NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR: Of course, if you are underage and shouldn't be reading this, don't. If you are of age and like this stuff, please continue. The following story is fiction, and I do not intend to make any claims about the character or sexuality of Marshall Mathers, in fact the story says he's straight, so there. Got that? It never happened. It's just for entertainment. If you enjoy the story, and especially if you beat off to it, drop me a line. Share a fantasy or tell a story about your favorite sexual encounter. I love to hear just as much as I love to tell. Sometimes you can find me on gay.com in any one of several chat rooms, so look for me there, too. Peace out. E-mail me at TwinkyTodd@hotmail.com.
This story contains non-consensual sex and derogatory language. If that doesn't float your boat, stop reading now.
I was at a convention in New York City, and my company-paid accommodations were at the Marriott Marquis on Times Square. On about my third day there, I was in the elevator. On the second floor up, the door opened and a guy in jeans and a T-shirt stepped in. For a second I didn't recognize him, and then I glanced back and it hit me. It was Eminem. I must have checked him out, because he glared at me. (I know, what you're thinking, but if you ignore all the words he sings, he's a very well-put-together man.)
When I got off to go to my twelfth floor room, I was a little surprised that he got off after me. I was even more surprised when he followed me down the hall. When I stopped at my door, I looked back and he was fumbling with his card key at the door immediately next to mine. As my key finally clicked in the electronic lock and I stepped into my room, I felt a heavy arm on my shoulder pushing me into the room.
Before I could figure out what was happening, Eminem had muscled into my room and had shut the door. He shoved me up against the wall. "Were you checking me out in the elevator?" he demanded.
I couldn't say much of anything. He pushed me again and repeated his question.
"I guess," I finally stammered out.
"Are you a fag?" he shouted at my face, never taking his eyes off of mine.
"Yeah, I guess ... I mean, yeah, I'm gay, sorry if I bothered you..."
"Shut up, fag," he shouted again.
"So you want some of this?" he asked as he grabbed his crotch.
I didn't say anything.
"Answer me, you little shit!"
Dropping my eyes, I whispered, "Yeah. I do."
"Well, fag, you're gonna get it whether you want it or not," he said. "You gonna behave if I let you go?"
I just nodded my head. What choice did I have.
He pulled his arm back from where it had been placed firmly across my chest. He swung me over and tossed me down on the bed. I didn't dare move. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor. I'd spent a lot of time jerking off over his picture in Rolling Stone of him naked with just a strategically placed stick of dynamite. But this was the first time I had seen him in the flesh. He had a gorgeous chest, slightly muscular and with awesome quarter-sized nipples. His stomach was not quite a six pack, although you could see the start of one. With a little more working out, he would have one. His upper body had four tattoos: A bracelet tattoo on his wrist, a stupid design on his stomach around his belly button, and two on his biceps. Both of those were in fancy script, one saying "Eminem" and the other saying "Slim Shady."
He unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them to the floor. He yanked his boxers down and stood before me in all his glory. His thighs were strong and thick, slightly covered with a little bit of hair, enough to make it seem furry. I gasped when he revealed his enormous dick. It was still soft and already sizable, probably a little longer than average, but easily the thickest cock I'd ever seen.
"Yeah," he said with a grin, "I ain't slim when it comes to that."
I just stared for a minute.
"C'mon, queer! Get your mouth working! That's what you fags do isn't it?"
He walked forward and thrust his crotch into my face. I opened my mouth to gasp, and his cockhead slipped in. Before I knew it, most of his now swelling cock was in my mouth, and I had to fight just to keep it from going down my throat. I started to pull off and suck it from the sides and focus on the head. But he had different ideas.
"Quit that shit and just suck my dick, dammit!"
I started to comply, but he impaled his dick deep into my mouth and into my throat before I could get past the head. He started pounding into my mouth, and I had no control over the blow job I had started to give. His heavy balls slapping against my chin as he forced his dick past my gagging, he continuously showered me with a reminder that I was the fag and he wasn't.
After I'd sucked on his dick - or rather acted as a hole for it to pound into - for about five minutes, he pulled out and stood back.
