Date: Wed, 29 Mar 2023 17:07:23 -0500
From: Justin Berry <cbstlmag1@gmail.com>
Subject: Dominated by the Boyband, Chapter 2

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(This story contains elements of urination and raunch)

Driving through Beverly Hills, its iconic palm trees decorated our view.
The playground of the rich and famous, also of the infamous and the money
hoarding, surrounded us. There was a feeling in the air that anything
could happen. There were angels and devils on every street corner. As we
rode along I was instructed to get naked. And to hang the Armani suit
neatly on the hanger Kole produced from somewhere. Following orders, I
was quickly nude and kneeling at their golden god feet.


A text came through telling them of an appointment at the Dior Homme
store on Rodeo Drive to `pick out a few things' courtesy of the record
company. This meant we'd be stopping so the guys could be showered with
gifts. Just a small token of appreciation for being themselves.


"Dior can suck my dick," Phinn said. "I'm fucking hungry. Those
snacks on the plane were shit. Let's get food first." Kole and Timm
decided Dior could suck their dicks as well, so we made a pit stop at a
Mexican restaurant called Guisados for takeout tacos. The guys shared a
joint as we waited for the food to be handed over to the driver and
delivered to us in back.


Soon there was a knock and a hot bag was given to Kole. I tried to stay
out of sight, but there was always a chance the driver might peak in and
see me. Sitting there naked, what would my story be? Luckily this didn't
happen. The driver gone, Kole passed out tacos to Timm and Phinn,
checking to see whose was whose. With a laugh he pulled out several hot
sauce containers.


"I hope we got enough," Timm said sarcastically. They each doused their
tacos liberally with hot sauce.


After a few quiet moments of eating, Kole said, "Nothing! Oh shit."
From the takeout bag he pulled another taco. The foil wrapper was removed
and a corn tortilla with black refried beans was revealed. "Looks
good," Kole said with a devious sparkle in his eye.


"Holy frijoles," Phinn quipped, remembering a previous prank. This
thought made him laugh which caused a wad of chorizo to fly from his
mouth. "I was gonna give you a bite Nothing. So there it is," he said
with another chuckle. I grabbed it from the floor and devoured the
partially chewed morsel. Exceptional flavor.


Then Kole dumped the black bean taco onto the floor of the limo between
us. It stayed closed with the adhesive power of refried beans. As I
leaned down to eat, Kole slipped off his Louboutin sandal and squashed
the taco like a bug. Beans, cheese, and chipotle sauce squirted out from
the side and splattered onto the ball of his foot and toes. He lifted his
foot and it hovered centimeters from my face.


"Clean me up, Nothing," he said through a mouth full of taco. "Looks
like I stepped in shit." The lively tang of his foot odor called out to
me over the other smells. I took his heel in my hand and began licking
him clean.


The food was fine, but his foot tasted better. I sucked off splattered
cheese from his arch and then licked a dribble of sauce from between his
first two toes.  Moving over to the pinky toe, I took it in my mouth and
ran my tongue all the way around. Swallowing the glob of beans that had
been there, I reluctantly let his foot fall from my hands.


"That's a good Nothing," Kole said. Then he wiped his foot on my face
a few times to dry it from my cleaning job.


"Nothing, you wanna taste my taco?" Timm asked.


Phinn laughed and nearly choked.


"I actually meant my real taco," Timm explained and looked at me. He
held out his taco wrapper as I nodded. I crawled over and saw it was only
empty foil. My eyes looked up to Timm's and he opened his mouth,
releasing a deep rattling belch in my face. "Shrimp tacos," he said.
"You like?"


Nostrils wide, I breathed in his spicy air. It did smell tasty.


"Shrimp, onions, bell peppers, and chipotle sour cream," Timm listed.
"And way too much hot sauce I think." He blew the smell of his belch in
my face and waved us both away.


Returning to my position on the floor, I finished eating my own taco that
Kole had smashed with his gorgeous foot. Being so low, my eyes kept
drifting to those powerful feet of his. Well trimmed toe nails,
breathtaking arches. My dick throbbed with lust. All too quickly we were
at the Dior Homme store and I was redressing so I could pass as normal in
the outside world.


