by Hank Wilder
“I’m so close,” Allen mutters to himself. “I’m so fucking close.”
My husband’s body is quaking hard, his muscles clenching and releasing as he draws nearer to his impending orgasm. Seconds later, he lets out a blood-curdling scream as a potent climax rips through his body. Allen is cumming hard, shaking wildly against the hood for what seems like forever. Jizz blasts from the head of his cock.
Meanwhile, Jim doesn’t let up for a second, carrying my husband through what appears to be one of the best orgasms of his life.
When Allen finally finishes, Jim slides out of him. My husband turns around abruptly and drops down to his knees before the handsome, muscular man, gazing up at him with smiling eyes and an open mouth.
“Give me that hot white load,” Allen demands, sticking out his tongue playfully.
Allen reaches up and cradles Jim’s balls while he beats himself off, a process that only takes a matter of seconds. The next thing I know, this other man is blowing his massive load all over my husband’s face, the spunk cascading down across him in a beautiful torrent of cum. Allen happily swallows pump after pump of pearly seed, catching as much as he can and then going back for more.
Meanwhile, I erupt with an orgasm of my own, my teeth clenched tight as a quiet hiss escapes my lips. I am completely overwhelmed with pleasure as hot jizz blasts from the head of my cock, splattering out across the garage flood below me in milky patterns.
When my husband finally finishes, he stands up proudly and wipes his mouth.
“That was amazing,” Allen offers with a smile.
“It was,” Jim replies, “but what about your husband?”
“He’ll be fine,” my husband retorts with a wry grin. “He’ll just be thankful that I’m finally taking care of my car.”
SATAN’S PACT
5
Being a musician is a damn hard job, regardless of where you land on the totem pole of success.
At the very top you have the rich and famous pop stars and rock legends, but those are few and far between. It’s difficult to get your name out there, and once you’re off and running there’s plenty of hard, grueling work to be done. Even after all that, you’ll still be nothing without a hefty helping of good luck to steer you into the right place at the right time.
What’s talent worth if there’s nobody there to witness it?
If you do happen to be one of the rare fortunate ones that make it to the top of the food chain, you’ve got the whole world waiting for you to come crashing down in glorious fashion. Of course, they’d never say it to your face, but the fact remains all eyes are trained on you and secretly wishing they’d have a little more devastation to look at.
Not to mention, even the most successful singers and bands have a difficult time staying close with their family and friends, forced to spend huge stretches of their life out on the road and far from the ones they love. It’s a lot to ask of anyone, even if they do happen to be raking in piles of cash.
At the other end of the spectrum, of course, is the struggling musician. Yes, there’s a certain amount of grandeur that comes with the ability to shred a guitar or write a good song, but grandeur won’t pay the bills or keep food on the table. The social currency is nice, but it can only get you so far. Meanwhile, while you’re out there spending your time hustling from gig to gig, the rest of the world is going to college or climbing up the business ladder.
By the time you’ve realized there’s not a chance in hell you’ll ever be a famous musician, you’re already way behind the curve.
Despite all this, there’s always gonna be people like me who don’t give a damn either way. People who keep hustling until they’re dead and buried, because they’re not in it for the money, or the fame, or the acclaim. They’re in it simply because they love to play, and it’s the only thing they could ever see themselves doing.
This philosophy and diehard enthusiasm has somehow managed to carry me well into my twenties. Every time I looks like I’m completely out of cash, just days from living on the street, some opportunity will come out of nowhere and pick me right back up again. I’ve landed all kinds of gigs with a variety of bands, but they never last, and the money is only enough to help me pay off my debts and too survive until the next random guitar job comes along.
It’s exhausting, but I’m not gonna stop. At least, that’s what I always said until today.
Today is the day that I make my move, the day that I put it all on the line and potentially embarrass myself in front of the local Memphis, Tennessee music community once and for all. Plenty of the low level locals know my name around town, but over at the big time recording studios I might as well have been born yesterday. These are the hallowed grounds that could set up any session player for the big time, the studios where all the hottest records are cut for the biggest clients. They pay well, and they pay consistently. Not only that, but they’re a perfect springboard for starting off on a career of your own.
These recording studios all have relationships with the record labels, not just the small ones around these parts, but the national institutions with offices on either coast.
If I make a good impression, this afternoon could change my life forever. If I make a fool of myself, then maybe it is a good time to call it quits. After all, I’m behind on rent, there’s no food in the fridge and, worst of all, my husband Jason is getting sick of my shit.
If I don’t turn things around quickly, I could lose his forever.
Suddenly, my deep thoughts are broken by two black sedans pulling into the alley next to me. The cars park right outside the backdoor of the recording studio, which is where I’ve been sitting for the last hour or so on an overturned milk crate.
I stand abruptly, carrying my guitar case as I approach the men who climb out of their cars.
“Hi, I’m Brad,” I tell them, shaking the hand of the closest man in the bunch. I know exactly who he is, but I don’t actually realize this fact until he’s standing right there in front of me.
