'd made it in. He gazed around the room anxiously, noticing at least 3 or 4 other boys of about his age, 19, dressed not dissimilar to him. Baggies, darker colors, loose tees draped over wiry and streamlined muscular frames. Whenever he made eye contact with one of them, he simply nodded slightly toward them, and the signal was returned. An unspoken recognition of skater brotherhood.
He looked at the clock and saw that it was creeping slowly toward the time the band would arrive, it's sweeping hand seemingly taking longer with each passing minute. The boy fidgeted nervously in his chair. For you see, as different as he was from the squealing young girls, he had one thing in common with them. He had a crush on one of the members of NSYNC.
Most of the youngsters bounced in their seats, waiting eagerly to profess their undying love for Justin Timberlake or JC Chasez. But the skater boy belonged to a smaller but equally fanatical group; he was in love with Lance Bass. He had waited and planned feverishly for this night for the better part of a year and now was the time for all his work to pay off.
And eventually, lo and behold, the heartthrob quintet entered. The skater boy gazed intently, taking in the sight of his crush, who was the third of the group into the room. The five men were also under the watchful eyes of various bodyguards, all black, and all built like walking land masses. They stayed out of the way of the proceedings, but the skater kid was painfully aware of their presence, most likely due to what he was planning for Lance.
The boys were amiable and upbeat, answering the brainless girlies' banal questions with cheer and feigned interest ("Why did you stop wearing your gold hoop earring?"). Shortly thereafter, the men began signing autographs and shaking hands as the group formed lines up to the table at the head of the room. Skateboy made his way up to the table as his line inched forward. He clutched a copy of the latest CD, which he had forgotten to remove from its wrapper until he arrived at the arena that afternoon. It wasn't as if he'd bought the thing with any intention of listening to it.
At the moment, what he was listening to was Lance. He watched as Lance spoke kindly to the many squealing and giddy girls. His voice resonant and low, coming from a place deep within him that belied the appearance given by his baby face. His spiky blond hair caught the florescent light from above and shone here and there as he moved his head up and down to sign his name, to look up and smile.
As Skateboy got closer, he saw how alert and alive Lance's eyes were. They fairly danced as he made eye contact with those to whom he spoke, giving the impression that he was making a genuine connection with each person, not merely throwing out rehearsed comments and remarks.
Finally, it was the skater boy's turn. He held his breath, crossed his fingers, and hoped he would remember everything he had to say and do. Lance greeted him with a sincere smile and complimented the boy on his shirt. Skateboy had to look down for a second to remind himself of what he was wearing. It was the T-shirt Nsync had put out as part of their Challenge For The Children campaign, featuring multicolored handprints from each of the guys, each with his signature on the print. The skate boy was amused that Lance's handprint was the purple one, since purple was often regarded as a gay color. The skate boy thanked Lance for his compliment, thrown momentarily from his practiced script. Truth was, that was simply the only Nsync shirt the boy could find that was black.
Lance took the boy's CD and flipped the liner notes open to his photo and began to sign his name. Skate boy was still so overwhelmed that he was truly here that he almost lost the moment he'd come for. But not quite.
"Lance--uh, Mr. Bass, sir--", the boy stuttered.
"Hey, you can call me Lance", came the sonorous reply.
"Wow. Thank-you. Lance. Lance, I just wanted to tell you that you are like, totally my hero, man."
"Well, thank-you. I appreciate that."
"Seriously, I so look up to you, not just the singing--which is awesome, don't get me wrong--but the business work you do with Freelance Entertainment, the charity work, the acting--I saw On the Line three times--"
"Well, thank-you again."
"And now this whole Russian astronaut thing--! God, it's just, you've shown me you can do anything--I mean, I could do anything--or anyone could, is what I mean, if they just put their mind to it and believe they can--" The skate boy's eyes were wide with admiration.
Lance's voice deepened slightly more as he answered. "You know, that's true. You can do anything you want to--anything you dream to. You set your own limits, so don't set any for yourself." He handed back the CD and autographed liner notes.
"Oh, wow. Geez, thank-you so much Mr. Bass. Lance. I was wondering, could I--could I--"
"Yes?"
"Could I give you a hug?"
Lance looked apprehensive, but the girls in line behind the skate boy all went, "Aawwwww", which was all the pressure Lance needed. Lance stood up, grinning bemusedly. "Well, sure. I guess so."
The skater threw his arms around his apparent hero and hugged him tight. "Thank-you, man! You are SO awesome! You inspire me!"
"Ow!" Lance pulled back from the boy, his hand clutching the back of his neck.
The skate boy blanched. "Omigod, are you okay? What happened??"
Instantly, two of the gigantic bodyguards converged on Lance and the boy, but Lance held up a hand to hold them at bay. "It's cool, it's okay. Just a scratch, I think."
The boy looked mortified. "Oh, no! My ring! He held up his hand for both Lance and the bodyguards to see. On the middle finger of his right hand he wore a rather bulky NSYNC ring. "I'm sorry, it slides sometimes, the signet must've caught you. Oh, Mr. Bass, I am so sorry!"
Lance waved it off. "Don't worry about it, I'm fine." Lance patted him once on the shoulder both to reassure him and scoot him along. "Enjoy the show tonight."
"Oh, I will. I'm sure I will!" One of the bodyguards, showing surprising care for his size, led the skate boy aside so the line could continue.
The skate boy's heart was ready to pound out of his chest. He had done it. He had actually done it. Phase one of his mission was complete. He made his way to the back of the room and caught the eye of one of the arena employees. It was a tall, sandy-haired young man who eyed the skater nervously. The skater sat back down and tossed off a mock salute to the employee, who looked nervously away.
