Corey grabbed Kota's hand with that same possessive, eager grip he always used, fingers warm and insistent as they laced together.
His plump ass swayed hypnotically with every step as he tugged Kota toward the venue's back entrance, the baggy gray jeans finally pulled up but still riding dangerously low on his hips. The purple neon from the club's signage painted his white hair in shifting shades of lavender and pink.
"Hurry up, cutie. We're already late and Mort's gonna have an aneurysm if we don't get inside in the next thirty seconds."
Toby scrambled behind them, his tight black leggings finally secured around his soft waist but still clinging to every curve of his plush thighs and that thick, bouncy ass. His ginger hair bounced with his hurried steps, freckled face still flushed from the earlier embarrassment. "Wait for me, please don't leave me behind, I'm coming, I'm sorry I'm slow, the leggings are still riding up and I can't walk as fast as you guys—"
Gideon walked silently beside the group, towering over everyone with that unhurried grace. His corset creaked softly with each long stride, the frilled black shirt rustling in the evening breeze. He said nothing, but his presence was impossible to ignore, a tall gothic shadow moving through the neon lit alley like a ghost attending its own funeral.
They rounded the corner and pushed through the heavy metal door into the venue's front lobby. The space was dim and grimy, walls plastered with faded band posters and graffiti tags, the floor sticky with decades of spilled beer. A single front desk sat near the entrance, behind which a tall, disinterested twink in his late twenties was slouched in a folding chair. He had a messy undercut, bored eyes, and a copy of some glossy music magazine spread open on the desk in front of him. He didn't even look up when they entered, just lazily flipped a page and popped his gum.
Mort reached the desk first, his compact frame practically vibrating with irritation. He planted both hands on the counter and leaned forward, blunt bob haircut swinging. "We're the fifth band playing tonight. Under the name Pure Despair. Where's our green room?"
The front desk guy didn't look up from his magazine. He turned another page with exaggerated slowness, eyes scanning a spread about some synth pop group. "Pure Despair? Never heard of them. Not on my list. No idea who you are."
Mort's jaw tightened so hard Kota could hear his teeth grinding. He spun around to face Corey, dark eyes blazing with barely contained fury. "Corey. Wasn't this supposed to be the place where you sucked off the boss so hard he ended up in the hospital? The same boss who gave us the venue for free?"
Corey stepped forward, that cocky grin already spreading across his face. "Yeah, that's the one. Same place. Same deal. I made that man cry and he gave us the whole night for nothing." He turned to the desk guy, leaning one elbow on the counter with practiced casualness. "Hey there, sweetheart. I'm Corey. I'm the one who rearranged your boss's guts so thoroughly he's probably still tasting me in the back of his throat. We've got a verbal agreement. Free venue, free sound, free everything."
The desk guy finally looked up from his magazine. His bored expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes when he saw Corey's white hair and that signature hungry smirk. "Yeah, I heard about that. The whole staff heard about that. But here's the thing." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "The boss isn't here tonight. He's still in the hospital. And since he's not here, whatever deal you made with him is essentially non applicable. You want to play? You pay. Five hundred and twenty dollars upfront, plus twenty five percent of whatever you make from ticket sales."
Corey's grin didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened. He leaned closer, voice dropping into that low, syrupy purr that had made stronger men than this twink drop to their knees. "Listen. I understand you're just doing your job. But maybe I could help you jog your memory about our little arrangement. Somewhere more private. Just the two of us." He brought his hand to his mouth and made a slow, deliberate blowjob motion, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek while his eyes stayed locked on the desk guy's face.
The twink's bored mask cracked. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, magazine completely forgotten. "I... well..." He shifted in his chair, the front of his tight black pants suddenly looking a little fuller. "I suppose I could be convinced. But I need to at least know what all the hype is about. The boss was talking about you for days before they wheeled him out. Said you did things with your tongue that shouldn't be humanly possible."
Corey's hand drifted across the counter, fingers tracing slow circles on the twink's wrist. "Then let me give you a preview. There's a broom closet around the corner. Fifty seconds. That's all I need."
The desk guy stood up so fast his chair skidded backward and hit the wall. He followed Corey around the corner with the eager, desperate walk of a man who had already made his peace with whatever was about to happen to him.
The broom closet door clicked shut.
What followed in the next fifty seconds was nothing short of supernatural. The sounds that emerged from that tiny, cramped space made everyone in the lobby freeze. It started with a deep, guttural cry of pure shock, the kind of sound that came from somewhere primal and untouched. Then a series of wet, obscene glucking sounds so loud and fast they blended into one continuous, slurping rhythm. GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK. The desk guy's voice cracked into a half moan, half scream that echoed through the empty lobby, rising in pitch with every passing second.
