“You’d stolen the show from him there, Lucy.” Her grip tightened on my hand, “You need to be careful, girl.”
Every part of me was exhausted, and I couldn’t put together what she was telling me. Still looking very serious she said,
“You can always call me here.”
BLAZE
Part 3
BURN
by
Alice May Ball
When Blaze was satisfied with my sword swallowing skills, we were practically never apart for the rest of the Organ Grind tour.
It kicked off as Blaze took me to a hotel suite, and the party that went on for the next month, moving to another city every couple of days. The parties were two or three hotel suites, or, in one small town, a whole motel, all around a pool.
Wherever we were, the place was mostly packed with hard-rock stars, dancers and bikers, as well as the crew and a few guys, usually in shades, who transacted business in bathrooms and didn’t stay too long.
Every night Blaze played one or two songs with the Organ Grind, but the tour was more like a sideshow, an incidental to the epic partying. Blaze was never far from a bottle of bourbon, hardly ever slept, and he fucked me senseless at least half a dozen times every day.
Where one day ended and the next began became more of a philosophical speculation whenever jokes ran slow.
In a house in Beverly Hills, Blaze took me from behind in an infinity pool, the valley stretched out in front of us, bathed in golden sun, and about twenty old geezers on a ‘Homes of the Stars’ tour bus shouted and waved at the sight of my big tits splashing in the pool.
That and my head thrashing from side to side, plus my keening wails from Blaze reaming my ass for the third time that morning. The wives of the old geezers weren’t such big fans of the show, although one sweet-looking white haired old girl had her nose so hard up against the bus window, I thought her face was going to burst like a balloon full of water.
I felt like one of those old-time screen goddesses, being gallantly sired by Douglas Fairbanks or Cary Grant.
We fucked in the aisle of a Learjet over the Grand Canyon, and Blaze tried to get the cabin attendant to join in. She wasn’t having any of it, but Blaze teased her, had her really drunk and got her skirt hiked up. She sat on my face and I sucked her as Blaze fucked me wheelbarrow style.
She came like a sleepy, mewling kitty, stretching. The taste and the feel of her puss, I kinda liked, Her, not so much.
We did it at the top of the Coit Tower, the San Francisco bay and the Golden Gate bridge twinkling in the evening fog, although I didn’t see much of it upside down from between his thighs. My thighs were on his shoulders for the standing sixty-nine.
He was farther up my throat than ever that time, and I hardly moved along his shaft, just squeezed him with my throat, my mouth and my lips, lolled my tongue around him, slicked him in slippery saliva and sucked. We barely moved, only filled and gave to and took from each other, more and more.
It seemed like forever, and he moaned some of the sweetest sounds I that ever heard him make. After the smoky taste of precum, my tongue lapped and pressed out to the hilt of his shaft, and he began to pump, so gently and so slowly, until I moaned, and the low vibration triggered him.
Then he started to move and he was pumping cum so hard into my throat, I had to pull back to get the head of his love muscle in my mouth, or I wouldn’t have got a taste at all.
The last night of the tour is in Madison Square Garden. Blaze is pumped. He plays three songs on stage with The Organ Grind, plus they hauled him back for the second encore.
His vocals are all smack on the money, and his guitar solos all catch fire. In the last encore, Blaze and Chainsaw improvise an inspired guitar duet, harmonising higher and higher, spinning faster and faster licks, and the crew let off a surprise firework display at the climax. And the song is Lovelace Lies Bleeding.
A fleet of hummers, limos, trucks and bikes sweep the band, the crew and a comet’s tail of wild revellers back to the 42nd Street hotel, where the top floor is all ours. Blaze and I stepped into the suite together, into the noisy throng.
Dancers, showgirls and all-purpose floozies stretched and posed and cavorted, with and on the men, all manes, tattoos, leather and denim. The scents of testosterone and its female counterparts were intoxicating.
Dancers in heels, stockings and nothing else but filmy scarves were on all the window sill ledges. thumping rock cranked out of the sound system, and the riggers, bikers, players, techs and liggers drank, dallied with dancers, and generally found much great cause to whoop and holler.
We were on the balcony slamming tequila shots with champagne. Slammed into a foam, it hits the bloodstream fast. Coming off the tour, the final concert and the sheer adrenaline rush from the Garden in full throng of thunderous appreciation, the energy crackled in everyone.
All eyes sparkled and flashed, no drink was drunk unclinked in toast to some triumph. Blaze tried to act cool, but everywhere I touched him, all of his muscles twanged and vibrated. His eyes flashed with fire. He cupped my chin in his hand and his eyes snapped into mine.
A rush of emotion flashed through me, and I could see that he was welling up to say something to me. Those moments were apt to be explosive. Blaze expresses himself with actions, or he makes jokes. Straight talk is a precipice for him.
My hand was on his chest and his heart thumped under my fingers. My sense was to calm him, to soothe him, but I ached and yearned to know his mind.
He pulled me closer, and my breasts met his silk shirt, still wet from exertion on the stadium stage. The ripple of his stomach muscles, under the shirt, met my hardening nipples. My breasts pressed against him, and I felt as though all of him, all that was inside of him was ready to burst into my breasts.