The skater took out his CD and stared at the liner notes, pretending as best he could that his newly-acquired autograph was the reason he was smiling so brightly.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Meet & Greet crowd headed toward the auditorium to join the rest of the throng for the concert. The skate boy made his way in the other direction, as if to find a bathroom.
In fact, he headed straight for the exits. The nervous employee followed him. As the skater approached the doors to the street, the employee stepped forward, moving as if to hold the door for him. The skater looked at the employee and smirked. "Why, thank-you, my good man."
The employee seemed to bristle. "Okay, I got you in. Like I said. But if all this comes down on your head, I do NOT know you, you got me?"
The skate boy didn't answer. Instead, he said, "You take care of the dressing room thing?"
"Yeah, yeah, it's all covered. God, I hope I don't lose my job over this."
The skate boy tossed his signed CD into the air and caught it playfully. "You worry too much." He turned to exit.
The employee called after him, "After all this trouble, you're not even gonna stay for the show?"
"And subject myself to hordes of screaming girls while having to listen to that shit? In hell, buddy." He then walked out of the arena with the intent of heading for home.
**The Summons**
After the concert, Lance felt dazed. This was more than the usual adrenaline rush that accompanied a performance. It felt almost as if he were coming down with something, yet at the same time there was a distant feeling of euphoria.
Lance excused himself to his dressing room to pause and perhaps clear his head. No sooner had he taken a seat at his dressing table then he was overcome by an urge to leave. He had to be somewhere else, he felt. And not just somewhere away from the auditorium, but somewhere in particular. His mind fuzzed over and he couldn't figure out where he had to go. He stood as if to leave, ready to move towards the door, but realized he had no idea where he was going to. He sat back down, shaking his head to collect himself.
Lance eyed the plethora of gifts strewn atop his dressing table. The vast majority of the gifts each group member was deluged with at every concert--especially Justin--usually wound up in a huge trailer somewhere that followed them home or was shipped off directly to Orlando. All the stuffed toys always went to local children's homes and shelters. But a select few, such as the less cumbersome flower arrangements and smaller gifts that were approved by security as coming from close friends and associates, found their way here.
Lance wondered if perhaps going over the various items sent by well- wishers wouldn't provide a convenient distraction while he regained his focus. But the other four guys would most likely want to go somewhere as a group to celebrate the last stop on their grueling tour schedule.
But as he prepared to change out of his final costume and dress for a late evening out, Lance heard a rap on the door. In popped the head of one of the many security people, as was the norm, he was built like a concrete bunker. "Mr. Bass? The other gentlemen were wondering if it would be a problem to postpone your end-of-tour celebration until another time. It seems all of them have chosen to begin their breaks immediately and adjourn elsewhere."
Lance was relieved beyond measure. He was not prepared for a night out with his closest friends while he felt as disjointed as he did. Lance simply nodded to the guard, saying, "It's cool."
Alone again, Lance looked over the cards and flowers. A couple small items of jewelry; necklaces, rings. All of which came from people he knew personally. There was one item that stood out, though. It was a small plastic figurine. A toy action figure of a cartoonish skateboarder. Lance picked it up and looked at it, wondering who might have sent it. Ordinarily he got cowboys or astronauts. It was cute, but Lance was more curious than anything else to identify the sender. There was a small purple gift card nearby with a skateboard graphic on the cover. He flipped the card open and read:
DYING TO BE ELSEWHERE BUT CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHERE? IF YOU NEED SOMEPLACE TO CLEAR YOUR HEAD, GO WHERE THE LITTLE SKATER DIRECTS YOU. HEED HIS CALL.
Lance puzzled over the message, wondering if it wasn't some sort of prank. He tried to toss aside the card but found it was slightly sticky and clung for a moment to his fingers. He rubbed his fingers together and found that whatever the substance was--presumably the residue of a price sticker peeled from the cardback--it rubbed away quickly.
Lance picked up the little skater and looked him over. He didn't have a pull-string or any other device that would indicate he had a chip that made him talk. Lance looked on the underside of the skateboard glued to the figure's feet and saw an address had been written there.
Lance's head began to swim again. He felt distant, a bit uneasy, and yet very much at peace. And as he stood up, he suddenly realized that he was very, very aroused. He shoved the little skater toy in one pocket and the card in another, grabbed his jacket and went out into the night.
_____________________________________________________________________
Lance had dismissed his driver and drove a rented sports car to the address written on the underside of the toy. It was a lonely street corner outside the city, with a payphone on the corner.
Lance waited at the curb near the phone, feeling rather nervous about being in such an out-of-the-way place where he might be mugged or carjacked. But he had to find out what was up with the skater toy. Since the time he left to come here, Lance had been sporting wood. It was almost painful now. He was half tempted to just unzip and take matters in hand, as it were, but something told him to wait. It was as strong as the compulsion to come here.
But the drive and the night air were doing wonders to clear his head. Horny and curious though he might be, all this was beginning to seem like an elaborate prank. Lance started the car and prepared to depart. The payphone rang.
Lance stared at it. It rang again. He looked back at the dashboard of the car and thought he should just pull out, leave this little mystery unsolved. Another ring. Lance looked back at the phone. He just knew it was for him. Ring.
The words from the card came to his mind. Heed his call.
"Dammit." Lance shut off the car and picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Lance. You got my message. Good."
"Yeah, I got it, who is this? What's this all about, anyway?"
"You like the card?"
"Yeah, it was charming. Now tell me who this is or I'm just hanging up and going--"
"So you like grape?"
The comment stopped Lance flat-footed. Grape? What the hell did that have to do with anything? So he asked, "Grape? Grape what?"
"The card. It's flavored. There's a candy coating. Didn't it say?"
Lance was not about to let this spin into something more ridiculous than it already was. "No, it didn't. Let's forget the card and you just tell me what's--"
"Do you have it on you?"
