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Wicked Games	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2285 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Title: Wicked Games I
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC-17 for M/M sex, violent contents and coarse language
Pairing: Till/Richard
Disclaimer: This is all pure fiction; none of this happened.
Summary: Love is not milk; love is a tornado that kills everyone who dares to look at its attractive and deadly center! -Natt

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Wicked Games

Dear Till,

Or should I say: You violent bitch! You and the fucking games you used on me!
Your aggressiveness and your brutal nature are shown even on stage. Your big body – so strong, with thick arms and tensed muscles I could see under your tasty skin – seems to only enjoy pain; whips, fire, leashes. Your body that I desired for so long and the brilliant mind I once loved only wanted one thing; to cause pain on others!

Oh, how you loved to show to the entire world, on a magazine cover, that you were the master riding my back and putting me on all fours… with that disdainful but pleased look I could see in your blue eyes. Oh those blue eyes that made me fall for you and go along with all your wicked games! You even put your so fucking heavy foot between my shoulders, to show to the world how you kept me for all these years – under your thick, black leather boot.

But I was young and stupid enough to fall in love with a pair of blue eyes. The first moment I saw you, I just worshiped you, and then I knew for sure; I was a fucking faggot! A stupid kid that fell in love with - oh my fucking God! - another boy. They say that first love is never forgotten. My first love came back years later to haunt me! The price I had to pay to get my dream - my own band - come true was to let you play your distorted mind creations on me!

“Love is milk and Chris Isaak…” Bull fucking shit! Oh, for how many times I’ve been drinking your milk, Till Lindemann?! For you, love is whips and chains… and pain! Now’s your time for pain, Lindemann! No, not Herr, like you made me call you. Just Lindemann, you dick-in-ass loving fucking faggot! Remember? You used to make me say it, oh, so many fucking times! “I’m a dick-in-ass loving fucking faggot, Herr Lindemann!” That’s what I had to say, knelt in front of you, that’s what I had to admit out loud.

I know your childhood was rough, and your life didn’t spare you much, but it’s no one’s fault, and don’t think it’s such a great solution to take your frustrations our on others.

Oh, and how you love to humiliate me, you brutal bitch! You told me how much you loved to see blood. The taste of blood, the smell of it, the vision of it makes you cum sometimes, without any other help. So many times you hit my face! Yes, you even dared to hit my face! You bashed my head against the walls till blood was pouring out of my lips; you were smiling, proud of your accomplishment, then you leaned on me and licked the thick red liquid off my chin while your full erect dick was spurting your seed on my skin. I’ll never forget that pleased grin on your face when you were smudging your fingers in your own cum and making me lick it from your hand.

You called it a game, a sexual fantasy, but I know you were for real. Your pleasure when seeing my pain was for real.

Who do you think you have fooled with your lyrics and poems? Incest, murder, demented creatures, rapes, all were not fantasies, but your real secret desires.

Seeing others suffering, seeing me suffering was your pleasure!

Oh, and how I had to wander around your fucking house, on all fours, on the leash. And that stupid fucking leather collar that I was forced to wear! All those nights that I had to sleep naked, near your bed, on that little carpet, like the good dog I was!

And those freaks who were your guests! I had to let myself be fucked by them, just to see that pleased sparkle in those wonderful big blue eyes of yours! But you were sitting there on your stupid sofa, drinking fine wines, talking philosophy, history and God knows what else, with them, ignoring me. And in the end, you were standing up and calling me a fucking whore, a bitch in heat, punishing me for doing something you wanted me to do. Oh, you were punishing me for days, hitting me, not allowing me to touch that wonderful body of yours that I craved for.

I wanted so much your wonderful mouth kissing my body, on all those wounds and marks that you left on my skin. I craved so much to feel the gentle touch of your fingers caressing my cock; I wanted so much your hot tongue to lick my pain away. I just wanted for once to make passionate love to you and to be allowed to get between those thick thighs of yours. I fantasized about it, while sitting chained in my corner, where you were forcing me to stay - beaten, shivering and crying. I fantasized to be allowed - just for once! - to be the one feeling your tightness around my cock and also to be the one starting to thrust gently - then getting faster and harder - between your spread legs, while I would look into your lovely clear blue eyes that made my heart jump the first second I saw you.

I just dreamed to lean on you and suck your hard nipples while pounding your delightful ass, just for once, you mother fucker!

I was closing my already blindfolded eyes, while chained on your fucking bed, beaten by your own fucking hand with that stinking whip; I was closing my eyes in pain and wishing just for a kiss from you, a kiss of appreciation on my lips, a kiss that would let me know that, in fact, it was all just a game, that you loved me and that I wasn’t just a slave forced to make your demented fantasies come true. It was during those moments that I was wishing to hear your husky and so arousing voice telling me, just for once, that you didn’t want this violent shit but just a bit of affection, that you simply wanted to be hugged and to put your head on my chest to kiss it, that you wanted to taste my skin - this skin I was taking such good care of, in order to keep it smooth and perfumed, just for you, you little shit!

