by Sylvia Fox
“It’s hard to believe you had never done this before me, Liane. Are you telling me the truth?”
I nodded as enthusiastically as I could, given the fact that I had a long, thick cock pressed against the back of my throat.
Until my first time with him, months ago, I’d been a virgin.
I’d kissed boys, given a clumsy hand job, and had my nipples sucked and had a guy touch me, but the crash course in cock that I’d received had made me something of an expert. Thanks to unquenchable desire. On both our parts.
“Your mouth was made for two things – singing and sucking my cock. You’re amazing.”
The pride that washed over me was unmistakable, and scratched an itch I didn’t even know I had.
I faced a quandary, however. I so badly wanted to please him, to make him come, but my body was also aching to get fucked. If I made him finish with my mouth, he probably wouldn’t give me the pounding I craved.
But if I failed to give my best effort, would he still be so proud of me?
I pushed such thoughts aside and focused on his glorious cock. However, whenever, and wherever he let me experience it, I decided I should use my body to express my gratitude. I gulped him down as deeply as I ever had, mewing and drooling. He groaned his surprised approval. I felt the first tremors of an orgasm deep in my core. I’d not yet had one just from sucking his cock, but it was right. Fucking. There.
My thighs trembled as he ran his fingers through my hair.
My mind flashed to two guys I’d taken pictures with at the meet and greet earlier. One of them, a lanky, handsome guy with sandy blonde hair and a great smile, had totally undressed me with his eyes; I wondered if he went home and masturbated thinking about me after the concert, as some of the guys who sent me fan mail and messages online insisted on sharing with me that they did.
I imagined him watching me now, makeup smeared, sucking cock like I’d been born to do it. Furthermore, I imagined performing on stage in front of all my fans, all of them watching me being so filthy.
My untouched orgasm slammed into me like a freight train as I engulfed him, wrapping my lips around the base of his cock.
At the end of the day, it only mattered what he thought about. And all I wanted him to think about was me.
8
Three Years Ago…
We, all of us in the arena, needed a break to cool off after the overwhelming sexuality of MYB’s performance. The intermission lasted just shy of twenty minutes, as their set was taken down and replaced by Travis’s stuff.
The booming, disembodied voice of the public address announcer returned our attention to the stage: “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for … Travis! Zane!”
The crowd erupted with applause and the screams of every teenage girl in the audience (Yes, that included me. And Shelby.).
A single spotlight illuminated a sliver of the stage, and into it stepped … not Travis.
A blonde dancer, followed by a brunette, then another blonde, an endless parade of impossibly beautiful girls marched into position as an instrumental montage of his hit songs poured out of the speakers.
I wondered which of the dancers Travis had slept with. All of them? Was it part of the audition process? My sexual naïveté informed me that because of the way they swung their hips and gyrated on stage that they must all be fantastic in bed. The way Jesse and Isaac were more or less drooling over them gave me a twinge of jealousy. Shelby picked up on it, too, and she elbowed Jesse in the side.
“Do you need a bib?” she asked him, and he flipped her off, playfully.
As the music wound down, the bassline of Incredible You shook the building and the dancers organized themselves in a horseshoe shape, open end facing the crowd. From somewhere below the stage, an elevator lifted Travis Zane, mic in hand, right into the center of the dancers.
His dancing was frantic and contagious. He started to sing and we, all of us, were swept up by his kinetic energy and the power of his voice.
It became clear within moments that Travis Zane was doing exactly what he was put on earth to do.
After two, wild, up-tempo numbers, he grabbed a towel and dried his face. He made some remarks to the crowd, thanking them for their support and telling them how much he loved Charlotte. Standard concert stuff, but of course we ate it up.
He turned his back and chugged half a water bottle while girls near the front screamed and swooned. I wondered if they’d act the same way if he did anything else perfectly normal, like tying his shoes or brushing his teeth.
With the dancers stepping back nearer the band, Travis began pacing the stage, telling a story.
“So, you might be able to tell, I like being on stage. In fact, I love performing for you, the greatest fans in the world. Can you tell?”
The crowd erupted.
He nodded, smiled, and continued.
“But, you know, it wasn’t always like that. Back in middle school, I was a quiet, skinny kid just trying to find my niche. Trying to figure out where I fit in. How to make my mark.
“Our school had a talent show, and my mom, who had been listening to me sing in my room since I was in diapers, called the school and signed me up. Without telling me!” We all awwwwed at the thought of Travis’s proud, prophetic momma.