He cupped them both in his hands and squeezed. When he did stuff like this, especially in a room full of people, it was always bravado, a show. This was something different. His grin wasn’t the showman’s leer, it was something connected.
It felt wonderful, it felt like the heavens would open and a deluge would fall on us, soak us and cleanse us. A renewal. But it was uncharted territory, new ground, and it frightened me, because it could be an overdose of the thing that he feared.
I didn’t know what that thing was exactly, but I had a sense of what would touch it, and I longed to heal it for him. He squeezed my breasts and my heart raced, but something told me there was danger in the night air, forty floors above Manhattan. His cock stirred and snaked up against my tummy, and I hugged him, to feel it, to feel him, enfolded in my rising breasts. He said,
“More shots,”
And I didn’t know whether I was laughing or crying. I was kind of doing both, and he kissed me. Softly at first, but slowly and deeply. His arms were around me, mine were around him, our breasts, hips, thighs, all of me was reaching for all of him.
All of him was possessing all of me. When he pulled me close it was softer but somehow closer than he ever had been before. The embrace was long and warm and soft, and at the same time as our bodies clung and pressed together, turning for more closeness, adjusting for an extra inch of long and hot and hard touch.
Then someone offered us the shots. A look quickly wound through Blazes eyes, a look that I once saw at a show, when the bass player dropped the beat. A look for only a fraction of a moment, but a look like murder. He made a new smile, took the shots and topped them with Bollinger champagne. He held up the glass, a tribute, showed it across the balcony. He said,
“Hero’s all,”
Our glasses clinked, I said,
“Hero’s all,” along with the rest of the revellers, we slammed our shots and inhaled them. Blaze fixed me with his eyes, and said,
“We can do anything, baby,” and his eyes swept across the balcony, making sure of his audience, as he started to undo his big, silver belt buckle. For me, this moment should have been ours. Ours alone.
There was a whole firm of people on the tour, an
d I had no part in it, so I didn’t feel that I was entitled to take it for myself. The end-of-tour party was for everybody who drove, looked after clothes, flung up lights and rigging and pulled them down, handled security, instrument technicians, sound mixers, and not to mention the musicians.
This was for them, even more than it was for Chainsaw or for Blaze. It wasn’t for me at all, I was a ‘plus one,’ not even a walk-on. But I had wanted it for myself, and I choked on having to share it.
Too late, girls were shrieking, guys were nodding and stamping, a girl was fire-breathing on the far side of the balcony, and the incendiary smell of petrol and burning air mixed with that dark scent of Blaze’s body.
My head swam as Blaze waved his fine, prodigious member in the glimmering lights, the orange illumination from the flames and the cool New York breeze. That fine weapon, firmly erect, thrust straight out of the front of his leather jeans, his neat ballsack like a launching pad.
Alone or in a crowd, the thought of that monster snaking into any part of me, from any end opened my sluice gates. My stomach thrilled and my juices ran. When I get that feeling with Blaze, my chest swells, my heart bangs, juice eeks out of my puss, and my eyes water. I haven’t known that with any other man. Every part of me opened to his nearness, his need, his want.
He put his fingers into my lips and I wet them and sucked on them. He reached down to my breasts and ripped open my shirt. Sliding down his body, I nestled and wrapped the hot, beating meat of his cock between my swelling breasts.
Here, he was mine. His firm, huge member burrowed into the heat between my soft breasts like an animal cub. His pleasure called out to my welling juices and my nipples throbbed as I held his shaft deep in the softness of my cleavage.
My hands pushed my breasts together and I craned so my lips could reach his dark, shining, purple head. I licked at its opening, and he shook, and the taste sent such a thrill down my body that I had to hold my thighs apart, the juice flowed so hot.
I felt it warm the skin of my thighs below my shorts, down to the stocking tops.
My lips parted and I wet them with my tongue to draw that head into my mouth, and onto my tongue. When it was inside, my wet lips closed around it and my tongue lapped and beat against its hard underside.
I wanted him more and more as I felt his vein thrum in my mouth and tasted the dark sweetness of him. His pulse pounded with the anticipation of what was to come, and I drew every second of it out, nibbling along his length, drawing him in, a little more at a time.
My stomach rose to give rhythmic suction to him. Hot as they were, my lips felt cool along the length of Blaze’s swelling shaft. When I had him to the top of my throat and paused, he cried my name. That was the most thrilling moment of all of these weeks.
Fucking in reverse cowgirl behind the drummer, my red swollen tits bouncing for the front rows of the audience to see, the Coit Tower, the infinity pool, it was nothing compared to the raw, delicious sound as my name tore out of his throat right there.
My head plunged and my lips slid straight down, all the way to his hilt. I pressed there, and stretched my tongue out to tease his balls and my breath fanned his groin.
I pressed my breasts against his thighs, running my hard, stinging nipples along them, and pulsing waves ran from the bottom of my stomach up to my chest like the gush of a volcano.
