The Boy Band
It's only healthy to help your band mates relieve some tension
The Boy Band
The ringing in Riley’s ears wasn’t just the leftover hum of forty thousand fans screaming his name; it was the heavy, persistent vibration of a lifestyle that was slowly grinding him down. He stood in the dim, cinderblock corridor backstage. He was still glistening from the stage lights and the sweat. His hair, a meticulously messy, bleached-blonde cut that was short in the front and left long and jagged in the back, clung to his sun-kissed, freckled neck.
He held the phone tight against his ear, his thick fingers flexing and twitching against his thigh, instinctively seeking the familiar comfort of his guitar strings but finding only empty air.
“I miss you too, sweetheart,” Riley said softly, his natural Alabama twang thick, warm, and laced with a profound exhaustion.
Across the narrow hallway, leaning heavily against a wall, Wyatt watched him with a knowing smirk. Wyatt was the band’s lead singer. He was tall, angular, and his skin was a patchwork of dark ink tattoos that stretched from his collarbone down to his knuckles. He caught Riley’s eye, his left eyebrow with a silver bar piercing rising.
Riley shot him a sharp, warning glare, but the hardness in his eyes didn’t transfer to his voice. He turned his back to Wyatt, stepping three steps away. “Yeah … it’s been way too long, Maddie. I know, baby. I miss you too. The tour’s wrapping up soon, I swear. We’ll make up for every single day of it when I’m back in Birmingham. I promise.”
He ended the call before the tight, aching knot in his chest—and the heavy, frustrated throb lower down in his pants—could betray him. He stared at the darkened screen for a second, feeling the vast, terrifying distance between a crowded arena and a quiet bedroom back at the hotel.
Wyatt let out a low, teasing chuckle, the heels of his heavy boots clicking against the floor as he straightened up. “Sweetheart.” He said sweetheart in a ridiculous, exaggerated caricature of a Southern drawl. “God, Riley, you sound like a cliché country music song. All you’re missing is a porch swing and a golden retriever.”
“Shut up,” Riley muttered. He shoved the phone deep into his front pocket, his ears turning a bright, telltale pink that contrasted sharply with his tan skin. “She’s back home keeping my world together while we’re out here living our dream. I’ve been gone for five months, man. Cut me some slack.”
From inside the open doorway of the dressing room, a third voice drifted out—smooth, theatrical, and dripping with amusement. “Oh yes, Riley the loyal little soldier.”
Zorn was sprawled across an old, cracked leather couch that smelled of stale beer. He was the band’s strongest dancer and resident provocateur, currently wearing skin-tight leather pants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, clinging to the thick, powerful curves of his dancer’s thighs and pronounced ass. His hair was an avant-garde masterpiece—bright neon pink fading into an electric blue at the tips this week—and it seemed to catch every spare watt of light in the room as he tilted his head back against the cushions.
“Are you really going to keep holding out for some high-school sweetheart, Riles?” Zorn asked, his eyes half-lidded and glittering. “We have a literal, never-ending supply of groupies who would give up their firstborn for five minutes alone with you in a broom closet. And you’re on the phone with her.”
Riley stepped into the dressing room, his jaw set, defensive and stubborn to a fault. “It ain’t just some fling, Zorn. We’re solid. She knows everything about me—she knows about the bi stuff, that I’m attracted to guys too, and she didn’t run. She’s still there. I’m not gonna cheat on her just because I’m horny on the road.”
Zorn didn’t look discouraged. Instead, his eyes flicked slowly from Riley over to Wyatt, who had followed Riley into the room. Zorn’s gaze was calculating, weighing the tension that always simmered just beneath the surface between the three of them after a high-energy show.
“Wyatt?” Zorn purred, shifting his hips slightly on the leather couch, the fabric groaning beneath him. “You backing me up here? Tell him how ridiculous he’s being.”