Without thinking, Lance pulled it out of his pocket. It didn't seem strange at first that he opted to bring the card with him, but now that he thought about it, it did seem a little odd. "Yeah, I have it here", he said into the phone.
"Hold it up to your nose."
Lance held up the card and sniffed it. It did smell grape-flavored. In fact, it smelled wonderful. His head began to fog up again under the scent.
The voice on the phone took on an commanding tone. "Lick it."
Without thinking, Lance did as he was told. The sticky substance that was on his fingers earlier was now all over his tongue. The taste was terribly bitter, and Lance grimaced, but then it turned unspeakably sweet. Almost too sweet. Lance's head blurred into a warm and welcoming fog and he felt his mouth spread into a contented grin. His erection grew harder and he swayed a bit as he held the phone.
"Lance", came the voice on the other end the line. "You will do exactly as I tell you."
Lance kept smiling, absorbing every word. "MM-hmmmmm", he hummed. "Sure."
_____________________________________________________________________
Lance blinked his eyes to see someone snapping his fingers in front of his face. Lance inhaled sharply and took a step back. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. "You awake now, slaveboy?"
Lance looked at the boy in front of him. It was the young fan from the Meet & Greet. He was still dressed in the teen skater outfit he had on earlier that evening. "Where am I? What's going on here?" Lance's head was getting clearer, his focus sharper. "Hey, what did you just call me? 'Slaveboy'?!"
"That's what you are now, Lancey. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life." The young man held up a man-sized dog collar with a polished silver tag on it whose boldly engraved letters read, "SLAVE".
Lance swallowed hard.
**Skater Slave**
In a heartbeat, Lance had his cell phone in his hand. "Okay, look, asshole. I don't know who you think you are or what little trick you pulled to bring me here, but you better make with the explanations fast, smartass--" and Lance pumped in the numbers 9-1-1 into his cell, "--or I press SEND and you find your sorry ass in jail."
"Drop the phone", the skater said.
"Yessir", Lance responded, dropping the phone to the rug without pausing. Lance gawked at the discarded cell phone as if it were a scientific curiosity. Why had he dropped it like that? What was he doing?
"Crush it", came the next command.
With vigor, Lance stomped his small cell phone into tiny pieces beneath the heel of his cowboy boot. He was still stomping it aggressively when the skater boy finally said, grinning, "That ought'a do it, slaveboy. You can stop now."
Lance stopped. He looked at the young boy, dazed, and muttered, "What's happening to me?"
The skater boy began talking as if he hadn't heard Lance's question. "Lots of people know me as Thrasher", he said. "But you get to call me master." He looked into Lance's piercing eyes, now wide with fright, and repeated, "I'm your new master, Lancey."
Lance couldn't understand why he was unable to move, to run, to do anything. It was too early for him to realize it was simply because his master had not given him permission. Thrasher began to pace back and forth before Lance as he continued his introduction.
"You remember when I hugged you at the Meet & Greet thingie today? How I "accidentally" scraped your neck?" Thrasher held up the ring and showed how with the right pressure, a tiny needle protruded from it. "I injected you with a very special toxin, Lance. It's kinda like a date rape drug, but it's not nearly as fast-acting or as potent in a single dose. Takes repetition. You worked the initial dose I gave you into your system by dancing and singing for a couple hours onstage. Once in your bloodstream, it gave you the feeling that you had to do something, go somewhere. See, it works better if followed right away with commands. Otherwise, you get all confused." Thrasher shook his head slightly, making a 'tsk-tsk' sound. "And that was just enough to make you susceptible to a few things. Like my little card."
Lance swallowed again, wanting to make his legs move, but unable to. What was coated on that little card?
As if reading Lance's thoughts, Thrasher said, "The card was coated with enough of the same toxin to seep into your skin on contact. If you tried to rub it off, you were really just working it in." Lance watched him intently, realizing he had inadvertently aided his captor by doing just what he was meant to do. "That was enough to keep your confusion going", Thrasher went on. "But you really went into slaveland when I got you to lick the back of the card. Taking the full of the drug right onto your tongue was what did you in, man."
Lance wanted to step back as Thrasher moved right up to his face, putting them nose-to-nose. "Y'know, if you'd just kept the car running and took off when the phone rang instead of answering it, you'd be a free man. But you had to solve the mystery." Thrasher stepped back into the room, his arms wide. "Well, mystery solved. You're here. You're mine. You're now a gay skater's slaveboy."
Lance fought against the chemical inside him and said with some effort, "N-no. Y-you are in so much trouble, kid. Th-this is kidnapping. I'm not your slave, I'm not your captive, you little faggot."
Thrasher's eyes widened a bit, surprised to hear such harsh language come from the mouth of the clean-cut teen idol. Then, Thrasher's eyes squinted menacingly, and he said, "Get down on your knees."
Lance's knees began to buckle, his mouth a tight thin line of resistance. His breathing was becoming ragged as he fought to stay on his feet. He would not do this. He was Lance Bass. These kinds of weird, kinky encounters didn't happen to famous people like him. They couldn't. This wasn't happening. Lance closed his eyes in denial of what he was experiencing. He whispered quietly but firmly to himself, "This is not happening, I control myself, nobody but me, he can't do this to me--"
"Lance."
Lance opened his eyes reflexively at the sound of his name and was undone. All Thrasher did was point firmly at the rug and Lance felt himself pulled irresistibly toward it. He was on his knees before his young master. He tried to rise back to his feet, but it was as if giant invisible hands pressed down on his shoulders. And Lance knew he wasn't going anywhere.
"Repeat after me, Lance", Thrasher said to him. Lance's head reeled, as if it were a biological computer readying itself to receive vital input. "I, Lance Bass, am nothing but a slave."
