"Oh, god!" Mitch blushed and tried to wipe what was left of his drink off the person he’d just run into. He was so stupid! The floor tilted under his feet. He was so drunk. "I can not believe I just did that."

The man in front of him looked up from his white shirt, now splattered liberally in strawberry daiquiri, and raised a dark eyebrow. "You don’t look so good."

Mitch lifted his pale, hazel eyes to meet the gaze and for a moment he saw double, "I don’t feel soooo... oh, bloody hell." His vision sharpened on the tan face in front of him and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor, "You’re Richard Carter!"

Richard smiled slyly, putting a hand on Mitch’s shoulder and Mitch nearly toppled over as his knees went weak. Richard Carter, the famous action star, was in a gay bar and he was smiling at Mitch. Could any kid get that lucky? Richard leaned down, practically putting his forehead against Mitch’s, "Shh, I’m laying low."

Mitch nodded dumbly. Up close, Richard was so... tall, and handsome. He’d always played the rouge sort of hero on the screen, all scruffy with dirt marring his chiseled features. In person he was... well, he was gorgeous. At over six feet tall, he towered over Mitch’s five-foot-five. His black hair was slicked back and his shirt fell open to just bellow his chest, revealing a sinful amount smooth, tan skin. Not to mention those tight, leather pants. It should be illegal to wear something like that in public.

Checking himself for drool, Mitch smiled up at the actor, hoping that he wasn’t making too large a fool of himself. "I really am sorry."

Richard chuckled with a deep reverberating tone. "Not to worry, I’ve got five more shirts just like this. You, however, are very drunk."

Mitch couldn’t help that his smile went from winning to sloppy. He was indeed very drunk and as he’d never been so before, he wasn’t sure how to handle it. "I am."

"Tell you what," Richard’s eyes raked over him. Mitch was suddenly very self-conscious of the outfit he’d chosen to wear that evening; black bondage pants that clung to his hips and hung loosely around his legs, pooling slightly at his feet, combat boots, and a purple fishnet top that showed off his underdeveloped, hairless chest and pink nipples. He must look like such a child. "Why don’t you put down that empty glass and we go dance for a while, then you let me buy you another drink."

Without waiting for an answer, the taller man took the drink from Mitch, setting it on an empty table, then took him by the hand and led him onto the dance floor. Mitch had never gone onto the floor to dance before. Every time he’d snuck out and gone to the club so far, he’d just spent a few hours stared at the other boys, nursing his hard-on in a dark corner and hoping that he looked as inconspicuous as he thought he did. Richard, however, did not have any insecurities about dancing, he grabbed the straps on Mitch’s pants and yanked the sandy haired kid against him hard, before grinding, staring down at his dance partner with intensity.

The muscles of Richard’s thigh pressed against Mitch’s erection and he nearly came in his pants. Richard Carter was gyrated against him, his erection tenting his pants and digging into Mitch’s abdomen - it was like some kind of crazy dream. A really nice dream that was threatening to turn wet if he didn’t move away soon. Mitch tried to keep up to the music with his hips, imitating Richard as best he could. The only other times he had danced had been with his friends and it had never been anything like this. Dancing with his friends was for fun, for laughs, this was to get off.

He felt the familiar stir in his balls and tried to back up, but Richard let go of the straps and grabbed onto Mitch’s hips instead, holding the two of them tightly together. Something pressed against Mitch from behind and it took him a moment to realize it was another man. Richard smiled at whoever it was and winked at him before looking back down at Mitch, never missing a beat. The man behind him pressed closer and Mitch could feel the outline of a cock rubbing against his backside.

And he came. No pretense, no chance to moan, or even think about it. He just came in his pants on a dance floor with Richard Carter pressed against his front and some anonymous man behind him. For a moment it was all he could do to stand and if Richard’s hands hadn’t still been holding onto him, he might have actually fallen.

Looking up with guilty eyes, he saw Richard smiling down at him in apparent amusement. "Well, I guess we’ll just move onto the drink then, shall we?"

Mitch was in the process of nodding when a hand shot forward from behind him and grabbed Richard’s lapel, stopping him as he turned to lead the way back to a group of tables off the side of the dance floor.

