Cock Roulette (Part Three)

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Click here for part one or here for part two.

The Lead Singer lives just off the strip in a one-bedroom apartment that overlooks the glowing lights of the city. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect bachelor pad. Girls could leave their cars parked at the bar, get fucked, and be back before the parking attendant closed up with their keys in hand. In a city like Los Angeles parking is a cock block.

Empty beer cans, half-drunk whisky bottles, and cigarette butts litter the dirty apartment. I look at the Bassist for that female glance we give one another that conveys shared thoughts but she acts like a ‘he’ and picks up a bottle to swig without even a peep in my direction.

“Hold on,” the Lead mutters, as he heads through a door I assume is the bedroom. The Bassist hands me the bottle and seems amused that I am there. Something inside of me feels like this was premeditated. I had thought of this idea, didn’t I?

She takes the bottle from me and wraps her arms over my shoulders without putting the whiskey down. I feel the coolness of the glass on my back and the warmth of her breath on my face. We kiss but it’s not like it was in the bathroom. It’s tender. It’s slow. It’s deliberate.

“Hey, wait for me!” The Lead approaches us with a mirror in hand like a butler carrying a tray of horderves. Six lines are presented before us like soldiers waiting for battle. Musicians and drugs are long-time lovers. He hands me cut straw and just as I bend my neck for the ideal snorting position, the Bassist pulls my hair back from my face and holds it like I’m a drunk college girl. They’re taking care of me. They want me to have a good time. What else do they want?

One nip of whiskey and one line turns into a bottle and ball. His shirt is off, we’re in our panties, and the tension can only be mounted by one thing. I kiss him, she kisses me, but they never kiss each other. The Bassist is considered one of the guys after all. Now I have a new challenge.

Hand-in-hand-in-hand, we move from the living space to the bedroom. Standing with the bed behind me and the band mates in front, I take the back of both their skulls in each of my hands and draw their faces closer to mine. I feel the hesitation in both of them and raise my eyebrow with an “are-you-fucking-kidding-me” expression.

Relations among band mates always cause trouble. Fleetwood Mac, The Mamas and the Papas, Jefferson Airplane, and even bands as recent as No Doubt, could all attest to the consequences of what happens when musicians seek sexual comfort in one another. But trouble is the name of the game when you seek an audience with someone known as Ruthless. And if you want to play, you play by my rules.

“Come on. One time,” I whisper.

They look directly at each other, smile, and then at me. Now without my guide, tongues fondle as they figure out which belongs to whom. The Lead pushes me back onto the bed and as if planned the Bassist steps in front of him and pulls off my panties, her nails scrapping down the sides of my thighs. He watches with a shit-eating grin as she pushes my legs both up and apart for her pussy eating pleasure.

The Lead Singer watches not know what to do or where to go. My eyes roll back, off of him and onto the wall behind me. I can feel her moan against me as her tongue laps eagerly. He is going to have to do an amazing job orally after she was done with me. She is going for gold.

She trails from my cunt to my tit, taking her time as if relishing every square inch of my flesh like it was the last she would taste. Countering the pleasure with a quick bite of my breast, the Bassist seems confident in her win. Her smile is awe-inspiring like every beautiful woman. I could see why men fall in love so easily.

The Lead is impatient and ready for his turn. He kisses me like a knock on the door before you walk in. His fingers are inside of me, testing the wetness as a marker point. He could make me wetter. He just knew he could.

Like all confident Leads that are more show than talent he takes to my pussy like it was his first gig out of high school. His fingers still inside poking and prodding as he slobbers the area. There is a clear winner here. And it isn’t the present contestant.

I knew what needed to be done.

Grabbing his hair and pulling him away from the scene of the crime, I kiss him as a consolation. I turn to the Bassist, who is sitting at my side caressing my breast, pulling her into me, kissing her with the fervor meant for a champion. I position her on her back; time for me to try to repay the favor.

On my knees and bent over for the Lead to take the suggestion, I focus on the techniques I had picked up from her. Girls eat the way they like to be eaten. I wanted her to know I was paying attention.

The Lead takes the cue and positions the head of his dick against the opening of my pussy. There is a prize for second place that isn’t made of silver. I push into him as confirmation and he grabs my hips thrusting into me, filling me with his rock star cock. Who says groupies tears bands apart? I’ve just connected these two.