Lance's head hung low, and he felt compelled to repeat, "I, Lance Bass, am nothing but a slave." As he said the words, a wave seemed to wash over him, and there was a buzzing in the back of his skull, as if his mind were being penetrated by daggers of Truth.
"I live to serve my master."
Lance bit his lip, fighting to hold the words in check. It lasted only a moment. "I...l-live to serve my master."
Thrasher saw the attempted resistance. "Again."
"I live to serve my master."
"With feeling."
"I live to serve my master!"
Thrasher squatted down to meet his slave eye-to-eye. "And who's your master, slave?"
"You are", Lance croaked.
"Who is?"
"YOU are!"
Lance felt more surges running through him. Submission, pleasure, defeat, euphoria. He had never experienced anything like it. Every time his master spoke, it was almost overwhelming. No, no, not his master. Just this boy. This strange, gay little boy with an obsessive crush on a pop celebrity. He was clever, that was all. Clever and deranged, but nothing more than--
"Here's what we're gonna do, Lance."
Lance's head popped up to look at Thrasher. "Yes, master?" Inwardly, Lance cringed at his own words. He just couldn't help it. Whatever this was he was experiencing, it was too strong. Best to go along for now and look for a way to escape later.
"I'm going to give you your own little slave's creed, and you're going to answer in the affirmative to each one and know that you really mean what you say. Got it?"
"Yessir."
Thrasher went on to recite a memorized mantra for Lance. It started with statements like, "Will you obey your master in all things?", graduated to, "Will you dress as you're ordered regardless the clothing?", and eventually ended with, "And will you happily and eagerly service your master in any and all homosexual acts for his pleasure that he can imagine or devise?" There were more than 25 directives in all. To each one, Lance answered readily and each time he said exactly the same thing.
"Yes, sir."
Thrash was giddy with excitement. He was anxious to get Lance up off his knees, to begin playing with him, but there one more thing he needed to do. Thrasher straddled Lance from behind, producing a small vial of green liquid. "In order to speed your conditioning along", Thrasher said, "You're gonna need a few more doses of your slave medicine." With that he poked the back of Lance's neck and introduced another dosage into his system. Lance let out a sigh as the chemical flooded his bloodstream, and found his erection was starting to bob with excitement. He wasn't sure if this was simply a muscular spasm in response to the drug or if he was actually getting hot by being conditioned as a love slave. He prayed it was the former.
Then Thrasher reached around Lance's neck. He was slipping on a broad, black slave collar, the same one he was brandishing when Lance had first arrived. "This is more or less your badge of office, Lancey-boy. Your slave collar. It feels good to have it on. It makes you proud to bear the symbol of your owner, to be tagged as my personal property. You'd feel lost without it."
Again, Lance responded as before, "Yes, sir."
Thrasher secured the collar in place. "This is an awesome collar, too, man. It doesn't have one of those damn bulky padlocks, either. It's got this sweet clasp thing that twists shut right along the surface of the leather, so nothing sticks out." There was a soft 'ker-ching' as Thrasher locked his boy in.
Thrasher got off of Lance's back and said, "Stand up."
Lance did as he was told, new and mesmerizing emotions befuddling his brain now that his collar was in place. Thrasher was about to give him a new command, when he stopped. He just looked at Lance's face for a moment, staring into those stunning, shining eyes. "Goddamn, but you are beautiful", Thrasher said.
"Thank-you, si--", Lance started to say, but Thrasher kissed him then. For several moments, the skater boy kissed the famous singer, his tongue forcing his way into his mouth, the pop star helpless to resist. Thrasher pulled away, about to comment that the experience was a long-held dream come true. But he saw the vacant look in Lance's eyes, the helpless way he just stood there like a manikin. In Thrasher's dreams, Lance had always kissed him back.
Thrasher cleared his throat and left the room. "Wait here." In a minute or so, he returned with an armload of clothes, which he threw at Lance's feet. "Put those on."
Lance had no idea why he was doing what he was doing. But without hesitation--at least physically--Lance shucked off his own clothes right down to and including the underwear, and began to put on the outfit Thrasher had given him.
Lance was too busy following his orders to become overly embarrassed from standing buck naked in front of this young man as he fumbled to get into the unfamiliar gear.
"Put it on exactly as a skater would", Thrasher said with authority.
"Yessir", Lance answered without thinking. In the back of his mind, a faint voice still cried, dear God, are you actually addressing this young kid as 'sir'? It didn't matter, because in no time Lance was attired in his new ensemble. He stood tall and silent before the young skateboarder, feeling a flush of nervous energy flood through him, anxious for his new appearance to be met with approval, though at a loss to understand why it was so important to him. The tiny voice inside his head was silent.
Lance Bass was gone, replaced by Lance Skaterboy. He had put on a worn short-sleeve white T-shirt and a rather beaten open-front black vest. Across the chest of the tee were bold black letters plainly spelling out "Property of THRASHER". Lance also wore snug nylon jockeys and incredibly baggy black jeans that could have easily accommodated two other members of the band comfortably. The jeans hung low on Lance, almost past his penis, but not quite, providing a very revealing view of his new undershorts. On his feet Lance had some used flat-soled tennis shoes that had clearly seen their share of wear before he'd put them on. On his right wrist was a black leather band bearing three silver rings of varying size which seemed to serve no purpose other than to be there. His wrist band complimented his slave collar.
Thrasher walked casually over to Lance, who breathed heavily in anticipation, the small part of his brain that still fought for freedom being presently overridden by a stronger inner voice which begged, "Please, oh please God, let him accept me. Let him like me this way."
