Date: Thu, 24 Jul 2003 12:10:26 -0700 (PDT)
From: mike ellis <mikerellis2003@yahoo.com>
Subject: My Little Randy 2

The story that follows is fiction. To Yoda, that would mean "true this
story is not." The characters portrayed in this work of fiction should not
be considered to reflect accurately on any actual person, living or dead
since the invention of hydrogen molecules.

WARNING: This story is sexually-explicit and involves involving
homosexuality, mild domination, and throw pillows.

If this offends you, do not continue. If accessing this story causes you to
break any local laws applicable to your area, do not continue. If you have
ever voted for a political candidate whose opinions you disagree with just
because he was probably going to lower your taxes, do not continue.

No pop singers were actually spanked in the writing of this story.

ANNOUNCEMENT: The old #boybands chat room is all but deserted now, but it
still exists. I've gone to great expense to hire it for another of my
virtual parties on the evening of Friday, August 8th, at 7pm CST (Dallas
time, for the rest of you). The chatroom is accessible at via a link at the
top of the Nifty Boybands stories list or on IRC by connecting to
irc.nevernet.net then joining #boybands.

I hope you can join us. Virtual drinks are on me, but BYORB (bring your own
real bottle). You will not need formal dress, a gift, or any childish
temper tantrums.

EMAIL still reaches me at michaelwashere@pop3.netzero.net.


My Little Randy, part 2

Mike Ellis strikes again!


I didn't hurt him too much of course. Not the first time. The first session
is all about getting to know the client, both what he tells you and what he
won't or can't tell you. Finding out his limitations, his desires and
needs, his physical and emotional sore spots.

So for the first round, I didn't hurt him too much. Just five or six hard
swats with my hand on his bare butt to make him feel it through whatever
macho posing he felt he had to do. This was the point where his muscles
would tense the most as he tried hard to hold back what he felt, determined
to win the battle of wills and hide his discomfort. I wondered for a second
if he were from the South because I thought I'd heard a bit of the accent
in his speech: in my experience, latinos and Southern boys could be a bit
more stiff and macho than most.

Then, once the skin was pink and a little tender, five more to get through
the genuine toughness and discipline he'd developed during years of
grueling performances. Then, when his skin was really red and beginning to
welt a bit, a few more, fast and stinging, to push him to his emotional
edge. To get him where he needed to be to get any benefit from this.

Four more was enough. I was raising my stinging hand for the fifth when I
saw his shoulders quiver and heard a slight sob escape him. Instead of
hitting him again, I reached down and took his chin very gently - no doubt
he could feel the heat of the skin of my hand on his face - and turned his
face toward me. His mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes were red and
watery. He had a look of exhaustion on his face, but the tension I'd seen
when he walked in was gone. He wasn't a celebrity trying to be composed and
charming anymore. He was just tired. More tired than someone his age should
be.

Taking hold of his shoulders, I helped him off my lap into a kneeling
position beside my chair. I stood up, but I pressed my left hand into his
shoulder when he tried the same thing. He looked up confused for a second
then lowered his chin. I reached down and took his hand to lead him,
walking on his knees in the thick carpet, to the quilt-covered mat near the
wall.

"Lay down for a bit, Justin," I said softly, calling him by his first name
for a while. "I'll get you a bottle of water."

His eyes sought mine again. "I don't think I..."

"On your stomach," I interrupted him. "Lay on your stomach." I stayed long
enough to see him get comfortable. After he'd been prone on the mat for a
few seconds, he let out a long exhalation. The tight muscles in his smooth
bad visibly relaxed, and he sank his head into his crossed arms.

I stepped over to the bar and took a bottle of water from the
mini-fridge. Glancing at him lying face down again, I took off the cap and
grabbed a straw from the drawer in the bar.

