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STUCK BY A DRUMMER
This short work in progress orginally appeared on the RIGHT STUFF message board. Here it is in free-flowing, easy to read format!!
PART TWO
It was one of those classic "UH-OH" moments that make you cringe even when you're only an observer. As a participant (who had the other participant's softening manhood buried in me to the hilt), just imagine how I felt.
Steve craned his neck to better watch Pete's approach, looking more irritated than worried or embarrassed. "What do you want?"
"Not an encore, that's for sure," Pete replied loftily. The sofa creaked as he sat on its edge and helped himself to the pack of cigarettes that Steve had left on the coffee table. "That was pretty nasty, people. You looked and sounded like a couple of water buffalo." When I frowned at the comparison, he smiled proudly. "I watch the nature channel."
"Only when 'Betsey Johnson Live' is off the air," Steve retorted. While Pete pouted, Steve withdrew from me slowly, holding the base of the condom to keep it from slipping off. I slapped my legs together and pulled down my skirt quickly, finding Pete's presence unsettling. Steve didn't seem to care- he looked to be more concerned with finding a garbage pail in the dimness.
While he was searching, Pete's eyes traveled the length of my body. "So how much are you going to charge her for an escort fee?" he asked his bandmate.
I knew he was just being bitchy, but annoyance struck anyway. "Does your wife know you run off at the mouth like this?" I growled, swinging my feet to the floor and pulling my blouse back over my jiggling tits. From the darkness Steve laughed.
"KC love, he IS the wife." He returned to the sofa, which now had the sleazy atmosphere of a porno movie prop. Pete watched avidly, almost hungrily, as he tucked his generous endowment back into his trousers and zipped up. "Well, THAT was interesting. Has Lee collected the money for us yet?"
"Dont know." Pete reluctantly tore his eyes off his bandmate. "Maybe you'd better double check. The only currency Lee appreciates is INCHES."
"True enough," Steve sighed. He glanced down at me as I put all my papers, pens, notes, etc back into my shoulder bag. My vagina was still throbbing from its wild invasion, but I mananged to look the picture of composed professionalism. "I guess we're done then?"
"Yes." I stood up and extended my hand to first him and then Pete. "Thank you both for your time. My editor will let you know when the magazine runs the article."
Both of them raised their brows at my composure. I don't know what they expected: tears of regret at departing such hallowed company? Pleas for an encore that had NOTHING to do with singing? All I knew was that I had to get out of there, and fast. Steve was looking too damn good in his tight shirt and trousers, pale yet MANLY face captured by a post-sexfest flush. My car was just outside; along with a toolkit, car registration, and other emergency supplies, I kept a vibrator in my dashboard.
Goddamn Pete Burns- he knew the state I was in. Anyone with a remotely operational feminine side would have. He got up, strolled over to me, and rested his arm around my shoulders, smiling so innocently that I wanted to clock him. "Don't go yet, hon. You haven't interviewed my wife yet. Or my dancers. Or gotten my philosophies on why I like Betsey Johnson as opposed to Donatella. Thank God the night's young- we have HOURS of material to go through."
You bitch, I thought. Wetness was collecting between my thighs at an alarming rate. "No, no, that's all right, Mr. Burns. But thank you." I tried to move for the door, but his clawlike fingers dug deeper into my shoulder.
"Oh, PLEASE don't go yet. I read your last article, the interview with Alison Moyet. Did you EVER find out whether she was the love child of Mama Cass?"
I locked eyes with Steve, mutely appealing for understanding and rescue. Despite having gone through and relished the wildest quickie ever, I was far from sated. Mindblowing sex with industry rebels had never been forecasted in my future by the nuns of St. Mary's Catholic school, and it would be awhile before the impact got out of my system. As I stood there in Pete's teasing grip, my nipples hardened again and the blood rushed to my face. There was no trace of amusement or disdain in Steve's eyes as he acknowledged my condition. If anything, his own body started showing signs of responding in kind.
"Oh shit. I know the hetero mating ritual when I see it," Pete said. "Please tell me I don't have to-"
He never got to finish his sentence. Steve lunged forward, lips pressed tightly together and nostrils flaring, and seized me by the wrist. He shoved the door all the way open with one thrust from his shoulder, and veered sharply to the left, dragging me into the mens' toilet. My high heels skittered and scraped on the dirty grey floor tiles as I fought to keep up (and keep my arm from being yanked out at the shoulder joint). With dizzying speed he directed us into an empty stall, kicked the door shut with his biker boot, and pressed himself against me.
Like all club toilets, this one smelled revolting and I could swear that there were TWO pairs of male feet in the stall next to ours. But I didn't care- it just added to the animalistic surreality. I moaned and ground my crotch against his (hooking one leg around his waist) as he seized my sweaty face between his large hands and kissed me. It was a bruising kiss that actually cut my lip a bit. I didn't give a fuck- my fingers dug into his heavily muscled arms and my tongue explored his mouth just as eagerly as his did mine. He shoved his hand between my legs, roughly carressing and exploring. Always one to reciprocate, I used my own free hand to unzip his trousers, extract his awakened erection, and stroke it to near breaking point.
It was huge-I know that's an overused word when applied to dicks like his, but honest to God, it was the size that could cripple a woman if used at full throttle. Inspired and awed, I crouched down and slid it into my mouth, using my hands at the same time to make up for my inability to deepthroat. He didn't seem to mind: he tossed his head back, sending his black hair sliding over his shoulders, and leaned his full weight against the side of the stall. His face relaxed and acquired that dreamy look I call "blowjob bliss."
"THat's great," he moaned, stroking my hair and pumping his hips slowly, "that's so good. Please don't stop."
How could I resist such a plea from the, uh, heart? I used my hands, tongue, and throat muscles to excite him to the point that I could almost feel his balls boiling. Then suddenly he reached down, hooked his hands under my arms, and bent me over. I braced my hands against my knees, eagerly aniticipating another wild fuck.
"Take it easy, though," I said half-heartedly. "My pussy can only take so much."
He replied, "WHo said anything about your pussy, KC?"
And spat onto his palm.
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