Date: Sun, 31 Oct 2004 23:51:37 -0700
From: Dream Spinner <authorsix@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Aaron: Street Revenge" (celeb, m/t, bondage, S and M)

Caution/Welcome.  While Aaron prepares for his upcoming tour and tries to
deal with the separation of his parents, the members of his former opening
group, Dream Street, are coming to terms with the reality of their new
lives almost a year after their breakup and the court decision in favour of
their producers over their parents.  It has been a rough eleven months for
the former stars.  This story does not reflect nor imply a real event nor
the real sexuality or feelings of these hot young performers though it is
based on news reports and interviews of the time.  If you do not like
reading gay fantasies about celebrities or bondage, rape and mild S and M
among teenage boys, this is where you stop and hit the back or delete key
and wait for the next story.  This is the thirty-sixth of standalone
stories in a series of Aaron Carter and Friends fanfic gay fantasies and
follows the story "Shad and Romeo: Having A Lil' Fun."  The members of
Dream Street were first mentioned as a group in "The Brewsters and Dream
Street Celebrate Sadie Hawkins," the thirtieth story in the Brewster
Adventures series, and in "Aaron: Sweet Dreams," the fifteenth story in
this Aaron and Friends series.  This story is posted at gay adult story
sites for the purpose of adult entertainment.  Permission is not given to
copy electronically for the purpose of redistribution or posting at sites
other than described without the permission of the author.  Comments are
always welcome and can be sent to the author J.O. Dickingson at
authorsix@hotmail.com

                     AARON: STREET REVENGE

     "Great performance."
     "Thanks.  Cool of you to stop by and watch."
     "Hey, when I heard you were performing here I had to stop by, you
know, for support, to show the flag, that sort of thing."
     "Sure," Greg observed.  "And take the opportunity to horn in and get
some PR shots of your own," he thought bitterly, Matt having made sure he
was in a prominent location beside the stage where he'd be noticed, and
sticking around after the show during his meet and greet with the fans to
get some pictures taken of his own.  He understood Matt's behaviour and
would have done the same thing himself if things were reversed, and that
was the bitter part.  Since the break up of Dream Street they had all been
scrambling to get a piece of the action and to build up a fan base of their
own.  Why else would he have agreed to do a free show at Rye Playland?
"Hear your band 'Last Chance' broke up last month."
     "Yeah.  Personal differences.  You know."
     "Yeah."  Greg did, all too well.  It was personal differences among
their parents and between their parents and their former producers on where
Dream Street was heading and where they as individuals were heading that
had resulted in their breakup.  As for 'Last Chance', when he had at first
heard the news about their breakup he'd been glad.  It meant there was one
less singer competing with him.  He'd felt guilty about that reaction
afterward.  He and Matt had been fellow performers for over three years and
unlike a certain other member of the former band he didn't feel any
animosity toward Matt.  He didn't feel any animosity, but at the same time
he'd purposefully mentioned the breakup with a hint of maliciousness,
getting back in a way at Matt for horning in on his performance.
     Matt was of the same mixed feelings about Greg.  On the one hand he
was jealous of his greater success, and he had purposefully dropped in to
give himself some exposure, an idea of his but supported by his mother,
who, although he was now eighteen, still had a big influence on him.  On
the other hand, he knew while Greg was getting some gigs and notice, it was
taking a hell of a lot of sweat, and he did want to show him his support.
Performing at Rye Playland before an audience that didn't have to pay to
hear him was a far cry from performing in theatres packed with screaming,
paying fans of two years ago.
     "I hear you're going to be one of the opening groups with Aaron
Carter's upcoming tour.  You and Chris."
     "Yeah," Greg replied, feeling a bit guilty that Matt was not going to
be, though he knew there was no reason to feel guilty.  That was life.
"Going to be with him for at least part of the tour.  As far as I know
Chris is only signed up for a few performances, four I think."  He knew
exactly how many.  Chris was doing well, better than the rest of the group,
and did not have to sign on as one of Aaron Carter's opening acts for PR.
That did not sit well with him, nor with his mother, who was still
negotiating with Jane Carter for more days.
     "Well, I'd be careful around that suckhole," Matt replied, even more
envious than Greg of Chris's success.  "After what he said in that article
in the New York Times in December I'd be watching my back."
     "Yeah, I hear you."  Greg knew the article well.  They all did.
"After they were Stars" by Emily White, December 8.  They'd all been bitter
back then and had taken swipes at each other, but Chris had been
particularly vocal.  Of course Greg knew it was all PR, distancing himself
from the "losers" to promote his own ass.  "Frankie was so fucking steaming
mad about that article I thought for sure he was serious about hiring a hit
man to wipe Chris out."  Chris's comments about Frankie had been
particularly derogatory.
     "We never did get together to fix him for what he did."
     "No we didn't."  The two boys thought about the news article and their
subsequent phone conversations with each other and the things they had
talked about doing to Chris, everything from contacting the Brewster
brothers and getting them to release the tape they had of a particularly
incriminating conversation after one of their band concerts, with their own
comments blocked out of course, to kidnapping Chris and smuggling him off
to some faggot boy-loving Arab.  As they thought about those discussions,
their blood began to boil again.  "It's not too late."
     "It's never too late," Matt replied as Greg took out his cell phone.
"Who are you phoning?"
     "Frankie," replied Greg
     "Hello?"
     "Hey, Frankie my man, howzit goin'?"
     "Hey, Greg.  Cool.  What about you?"
