The Cast:
Lance Bass
Justin Timberlake
JC Chasez
Joey Fatone
Chris Kirkpatrick
Twice while on the road, Lance nearly lost his grip on the wheel. He kept reaching up and rubbing his neck, trying to find his collar, always shocked and alarmed to find it missing. Each time he had to mentally collect himself and reestablish that he was free of his enforced gay slavery.
He was determined to get home, to call the guys, to call the authorities, to call the news, to call anybody. The story of his terrible ordeal would be told, the skater boy would be prosecuted, and Lance would be a hero. And then he could get his collar back.
No! What was he thinking? He was free of his collar. He wasn't a fucking sextoy slave! No, but he sucked pretty good, though. Dammitt! What was the matter with him? He couldn't keep his thoughts straight.
What was the matter was that he had been drugged, abducted, and forced to endure brainwashing techniques that confused his mind and body. That, and he was awarded that magnificent collar. Shit! STOP it already!
Lance pulled up to the home he thought he'd never see again and tore inside to the phone. He had to act fast, to call as many people for help as he could, to stay focused and keep his mind off that stupid collar. He called Justin. He got his voice mail. Lance stopped himself before practically yelling into the receiver, "Justin, you gotta help me, I'm a skater kid's gay slaveboy!" He called JC. No answer. Chris. Answering machine. Joey. Caller unavailable.
Lance slammed the phone down, swearing like a sailor. Maybe he should just call the cops. Oh yes, and then he could explain to them how he, big-time music celebrity Lance Bass, was supposedly abducted by a lone kid three years his junior. An abduction that Lance had to drive himself to with what looked for all the world like his own free will. And how he was brainwashed and violated by this young criminal mastermind--who was so demented and warped--that he gave Lance all his own clothes back and let him go home. Lance sat down hard on his bed. The impossibility of his story was sinking in.
How many kidnappers had their victims make special trips to drive to their own abduction? How many let their victims go home to prove to them that at heart, they were still captured? Lance put his head in his hands. No one would believe him. How could they, when he barely believed it himself? "Gee officer, this scrawny kid dressed me up in a spacesuit to help me act out my astronaut fantasy and then I sucked him off. Which one of us do you think should be locked up?" There was no evidence of foul play. No proof that he had been made to do anything against his will. Nothing except his submissive behavior (as the shy one of the band, that was nothing new), his obsession over being collared, and his own slave's mindset ingrained by the drugs Thrasher gave him.
The drugs.
That could be his proof, right there! He could have himself tested for drugs. Surely the gunk that Thrasher repeatedly injected him with must still be in his system. It had to be, he could feel it. And if Lance could show beyond a doubt that there was a strange, specially-designed chemical in his system, it would support his story. Yeah, because what millionaire celebrity would EVER inject designer drugs into himself of his own free will? That would never happen. Lance envisioned the headlines of The National Enquirer at checkout stands across the country. Teen heartthrob Lance Bass trips on special concoction that reveals his true gay self! "I dreamed I went down on delinquent dude", divulges delusional dreamboat from detox.
The bodyguards. Lance could call the massive bruisers the group hired as bodyguards and storm Thrasher's hideout abode, give the little shit a pounding, and then take back his collar. That's what he'd do!
Or what he thought he'd do, until he realized after three unanswered calls that the band had given the bodyguards end-of-tour vacation time. Lance fell backwards on the bed and felt as if he were about to cry. He was free now. Couldn't he just get back to his life and forget this whole bizarre episode ever happened? The strain of the last few days began to catch up with him and he found himself drifting into a sleep of physical and emotional exhaustion. Half asleep, half awake, Lance saw himself back with Thrasher, back in his collar, dressed in clothing his young kidnapper had chosen for him. He saw the wiry teen in his skater gear and felt so attracted to him, so aroused. Lance heard himself whisper aloud, "...master..."
Abruptly, Lance sat up in his bed, startled by his own dream vision. He looked down and saw that as he dozed, he had undone the front of his pants and had begun to masturbate. His hand was still around his erect penis, the image of his young skate master still in his mind.
Lance stood up and zipped himself up. This couldn't continue. He knew what he had to do.
**Soccer Slave**
Thrasher looked up from the couch on which he'd been lounging to see Lance burst in the door.
The skateboy fought to hold back a sly grin. "Why Lansten, what an unexpected surprise."
Lance stood with as much presence and authority as he could, trying to hide the slight tremble in his legs. "Give me back m-my collar", he said with what he had intended to sound threatening.
Thrasher almost guffawed at Lance's stutter. That, and the fact that his wonderfully deep bass voice cracked a bit. "How as that again?"
Lance started to waver. "I--I want my collar back, mister." Oh, fuck. He called the kid "mister". Yeah, that's imposing. "Right now."
Thrash, still laying back on the couch, crossed his arms and stared up at nothing. "You're a free man now, Lancey. What the hell do you need a collar for?"
He had him there. Lance was at a loss. True, it didn't make any sense. "Because--because--because I just want it, that's all! And after what you did to me--"
"After what we did together--", Thrasher corrected.
"No! What you did to me! After what you put me through, you at least owe me that much! Just give me back my collar and I'll get out of here and we can forget this whole thing ever happened!"
Thrasher rubbed his eyes. He let his head loll to one side and he grinned at Lance, who was beginning to sweat. "And what do you say-- ?", he prompted.
Lance shifted uneasily. "P-please?"
"Please, what?"
"Please, sir."
Thrasher couldn't resist, so he had to ask. "Who did you say you were again?"
Lance said with conviction, "I am a gay slaveboy, that is all I am." He winced after the words came out, furious with himself for saying it, knowing full well he could hardly do anything else.
Thrasher got up and walked over to him. "So, howcum you're here all alone? Where are all the policemen, Lance? (Mind you, I wouldn't mind being cuffed by a few cute copboys.) Where are your big, scary bodyguards to beat me up? Where are your friends, at least??" Lance just lowered his head. He had no answers. Thrasher began to stress his point further, but something caught his eye. "What the hell is this??"
