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You can’t say for sure, but you’re beginning to think you must’ve been an actual member of the Spanish Inquisition in a previous life. Possibly one of those truly lowlife creatures that volunteered to burn people alive and then stole the victim’s shoes or some shit - y’know, the kind of bad-karma-creating business that guarantees you’ll come back as a toilet brush in your next life. It’s honestly the only possible explanation for how monumentally bizarre and messed-up your current life is. Because your sorry ass works for Slipknot LLC. Now, it’s not all bad - the pay is decent, you have the privilege to travel the world in the plush comfort of the Slipknot jet and you also get to put the experience you gained as the executive assistant to the CEO of Chiquita Brands International - don’t ask - to good use, you really do. Plus, as an additional perk: the Slipknot wives are awesome, every single one of them. You feel like you’ve gained a bunch of big sisters you’ve never had and who’ve taken you under their wings; you can barely tell where the employer-employee limit even begins and ends when you’re around them. There’s always one WAG who will gladly join you for a post-show Daiquiri at the closest gay bar and who’d never post a selfie where even one of y’all has their eyes closed. It’s awesome. Your job is - sometimes - pretty awesome. But what astonishingly sharp discernment the Men of Slipknot have shown in spouse decisions, they absolutely lack in overall life skills and organizational capabilities. They’re hopeless. These men - while perfectly lovely as human beings - simply can’t function unless someone tells them exactly what to do, where to go and what chair to park their asses on. Usually it even requires written instructions (which they don’t read) and endless repetition (because they don’t listen). They lose their stuff all the time - you can’t even count how many missing drum sticks and fucking eye LED inserts you’ve had to locate ten minutes before a show while holding the Frappuccino someone ordered - and sometimes you feel like they’re acting so dumb that they’re literally just messing with you - during their last tour, someone got their head stuck in a hotel staircase railing because ’he thought he saw candy down there’ and you ended up having to make a very confusing phone call to the Brazilian fire department (it was Michael, by the way. It’s always Michael). So yes, you went from highest corporate echelon to essentially babysitting nine grown ass men. That is the reality of your life at the moment and you’ve made peace with it. There are way less soul-crushingly boring Teams meetings and mandatory three-piece suits and ’let’s escalate this to HR, shall we’, but there are also way more bleeding face cuts that are somehow your responsibility now and 10pm grocery store runs to find a specific flavor of Smarties from what you’re assuming is the Estonian version of 7-11 and ’guess the current color of my massive shin bruise - it’s not what you think it is’ (Michael. It’s always Michael). But despite Mike’s goofy, accident-prone self taking up way too much of your time and energy - and Shawn being your actual boss and direct supervisor who you actually report to - it’s someone else altogether that’s grinding your gears until there’s nothing but resentment and exhaustion left. The pebble in your shoe, the thorn in your long-suffering ass, the six-foot-six manchild with a big beard and even bigger list of demands. It’s your infuriating, rage-inducing arch enemy - the man who you hate most on this godforsaken planet:James fucking Root. Your professional relationship with Jim started about eight months ago pretty much on your first day on the new job: Shawn introduced you to him, he asked you where you used to work, then he made some completely inappropriate and nonsensical joke about bananas and then Shawn - fucking Shawn - went ahead and told him the one sentence that basically opened up the door for endless abuse and misuse of authority to enter your life: ”Here’s our new assistant, Jim. You can ask ’em to do anything you’d like”. And by God, did he: right away the guy fucking glued himself onto you like a leech and started demanding all sorts of shit from you. In the beginning it was fine - it was your job, after all - but when the requests went from normal and run-of-the-mill - such as picking up his dry cleaning and bringing him breakfast - to weird and demeaning - such as packing his fucking suitcase for him or washing his used masks after every show - your attitude towards him turned sour. He was incessant, especially on tour: every fucking day he’d order you to run some ridiculous, unnecessary errand for him or clean the keyboard of his laptop or detangle his goddamn hair or other nonsense. You started to hate seeing his name flash on the screen of your phone. You started hating him.  