Looking back, Mitch nearly fell over himself. The man behind him was a tall, lanky fellow with blonde hair and eyes as bright a green as Richard’s were blue. He recognized him from the tabloids, even if he didn’t know his name. Wasn’t it Peter something?

Richard sneered comically, "What, Paul, it’s just drinks?"

Paul looked down at Mitch, unlike Richard he didn’t look like he was joking. Instead, he was studying Mitch’s face. Finally, he looked back at Richard, his fist still gripping the actor’s shirt. "He’s too young."

Richard stuck out his tongue and grabbed Mitch, turning him so that the smaller boy’s back was pressed against his chest. Mitch felt hot breath on his ear and his cock, which was still nestled in the wet patch of cum in his boxers, started to stir again. "He’s not too young, he is drinking after all. How old are you?"

Mitch looked up and back with wide eyes. How old was he supposed to be again? Oh, right. "Nineteen."

Paul scoffed, "Oh, bugger that, Richard, there is no way he’s nineteen."

"Am to!" Mitch pulled away from Richard long enough to get his wallet out and flash his ID at the men. Well, it wasn’t his ID, it was his brother’s, but they looked almost identical, even with the four year age difference.

Richard growled appreciatively in his ear and Mitch’s heart skipped a beat. "See, told you, not too young by far. Come on, then."

A hand sought his out again and he allowed himself to be led, Paul following behind them, to a table pushed in the corner where three other men sat. Richard sat in the corner, and pulled Mitch onto the chair next to him. "So, cutie, what’s your name?"

"Mitchell Dearing. But everyone calls me Mitch."

Paul mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, "’S not what it said on the ID," but otherwise kept his opinion to himself.

Richard didn’t seem to notice. "Well, Mitchell-dear, what do you want to drink?"

One of the men sitting at the table, a shorter man with Hispanic features and a drunken lilt leaned over, "Aw, Richie, he’s no’ old enough to drink. He’s a baby."

"I am not!" Okay, maybe he was too young to drink, but that didn’t make him a baby. "I want... vodka." It sounded like something his brother would have ordered, something manly.

Richard chuckled into his ear, "Big man drink. Stay right here."

Mitch grinned as Richard slipped out of the seat and winked at him before heading off to the bar. Then he realized that he’d been left at a table with four men he didn’t know, one of which was glaring at him like he was something that had been scraped off the bottom of their collective shoes. There were two Spanish boys sitting at the table, one was slightly taller than the other and a little broader, but other than that they looked like they could have been twins, with dirty-blonde hair and chocolate eyes. The third boy had russet colored hair, streaked with white blond. With his pale skin and whip cord body it looked sexy, especially with the way he was sitting - one foot on the floor, the other on the table, his leg bent nearly double and pressed against his chest. How could anyone be that flexible?

The broader of the two Hispanic boys leaned forward, putting his arms on the table and his chin on his arms. "Hallo, Mitch, I’m Mickey."

His brother, because Mitch figured that’s what they were, elbowed him in the side, nearly sending him tumbling off his chair, then looked over at Mitch and winked, "And I’m Louis."

"Oh." Mitch shifted uncomfortable. "How do you know Richard?"

Mickey chuckled and picked up his drink, making a motion like he was toasting before downing half the contents. It was Louis who answered his question, however, with a poorly hidden grin on his face. "We were extra’s on the set of one of his movies and he invited us home for a party."

Mickey chuckled into his glass, "Richie throws the best parties."

The redhead didn’t said anything, just sat there, looking disinterested in the whole affair. Paul leaned towards Mitch and lowered his voice, "Get the hell out of here, kid."

Taken aback, Mitch did his best to square his shoulders, "I’m not going anywhere and I’m not a kid, I’m nineteen."

"My arse you’re nineteen. Where’d you get the ID, anyway? A cousin, a brother?"

Mitch flushed and opened his mouth to retort, but Richard suddenly sat down next to him, all grins and somehow managing to hold five shot glasses in his hands. "Stop filling my boy’s head with nonsense." He set the glasses down and leaned over to Mitch, winking at him, "And you are my boy, aren’t you Mitchell-dear?"

