Sky High Grip

"Here, take these."

The band's singer, Dillon James, brought his hand nearly up to the mouth of his boyfriend and band stagehand--what they called a grip--Elan Tyler, and a couple of pills had been popped before Elan could have second thoughts about accepting them. The band had spent the day preparing for their charter plane nighttime flight cross country to New York for their Central Park concert and were partying now at the Forest Hills mansion in L.A. of concert promoter Sten Michelson.

They were partying hard. The Thunder Boys was a hard rock band. They always partied hard, both on and off stage. It was a gay guys band and they didn't care who knew it. Their fans didn't seem to care either.

Elan was new to the band and had taken Dillon's invitation to grip for the band for its New York concert to get experience and network, if he could. He was in music college in L.A., hoping to become the lead singer of a band like Dillon was. Dillon had come to his school to give a guest lecture and had picked Elan, nineteen, with dark, movie-star looks, slim, and with a good smile and star struck with Dillon, out of the class to take off to a bar and a motel afterward. Elan had been a very occasional experimental flip-flopper before that night in the motel. He was an all-night submissive afterward. They hadn't been a pair for more than two weeks before Dillon invited Elan to hang out with the band and travel to New York with them.

Elan jumped at the chance. He hadn't been in L.A. or into the band scene for long, being from Creole ancestry and arriving in L.A. from rural Louisiana to attend music school. He was young, innocent, wide eyed, and just waiting to be taken advantage of.

The pills Dillon slipped into him at this all-male party at Michelson's house for the guys in the band and all of those backing them up for their New York concert made Elan the evening's entertainment. Within minutes, under Dillon's guidance, Elan was sky high, had stripped off his shirt, and was on top of a table, dancing to loud music, a recording of the band's own tracks, in the background. The members of the band and their backing technicians and grips gathered around, clapping and cheering and encouraging Elan to strip down more, which, grogging and giggling, he did. Sten Michaelson, in his early fifties, older, heavier, less gleeful and uninhibited than those in the band, stood off to the side, eyes slitted, and took it all in.

Twenty minutes later, Dillon had carried Elan up the stairs to one of the mansion's bedrooms and gotten them both stripped down and in position on an S-curved Italian recliner. Elan was on his knees, facing the deep curve of the recliner, his cheek to the leather, facing the door to the corridor, and his arms raised, his hand's gripping the top edge of the recliner. Dillon was stretched over Elan's back, his lips buried into the hollow of Elan's throat, his hands gripping the young man's hips to hold him in place, and his cock up Elan's ass, slow pumping him.

The party continued throughout the house, with members of the band and their support guys occasionally passing in the corridor outside the bedroom and stopping momentarily to watch the action on the Italian recliner. As Dillon's hip action picked up speed and he frenziedly approached sky high liftoff in the young, naïve music student's anal passage, Sten Michelson appeared in the doorway and remained there to watch the sendoff release with slitted yes and a slight smile on his face while, writhing under Dillon and still experiencing a fireworks display in his brain from the effects of the pills, Elan took salvo after salvo of the band singer's barebacking cum.

* * * *

The band's party restarted in the back of the charter jet at LAX the next evening, the plane taking off from out of the sunset toward the next day. The band was going over their song list for the concert, stopping here and there to check vocal and instrumental harmonies, while the grips went over who would do what in getting the equipment to the Central Park amphitheater and set up and then broken down and back out to the airport and into the hold of the charter jet. The concert would be a late evening one, so they were booked around Manhattan in various hotels.

Elan was sitting with Dillon, soaking it all in. All of this was new to him. He wasn't drinking and popping pills today like the others around him were. He'd overindulged the previous evening at Sten Michelson's Forest Hills mansion, he realized he had, and he'd spent much of the day coming back down to earth. Dillon was pretty much staying away from him--not pushing him off or being mean to him, but just keeping a bit of distance as if he realized that he'd taken Elan too far too fast.

Still, when he was coming back from the head, which was in the forward compartment, behind the cockpit, he didn't sit down in the aisle seat beside Elan, and he was looking a little guilty.

