Alas! The onion you are eating is someone else's water lily!
- from The Weird Fortune Collection
Justin may have fucked her first, but Lance was the first person - other than herself - who made her come. Justin was a quick study, and in a short time she had no complaints at all, at least not about that, but when it came right down to it, so to speak, Lance had beat him to it. She didn't think Justin knew, though. She was fairly certain Lance did.
When she was on tour, too wired after a show or dancing but too tired or selfish to look up one of her dancers (they had both decided at the very beginning that dancers didn't count, but sometimes the hassle of thinking about another person's responses was too much hassle), she usually thought of Justin, spread out beneath her like the banquet she wasn't allowed, or that one time in the back halls beneath the stadium, with her panties around her ankles and the concrete of the wall cold against her breasts where her shirt was pulled down, Justin's laughter hot in her ear as he tugged her hips higher. Or that one time on the bus, oh so silent, the imminent reality - rather than possibility - of getting caught hotter than anything they could manage in such cramped quarters. No, Britney didn't lack for fantasy material or reminiscing.
But sometimes, when she was impatient, or more tired than turned on, or the memory of half a hundred similar encounters just wasn't enough and her right hand was starting to cramp, all it took was that first memory of Lance, light eyes hooded and dark as he smirked up at her from between her legs, elegant fingers glistening as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, to leave her shuddering and shaking in another anonymous hotel bed.
Justin learned two things when Lance blew him for the first time again. (They both agreed that Europe didn't count, not really, because they were both just learning. Clearly, they had both learned a lot since the first time Justin had crawled into Lance's bed and stuck his hand down his pajama pants.) One, that Lance's most recent ex had been lying when he stormed out of the hotel room that time. Lance wasn't arrogant and smug, at least not without good reason. No, he was just supremely self-assured. Justin pressed tingling fingers to his numb lips. With very good reason.
The second thing he learned was exactly how Britney had gotten so good at giving head, almost overnight. Before, well, far be it for Justin to turn down a blowjob from someone he actually kinda liked, much less someone with whom he didn't have to worry about security. But then one night, just before they had to get ready for another flashy appearance, Justin couldn't remember which, she grabbed him by the waistband of his jeans, gave him that little smirky "I'm thinking dirty things but butter wouldn't melt in my mouth" smile that never failed to make his palms sweat and his mouth go dry, and hauled him into a storage closet. Afterwards, during the awards show or movie premiere or whatever it had been, he debated over asking her what had changed. He didn't want to insult her by implying that she had, well, frankly sucked before (in the not good way), but curiosity was eating away at him. He turned to her, the question on his lips, but she just smiled at him, patted his knee, and said, "Dancers talk. I listen." He smiled back at her and intertwined their fingers. It was good enough for him.
But later, as he was lying in bed, Britney a thousand miles away, Lance draped on his stomach and snoring delicately, Justin knew that she hadn't told him the truth, or at least not all of it. Even later still, when Britney was still a thousand miles away and Lance was wrapped around or under his latest fling, Justin thought of it, of them. He imagined the soft touch of Britney's untutored mouth, which he knew so well. He imagined the weight of Lance's cock on Britney's tongue, a weight his own mouth remembered. He pictured Britney's lips stretched around Lance, her sticky sweet lipgloss smeared. He pictured Lance's hands guiding and instructing, cupping her jaw, occasionally breaking away for him to run a hand across his lips, like Justin knew he tended to do when he was close to coming but too polite to clutch at his (her) head. Justin gasped and came himself when he pictured Lance reaching down to trace the stretch and burn of Britney's lips, Britney backing off to nip at his fingers before sucking him back in, the bright sting in his fingers a contrast to the wet heat of her mouth. Just like she had done for Justin in that storage closet.
When Lance masturbated, he always thought of brunets. Dark hair, dark eyes. Always. That way there was no mistake. Always.