His moans match hers in frequency but not in pitch. Mine are muffled between her legs that are wrapped around my head. The Lead saves me from the lack of oxygen by grabbing her ankle and stretching it out like a handle of a slot machine. He was going to cum. I was going to cum. And it was my job to make her finish with us.

I had resisted using my fingers since I was mimicking her, but perhaps she needed to feel what I liked. I cross my fingers as if to bring me luck and twist them back and forth inside of her. Her back arches and I know I’m on the right path. I tighten my cunt and slam into her as I roll my tongue against her clit. The musicians orgasm simultaneously, music to my ears.

Cock Roulette (Part Two)

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Click here for part one.

This is a serious choice I have to make. On one hand I have the Musician; sexy, familiar, and knew how to please me. On the other is the Bassist of the band who is drop dead gorgeous, intriguing, and probably wants to make me cum more than the boys.

Dick verses pussy is always a difficult choice for the sexually overt. Both are like gourmet chefs offering dishes as different in flavor, texture, and course as noodles to ice cream. While I consider myself heterosexual my hormones, particularly when intoxicated, prefer “attractive-and-close.”

Only two drinks in. Its anyones game.

The clairvoyant Drummer finds his way back to me, arm over my shoulder, pulling me close. My attraction to him is endless. There is some unbreakable sexual chemistry built on the concept that we can’t. But every year that passes, every milestone in life, and every drunken night together weakens this ‘use to date my best friend’ excuse along with our resolve.

He lands a kiss on my lips out of no where. Was tonight the night? I’m shocked. Did he mean to do that? Pow! Another one, a longer one, clears my confusion.

“I want to fuck the shit out of you,” his words are slurred and low. He takes the last swig of his drink, pulls me in front of him with his hands cupping my jaw and lands a third kiss. “But he can’t find out.”

No, tonight was not the night. We would fuck. But not tonight; not with this many witnesses. I didn’t care but the ‘bros before hoes’ mentality was still strong in some bromances. He was already chancing a risk with public PDA.

The guitarist steals me like a rodeo cowboy, wrapping his arms around me like a lasso and reels me in. We look like a couple. And I can tell that he wishes we were. He declares that we have this connection and that he’s never met anyone like me. I might believe him if it wasn’t a line I heard all the time.

Having an allergic reaction to commitment and emotion, I make my way to the bar for another drink to settle my nerves. Before I can order the Lead Singer slides a shot glass of bourbon towards me with that come-hither stare singers have perfected over the years. Maybe its the mascara but that look dampens panties in the masses.

One bourbon, one whiskey, and a beer later the bad boy with the good lyrics has stolen my attention. We’ve gotten more flirty as most musicians and their fans get post-show when liquor creates spirits and music makes them dance in the most ghoulish of ways.

Leads are typically always womanizers. Not by choice but by necessity. When that much pussy is laid at your footsteps, you have no choice but to wade through them on the way out the door. But on the particular occasion that you have one entertain you for an hour like a Capuchin monkey, you’ve received the best compliment they can give you.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He is perfectly cued. He knows that enough time, conversation, and drinks have passed for that to be an obvious question.

“Where?”

“Just across the street.” Just far enough to pull me out of the direct grasp of the guitarist, Drummer, and the girl Bassist. Clever.

“I’m game.”

“Me too,” chirps the Bassist from the shadows of the bar. The three of us flee the scene and park ourselves at a table meant for two. Hours pass and I feel like a child of divorce all over again. Love me more. Initially an undertone amidst the typical conversation between friends, flat-out transform to declared challenges between the band mates.

“I can eat pussy better.”

“No, you can’t.”

Like bickering children. I accept their challenge and offer the solution in the form of a three-sum. A pussy eating contest. There would be two winners. I am the first.

…to be continued.

Cock Roulette (Part One)

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“Oh, it’s a ruthless night I see,” the doorman chuckles as I approach. There is always pleasure in being recognized before walking into one of my favorite Los Angeles bars. Any one could be famous, at least infamous, in this small city.

