Interview
Robert hates interviews. All those bright lights, the endless questions, the fact that he has to de-stereotype the band every single time, and every single time, they ignore it. We get drunk before we start, and then we go out again and get piss-drunk afterward to forget the stupid things we said.
Last night was different. We were sitting at a table, the three of us, and the interviewers were on the other side. Robert was in the middle, I was to his right and Lol was to his left. As we answered question after question I realized just how long this was going to be. I drummed my fingers on my knee to keep myself occupied.
All of a sudden I felt another hand on my knee. It was not mine.
I jumped slightly but refused to look to my left. I knew it was Robert. What was he doing? And if it was what I thought he was doing…why did it have to be now, in front of all these people?!
I was glad of the table as his hand slid up my thigh. He was still causally answering a question about the new album, Faith, something about where the inspiration for All Cats Are Gray had come from. I squirmed slightly, trying to avoid his wandering fingertips, and bit my lip.
Lol got asked something, and Robert took the opportunity to pull down the zip of my leather trousers. I let out an audible gasp, much to my dismay, and one of the interviewers looked my way.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m f-fine.” I nodded quickly, trying hard not to glare at Robert as he smirked and slid his hand inside.
God! I was already aroused, and I squeezed my thighs together when he touched me, bringing me out to stroke. It was still under the table, but I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, as if they knew…as if they could see, through the wood, Robert’s hand on my cock, making me hard…
I closed my eyes, trying to block it all out, concentrate, but I could only feel Robert’s hand moving faster, more determinedly, squeezing when he got close to the base. I could feel a trickle of sweat leave my hairline and run beside my ear, tickling. I wiped it away quickly, trying to keep my breathing as normal as possible.
The questions returned to Robert. He answered nonchalantly, almost uncaring, as he sat back and teased his fingers over the tip of my cock. I gripped the sides of the chair, curling my toes in an effort to keep from making some kind of moan or whining noise. Robert knew me too well; he knew I wasn’t exactly a silent lover. Every touch he gave me made me want to cry out, but I couldn’t, not here, not in front of everyone…
“…Mister Gallup? Simon?”
Oh no, oh no, they’d turned the cameras and microphones to me. “What was the question, sorry?”
“The bass line in Other Voices, was it difficult for you to learn?”
“N-no…” my breathing was becoming more and more erratic. I could feel the heat building in me, and sweat was pouring down my face now, both from the desire to come, and the effort not to. “No, it was f-fairly easy…”
Oh dear God, no. No. I could feel that familiar prickling, tightening sensation in my lower belly. I was going to come, and I couldn’t stop myself. I was going to sit here, in this chair, in front of everyone, on live television, and have an orgasm. I wanted to cry, but my body arched upward, legs quivering, on the edge, so ready, so willing to come at Robert’s command.
“What do you think, Mister Gallup, is the most important influence on this album?” one of them asked, microphone held out at me, cameras focused on my face, the whole world watching me.
No!
“ROBERT!” I cried out, my hips jerking spasmodically as I came hard into his hand, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wooden table. I couldn’t stop coming, it felt so good, and I knew I must look a sight: head tilted back, mouth open, eyes shut tight and violent red blush spread over my cheeks.
I slid back in my chair as I finished, burning with shame and biting my lip as everyone laughed and Robert took over, grinning about how he indeed was the most important influence on the album. I wasn’t really listening, just licked my dry lips and prayed to God that this nightmare would soon end.
I wanted to go to the hotel bar and drown myself in alcohol, but Robert insisted that we go back to the room, someone wanted to meet us. As we walked down the hallway I tried not to look at him, tried not to remember how he had made me come so violently at such light touches.
With a shiver, I realized just how much control he had over me.
He opened the door and I was surprised to hear chatter and laughter coming from inside. Was there a party I didn’t know about? I entered the room only to spot two of the male reporters who had been at the interview earlier. My stomach gave a lurch and I turned to run from the room, but Robert’s hand was an iron grip on my arm.
