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.