Date: Tue, 12 Feb 2002 01:47:17 -0800
From: Cirrus Kain <stoneclaw@earthlink.com>
Subject: One Crazy Summer, chapter 1 (Celebrity)

Disclaimer: I, Cirrus Kain, being the lowly peon that I am do not know
Britney Spears, Nsync, or any of the other celebrities that might be
mentioned within this document. The story is FICTION, something to make you
laugh, cry, and maybe even cum. It was not created to suggest anything
about anyone. Sorry guys.

This story focuses on a lesbian relationship between a fictional character
and Britney Spears, however, gay male elements and sexual situations, at
least one of which featuring a member of NSync, will be present in later
chapters. Bear with me people. =)

One Crazy Summer

Chapter 1

It was 3am in the valley. Rain pattered down outside the motel, and I lay
inside, listening to it, staring at the dingy off-white ceiling. A single
droplet of water hit my forehead, followed by another, and another, but I
didn't flinch. I didn't really care. The small trash can by the bed was
full of empty bottles. I wasn't drunk, nor had I really been trying to get
that way; alcohol had just seemed like the best thing to spend the last of
my money on. So there I was, out of cash and out of luck in a strange motel
in a strange part of the country with a very strange reason for being
there. How the hell did I get there? It was all her fault dammit.

God, it was weird to think that. It was all Britney Spears' fault.

* * * * *

I sat down in front of the tripod, dressed casually in my most comfortable
wide-leg eight-pocket jeans and little black babydoll sort of thing, my
short hair blonde and spiked down with pink tips framing my face, and
immediately began fidgeting with my hands. What would I say? I wanted more
than anything for this to be good, good enough to win. I just wanted to win
something for once in my life. This was the "Be Britney's Escort" contest,
put on by MTV. The deal was, Fan A sends Ms. Spears a thirty-second video
tape of themselves, she watches all such tapes, then selects a winner to
accompany her to the 2003 Grammy Awards. I didn't really have much hope, as
the position of what was basically Britney's date would almost definitely
only be open to those of the male persuasion. For whatever reason though, I
had decided to give it a shot anyway.

Couldn't hurt, right?

The timer finally went off, the little red light came on, and I was all
set.

"Ah, hey Britney, my name's Danielle Holden. Um, well, I'm not really sure
why you should pick me over a lot of other people who are probably totally
cooler. All I can say is that I love your music and your style, and that it
would be an honor to get to know you for an evening Thanks for your time. I
really hope I win."

The red light shut off, and I remembered to breathe.

Okay, so it was a really lame video clip of me stammering and looking like
the crushsick little dyke that I am, but at the time I had myself convinced
that the meek, honest approach was my best bet. Before I could change my
mind, I jammed the cassette into an envelope, plastered my postage all over
it, addressed it, and actually drove it to the post office to put in the
box outside. This was so that I couldn't possibly chicken out later. Like I
said, I was pretty sure I wouldn't win, but some little part of my head
wouldn't shut up about giving myself just this one chance.

I guess you could call it my intuition.

That night, I lay back on my futon and watched the monitor on the desk
across the room; Britney video after Britney video played over and over in
an extensive and continuous loop. This was surprisingly pretty typical for
me. I loved to watch her while I listened. The added visual stimulation of
her writhing to the beats while the music itself ruthlessly assaulted me
with pop-happiness created a sort of numb euphoria. Music had been a major
factor in determining my moods all my life, and I guess only someone like
that can really understand the power of the pop genre. The songs had a
total disregard for the cruelty and corruption in the world, focusing
instead on personal struggles and joys that seemed so innocent in
comparison. And yet they did this with such confidence that it made me
wonder if maybe that was what life really was all about, and maybe all this
other stuff that seemed so much worse really didn't matter much at all.

Then there was the fact that Britney not only accomplished all of that, but
looked so incredibly delicious while doing it. Oh man.

The video for "Baby One More Time" had just started up when my hand started
undoing my studded belt almost instinctively. I suppose it was the little
Catholic school-girl uniform that did it to me. My eyes locked on her
movements, I began slowly caressing my body, touching my breasts and
stomach, covered by my shirt, with my fingertips and then moving just as
slowly back up again underneath said garment. My small nipples on my small
breasts were painfully hard at this point; I could feel them even though
the thick material of my sports bra. I rubbed them through the bra at
first, wanting to draw it out that night, while I could still have the
fantasy of actually being with Britney in person. Before tomorrow crushed
my hopes and I wouldn't be able to convince myself that this fantasy wasn't
totally pointless.

The fantasy was Britney and myself, and we'd be in the back of a limo,
heading towards her hotel. Somehow, it changed from time to time, she would
pick up on the fact and that I was gay. Then, very tentatively, she would
start asking questions about it, trying not to seem too interested, but
obviously so. She played the role of the curious little straight girl for
me. God, what a turn-on. The whole thing would just go from there;
questions to light touching, brushing, to shy glances to that one awesome
kiss that would just blow both of our minds. And after that... well... It,
of course, gets down and dirty.

Speaking of down and dirty, that was exactly how I was feeling at the
moment, and, seeing no reason why I shouldn't, decided I was going to take
care of that, and good. I sat up and peeled off my shirt and undid my bra,
tossing them to the floor. Normally I hated my breasts; they were too small
and just sort of useless, but because of their size they were sensitive as
hell and for that I was thankful as I slowly ran my thumbs across my
nipples. With gentle brushings and a tentative pinch they became hard
enough to ache, and I could feel that ache all through my body, straight
down the center. A tiny moan escaped my lips and then I was silent in
concentration.

It wasn't me, not my own wetness I sliding in. It was Britney's. Most
people's sexual fantasies probably have to do with others pleasing them,
but mine were always about myself pleasing others. Like Britney. I would
feel her first, soft and vulnerable as people are during the act. The
smoothness of her skin. The softness of her breasts. The silky mat, or the
fine short patch, or the complete bareness, depending on my mood, of her
sex. She would arch and moan and whisper my name and all of those blazingly
erotic thingS that would make me want even more to be perfect for her. And
as I lost my mental focus in the coming of my own orgasm, the motions would
become fluidly mechanical and repetitive in my mind, each whatever bringing
her higher and higher with me, until we both came crashing down, her
screaming my name, and I exhaling hers.

Panting, I lay limp on my bed. This was Britney Spears for me. A flawless
desire that, in the fiction of my mind, was only just out of
reach. Secretly I knew that I would never have her, but the self in my mind
had hope. That fantasy Dani that I was would be, not perfect, but for some
reason irresistible to Britney. It was a nice dream anyway. The videos
still flickered on the screen as I faded into sleep.