One time you asked Shawn - very cautiously; you were still a new hire and therefore, on probation - if all the stuff that you were being asked to do by an unnamed band member was normal and part of the job. He just chuckled and said, ”Oh, you mean Jim? Yeah, he’s like that. He jokes around, y’know - don’t take it too seriously. Just, like, ignore most of it, alright?” which naturally didn’t help you at all. First of all: yes, ha ha, much funny, very jokey. Workplace harassment is famously hilarious for the victim, y’know. Secondly, what’s ’most of it’, exactly? Were you supposed to disregard every other request? Every third request? And say what - that you’re just not gonna obey the guy? You didn’t go back to Shawn anymore - he was busy with a big new project so he was out of reach most of the time - and you were also too chickenshit to resist Jim yourself - you didn’t wanna lose your job - so you basically just continued to do his bidding and swallow your frustration. (You, of course, didn’t go down easy: you started ’washing’ his masks with a Magic Eraser that scrubbed all the colors off and also began ’forgetting’ things out of his suitcases in hotel rooms - y’know, stuff like literally all of his boxers, his only bottle of contact solution and his phone charger. He quickly stopped asking you to do his packing - until he remembered that he can just order you to go buy new stuff for him in the next city. So now you pack his stuff properly again; it wasn’t worth the trouble it caused you. You have been considering rubbing your ass against his favorite T-shirts, but you haven’t quite gotten there yet. The moment’s getting closer, though.)The band is currently touring Europe which has meant long hours on the tour bus for you and the rest of the crew as you help take the Slipknot circus from one picturesque city to another. This tour has also been quite lonely for you since only one of the wives made it here - and she’s mostly spending time with her husband this time - and there have also been some last-moment personnel changes in the crew which has meant that you find yourself around complete strangers on most days. It’s fine, though - you’ve had ample time to update Shawn’s calendar and schedule interviews for him and even read a chapter from a book every now and then. Oh, and also hide from Jim. ”There you are! Eloy told me you were in the black bus”, you hear the infuriatingly upbeat voice of the tall guitarist as he enters the parked bus - the one that has a sheet of electric blue A4 paper taped to its windshield. You close your eyes and grind your teeth together. Eloy told him that because you fucking begged him to. You drag your attention away from the long email you were trying to write to Kerrang in peace to the overgrown toddler standing in front of you and try your best not to shoot daggers at him. ”I need something from you. Move over”, he adds bluntly and without actually waiting for you to give him space, he makes room for himself right next to you on the U-shaped couch complex in the middle section of the bus. You quickly grab your laptop and frown annoyedly as two hundred and twenty pounds of dude practically sits in your lap. There are literally three huge sides to this couch, two of which are completely unoccupied. He seriously couldn’t choose any other spot? You don’t know why you’re so surprised: he has absolutely no respect for anyone’s personal space, especially yours. You learned it that one time he slapped you on your ass at an afterparty - and got reprimanded by Shawn about it the next day. He’s such a douche. ”What is it?” you sigh and give him a bored look. If he asks you to fluff his down jacket again, you’re gonna murder him with one of his guitar strings. He cracks you a mischevious smile. ”What’s with the frown, pumpkin? We’re in Paris. You can’t be unhappy in Paris”, he grins and you have to forcibly stop yourself from jumping on him and smashing his skull against the table. Paris would have been fun for you - if you hadn’t just spent the entire morning de-linting his fucking sweaters while Brad and Rob and the other techs were taking a walking tour of the Champs-Élysées that was your idea to begin with. Without waiting for a response - again - he continues, ”No but seriously though. This is important. Open your laptop” with a demanding voice and an entitled, dismissive wave towards the general direction of your closed laptop. You roll your eyes at him.”I think I’ll be able to remember the exact brand of cigarettes you want me to get for you”, you state with a chilly voice and leave out the ”stupid fucking giant ass dickhead” you desperately want to add. Jim just smirks. ”Nah. Open your laptop. Now”, he orders you, indicating that his latest lil’ problem doesn’t involve his precious cancer rolls. He even pushes your laptop closer to you with his index finger. God, why the hell does he have to be such a douche? Is it something about you that brings out the shittiness in him? He’s actually really nice to everyone else except for you, y’know. He’s Mr. Pleasant to literally everyone - fans, the crew, roadies, Uber drivers, waiters, flight attendants, Starbucks baristas, even that one snooty concierge at the Four Seasons. And judging by the neverending hordes of willing groupies - both male and female - forming proverbial lines outside his hotel rooms, he can’t be that mean to them either. Fuck. Maybe it is you. You flash him a venomous look - it’s definitely not you, he’s just the antichrist, that’s all - before opening your laptop begrudgingly and clicking to your Jim-specific Trello board. You take a quick look at the tasks you’ve already finished before opening a new one. ”Shave Jim’s forearm hairs for new tattoo. Also ear