He moaned again, and I fucked him with my throat, with my face, with my mouth, with my tongue, with the power of my breath, with all of the suction that I could muster.
He reached to grab my hair. This time, for the first time, he tried to slow me down, to make me take him more softly. I wouldn’t. The pain of my hair, tearing in his hands, only spurred me on. I slid and I sucked and I dove and I rocked. I rocked. I took it from him. He couldn’t stop me, and he couldn’t hold back.
He shouted, wild and abandoned and I went faster, harder. The size of him, the length of him filled me and in that moment I had him, I had him all. His spunk exploded into my mouth so hard I nearly gagged.
All of my practicing, I wasn’t ready for that, I but I was still able to suppress the reflex. I licked and sucked and pumped and out shot a steady beat of smoking hot, silky, salty, delicious drenching jizz.
It filled my mouth and I relished it like a rare wine. I savored it and greedily drew in all of the taste and the smell and the smoothness of it. As he pulled out I put my lips together and squeezed a milky line of magic man-juice out for him to see, and one little dribble ran from the corner of my mouth.
The stamping, shouting and yelling started, but I was ready, I jumped on a table, gleaming with sweat and dripping in musky juices, my breasts swinging, and I shouted and waved a glass to toast my ecstatic congratulations to Blaze.
I made sweeping eye-contact with the whole wild rabble of spectators, and I had enough force to persuade them that Blaze was the champion of this heroic event. That he was the triumphant hero, that the laurels and garlands were all due to him.
And, for the first time, he sat for the applause. His face turned up towards mine and he actually smiled. He was accustomed to having the adulation, and he was practiced at taking it. He may never have had somebody hand it to him before. My heart beat so hard I felt it could burst.
We partied in the suite, and in the suites nearby, and for an hour or two, Blaze really seemed to be happy and relaxed. We chatted with the sound guys and swapped tall tour tales, we hung out with the musicians and dancers, we quaffed champagne with decorum and we slugged shots with abandon. Blaze too a couple of meetings in the bathroom with a guy in shades.
We were dancing out on the balcony in the cool night air, three of the dancers dancing with us, winding their arms and legs around me, and around Blaze.
Their naked breasts and thighs slipped and wrapped around us. I was feeling only slightly uneasy about it, and only every now and then, since I Blaze and I had made such a very strong connection earlier on.
I guess I wanted to keep that moment alive, and perhaps I wanted it a bit more than Blaze did. Hard to say now. A skinny redhead had wrapped herself all the way around him.
She was on his muscular thigh, stroking it hard with her barely covered puss, she pressed her breasts over every part of him where they would go. He grinned that leery grin, and held my ass in his big hand. He slipped his hand around front and into my pants, gave me a little rub and a squeeze.
As always, my juices couldn’t get onto him fast enough. He took his hand back and I followed it to his face as he smelled his fingers with obvious pleasure. Then he slipped them into the dancer’s mouth and I yelped. I glowered at her, then at him. The whole balcony stopped still to watch for a fraction of a second.
His forearm caught me right across my cheek bone. The shock unbalanced me more that the blow, and I toppled head down, ass up. My view was a forty story drop to the street below, I was spinning, and my hand struck something hard.
Fingers gripped reflexively before I had completely worked out what was going on. This was the wrong side of the balcony. The outside. My shoulder hurt like hell, but my hand had a grip on the rail. The sounds of the party were more distant, and the sounds from the street more present as I swung in the chill night air.
My fingers didn’t have enough grip to hold me, and I couldn’t move them at all to improve my hold. I swung to throw my other hand at the rail, and lost my grip. The balcony vanished upwards, my nostrils were jammed with an uprush of air and the party sounds drifted away as I fell. I did catch Blaze’s voice, shouting. I got the word ‘bitch,’ but not much else as the wind rushed upwards.
My armpit felt a massive jolt, then the crook of my elbow and my flailing fall halted. The balcony rail one floor down had snagged my arm, or my arm had hooked it. Either way, it was still a very long way down. This time I was able to reach my other hand up to the rail and grab a hold.
A pain in my shoulder was making me faint, worse as I worked a leg up to the rail. My weight was still the wrong side of the drop, and I slipped ag
ain. I had to press my bad arm into the inside of the balcony to heave myself over the rail, and I fell with a thud to the floor, landing hard on my shoulder.
I was on the balcony, though, so I wasn’t dead yet. A lot of shouts came from above, and I heard, ‘The room down stairs,’ ‘Get the cunt,’ and, ‘finish this.’ I don’t think any of those voices were Blaze’s.
There was blood on the balcony floor, which I guessed must be mine, but more pressing was the need to get out of there before a gang of vigilantes made it down from the party above. The balcony curtains were closed, and dim lights showed through.
That didn’t mean that anyone was in the room. People often leave the lights on in hotel rooms when they go out, like it’s some kind of a luxury. If there was no-one in, the mob may not get to me easily, but they’d station a trusty biker at the door. And I wasn’t going anywhere. While I was still figuring it out and dragging myself to the window, I saw a shadow behind the curtain, and the glass slid back.
Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) Page 61