"Mr. Michelson wants to see you, Elan," he said.

"Who? Where?"

"Sten Michelson, our backer and promoter. The guy's house we were at last night. He's in the forward section. He doesn't party with us. But he asked me to send you to him. Up front. I know you want to get into the business. He's the best guy around to get that for you. You gotta be nice to him, though, if you want to get ahead with his help. And you don't want to make an enemy of a guy like Sten Michelson."

"Umm, OK," Elan said, sliding out of the row of seats and, like a lamb to the slaughter, smiling like he appreciated Dillon making this opportunity for him, moving to the forward compartment, which was smaller than the aft one, had plusher, more commodious seats, and which was occupied by a single person--the hefty, older, seemingly out-of-place with a rock band rich guy, Sten Michelson.

"Come, sit here with me," Michelson said, hauling his bulky body out of his seat, moving into the aisle, and gesturing for Elan to take the window seat in the wide-seat row. "Here, would you like a couple of pills," he said, holding his palm out with two pink ones.

"Oh, no thank you," Elan answered, "I don't do drugs."

"You did last evening," Michelson said as they settled into their seats.

"That was a mistake... obviously," Elan said, giving the man a sheepish look. "And I didn't really know I was taking them."

"Well, how about a beer, then." An open cooler, with ice, was sitting in the seat across the aisle. Cans of beer were peeking out over the top edge.

"Sure, that would be fine," Elan answered.

"Dillon tells me you are going to music school--studying rock music. He says you want to break into the business."

"Yeah. He invited me to come on this gig--to help carry stuff--so I could see what it was like to tour with a band. I'd like to be a singer in a band, like Dillon is."

"I think you got what it takes," Michelson said, as he fished two cans of beer out of the cooler, popped the tops, dropped the two pink pills in one, and handed that can to Elan. "You certainly got the looks to make the girls swoon--and some of the boys and men too. And I heard you sing along with the bands' tracks last evening. You got a great voice. You've got stage presence and a great voice. All you need is sponsorship and access."

"Really?" Elan said. "Thanks." He lifted the can of beer and took a swig.

"I can help you with that. I'd like to help you with that," Michelson said. "Of course you'd have to make it worth my while."

"Really? How?" Elan asked, beginning to feel a bit woozy--not much different from how he'd felt at Michelson's Forest Hills mansion the evening before--a bit giddy, loose, all of his sensations on tingle, free and open.

"I watched you and Dillon in the bedroom in my house. I watched him on top of you."

"Sorry about that. I wasn't myself last night," Elan said. Truth be known, he didn't feel much like himself now, either, and it seemed like he was slurring his words.

"You were just fine last night," Michelson said. "You were great. You give great fuck. You are young and sexy. You've got a great body." He was turned to Elan and his hands were busy--unbuttoning, unbuckling, unzipping, pulling cloth away. "I want to help you in the business. You'll do great in the business. But to get along in the business you have to go along. Understand what I'm saying?"

"Uh huh," Elan answered. And he did understand. He'd been exclusively with Dillon inside the orbit of the band so far, but he'd understood what Dillion was saying to him about being nice to Michelson. Before leaving him, he'd said, "You don't mind if--?" and Dillion had interrupted him by saying, "A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do."

His "Uh huh" response to Michelson definitely had been slurred when it came out. "I think so." And he did. At the base he fully understood what he had to do to make it in this business if he was called to do it. He probably understood that and was prepared for it as much if he had been sober as he did sky high on pills.

"You a member of the Mile High Club yet?" Michelson asked.

"Um, I don't know. What's that?"

"I think you know, Elan. It's sex in a plane at altitude. Something like a mile up in the sky at least. Do you think we're more than a mile up now, Elan?"

"Um, I don't know." He looked out of the window.

"The answer is that we are." Michelson pulled the young man's T-shirt over his head as he was turned. Elan didn't resist. Michelson reached around and tweaked both of Elan's nipples, and Elan just sighed for him.

"You ever had sex on an airplane, Elan?"

"Um, I don't think so."

"I want to fuck you Elan. Now, here, on the airplane. You want to help me, if I help you?"