Lance had fastened a leather belt around his neck and tied it into place. It hung too low around his neck, and was held there clumsily. Thrasher sneered at the half-assed job. He then raised one eyebrow to Lance, encouraging an explanation.
"I--I-I need my collar", Lance said quietly.
Thrasher put his hands on his hips. "Really." He reached up and undid the clumsy makeshift restraint and tossed it on the floor.
"Please", Lance said softly. "I-I just need my collar. Please."
Thrasher got nose-to-nose with Lance. "Why not just hire one of your expensive costume people to make you your very own collar?"
Lance whispered softly. "I need your collar."
"Because--?"
Lance swallowed and took a deep breath. "Because you're my master and a slave should wear his master's collar." At that, Lance's eyes began to tear.
Thrasher placed a hand atop Lance's head and said quietly, "Kneel." Lance went down on his knees and Thrasher walked over to and end table and produced the slave collar from a drawer. He returned to Lance, saying, "Lower your head, extend your neck." This gestures was hardly necessary for Thrasher to reattach the collar, but it reinforced a feeling of submission in Lance.
Lance felt a rush of joy as the collar went back around his neck. As he heard the soft ker-ching of the clasp locking tight, he sighed with satisfaction and relief. Lance could feel his contented erection at his newfound enslavement.
Thrasher placed his hands under Lance's chin and lifted his head. Looking the pop star in the eye, Thrasher asked him, "Whose are you, Lansten?"
"I'm yours", he answered. Then, lowering his head again, added, "...sir."
Thrasher lifted Lance's chin again and kissed him. Despite Lance's relief at being collared once again, the safety and security he felt at being under the control of his young master, he still didn't kiss him back. Something deep within him was still resisting the experience as unnatural.
Thrasher pulled away, feeling Lance's resistance, and feeling not only angry but a little hurt by it. Even with all the drugs and brainwashing and training, it looked there was still a part of his crush Lance Bass that he would never have. He took a deep breath and told himself not to show his sorrow through tears. Instead, he tapped Lance on the shoulder and said, "C'mere."
Lance stood and followed his master over to the TV. Thrasher rifled through a stack of videotapes jumbled in the cupboard underneath the set. "Took me a few tries to catch it, but I finally got the whole thing", Thrasher said cryptically.
"Sir?"
Thrasher pulled out a tape, read the sticker label and remarked, "This one." He popped it into the VCR and said, "Watch this."
Lance stepped up to the set and watched as there played a recorded commercial promoting an upcoming celebrity soccer match. Television actors and recording stars would be taking the field in a much-hyped event for charity. Lance watched the whole thing, twice, not understanding why he was watching it. There were a few stars in the lineup that Lance had met, most he had not. Lance Bass, of course, was not advertised as part of the celebrity game lineup. Thrasher was determined to change that.
Thrasher put an arm around his slave. "Did I ever tell you I was into soccer?" Lance shook his head. Thrasher handed him a small cell phone. "You, Mr. Celebrity, are going to make a few phone calls."
_____________________________________________________________________
"Sir? Does this meet with your approval?" Thrasher turned to inspect his slave's new uniform.
Lance looked adorable. He stood dressed in full soccer uniform. A long-sleeved collared shirt with snug cuffs and bold vertical blue & white stripes. His matching nylon shorts rode well above the knee and were more than form-fitting. The outfit, completed with high athletic knee socks and soccer shoes made the already boyish Lance look nearly ten years younger. It had only been a few more days since he had been recollared, but Lance still felt naked without having it on now. He knew he could hardly appear at a nationally- televised event wearing a slave collar, so he took solace in knowing it would be returned to him immediately after the game.
"Sir? Is it okay?"
Thrasher gulped. Besides the skater image and leather, he had an affinity for nylon, particularly soccer gear. Lance's bright eyes looked wide with anticipation, adding to his new youthful appearance. Thrasher licked his lips, his breathing suddenly a bit strained. He wanted to leap across the room and kiss Lance right then and there. But as a master, he had to restrain himself.
"You look good, kid", Thrasher whispered.
"Sir? I-I didn't hear--"
Thrasher cleared his throat loudly. "It'll do, It'll do. Now c'mon, let's get you to the playing field." Lance bowed his head slightly and walked toward the door. As he passed his skateboy master, Thrasher touched his arm. Lance stopped at the contact, awaiting new orders. But instead, Thrasher pulled Lansten close to him and kissed him deeply.
Lance was taken by surprise, but allowed the kiss to continue without resistance. Thrasher broke off after a few moments. Despite his surrender, Lance still did not return the kiss. This simple realization helped return Thrasher to his usual gruff manner. He was about to wave Lance out to the car, when quietly, Lance spoke.
"Thank-you, master."
Thrasher was taken aback. He blinked in surprise, but composed himself quickly. He jerked his thumb toward the car. "Let's go."
_____________________________________________________________________
On the field, Lance was a terror. Thrasher didn't even know that Lance could play soccer, but he was out there with the other celebs giving it his all. Thrasher had really only wanted to see Lance dressed up in nylon gear, sweating his heart out, and he got what he wanted and then some.
The crowds cheered as well for the efforts of the pop idol, and he responded as if nothing about him were different. His cheerful waves and happy smiles offered to the screaming girl onlookers gave the impression that this was the same old adorable Lance Bass, out to have fun for charity. Not a soul knew that inside, he was aching to regain his collar.
Cameras recording the event caught plenty of shots of Lance. Thrasher watched the on-site monitors intently. One time a closeup image of Lance appeared onscreen, his hair wet with perspiration, a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face. He turned and looked directly into the camera, his brilliant eyes briefly catching the light. Silently, Lance sent out the message, "This is for you, master." Perhaps through some unexplained phenomenon, the message was received. Because at that moment, watching the monitors, Thrasher actually sighed.