“Anyway, she drove me to the talent show that night, right? And I thought we were just going to watch. I was embarrassed enough that I’d be sitting with my mom, that I didn’t even have a group of friends to hang out with.
“We watched the first few acts, a boy from my class did standup, some girls did a dance routine, and then the principal went up on stage and called my name. Called me to the stage.
“What did I do? I burst into tears.”
Part of the current audience laughed, while the rest cried out with dramatic “awwwws” again.
As he made his way back across to our corner of the stage, he continued his story.
“Mom pulled me backstage to help me compose myself, and after a few more kids did their thing, she talked me into going out there and singing. Facing away from the crowd, and with her standing just a few feet away.”
On a giant screen above the stage, a brief video clip played, a recording made with somebody’s shaky handheld camcorder.
A young Travis Zane warbled through a Michael Jackson song, facing backstage, his adorable mom off to the side, grinning.
As the clip ended, the first few bars of a familiar tune started to play.
“All this reminiscing has gotten me a little emotional. I’m not sure I can get through this song without a little help. Sometimes in love, and in life, we all need to be a little Fearless! Please welcome to the stage, a very special friend of mine. Charlotte, this is the world premiere of somebody who’s going to be very famous very soon, and you can say you saw her first. All the way from New Tazewell, Tennessee, Lia Morris!”
With that, somebody tossed Travis a wireless mic, which he held out in my direction, beckoning me with his other hand.
My eyes opened so wide they must have looked like twin green dinner plates on my face.
My mouth was moving, but no sound came out. I shook my head in shock, all the while a smiling Travis Zane waited, expectantly, along with 19,500 of my newest, closest friends.
Jesse and Isaac half-shoved me up onto the stage as the extended intro to Fearless morphed into the real opening of the song.
I glanced back, and Shelby was high fiving and hugging everyone in her vicinity.
Travis leaned in close, speaking directly into my ear. “Just follow my lead, babe, just like we did earlier. You’ll slay!”
With that, he handed me the wireless mic he’d been holding, and to me it was like placing my hand on the ripcord to my parachute. I was in freefall, terrified, but I had something familiar in my hand, along with his polished, professional example to follow. It was all up to me whether I landed gracefully or with a splat.
Travis danced his way back to center stage, singing
his heart out.
I swayed and followed at a distance, clearing my throat and wishing I had some water. Or someplace to hide.
He completed his lines and turned his eyes toward my shaking form. 36,000 eyes joined his. On me.
Gulp.
9
Two Days Ago… Seattle
“I can smell you, Liane. You came, didn’t you?”
My trembling should (I thought) have made it obvious. But he had to twist my bliss into something humiliating. Stoking the fire inside me even more. Melting away anything that was left of Liane. Or Lia. Leaving only my lust. My need. My wanton, insatiable sexual appetite.
I answered his question by frantically sucking his cock, deeper and faster, whimpering with my desperate need to feel him erupt.
His fingers interlaced in the hair on the back of my head and he sighed.
“Watching you dance; actually, watching all those people watching you dance, and how turned on I know they’re getting, makes me want to get my hands on your body more than just about anything.”
His words spurred me on, driving me inexorably toward climax number two, and every time the head of his cock touched the back of my throat, my body played a trick on me and it felt like he was hitting a place deep in my core, accessible only between my thighs.
“Seeing you sweating, whipping your hair around, strutting across that stage like you own it, holding the entire crowd in the palm of your hand, there’s so much sexual power there. If you were a guy, girls would be throwing their panties on stage like they used to do for Mick Jagger.
“That’s when you’re sexiest, you know? When you’re most in your element, so confident. When you’re in that zone, you get this look on your face, it’s almost a sneer, like you know you’re the ‘Head Bitch in Charge’ and that you were born to do what you’re doing.”
I was sucking him wildly, performing for him, trying to give him a visual to match the feeling I hoped my mouth was giving him.
“And Liane, your ass in those black leather pants. If I didn’t know it was real, I’d assume you’d gone the Kardashian route. It looks too damn good to be natural. I’m probably going to have to fuck it soon, you know that, don’t you?”
I moaned around his cock. The thought of him taking me back there had kept me up at night, touching myself. It was so dirty. So wicked. So arousing.
“Get up here, girl. Let me see it.”
He reached down and hooked his hands under my arms and lifted me to my feet. He turned me around and lifted my skirt, displaying my bare ass to him as I used the back of my hand to wipe my mouth and chin.
He set his thumbs right at the bottom of my butt, where the top of my thighs met my ass, and spread hands out on my cheeks, taking great handfuls of me.
