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The dim backstage lights flickered like dying stars as the roar of the crowd faded into a distant hum. Guns N' Roses had just torn through another sold-out show in '88, sweat-soaked and electric, but the real storm was brewing in the cramped dressing room. Axl Rose paced like a caged panther, his red hair matted to his forehead, leather pants clinging to his thighs. Slash lounged against the makeup table, his top hat tilted low, cigarette dangling from his lips, the scent of whiskey and smoke thick in the air.
'You fucked up that solo again, Slash,' Axl snarled, his voice a low growl that cut through the haze. He stopped pacing, eyes narrowing on his guitarist. Slash just smirked, exhaling smoke slowly, but there was a flicker of unease in those dark eyes behind the shades.
'Lighten up, man. Crowd loved it.' Slash's drawl was casual, but Axl wasn't buying it. He stepped closer, grabbing the collar of Slash's unbuttoned shirt, yanking him forward. The cigarette fell to the floor, crushed under Axl's boot.
'Loved it? You think you're irreplaceable? Without me, you're just some junkie strumming in alleys.' Axl's breath was hot against Slash's face, his grip tightening. Slash tried to pull back, but Axl shoved him hard against the mirror, the glass rattling. 'On your knees. Now.'
Slash's heart pounded, a mix of adrenaline and something darker twisting in his gut. He was the wild one, the enigma, but Axl always knew how to strip him bare. Slowly, defiantly, Slash sank to his knees, the cold tile biting into his skin through his jeans. Axl towered over him, unzipping his pants with deliberate slowness, his cock springing free—thick, veined, already half-hard from the rush of power.
'Suck it,' Axl commanded, fisting a hand in Slash's wild black curls, pulling his head forward. 'Show me how grateful you are for this gig, you worthless hack.' Slash's lips parted, hesitation flashing before Axl thrust in, filling his mouth with the salty heat. Slash gagged slightly, hands instinctively gripping Axl's thighs, but Axl didn't relent. He fucked Slash's face with short, brutal pumps, hips snapping forward. 'That's it, take it like the slut you are. Bet you practice this on roadies when I'm not looking.'
Tears pricked at the corners of Slash's eyes, not from pain but the raw humiliation burning through him. His own cock stirred traitorously in his pants, straining against the denim as Axl degraded him. Spit dripped down Slash's chin, mixing with the pre-cum leaking from Axl's tip. Axl laughed, a cruel, throaty sound. 'Look at you, getting hard from this. Pathetic. You're nothing without my dick down your throat.'
Axl pulled out abruptly, strings of saliva connecting them, and slapped his wet cock against Slash's cheek. 'Strip. I want to see how low you'll go.' Slash's hands shook as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the lean, tattooed torso marked by years of excess. His jeans followed, kicked aside, leaving him exposed—cock bobbing heavy and aching, balls tight with need. Axl circled him like a predator, boot nudging Slash's thighs apart.
'Bend over the table. Ass up.' Slash complied, face burning as he draped himself over the makeup counter, the mirror reflecting his flushed, humiliated expression. Axl spat into his palm, roughly smearing it over Slash's hole before pressing two fingers in without warning. Slash gasped, clenching around the intrusion, the burn sharp and invasive.
'Tight little whore,' Axl muttered, scissoring his fingers, stretching him open. 'Bet you've been dreaming of this, haven't you? Me owning your ass while the world thinks you're some guitar god.' He added a third finger, twisting, making Slash whimper and push back despite himself. The humiliation coiled tighter, Slash's pride crumbling under the relentless assault.
Axl withdrew his fingers, lining up his cock instead. He slammed in with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Slash cried out, the fullness overwhelming, pain blooming into twisted pleasure. Axl gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into him with savage rhythm. Each slap of skin echoed in the room, Axl's balls smacking against Slash's.
'Say it,' Axl demanded, leaning over to bite Slash's shoulder. 'Tell me you're my bitch.'
Slash's voice broke, muffled against the table. 'I'm... I'm your bitch, Axl.' The words tasted like ash, but his body betrayed him, cock leaking onto the surface below.
'Louder!' Axl slapped his ass, the sting making Slash jolt.
'I'm your bitch!' Slash shouted, voice raw, the admission shattering something inside him.
Axl's pace quickened, relentless, chasing his release. 'Gonna fill you up, mark you as mine. No one else gets this.' He reached around, fisting Slash's cock, stroking roughly in time with his thrusts. Slash came first, spilling over Axl's hand with a choked sob, body shuddering. Axl followed seconds later, groaning as he pumped hot cum deep inside, claiming every inch.
He pulled out, watching his seed drip from Slash's abused hole. Slash stayed bent over, panting, utterly spent and broken. Axl zipped up, lighting a fresh cigarette. 'Clean yourself up. We've got an afterparty.' He tossed a towel at Slash's back, walking out without a backward glance.
Slash slid to the floor, the weight of humiliation settling like lead. But in the twisted heart of their world, it was just another night—raw, real, and unbreakable.