_____________________________________________________________________
After the game, Lance made his way to the designated rendezvous point with Thrasher. He felt the compulsion to do so, but at this point he knew resisting it was useless, so he allowed himself to follow orders as commanded. It had taken some time to break free of the cameras, the interviewers, and the throngs of well-wishers who clamored for autographs and photos, but more than an hour after the game was over, Lance made his way back to the stadium, to a secluded spot on the far end beneath the stands.
Thrash was waiting for him. But he wasn't alone. There was another boy with him. The tagalong had just turned 18, but you'd never know it to look at him. He had a face like a twelve-year-old, the nervous and excited manner of a 16-year-old. Lance approached with caution. Not knowing the situation, he fought back the urge to address Thrasher as "sir" or, heaven help him, "master", and continued to act as if he were his old self.
"Hey", Lance said, working to keep his deep voice even. "Um, what's going on?" His tone gave his statement the feel of a concerned question rather than just a casual greeting.
"Lance", Thrasher said, "this is Joshua. Joshua, Lance Bass."
Young Joshua practically leapt at Lance, his hand extended. Lance reflexively took it, and the elated boy pumped his hand with all his might. "Mr. Bass! Lance. Dude, you are like, my hero. You are da BOMB. I mean it, you are such an inspiration to me, man, I can't tell you. God, it is such an honor to meet you! Wow!"
Lance looked at Thrasher, his eyes flashing silent questions. Thrasher said, "It's Joshua's 18th birthday today."
"Yesterday, really", the excited boy corrected. He still firmly held Lance's hand.
"Whatever. Anyway, lo and behold, the little guy is like the biggest Lance Bass fan on the planet who isn't a 13-year-old girl. And I was more than happy to liberate him of a sizeable amount of cash he got from various relatives who thought he'd put it toward college--for the chance to meet you, privately." Thrasher stressed the word "privately" and then made a rather evil grin.
Lance still looked puzzled, but was starting to get the idea.
Joshua whispered, "It took most of my savings, too. B-but it was worth it, it was so worth it, don't think it wasn't worth it. Lance." Lance simply looked down at his hand still being clenched by the boy, who realized his faux pas and let it go. he shuffled his feet nervously. "Sorry."
Thrasher put an arm around the boy's shoulder, his grin becoming a sneer. "And, as it turns out, our little Joshua here is also as queer as a 3-dollar bill." Joshua blanched, his eyes bulging in sudden terror. He had just been outed--insultingly--in front of his hero.
He began to stammer. "P-p-please, it's not--it-s just that--I only, I only, I on--"
Thrasher hugged Joshua a bit tighter with his draped arm. "And when I told him that I could give him the ultimate birthday present there ever was, of being able to actually kiss the man he's had a ball- busting crush on for years now, well..."
Joshua kept looking into Lance's eyes, his breathing coming unevenly. Joshua whispered, "I didn't think he could do it. I mean, I hoped. I hoped and prayed. I prayed so much, but I never really believed--"
Thrasher patted Joshua on the back and stepped away from him. He nodded to Lance. "Lansten, why don't you wish our Joshua here a happy birthday."
Joshua beamed, and Lance looked at Thrasher with concern. Should I? Thrasher nodded, and Lance took one step closer to the boy. Joshua jumped right up to Lance. "Joshua, I want to wish you a happy 18th birthday", Lance said mechanically.
Joshua moved forward and reached up to put his arms around the pop star. Lance thought he smelled like he'd been guzzling mouthwash. His hands were trembling, and he pulled them back, embarrassed. He leaned in, and Lance allowed the boy's lips to press lightly against his. He would just let the kid do whatever he had to do, then back away. He wouldn't allow himself to--
"Kiss him back as if you mean it." Thrasher's voice came deathly quiet right next to Lance's ear. Lance eyed Thrasher, who gestured angrily with his hands for him to proceed. To give the kid what he paid for.
Lance gave in. He had to. His master said so. Lance reached down and gently took the boy's hands and placed them around himself. He was still shaking slightly, but Lance put his own arms around the boy to steady him. One of Lance's hands made its way up to brush through the excited boy's hair. At that, his whole body started to tremble.
Lance whispered to the boy, loud enough for Thrasher to hear him. "Happy birthday, Joshua. You look like a fine boy. I'd like to give you this present." Joshua nodded, in a daze, and Lance leaned in and kissed him gently, sincerely. Then the kiss grew more passionate, Lance's tongue invading the young man's mouth, his tongue massaging the boy's. Joshua had the erection of his young life. He felt his entire body seem to melt as the one whom he saw as the Ultimate Boy gave him an extended, romantic kiss.
After several moments, Lance slowly pulled away from the boy, but kept his arms around him. Tenderly, Lance brushed his thumb along the boy's cheek, and said, "I hope it's a great year for you, Joshua. Many happy returns." Joshua simply nodded. "And thanks for coming to the game, Josh. It means a lot to me." With that, Lance placed one hand over Joshua's crotch and gently but firmly pressed against it. Joshua gasped, his mouth locked wide open. Then Lance gave him one last kiss on the forehead and stepped back.
Lance remarked, "We probably should get going now, huh?" and he looked to Thrasher for direction.
"Yeah, we are like, way late now. Josh, we'll see ya, huh?"
Joshua just nodded, his mouth still wide open in shock and joy.
"See ya, buddy. Congratulations again", Lance offered. Joshua nodded again, looking like a bobbing-head doll. He began to walk backwards, not wanting to take his eyes off Lance, not wanting the moment to end.
"Uh, aren't we forgetting something?", Thrasher said harshly. Joshua looked at him, his face a mask of confusion. Thrash rubbed three fingers together rapidly, making the "money" pantomime.