The man shakes my hand and eyes me skeptically. “The engineers told me there was somebody sitting out here all morning,” he states bluntly. “I’m Logan, and this is my studio.”
“I know who you are,” I reply. “I’m a big fan of your work. Everything you’ve done here at Grant Street is incredible.”
Clearly enjoying the flattery, Logan slows down a bit while the rest of the musicians and crew filter past us.
“I see you’ve got a guitar there,” Logan offers, glancing down at my case. “You a lead player?”
“Lead, rhythm, vocals,” I tell him, listing off my skillset. “Hell, I’ll even play the drums if you need to me to.”
“So you’re spreading your talents thin, huh?” Logan counters, raising his eyebrows a bit.
“Oh… no,” I stammer, realizing what I’ve done.
“Because we need a lead player for this session,” explains Logan. “The guy who was supposed to do it quit about ten minutes ago.”
“I can do it,” I blurt, my heart suddenly skipping a beat. This is exactly the opportunity I was looking for, the brief moment where luck and circumstance have cracked the door open just enough for me to slip inside.
Logan chuckles to himself. “We’ll see about that. Come on in. While the rest of the guys are setting up I’ll bring you into Studio B and have you play over a few bars. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Logan turns and guides me inside, where my senses are suddenly assaulted by a creative atmosphere I could’ve only ever dreamed of. The studio itself is quite inconspicuous from the alley, but now that I’m in here I’m blown away by the sheer size of the place. Everything is beautiful and state of the art, with engineers rushing this way and that in preparation of the session to come. Off in Studio A someone is tuning up a drum kit, while someone else claps loudly into a microphone.
We don’t head in that direction, however. Instead, Logan, me, and an engineer that Logan has motioned for, head off down a long hallway and
then turn to the right. We push through a door and, the next thing I know, we’re in a slightly smaller room, still just as impressive as the last one, with a large mixing board sitting before a huge pane of transparent glass. Beyond the glass is the tracking room, where a gorgeous, vintage guitar amplifier sits waiting for me.
“Go in there and put on some headphones,” Logan instructs. “We’ll play you one of the tracks and when the vocal stops you come in with a guitar solo. Got that?”
I start to reply but, before I can answer, Logan interrupts me.
“Good,” the man confirms, literally pushing me forward into the tracking room.
It’s only now that my nervous anxiety really kicks into overdrive. Sitting outside, it was easy to imagine how I’d feel standing in this room. It’s another thing to actually be here with a guitar in my hands.
I glance over at the glass behind me and see that Logan and the engineer are motioning towards some headphones that hang from a nearby stand.
Following their instructions, I put them on, at which point I can here the men’s voices quite clearly.
“You all plugged in and turned on?” Logan questions.
I shake my head, then run over and flip on the amplifier. I grab a wrapped instrument cable that sits on top of cabinet and then plug it into my guitar, immediately causing a faint warm hum to fill my headphones. I play with the strings a bit, noting that everything seems to be working properly.
“Alright, sounds good,” continues Logan. “Tracks gonna roll now. Come in after the vocal ends.”
I nod and almost immediately my head is filled with a beautiful, soaring rock song. I identify the key quickly, and the rhythm is simple enough. This should be a piece of cake.
I’m so focused on being prepared for my big moment that I don’t even notice when it comes and goes. The next thing I know, the track stops abruptly.
Suddenly, Logan’s voice cuts through my headphones yet again. “Hey… that was your cue.”
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “One more time.”
Seconds later, the music begins again.
Determined not to mess this up, I focus intently on the track as it pulses and grooves. I know exactly where I need to start playing and what I want it to sound like, but as soon as the moment arrives I find my hands inexplicably unable to move.
My heart slams hard in my chest as sweat begins to form on my forehead. I’m crashing and burning, and I know it.
The music stops.
“You gonna play or what?” Logan asks, this time a little frustrated. In the background I can here the engineer trying to convince Logan that there’s not enough time for this, and that the engineer has a friend right down the road who can fill in on lead guitar.
“Wait,” I suddenly yelp. “I broke a string. Just let me put a new one on and we’ll get this going.”
Logan and the engineer exchange glances.
“Just one second,” I beg, lying through my teeth.
I can see Logan let out a long sigh. “Alright, we’re gonna go check in on the setup in Studio A. We’ll be back in five, but this is your last shot. Otherwise, we’re gonna have to find somebody else. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” I confirm.
Logan nods as him and his engineer leave the room, suddenly plunging my surroundings in complete and utter silence.
I just stand in the dim light of the tracking room, trying to calm down but not quite sure what to do with myself. Since there’s actually no broken string, I don’t have much to do other than wallow in my own fear and anxiety.
“Fuck,” I shout out loud, frustrated. “Pull it together, man.”
“Seems like you could use a little help,” a voice suddenly comments from behind.
I jump and spin around abruptly, shocked to see a devilishly handsome man in a bright red suit emerge from the shadows. I hadn’t seen a door back there, making his arrival even more startling.