Wyatt shrugged his broad, tattooed shoulders, leaning against the doorframe. He didn’t look at Riley, instead staring down at his own rings. He didn’t disagree out loud, but his silence was heavy with his own unspoken frustrations. Wyatt wasn’t tied down, but he hadn’t been taking advantage of the backstage crowds lately either.
Zorn’s lips curled into a slow, victorious smile. “Fine. Keep your vows, cowboy. But if either of you ever want some help… you know, releasing some of that tension? I volunteer. Both of you. Together, separate, whatever. No strings, no feelings, just pure utility.”
The silence that followed his offer was thick enough to choke on. Riley swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the floor, while Wyatt’s breath quickened almost imperceptibly.
Before the silence could break them, a young production assistant poked her head through the doorway, clipboard clutched to her chest. “Limo’s loaded and waiting at the back exit, guys. We gotta move before the crowd blocks the alley.”
***
The interior of the stretch limousine was a cocoon of black leather, neon fiber-optic lighting, and the scent of chilled alcohol. It was designed to separate the pop stars from the reality of the city outside, but tonight, it felt more like a pressure cooker.
Zorn had made sure to climb in first, sliding deliberately into the middle of the long, wraparound bench seat. When Riley and Wyatt followed, they found themselves flanking him, their thighs pressing tightly against his leather-clad legs due to the narrow configuration of the cabin. The driver immediately rolled up the thick, soundproof privacy partition, plunging the three of them into absolute isolation as the vehicle pulled away from the curb.
Zorn didn’t waste a single second. He leaned back against the cushions, spreading his arms along the top of the seat behind Riley and Wyatt, his fingers casually brushing their shoulders.
“God, I love the energy after playing a city like this,” Zorn murmured, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that vibrated right through the leather. He tilted his head toward Wyatt, then Riley, holding them captive with his words. “Hey, do you guys remember that action movie we all watched in the lounge of the tour bus last year? The one with that massive lead actor we all joked about having a collective crush on?”
Riley shifted uncomfortably, his jeans suddenly feeling far too tight across his lap.
“Well…” Zorn continued, a wicked spark in his eyes. “Two weeks ago, when we had that press stop in LA, I ran into him at an exclusive after-party in the hills. He’s taller in person. Built like a fucking tank, broad shoulders, and he had that exact same cocky, arrogant smile he uses on the movie posters. We ended up in the private VIP bathroom at the back of the house. He locked the door, and he had me up against the cold marble counter in under a minute.”
Zorn paused, letting the imagery settle. He could hear Riley’s breathing change, turning shallower.
“He didn’t waste time talking,” Zorn whispered, his voice a hypnotic purr. “He reached down, pushed my pants straight down to my ankles, and spread my ass cheeks wide. He just looked at me, running his fingers over my skin like I was the main course at a banquet. And then he leaned down and licked me open. He took his time, using his tongue in these slow, heavy circles right against my hole, getting me incredibly sloppy, wet, and wide open while I was biting my own hand to keep from moaning loud enough for the others to hear through the door.”
Wyatt swallowed, his hand gripping his own knee a little tighter.
“When he finally stood back up,” Zorn said, his gaze drifting down to the space between Riley’s legs, “he was already completely rock hard. He’s got the biggest dick I’ve ever seen in person—thick, heavily veined, and curved just slightly upward. He didn’t use lube. He just spit right on the head of it, lined himself up, and sank it all the way in. It was so deep I literally saw stars behind my eyelids. He fucked me right there against the sink, slow at first, stretching me out until I adapted, and then he just started hammering into me. He kept one hand clamped tight over my mouth while he reached around with the other to stroke my cock.”
Riley’s hand twitched against his belt loop. The vivid, filthy description was doing things to his body that his loyalty couldn’t combat.
“Every single time he bottomed out inside me, he would grind his hips and whisper right into my ear about how tight I was, how he’d been thinking about my ass since our debut performance. I came so fucking hard I almost blacked out, painting the entire marble counter. The second I finished, he pulled out, spun me around, and I dropped right to my knees on the floor. I took his entire length down my throat while he gripped my hair, fucking my face until he unloaded a massive load straight down my throat. I swallowed every single drop. We cleaned up, walked out like nothing happened, and the bastard texted me the next morning asking when I wanted round two.”