"Oh, yeah!", Joshua said. Pulling a sizeable wad of bills out of his pocket, he handed them quickly to Thrasher, showing no more concern for the loss than if they were old gum wrappers. "Here's the other half." Thrasher snatched them away, then made a mean jerking motion with his thumb that translated into "Beat it, kid".
Joshua stumbled away, still in a delirium of ecstasy. He kept looking back at Lance, smiling.
"Bye, now", Lance said, waving.
Twice Joshua bumped into the bleacher supports, but eventually made his exit.
Thrasher was happily flipping through his newly-acquired booty when he realized that Lance was weeping. Looking younger than his years in his adorable soccer kit, Lance had lowered his head and was beginning to cry. Thrasher sighed. What was all this about?
"That--that was wrong", Lance whimpered.
Thrasher rolled his eyes. They'd been through this. Lancey-boy was his slave now, and he'd do whatever ol' Thrasher told him to do, regardless of the ethics involved. If he wanted to rent Lansten out as his celebrity kissing booth, that was the way it would be. Thrash stuffed the green into his pocket and started to say, "Look, Lance--"
At that Lance fell to his knees. "God, that felt so--so wrong!", he cried. Thrasher wasn't ready for this kind of response. Was his programming starting to unravel? Lance's head slumped forward and he wept openly.
Thrasher's tone of voice softened a bit. He decided he'd be further ahead explaining rather than scolding. "Lookit, Lansten--"
But against all his training, Lance interrupted him. "I shouldn't have DONE that!" Then, as he caught his breath in between sobs, he said, "You're my master, sir! You. I should never kiss anyone on this earth but you."
Thrasher just stared mutely at his humbled, weeping slaveboy. He thought he had prepared for any contingency with this latest alteration in his enslavement scheme. But he hadn't been prepared for this.
**Leather Lancelot**
It was a few days after the soccer game, and Thrasher was pacing the room. Lance sat nearby, watching his young master with eager eyes. Why was he so nervous? Lance was dressed in nylon soccer gear, as Thrasher had opted to put him in a lot since the game. The two had even played games together in the house's spacious backyard. This outfit of Lance's consisted of reds and whites. And as before, Lance looked adorable.
"Master, are you okay?", Lance asked. It wasn't protocol to inquire anything of his master, but Lance felt that his concern for Thrasher's well being may be forgiven.
Thrasher waved the comment away. It's nothing. In fact, it was something. That night after the celebrity soccer match, Thrasher had seriously deviated from the plan. Seriously deviated. Thrasher closed his eyes and recalled what he had done.
Lance had been standing in the center of the room, enjoying the sensation of having his collar back on. He still wore his sweaty and soiled blue & white soccer gear. The charity game had only been an hour or so behind them. Thrasher stared at a small, slender vial filled with a clear, colorless, odorless liquid. It looked for all the world like water. It wasn't. It was a backdoor. It was an emergency solution that was the antidote for the mind controlling chemicals that had been pumped into Lance. Thrasher kept it on hand just in case something unexpected caused his plans to go sour.
As it turned out, he never needed it. And yet here it was. In his hand, ready to go. If he remembered correctly, it was supposed to flush the drugs from the victim's bloodstream within a matter of hours, less than a day's time. And Thrasher was going to have Lance use it. He had to know--was Lancey really his slave now, or simply under the influence of those powerful narcotics? If it was just the drugs--in concert with the brainwashing techniques--everything Thrasher had worked for would be wiped away. If not...
I should never kiss anyone on this earth but you.
Thrasher had tossed the vial over to Lance. "Drink this."
"Yessir, right away, sir!" Lance took one sip of the clear liquid and scrunched his face up in disgust. It tasted terrible.
Thrasher watched him closely. "All of it. Drink it all down."
Lance nodded, gulping as best he could, the gag reflex making him shudder slightly, but he downed it all. Now there was nothing left to do but wait, and perhaps enjoy what could be there last few moments together as master and slave.
But that was days ago. And Lance had showed no change. And so Thrasher paced. Waiting. Waiting not only for any sign of a change in Lance, but also for--
The doorbell rang.
"Ah", Thrasher said. He bounded to the door as Lance stood up, eagerly anxious to see what they'd both been waiting for. After a brief exchange at the door, Thrasher reentered the room carrying a large brown parcel. Thrash carefully tore off the seals and then eased the lid open. He gasped at what was inside.
"Perrrrrfect", he purred. "God, they did a perfect job. I should have thought of having you call your concert costumers for something like this a long time ago."
Lance stepped over to his master gingerly, craning his neck a bit to peer into the box. "D-did they do a good job, master? With the directions and specs I gave them? Is it what you wanted?"
Thrasher closed the lid. "We'll see in a minute, won't we?" He tossed the box to Lance, saying, "Go put it on. Nothing underneath. Go." Lance hurriedly left the room with his parcel.
When Lance came back into the room, Thrasher knew he had finally found his slave's ultimate look. Lance had put on a suit of leather armor, dyed silver, with a bit of glitter dashed throughout. As instructed, he had nothing on underneath, and despite the removable codpiece snapped over his crotch, it sure looked like Lance's costume training was still in full effect, as his package was straining against it's leather confinement.
Thrasher waved Lance into the center of the room, where the beautiful slave stood, waiting for his master's feedback on his new attire. After a long moment of silence when Thrasher sat staring, saying nothing, Lance opened his mouth to speak, to inquire if he met with his master's approval. No sooner had he parted his lips than thrasher lifted an admonishing finger. Don't speak yet. At that signal, Lance stood silent.
Thrasher got up and walked around the singer slaveboy. His silver leather looked like a cross between the battlesuits worn by the heroes in the X-men movie and the knights in shining armor of old. The padding over the knees, elbows, and shoulders lent itself more to the latter than the former. Over Lance's head was an open-faced leather hood, with a wide strap fixed across his forehead that mimicked a knight's visor. On top of it all, the black slave collar stood out around Lance's neck. Thrasher smiled wide. "Freelance Entertainment" indeed. Lance would be doing plenty of entertaining in this suit, but he'd be anything but free. At least he hoped.