The bar is practically empty. Not surprising considering the earliness of the evening. I see the members of my favorite band lined up at the bar including the Musician. Quite possibly one of the most attractive bands ever formed.

The Lead Singer is covered in tattoos like his guitarist but has a boyish features combined with James Dean eyes that sway between brooding and menacing.  His lyrics crush hearts as often as they lift spirits. It is easy to feel an instant connection to him after hearing a song.

The Drummer isn’t as conventionally a rock star as the guitarist Musician and the Lead Singer. What he lacks in tattoos and muscles he makes up for in charm and swagger. Darker skin than his band mates, he stands out in his own way with brown eyes your soul falls into and a smile that could make an angel sin.

The Bassist is the only female in the group though if personality is any testament to gender, they are an all boy band. Her blond hair stands out strikingly in the darkness of the room but it is only the first draw of many. From her neck down is an array of colors and shapes peeking through the slits of her black clothing. Her physic is flawless and she stands with confidence knowing this. She is the perfect combination of beauty, reliance, and intelligence. A walking wet dream.

As I saunter towards them taking in the desolate environment while reflecting on the memories these walls hold, I see the Musician order another shot of whisky with a single gesture. I toss one back with band and know that tonight will be trouble. Musicians, alcohol, and I are a mix never to be trifled with.

Within the hour the bar is filled and the Musician pulls me into the green room; a familiar place that I have done very bad things in and plan to do much worse. His lips are at mine and his fingers are under my dress, between my thighs, insistent on entering me before the door has a chance to close. He doesn’t have pre-gig jitters. Just as I think my night is mapped out before me, the door that never closed is wide open with a tech awkwardly standing, his mouth ajar.

I smile and slip the flask from his back pocket, “Time to set up.”

Back in the main room with fans, tourist, and friends, the Drummer finds me lost in the chaos. He drops his arm over my shoulders and pulls me close landing a “kinda-friendly-kinda-sexy-kinda-drunk” kiss on my forehead. We’ve wanted each other for years but restrained our advances since at one time I had dated his best friend. But somehow alcohol made us forget that time so long ago. As friends clustered around us, his hand drops to my waist and his thumb caresses the small of my back. Somehow he knows my physical weakness.

After their set, after the tear down, after they have schmoozed the fans, they are mine once again. The Bassist is high off the adrenaline and coke and eyes me like a prize. She knows about the Musician and the affections from the Drummer and wants to try too. There is stillness between us. Our eyes are locked and we each chew on our bottom lips unconsciously. She breaks the silence, “Come to the bathroom with me.”

In the stall she holds a bump of coke on the edge of a key, commonly refer to as a ‘Keebler Elf,’ for me. After a few, once the remainder is safely stored in her pocket, she kisses me and finds her hand to the same place her guitarist was an hour ago. She pulls my panties down just far enough that she can hook one of her heels into and slide them to the floor.  No sooner does her knees meet them then I feel her tongue dip inside of my cunt, sliding back and forth, only taking breaks to please my clit. Women know pussy better than anyone.

She kisses me hard again and I can savor my familiar flavor in her mouth. “That’s just a taste of what I will do to you later.” She patronizes me with a smile, watching me watch her as I pull up my panties. Some girls can be huge playboys.

It was only ten and I had two options to go home with.

…to be continued.

Mic Check 1 2

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Just shy of perfect strangers but with a history of drunken encounters that alluded to desire with passive flirtations but never progressed, tonight would be a defining evening. We had created a ruse in the form of a guitar lesson. And for the first time since I had seen him on stage two-years-ago, I was going to be alone with the guitarist of my favorite band.

The Musician and I make honest attempts but wasteful efforts at the lesson. With the conversation taking longer intermissions even the microphone stands could see the thin sheath that veiled true intentions.

Traditionally I never make the first move. Call me old fashion but I like to be taken, swept off my feet, and have a kiss on my face before I can gasp. Okay, maybe that’s not really old fashion. And maybe ‘never’ is really ‘sometimes’…

Then it dawns on me. The Musician probably hasn’t been on a proper date in years. After all, girls throw their half-naked bodies at him after gigs. If he did have to work at schmoozing one home, he and his target were smashed off his free drinks from the bar. Whiskey is a hell of a wingman.