By the time the story ended, the atmosphere inside the limo was suffocating. Both Riley and Wyatt were visibly, painfully hard, their breaths ragged and uneven as they shifted their weights to disguise the massive bulges straining against their denim.
Zorn smiled, completely aware of the havoc he had just wrecked. He leaned forward, reaching across Riley’s lap to grab the chilled bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. As he did, he deliberately and firmly dragged the back of his hand directly over the thick, rigid length trapped in Riley’s jeans.
Riley sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, his hips bucking up slightly.
“Oops,” Zorn murmured. He turned to grab the crystal flutes from the holder next to Wyatt, and this time, his bare fingers ghosted deliberately over the massive, unmistakable outline of Wyatt’s cock, lingering there for a long, heavy second until Wyatt’s eyes darkened with pure heat.
Then, with a theatrical lack of coordination, Zorn tilted the champagne bottle just a fraction too early. A cold, sparkling wave of alcohol splashed out, soaking directly across the laps of all three men.
“Shit—sorry,” Zorn said, his tone entirely devoid of any actual remorse. He set the bottle down and looked up at them through his colorful fringe. “These are going to stick to us like glue if we don’t get them off. The privacy roof is up anyway. No one can see in.”
It was a completely transparent excuse, a dangerous game they all recognized, but the hunger in the car had surpassed the point of reason. Without a word, Wyatt reached down and unbuckled his belt, his movements fast and aggressive. Riley hesitated for a split second—Maddie’s face flashing in his mind—but the raw, physical ache between his legs overrode his conscience. He unbuttoned his jeans, his hands shaking slightly.
They stripped out of their wet clothes, laughing nervously to cut the thick tension as denim and leather hit the floor. When they straightened up, they were entirely naked, their hard, throbbing cocks glistening with the spilled champagne and sweat from a recent performance. The air in the vehicle felt like a live wire.
Zorn’s gaze dragged slowly, hungrily over both of them. “God … I knew it. I knew you two would look like this. Riley, that thick cock of yours is fucking beautiful. It’s even wider than it looks in your jeans. And Wyatt … Jesus Christ, man, that thing is absolutely ridiculous. It’s a monster-cock.”
Neither Riley nor Wyatt answered. They sat flushed, their skin hot, their cocks throbbing in the dim light of the interior, waiting for the spark to ignite.
Zorn broke the paralysis. He reached over to the armrest and hit the control switch for the sunroof. With a smooth, mechanical whine, the large glass panel slid back, opening the roof of the limousine to the cool, rushing night air of the city.
“Hey,” Zorn suggested, his voice light but commanding. “Stand up. Stick your heads out into the wind. Feel the air on your skin while we drive. It’s the best feeling after a show.”
Riley and Wyatt hesitated, glancing up at the open sky and then out the darkly tinted side windows. The city lights were flashing past, and the thought of standing naked in a moving vehicle felt incredibly exposing.
“Come on,” Zorn coaxed, placing a soft, encouraging hand on Riley’s bare thigh, his thumb brushing close to his groin. “The exterior of the limo is high enough. Nobody on the street can see anything below your chests. You’re completely safe down here.”
The temptation of the adrenaline rush was too much. Riley stood up first, his large frame rising through the open roof, followed immediately by Wyatt. As their torsos cleared the roofline, the cool night wind hit them, whipping through Riley’s messy blonde hair and cooling the sweat on Wyatt’s tattooed chest. They raised their arms, letting out wild, breathless whoops into the night, the sheer intoxicating freedom of the moment hitting them both like a drug.
Below them, remaining safely in the shadows of the leather cabin, Zorn stayed seated. He looked up at the two impressive specimens standing above him, their lower halves perfectly framed by the interior lights.
