Press

12 June 1965

Paul had to attend numerous mind numbing press conferences as the success wore on. They would ask him the same few idiotic questions:

What color are your eyes?

Are you planning to get married?

What brand cigarettes do you smoke?

How tall are you?

What is your shoe size?

How much do you weigh?

What's your favorite color?

He was beginning to feel like a commodity to tell the truth. Answering simple questions to print in their cutesy magazines. It felt fine to indulge them, but it got old quickly.

It wasn't just that. The press agents at times, motivated by inferiority or ego, asked them condescending things, making a joke at their expense, looking down on their fan base.

Paul's disillusion of it all made an idea pop into your head.

You felt bad for the poor devil, sitting through these tedious things. It would be so satisfying to poke fun at the whole thing, though in a way nobody will be the wiser.

You put a small plug inside him, which had a remote to go along with it.

You sat in the crowd during the conference, playing with the dial. Paul would grin at nothing in particular, staring at the interviewees with a dazed lidded expression.

When a particularly attractive interviewer caught his eye, Paul would fixate on her face, staring at it with raised eyebrows and a smile, resting his cheek in his hand. When you noticed this, you turned the dial up, causing Paul to smile wider, his eyes rolling up slightly.

You never turned it so high that Paul would get off, only enough that he'd get pleasant butterflies in his abdomen, shift in his seat, need to hide his partial.

After the conference had finished, you took him into a supply closet, satiating him with a handie.

-

You both got a thrill of it, so you decided to do it again.

This time, however, you wanted to go a step further.

You began the same as the previous time, the soft vibrations making Paul giggle, be more cheery with his responses.

You smiled to yourself, turning the dial a bit higher than before. It flashed across his face very quickly, but you caught a surprised expression.

You watched from where you sat, Paul struggling to keep a straight face. He shifted his legs.

"What color are your eyes, Paul?" A press agent piped up.

"Huh?" Paul said dizzily.

"Your eyes, Paul." She repeated. "What color?"

You could see the cogs turning in his head. He let out a breath, then wet his lips.

"Hazel. S'hazel."

He was stumbling over his words. You grinned.

It was enough to be a nagging sensation, but Paul wouldn't orgasm from it.

His eyes darted around the room, occasionally wincing. He was trying to find you in the crowd and shoot you a dirty look. Without warning, you turned it up to the max for a split second, before bringing it back down to discourage the behavior. Paul squeaked at that.

"Are you alright, Paul?" Said another press agent.

It was loud enough for them to notice, especially with the microphone.