Thrasher nodded slowly, approvingly. "Not bad, Lansten", he said, using Lance's nickname with a snide familiarity. "Just needs a finishing touch." With that, Thrasher produced a beaten yellow ball cap and placed it atop Lance's head, backwards. He then took Lance by the arm and walked him over to the mirror, which Lance allowed him to do. "Take a good long look at yourself", Thrasher told him. "You're my little Lancey now, the skater slaveboy. And this is your new look." Thrasher paused a moment, thinking. "At least for today", he added.
Thrasher turned to look away from Lance's reflection and into his eyes. "You like your new outfit, slaveboy?"
Lance stammered. "I--I--I--"
"You love it", Thrasher prompted.
"I love it", Lance agreed.
"You love being a good little skateboy."
"I love being a good little skateboy."
"Sir."
"Sir! I love being a good little skateboy, sir! Yessir!"
Thrasher draped an arm around the pop idol's shoulder and whispered into his ear, "Lansten slaveboy, you really, REALLY like this outfit. A lot. Get me?"
Thrasher turned back to Lance's reflection in the mirror and saw his new slave's baggy pants tent under his sudden erection. Lance whimpered softly as he was overcome with an arousal he could not fight.
Thrasher patted him on the shoulder. "Good boy."
**Lance's Training**
"No, do it again."
Lance was getting exhausted. Thrasher was making the pop star country boy dance about the room and sing skater music that was completely unfamiliar to him. Or at least it had been three hours previous when he had been forced to start the impromptu one-man concert.
Lance was being made to inject rap, ska, and a host of other styles of which he was totally unrehearsed. And after the past few hours, he was actually getting pretty good at it. You could almost believe he was a skater boy. Almost. During this time, Thrasher had made regular injection of the submission/control drug into Lance. The more he moved, danced, and sang, the more integrated it was into his system.
By three hours and forty-five minutes, Lance fairly collapsed. Keep in mind this bizarre ordeal came on the tail of the a rigorous concert that was the last stop of a grueling tour. Lance bent over, gasping and wheezing.
"Did I say you could stop??"
"Please, please, I can barely stand...", Lance gasped. "At least let me take a break. Please."
"Please who?"
"Sir. Please, sir. Please, master, sir."
Thrasher crossed his arms. "Okay, you get a break. But part of you still remains at attention. You got me?"
It was already happening to Lance before the meaning of Thrasher's statement fully registered. Lance looked down to see his pants tenting again. With a word, Thrasher gave him a throbbing erection.
"Remember, slaveboy", Thrasher said, "skate stuff gets you hot. Wearing skater gear, singing skater music, looking at me, your skateboy master."
Lance doubled over, groaning. "Please...it hurts..to stay this hard, this long..."
"How's the gear feel, Slave Lance?"
Lance was swaying, almost delirious from exhaustion. "G-good...so good..."
"And how do I look, Lancey boy?"
Lance looked at his young master, attired in his skater's outfit. Lance began to breathe harder. "Oh, maannnn...you-you look so hot...I can barely...UHH--!" Lance wanted to grab at his crotch, to give himself some relief , but something held him back.
"Are you a skater slaveboy, Lansten?" Lance only groaned, reeling from the buzzing in his balls, the throbbing in his member. "Well? ARE you?!"
"YES! Oh, God, yes! I'm a skater slaveboy! Now let me shoot-- Please!"
Thrasher pressed one finger against Lance's chest and pushed, causing the beaten singer to tumble backwards onto the couch. Thrasher leant close to the pop star's face and said softly, "Fire when ready, slaveboy."
Lance's entire body tensed, his arms and legs shot outward like steel ramrods. He came with a fury he had never experienced before. His hips bucked, his breath came in ragged, broken gasps, and he fired steaming streams of semen all over the inside of his skater pants. Again and again, Lance came, and while the jism eventually lessened, the wracking orgasms actually grew in intensity. Lance tried to control his body, but the action was beyond him. His master had told his body to fire, his body was obeying. Each burst of paralyzing pleasure took a bit more out of the pop idol, leaving his formerly dancing and intense eyes to grow dull with the crippling sensations. He not only lost track of the orgasms but even of where he was and what he was doing after the dozenth spurt.
As Lance faded into an unconscious stupor on the couch, Thrasher leaned back over him and ordered, "Even as you fall asleep, even IN your sleep, Lance Bass, you will repeat these words over and over. "I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am." With each repetition, these words and that concept will burn into your mind with a growing intensity. Start talking."
From somewhere far away, the dozing, prostrate Lance heard what sounded like his own voice saying over and over, "I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am...I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am..."
Thrasher turned out the lights and went to bed. As he turned in, he could still hear his new celebrity slave reciting his new mantra in a sleepy voice. Thrasher put his hands behind his head, grinning. "Nighty-night, little slave."
_____________________________________________________________________
Thrash walked out into the living room the next morning to find Lance standing in front of the door. He was still dressed in his skater outfit, complete with cum-stained pants. He looked to be lunging again and again at the door, or at least making an attempt to. His upper body kept leaning forward in a jerking motion, as if to run for it, but his feet never left the floor.
Thrasher smiled. "Going somewhere?"
Lance's eyes shot daggers at him. It was obvious that Lance was trying desperately to make an escape, but his legs wouldn't let him.
"A good slave doesn't try to run away", Thrasher said, jumping onto the sofa and putting his feet up. "Whattaya say to that? You gonna just run off after all the work I put into you last night? I mean, who do you think you are, anyway?"
Lance gritted his teeth, trying to keep from answering, but the words forced their way out despite his efforts. "I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am." He shook his head in disgust, trying to shake off Thrasher's control. It wouldn't be easy. By this time, Lance had been under the influence of the injections, complete with more than a dozen boosters, for over nine hours. And he had been put through three hours of rigorous slave conditioning, the past six due to his own subconscious repetitions.
"Sorry? Didn't quite catch that", Thrasher chided.