     "Great.  Just finished a gig here at Rye Playland."  The words came
out naturally.  He could not help bragging up his achievements.  With his
mother constantly sending out messages to all the former Dream Street fan
clubs about him and his activities in capital letters, no matter how small,
his behaviour was understandable.  "Matt is here with me."
     "Yeah?  Cool.  Say hi for me."  Greg did.  "He performing with you?"
Frankie had tried to sound conversational, but his envy came through with
the question.
     "No.  He just came to watch, and show support."  Greg had added the
word "just" on purpose without even thinking, and it did not go unnoticed
by Matt nor Frankie.  The add on, "and show support," he'd added out of
courtesy to Matt.  Frankie of course wondered if he'd mentioned it as a
hint that he could have done the same, and even deeper, hinting that he
wasn't doing anything else anyway.  After the breakup of Dream Street and
with the influence of their backbiting stage mothers, they were beginning
to second guess everyone's statements and actions.
     "So whatzup?"
     "We been talking about Chris."
     "Tell me someone did us a favour and offed the fucking son of a
bitch."
  Seven months had gone by since the New York Times article, but Frankie's
anger had not softened.  Mind you Frankie always did have a hot temper,
just like his mother, thought Greg.  Chris's comment about Frankie being a
momma's boy had not been totally wrong.  In fact it had been totally
correct, though he'd never say that to Frankie directly.
     "No, but we've been thinking it's time we did something about him."
     "Keep talking."
     They did, for close to an hour.  Greg had no sooner hung up than he
was dialling again.
     "Hey, Aaron!"
     "Ah, hi."
     "This is Greg.  Greg Raposo"
     "Oh, hi Greg.  Sorry, didn't recognize your voice."
     "Hey, that's okay," Greg lied.  They didn't talk to each other that
often on the phone, but they had talked and the least the arrogant bastard
could have done is pretended to recognize his voice.  "Hey, I got a favour
to ask you."
     "Sure.  Whatizit?"  Aaron did not try to hide the reservation in his
voice.  A lot of his so- called friends asked him for favours, especially
singers and dancers, all of them wanting one thing, a piece of his fame for
themselves.  And the less their talent, like Greg, the more they wanted.
     "I'd like to borrow your milking machine," Greg said, a little less
confident Aaron would lend it to him having caught the tone in Aaron's
voice.  "We want to play a trick on Chris."
     "We?"
     "Frankie, Matt and I."
     "So when do you need it?"
     "Well.  As soon as we can.  We were hoping Wednesday."
     "The day after tomorrow?"
     "Yeah."
     "I dunno, that'll be tight.  I'm not home right now.  I'm in Valdosta,
Georgia.  Got a gig here," he added.
     "Yeah?  Cool!"  Greg tried not to sound envious, but he was not
successful.
     Although the young singer was having a much better year than Greg,
Aaron's own career was faltering, which was why he'd bragged about his
performance that day.  The hint of envy in Greg's voice buoyed him up,
making him more receptive to Greg's request.  Of course he was always ready
to listen to anything that involved sex, especially sex between guys.
     "A trick on Chris you say?  With the milking machine?"  The machine,
an automated jacking off machine, was a birthday gift from David Gallagher,
based on David's original creation, an invention Aaron had mentioned to a
select few, including the members of Dream Street.
     "Actually, we want to hook it up to him and drain his balls, among
other things.  We got a score to settle."  Greg did not try to hide the
anger and bitterness in his voice.
     "I can fly up with it on Wednesday.  This is going to be in New York I
assume?"  The last he'd heard all five of the former members of Dream
Street were living back in New York where they had originally come from.
     "We were actually thinking maybe you could courier it or something.
That's a lot of trouble to deliver it in person."
     "Hey, no sweat.  It's been a while since I've been to New York.  I can
do some shopping at Fifth Avenue or something, maybe take in a live show on
Broadway.  It'll be my last chance to relax before the tour."
     "Hey, that'd be wicked.  I can meet you at the airport to save you
some time and we can visit."
     "Okay.  I'll phone you when I find out what plane connections I can
make."
     Greg's next call was a local one.
     "Hello?"
     "Hello, Chris?"
     "Ah, yeah."
     "This is Mike.  Mike Ryan."
     "Oh, hi Mike.  Sorry, didn't recognize your voice.  This static is
terrible."
     "Static?  Strange.  I'm not hearing anything at this end," replied
Greg in a barely audible whisper as Matt crinkled the cellophane wrapper by
the mouthpiece of the phone.
     "What?"
     "Chris, I'd like to meet with you on Wednesday, to discuss your tour
dates with Aaron and some advance publicity."
     "Wednesday?  Ah, yeah, sure.  Here in New York?"  That was strange,
Aaron's PR agent phoning him directly and not his mother, but then he was
eighteen, and his mother did give him a lot of say in his career.  That had
been a big difference between his mother and the other mothers of his
former band mates, and something he'd tried to explain though not very
successfully to that New York Times reporter back in December of last year.
     "Yeah.  I'll get back to you as to when and where.  And, oh, Chris,
don't say a word about this to anyone, not even your mother.  There's a lot
of competition going on right now to be part of the tour, and the fewer
people who know about our meeting the better.  You never know who's
listening in on whose phone conversation these days."