Lance kept his eyes on the floor, his heart racing with suspense, waiting to hear a word--any word--from his young master to know if he had pleased him. Finally, Thrasher snapped his fingers, getting Lance to look up into his eyes. Then Thrasher pointed to the ground. Instantly, Lance was down on one knee before him. In his new uniform, he looked for all the world like a storybook prince waiting to be knighted by his liege.
Thrasher rested his hands on Lance's shoulders. Upon contact, Lance again dropped his eyes to the floor. Thrasher took a deep breath and braced himself. He then asked Lance, "Who are you, boy?"
"I'm your slave, sir", Lance said with conviction. "I live to serve you." God, those words now came so naturally to him, were spoken with such feeling. After all this time he could no longer fight them. And even though he had believed this was not what he had been meant to be, it felt so intoxicating...so arousing.
Thrasher smiled with relief. Maybe the antidote hadn't worked. Or just hadn't kicked in yet. Or maybe, just maybe, Thrasher was a better master than he thought and the use of controlling drugs or lack thereof was no irrelevant. The skater boy made his pronouncement. "This is now your official slave attire. You'll wear this armor unless I direct you to do otherwise. Do you understand, Lansten?"
Lance kept his head lowered but said with enthusiasm, "Yes, my lord! Thank-you, sir!"
"My lord"? It seemed that slaveboy Lance was really getting into his role as a serving knight errant. Thrasher went on, reveling in the moment. "You are now slave Lancelot. And I will have you serve me, Lance. A lot." Thrasher grinned at his own dreadful pun. Then, composing himself, he took a step back from his boy. "Now stand up, Lancey."
Slave Lancelot leapt to his feet upon command. "Now come with me, Lancelot. We have a lot to do tonight to break in your new uniform."
"Yes, sir!", Lance beamed. "Thank-you, sir!"
At that, Thrasher led his armored knight errant slave out of the room.
_____________________________________________________________________
In the bedroom, there was just enough light from the lone hanging lamp to reflect off of Lance's new armor. Thrasher held his hand, taking in the sight of his celebrity slaveboy, now completely redone in an image he had designed.
Lance let go of Thrash's hand and jumped onto the bed. He stood up, towering over the young skateboy, and slowly peeled off his leather codpiece. Lance tossed it aside, revealing his sizable manhood bobbing erect in the dim light. Thrasher gulped.
Lance then fell to his knees on the bed. "Master, permission to speak, sir."
Thrasher nodded slowly. "..uh, s-sure." He cleared his throat. "Sure."
"My liege", Lance said dramatically, "your humble knight requests you do him the honor of being allowed to serve you." Lance looked up at his master, their eyes locking. There was something different about those eyes, Thrasher realized. Something...he couldn't quite place. Carefully, Thrasher mounted the bed, pulling off his shirt and kicking off his shoes.
Lance drew him close, and then leaned backwards onto the sheets, pulling his master on top of him. Lance helped his master off with his pants, and as they pressed together, Thrasher could feel Lance's warm erection against his own. Thrasher rested his breast against Lance's mock leather chestplate, leaning in to kiss him. Before their lips could connect, Lance spoke softly.
"Make love to me."
Thrasher wasn't sure he had heard him right. "Whu-what--?"
Lance whispered in the boy's ear, "I need you inside me." The deep, seductive bass voice struck a chord within the skater. It was as if he was no longer the master with his brainwashed slave. He was a young gay fan, living out a fantasy by sleeping with his idol. He surrendered to the sensation, and he mounted Lance, unable to wait a second longer.
The two had sex--no, made love--for hours. It was incredible, both young men giving everything to the other with unreserved passion and intensity. At times, lance threw his head back and screamed, "Sir! SIR!" with impassioned fervor, at other times the two just held each other, clinging tightly, as if they could squeeze a greater ecstasy from the other by sheer physical exertion.
By dawn's light, the two lay on the bed, totally spent. Lance's armor lay in various piles around the room. And Thrasher's angry slavemaster attitude lay in pieces as well. He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, not quite sure of how long he had been asleep. Lance's arms were around him. Thrasher turned his head to see if Lance was awake, and got his answer as Lance's sparkling eyes shone back at him.
"Morning", he said.
Lance wore only his collar and nothing else, and Thrash found himself becoming aroused at the sight of him, in spite of his exhaustion.
Lance noticed the sheets tenting above Thrasher's crotch area, and he smiled. "Whoa. You're just a little machine there, aren't you, buddy?" Thrasher thought a second- those certainly weren't the words of a slave, were they? Lance leaned over to Thrasher, cutting off his train of thought. "Hey", Lance said. "Thank-you." At that Lance kissed his young master with sincerity and passion. Thrasher felt the kiss not only with his mouth but his heart, and was moved by the shared emotion as part of Lance went out to him with that loving exchange.
Lance pulled away, having genuinely kissed Thrash for the first time, and tenderly stroked his hair. "Thank-you so much, master", he said.
"Danny", the boy whispered.
"Sorry?" Lance looked puzzled.
"My name. Danny. That's my real name. You can call me Danny if you want."
Lance rolled over onto his back. "Well, Master Danny, thank-you. I cannot begin to tell you how long I have been waiting for that. God, it's such a relief--so liberating to be who I was meant to be." Lance touched his silver slave tag with his fingertips, felling its weight, rubbing its smooth surface. "To just be myself."
Danny wrinkled his brow. "What do you mean--?"
Lance looked back at him. "Danny, I'm gay."
"I know that. 'You're a gay slaveboy, that's all that yo--' "
Lance shook his head. "No, no. Not that. I mean, I'm gay. Just that, even without--even before--the slave stuff. Danny, I'm gay. I always have been." He stroked Danny's hair again, allowing his finger to slip down and trace the boy's cheek. "I've been closeted for so long, I can't even remember. And you brought me out, Dan." Lance rolled his eyes. "Granted, I didn't have much of a choice." And he smiled. "At first."