It was heady, having a star like Richard Carter smile at him like that. He nodded and Richard leaned forward, kissing him full on the mouth. Louise and Mickey whistled, Paul snorted in apparent disgust, and the mysterious redhead cocked his head to one side and stared openly. After a moment Richard pulled back and ran his finger through Mitch’s hair. "We are going to have so much fun."

Mitch nodded again and the redhead finally smiled, before carefully selecting the shot glass closest to him. "Bottoms up, Mitch."

He downed it in one gulp and as the other’s reached for theirs, Richard pushed one towards him. "Go ahead."

Taking it, Mitch looked at the small, unassuming glass filled with water-like, clear substance. How bad could it be, really? His brother loved Vodka, he’d heard him talk about it all the time. It wasn’t supposed to have any kind of taste, which was perfect, because that alcohol taste that had been in every drink Mitch had had so far had been awful and grating on his throat. With a deep breath, he tossed it back and nearly choked when it burned its way down his throat.

Richard patted his back as he bent over, coughing. Paul was actually laughing and not mockingly as Mitch would have suspected, but sympathetically. Mitch wiped his eyes as Richard chuckled, "Never had Vodka before, huh?"

There was no use pretending otherwise, so he nodded, sitting up and looking at the actor, who kept smiling back. "It burned and... is it supposed to taste that bitter?"

Richard didn’t remark on that, but looked up at the redhead, "Tanner, go get us another round."

The boy flipped him the middle finger, but got up to do as he had asked. Mitch tried to smile at Richard, but the room started spinning, so he put his head on the table, instead. Paul mumbled something under his breath before getting up and moving back onto the dance floor. Something warm and wet moved along Mitch’s ear and he heard Richard say, "He’s such a spoil sport, but don’t worry about him, he’ll come around. He always does."

Teeth scraped against his ear and then down his neck and little electric shocks went through him at the sensation. He moaned, "that was nice." But the room was still spinning and he closed his eyes, trying to block it out. He must have had too much to drink, because the harder Mitch fought the pull of sleep, the harder it dragged him under. His last conscious thought was, ‘Damn, mum is going to be pissed.’

*****

Light was pouring in from somewhere, piercing his eyes through his closed lids. His tongue was heavy and his head felt like it was full of marshmallows. Mitch scrunched his eyes tight and turned his head away from the light, into the soft pillow under his head, which, unfortunately, required moving. Pain shot through his head and he groaned. The noise sounded pitifully muffled.

Someone chuckled and he felt the bed dip behind him. "Finally awake, huh?"

Who the hell was that? Mitch turned around sharply, holding a hand to his head and squinted at the man sitting on the bed next to him. The quilt that had been pulled up to his shoulders slid down to his waist and Mitch became suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. In fact, come to that, he wasn’t wearing his trousers, either. What the hell was some strange man doing in his room this early in the morning and why was he naked?

Slowly, the person in front of him came into focus. Dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, tan face. It all came back without warning. The whole night rushed in on him and Mitch looked around and realized that it wasn’t his bed he was in. At home, his room had barely been large enough for his twin bed, wardrobe and small desk; the walls were covered in posters of bands and half naked men that he’d manage to filch from his best friend Cynthia, who knew someone who worked at Abercrombie and Fitch. This room was... fully and completely everything his was not. It was huge, nearly as big as his parent’s living room. The walls were a pristine egg-white and nothing hung off them save a tasteful calendar over the immaculate desk and a clock over the entertainment center. Oh, and the entertainment center! It was huge, with an flat-screen television, several game consoles, and a DVD player, not to mention more DVD’s than Mitch had ever seen in a personal collection.

Looking back at the man now lounging beside him, Mitch shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t wearing underpants, either. "Um, hi."

Richard grinned brightly and patted him on the knee before bounding up and over to the desk, where a tray sat, holding two mugs of coffee, a plate of toast, and several jams. "I wasn’t sure what you liked."

Mitch frowned down at the assortment, aware for the first time that his stomach was giving serious protest to all the sudden movements. The toast was slathered in butter and Richard picked up a slice, handing it to Mitch, his grin never wavering. "Don’t worry, it’ll help."

Reluctantly, he took it and bit into the bread. Several bites later, he had to admit that it was indeed helping. Richard set the tray down, ordering him to take some coffee as well, before going around a corner, talking cheerfully. "I can’t believe it, you slept clear till noon. I was sure you’d be up by nine."

