The Dragon King’s Rock Star by Amy Sumida
Chapter One
“Oh, yes. Yes!” the guy moaned as I slammed into him. “Fuck my ass! Yes, please. Fuck me harder!”
I glanced up at my dressing room mirror to see his face. He was handsome, a bit slimmer than I preferred, but definitely hot. I liked really masculine men with bodies that looked as if they'd been in the gym all day. They usually had the tightest asses too. But I was in Japan where it was harder to come by men like that. Fit guys? Sure, they abounded. But big, buff men who towered over me and made me feel like a fucking conqueror when I bent them over and made them scream? Not so much. I slapped the guy's ass, and it jiggled a little, but inside, he squeezed me just right. I grunted and sped up, the dressing table he was bent over shaking so badly, a water bottle rolled off it and hit the floor.
I cried out, the clamor of the crowd seeping into my dressing room and driving my orgasm even higher. It was muted backstage, but I could tell the arena was packed. You get a sense for these things when you've been singing for as long as I have. Or rather, when you've been performing in stadiums for as long as I have. I loved a good adrenaline release pre-show. It calmed me. As my body jerked and shuddered, I knew I'd be good to go. Nerves steadied, all was well in my world again.
I pulled out, holding the condom in place, then slid it off, and tossed it in the trash without bothering to knot it. “That was great. Thanks.” I slapped his ass again and pulled up my pants.
He pulled up his pants as well, shoving his erection away, but he didn't seem to care that I hadn't made him come. He was grinning ear-to-ear. “I can't believe I just got fucked by Mason Byrne. The Mason Byrne.”
“Here.” I pulled a VIP pass out of a drawer and handed it to him. “Go have a drink. You can watch the show from backstage if you like.”
“Really? Do you wanna hook up afterward? I'd love to suck your cock.”
“Sure, baby, that sounds great.” I squeezed his hard-on through his pants and left him in my dressing room.
My manager was waiting outside. “For fuck's sake, Mason, you're cutting it close. You're on in two minutes!”
“It's just music, John.” I smacked his arm. “Music doesn't have a schedule.”
John grimaced as he followed me down the hall. Behind me, my latest fuck slipped out of my dressing room. The VIP placard hung around his neck. I glanced back and winked at him. He nearly melted into a puddle, and I didn't even know his name. I might take him up on the post-show blowjob even though I usually didn't like repeats. He was so eager, I was betting it would be phenomenal.
Yeah, it was good to be me.
The closer we got to the stage, the louder and clearer the sound of the crowd became, until I could hear them chanting my name. Then I was sauntering out under the lights, my band giving me smirks because they knew exactly what I'd been up to. Everyone did. My pre-show ritual was notorious with the entire crew. As soon as I stepped into view, the crowd roared even louder, the sound turning into a vibration that rolled up through the stage and my boots, into my feet.
People filled the stands all the way up the sides of the Tokyo Dome. The mere fact that I was playing there was a mark of achievement, but that it was filled to capacity was even better. Women screamed, men shouted, and signs waved, cute little animals drawn on them along with things like, I love you, Mason and Marry me, Mason! Yup, even the women wanted me.
The world thought I was bi, not just gay, which meant that I occasionally had to take a supermodel out to dinner. But whatever; it sold albums, and I didn't have to hide everything I was like some singers did. I could still kiss men in public, and it only added to my appeal. Women loved bisexual men. I don't know how many times my supermodel dates had asked if they could watch me fuck another guy. I even let a few of them join in when my real date turned out to be a true bi. I don't mind having a pussy in bed with me as long as I didn't have to fuck it. And I may not be attracted to tits, but when you close your eyes, a mouth is a mouth, right? Shit, did that make me bi? Oh, who the fuck cares? I didn't need to label my sexuality. I was Mason fucking Byrne!
I went to the mic stand and adjusted the angle. “Hello, Tokyo!”
Women actually wept and people tossed presents onto the stage—stuffed animals, T-shirts, and flowers. My fans in Japan didn't throw panties or jock straps like those in America, but honestly, I preferred the stuffed animals. Hey, the Japanese make the cutest ones.
I stared out at the cheering crowd and thought to myself, God damn, does it get any better than this?
Then the music started and it did get better. Although fame and wealth were fantastic, they weren't the reasons I did this. My true love was lyrics, words put to music. Poetry sung. A beautiful song could lift me high enough to make it feel as if my soul flew. I began to sing, setting myself free, and everything else became background.
I guess that's why I didn't notice the odd lights at first. They sparked on my right, mimicking camera flashes. But then the light grew larger, sweeping up and down into a column. It sparked blue and a strange roaring washed out the music. I turned just in time to see the light expand. It crackled along the edges, like lightning over water.
“What the fuck?” I whispered, dropping the mic.
Feedback whined, the music stopped, and Alan reached for me, his guitar swinging wide. I reached back, but it was too late. The light tore with a high-pitched sound sharp enough to make me recoil. I stared through the center of it, but instead of seeing the stadium that should have been behind it, I saw only trees. Then the light enveloped me, and I fell toward that hole. The last thing I heard was the crowd screaming, and not in a good way.