hairs”. Oh yes, that was a good one: weird, intrusive, completely inappropriate. Classic Jim task, in other words.”So basically I’m gonna need you to adjust my junk during all of our upcoming shows”, you suddenly hear him announce, and your fingers freeze mid-air over the keyboard. You put your hands down and turn to stare at the man sitting half an inch away from you - who is sporting a completely straight face. What… what the hell did he just say? ”Excuse me?” you ask incredulously. You obviously must’ve misunderstood. He shifts in his seat and says, ”You heard me. When we have our next show, I’m gonna need you to stand there on the sideline - stage right, not in the photo pit - and wait for me when I come backstage for guitar swaps. And then you have to, y’know. Adjust my junk for me” and points at his lap. You take a dumb look at his crotch, not quite able to keep up. He adds, ”It’s actually really simple, y’know. Shouldn’t be too hard. The task, I mean. Not my dick” with a dirty grin. You immediately narrow your eyes at him. ”That’s it, then? You’ve finally lost it”, you snap at him mockingly. ”I’m obviously not gonna adjust your fucking dick during a fucking guitar switch - or ever, in any circumstance! Like, are you insane? Just do it yourself!”You can’t believe you actually have to sit here and tell a grown-ass man - a celebrated, beloved artist - to adjust his own shit when it needs adjusting. Your life honestly blows. Should you take a quick look at Monster.com later today? Just a peek, y’know? ”Yeah, I tried that in Zurich. It ended up on the screens and from there, into a bunch of videos that people now tag me in on fucking Instagram”, he explains with a twinge of mortification in his voice that he clearly tried to hide. ”Look, you know I’m a big guy, alright? The anniversary boilersuits are a bitch and half to begin with, and when you add in my mutant build to it? That shit digs into my asscrack like a motherfucker, leading to the need to, y’know, rearrange. I can’t focus on my playing before my lil’ fella is in the right place, y’know?” You listen to him, open-mouthed and incredulous. First of all, you know - the whole goddamn industry knows - that his ’lil’ fella’ is anything but little: it’s enormous. You’ve never seen it yourself - despite his frequent drunken flashing attempts at afterparties - but you’ve spoken to a couple of groupies after their, uh, rendez-vous’ with the bearded mutant, and they’ve all confirmed it’s a legit monster of a cock and actually quite intimidating up close. One guy - a self-professed size queen, according to his own words - even said he had to tap out in the middle of their session. So yeah, you believe Jim and you’re sure the asscrack-related problem he described is very real and urgent, but again: how the fuck is this any of your problem? ”You do realize that no one’s forcing you to adjust in the middle of the stage, right? Why can’t you just wait until the guitar switch and then do it?” you try to petition, desperately hoping to dodge this particularly disgusting assignment. This is so ridiculous. You’re obviously not gonna do this - there’s no way he can force you. He sighs and rolls his eyes impatiently. ”Well, I’m not gonna have time to do it then. Duh. Brad has like eight seconds to grab my guitar and strap a new one on me, and I have another three seconds to get back on stage. The math just doesn’t add up, y’know. Someone has to adjust me, and that’s final”, he states matter-of-factly and crosses his arms across his chest, indicating that the discussion, as far as he’s concerned, is approaching its end. Panic suddenly hits you - he’s serious! - and just as you were about to throw Brad under the bus and suggest he should do it instead, Jim decides to remark, ”Why are you even fighting me on this? I thought you would’ve been used to handling bananas by now” with a big, filthy grin and the kind of eyebrow jiggle that he always does when he believes he’s come up with the joke of the century. You just stare at him - it takes you a moment before you realize that the idiot is referring to your stint at Chiquita. For fuck’s sake. The joke is even worse than the one he told you during your first meeting. And it was bad.  In the lack of a better comeback, you spit at him angrily, ”I didn’t ’handle bananas’ at my corporate job, you imbecile - and I’m sure as fuck not gonna handle yours either!” and then get up - awkwardly, since you have to go around the entire U-shape of the couch - and announce smugly, ”I’m gonna go tell Shawn about this”. You know your threat is childish, but it’s also your last resort: you fear it’s the only way to save yourself from your horrible, package-adjusting fate. Clown won’t let this fly, no way. He’s gonna put a stop to this. Jim has clearly crossed a line here. To your surprise and horror, the towering guitarist gets up as well and closes the distance between you two with one long stride of his infinitely long legs. He gets all up in your face, his chest inches away from yours, and looks down at you with a menacing look in his eyes and his head tilted. He’s not touching you, but he doesn’t need to: in addition to the ever-present imbalance of power between you two, he’s indeed a big motherfuckin’ guy. You know he could crush you like a bug. You gulp at the suddenly frightening turn