With an embarrassed pout, Mitch held the mug in both his hands, "I passed out, then?"

"Of course, right in the middle of the club. I had to carry you to the car." He came back out and sat on the bed again, careful not to knock over the tray, and held out two aspirin. "Go ahead, your head’ll be killing you."

It was, but Mitch had more important things to worry about, "Thank you. For bringing me with you, I mean. I don’t usually do a lot of drinking; I guess I didn’t realize I’d be such a light weight."

"Nonsense, I drugged you. With the amount you drank, I’d hardly call you a light-weight."

Mitch’s brain froze. He couldn’t even begin to work through that sentence and all its implications, especially not when Richard was still smiling at him as if everything in the world were perfectly normal. Maybe he’d misheard. "I’m sorry, you what?"

"I said, I’d hardly call you a light weight. I mean, you’re what, five-foot-four, a hundred and twenty pound?

"I’m five-foot-five."

"Well, a hurricane, two and a half daiquiri’s and a shot of vodka’s pretty good for your size. You know I watched you all night and I kept expecting you to just keel over any moment, but you held your own. You really don’t do a lot of drinking?"

Shaking his head, Mitch looked down at the aspirin still in his hand. "But you said... you drugged me?"

Richard nodded, "Of course, when you first walked in I knew I had to have you."

The inside of Mitch’s stomach, which had begun to enjoy the toast, suddenly twisted as what he was being told settled in. Had he been... date raped? It sounded so impossible, but what Richard was saying reminded him of all the warnings Cynthia had ever been given by his parents. But Richard was still smiling and he couldn’t imagine that someone would smile at their rape victim while telling them what they’d done. Wouldn’t he rather keep it a secret and let Mitch think he’d just gotten drunk? And not to say that Mitch had had a great deal of sex, he was still sadly a virgin, but he thought there might have been some physical discomfort if he had and right then the only pain he could feel was the pounding of his head and the slight upset of his stomach.

"Did we...?"

Thankfully, Richard stopped him from having to finish. With a chuckle and a tap on the nose, the actor stood up and stretched. "Of course not, I’d never take advantage of one of my boys when they’re unconscious. Look, I need to go out for a while, get some fresh air, exercise. You’ll be alright here alone?" When Mitch didn’t answer immediately, he continued with a wink, "I’ll bring you back something nice if you promise to behave."

"I think..." What did he think? Was Richard serious, was he playing? Now that he thought about it, he didn’t even know Richard Carter past his name and he’d gone home with him. Well, gone was debatable, actually, he might have just been taken. This was insane. "I think I should be going home. My parents are going to be worried."

"They always are." The actor stretched his hands over his head, flexing his well muscled arms. "Look, Mitchell-dear, you aren’t going anywhere, so you might as well make yourself comfortable."

As discretely as he could, Mitch looked around the room for his clothes. "Um, is there a phone that maybe I could call them on? I mean, they might phone the police if they don’t hear from me."

Richard began stretching his legs, still looking unconcerned with the whole conversation. "I’m sure they did that the moment they woke up and you weren’t in bed, but you’re nineteen. Boys your age go missing all the time and they usually show up a few days or weeks later. No one’s going to be looking especially hard for you."

Screw his clothes, this was insane. Jumping up from the bed, Mitch tried to untangle himself from the covers and run at the same time, but he didn’t even make it past Richard, who caught him around the waist and held him, laughing as Mitch tried to elbow him and kick him from behind. The actor dropped to the floor, dragging the fighting teen with him and readjusted his grip so that his arms were wrapped around Mitch’s thin chest and arms, pinning them to his sides uselessly.

Panting and frustrated, Mitch tried to get his feet under him, but he’d fallen to his knees and Richard had settled between his legs, making it impossible to get any kind of footing or do any damage. Finally he tried his last resort and screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Eventually, he ran out of breath and hung limply in Richard’s arms, holding back sobs, but just barely.