That was what was different about Lance's eyes, Danny realized. They looked just as they did when he first saw him at the Meet & Greet. They were clear, shining, lucid. Danny sat up. "You--you mean you're not--?"
"Drugged into submission? Helpless to resist you? Nah. Haven't been for a little while now. I mean, I was at first. Holy shit, yeah, I really was at first." And he flashed a warm smile. "But now..."
"So it's over then", Danny said. He jumped out of the bed, gathering up his clothes.
Lance sat up. "What? Why does it have to be over? Master!"
"Don't call me that."
Lance leapt out of bed, still naked but for his collar. "Please, you don't understand! I needed someone to yank me out of the closet for so long, and you did it. And this whole role-play thing, being your slave, God, it's fulfilled me like I never thought possible! I am your slave! Let me be your slave some more! It's not like you're so young you couldn't realistically be my boyfriend--"
"You should go."
"What--? No! Don't say that!"
Danny looked hard at Lance. "Lance, you're out of the closet and you found something that turns you on in the sack. Great. I'm happy for you. But this wasn't just some game for me, man. I wanted you--I needed you--as my personal slave."
"But I AM!"
"Not if you're just acting. I wanted you as a genuine, heartfelt slave. And you're not that, not anymore. Think you can stay here and let me treat you as my property all the time, any way I want without ever complaining, without ever questioning me?"
Lance paused, considering.
"Didn't think so. A real slave wouldn't have to think about it." Danny extended his hand. "C'mere. I gotta take back your collar."
"NO!!" Lance backed up against the wall.
Danny pulled on his clothes, speaking firmly. "Show me this was more than a coming-out celebration. Show me it was more than a vagrant fling playing to my own fantasies about you, Lance. If you can give up your personal life as you know it and submit to my complete ownership of you, then I'll believe you, but until then, forget it." Danny curled his index finger inward, signaling for Lance to come forward.
Lance shuffled over to Danny, and fell to his knees before him. Lance was shaking his head, his eyes pleading with Danny not to do this, not to send him away. "Hold still", Danny said, undoing the lock on the collar. Lance rested his head against Danny's body, his arms wrapped around the boy's legs.
Lance whimpered quietly, "Please, please, let me stay, I want to stay, you can drug me again if you want, I don't care, just please..."
Danny gently petted Lance's head. Now was the time for the final test. And pass or fail, Lance Bass would have to face it on his own.
_____________________________________________________________________
Danny guided Lance to the door. Lance was dressed in his own clothes- -not unlike those he first arrived in--which now felt unfamiliar and strange to him. His precious collar was gone from his neck. That alone made him feel naked and exposed. Danny kept his hand on Lance's shoulder as he led him out. Danny opened the front door and stood beside Lance, waiting for him to walk out. Lance just stood there.
After a few moments, Danny eased Lance out onto the porch. Lance immediately turned around to face the young skateboy he'd come to know as his master. Danny stood in the doorway, smiling kindly. "Guess this is goodbye, Lansten", he said softly. Lance's mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. His eyes looked frightened. Danny took a step back and began to close the door. "You can go now, buddy. You're free."
Lance started to move forward, to block the door, but he wasn't fast enough, and Danny gently closed the door. Lance heard the click of the jam, and realized he had been locked out. Lance whispered a plea. "master--?" Lance patted the door with his palm, hoping to summon Danny back. Louder, he said again, "Master?" Another few minutes passed with no response, and Lance the liberated slaveboy cried out, "Master! Come back!" He stood there on the porch staring at the closed door for over half an hour, waiting for it to open again and admit him. It never did.
**Final Bid For Freedom**
Lance made his way back home and to his old life in a daze. He had been through life-altering changes and now he had been "freed" to go back to the way things were before. It had only been weeks since he'd first met Danny, but the experience had been so intense that it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Lance paced around his house, trying to decide what to do. He was gay. He could finally admit it now. After returning home, he had even spent some time in front of a mirror repeating the words aloud, "I'm gay", just to hear himself say it. While that was liberating to some extent, Lance still felt that back at this house, at this life, he was still living a lie.
He constantly rubbed his neck, irritated and distracted by the fact that there was no collar around it. He had done so with such frequency that the skin had started to feel raw. Lance now forced himself to keep his hands at his sides lest he end up leaving marks on his neck that would need to be explained. He even went so far as to go online and browse pet shop catalogs to find an equivalent he could replace his slave collar with. In the end, though, he knew it just wouldn't be the same.
Lance hovered over the phone, gathering his courage to call the guys. He had to tell them. His life as the pop idol businessman was over. He had found himself. He was a skateboy's slave, and he had to return to his master. How would he tell them? After more than a dozen attempts to pick up the phone only to slam it back down after dialing, Lance finally steeled himself and randomly hit the speed dial buttons. He breathed heavily as he heard it ringing, not knowing which band member would pick up.
Two rings. God, could he really do his? Three. Still time to hang up. He could just disappear. Celebrities take off all the time, he could do that. Could--
"Yo! Talk to me." He had gotten Justin's cell phone.
"J-justin?"
"Lance. Wassup, man?"
"Um, a lot of things, really. We need to talk."
Justin recognized his friend's tone implied something serious. "Sure, absolutely. What's going on?"
"A lot. Something's happened. We need to talk. All of us. Can you all come over to my place?"
"Definitely. I'll call the guys. We'll get there quick as we can." Lance said nothing. "Lance? You okay?"
"I don't know."
"Hang tight, we'll be right there."
Lance heard the click at the other end of the line, then stood there holding the phone, staring into space, fighting to hold back the tears.
_____________________________________________________________________
True to his word, Justin Timberlake got the rest of the band to Lance's home in record time. Justin, JC, Chris, and Joey sat clustered around their band brother, listening intently to his story.
