Obedience 24
Author: timrod
Rating: NC17 overall
Pairing: Billie Joe/Mmmmike
Disclaimer: I don't own Green Day, but I do have access to a secure dungeon
Part twenty-four of fuck knows. Happy birthday, Billie
Goes hand in handcuffs with
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I spent most of breakfast trying to convince Mom that I wasn’t sick, because I couldn’t stop yawning despite that early night, and she’d also noticed the way I couldn’t seem to get comfortable on the hard chair in the catering trailer. Mike is one sadistic bastard, but fuck, every time my butt hurt, I thought of the way I’d felt after he’d bitten me, and what he was going to do to my ass after the show, especially.with a three day break ahead of us. The possibilities were endless - and arousing. She eventually left me alone, her attention taken by the kids, who were more interested in the snow outside than the oatmeal in their bowls. I say snow - it was too warm for it to settle here in the heart of the city, but the falling flakes had them scampering for the door as soon as we gave in and let them loose. We had a late soundcheck, there was no sign of Frankie as he and Sara made the most of their last full day together, and so we decided to find a play park a little way out of the city, where there would be a decent covering of snow. We went back to our bus for warm coats - by way of the car trunk - whilst Mom added layers to the children’s clothing, then we headed out towards higher, whiter ground.
Touring is hard, and honest, I’m not bitching about being, for want of a better word, ‘celebrities’. Sure, we have the thrill of sharing our music with our fans, and we can get good tables at fancy restaurants without much trouble, but the actual day to day routine of life on the road can be unglamorous and exhausting. We use the buses to keep costs down as much as anything, and yeah, they’re comfortable, but we’re in each other’s faces 24/7 - there’s no place to get away. We love each other unconditionally, but nearly every tour there is some kind of short-lived friction between us, when we are just too tired or sore and our patience runs thin. Having the kids with us, we made new rules - fewer public appearances, and more days off between shows to allow us to recover, take time away to be a family, and it was working. Even this first 24 hours with them had put new life into us, put a whole new slant on constantly moving from place to place. True, I would have loved to have gone back to bed after breakfast, but watching them build their first snow-bear (Glory’s idea) and make snow angels was the best diversion from self-absorption that we could ask for. We bought what appeared to be the last two sleds in Denver and dragged them up gentle slopes that soon felt like cliff faces, and bumpy enough to play havoc with my poor ass. I’m sure the bruise doubled in size, and Mike took every chance he had to slap me and remind me of my promise to get it out on stage. Evil bastard. Late in the afternoon, we found a pizza restaurant where we stuffed ourselves full of caffeine and carbs in preparation for the show ahead, making it back to the venue well before our soundcheck deadline. Mom wrestled the children into their beds for a nap, because tonight, as an extra-special treat, they were going to be allowed to stay up late to see a little bit of their daddies’ performance.
It took a lot of planning. We had to find songs without parental advisory lyrics for a start, and with us, that isn’t easy. After singing the songs so many times, I don’t hear the cursing any more - they’re just words - but Mom was there, too, and she never liked me swearing, either. Fuck, the number of times I’ve had to apologise for saying fuck ….. The children were going to be side - stage up until the sixth track, when we hit a natural break to change instruments, so we had to plan about 30 minutes of material that would be appropriate.
Frankie appeared at soundcheck looking like a fucking zombie, but he rallied as we ran through the part of the show that could be played at a Sunday school picnic without any of us slipping up once. It wasn’t just the songs that were going to be hard to keep clean - I was going to have to watch my potty-mouth in the links between, too, but Mike threatened to punish that bruise any time I swore. To be honest, that wasn’t much of a threat. The spreading ache in my ass had a habit of causing some other spreading to take place, if you get my drift, and of course, Mike was perfectly aware of that. Great. I was going to have to keep a close rein on my language AND my libido tonight, something that Frankie also found highly amusing. He disappeared for some more quality time with Sara, and we headed for Mom’s bus.
Even after all these years, I still can’t really believe that all of those people pay to come and see us. The lines were growing from early in the morning, despite the sleety snow, and through the heavy-tinted windows, we watched them file in when the doors finally opened. We had two supports, and we woke the kids around the time that the first band went on stage, giving us time for cuddles before they ate, and we had to go to make ourselves beautiful for our fans. Sara had volunteered to help Mom out, so we didn’t feel too guilty about leaving her with two very hyper little people.