Just for once…

But no, you wouldn’t let your guard down; you couldn’t look vulnerable, especially in front of me. You didn’t only want the bed in flames; you got my back and my ass in flames. You burnt my bloody wounds so you could lick that salty liquid and taste it, you demented fuck!

And I, your pup, your faithful slave, wasn’t allowed to cum, to get relief, unless you said so. And when I was, I had to lick and eat my own seed, at your orders too! You just enjoyed watching me being tormented by my own body, to see my pain, my nausea, my dizziness, my balls almost bursting. You enjoyed me begging and crying, Herr fucking Lindemann!

Oh, how much you loved to see my tears! And how much you loved to turn me into a doormat, subduing the man I was! You made me wear baby diapers and dresses! Not only behind the closed doors of your fucking apartment, but on stage too! But the hardest thing to do, harder than trying not to scream when you were putting off your ciggies on my bare skin, was to pretend; to play the role of a man so sure of himself and everything he created – like our damned band! – when, in fact, I was just a fucking stupid dog, a slave knelt beside you, licking your monstrous cock, sucking it and then having to take it in my ass, while being hit and verbally abused.

And then, I had to fuck your own ex-wife! To even make her have my child! Don’t get me wrong, my daughter is the best thing I’ve ever brought into this world. The best song ever created! She is my real angel, sent from above to teach me the love you always denied me!

But you weren’t happy with just that! No, she had to wear your fucking name! To prove to me, and the entire world, that you were the God, the Master! To show to everyone that you were making the rules of this game and we were just pawns on your own fucking chess table!

For you, maybe it was a game, but for me, it was pure fear. At first I went along with it. I didn’t enjoy too much this “little game”, as you called it, but I complied because I worshiped you; you were my fallen angel, my dark god, the creator of my world, of my music, of my dreams!

The first time, when I got back to this country, I thought we were making love, in your house filled with baskets and raffia. But for you, it was just one of these plain fucks; it was like you just jerked off using my mouth, my tongue and then my ass.

The next times we did it, you got me to comply with your demented lust. Bit by bit you not only subdued my body, but my mind and my entire being too. And when you said you wanted to see blood, even if I agreed and let myself be hit by your heavy fist, I not only disliked it, but I started to fear you, to fear that mind I once found so wonderful and creative, the mind that I fell in love with.

And it hurt, it fucking hurt so bad, seeing that you can be so affectionate and loving with others. You knew very well the pain I felt in my heart and you saw the tears pouring down my face when I was forced to watch you making love. Yes! You mother fucker, you were making sweet passionate fucking love with other men! You knew exactly what I was craving for. But not only that - you were never even generous enough to give me, just for once, what I was so desperate for. You played with me like with a starving dog; showing him food, making him drool for it, but putting a glass wall between the poor animal and the bowl filled with tasty food.

I was denied what I needed!

I needed warmth, and I only got coldness from that fucking frozen wall behind which you hide from everyone; not allowing anything human to reach you. Not a feeling, not a healing touch...

Now hear this, you fucking shit! I kept playing my role even after all my admiration and worship were worn off. I kept it as I feared that you’d find another fool to break down on his knees, allowing you to play with his feelings and mind.

But now it’s all over! Don’t worry; the game isn’t ending yet, it just took a different turn.
I met this woman. Oh, yes, your deep, husky and so alluring demonic laugh will vanish soon. Yes! I met this woman who - hear this! - is going to marry me. I don’t know if she’s an angel rescuing me, but I asked her the same week we met, and she agreed to be my wife!

I will move to New York and I will live with her. From now on, our meetings, Lindemann, will only be for rehearsals. There will be no whips, no chains, no ass fucking, and no more licking your throbbing cock. Just our music, my music… with my band.

I also want you, hmmm, no… not ‘want’, demand - yes, that’s the word! - demand you to put on your best suit, to make yourself pretty and come to my wedding! You won’t have to kneel in front of me, you won’t have to let yourself be fucked by the guests; you will only have to swallow your own rage - like you made me eat my own seed - and smile. Oh! You will also have to be happy. Not pretend to be happy, you brutal shit! You’ll have to be genuinely happy, for me, for Caron.

I don’t care that my female fans will feel themselves deeply hurt; the pain and the rage I’ll see behind your happy wide smile and deep in your eyes, the feeling of loss and frustration that I’ll read on you will be the best reward I could ever get for all my pain, my services and my broken heart. And that’s not all; you’ll have to live with the fact that you’ve lost me for good for the rest of your fucking days.

Are you man enough to face this challenge, Lindemann? Do you have the balls to keep playing this game, your own wicked game?

Adios!

Not yours anymore,
Richard Z. Kruspe – future Bernstein
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Wicked Games