of events, and listen, petrified in your spot, as he then whispers calmly, confidently, ”Shawn is not available right now, my lil’ onion - you know that. He’s got his hands full with ’Look Outside Your Window’ and the press: do you really think he’s gonna appreciate you bitching to him about a minor concert detail? He’s making decisions later this week about Christmas bonuses, y’know. Don’t think you’re gonna get to the top of the ’Naughty or Nice’ list by not being a team player. But what do I know? I’ve only known the guy for twenty-five years”. He’s so close to you that you can smell the cigarettes and lemon-lime Oshee on his breath and the Tom Ford cologne wafting from his neckline - you know because Mr. OCD insists you wrap his colognes individually inside his sports socks before packing them in his toiletry bag which needs to be packed inside a packing cube which must always be placed at the bottom left corner of his suitcase. Why is this your life? What fucking Nazi shit were you up to in your previous life to deserve this? To your great distress and bitter disappointment, however, you know he’s right: Shawn is not at your disposal right now, he’s neck-deep in extremely important Slipknot business that might even dictate the entire future of the band. Your future in Slipknot Inc. depends on Shawn having his schedule free of interruptions, and it’s your job to accomplish that, not add to his stress. You want to fight Jim - you actually want to knee him in his fucking banana right now - but once again, you accept your humiliating punishment and just take it. He clearly wants you to submit, so you submit. You still continue to have zero clue as to why he’s so hell-bent on picking on you specifically, why he just insists on being such a malevolent jerk and making your life a living nightmare. You don’t have to give him any more of your soul, though, so you force yourself to look up into his eyes - bravely, showing no fear - and then answer him with a steady, unwavering voice, ”Fine. I’ll do it. Just let me know which side you want it on”. It’s a goddamn certainty that someone is getting ass prints on their brand new T-shirts tonight. **********The next show arrives quicker than you would’ve liked, leaving you zero time to actually process your humiliating new job as Jim’s primary package handler. You still can’t believe he’s forcing you to do this. You’ve come up with several new arguments that you could’ve used to try and get out of this mess - including but not limited to: why the fuck won’t he just put on underwear?! A pair of briefs and his problems are gone! - but it’s no use anymore: your torturer has disappeared somewhere inside the venue already and your gross destiny is sealed. You wonder if he told anyone what he’s making you do for him? Asshole probably bragged about it to everyone within earshot. Or if he didn’t, they’ll surely find out with their own eyes during the first guitar swap. Oh dear god, you just realized that you have to do it in front of Brad. The man is a sweetheart and you respect the shit out of him - and now you have to let him watch you debase yourself. You feel like bursting into tears. This settles it: you’ll quit after this tour. You’d much rather go back to corporate hell than deal with sweaty, entitled rockstar wang on a daily basis. And this leg of the tour still has so many stops left! Oh god. You’re gonna die. You’re actually gonna die from this. You’re soon standing in the dim backstage area directly adjacent to Jim’s usual spot on the stage - the area usually occupied only by Brad and his endless rows of guitar cases and trunks - and you’re so anxious you feel like throwing up. The show started a couple of minutes ago and you know the first switch break is approaching fast. When you watched the guys enter the stage earlier, your eyes were glued exclusively to Jim - not because you wanted to, you just couldn’t help yourself. You know he transforms when he’s in his full gear; you’ve heard - and witnessed for yourself - what an absolute beast he becomes when he puts his mask and jumpsuit on. He’s feral, wild, unhinged in the most glorious way possible. It’s actually quite mesmerizing to watch - it’s like someone else altogether takes over him and he’s no longer Jim: he’s Jim Plus Plus. In those moments you kind of understand the sentiment of all those fawning fanboys and girls: he is a stunning specimen. Too bad he’s also a raging, sadistic asshole. But no, him entering his daily stud mode for the show was not why your gaze was locked on him: it was because he somehow has an even tighter hold on you now. He’s fifteen feet away from you, but you feel like his hand is curled around your neck, keeping you pliant and in your place. You don’t know why, but you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him and his deeply irritating ass since your terrifying encounter earlier today. It’s weird. It was the way he commanded you in that moment, the way he dominated you, the way he just… just… tamed you. He finally broke you, he domesticated you. He successfully manipulated you into agreeing to do something so unfathomably wrong and stupid and gross that it’s almost awe-inspiring. You still hate him - obviously - and want nothing to do with him, but you’re deeply ashamed to admit that there’s something extremely