Our show preparations happened in the venue, where there was more space and hotter water. I went in the shower first, afterwards sitting on the lid of the toilet watching Mike whilst I towel-dried my hair. Actually, there was very little hair-drying going on. I couldn’t bear blocking the sight of Mike soaping himself up, letting the water cascade down his muscles and drip off his extremities. He caught me watching him, smiled slyly and turned, giving me a view of his shiny, wet ass instead. I wasn’t complaining. When he turned off the shower and scoured his skin with a towel, he chose the spot directly in front of me to bend over to dry his legs. I draped my towel over my head and attacked my hair to get any inappropriate thoughts out of my brain, but, yeah, by the time I was ready for underwear, I had a semi. I had to ignore it. Our time on stage was looming ever closer, and we still needed the attention of the hair and make-up team, where I had to endure ten minutes of styling, being daubed with guy-liner and trying to avoid the reflection of Mike’s smug grin in the mirror. Eventually, we were set free and he grabbed my hand as we walked to the backstage room where Frankie and the other guys were waiting.
“Still hard?”
“No, thank you so much for asking.”
He let out a filthy, loud chuckle, and I melted at the concertina-creases around his sparkling eyes. It’s real tough to be sniffy with him for more than a few seconds. “Pity. It’s fucking cute when you run around the stage on tiptoe trying to pretend you don’t have a boner.”
“Mike, kids ….. we gotta tone it down tonight.”
“Yeah, for what, five, six songs? Reckon you can last thirty minutes without your cock popping up?”
“Shhhh!” Several crew had heard that comment. Thanks, Michael. He giggled again, but silenced any further protest from me with a full-on, tonsil-licker of a kiss. Welcome back, semi. He spoke against my neck, this time quiet enough for only me to hear.
“After the kids go to bed, I want you to be totally fucking outrageous. You promised to get your butt out, remember, but I want more.”
“Yeah, I remember, but Mike …..”
He stroked my hair from my face, ruining the hard work the stylist had just put into it. “I love you, Billie Joe. I love you so fucking much, and tonight, I want every fucking soul in this venue wishing they could be me when I carry you off stage, okay?”
“Okay.” The lump in my throat was rivalling the one I’d just willed away from my pants. I’m surprised I could squeeze out those two syllables without getting that old, familiar feeling in my balls. I sealed my promise with a touch of my lips to his cheek, and hand in hand once more, we joined our friends in the green room.
We still had fifteen, twenty minutes to kill, and I knew how I wanted to fill them. Nobody - not even me - had heard the complete new song yet, and I grabbed the scratched acoustic from its stand, and called the guys over.
“Wanna try something out. Mike …” He found his practice bass, put his foot on the rung of my stool and waited for the intro.
He was incredible. The words I’d written were basically a love song, and for it to work, I’d slowed the music right down. I added a repeated chorus, and he followed me seamlessly, and when I finished singing, he tailed the whole thing off with a few deep, gradually fading notes that were absolutely what it needed. I saw the same smile on each of the faces of the others in the room, and when Jeff started to clap, they all joined in, and I decided to come clean.
“Mike wrote that.”
“I wrote the bass-line, Billie.”
“…. and I fitted my melody around what you wrote, used you as inspiration for the words. It’s your song, Mikey.”
“It’s fucking beautiful, Bill, that’s what it is. Are you gonna play that tonight?”
“I wasn’t, no, only finished it today - just now, to be honest …. It’s still kinda rough, Frankie.”
Mike stowed his bass and put my guitar back in its stand, kissed my cheek and growled, “Play it tonight. For me.”
Yeah, like I was going to argue with that. I kissed him back, nodding. It wasn’t such a bad idea. We’ve done sillier things during our shows. “Okay. First song, second encore. We’ll switch out something, but I want you there with me. Acoustic bass, yeah?”
Any negative response was drowned out by the small horde of people in the room, and from that moment, I knew the show was going to be epic.
They say you should never perform with children or animals. I now know why. Our two watched the show from the wings, but when their late night was almost over, we beckoned them, Mom and Sara onto the stage. Glory was a complete scene-stealer, a mini-rocker dressed in jeans, Cons and a support band’s shirt, and with rainbow colours in her blonde, cascading curls, partly hidden by the enormous pink ear defenders she was wearing. She danced and played a simple tune on the keyboard, guided by the ever-patient Mr Freese, while Ollie, ears covered with blue, had the whole crowd in fits of laughter when Uncle Frankie sat him behind the drum kit and got a whack around the face with a stick for his reward. They took bows like professionals, and with Mike’s arm around my waist, their two proud daddies blew kisses and waved until they were back in the relative privacy backstage. It was pretty fucking emotional, and I was close to tears, soft shit that I am, but Mike put a stop to that by slowly slipping his hand into my pants and poking the hickey - a less than subtle reminder of my promise. Promises …..
Let Operation Harlot commence.