“Come on in, there’s drink inside.”
“Robert, please!”
He leaned in to whisper in my ear: “Be a good boy, Simon.” and with a soft squeeze to my hip, he locked the door and pulled me into the room, forcing me to sit down on the bed – between the two reporters. They immediately started looking all over my body, appraising me like some sort of animal livestock.
When Robert returned with the beer, I sprang up and tried to get away, but he pushed me back down again. Getting behind me, he pulled me backwards into his lap, in front of the two reporters. I nervously drew up my legs, and he handed me a bottle. I took it warily, and, seeing that the lid was intact, opened it and began to drink.
As I swallowed I could feel their eyes on me, burning gazes, like a pair of wolves sizing up their prey. Then Robert’s hand was on my chest, lifting up my shirt. I dropped the bottle, and it clattered to the floor, spilling a bit that I hadn’t finished.
“Robert!” I squeaked, trying to force the shirt down again, “What are you doing?!” He didn’t stop though, and we wrestled about for a moment before he spoke.
“Simon, sit still. Be a good boy for me.”
That was all he had to say. I sank down, defeated, knowing that he could do anything to me, anything…I realized what he was going to have happen to me, and I fought the urge to cry.
He peeled my shirt and vest off, and then went around my front to remove my trousers. I never wore anything under the leathers, because it made lines, and I regretted it now. The two reporters didn’t say a word, just watched with hungry eyes as Robert returned to sit behind me.
I didn’t bother to cover myself, even though my mind was screaming at me to do so. I knew that Robert would only brush them away, or worse still, tie me down. He ran his fingers up and down my chest, and then squeezed my shoulders.
“You can come over here and touch him; you know…he loves the attention…” Robert purred over my shoulders, and the two men scrambled forward to lay their hands on me. I felt a sweeping wave of nausea roll through me as they caressed my skin, raising goose bumps in their wake. They had cold, clammy, sweaty hands, and I shuddered at their touch.
After what seemed like hours Robert finally stopped them: “Enough.” he pushed them back, and I was foolish enough to feel relieved. Then his hands pushed me forward, and I fell, sprawling onto the bed. As I tried to push myself up again, his hands suddenly gripped my hips. I let out a whine of fear and looked over my shoulder: while the two reporters had molested me so callously, he had been stripping, and was now naked as I was.
Bracing myself did no good; the pain was horrendous as he pushed into me, no preparation or lubricant. I gasped and bit my lip, tasting blood as I was shoved forward, clutching the blankets helplessly.
I looked up as Robert withdrew and began to thrust, and saw that the reporters were not looking at him, but straight at me, eyes glistening brightly. How I must look to them! I thought, splayed out, docile at his hand, taking such rough treatment and not a word of protest…
As he took hold of my cock, I cried out and hung my head. Pain or no pain, he was thrusting inside me to bring about an orgasm, a shameful one, and it was working…I was becoming aroused, masochist though I was not, and my cheeks burned with humiliation. I was getting fucked on my hands and knees like a dog, in front of these men, and they said not a word.
“Come on, Simon…”
I opened my mouth to respond and couldn’t; all I could do was let out little fitful whines and crying noises as he thrust, over and over, deeper, changing the angle to make me gasp and arch back into him, pleasure growing. I was getting harder and harder, pleading almost for him to let me come, tension building in my lower belly like a pit of writhing hot snakes.
They were touching me again! One had his hand on my shoulder; the other had tugged my chin up. I looked into their eyes and knew they wanted to see me come like this, controlled and dominated like an animal. With a howl of despair, I came, eyes clouding with pleasure. I could feel Robert stop, coming inside me, letting me drop down onto the bed.
There was a clink of bottles above me, and I looked up to see Robert’s smirking face turn from the two reporters, who both had beers now. His eyes burned into mine, daring me to say something.
“Here’s to the new album. Cheers.”