He stands behind me, his long arms encasing my body as his fingers wrap around mine, moving them to chords that strum my heartstrings. I feel as if at any moment I could melt into him. I keep flashing between memories of him on stage and the reality of him pressed behind me. The images merged and we are on stage. I close my eyes and see what I feel — the spotlight, the stage fog, and the crowd cheering us to climax.

Just as I think I can’t take another moment of unrequited lust he leans closer and kisses down the slop of my neck. Imagination should be described as the psychic foreplay that can lubricate the transition between fiction and reality. With his hands still covering mine I feel paralyzed. Rockstars are like tangible gods. And he truly has some spiritual hold over me. His will be done.

He slides the guitar from my grasp to its stand and I feel the curtain close in front of our imaginary band. I am no longer facing my fans; I’m facing my guitar teacher. He kisses me hard, passionately and I can hear the first notes of our song play. His hands move from my lower back over my ass to behind my thighs, lifting me in one suave move. It had been a while since I had made-out with someone over six feet and the opportunities seem intoxicating.

Sitting in his hands, suspended by only the strength in his arms I feel like he is offering me as tribute to the legends of music before him. I will fuck her for those that came before me in honor of their greatness. Even gods have titans.

And as if with their blessing, the Musician drops to one knee and sweeps me onto the practice space floor between the drum kit and audio board. Missing clothes reveal tattoos, bruises and scars. He has been places and seen some shit. His body, his image, is exactly what you think of when you picture a rockstar — tattooed ribs, mohawk, and a gleam in his wicked eyes that says, I’m about to perform.

His calloused fingers run across my body and I know whom the real fan is. He kisses, licks, and taunts my nipples as if I needed more foreplay then being in the room that produced “I Won’t Be Back For You.” He fingers me slowly, watching me bite my lip as I try not to whimper. His finger work turns me into his personal sex doll. He can do whatever he wants to me.

I try to mirror his actions but he holds control, pinning my arms above my head as he moves on top of me. My eyes roll back and I hold my breath as I feel his dick push inside my dripping wet pussy. I might just get off on the fact he’s inside of me.

He fucks like he plays — in rhythm, loudly, and for a 45-minute set. He is a god. His talent isn’t solely musical; it’s all forms of pleasure. He should do this on stage. Ticket sales would soar. I cum, he cums, the crowd is pleased.

In the aftermath as I lay here with one of his songs echoing in my head, I remember that I was warned that the Musician is a ladies’ man. But didn’t every musician have this quality? And did it matter? After all, wasn’t I a mens’ lady?

No. No, now I am a groupie. A completely satisfied groupie ready for an encore.

Confessions to Past Lovers

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I’ve always wanted to say a little something to the ones that left a little something on my sheets.

  • I didn’t get an abortion. I was never pregnant. But I heard you cheated on me and I knew this would crush you.
  • I cheated on you with two 15-year-old boys. I assumed I’d stop when we got married. I wouldn’t have.
  • It makes me nausea to think I slept with you.
  • You thought you put it in my ass. You didn’t.
  • I consider you charity work.
  • I snooped through all of your things hoping to hate you.
  • I think I’m allergic to you. Seriously.
  • I kinda hope that night fucked up your sexual future.
  • I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Even after all these years.
  • It’s tiny.
  • Your body is weird.
  • You might be the most embarrassing person I’ve slept with.
  • That night was perfect. That’s why I didn’t call.
  • Your money made me feel like a whore.
  • I broke you. I’ll do it again.
  • My favorite thing about you is that no one knows you.
  • You have NO rhythm.
  • How did you get addicted?
  • I went home, got in the shower, and poured rubbing alcohol in my vagina.
  • I know what those pills are for. And yes, you need them. Also, your new girlfriend is a psycho I hear.
  • Thanks.
  • You never called me again.  But the bruise you left on my chin ended up being one of my favorite inside jokes with Melissa.
  • I cheated on you with that guy you hate, every time I thought you did, and with your best friend. I don’t regret anything except staying with you.
  • I feel better now that you got a divorce.
  • Why did I like you?
  • I went out on a date and kissed him when I said I was with the girls.
  • You bring out the worst in me.
  • I’m an asshole. I warned you.

Well, I feel better.