confusing and appallingly mortifying rising right next to your feelings of distaste for him. You’re… he… The motherfucker actually managed to turn you on. When you realized what was happening - it was when he winked at you on his way to the stage - your heart dropped to your stomach. This is not what you need right now. Like, the guy is still your nemesis and you’re still gonna quit, but now you also find yourself wondering if his dick is really that big and what it would be like to hate-fuck him in the tour bus toilets. You immediately shake your head with disgust. Jesus. Yeah, you definitely didn’t need this today. You have enough on your plate right now without having strange, dysfunctional and monumentally fucked-up feelings for your bully to deal with. Brad hasn’t said anything yet, but you can feel the confusion exuding from him; he’s clearly wondering why you’re not taking photos in the pit like you usually are. Well. In about thirty seconds he’s gonna find out why. You hear the final notes of ’Eyeless’ - and you know it’s time. You feel a lurch in the pit of your belly when you see Jim turn on his heels on stage and approach you and Brad. He’s already wiggling out of his guitar strap and within a second or two, he reaches you. He glances at you but doesn’t say anything, and Brad gets to work right away: he yanks the Tele - or you’re not entirely sure if it was his Jazzmaster; you’re pretty disoriented right now - away from Jim and hands him his Meteora - that you recognize. You take a deep, shaky breath and brace yourself for your impending humiliating moment. It’s time to adjust this jackass. To your surprise, Jim doesn’t seem to want to add to your humiliation and he says to his equally towering guitar tech, ”Hey, man. I didn’t have enough picks out there. Throw me some, will ya?” and once the lanky blonde turns his back on the two of you, he pulls the guitar away from his crotch and nods demandingly towards it. You look at it with disgust and some distant form of pity. Yeah. He was right. It looks like someone tried folding a sausage in half and stuffing it inside a Subway bag. It needs adjusting. Before Brad turns back around, you bring your trembling hand to Jim’s dick and quickly just push, hoping you managed to slip it back to where it was supposed to be. However, the second your fingers made contact with his clothed junk, your breath hitched in your throat and your eyes blew wide with shock. What the- wh- What the everlasting boa constrictor fire hose baseball bat French baguette monstrosity thing did you just touch?! Jim winks at you again and gives you a lecherous grin under his mask as you stare at him, shocked to your core. He’s huge. Freakishly huge! That thing can’t be real. No way it’s real. ”There. It wasn’t that bad, now was it?” he coos at you innocently before jogging back on stage - he’s already late from the intro to ’Wait and Bleed’. You watch, your jaw hanging open with disbelief, as the boilersuit-clad giant man goes seamlessly back to headbanging and rocking the shit out of the Accord Arena crowd. With a humongous roll of salami happily dangling between his legs. How does he not tilt forward and fall on his face from the weight of it?You’re still recovering from the shock when ’Get this’ draws to an end and it’s time for Jim to take another quick pit stop. He saunters backstage, oozing confidence and clearly aware of the effect your contact with his impressive package had on you, and you try your very best to not blush aggressively when he locks eyes with you. You fail, and he snickers at your reaction while Brad adjusts him - his guitar strap length, not his scary nightmare mammoth cock. ”Aww, look at you. You’re so cute!” he chirps teasingly, your neck and cheeks turning an even more violent shade of red. Oh god, you can’t stop it! Your brain is suddenly full of him and his dick - what it looks like, what it tastes like. If you could even take any of it, or if you’d have to tap out too. You shake your head again. No. No! We do not fantasize about our slimey, skeevy arch enemies in this miserable house of occupational desperation. Bad assistant! Brad arches his eyebrows at the strange interaction between you two but doesn’t say anything. Jim’s guitar is in place, everything is in place - except for his dick. He looks at you expectantly, questioningly, and you can’t help but notice something very peculiar. Seconds pass, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Like, at all. It’s already way past the alleged eleven-second time limit when he steps closer to you and says, ”What’s the matter, pumpkin? Did I scare you after all?” with a cheeky smile on his lips - but still in absolutely no rush to get back out there. You finally find a useful emotion to work with, and you narrow your eyes at him. This asshole lied to you: he never actually had a time constraint for having his fucking dick adjusted. He just wanted you to do it. You match his shitty smile with an even shittier one and quip, ”I’m not scared of anything” with a bright voice and proceed to grab his entire dick with your hand. Well. It doesn’t actually go all the way around it but. Y’know. Jim’s eyes go from bemused to startled as you yank his cock unnecessarily hard - what, he wanted it adjusted and you’re adjusting! - and pull it over to his left side roughly. You finish off by giving it a friendly lil’ pat - that may have accidentally landed in the general region of his balls - and he twitches and winces with pain. You might end up getting fired over this, but seeing the dude’s entire massive six-foot-six body jump like a kitty cat that got spooked by fireworks was absolutely, 100% worth it. Christ, you can’t believe you actually fell for his lies; he must’ve known that you’re always in the photo pit or close to Shawn during the shows, completely oblivious to what the hell he does with Brad during his breaks and for how long. God, you’re stupid. And he’s the fucking devil.  