"I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am!"
Thrasher gestured loosely with one hand, palm up. Go on.
"Sir."
"Cool. So, you hungry, Lansten? I'm starved. All that exhaustive slave training."
Lance tried to answer, but it came out, "I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I--"
"Oh, you can stop saying that", Thrasher said. "Just let your subconscious run it on a constant loop in the back of your mind. That'll do."
Lance sighed, a look of relief coming over him for a moment as he felt some freedom from his mantra. But then he got a concerned look in eye, as if he were listening to something alarming coming from far away. The mantra was indeed running softly in the distant recesses of his mind, steadily reminding him of what he was.
"So, you hungry?", Thrasher asked again.
Lance looked at the floor. "Yes, sir. I am."
"Me too." Thrasher stepped around the corner and then popped right back, tossing Lance a checkered apron. "Cook us breakfast. Kitchen's in there."
Lance wanted to take the apron strings and strangle him with them, but he felt compelled to put on the apron and get to work. He was a gay slaveboy, after all. That is all that he was.
Lance spent the morning engaged in menial tasks for his teenage master. He cooked their breakfast, did the dishes, swept the floors, dusted, did the laundry. With each task, Lance felt a creeping sensation that he was somehow inferior to the skater boy who was three years his junior. He had to be, why else would he be so compelled to continue with these tasks? Every so often, Lance would stop in mid-stride, shake his head violently and think, "No! This isn't right, this isn't happening to me! I've been drugged, I've gotta get out of here, this kid's a nutcase! I'm Lance Bass for God's sake, I'm--"
And without fail the thought would complete with "--I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am..." And Lance the gay slaveboy would return to work.
At regular intervals throughout his work, Lance was summoned before Thrasher to undergo repeated exercises in submissive behavior. Lance was taught that he could not speak to his master unless spoken to first. He couldn't talk back. Any attempt to resist was met with an onrush of overwhelming guilt enforced by the drugs. Even when reporting that a chore had been completed, Lance had to drop to one knee and lower his head before speaking. "Master Thrasher, I've finished scrubbing the toilets, sir."
By mid-afternoon (Lance had made them both lunch, too), Thrasher was ready to advance his plan to the next step. From the back room where he lounged on an old hide-a-bed before MTV, he snapped his fingers to summon Lance. Lance was there in an instant, silently cursing himself for doing so.
"It's time for the next step in your programming, Lancey."
"Yes, sir."
Thrasher turned the TV volume down to a soft hum and got up from his seat. "Lancey boy, hold your hands above your head and freeze. Before he could question the absurd order or even begin to resist, Lance did as he was bidden. Thrasher went over to his boy and pulled off his shirt. Tossing it aside, he said, "Arms down." Lance's arms obediently returned to his sides. Thrasher undid Lance's baggy pants (the front of which was now crusty with dried cum), and pulled them down, lifting up one foot at a time to free Lance of them. Lance stared straight ahead, his breathing becoming somewhat labored with trepidation. What was this kid going to do to him now?
Lance was now standing before his young master clad only in his backwards ball cap, his beatup tennis shoes, and most importantly, his slave collar. Thrasher knelt down in front of him and gently ran his hands up the outside of Lance's legs. "You are really, really going to enjoy this, Lansten. And that's not an order or a suggestion. It's a statement of fact. You will enjoy this at a level you didn't think possible." Thrasher moved in closer. "I know I will."
Lance was very erect. He had been for some time. He couldn't help it. Every time he caught site of his young skate master, every time he saw his own skater slave reflection in a hall mirror or kitchen window, he felt aroused. The mere feel of the clothes themselves-- even soiled as they were--was making him heated. And now he was keenly aware that he was naked before this boy and yet still in costume at the same time. It was making him even harder. He couldn't understand it, and fighting it wasn't even an option.
Thrasher moved slowly and deliberately as he began to mouth Lance's cock. Lance inhaled sharply and deeply. He had never felt anything like this before. Thrasher moved his mouth, his lips, his tongue, slowly and torturously up and down Lance's member, sending ripples of intense ecstasy into Lance's body. The moist massage continued for several minutes, making Lance tremble, his eyes closing tight of their own accord, his mouth emitting soft moans of pleasure.
Thrasher slowly and delicately pulled off of Lance, and whispered to him, "This feels right to you, Lance. It's part of who you really are, what you were made for." With that, Thrasher once again went down on his slaveboy and began to suck. Lance's head was reeling. Shivers lashed up and down his spine and his knees locked.
His mind rebelled at what was happening to him. "My God, help me, I'm being sucked off by some twisted skater kid younger than I am--" but the thought was derailed before going any farther, swept away by a swirling miasma of contradicting ideas. "No, no, don't stop, Master, please. This feels sooo good, so right, so true. I'm a gay slaveboy and I'm being serviced by my very own master. This is who I am, this is what I'm meant for. Oh, I never dreamed I could be so lucky, oh please whatever you do, I beg you don't stop."
Thrasher increased the intensity of his inhalations and Lance came. He shot his considerable load into Thrasher's mouth, who squeezed Lance's buttocks tight in attempt to maintain the orgasm. Soon Lance's upper body slumped, his energy spent. Rapidly, Thrasher stood up and held Lance to keep him from collapsing. He grabbed the back of Lance's head in one hand and cradled his face with the other. Then Thrasher kissed him. All the semen he had accepted into his mouth, Thrasher transferred to Lance's. The weakened Lance was in no position to refuse. He allowed his mouth to be forced open and the spent cum to be sent flowing into his mouth.
After a few moments, Thrasher stepped back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Lance's head lolled back slightly, his jaw starting to sag. Thrasher clutched Lance's jaw closed and said one word. "Swallow."