Justin sat in a large easy chair, leaning forward to rest his arms on his thighs. JC stood with his arms crossed. Chris sat on the back of the couch, his feet on the seat cushions. Joey sat on the far arm of the same couch. All were silent, taking in Lance's every word.
Finally, Lance stopped when he'd reached the end of his recounting. He swallowed hard, and looked to his friends for some sign. He was met with stony expressions of concern. He'd told them everything. Everything, that is, except how he felt about it. How he was really gay, had been all along, and felt his life's calling possibly lay with slavery. Quietly, he said, "Guys, I'm sorry."
Joey spoke first. "For what?!"
Justin agreed. "Yeah, you got drugged and abducted. Like that was your fault."
Chris was shaking his head. "We are so going to see this guy. This kid."
Lance began to feel afraid. They would hurt his master. "Guys, y- you don't understand what I'm feeling--"
Justin put his arm around his friend, and JC placed a caring hand on Lance's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Lance. You're with us, now", Justin said.
Lance wanted to tell them He was a gay slaveboy now. And it was what he was meant to be. But how do you tell your four best friends that you're suddenly a manipulative skater kid's plaything? He tried to form words, but Lance realized how twisted it would sound to them. How perverted.
"You still remember how to get there?", Joey asked. "To this kid's place?"
"If he's even still there. He could've taken off.", Chris suggested.
"Y-yeah, I remember", Lance admitted. He started rubbing his neck again. He'd be able to think so much better if he'd just had his collar.
Chris hopped off the couch. "So what are we waiting for? Let's go confront us some psycho skater boy."
Lance allowed himself to be led out to confront his former master. Maybe it was better this way. Having his friends believe they were rescuing him. He could throw himself back into his work and maybe eventually return his life to what it had been. If he could just fill in the gaping void he felt growing inside of him.
_____________________________________________________________________
The four singers stormed up to Danny's porch with purpose. Lance straggled a bit behind. "Is this it?", JC asked him.
Lance stepped hesitantly up the steps. "Yeah, this is it." The guys parted as Lance inched up to the door and lightly rapped on it.
"Screw that!", Joey said, and barged into the house, the other guys close behind. Reluctantly, Lance followed them.
Sitting on a chair in the center of the room was Danny, flipping through a skateboard magazine. "Thrasher", aptly enough. He casually turned pages, and easily glanced up at the five famous singers as if it were an everyday occurrence to burst into his house. Danny looked at the four men with only passing interest, then his eyes lit upon Lance, who kept to the back of the group. Danny smiled slightly upon seeing his boy, saying, "I hoped you'd be back."
"Yeah, but he brought his friends this time, skateboy", Justin said with venom. It was only at that moment that Lance realized something was terribly wrong about this situation. Why had the guys, the famous and influential men of NSYNC, come here alone? Where were the police? Why hadn't they been called? Or at the very least, where were their mountainous bodyguards? Lance suddenly feared that his brothers in arms intended to physically assault his young master.
"You the kid who thought he could take ownership of one of the men of NSYNC as his own little boytoy??", JC demanded.
Danny set his magazine down. "No. I'm the kid who did make one of the men of NSYNC his own little boytoy. And at heart he may still be. Lance?"
Justin turned to look at Lance, whose face was ashen. "Lance, what do you say to that, huh? He still thinks you're his gay little slave!"
Lance's face crumpled and he whimpered, "I am."
The room went silent. Everyone was looking at Lance, who began to cry quietly, a stray tear streaming down his face. JC asked in a whisper, "Lance, what did you say?"
"I am a slave. And I'm gay. I have been all along." He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Danny may've brought me here against my will at first, but this is where I want to stay. This is where I belong." Lance looked at his friends. "Guys, I'm gay." He swallowed hard, and choked back hot tears. "A-and--I'm a slave." He looked down at the floor. "I'm so, so sorry."
The room remained silent for another moment. Then Joey turned back to Danny, who still sat in his chair. "Well?", Joey prompted him.
Danny grinned. He then snapped his fingers, and said loudly, "Come an' get 'em."
Into the room walked four other skateboys, all of Danny's age. Lance thought they looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place them. The tallest of the newcomers pointed to the other band members. "Strip", he commanded.
Instantly, the four men began to undress, quickly. The only one who spoke was Justin. "Yes, sir", he said with conviction. Lance's mouth fell open. What the hell was happening here?
In only a few seconds, the other men of NSYNC were naked before the room of young skaters. Danny snapped his fingers until he got Lance's attention. "You too, Lancey."
Lance stammered, overcome by confusion. "Uh, uhh, y-yessir--"
Danny gestured to the other nude pop stars. "Guys, help him out." Justin, JC, Chris, and Joey stepped briskly over to Lance and undressed him in a few moments. Danny then stood up and signaled one of the other skateboys, a freckle-faced lad with spiky hair dyed fire engine red. The boy came forward carrying a piece of paper.
"Kneel", Red said.
Immediately, the four men of NSYNC went down on one knee. Danny pointed at the floor, and Lance then did the same as his friends.
"Respond to every convocation as a good slave should, with the words 'Yes, sir'. understand?"
Justin, JC, Chris, and Joey spoke as one. "Yes, sir!" Belatedly, Lance simply nodded.
Red began to read aloud. "Will you obey your master in all things?"
"Yes, sir", the group answered.
"Will you dress as you're ordered regardless the clothing?"
"Yes, sir."
And on the directives went, 25 in all. The famous celebrities answered in the affirmative to all of them. When he was finished reading, Red asked them, "What are you?"
"We are nothing but slaves, sir!", came the cheerful rejoinder. Lance was still in shock. Red stepped back and the tall kid gestured that the naked slaves could rise.
Danny looked at the group of skate masters, and commented, "That's all of them, isn't it?"
