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The Gentleman's Club	By : BrittGirl Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Panic! At The Disco Views: 4325 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I do not own/or know any of the celebrities mentioned. I do not make a profit from this story, it is merely for entertainment's sake.

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Pete was bored.

Not the kind of bored that could be used and turned into anything productive, but the kind of bored that brought about thoughts that Pete had kept buried deep inside of him and was now allowing to surface again. Thoughts that involved things that no one knew existed inside of him, not his bandmates, not his friends, not his exes, no one. But, c’mon! He was Pete fucking Wentz! Bassist and creator of one of the biggest bands in the modern world! Who would ever believe that beneath the tattoos and face…was a monster? No one would, no one would ever believe that, which was why his secret would remain safe and hidden, along with everything else in his life that he wished to keep personal.

Forever.

Pete called it, ‘The Gentleman’s Club.’ The club held four members, more would perhaps be introduced later on, but for now that was all they needed. Gabe Saporta, lead singer of the band Cobra Starship, Martin Johnson, the front man to Boys Like Girls, Brendon Urie, lead singer to Panic At the Disco, and, of course, Pete. The club formed over mutual interest, sparked when Pete and Gabe were stoned out of their minds together and Gabe slipped the inspiration behind his lyrics to ‘It’s Warmer In The Basement,' a song that he pretended had come jokingly as a song about loving a girl so much you locked her in a basement, but really was inspired by something he'd actually done once. Thus, the club was spurned. Pete found Brendon, and Gabe found Martin. Their common denominator was simple; girls who would play out any and every sick, twisted fantasy they had, whether it was willing or unwilling was for each player to decide himself and each woman to be uniquely preferential towards.

‘The Gentleman’s Club’ had officially begun, each member would find a girl that sparked their interest or which already existed in their lives, and they would map what they did. Occasionally, they would swap girls, often they got together to discuss various things they had tried. But mostly, they just worked. And worked. And worked. Until the girls were broken, and it was time to find a new toy.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

The girl had been sleeping soundly, her arms tucked beneath her head and her legs curled to her chest. Petite and slim, with almost elfin-like features that gave her a delicate, young look, the girl’s chest rose and fell steadily, her breathing light. She was slightly pale, with a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the apples of her rose tinted cheeks. Her hair, a dark halo around her head, was a dark, chocolate brown, falling in long, luscious romantic curls about her shoulder blades. In stark contrast to her hair, the girl held bright blue eyes beneath the long lashes currently closed in deep slumber. She was a picture, all right, and in her sleep she looked angelic and at ease with the world, untroubled by nightmares or stresses that the next day may bring. Unaware of what would actually be befalling her in latter time.

Beside the girl was an alarm clock, which had been blinking steadily for the past half hour as if desperately trying to alert the sleeping girl of her tardiness. But she did not stir. If anything, she lost herself deeper into her dreams, her thoughts, her memories. Those were all she had anymore. All any of them had, really. Not that she knew of the others personally. She had heard stories and she'd seen hints of things, but never had she actually met another girl within the sick 'club' the boys held. They were kept away from each other, whether it was to discourage rebellion or just reiterate their isolation was unclear, but whatever it was, the girl rarely dwelled on things that didn't much concern her.

Pete Wentz had taken her ages ago, it seemed. Perhaps a few months, perhaps a year, perhaps a few weeks. She had no real sense of time. Not real people’s time, anyway. She knew the day, she knew what time it was, at least now she did, but when he had first gotten ahold of her, she had lost it. And now that she knew, it meant very little. He could’ve taken her on a Thursday, but today was Sunday, so how long ago had it been? She just didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. Pete would never let her go, not now, not in a year, not ever. Maybe when she became useless to him, when the fire died down, when she became old and lost her looks…But maybe not. Pete had always said he loved to break her down--but he loved her broken even more. So the fire remained, the defiance was the same, and Pete continued his crusade to kill her spirit. She was only 19, he had a lot of time. If that was really how old she was…

Her name was Emily Marie Hudson. All her life, Emily had been a ‘troubled’ child, her family had been poor, broken, and when she had turned 17, she’d split. Although Emily had been outrageously pretty, she had never really been noticed by anyone. Her parents left her by herself for the most part, and she’d dropped out of school after Freshman year. No one was very close to her, and that was exactly why Pete had picked her out. She’d caught his eye (unfortunately for her) when he’d been prowling for his newest toy… That was one of the rules, they only took girls that no one would miss, prostitutes, druggies, but only pretty ones. Emily had fit the quota beautifully! He had almost over-looked her when he’d pulled over, thinking that she may have been too young for him. But once he’d been close enough, he noted the maturity that lined her eyes and face, the smooth swell of her breasts, and the way she spoke, as if she just knew. She’d offered him a hand job for a place to sleep, and he’d sprung, accepting it as if he was just another John out on the prowl for a hot piece of ass.

The night didn’t go exactly as she planned.
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The Gentleman's Club