Brendon squeezes you so tightly in his hand that for a moment you're sure he means to crush you. But instead he takes your tiny, helpless body and shoves it underneath his moist armpit.
Your face is pushed into the tuft of damp brown hair. As he closes his arm your nose rubs deeper, against the clammy patch of skin beneath the hair, and you taste the boy's slimey sweat, hot on your tongue.
Brendon gets up with your scared little legs dangling out of his pit. As he rises angrily, put in a bad mood by your mistake, slaves squeal as they fall from all places of his body, but their giant master couldn't care less.
Brendon is sick of being groomed, so he pulls on an open-buttoned black shirt and heads for the kitchen for a drink, stepping on his toenail-filing slave on the way and barely noticing the sound of the slave's right leg crunching beneath his heel.
Brendon stands in front of the refridgerator while your little legs kick madly underneath his shirt. A small, sadistic smile plays on the heart-throbs lips as he realises that he could be standing in front of a huge crowd of fans right now and, because of his shirt's looseness, no-one would even know that he was torturing a stupid little slave boy with his sweaty arm pit.
At that moment, Brendon hears his door bell ring. He strides out of the kitchen and towards the door. Two slaves who were comforting the injured pedicurist dive out of the way as Brendon's careless bare feet come stomping past again, this time flattening their unfortunate friend under one pampered sole.
Brendon swings the front door open to find his buddy and fellow emo-rocker:
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