"Fag, your mouth is nice, but I bet your ass is a lot tighter. So get those fucking clothes off and assume the position."
I did as he said, although a little reluctantly. When I fumbled with my jeans, he backhanded me across the face and ordered me to go faster. Amazingly, it actually made me go faster, and I slipped out of my slacks and took my Polo shirt off. I was wearing only a pair of boxers, which I was going to pull off when he violently yanked them down, catching my throbbing dick on the way down.
I was rock-hard, and he slapped it aside, saying, "Fucking shit, you fucking queers are only good for one thing."
He straddled my chest and held his dick to my lips and said, "Here, fag, you might want to juice it up a little more. I ain't gonna waste a rubber on you."
He rubbed his dick across my cheeks, drooling pre-cum on them. Then he brought it back to my mouth and I greedily slurped at it, hoping to get it wet enough to soften the impact when he sank this monster into me. It was nearly wet enough when he raised himself up and said, "OK, queer, how do you want to take it? You want me to fuck you like this or you want me to fuck you like a dog?"
I didn't move in a split second, and he took that to mean - if there'd ever really been a choice - that I wanted him to fuck me while I lay there on my back. (Lucky for me since I did.) He went down beneath me and propped my legs up on his shoulder. He groped around for my hole, and he tried to slip it in once, but his girth caused it to slip aside. Giving the head a firmer lead-in, he thrust himself into me with a large grunt, immediately followed by a sharp cry from me as my ass was invaded. I'd only been fucked once before, and definitely not by a guy as big as him. He twisted my nipples and glared into my eyes as he set up a steady rhythm pumping in and out of my ass. His dick was long enough that it didn't come out.
As I groaned in pleasure he punched me in the chest and told me this wasn't for my pleasure, only his pleasure.
I'll tell you one thing about Marshall Mathers, he's a stud when it comes to stamina. He rode me for a full hour, keeping all of his virility and never blowing his load. About an hour into his fucking me, we were both covered with sweat and my prostate was just about overworked; his dick showed no signs of stopping. He glanced at the clock and slowed up a little bit.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed. "I've got to do this shit on MTV in 15 minutes. I was just getting used to your man-cunt. I guess we'll have to finish this up."
He drove in a lot harder and faster this time, picking up the pace and driving in all the way to the hilt. After only a few minutes of pounding, he cried out, "Who's your fuckmaster, you fag?"
I didn't answer but only grunted.
This time the question was louder.
"You are," I barely whispered.
"C'mon, faggot, you can do better than that. Say my name, you little shit!"
"You are."
"What was that?" He was grunting the words out between thrusts.
"You are," I said a little louder this time.
"Say my name, fag!"
"Eminem," again in a whisper.
He twisted my nipples hard, "Louder, fag!"
I just about shouted it this time.
"And what do I control?"
"My ass," it was an ashamed whisper.
He stopped thrusting for a second and grabbed my chin in his hand. "Faggot, you better start telling me that you like this and that I own your ass and that you're my fag, or you're not going to like what I do."
"OK," I said. "Eminem owns my ass, cause he can fuck it hard and good." It was coming out in stacatto bursts as he reamed my insides and my dick still hadn't been able to release itself. "I'm your fag, Eminem. You're the real slim shady and you can have my ass anytime you want!"
I screamed the last two words as I felt him burst inside of me in a giant heave.
"Good fag," he said as he lay on top of me. His dick popped out and he wiped it off on my shirt, which lay beside me. He started getting dressed. "Now if you tell anyone about this, you'll wish you weren't never born."
He disappeared, and I flipped on the television as I started stroking myself. I knew it wouldn't take long, and I hoped something good would be on. As I flipped past MTV, I heard part of a word and flipped back. Carson Daly was welcoming Eminem live in the studio.
"How are you enjoying New York, man?" Carson asked.
"It's cool," Eminem said. "I was just hanging at the hotel, chilling, you know," he said as he looked at the screen.
As his eyes connected with mine across miles of fiberoptic cable and a couple satellites, I could feel his cum dripping out my ass, and I shot my load thinking of how he'd made me his.