Cry Me A River
by Francis

Britney was the kind of girl who did everything out of impulse, he learned this the easy way when she decided that they should fuck in the girl's powder room of a trendy L.A. nightspot, a few nights after their first tour together.

Justin held her against the wall as he drove himself in and out of the wet confines of her, she moaned into his ear, in a voice so low that it made him shiver. Those large Bambi-like eyes spoke to him the lust this girl had and the danger. He continued, in and out, and in and out, until he came in her and she smiled.

The refrain or title of that song that launched her to pop stardom was playing over and over in his head. I'm not that innocent. And she wasn't at all. She knew how to do things, he only heard of and read about. This was a girl who got whatever she wanted, he thought, now she has me. Justin cleaned up as Britney caressed her face, "Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

"Yes," he said without much thought. Those eyes held him by the balls, he could do nothing against them. So they traveled the world like the Prince and Princess of Pop. But the truth was it was more like Mistress and Slave, especially behind the bedroom door.

She found her calling in the paddle and the whip and he found his in servitude. So she would taunt him and his erect manhood and touch him and kiss him and she ordered him to eat her and drink from her and she would promise release. Her impulsiveness made her the cruelest master, she once asked him to fuck a willing fan in front of her and he followed because he wanted to make her happy, that was all he wanted really.

He could stand everything else, but then she found her knew game and she would tie him up and fuck someone for him to watch. Her cruelty made him love her more. He cried rivers for her and that made her happy which was what he really wanted.

But there comes a time when the slave becomes a master, and when it came for him, he took his band mate Lance and showed him servitude like she should him. And then he found that he was happy and he understood her finally. She did not love her. She only used her.

All those times when she asked him to fuck some eager fan, she didn't cry like he did when she did it. She never did. All it was to her was a game and if she finds a new one then what would become of him? The Mistress' old play thing.

So he tied her up and paddled her and she cried a river for him, but not the way he did. Her pain was physical, the sting of the paddle against her ass. He never felt her total surrender to him. He took her, bent over a table and used her one last time, then he unbound her and walked away.


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