     "Ah, yeah, sure.  Mum's the word.  Well, actually no word to mum," he
joked.  It was a poor one.  Mike didn't even chuckle, which wasn't typical
of the PR agent who was always jovial and polite.  Mike's parting words
explained why he'd made the call to him directly anyway.  It still sounded
very strange, but it did make sense, sort of, and he knew about the
competition to get on Aaron's upcoming tour, though in his case, he
suspected Aaron was using his popularity to boost Aaron's rather than the
other way around.  Still, being on Aaron's tour wouldn't hurt, not with the
publicity Aaron's mother was sure to have in place.
     Greg made one last call, and everything was set.  Aaron's plane landed
at two Wednesday afternoon, and Greg picked him up at the airport and drove
him to Fifth Avenue where they spent the afternoon shopping and talking,
mostly about Aaron's upcoming tour and Greg's opening numbers and the plans
for Chris that evening, and then had an early supper.  Greg then picked up
Frankie and Matt and the three headed over to Right Track on forty-eighth
street, Manhattan's famous music street where they were let in by one of
the technicians Greg knew and had bribed to let them in after hours.  Their
timing was close, Chris driving up ten minutes later and following the
technician to Studio B where the others were waiting.
     "Hey, hi," Chris greeted, surprised to see the others.  He knew better
than to try to shake hands or to give them a hug.  He'd tried that with
Jesse shortly after the break up and was surprised he hadn't gotten
frostbite from the chilly reception Jesse had given him.  He noticed Jesse
was the only one of the former band who was not there.
     Jesse, of course, had already begun the separation from the band prior
to the court case so really had not been part of the whole debacle, other
than the other mothers had convinced Jesse's mother to join them in the law
suit.  So, if anything, he was more on Chris's side for the other mothers
having pressured his own to do something she didn't want to do, and he
certainly didn't have the same intensity of feelings about the whole affair
as the others had.  Besides, he was away filming an upcoming mid-season
show called Summerland in LA at the moment, and he wasn't of the
temperament to do what his former band mates had in mind anyway.
     "Hi," said Greg, the warmth in his voice clearly being forced.
     "So, you guys signed up for some of Aaron's shows too?" he asked,
referring to Frankie and Matt as he glanced around uncomfortably.  He could
sense something was up.
     "No, we're not one of the lucky ones to get Jane's okay."
     "Yeah.  You are the only one of the group that has any talent," Matt
observed sourly, referring to a comment that Jane Carter had made after
Aaron's Winter Tour about the five of them.
     Chris chuckled nervously.  This was very definitely wrong.  "So, Mike
not here yet?" he asked, pretending to be checking the studio out as he
began to back up.
     "Mike's not coming."
     Chris knew he'd been set up, and that the voice on the phone had not
been Mike at all as he'd wondered but had discarded as being paranoid.  He
began to turn, ready to run, but Frankie had moved around behind him and
blocked his way.  The struggle was brief.  There was not much he could do
against three guys.  They soon had his arms spread and raised and his
wrists tied with electrical cords to one of the overhead tracks in the
studio.
     "What the fuck you guys up to?"
     "It's payback time for all those comments you've made about us," said
Frankie, looking right into his eyes.  The eighteen-year-old's hazel eyes
were blazing with anger.
     "And for siding with the producers," added Matt.
     "Yeah.  If you'd stuck with us we'd have had a chance of winning our
case," Greg accused.
     "Com'on, that's bull and you know it," Chris responded, a brave
comment for someone who'd just had his arms strung up and was surrounded by
three very clearly angry and envious former band mates.  "You guys didn't
have a chance against Lukow and Baldonieri and you know it."
     "More of a chance than you're going to have tonight," Frankie said.
     "Look, if there's something I've said to offend you let's talk."
     "Fucker," Frankie spat, suddenly taking a swing at Chris and striking
him hard in the stomach and knocking the wind out of him.  "Talk is what
the fuck this is all about.  All the fucking trashing you did to us in the
media, to save your own fucking career and to fuck with what happened to
ours."
     Chris knew that calling for help would be of no use.  The studio was
soundproof of course.  Besides, he suspected correctly that the technician
that Greg had bribed was long gone.
     "So, what we gonna do first?" asked Matt.
     "I think we should check out Chris's tan," suggested Greg.  "We just
might want one like it."
     "Oh yeah, and I do love your new hair style," observed Matt, running
his hands through the neatly combed and gelled locks and tousling them.
     Both boys were referring to comments Chris had made about them, that
when he got a tan and the girl fans all made a fuss over him they got tans,
and when he'd gotten his hair tipped they had gotten theirs done.  He
twisted and squirmed and tried to kick as the three boys unbuttoned his
shirt, popping the bottom three buttons in the struggle.  They grabbed his
legs and removed his socks and shoes, and then pulled down his jeans.  His
plaid Joe Boxers quickly followed.  Chris was well- hung with low-hanging
balls and a nice size limp cock matching his young, athletic body, to the
disappointment of his three attackers.
     "Satisfied?" Chris asked.  "Go ahead, take a look what a real man
looks like."
     "Real man?  From all the whining you've been doing to the reporters
about us, baby is more like it," observed Greg.
     "Yeah.  Didn't expect to see any hair down there at all," observed
Matt.
     "That can be easily fixed," Frankie observed as he walked over to a
backpack he'd brought with him and opened it up.
     He returned with a can of shaving cream and a safety razor.  He'd
seriously planned on cutting off Chris's hair and shaving him bald for the
hair tipping comment he'd made, he being one of them who'd figured it
looked hot and had copied him.  Shaving off his hairs would be a good
start.  After several attempts and finding it impossible the way Chris
bucked and kicked out, they had to tie down his legs, deciding to spread
them apart at the same time.  Frankie sprayed Chris's crotch with cream and
shaved the hairs off his stomach and thighs and around and up his crack.
