Disclaimer: I, Cirrus Kain, being the lowly peon that I am do not know Britney Spears, Nsync, or any of the other celebrities that might be mentioned within this document. The story is FICTION, something to make you laugh, cry, and maybe even cum. It was not created to suggest anything about anyone. Sorry guys.
This story focuses on a lesbian relationship between a fictional character and Britney Spears, however, gay male elements and sexual situations, at least one of which featuring a member of NSync, will be present in later chapters. Bear with me people. =)
One Crazy Summer
Chapter 1
It was 3am in the valley. Rain pattered down outside the motel, and I lay inside, listening to it, staring at the dingy off-white ceiling. A single droplet of water hit my forehead, followed by another, and another, but I didn't flinch. I didn't really care. The small trash can by the bed was full of empty bottles. I wasn't drunk, nor had I really been trying to get that way; alcohol had just seemed like the best thing to spend the last of my money on. So there I was, out of cash and out of luck in a strange motel in a strange part of the country with a very strange reason for being there. How the hell did I get there? It was all her fault dammit.
God, it was weird to think that. It was all Britney Spears' fault.
I sat down in front of the tripod, dressed casually in my most comfortable wide-leg eight-pocket jeans and little black babydoll sort of thing, my short hair blonde and spiked down with pink tips framing my face, and immediately began fidgeting with my hands. What would I say? I wanted more than anything for this to be good, good enough to win. I just wanted to win something for once in my life. This was the "Be Britney's Escort" contest, put on by MTV. The deal was, Fan A sends Ms. Spears a thirty-second video tape of themselves, she watches all such tapes, then selects a winner to accompany her to the 2003 Grammy Awards. I didn't really have much hope, as the position of what was basically Britney's date would almost definitely only be open to those of the male persuasion. For whatever reason though, I had decided to give it a shot anyway.
Couldn't hurt, right?
The timer finally went off, the little red light came on, and I was all set.
"Ah, hey Britney, my name's Danielle Holden. Um, well, I'm not really sure why you should pick me over a lot of other people who are probably totally cooler. All I can say is that I love your music and your style, and that it would be an honor to get to know you for an evening Thanks for your time. I really hope I win."
The red light shut off, and I remembered to breathe.
Okay, so it was a really lame video clip of me stammering and looking like the crushsick little dyke that I am, but at the time I had myself convinced that the meek, honest approach was my best bet. Before I could change my mind, I jammed the cassette into an envelope, plastered my postage all over it, addressed it, and actually drove it to the post office to put in the box outside. This was so that I couldn't possibly chicken out later. Like I said, I was pretty sure I wouldn't win, but some little part of my head wouldn't shut up about giving myself just this one chance.
I guess you could call it my intuition.
That night, I lay back on my futon and watched the monitor on the desk across the room; Britney video after Britney video played over and over in an extensive and continuous loop. This was surprisingly pretty typical for me. I loved to watch her while I listened. The added visual stimulation of her writhing to the beats while the music itself ruthlessly assaulted me with pop-happiness created a sort of numb euphoria. Music had been a major factor in determining my moods all my life, and I guess only someone like that can really understand the power of the pop genre. The songs had a total disregard for the cruelty and corruption in the world, focusing instead on personal struggles and joys that seemed so innocent in comparison. And yet they did this with such confidence that it made me wonder if maybe that was what life really was all about, and maybe all this other stuff that seemed so much worse really didn't matter much at all.
Then there was the fact that Britney not only accomplished all of that, but looked so incredibly delicious while doing it. Oh man.
The video for "Baby One More Time" had just started up when my hand started undoing my studded belt almost instinctively. I suppose it was the little Catholic school-girl uniform that did it to me. My eyes locked on her movements, I began slowly caressing my body, touching my breasts and stomach, covered by my shirt, with my fingertips and then moving just as slowly back up again underneath said garment. My small nipples on my small breasts were painfully hard at this point; I could feel them even though the thick material of my sports bra. I rubbed them through the bra at first, wanting to draw it out that night, while I could still have the fantasy of actually being with Britney in person. Before tomorrow crushed my hopes and I wouldn't be able to convince myself that this fantasy wasn't totally pointless.
The fantasy was Britney and myself, and we'd be in the back of a limo, heading towards her hotel. Somehow, it changed from time to time, she would pick up on the fact and that I was gay. Then, very tentatively, she would start asking questions about it, trying not to seem too interested, but obviously so. She played the role of the curious little straight girl for me. God, what a turn-on. The whole thing would just go from there; questions to light touching, brushing, to shy glances to that one awesome kiss that would just blow both of our minds. And after that... well... It, of course, gets down and dirty.
Speaking of down and dirty, that was exactly how I was feeling at the moment, and, seeing no reason why I shouldn't, decided I was going to take care of that, and good. I sat up and peeled off my shirt and undid my bra, tossing them to the floor. Normally I hated my breasts; they were too small and just sort of useless, but because of their size they were sensitive as hell and for that I was thankful as I slowly ran my thumbs across my nipples. With gentle brushings and a tentative pinch they became hard enough to ache, and I could feel that ache all through my body, straight down the center. A tiny moan escaped my lips and then I was silent in concentration.
It wasn't me, not my own wetness I sliding in. It was Britney's. Most people's sexual fantasies probably have to do with others pleasing them, but mine were always about myself pleasing others. Like Britney. I would feel her first, soft and vulnerable as people are during the act. The smoothness of her skin. The softness of her breasts. The silky mat, or the fine short patch, or the complete bareness, depending on my mood, of her sex. She would arch and moan and whisper my name and all of those blazingly erotic thingS that would make me want even more to be perfect for her. And as I lost my mental focus in the coming of my own orgasm, the motions would become fluidly mechanical and repetitive in my mind, each whatever bringing her higher and higher with me, until we both came crashing down, her screaming my name, and I exhaling hers.
Panting, I lay limp on my bed. This was Britney Spears for me. A flawless desire that, in the fiction of my mind, was only just out of reach. Secretly I knew that I would never have her, but the self in my mind had hope. That fantasy Dani that I was would be, not perfect, but for some reason irresistible to Britney. It was a nice dream anyway. The videos still flickered on the screen as I faded into sleep.