Seconds later, I notice that I was right. There’s no door to be found.
“Where’d you come from?” I question.
The man in the red suit chuckles to himself. “That’s a long story, I don’t think we have the time for it. I’m Damien.” The man reaches out his hand for me to shake.
I give him a firm shake, taking note of just how hot the man’s skin is.
Damien smiles with a knowing, mischievous grin. “Looks like you’ve found yourself in a bit of a bind,” he observes. “You’re right to be stressed, though. This is a pivotal moment in your life, whether you know it or not. If this session goes well then you’re destined for fame and fortune. Unfortunately, the other outcome isn’t so hot.”
“How do you know?” I stammer.
“I’m the devil,” he informs me. “I know a lot of things.”
In any other circumstance I would’ve burst out laughing right then and there, but there’s something about this man and the aura he projects that makes me instantly know he’s telling the truth. There is a power behind his eyes that’s undeniable.
“Are you here to make an offer for my soul?” I counter.
Damien rolls his eyes. “What is it with you humans? Every single one of you thinks that I’m out for their soul. Is that all that I am to you? Some soul-collecting loser? Do you really think I need anymore souls?”
“I don’t know,” I admit with a shrug.
“What I need is to have a little fun,” Damien continues. “Speaking of which, your husband Jason is quite the handsome guy.”
“You want his soul?” I continue. “Not a chance.”
“I don’t’ want anyone’s soul!” the devil yells. “I just want a chance to make a pass at him.”
“Why not just ask me if you can fuck him?” I counter, a little confused.
The devil shakes his head, a little offended. “I’m not just some monster. It’s his choice who he fucks and who he doesn’t fuck,” explains Damien. “I just want a chance to make a pass, and if he happens to cheat on you then… no hard feelings. I’m damn near irresistible anyway, so I’m not that worried.”
“And what do I get?” I continue.
“You’ll be the best guitar player on the planet, for a little while at least. This session will go well and your whole life will change because of it,” the devil explains.
“All that just to make a pass at my husband?” I reply, bemused.
Damien chuckles to himself. “I mean, he’s pretty fucking hot.”
Suddenly, I can his the faint voices of Logan and his engineer approaching the studio once more. It’s now or never.
“You’ve got a deal,” I tell him, and almost instantly the devil disappears into thin air.
Logan enters the control room and presses a button on the mixer before him. “Alright, you’ve got one more shot, Brad. You ready?”
I nod, my fingers feeling exceptionally loose and limber on the neck of my guitar. “Ready.”
The first thing that tips me off to something amiss is when the doorbell rings without my security detail warning me. This mansion is patrolled day and night by a highly trained security force, and they always let me know when someone’s at the gate, let alone standing at my front door.
“Who is it?” my beautiful husband Jason calls out from the kitchen, where he’s currently making us dinner.
Of course, we could easily have one of the private chefs do it, but tonight is a special night. Tonight is our ten-year anniversary.
Jason is incredible, and has stood by my side through thick and thin. It’s easy to see why any guy would wanna be with world famous rocker Brad Johnson, but Jason has been a part of this journey from the beginning. He loved me back when I could barely make ends meet, back when I was camped out behind recording studios and literally begging for gigs.
“I don’t know,” I call back to him, strolling through our enormous front entryway towards the door. In situations like this I should probably be more cautious, but for some reason I’m not too worried.
I reach the front door and
glance over at a small video screen next to it, showing the view from a camera positioned right outside.
Immediately, I gasp as I recognize Damien’s familiar face and bright red suit, Ia sight I’d almost completely dismissed as a wild, anxious fever dream of my youth until this very moment.
The handsome devil looks up and waves to the camera. “I’m here, Brad,” he calls out. “You remember me, don’t you?”
I open the door and let out a long sigh. “I suppose I should’ve expected this at some point.”
Damien smiles and gives me a hug. “Enough of the chit chat. Where’s the man of the house?”
“He’s in the kitchen,” I inform him.
The devil strolls right past me, not even slowing down for a second as I scurry behind him. Both of us reach the kitchen at exactly the same time.
“Oh!” Jason blurts as he looks up from his simmering saucepan and notices us. “I didn’t think we were having company.”
“I didn’t think so either,” I offer.
“And on our anniversary?” Jason continues, a little frustrated with me.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Damien finally interjects, walking forward and taking Jason by the hand with seductive grace. “Me and your husband are old friends, and I was just in the neighborhood.”
The second their skin touches I can see a powerful shift in my husband’s demeanor. He’s gazing deep into the devil’s eyes now, completely overwhelmed by his supernaturally handsome appearance. Damien looks like the perfect man in every way.
“I guess that’s okay,” my husband sighs.
“He won’t be staying long,” I call out, a little frustrated.
Damien turns to glance back. “A deal’s a deal,” he reminds me. “You can I can undo all this just by snapping my fingers, right?”
My husband’s eyes haven’t once returned to mine, now completely entranced by the rugged man in the bright red suit before him.