He bounces back fast: the moment his pain subsides, he steps towards you - very close to you - and brings one of his enormous hands to the back of your neck. You gasp in shock as his fingers curl into your hair tightly, and he hisses - less than an inch away from your face, his mask almost touching your nose - ”You little bitch. You’re gonna pay for that”. Something very unfortunate and pitiful jumps with excitement in the bottom of your stomach over the surprisingly rough treatment he’s giving you, and you start blushing again. Brad - oh, poor Brad who’s had to witness all of this - says with a baffled voice behind you, ”Uh. Dude. You gotta get back out there, like right now”, forcing Jim to let go of you. Before he runs out on stage again, he growls in your ear, ”Don’t even think about going anywhere” with a voice so deep, so booming and dominating - and dripping with lust - that all you can do is nod meekly and pretend you’re not violently turned on. This night is not going well for you. ’Eeyore’ is in full swing when you finally muster the courage to look at Brad. You were expecting to see a face full of disgust and hear ”What the hell is wrong with you?” and ”Jesus, how unprofessional can you get?” - even though none of this is your fault! Jim is the one who decided to go all BDSM on you in front of his own tech! - but you’re taken aback when the only thing you spot is a set of crinkled eyes. The man is smiling a mysterious, knowing smile at you and shaking his head, and it’s throwing you the hell off. You frown and say, ”What?” a bit more defensively than you intended. He just chuckles and says, ”Nothing. Just glad the guy finally got out of his own head, that’s all”. You stare at him, once again having no clue what the hell is going on. Wha- head? What fucking head and who got out of it? Before you know it, the song ends and it’s time for the ’Tattered & Torn’ remix - it’s a fairly new addition and everyone except Sid, Mike and Clown leave the stage for it. You only see a flash of red as Jim actually charges at you, throws his guitar at Brad like it’s made of styrofoam, grabs you roughly by your arm and starts stomping deeper backstage, dragging you along with him. You have no idea where he’s headed to and what he’s planning, but you have an educated guess. You pretend to struggle, but it only serves to elicit a displeased grunt from him and a tighter grip around your arm. You snap - with a very unconvincing voice - ”Where are you taking me? Let me go!” but your state of violent arousal has already made your mind hazy and your legs wobbly. If you’ve made a horrible miscalculation and he’s taking you into a broom closet to be yelled at - and not fucked senseless by his anatomy-defying schlong - you’re going to be extremely disappointed. ”Shut up”, he growls and stops; he’s arrived at his destination. You two are standing maybe fifty feet away from the stage in an area littered with empty, massive trunks and crates that Slipknot’s instruments travel in. There’s no one close by, but you can see glimpses of the crowd from a crack in the heavy black velvet drapes separating the general population from the backstage. It’s not a public area, but it kind of is. You’re suddenly being shoved, and your body slams back-first against one of the enormous crates, causing another pang of arousal to hit your nervous system. Jim is towering over you like a genetically engineered wolf in heat, and without bothering to play coy, he wraps his hand around your throat. He gazes deep into your frightened - but insanely, aggressively aroused - eyes and chuckles, ”Well well well. Look who finally woke up” with a flirty - not evil - voice. You scrunch your eyebrows together with confusion and try to - half-assedly - squirm free from his tight grip. ”Wh- what are you talking about?” you stutter, your knees about to buckle and your mind dizzy from how badly you wanna fuck this guy until one of you - preferably you - screams for mercy. Your attacker pushes his thumb into your pulse point - tentatively, just to see when you start crossing over to actual discomfort - and chuckles with a dark voice. ”You seriously haven’t figured it out yet? Shit, and people tell me I’m clueless. I’ve been trying real hard to get your attention, pumpkin. You actually think I can’t pack my own fucking suitcase? I’ve been chasing you - and I don’t chase after anyone, ever”, he explains while the remix plays loudly in the background. He slides his hand from your throat to your face and he caresses your chin and cheek with his thumb as he continues, ”But you, my lil’ cupcake, turned out to be a goddamn handful, and since my usual tactics didn’t yield any results, I finally had to pull out the, eh, big guns” and pushes his body against yours, giving you an anxiety-inducing preview of what you’re about to be faced with soon. Oh god. Oh god. You can feel that his dick has gotten completely hard and it’s pushing into your hip and it’s fucking huge. This might not have been such a good idea after all. But wait. Wait. What exactly is he telling you? ”Yeah, that’s right”, he grins at the confused, helpless look on your face as he grinds - ruts - roughly against you and smoothes his thumb across your lower lip. ”I figured that this is the one thing you can’t miss - or resist. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. Everything usually works out quite well for me once my dick makes an appearance, y’know”, he chuckles smugly and unceremoniously pushes his thumb into your mouth. It stuns you, not least because of how absolutely disgusting and metallic his digit tastes like, but also because, well. That’s it, then. Isn’t it? Something of his has officially entered something of yours. There’s no going back now. This is career-ending shit and you know it: you’re absolutely, undoubtedly going to lose your job at the end of… whatever this is.Your brief moment of lucid thinking, however, vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and you make eye contact with Jim as you close your lips around his thumb and start sucking it. You want this too badly, you want him too badly - and it’s starting to seem like the feeling is mutual. But, like… is he seriously trying to explain to you that all those stupid errands and him being a raging bitch and all the humiliation and misery he put you through was just some sort of a courting dance? That was him ’chasing’ you? He was literally just hitting on you the entire time? That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard in your life. It also doesn’t matter - you’re not above a good ol’ fashioned hatefuck, you never have been. Meaning, you would’ve fucked him today no matter what, and as far as you’re concerned, he really didn’t have to make up some asinine backstory to justify it. Sometimes a horny, mistreated employee bones their hot, abusive superior. It happens, okay? He sighs, ”Fuck yeah. I knew you’d be good at this, baby” as you lick his thumb sluttily, and this time the ’baby’ hits you in a very strange way. He’s called you that before - several times - but it’s always been in a dismissive and belittling context. Or has it? Hm. You try to think back to your most recent assignments with him. He’s had you brush his hair - it was really tangled: it kinda looked like he’d done it on purpose - and shave his forearm - but that was some time ago, and there’s still no tattoo there. Pretty much all of the tasks have also happened inside his hotel rooms - the packing, the mask-washing, the fucking de-linting - and he’s always been there with you, either staring at you in a weird, intrusive way or trying to strike up a conversation with you which you always shut down because he’s such a fucking douche. And what was the thing that Brad said about him being stuck in his own head or something?Hm. The remix is about halfway done already so Jim quickly pulls his thumb out of your mouth and orders you to get down on your knees. You do as he says and watch - your head riddled with very unnerving thoughts - as he unzips the zipper of his boiler suit all the way down and pulls out the most frightening hard dick you’ve ever seen in real life and/or in porn. It’s massive, humongous - and stunning. You gawk at it with equal parts trepidation and admiration: every inch of it is beautiful, pink perfection, from the meticulously shaved base to the thick veins traveling through an otherwise silky smooth shaft. You suddenly wince a little. Yikes, a correction: everything except for his cockhead is perfect - it’s painfully, horribly chafed and bright red. This fucking idiot. There’s not a single rule dictating that he must go commando under his boilersuit night after night, but he still does, clearly chafing the shit out of his own goddamn dick. You gaze up at him and he looks back at you, still confident and in control as ever but now with a teeny tiny morsel of something else too. He’s nervous. He’s got you exactly where he wants you, but he’s not sure if you’ll want to proceed. If you’re too intimidated by his enormous, record-breaking monster cock. If you even like him enough to do this. Y’know, everything that he’s done so far is incredibly dumb, but. Y’know. He’s kind of a dumb guy. And right now you crave the shit out his dumb ass. You curl your fingers around his shaft - he’s so huge that your fingertips don’t even come close to meeting your thumb - and bring your tongue to the tip of his dick; you can kiss it all better for him - you actually want to. He gasps with a mixture of pain and pleasure as you lick the chafed parts tenderly at first, then a bit more hungrily. You spit on his shaft several times - you won’t have any chance of fitting even a third of his dick in your mouth but you can at least give him a nice, wet handjob - and then devour as much of his cockhead as you possibly can without dislocating your jaw. He tastes so sweaty and so salty, but for a mid-show commando wang it’s honestly not that bad. You feel an encouraging hand smooth down the back of your head and then