Lance nodded, swallowing down his own jism as best he could. He gagged slightly at the warm, bitter taste, but he accepted it all as thoughts bombarding his mind told him it was what good gay slaveboys were supposed to do.
Delirious, Lance began to crumble, his legs giving out under him. Thrasher guided him down onto the hide-a-bed where he instantly fell asleep. Thrasher smiled at his boy, pleased that the programming was going so well. He turned to retrieve something from another room for the next step in Lance's training, but stopped at the door.
Thrasher strained to hear something, and then realized it was the soft mumblings of Lance in his sleep. Thrasher muted the television to ascertain what Lance was saying.
"I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am..."
Yes, the training was going very well indeed.
_____________________________________________________________________
"Ohh, Laa-aannnnce--!"
Lance's eyes fluttered open. He was unsure of where he was or what had just happened. Thrasher's face came into view about him, flashing a nasty smile. Then it all came back. He was being trained against his will as a slave. He had just been sucked off by this kid who was controlling him. And he had just swallowed--swallowed a load of--
Lance tried to sit up, but he found himself too heavy to lift. No, there was something else on top of him, making him feel heavier. He was wearing something, but couldn't tell what it was. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Lance turned his head to the side to get his bearings but his view was blocked by something on both sides. It was if he were wearing blinders. His view straight head was clear, so he returned his eyes to look at Thrasher's smiling face again.
"Where--?", he began.
"Oh, you're still on the hide-a-bed", Thrasher told him. "I just pulled the bed out underneath you."
"Why--why can't I move?"
"You'll be able to move in a minute or two, you're just spent from getting your first gay head and swallowing down your own jism." Thrasher spoke as he moved about the room, doing something Lance couldn't see from his vantage point laying on his back. Lance winced at the memory of what he had experienced. It disgusted him, and yet a voice inside him kept telling him, just as he was now a gay slaveboy and nothing more, that what he had experienced was perhaps the most wonderful thing to happen to him to date.
"Hey, slaveboy", Thrasher said, "tell me, what did you always want to be when you grew up?"
Lance had no idea what this had to do with anything, but felt compelled to answer anyway. "An astronaut. I wanted to be an astronaut."
Thrasher's face appeared above him again. "Heh. Yeah, I know. I looked it up", he grinned. Thrasher's face disappeared again and Lance heard a squealing noise, like the unoiled wheels of a hospital gurney.
Thrasher wheeled over a full-length mirror and tilted it towards the hide-a-bed, above Lance. "Ta-daa!", Thrasher declared, revealing Lance's reflection to him. Lance stared at himself in awe. While he had been knocked out, Thrasher had dressed him in an astronaut costume. Lance lay there now, all in silvers and blacks, in a mock NASA spacesuit, complete with faux space helmet over his head, with only the oval opening in front. Despite himself, Lance began to smile. He thought to himself, "Look at me, I'm an astronaut."
"THAT'S my boy", Thrasher said happily, seeing Lance's smile. Instantly, Lance suppressed his cheer, recalling where he was and who he was with. Thrasher saw this too, and spoke again in a firmer tone. "Sit up."
Lance did so, the sleepy feelings falling away as he moved up from the hide-a-bed. Thrasher wheeled the mirror back and gave Lance's back a firm pat. "Now go on, get up." Lance stood, uneasily at first, then steadied himself before the mirror, getting a better look at himself.
Lance was dressed mostly in silver pleather. The bulk of his spacesuit, which looked like it was patterned after tapered coveralls, was shiny silver. On Lance's feet and hands were unlined black rubber boots and gloves. The helmet felt like very light plastic, padded inside for a snug fit with more black rubber. Whatever it was made from--probably a doctored Halloween costume--it looked for all the world like a genuine space helmet, but for the absence of glass over the front. Across Lance's left breast, where the American flag might've gone, was a bright six-colored Gay Pride flag. The silver plastic belt around his waist sported a large square buckle with the words "SPACE SLAVE" on it.
"Shit, he's even perverting my childhood dreams", thought Lance.
Thrasher stood behind him, placing his hands on Lance's shoulders. "God, you look so fucking cute in that thing", he said. Lance started to get hard. He was pleasing his master, he was so glad... He suddenly stared hard at his reflection, chasing away the submissive thoughts of pleasing the kid.
Thrasher started rubbing Lance's shoulders, speaking softly to him. "Take in how it feels, Lansten. Close your eyes. Feel it." Thrash continued stroking and rubbing Lance's shoulders and arms. It felt so good. "The heavy leatherish suit--sorry I didn't have any real silver leather buddy--the rubber on your feet and hands, bracing your head. Doesn't that feel just awesome?" Thrasher started reaching around Lance's torso and massaged his chest and abs. It did feel good. All of it. The costume, the sensation of his young master touching him, the sudden warmth beneath the heavy material. Beneath it all, Lance could still feel the snug fit and weight of his slave collar. This time Lance could not fight his erection, and it sprang to life beneath his spacesuit, pressing the pleather material outward. In moments, Thrasher's probing hands found it and caressed Lance's throbbing member against his abs.
"You're my little astronaut, Lancey", Thrasher cooed. "Ready to boldly go where no pop icon has gone before. Into the final frontier of gay slavery."
Lance no longer cared what Thrash was saying. It all felt so good. The suit, the physical contact, the arousal...even, heaven help him, the humiliation. The submission, the loss of control over himself and his situation had a strange, unearthly appeal. He knew he should still be fighting against it, but why? It felt so damn good.
"Sooo..are you gay, Lance? I'll keep going if you admit it."
Lance didn't hesitate. "Yes, oh yes, I'm gay."
"You're a big fag?"
"Yes, yes, I'm just a big fag. A big fag." Lance wheezed out soft gasps of pleasure.
"And you're a slaveboy. Say it."