The actor hummed in his ear quietly, "There you go, it’s okay. Now just calm down. I’m going to let you go, but I want you to remember a few things, Mitchell-dear." A sob came through at the endearment and he twisted again, on the off-chance that the grip had relaxed. It hadn’t. "I need you to remember that I am a trained athlete. I body build, Mitchell-dear, not to excess, but I do have to keep up appearances. I am larger, stronger, and older than you. If you fight me, I will hold you down. If you run, I will catch you, not that there’s anywhere to run to. Are we clear?"

Tears had started making their way down Mitch’s cheeks, but he didn’t care about that. He forced himself to nod. It was true. The closest he’d ever come to physical training was climbing the stairs at school.

"Good. Now, you’ll find that we are on the second floor over a garage. No one above us, no one bellow us. I live on my parents’ estate, but I live in the back and no one comes here but me. Not the maid, not my parents, not my sister Camilla. The only people you might see are the gardeners and they know better than to stick their nose into my business. The windows are barred and they are bullet proof. You won’t be able to break them. They don’t open."

This couldn’t be happening.

"When I leave, I will dead bolt the door from the outside. When I’m home, I lock the doors and turn on the alarm. If you try to get out, you will wake me up and, trust me, Mitchell-dear, you do not want to wake me up." The arms around him loosened a fraction, but Mitch felt too numb to fight against them. "That’s better. Now what say we get that aspirin in you."

It took several attempts for Mitch to choke down the little white pills. In the end they dissolved on his tongue and he swallowed the bitter tasting water between the sobs that wracked his body. Why had he gone out without telling Cynthia? Why had he accepting a drink from a complete stranger? Because that stranger had been Richard bloody Carter and he hadn’t thought, hadn’t even dreamed that someone so famous and so gorgeous could be such a nut job.

Richard put a hand on his head and stood up, looking down at him with the cocky sort of smile that Mitch used to think was cute on men - on Richard, it was scary. "Those’ll probably make you feel a bit drowsy after a while. You try and get out, or do whatever else you want and then take a nap. We’re going to have a get together tonight. Just you, me, and some of my friends. How does that sound?"

Since it was obvious that Richard wanted an answer, Mitch nodded. People were good. If there were people around, maybe he could get a message to them to call the cops or something. Richard chuckled and walked past him, stopping at the door just long enough to send one last warning, "Behave yourself, Mitchell-dear," before closing the door.

The lock clicked into place and Mitch let his head fall forward onto the floor and gave way to the urge to cry.

*****

"Paul, buddy, get your lazy ass up!"

The phone was screaming at him. Paul hated being woken up by the damned phone.

"Paul, buddy, get your lazy ass up!"

He especially hated it when it was Richard.

"Paul, buddy, get your..."

He grabbed his cell and clicked the talk button, pressing it to his ear, "What the fuck, Richie, it’s..." he shoved the water bottles off his bedside table in search of his alarm and squinted to focus on the blurry, red number. Well, shite. "Is it really almost one?"

Richard chuckled, "In the afternoon. Get up, I’ll be at your place in five. Our trainers’ll be pissed if we’re late again."

His stomach rolled as Paul forced himself to sit up, "I don’t think I can do it today. That shit we hit last night must have been laced because my head is killing me."

"Suck it up! If we miss another session, they might call our managers and I am not in the mood to deal with Peterson. Take an Excedrine, a Tylenol and a caffeine and get your arse in gear."

The phone clicked off and Paul tossed it down on the bed, throwing back the sheet while he rummaged on his floor for clothes. His workout gear was in the locker at the gym and it was a good twenty minute ride, so the medicine should kick in before they got there. He pulled on his jeans and yanked the t-shirt over his head - then took the shirt off again and put it on the right way.

He pushed his sunglasses on his face and ran his hand through his hair. That was the last time he let Richard talk him into going clubbing the day before work out. And then he remembered last night, "Fuck! Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh bloody FUCK!"

Sitting down, he put his head in his hands and tried to think. Small, with sandy hair that hung around his ears, light hazel eyes, pale complexion and young. Very, very young. God, what had Richard been thinking? Or, more importantly, what had Richard been thinking with? There was no way that kid had been over eighteen. Closing his eyes, Paul tried to remember the rest. They’d danced, then gone back to the table. Richard had bought the kid a drink, a shot of something and... everything went hazy after that, but Paul was sure of one thing. The kid had definitely gone home with Richard. Bloody hell!