We settled back into our setlist, and I stayed close to my man for much of the rest of the show, especially when I handed guitar duties to Jason to leave me free to gyrate and pose like I was in a burlesque show, making eye contact with my husband as much as possible. I crawled through his long, easily-spread legs twice, the second time staying on all fours until I had to make a dash for my centre spot, on tiptoes, because he’d sparked another semi by pressing his toe into my butt-bruise. I didn’t leave the other guys out, either. Jason’s sax is easy to turn into something suggestive, and I dry-humped him. and the stage with equal enthusiasm, French-kissed Frankie, and flirted with Jeff and Jason as often as I could without turning the evening into a complete porn shoot. And when the time came for me to moon, as planned, in the last song before the second encore, I did it in front of Mike, waiting for the firework-display of camera flashes to capture his bite in all its purple splendour before tugging my jeans back into place and snatching a guitar to hide the unmissable distortion of my zipper.
I had a couple of minutes to run to the bathroom for a complicated, near-vertical piss and rearrangement of my genitalia, returning to find the flashlights already guiding Mike and me back up the six stairs to the stage, where eighteen thousand people were screaming for us. This was it - a performance of a song that we had only played once, whose words were still unfamiliar, and as a duet, so any mistakes would be just as fucking obvious as the erection that was there for all to see when I perched on a stool. No pressure ….. apart from on the seams of my pants. We waited for the longer than usual cheering to die down, and, carefully, I played the intro.
If I’d thought he was incredible before the show, time had only improved the way Mike handled the song. He added harmonies, using both his voice and his instrument, and when he wasn’t singing, he watched my lips, or my fingers, almost without a single blink, and smiling. He pulled me to him to kiss my hair as the last note faded and shouts of approval filled our ears, and instead of leaving me alone for Good Riddance, he laid his guitar down, and stood at my side. Truly, I wouldn’t have wanted him anywhere else. I don’t think he has ever looked more confident on a stage, or more beautiful, and I wanted him to share the love that the crowd were showering on us.
I really can’t remember much more about the last moments of the show. I’d switched into auto-pilot mode, so many emotions surging through me, and all I have is the vaguest recollection of the fans chanting along with me, their final cheers muffled by Mike’s chest as he scooped me into his arms and carried me to our dressing room, his boots echoing in the concrete-floored corridors, shadowy forms moving out of his way as he ran. But once we were alone together, the memories are as clear as if they were on film. To the end of my days, I will remember the way he let me drop from his arms to my feet, how he propped me up, hands spread and cheek pressed against the wall, to peel my soaked, second-skin clothes from my body, how he freed himself from his pants, lubed and inside me in what felt like seconds, both of us panting wildly before we even started. He took me like we were pitted against the clock, slamming my hips and cock into the cold plaster, forceful enough to give me at least another pair of bruises, while he mauled the first with firm fingers. It was manic and messy, but as hot as hell, and when he was done, he turned me to watch as I jerked off into my cupped hand, then stooped for a kiss as tender as the fuck had been rough. The dull, spreading ache in my butt competed with the points of sharper, more recent pain, accentuated by the fact that he was holding me so fucking tight, and the creeping heaviness that always happens after a show as physical as tonight’s was getting hard to ignore, but I was so fucking happy, and judging by the stupid, apologetic smile on Mike’s face, I wasn’t the only one.
“You okay?”
“I will be. Jeez, Mike ….” I kissed his neck, where his wet hair clung to it, and gulped down the bottle of water he opened for me, because I was still holding a handful of jizz. “That was fucking incredible.”
“The show or the fuck?” God, that sexy little giggle in his voice gets to me every time.
“Both. You’re amazing. Fuck, I’m done. What now?” Finally, I could reach a towel and clean up the mess on my fingers, and from my butt. Well, most of it, anyway.
“We were supposed to show our faces at the after-party…..”
“Corporate or fans?”
“Corporate. Sponsors, label.”
“And Frankie?”
“He’s driving Sara to the airport after breakfast. He was going to get an early night. Perhaps we should, too.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I yawned into his shoulder, pretty convinced I could fall asleep standing up. “Can we call in on the kids first?”
“Absolutely.”
We adjusted our clothes to face the world, pulling soaked fabric over our sweat-drenched bodies, seeing no point in changing here, only to get undressed again within a few minutes. Mike swung his holdall, which, ironically, only held our phones, keys and the lube, over his shoulder and we walked the few dozen steps to Mom’s bus, the wind chilling us until we reached its shelter. All was in darkness, and so we moved on to our bus, Mike striding, me scampering to keep up, where we had a short refresh in the shower before climbing what felt like two hundred stairs to our bed.
We didn’t even make love again that night, despite the assortment of Adam’s products that were left littering the floor when Mike had emptied the holdall. Exhausted and exhilarated, we snuggled under a double-layered comforter to sleep and dream in each other’s arms.