He picked up his limp cock to shave around it.
     "That give you a thrill faggot?"
     That was not a smart thing to say to someone holding your dick in one
hand and a safety razor in the other.  Chris jerked and called out as
Frankie purposefully nicked his shaft.  "Any other comments like that and
I'll cut off your fucking balls with this."
     "Hey, maybe we should," suggested Matt.  "Then he can have his sweet
little boy soprano voice back."
     Chris remained quiet.  They were angry enough to just do it.  Frankie
ripped off the bottom of his shirt and wiped off the remaining shaving
cream.
     "There, now that looks much better."
     "Yeah, now he looks much more like a baby."
     "You know, with all the baby whining he was doing, I think we should
spank the baby's ass for being naughty."
     "Great idea.  You take the first swat."
     Matt stepped up, and drawing his arm back, gave Chris's backside a
solid wallop, causing him to wince but not hard enough to cause him to cry
out.  That just got Matt angrier and caused him give Chris an even stronger
wallop that resounded across the acoustically perfect twenty-five by
thirty-two-foot live room.  Each of the others stepped up for their turn,
and with each slap they left a red hand print across Chris's tender, ivory
white, freshly shaved backside.  His ass began to burn with the sharp
slaps, his three attackers holding nothing back, and he squirmed and
twisted and clenched his eyes as he gritted his teeth with the pain.
     The four of them were much too focussed on what they were doing to
notice the ever so slight movement in the darkened adjacent control room.
They were not alone.
  After Greg had left him to pick up the others, Aaron had hailed a taxi
and gone straight to Right Track.  In his excitement over what they had
planned, and aching to brag about how they were finally going to pay Chris
back for his perceived wrongs, Greg had revealed not just some of the
things they were going to do, but where they were going to do it.  The
promise of a couple tickets to his New York performance in his upcoming
Juke Box tour convinced the technician that arrived to let in Greg to let
Aaron in and to keep his presence quiet.
     Now as he watched the scene unfolding before him, Aaron recalled being
in a similar position at Knott's Berry Farm, being tied up and spanked.  In
his case though it had been in play, and his two attackers were nowhere
near as strong and had not hit him as hard as the three attacking Chris.
The three were really attacking him, and Aaron found the sight of the
helpless, naked eighteen-year-old being spanked by three other very angry
eighteen-year-old boys arousing.  Each time Chris was spanked he jerked,
causing his limp dink and balls to bounce between his legs, and each time
he was spanked Aaron felt a thrill run up his cock.  As he shifted for a
better view, Aaron slowly reached down and squeezed his growing flesh.
     "Now let's see if Aaron's machine really works like he said."  Frankie
headed over to his backpack again and took out the milking machine Greg had
gotten from Aaron and had put in the backpack.  As he assembled it, the
others watched.  At eighteen years and six months, he was the oldest of the
four, though only by a matter of months, and now, as when they were in the
band together, he took charge and spoke for them.  The other two had
resented that, particularly during some of the interviews where he
dominated the conversation, but they had more or less overlooked it as a
band, their popularity not suffering for it.  Now, they didn't have the
fame and fortune to offset his attitude and the two boys felt a growing
resentment inside as they stood there and watched.
     The machine, which had been made by David Gallagher who had dubbed it
a peter beater cum extractor, consisted of a glass flask, a set of
variously holed stoppers fitted with glass tubes, in this case a two-hole
stopper, a clear plastic tube connecting one of the glass tubes in the
stopper to a hand-held vacuum pump, and a second plastic tube connecting
the other glass tube to a milking sleeve.  The milking sleeve David had
come up with upon watching the automated milking machines while on a farm
vacation years ago.  The sleeve consisted of an elasticized soft foam liner
from an actual milking machine fitted inside an electric muscle massager.
The massager, when turned on by a toggle switch, jiggled one's cock like
when a guy bounced it in his hand, and the Dust Buster turned on low sucked
the air out of the flask and the tubing.  The vibrating foam stimulated a
guy's dick from all sides and from tip to base while the vacuum provided a
slow, steady suction.  A delayed electronic impulse from the moisture
sensor in the flask shut off the machine, just like in a real milking
machine.  David had designed the machine so it could be controlled manually
or set on a timer to restart after however many minutes one wanted.
     "Matt, hold up his dick while I slip this thing on."
     Matt's first impulse was to tell Frankie he was not his servant and to
do it himself, but by habit, and being the shiest and quietest of the four,
besides being eager to see Chris hooked up to the machine, he did as he was
told.  As he picked up Chris's limp but ample cock by the base, he got
goose bumps.  Although he'd touched guys before, in his initiation to gay
sex by the Brewster brothers over a year and a half ago and in the messing
around sessions during Aaron's Winter Tour three months later, he hadn't
ever been comfortable touching other guys or being touched himself.  He
hadn't touched another guy since the end of Aaron's tour just over a year
ago and lifting up Chris's cock brought back tormented memories.
     Chris's first impulse was to fight them and to protest, but reason
told him that would be futile.  There was no way he was going to be able to
stop Matt or Frankie.  Like Matt, he'd also been introduced to gay sex by
the Brewster brothers back in November of 2001, and had joined in the
orgies initiated by Aaron in the second half of his tour.  Also like Matt
he'd done so reluctantly and had done nothing with a guy since so as he
felt Matt's fingers slip about his limp dick and raise it, he too got goose
bumps as old memories and tormented feelings returned.