A knock on his bedroom door jarred him out of his thoughts and he grabbed his blazer, pulling it over his wrinkled clothes. Richard thrust a small plastic bag with six pills inside it into Paul’s hand with a winning smile. "You always forget. Come on, I’ve got water in the car."

The drive was unusually silent, mostly because the sunlight seared Paul’s eyes and he was trying to let the drugs work their miracle. By the time they got to the gym, he still felt like shite and he knew he looked it, but he also knew that he could get through the routine without vomiting all over his trainer again.

They waved at the receptionist and went down to the locker rooms to get dressed. Paul imagined that he’d make quite the picture for the tabloids right about then. There was no question what he had been up to the night before. As usual, the locker rooms were empty this time of day, and Paul finally forced himself to ask the question that had been eating at him. "So, how’s the kid?"

Richard chuckled, pulled his clothes off shamelessly. "He’s fine. A little disoriented, but otherwise okay. I think I gave him too much, he slept clear till noon."

Paul nodded, "Has he said anything?"

"Not really. He lives with his parents, which’ll make things admittedly more difficult, but otherwise I think he’s good."

He lived with his parents? "Richard, you haven’t done anything with him yet, have you?"

"‘Course not, you know my routine better than anyone. Speaking of which, party tonight, in honor of my new guest. I’m counting on you."

Paul cringed, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t expected it. Richard was, if nothing else, a man firmly entrenched in routine. "Richard, I don’t think he’s..."

The door opened and a man came in, halting their conversation. They smiled at him and finished lacing up their shoes before heading up the back stairs to the room where their trainers would be waiting. Richard preferred to keep his sex life under wraps for obvious reasons and while his closest friends knew that he was gay, he’d told no one else, not even his family. He always said it was easier to keep a secret if no one knew about it. An image popped into Paul’s head of the boy, smiling up at Richard with the kind of adoration that only the truly young and naive possess.

He’d have to talk with Richard again later, after the workout, before the party. Before things became irreversible.

His trainer was a young Russian girl named Claudia. She had waist length brown hair that she always pulled back into a tight bun and tanned skin that spoke of hours in the sun. He towered over her in both height and stature, which was probably why having her scream at him for an hour and a half was such a turn on. He’d always gotten off on forceful women. Well, that and submissive boys, but one should always keep their options open.

When they’d finally finished and Richard was wiping sweat off his brow, talking to Roberto about why he hadn’t pulled his normal weight, Paul took the opportunity to do something he’d been wanting to do for some time: ask Claudia out. However, being twenty-five and a in films apparently did not mean he was good at picking up women. It was one of the reasons he stayed the hell out of the dating scene.

"Hey, uh, Claudia?"

She turned around, smiling brightly as if she hadn’t called him a useless sack of pig guts not five minutes previously. "Is something wrong, Paul, you appear pale?"

He chuckled at her thick dialect, but then he also had a thing for accents and hers was adorable. "Not really, but, um, I was wondering..." she raised an eyebrow expectantly and he got the impression from the quirk of her mouth, that she knew what he was about to say, but was letting him drag it out, "would you, I dunno, like to go out sometime? Maybe to the theater or to get something to eat? There’s this play I’ve been wanting to go see and..."

She put a finger to his lips, "I cannot date clients, Paul, no matter how much I may be fond of them." He felt the pangs of rejection start to twist in the pit of his stomach, "so, then, I suppose that for one night, you will have to fire me."

The pangs were replaced by hopeful butterflies, "Really?" She nodded, her cheeks pink with blush. "Can I change my mind in the morning?"

With a laugh, she nodded again, "Or the afternoon, depending on how well the date goes, no?"

He started to laugh with her, but Richard interrupted, "What’s going on?"

Paul shook his head, "Nothing, I’m just thinking about firing my trainer." Richard looked very confused at the girl’s smile, but Paul didn’t give him time to question it. "Let’s get dressed. I’ll call you tomorrow, Claudia."

She waved at him and turned to talk to Roberto, who was frowning at her in disapproval. Richard took his arm, "Got a date?"

"Yeah."

"She’s a spitfire."

"That’s how I like them."