hear a breathy stream of praise, ”Oh my fucking god. You’re so fucking hot, this is so fucking hot. The crowd is right there, fuck. I can’t believe this is actually happening, baby”. Indeed: the crate hides your kneeling form from any prying eyes, but his blowjob-receiving mutant ass is in plain view for any hawkeyed audience member. Shit. He’s right. This is so fucking hot and wrong and amazing and you also can’t believe this is really happening. Probably for quite different reasons than he does, but still. As much as you’d like to suck Jim’s gorgeous cock for the next hour and a half - y’know, until you have an incurable lockjaw and he’s sobbing with the need to come - you know that he has to be back on stage in exactly one minute and ten seconds. You start sucking him harder and jerking his shaft more vigorously, and you can feel his entire body start to tremble. You grab his thigh encouragingly and moan around his cock - which he might have not heard over the loud music - and look up at him, your eyes already welling up with tears over the intensity - and fucking difficulty level! - of this strenuous, illicit, filthy backstage blowjob. He tangles his fingers back into your hair - tenderly this time, almost lovingly - and pants, ”Fuck. Shit. Shit. I-I’m gonna- oh-oh my god” with a choked-up, shaky voice. He’s close. You decide that you can’t go back in public with a faceful of jizz so you’ll swallow - you’ll take everything he’ll give you. Like a good lil’ assistant. The grip in your hair tightens to an almost-painful level and the huge cock sliding in and out of your mouth becomes even harder - making it almost too big to even fit in anymore - as Jim finally starts to come. Good boy, you think to yourself. And with twenty-five seconds to spare! ”Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!” he grits between his teeth as he blows his load down your throat. You try not to gag at the, ahem, volume of cum shooting into and filling your entire mouth as you milk his pulsating shaft until completion. Time is running out so all Jim can do in his post-nut haze is stuff his wet, semi-hard cock back into his boilersuit, yank the zipper up and quickly pull you up on your feet. You’re still wildly, almost painfully turned on and delirious so your legs fail you as you try to stand up, making you fall and collapse right into his arms. ”Shit”, he curses as he tries to help you remain upright against the crate. He coddles your face in a heartbreakingly gentle way with both his huge hands and seeks out your tear-soaked, dilated eyes. ”Baby, I’m sorry - fuck, I’m so sorry - but I gotta go right now. Wait for me after the show, okay? Do you understand me? Wait for me. I have a bunch of stuff I need you to do after it, and none of them include that fucking Trello board of yours - if you catch my drift”, he grins dirtily at you and plants a kiss on your forehead before sprinting back towards the actual backstage area where you came from. With slightly wobbly legs as well, you can’t help but notice. It’s nothing short of a miracle when you finally manage to get yourself a little cleaned up and your legs to start working again, and you hear the show has already progressed to ’Liberate’. You limp back over to Brad and Jim’s guitar trunks, and instead of hiding behind one of them with embarrassment for the rest of the show like you initially planned, you step forward bravely and walk right over to the tall guitar tech. He glances at you and immediately gives you another knowing grin. You bite your lip, blink furiously and blush. Oh god. He needs to shut up.  He doesn’t. ”Hey. Dude’s been looking for you”, he suddenly says and nods towards the stage. You turn to look at what he’s pointing to, befuddled. You spot Jim playing in his usual spot, but indeed: it looks like he’d been anxiously waiting to see you again in the sidelines because right away you see his face light up - it’s visible even with the mask and the dim lighting of the stage - and he promptly begins performing his own lil’ show. First he sticks out his tongue for you and makes this unbelievably crude, explicit licking motion with it, and then he follows it up by pushing his own middle finger inside his mouth. It’s been a good while - years - since he’s pulled that move on stage, and your blush deepens when it hits you: he’s doing that for you. It’s literally directed at you.  Clearly enjoying himself and the situation immensely - and not missing a single note, of course - he finally curls all his fingers and thumb into an O-shape and starts miming a blowjob at you. In the middle of a goddamn set! You hear the first couple of rows start cheering and whooping manically as they spot what the guy is doing, and almost all of them frantically reach for their phones. You can’t stop a big, huge, giddy smile from spreading on your face, and you respond by giving him the finger. He returns the gesture and flashes you an equally excited grin of his own before turning his attention to the chorus of ’Liberate’. A sudden chill goes down your spine as you watch this beast of a man tear into the remainder of the song, making your entire body shiver.’Cause once the show is over? You’re pretty sure your unsuspecting ass will be the next thing he’s gonna tear into, and you’re not sure it’s a ride you’ll be able to survive.