     Slipping the sleeve over Chris's limp cock, Frankie flipped the toggle
switch to turn on the vibrator and pressed the low setting on the dust
buster and the three boys sat back to watch.  The vibrator caused the foam
sleeve to vibrate about Chris's limp cock and the vacuum slowly sucked the
air out of the flask and the tubing.  Chris's cock slowly began to respond,
gradually lengthening and thickening, causing the sleeve to tighten about
it, accenting the vibration and causing it to swell all the faster.  It
slowly began to rise in the air.  To the boys' disappointment, Chris, just
five weeks past his eighteenth birthday and the youngest of the four of
them, had grown even bigger than the last time they'd seen his dick, which
now stood at six and a half inches stiff.
     "It really works," Matt observed, somewhat surprised.
     "Yeah.  Wicked."
     "You mean you three haven't tried it already?" Chris asked.  "I'm
surprised.  I'd have thought you wouldn't have been able to resist the
chance to get off someway other than your own hand."
     "Very funny asshole.  I suppose you're getting all kinds of sex
yourself."
     Chris just smiled at them smugly.  The truth was, he, like them,
wasn't getting any.  Keeping his career afloat was a full time job and kept
him too busy to establish any type of relationship, and though he had
plenty of female fans whom he likely could have seduced, he was not that
type of a guy.  Besides, making out with a fan was too risky.  She'd likely
sue when she woke up the next morning and realized what she'd done, or
she'd have gotten on the Internet and broadcast it around the world,
neither of which would do his career any good.
     Greg went over to the backpack and returned with a camera.  "What the
fuck you think you're doing," Chris asked angrily as Greg began snapping
pictures.
     "Just taking a few pictures to add to my photo album to remember you
by."
     "Bet those would sell for big bucks on the Internet," observed
Frankie.
     "Hell, who want's money for them?" Greg responded.  "I'd be happy to
share them with Frankie's fan sites."
     "Both sites?" asked Matt, and the three of them laughed.
     "Very funny," Chris responded, the strain in his voice showing the
milking machine was beginning to have an effect.  His cock was throbbing
just as hotly as if he was using his hand, even more so with the added
effect of the vacuum tugging on his swollen cock.  Under other
circumstances it would have been a very pleasant experience.
     "You know, we could probably offer his sperm up on E-bay."
     "Oh yeah.  I can see the ad now: have your own Chris Trousdale baby."
     "On second thought, there might not be such a big demand for it."
     "Yeah, you're right.  Who'd want that?  We'd be better off marketing
it to his gay fans.  Chris Trousdale cum drink."
     "Or maybe we'll just drain his balls and give it back to him to
drink."
     "Great idea!"
     "Probably won't take that long.  I suspect he's only good for two
sessions at the most."
     "Who do you three think you're fooling?  You fucking limp-wrist
faggots want to drink it yourselves."
     Frankie angrily got to his feet, ready to sock Chris in the stomach
again.  Spotting one of Chris's socks, he rolled it up and getting Greg to
help pull open his jaws, he jammed the dirty sock in the singer's mouth
instead.  "That should shut him up for a while."  Greg took another
picture.
     As Chris tried to work the sock out of his mouth, the pressure
continued to build up in his loins.  It was a familiar feeling, the hot
young singer accustomed to using his hand to satisfy his needs several
times a week.  He could not ignore it, and as his knob began to burn and
ache with arousal, he tried to fight what was about to happen, but that was
impossible to stop.  He was still struggling with getting the dirty sock
out of his mouth when he came.  His balls contracted sharply, shooting his
cum up the core of his cock.  It shot out of his irritated dickhead and
through the plastic tube, aided by the suction of the pump, and flowed into
the flask.  The three boys glanced at each other with looks of achievement
and amusement at Chris's plight.  They had made him cum and there was
nothing he could do about it.  Behind them in the control booth, Aaron
slowly pulled down his fly and slipped his fingers inside to extract his
swollen, aching cock.  He had thought that watching Chris getting milked
off would be hot, but seeing the hot eighteen-year-old singer bound and
gagged with his own sock and getting a load off against his will was the
hottest fucking thing he'd ever seen.  He had no idea watching a guy being
forced to do something could be so erotic, and he saw how Haley and Billy
had gotten aroused when they'd tied him up at Knott's Berry farm just over
a year ago.
     "Wish your fans could see you now," smirked Greg.  Actually, seeing
his former band mate strung up there, his stiff dick attached to the gadget
and knowing how embarrassed he must be feeling having shot off a load in
front of them, he had a twinge of guilt, but he had to put up a front
before the others.
     "Or your mother," suggested Matt.
     "Oh yeah?  What about your mothers?" snarled Chris, managing to work
the sock out of his mouth.  "I'm sure they'd be real proud of their three
little boys now."
     "Bastard."
     "You know, I never did get a chance to ask any of you in person,"
Chris continued, his anger at having been stripped and made to come in
front of them getting the better of reason.  "I bet you really resent your
parents, don't you?  If it wasn't for their greediness and prudish
protectiveness, we'd still be a band, probably taking over from N'SYNC and
the Backstreet Boys now they're breaking up, and you'd be performing before
thousands of fans, not in some weekend gig in an amusement park as an
entertainment break from the rides."