"Here, Justin," I whispered after I'd arranged myself on the big pillows
beside the mat, one under my ass left hip and two for me to lean sideways
against. He raised his head a bit, and I put the end of the straw to his
lips. Nice lips, I thought for a second as he sucked at the straw , then I
made my brain go back to work.

"Tell me what's been going on with you at work," I said simply as I reached
behind me to set the bottle down somewhat out of the way.

"Didn't R.J. tell you?"

His confusion sounded genuine, but it wouldn't do to have him disobeying me
at this stage. I tucked my chin in and gave him a stern look. "I want you
to tell me."

"Oh," he began, his eyes going down toward the carpet. At that second, he
looked very much like a little boy who'd done something wrong and regretted
having earned someone's disapproval. I took that as a very good sign: I
could take a feeling like that and use it.

After a couple of seconds, he went on. "I'm not sure what it is. I've just
been really stressed, really tempermental lately. I get all uptight in the
studio so a track comes out sounding like shit, so I yell at somebody, then
they get mad and I get more uptight, and everything just keeps getting
worse."

I moved my left arm up on the pillow and sank closer to the floor, putting
my head closer to his. My right hand reached over to rest with deliberate
casualness on the small of his back. "How long has this been going on?" I
asked gently, my voice almost a whisper.

He shook his head slightly. "Weeks. Months. But lately it's been worse. For
four days now, I haven't recorded anything that we can use. All I've done
is waste hours of studio time and piss off just about all the
producers. I've heard a couple swear behind my back that they'll never work
with me again. Their assistants avoid me; the technicians stop talking when
I come in the room. Even the receptionist at the studio talks to me as
little as possible. Everything with her is one-word sentences now.

"It pisses me off that they're treating me like this. But it pisses me off
more that it's my own damned fault." He was talking more freely now, louder
and faster, without hesitating to find the politic words to use. Another
good sign.

"And what do you think is making you so stressed in the first place?"
Another simple question, gently delivered. My right hand was working
lightly on his back, fingers spread wide and flat and my fingertips
massaging the muscles beneath the skin. The human body carries a lot of
stress in the lower back, and I wanted my hand to subtly work on breaking
up some of the physical tension while our conversation worked on the
emotional kind. People underestimated just how interwoven the two could be.

"It's my album!" he let out, staring at some point on the floor, not
looking me in the face. "I mean, it's all mine. Not NSYNC, just me. If it
fails, then there's no one else to blame. It's just me. All alone, just
fucking me!" He paused for a second to take a couple of heavy breaths.

"And all those people working on this - the producers, the musicians, the
execs, the lawyers, the marketing people, everybody - they're counting on
me to make them all famous or make them shitloads of money. Just fucking
using me. They're all just waiting for me to deliver, like some kind of
farm animal at the state fair. 'Show him off and win the ribbons.' Then,
when he stops winning ribbons, you carve as many steaks out of him as you
can, then move on to some other fucking cow."

His voice had sustained quite an angry tone during all that, but when he
finished speaking he just let his breath out like the anger was going with
it. The anger was no doubt still there, but he was done talking about it
for now. He finally looked up from that area of carpet that he'd have had
memorized by now if he'd really been seeing it. His eyes found mine looking
back into them, poker face in place again.

For a few seconds, the only real movement was his torso rising and falling
with his own breaths and my right hand, now at work kneading the middle of
his back.

"Bull," I finally said simply.

"What?" he asked surprisedly, like I'd just called him a liar. Just the
reaction I'd wanted so the weak joke that was coming would be
funnier. Levity, too, was a way of breaking through stress.

"Bull," I repeated. "They won't go looking for another cow, 'cause you
wouldn't be a cow to them. You'd be a bull. Remember: I've seen you naked."

I gave him a bemused smile, and I was rewarded with a grin from him, not
the rehearsed, show business grin I'd seen earlier, but the real
thing. Relaxed, casual, and very sexy. I reminded myself, not for the first
time, that I'd have to be careful not to get too attached to this boy.