"Yeah, I guess," Elan, quite groggy now, but all of his sensations electric. Sexual arousal was one of the sensations the pills he took was enhancing.

"I need you to say it, Elan. We're being recorded. I need you to say, 'I want you to fuck me, Mr. Michelson.' The world can open up for you if you say that and give me what I want."

There was a bit of hesitancy, but, in somewhat slurred tones, Elan said, "I want you to fuck me, Mr. Michelson."

The big man smiled. "I'm going to put you on your back, make your beautiful body naked, and give you what Dillon gave you at my house last night. You're gonna let me fuck you, aren't you? I assure you that I'm quite good at it."

"Uh, yes, OK," Elan said, as Michelson lifted all of the chair arms into the seat backs; turned Elan on his back, legs out into the aisle; went down on his knees in the aisle; pulled the young man's jeans and briefs off his legs; put Elan's legs on his shoulders; and took possession of Elan's cock, balls, and hole with his searching mouth. Elan lay there, docilely, moaning low as the older man ate him out.

At length, Michelson stood up in the aisle. He was a huge man. He was fat, but he was also strong and muscular. He was huge everywhere, including having an enormously thick and long cock, now in full erection and, in short order, sheathed in a Trojan Magnum.

Grasping the young man's ankles and raising and spreading his legs, Michelson saddled up between Elan's thighs. He mounted him, penetrated him, drove it deep inside the young man as Elan writhed under him, clutching at the fabric of the airplane seats as best he could as the plane cut through the clouds, most certainly more than a mile in the air, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

"Welcome to the Sky High Club, Elan," Michelson thought to mutter in the young man's ear at the three-quarters hour mark of a four-hour fuck session. They were confined to a tin can flying high in the sky across the continent. They had all the time in the world to satiate Michelson's lust. From L.A. to New York, Michelson fucked Elan, took breaks to recharge, and fucked him again... and again and again. The drugs and the awareness of where he was and who had control lasted long enough on Elan that he just laid there and took the cocking repeatedly.

Once the big man had gotten his fat cock inside Elan the first time, it didn't seem to matter how often this was repeated.

* * * *

The Thunder Boys rock band and their backup guys exuberantly spilled out of baggage claim onto the transportation roadway inside a swirl of screaming followers at New York's JFK the next morning as day was dawning. A line of black limousines ready for sorting out the guys by hotel destination was idling at the curb. There was no hotel that would take them all together, the hotels figuring that they'd suffer less damage by breaking them down in smaller groups.

Sten Michelson was helping a bowlegged and groggy Elan Tyler hobble toward the vehicles. Elan appeared barely awake and slightly less than that with it. The fat but big-cocked, cruel Michelson had fucked Elan from at least Utah to Pennsylvania in several taxing positions, making sure that it wasn't going to be a boring flight for him. The drugs Elan had taken were sufficient to keep the young man docile for the two hours Michelson fucked him. Dillon James came up to help support the young wannabe rock star.

"Here. I'll take him from here, Mr. Michelson," Dillon said. "He'll be at the hotel I'm in."

"No, he won't," Michelson said. "He's a real good lay. Put him in my limousine. He'll go with me."

Dillon looked a bit dismayed--he could see that Elan had been fucked over hard already-- but what could he say? "Sure, Mr. Michelson," is what he said.

"And, Dillon. Go ahead and line the next one up for me too. We'll be doing a concert in Houston in a couple of weeks."

Hearing that, Elan gave a little smile that neither of the other two men saw. That was pretty much what he had thought was going on with Dillon. Dillon was Michelson's procurer. And they thought they'd really put it over on innocent, young Elan. Well, Elan had read L.A. quickly when he got there--even before he got there. There had been a Hollywood agent on the flight out from New Orleans when Elan first arrived in L.A. The man had given Elan some great pointers on that flight, and, no, today wasn't Elan's first Mile High Club experience. He also wasn't nearly as far gone on the effects of the pills and of Michelson's cocking as Dillon and Michelson now thought he was.

Just as Michelson wasn't finished fucking him yet, he wasn't finished milking Sten Michelson.