     Greg knew that was a dig at his latest gig and he began to see red.  A
minute ago he was beginning to feel guilty, but with that comment all he
could think of was more revenge.
     "Of course even that's better than no gig at all," Chris continued,
glancing over at Matt, "or being a no talent singer and no talent actor
besides.  Of course you can always get a job delivering pizza," he
continued as he smiled over at Frankie, referring of course to Frankie's
role in his recently released film, "A Tale of Two Pizzas."  They had
stripped him, shaved him, and gotten him off with a machine.  Of course he
was angry.  Besides, what more could they possibly do to him?
     "I think it's time we shoved those beads up his ass," observed Matt,
referring to the anal beads that Aaron had told them about and they had
asked to borrow also, "and forget using any lube."
     "Forget shoving fucking beads up the fucking asshole's rectum,"
replied Frankie.  "I got a much better idea."  He glared at Chris as he
stepped forward and slowly pulled down his fly.
     "Well now, that doesn't really surprise me, fag boy," Chris responded,
putting up a front as he realized there were many worse things that could
happen to him, and one of the worst was about to happen.  "Your momma pack
you a pack of condoms when she helped you pack your backpack?" he asked.
     "Forget the condoms.  I'm doing you raw."
     "That don't surprise me either fag boy.  You like doing guys raw if I
remember right."
     That was the limit.  Of the four of them, Frankie had come to terms
with having sex with other guys the best, but that didn't mean he'd totally
accepted it, nor that having sex with the Brewster brothers and then with
Aaron and the others hadn't raised questions in his mind about his own
sexual orientation, questions he didn't like.  Frankie took a swing at
Chris, socking him solidly in the stomach.  Drawing back he punched him
repeatedly as if he were a punching bag until Greg and Matt pulled him off.
As Chris hung there, unable to double up with the pain in his guts and
gasping for breath, he realized his stupidity.  Frankie normally behaved
like such a wimp, especially when his mother was around, he'd forgotten
just how strong and muscular the eighteen-year-old was.
     "You're going to be fucking sorry you ever opened your fucking stupid,
foul mouth you fucking bastard," Frankie snarled as he undid his belt and
unsnapped his jeans.  He was no faggot.  And it was a good movie.  He was
proud of it, and he and his mother were pursuing other possible film
opportunities.  Jesse McCartney wasn't the only one who could have a career
singing and acting.
     Kicking off his shoes, he stepped out of his jeans, and then his
boxers.  Standing there in just his socks and his tight, black T-shirt, he
grasped his cock and began to pump it as he thought of the pleasure he'd
have raping the big mouthed smart ass hanging before him.  That thought,
and with the blood coursing through his veins, he began swelling quickly.
Chris meanwhile tried to get his breath back and the milking machine,
having been set on a ten minute timer, started up again.  It did not take
Frankie long to get stiff, and stepping up behind Chris, he positioned the
tip of his cock against his hole and grasped his hips.  Of course Chris
clamped his asshole shut.  That was a weak deterrent to Frankie who was so
angry by that time that he'd have been able to ram his erection through a
concrete slab.  Chris soon discovered that and realized that he could be
seriously hurt if he didn't cooperate.  His tender butthole was no match
for Frankie's ranging hardon.  So, he reversed his decision and pushed out
to help rather than to resist, a technique he'd learned the first time he'd
had his ass fucked by one of the Brewster brothers.
     Frankie's cock had also grown since the boys had last seen each other,
and now was equal to Chris's stiff cock, which by then was throbbing hotly
as the milking machine jiggled and sucked on it once again.  Grasping
Chris's hips tightly, he forced himself forward with a blind determination.
His cock was cut and his bulbous knob slowly wedged open Chris's anus and
as Chris began to cooperate it popped inside.  Frankie of course did not
think for a moment that Chris might be helping him, and instead thinking
he'd overcome Chris's resistance only made him all the more determined.
So, he continued pushing forward, sinking his stiff, throbbing cock up
Chris's rectum with a sense of triumph until his coarse, curly hairs were
pressing against Chris's still tender backside.  He drew back and began to
pump his hips furiously, driving his long, thick cock in and out of Chris's
ass, eager for his own pleasure, and eager to pump a load of his stuff up
his arch enemy's rectum.
     Matt and Greg watched in surprise. They had talked about doing a lot
of things to Chris, from sticking slivers of wood up his fingernails and
lighting them to parading him down Broadway naked, neither of which they
knew they'd really do, to something more realistic like forcing him to
apologize for the things he'd said to them by threatening to stick the anal
beads Aaron had talked about up his ass.  At no time had they talked or
even thought about raping him.  Frankie's action had taken them by
surprise, and though they felt justified in the other things they had done
that evening, they knew that raping a person was wrong, even if he did
deserve it, and from Chris's comments, there was no doubt in their minds
that he did deserve it.  Even so, they could not believe the brutality with
which Frankie was humping him, and they found that even though they felt
guilty about what was happening, they also felt a perverse sense of
pleasure seeing Chris punished for the things he'd said, earlier and that
evening.  It was rather fitting actually that it was Frankie who was raping
him as it had been Frankie that Chris had been the most critical of in the
media.  So when Frankie told him to take a picture of them, Greg did so
with pleasure.