It was after six in the evening, so the high-end men's clothier was
closed to the regular folks of the world. Those with power and sway, and
the endless cash reservoirs of a record label, were not considered
regular. The Party Boyz were welcomed by a well dressed staff obviously
eager to see them. No selfies or autographs were allowed though, as
stipulated by the group's management when making the appointment.


Timm, Phinn, and Kole were each handed several pre-prepared bags of gifts
in their personal size. Then they were set free in the store to see if
anything else struck their fancy. The staff was so hyper focused on the
guys I thought I could rob the store blind and they'd never notice.
After an offhand comment from Timm that I was a record label drone, I was
never acknowledged again.


Walking like an invisible man, I followed Phinn to a dressing room deep
in the store. In his arms were a pair of swim shorts and an orange
hoodie.


"Stay there Nothing, I need your opinion," he said, opening a dressing
room door and stepping in. He changed into the hoodie and stepped out
again. "Well?"


"You look incredible," I said. The shirt was the color of a traffic
cone or Halloween pumpkin. He studied himself in the mirror. "You look
so sexy that people would line up for miles just to smell you."


"You're right," he agreed. "I do." Leaving the dressing room door
cracked, he took off the hoodie. His taught body, lean and pale, was the
envy of so many. Rightfully so, I thought as he dropped his pants and
stepped out of them. Phinn had forgone underwear that day, so I was able
to admire the elegant line of his body from head to toe uninterrupted.
Well, not to toe. He kept on a pair of cashmere socks.


He bent down and pulled on the swim shorts. This revealed a flash of his
asshole, so artfully lined with wisps of dark hair. I reflected on my
love for his anus. Everything it produced was gold as far as I was
concerned. Turning this way and that, he judged the clothing.


"I don't know about these cartoony ones," he said. Stopping well above
the knee, the swim shorts had an ocean design with illustrations of
smiling fish and happy sharks. "Should I just go to Wal-mart and buy
some fucking Spongebob trunks? Is this the same thing?"


"What's that label say?" I asked, pointing to a small square on the
leg.


"Dior and Kenny Scharf," Phinn reported. "Who the fuck is that?"


"He was an artist in the eighties, a contemporary of Basquiat and Keith
Haring." I answered this and he looked at them in the mirror again with
renewed interest.


"So they're kind of cool," he said upon reappraisal. "Retro."


"They look amazing on you," I said in a low voice since an employee had
walked by only a moment before. "They show off your legs which are so
hot."


"They aren't too skinny?" Phinn asked, a rare look of vulnerability in
his eyes.


"Oh no way," I corrected. "Lean with that dark hair. God, your thighs
are just incredible. Not that anybody could take their eyes from your
chest, your flat stomach, your biceps. You're remarkably beautiful,
every inch."


He peeked out, ensuring no one was close enough to hear our
conversation.


"Thank you," he said then. "Sometimes I just need to hear someone be
honest about how I look. Makes me less insecure to hear the truth come
out like that. I hear it all the time, Phinn's so hot and I don't
accept it, but coming from you Nothing, I believe it."


"You're welcome."


Then a funny expression came over his face. His dark lovely eyebrows
arched downward and his pillowy lips pressed into a flat line. The sound
of a wet gusty fart cut through the air. It seemed to rattle the dressing
room, but I don't think anyone else heard but us.


"By the way, did you know these swim shorts are twelve hundred dollars?
Twelve fifty in fact." He was taking them off and putting his paparazzi
friendly outfit back on. I figured they were worth more now that he'd
laid a wet fart in them. Between his legs I saw his balls sway
seductively back and forth.


"Man," he said as the shorts fell to his feet, "did I shit just now?"
He pointed down to the pricy shorts that now had a small brown skid mark
inside them. "Do I have a log hanging out?" Phinn asked and swiveled
his butt my way.


My eyes flew to his porcelain cheeks which turned out to be flawless and
clean. He reached back and pulled his butt apart so I could get a look at
his hole. No sign of shit, only a tight pink pucker I loved to get my
tongue deep up inside. Get it really clean, no matter how filthy. Making
my tongue toilet paper for Phinn, Timm, and Kole has been one of the
great honors of my life.