"Yes, it's true. I'm a slaveboy. A gay slaveboy. Gay, fag, faggot, queer, homo, that's me, oh God, that's me." Lance could feel his member throbbing, the juices pumping inside of him, the sweat building inside his heavy costume. He'd say anything for the feelings not to stop, but for some reason the disgust he'd felt earlier at these words was absent. Saying he was gay--was that so bad? Possibly not.
Thrasher turned Lance around to face him. "Good boy, Lanceslave."
"Th-thank-you, sir. Thank-yo--"
"Kneel down", Thrasher said abruptly.
"Yessir...", in a daze of rapture, Lance went quietly down to his knees, the bulky costume bunching up a bit behind his legs. Lance's arms hung limply at his sides.
Thrash looked down with approval at Lance's easy submission. Gently, Thrasher unfastened Lance's helmet and lifted it off. Thrasher then plucked off his own black baseball cap and put it backwards on Lance's head. This was the big test. He had forced Lance to obey his commands, to dress in selected costumes, to even say aloud that he was gay. But this...Thrasher didn't know if there was any chemical or training that could force the behavior he was about to demand.
Slowly, Thrasher unzipped his pants and pulled out his very erect penis. He placed his hands upon Lance's shoulders, and began to speak with the best authority he could muster. "Now, Lansten, I want you to--"
That was as far as he got. Lance lunged forward and took his young master's cock into his mouth. Thrasher almost jumped back in surprise. "Whoa!" But his shiny silver space slave braced Thrash with his rubber gloved hands, holding tight to the skateboy's legs and ass, keeping him close to Lance's face, allowing the pop star slave to fully take in the exposed penis.
Lance sucked and drew upon Thrasher's penis with a hunger that Thrasher was totally unprepared for. The young skate master had intended to keep prompting Lance on with repeated commands, but that was clearly unnecessary. Thrasher reeled under the loving assault, bracing himself on Lance's shoulders. Lance continued to draw repeatedly upon his master's cock. now moving his hands up and down Thrasher's rear and legs, massaging him with his hands as he massaged his member with his tongue.
Thrasher had planned to hold out as long as could, prolonging Lance's training, his humiliation, but the experience was too powerful, too sudden, and too heady to be withstood. Thrash gasped, "Huh-uh! Uh! Uh! Uhh!" In just a few minutes, Thrasher shot his wad into Lance's waiting mouth, which the slaveboy swallowed hungrily, continuing to draw and suck again.
Thrasher let out a gasp of surprised rapture. "Whu-whu-whu- WHOAaaaaaaaaaaahh--!" As Lance began again, Thrasher's head fell back, and he gazed blankly at the ceiling. Under his breath, he mouthed two words.
"Lift-off."
**Attempted Escape**
Lance was back in skater gear, sweeping the floor. This time he was in khaki skater shorts and a grungy T-shirt bearing a pink triangle with a skateboard superimposed on it. A stained yellow-orange ball cap sat backwards atop his head. His scuffed black tennis shoes almost went with his slave collar. Almost. As Lance worked, he kept eyeing the door. Thrasher looked back to check the slave's progress and noticed his distraction.
"Still thinking about leaving?"
Lance began to say "no", but his training kicked in and he knew it was improper to lie to his master. "Y-yes, sir. A little."
Thrash got up from his chair and sauntered over to Lance. I thought after yesterday's little dick-sucking action you were here to stay, my little astronaut." Thrasher leaned in to kiss Lance. Lance allowed the kiss, but it was clear he was not going to kiss back. Apparently, when caught in the throws of physical stimulation, Lance was a lot easier to control than when he was more lucid.
Thrash stepped back, looking into Lance's eyes. There was still resistance there, despite everything. "You still wanna leave?" Thrash's tone was accusing.
Lance lowered his head, "Y-yes."
Thrasher stormed out of the room and came back shortly with the original clothing Lance had arrived in. he threw them at Lance, who caught them awkwardly. "Okay, fine. Here, put your boring old dumbass clothes back on."
"Sir?"
"What? I wasn't clear enough? Do it!" Thrasher yanked off Lance's hat and threw it in the corner.
"Yessir." Slowly, Lance took off his skater gear and began to dress himself in his own clothes. He felt as if he were doing something wrong. Shortly, he was clad once again in his own wardrobe.
Thrasher pointed to the door. "You wanna leave so damn bad? Fine. Get the fuck out. Go home!"
Lance was stunned. Was this some kind of trick? "But, but sir--"
Thrasher pointed an angry finger at the door. "Go ON! Get outta here! I order you to leave, slave!"
Lance slowly trod towards the door. He felt nothing impeding his movement. If this wasn't just some warped test or trick, he was going home. He was really going to leave--
"Ut!" Thrasher stopped Lance's progress with a sound. He then walked over to Lance and grabbed his neck. Lance gasped, not knowing what was going to happen, then realized what the boy was doing when he heard the sound of a lock clicking. "You don't get to take the collar with you. It stays here, where it belongs."
Instantly, Lance felt a terrible loss as the collar left his neck. It was as if he'd just found out his dog or his best friend had died. His collar. Thrash couldn't just take away his collar...
Thrasher kicked Lance in the seat of his pants. "Go on, beat it!"
Lance stumbled out the door and across the porch. He staggered down the front steps and began to sprint down the driveway. Near the foot of the drive, he spotted his car, hidden from the road by the shrubbery, but in plain sight from within the property lines.
Lance ran to the car and found the door unlocked. He reached up and pulled down the sun blind to have the keys fall out into his lap. Clumsily, Lance put the key in the ignition. The car started right up.
There was the fierce grind of spinning wheels across the gravel, and then he skidded onto the pavement and sped off toward town. Toward freedom.
| Part 2 | |