     In the control booth, Aaron could not believe what he was seeing
either.  There was Chris Trousdale stripped naked and hung up spread
eagled, his huge, swaying balls having shot off one load and his machine
close to extracting a second, being hammered mercilessly by Frankie Galasso
clad only in a black T-shirt clinging to his rippled upper torso and a pair
of black socks.  The sight of the dark haired, dark-eyed Italian-American
ramming his six and a half inch cock in and out of the eighteen-year-old
teenage singing heartthrob was now definitely the hottest thing he'd ever
seen.  His breathing became more laboured as he sat there hiding behind the
console with his eyes glued to the scene before him in the live room as he
slowly and joyously pumped his hot, throbbing cock.  He'd never felt so
fucking hot in his life.
     Frankie quivered and gasped for breath as he pumped his hips to and
fro, sinking his thick, throbbing cock deep up Chris's rectum and then
withdrawing it until his knob was stretching open the fucking, arrogant
bastard's asshole.  His flaming temper drove him in a mad, violent frenzy,
and it was dominating and humiliating the boy he was fucking that brought
him the greater pleasure, not the throbbing and burning of his cock as the
pressure built deep in his loins.  For Chris, the pleasure of the throbbing
and burning of his own cock as the peter beater cum extractor jiggled and
sucked on his aching erection and the burning of his asshole as Frankie
worked his thick cock in and out of his body were secondary to the anger
and the shame he was feeling, being used for Frankie's sexual gratification
and in front of Matt and Greg.  The only one of the three of them that was
getting any real pleasure was Aaron, who could barely control his breathing
as he quivered and ached for his own release, his swollen cock throbbing
hotly in his fist as it furiously pumped up and down in time with Frankie's
violent thrusts.
     The three of them came together, Chris grunting and straining as his
balls contracted for a second time in the past fifteen minutes and the
machine sucked out his second load while Frankie grasped his hips tightly
and lunged forward, shooting his cum deep up his rectum.  Chris shivered
with his release, and with the knowledge Frankie was shooting his load up
his ass, and Frankie gasped and grunted with a double pleasure, the
pleasure of his ejaculation and the pleasure of feeling Chris shuddering as
he filled his ass.  Unknown by the two, or the two boys watching them,
fifteen- year-old Aaron was trembling with his own ejaculation as he
grasped his stiff cock tightly and sprayed the side of the console with his
hot, thick teenage juice.
     Frankie finally eased his cock out and walked around in front of Chris
and squatted down beside Matt and Greg.  He looked up at his spread-eagled
enemy with a triumphant smirk, his chest still heaving from his effort and
his black T-shirt stained under the arms and down the front with sweat.
     "You satisfied now, you ass-fucking faggot?"
     "Yeah, I am," Frankie replied, his smoldering anger flaming with the
arrogant, condescending tone.  Was there nothing that was going to shut the
son-of-a-bitch up?  "And when I post the picture of you getting royally
fucked on the Internet, I'll be even more satisfied."
     Chris had no doubt he'd do it, probably with his mother's help.  He
was about to say so, but thought better of it.  "So, which of you
limp-wrist faggots are next?" he asked defiantly, turning his attention to
the other two boys and practically challenging them to do it.  He was eager
to get his ordeal over with, but he was not about to show defeat.
     His comment was a major mistake.  Neither Greg nor Matt had planned on
following Frankie's lead, not up until that moment.  Being called fags, and
in front of each other, and expecting that they were going to do it, put
the two of them in a position where they really had no choice.  From the
look Frankie gave them, he too expected them to do it, adding to the
pressure.
     "What's the matter, you faggots lose your nerve?"
     In his anger and humiliation at being raped and in his eagerness to
show his defiance and that no matter what they did they would not get the
better of him, Chris did not realize that he was really egging them on to
do something they'd had no intention of doing, and giving them no way out
besides.  That was how Greg was feeling as he looked up at his smug, former
band mate leering down at him with that "I dare you" look.  Unlacing his
runners and removing them, the eighteen- year-old got to his feet and
unzipping his fly and unbuckling his belt, he unsnapped the top of his
jeans and pushed them down, along with his grey boxers.  Stepping out of
them, he began to fiddle with himself.  He didn't feel the slightest bit
horny, but his anger at Chris and the sexual tension in the room, and the
sight of his smooth, round buttocks and abused asshole as he walked around
behind him was enough to get him hard.  As he got into position, the
milking machine started up a third time.
     Greg, just a month older than Chris and his cock half an inch shorter,
had always had the most defined muscles of the group, and now as he
unbuttoned his shirt and removed it so he wouldn't stain it with his sweat,
it was evident he still did.  He'd once said in an interview that he
figured his best feature was his eyes, and he still felt that, but he also
knew his smooth, chiselled chest was a strong feature also.  That was why
he usually performed in muscle shirts or with his shirt open to reveal a
broad chest and smooth, rippled torso that rivalled Frankie's.  Greg's
female fans would have fainted dead away to see their idol now standing
there in the centre of the sound studio in only his white Nike socks, his
cock standing up erect and proud as he prepared to fuck the ass of his
former band mate.
     Aaron was going crazy at the sight, and as he watched Greg begin to
penetrate Chris he wished it was his ass that Greg was about to fuck.  He
knew Greg's mother and his were negotiating terms for Greg to appear as one
of his opening acts, and seeing the hot, hazel-eyed brunette standing there
now grasping Chris's hips and sinking his six and a quarter inches up his
butt, Aaron knew he'd have to do what he could to convince his mother to
include him for at least part of the tour.  A hot midnight sandwich with
him in the middle between Chris and Greg would be a great way to end a hard
day's work and celebrate having given a hot performance for his teenybopper
fans.