"Looks brand new," I told him. Letting his cheeks go, there was a sweet
bounce to his ass that made my already hard member throb. Phinn put his
tiger top and Valentino trousers back on and we joined the others.


Timm had piled up a significant and still growing mound of clothing.
Kole, already finished shopping, stood vaping near the entrance. I doubt
that was allowed by store policy, but when you're one of the Party Boyz
you can do damn near anything. Phinn added a handful of other pieces and
then gave his final choices to an excited employee so they could be
charged to the record label. Twenty minutes later we were all back in the
limo en route to the Beverly Hills Hotel.


The ride was gassy and informative. Over the phone Kole learned that
their shared bungalow had one master suite which opened up to a private
patio. There were two other rooms that adjoined but were not master
suites. This called for a contest.


We were booked in Bungalow One, what the hotel calls their Marilyn Monroe
bungalow. It was decorated in shades of gold and muted pinks. A large
black and white photo of the tragic film star hung not far from the fire
place in the living room. The guys stood around as their luggage and new
gifts from Dior were brought inside for them.


"Where would you like these?" This was a bellhop named Lyle. He was in
his early twenties, slim, and blessed with amazing hair. It was worn long
but swept back with gel into a finely maintained retro pompadour. In his
gloved hands were a pair of Louis Vuitton suitcases that belonged to
Timm.


"We don't know yet," Kole said, "just drop them there."


Lyle did as directed and received a wad of folded bills as gratuity from
Kole. After a few more trips to the car and back, Lyle had deposited the
rest of their things and wished us all a fantastic stay at the historic
Beverly Hills Hotel.


"I didn't think he'd ever fucking leave!" Timm shouted as he closed
the door behind Lyle. "I seriously feel like I'm about to shit my
pants. And these are fucking expensive pants."


"Let's not talk about things we have or haven't shit in already
today," Phinn said with a wink in my direction. "Nothing, get ready to
be the judge."


"Jesus Christ, I have been farting my ass off since we had those tacos.
It was the hot sauce that did it," Kole said as he pulled his pants down
and bent over the tan sofa in the living room. "Come on fuckers," he
challenged his bandmates, "I'm about to blow and then the master suite
is mine."


"No way," Timm said exuberantly, "My butthole has been talking for the
last half hour." Then he turned and positioned himself in the same way
as Kole. Pants down, naked ass in my face. Phinn rushed to join them and
mimicked their stances. Before me were three perfect asses. Kole's tan
fuzzy peach. Timm's pale shaved globes. Phinn's softer spheres with
their dark wisps of hair. All of them sculpted by the gods.


Each one pulled their ass cheeks apart, allowing for easier viewing
access to their holes. Pink and puckered, each unique as a snowflake and
twice as glorious. My eyes darted from one sphincter to the next. First
one to fart got the master suite. The room was quiet as each of the guys
focused their minds on releasing gas.


Phinn grunted but it was a false alarm. Widening and then shrinking
again, Timm's asshole was clearly busy but no sounds emerged. The
entrance to the dark tunnel of Kole's bowels opened, the surrounding
rosy lips began to tremble. I was sure Kole's hole was about to announce
itself.


Then an earsplitting fart with a deep vibrato burst its way out of
Timm's quivering butthole. It sang its song for ten seconds or so and
then stopped. Another verse was not far behind however, as the stinking
baritone played on.


Phinn joined in with his own bass line. His taco-created sounds were deep
and rhythmic, as though he were playing the didgeridoo.


Kole's ass began playing along at last, his mouth releasing a string of
expletives brought on by his third place showing. The farts Kole released
were so wet and forceful I wasn't shocked when a couple small pieces of
shit flew out. They landed on the carpet by my knees.

"Snack time," Kole blurted as he ran to the bathroom. I knelt and ate
the small globs of shit from the carpet. Amidst the symphony of sulfuric
smells, I dined on the waste of one of People Magazine's sexiest men
alive.


Swallowing, I breathed in heavily wanting to fill my lungs with their ass
gas. Heavenly and dank, my time reveling in their butt cloud was short
lived. The contest over, they took their things to their separate rooms.
My Armani suit was hung and placed in a hall closet. My normal way of
living, naked and on the floor, was to resume here in the bungalow.


(To be continued)