"OH FUCK— OH GOD— YOUR MOUTH— WHAT THE FUCK— AHHHHHH— IT'S TOO MUCH— GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK— I CAN FEEL IT IN MY SOUL— AHHHHHHHH—"
The sounds grew wetter, filthier, the glucking turning into desperate, choking gags mixed with the twink's broken sobs of pleasure. The broom closet door rattled on its hinges. Something thumped hard against the wall inside. The screaming reached a fever pitch, a long, wailing cry of complete and utter surrender, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body slumping heavily to the floor.
The door opened forty seven seconds later. Corey stepped out, completely composed, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. A single strand of thick saliva connected his glossy lips to his fingers for a second before he flicked it away. Through the crack in the door, the desk guy was visible sprawled on the floor among the mops and cleaning supplies, eyes rolled back, chest heaving, a dark wet stain spreading across the front of his pants. His mouth moved soundlessly, trying to form words that wouldn't come.
Corey smoothed down his white hair and turned back to the group with a satisfied smirk. "He'll be out for a while. But we got the go ahead. Free venue, free sound, and he's throwing in complimentary drinks for the whole band."
Mort stared at him for a long, deadpan moment. "You're a menace to society."
"I'm an asset to society," Corey corrected, already heading toward the inner doors that led to the showroom. "Society just doesn't know it yet."
They made their way past the entrance and into the venue proper. The showroom was a cavernous, dimly lit space with a low stage at the far end, already set up with amps and a drum kit that looked like it had seen better decades. The air smelled like stale beer, sweat, and the faint electrical tang of old speakers. A few early arrivals milled around the bar, femboys in various states of provocative dress, their exaggerated curves catching the colored stage lights that were being tested by a bored looking roadie.
Kota found himself standing awkwardly near the edge of the stage, not quite sure where to put himself. He didn't have equipment to set up, didn't have a setlist to memorize. He was just there, a tall, broad shouldered anomaly in his rumpled gray slacks and black button up.
Mort noticed him loitering and marched over, arms crossed tight over the skull graphic on his crop sweatshirt. "What the fuck is he doing here? This is a band thing. Band members only. Not groupies. Not boyfriends. Not random guys with huge dicks who wandered in off the street."
Corey slid up beside Mort, draping one arm over his shorter bandmate's shoulders. Mort immediately shoved him off, but Corey just grinned and tried again, this time successfully hooking his arm around Mort's neck. "Relax, Morty. Kota here is like our new manager. Official band business. He's going to help us with logistics and crowd engagement and all that boring stuff."
He paused, letting the grin turn wicked. "And also he's our stress reliever after the concert. If anyone needs something to suck on after a long, hard performance, Kota's generously volunteered his services."
Mort's eye twitched. He let out a sigh so deep it seemed to deflate his entire compact frame. "Whatever. Fine. But there's no fucking way you're getting paid for this," he added, jabbing a finger toward Kota. "Not a single cent. We're broke enough as it is."
Kota shrugged, hands in his pockets. "I know. Didn't expect to get paid."
Corey clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and energetic. "Great! Now that that's settled, there's three more shows before we go on. You've got some time to kill, Kota. Go enjoy yourself. Check out the other bands. Grab a drink. Mingle." He winked. "I'm sure there's plenty of hot femboys out there who'd love to meet the guy behind the monster."
Kota nodded, already turning toward the main floor. "Any excuse to get out of here for a bit. I'll be back before you go on."
He walked away from the stage, weaving through the growing crowd, and pushed through the heavy curtains that separated the showroom from the rest of the venue. The hallway beyond was narrower, lined with doors leading to smaller rooms where other bands were presumably getting ready. The distant thump of a bass drum and the wail of a guitar filtered through the walls. Kota leaned against the cool concrete, letting the noise wash over him, and let his mind wander.
The other bands had to be hot. That was just the reality of this world now. Every guy under thirty five walked around with an ass that could stop traffic and hips that swayed like they were dancing even when standing still. He pictured the lead singers, the guitarists, the drummers, all of them with their tiny cocks and massive cheeks, sweating under the stage lights, probably half hard from the adrenaline. Some of them were probably backstage right now, bent over equipment cases, letting roadies finger them open to take the edge off before their sets. The thought sent a familiar, traitorous twitch through his groin. His cock stirred in his slacks, thickening slowly, the constant fullness in his balls reminding him that his condition never truly slept.