     Greg was almost as thick as Frankie, but with Chris's ass having been
just fucked, and lubed now with Frankie's cum besides, he had less
difficulty penetrating his former band mate and it was only with the
slightest effort that he forced open Chris's sphincter and sank his cock up
his rectum.  Grasping Chris's hips, he began to fuck him, and as his cock
throbbed deep up Chris's hot, moist ass, he was glad that Chris had prodded
him into doing it.  It was perverse, and it was wrong, and it was a fag
act, but it felt great, and it was not as if he was doing it because he was
in love with Chris, or even liked him for that matter.  Actually the fact
that he hated him made this rather than a fag act an act of revenge no, an
act of justice.  Chris deserved exactly what he was getting, and he
deserved to be the one giving it to him.
     With that rationalization, Greg rammed his cock in and out of Chris's
ass without guilt, and in fact he did it with a particular relish, causing
Chris to observe that he hoped the faggot was enjoying himself.  For his
comment, Greg had Matt wad up Chris's underwear and shove in his mouth with
a leg hole wrapped about his head to keep it secure.  As Frankie took a
picture, Greg gave it to him good, ramming his cock in and out of his
asshole furiously and with delight as he concentrated on the burning
pleasure causing his dickhead to itch and his shaft to throb with desire.
Between the stimulation of his anus and the suction and massaging of the
milking machine, Chris felt himself approaching his third climax but the
stimulation now was bordering on pain rather than stimulation.  Greg was
about to shoot off his load also, and Aaron was about to shoot off his
second.
     After his introduction to gay sex by the Brewster brothers, Matt had
swayed from one extreme to the next, one day convinced that what had
happened had been perfectly natural for hot, red-blooded American boys and
the next day just as convinced that he'd been condemned to eternity in hell
for having committed the most perverse sin there was, and certain that any
moment now the cops were going to show up and throw him in jail.  One night
he fell asleep with a throbbing erection recalling how hot it had been
messing with the dicks of other boys and having other boys messing with
his, and the next night he tossed and turned, so wracked with guilt and
remorse that he could not sleep.  His gay orgies while on tour with Aaron
only intensified his swings from total depression to ecstatic euphoria.
Over the months since the tour had ended, his moods had tended to be more
frequently the former than the latter.
     So it was in that frame of mind that he took his place ten minutes
later as the milking machine started up for the fourth time in forty-five
minutes.  The moment it began to jiggle Chris's irritated cock, which had
been stiff all that time, he grimaced more with pain than with pleasure.
His last ejaculate had been two feeble squirts, and those had been almost
clear.  His balls, now permanently and tightly drawn up under his cock,
screamed their protest.  As Matt stepped up behind him and penetrated him,
he barely noticed, not because his cock was small, which at six and a
quarter inches was only slightly shorter than his own though considerably
more slender, but because his mind and senses had grown numb, as the mind
and senses of most rape victims do.
     As Matt grasped his hips and began to work his slender cock in and out
of Chris's abused hole, it was his dominance over Chris that he focussed on
rather than the physical pleasure, though the burning of his dickhead and
the throbbing of his cock and that of Chris's hot, moist asshole he could
not ignore.  He tried to tell himself that his pleasure was from forcing
Chris to engage in this act of subordination, but guilt told him that he
could not ignore the pleasure throbbing between his legs.  So he slowly and
mechanically fucked his former band mate and he struggled with his thoughts
and feelings as Greg took his picture, and when he came, it was more of a
celebration of his humiliation and defilement of Chris Trousdale than a
celebration of sex.  Chris's climax, his fourth in just under an hour was a
feeble dribble of clear juice accompanied by stabs of acute pain through
his now marble-sized balls and through his groin.  Aaron, blasting his
third wad against the console, was the only one who enjoyed his climax.
     The boys put their pants and underwear back on, Frankie removed the
milking machine, and he and Greg lowered and untied Chris.  The abused
eighteen-year-old sat there numbly on the studio floor, his arms weak and
sore from being stretched above his head for an hour, his burning asshole
feeling like it had been skinned after being triply raped, and his dick and
balls aching like they'd been repeatedly kicked.  Smiling down at him,
Frankie unstoppered the flash and slowly poured the slimy contents over his
head.  The four loads of cum glopped out and onto his head like a blob of
jelly, and the slimy juice oozed down along his sideburns and along his jaw
line and down his neck, down the back of his head and neck and down his
back, and down over his forehead to hang from his eyebrows and to ooze down
his nose.  Greg took several final pictures.
     "That was even better than an apology," Greg said with a grin.  "Maybe
after this you'll think twice before you diss us you fucker."
     Chris said nothing as the three boys packed up their things and left.
He sat there for a long time before slowly and painfully getting to his
feet.  He dressed in a daze and shuffled toward the door bowlegged, his
balls aching with each movement of his legs.  His only thoughts at the
moment were to get home and to shower.  As the door closed, Aaron slowly
got to his feet.  This had been a most unexpected night!  Stepping over to
the console, he ejected the DVD.  It was a good thing he knew his way
around recording equipment, he mused as he headed for the door.
  Actually, he thought, as he took out his cell phone and punched in the
number of the cab he'd used to get to the studio, it was a good thing he'd
had the presence of mind to start the equipment up before the others got
there.  The DVD he'd just burned was sure to provide him hours of jerk off
entertainment, and who knows what use it could be put to in the months to
come!