The tall boy nodded. "Yup. Congratulations, boys. You are now officially slaves." The naked singers gathered around Lance, hugging and kissing him with genuine affection. "Congrats, Lansten", they said. "Dude, you're one of us", came the words of support, and "One of the collared, man. One of the collared."
Another one of the skateboys came in carrying a bundle of clothing. He threw them here and there at the feet of the naked pop idols. "Suit up, slaves", he told them.
"Yes SIR!", they replied, gleefully donning their respective uniforms of submission. Lance saw that his leather Lancelot costume lay at his feet. He picked it up slowly, in awe that he would now put on something he thought he'd never see again.
Danny helped Lance into his costume. "I'm really proud of you, Lancey", he told him.
"Master, what--what happened to all of them--? How--?"
Danny smiled. "There were always five of us, Lancey. We need that many to pay the rent on this place, anyway. But we worked it out together." Lance watched as the other young skaters helped their respective slaves into their costumes. Their slaveboy uniforms. "It took some doing, searching online to find other skaters who were gay. Who all hated pop music. And who were still hot for you guys." Danny nodded toward a sandy-haired boy in gigantic khaki pants who was dressing JC. "See that kid over there in the circus tent pants? His big brother works at the arena where you had your concert. He got us into the Meet & Greet, and snuck our little gifts into your dressing rooms."
Lance felt the lights coming on in his mind. "None of the guys wanted to go out and celebrate after the last tour stop--"
"Nope. They had to get to their masters. And they were a little preoccupied for a few weeks after that, too."
"They were being trained", Lance realized.
"Bingo", Danny said. "Now let's have a look at you." Lance stood once again in his knight's armor, beaming proudly. Danny held Lance by the shoulders and turned him to face the group. "My fellow skate masters, may I present my slave." Danny patted Lance on the back. "Introduce yourself."
Lance smiled. "I'm Lance Bass, and I'm a slave. My master dresses me as his own Lancelot." The other skateboys applauded.
Danny gestured to the others. "Next?"
Justin stepped forward, dressed in basketball gear. He had on red and white trunks and matching tanktop jersey of a shiny nylon material, with hi-top white basketball shoes. "I'm Justin Timberlake, and I'm a slave that my master dresses as his own b-ball boy." More applause.
Each of the guys stepped forward and similarly introduced themselves. "I'm JC Chasez, and I'm a slave whose master dresses in a skintight rubber bodysuit." "I'm Chris Kirkpatrick, and I'm a slave whose master dresses him as a rapper DJ." "I'm Joey Fatone, and I'm a slave whose master dresses in a Superman costume."
Then Chris's master, a tiny tow-headed boy of 19 with a backwards baseball cap, said, "Kneel to receive your collars, Nsync slaves." The groups of celebrated musicians all gladly feel to their knees, leaning their heads forward and baring their necks to be collared. One by one, the accepted their collars, and as such, their fate as slaves. Each master encircled his slave with a collar and locked it on.
Danny slipped Lance's collar onto his neck, once again securing it in place. Softly he whispered into his knight errant's ear, "You are now and forever my slave, Lance Bass."
Lance looked into his master's eyes, once again feeling complete. "Thank-you, master", he sighed. "I live to serve."
And he knew he would. All the days of his life.
**Epilogue- If This Is Slavery**
It was months since the collaring ceremony that took place at the skateboys' house. The music world was abuzz with the release of NSYNC's latest CD. "Enslaved By Love" was being hailed as perhaps the boldest new endeavor of the group's career. It opened up the group's appeal to a wider audience than ever before. The CD of the group formerly associated strictly with pop delved into material like ska and grunge, and a variety of other styles usually associated with skater groups. Loose-hung neckties dangling over draped oversized tees became the order of the day. Skater shorts and padlocked wristbands were seen on the arms of every band member.
The video for the title track soon topped the charts on music programs like TRL. In the vid, the four singers were seen caught up each in his own in activities. Justin was shooting hoops on some nameless college team. JC was surfing. Joey was at a comic book show dressed up for the Superman exhibit. Chris was spinning discs at a dance club. And Lance--well, he was performing on a movie set, dressed in a suit or armor, engaged in the act of slaying a dragon to save the maiden fair.
Onto each scene, a beautiful woman walked, and locked eyes with each of the boys in turn. Upon eye contact, a slave collar magically appeared around the neck of each singer. By the video's end, all five had come together in their respective disparate uniforms, slave collars firmly in place, to fall to their knees and loudly proclaim that regardless who they were before, they were now merely slaves. Enslaved by love.
The teenage girls ate it up, and the guys liked hearing different, edgier styles coming from the quintet. And ever since its release, the five men of NSYNC always made public appearances wearing slave collars around their necks. For promotional purposes, they said.
Danny sat in the front row of their latest concert. On either side of him sat the four other skateboy masters. This time, none of the boys seemed to stand out in the crowd, as hordes of fans were similarly dressed to emulate their idols. Some of the boys even wore mock slave collars and clung tight to their girlfriends, who relished their demonstrative shows of devotion.
At the climax of the concert, Lance Bass sang his solo in "Enslaved By Love". Collared in his knightly armor, a slave collar fastened around his neck, he fell to his knees and sang with all his heart. His image was projected on the giant overhead screens for all to see. The normally shrieking crowd actually quieted as he sang his verse.
I was master of myself as this world I had shown,As Lance sang out the last verse, tears streamed from his eyes. The video monitors caught it all, and girls throughout the arena swooned, all dreaming that Lance was crying for them.
But as Lance finished his solo and the crowd let out a deafening cheer, Lance looked down into the eyes of the one to whom he'd been singing that night and whom he'd been singing to for months. Lance mouthed the words, "I'm yours", and again the crowd went wild.
Danny sat in his seat, content. His slave had declared his love for his master for all the world to see, and would do so again many times to come.
Perhaps there was something to be said for this pop music after all.
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Part 1 |