He lifted and spread me open. “Such a pretty, tight little asshole you have, Liane. And it’s just for me, isn’t it?”
I gasped my reply. I needed to be fucked so badly. “Yes!”
Through hooded eyelids, I noticed the floor where I’d been kneeling. It was soaked. The staff at the hotel would think we’d spilled something. Jolts of shame went straight to my aching clit.
I felt his hands on my hips as he pulled me down and back. He opened his legs and he impaled me from behind. I was so wet he that he slipped right inside, piercing me as he pulled me fast to his lap.
“Oh!” I exclaimed as my body stretched to accommodate him.
“What a view. You should talk to wardrobe about putting you in some backless stuff during your shows. Your back is so damn sexy.”
He spoke to me as if we were discussing turndown service and dinner plans, not as if I was nearing orgasm from finally being permitted to bounce on his thick cock. He could (and had) fuck me all day and night, such was his stamina.
His hands ran up and down my back and sides as I lewdly rode him, grinding down hard as he filled me.
I leaned forward to facilitate deeper penetration, but he took my hair in his hand and pulled me back. His right arm crossed my throat, capturing it in the crook of his elbow as his left hand snaked forward, around my waist, and down between my legs.
I yelped with surprise, immobilized by his strength and what felt like a tree trunk inside me.
Nothing moved except his hand, strumming my clit. He throbbed deep inside me as my hands clutched at his thighs, my fingernails digging into him as I gritted my teeth, my entire body tensing in anticipation of my imminent climax.
He whispered in my ear, the pace of his hand quickening on me as he flexed the arm holding me in place.
“Come for me, Liane. Your orgasm will make the muscles inside you clutch at my cock and make me come. You do want me to come, don’t you?”
“Yesssss!” I hissed, my hips writhing under his assault.
“Don’t hold back. Let me hear it. Let the entire hotel hear you. Let all your fans hear your climax. They know your voice. It will be unmistakable. I only wish I’d opened the window.”
The thought of people, my fans, the ticket-buying, music-downloading public, experiencing my orgasm with me did as much to fuel my orgasm as his practiced hand rolling my clit or his muscular cock pulsing inside me in time with his heart beat.
I thrashed and screamed, abandoning any lingering civility. As it began in earnest, he pulled back, choking me more firmly. A conflagration of fireworks exploded in my soul.
Throughout my release, he kept massaging my pubic bone with the heel of his hand and my clit with his fingertips. It was maddening. The lack of oxygen to my brain and the relentless pulsing and stretching his cock inflicted on me were exhausting; deliciously excruciating.
He took aggressive hold of my hips and lifted me from his lap, only to yank me back down. He meant to finish, using my body as a sex toy to get him off.
He tensed and growled, blasting into me like a geyser. Feeling and hearing his orgasm, which sounded exquisite, set off a chain reaction of aftershocks in me.
He loosened his grip on me, and I melted into his embrace. He kissed my shoulders and neck, holding me close as I recovered.
Touring, and the chaotic lifestyle that accompanies fame, make drink and drugs the coping mechanisms of choice. While I wouldn’t say no to the occasional shot or beer, at twenty I’d found my stress reliever of choice. The kind of orgasms only he could deliver.
My body was his. Whether he knew it or not, my heart was, too.
10
Three Years Ago…
I’d had less than a minute to appreciate and analyze the situation I was in, more than enough time for my brain to spin through about a million alternative courses of action, even if my body wasn’t listening to anything my mind was telling it.
The stage lights felt like the surface of the sun. As I looked out into what I knew was a sea of people, I regretted the tight sundress I wore and wished I’d opted for almost anything else in my closet. Anything that covered more of my still winter-pale flesh. Something to hide the fact that Shelby and I had made, and shared, an entire peanut butter pie two days earlier (Hey, it was my mom’s recipe. Making it is one of my favorite ways to keep her alive in my heart. I don’t feel guilty, not even a little bit! And we really did intend to save a piece for my dad. Honestly. It’s just so damn good…)
As Travis finished his line and turned to me, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, sending up a fleeting prayer. I needed all the help I could get.
I stepped forward, stiffly, toward the front of the stage, as Travis receded into the background. I tried to convince myself that the stage at Charlotte’s Music Pavilion was just like the one I’d grown up on at New Tazewell High. Aside from the one at my school topping out around eight hundred, they were identical, right?
My first note would set the tone. Sharp, flat, or otherwise off-key, I’d have my one at-bat in the Major Leagues, swing, miss, fall on my ass, and disappear into the obscurity of the minor leagues forever.
Or…
I could fucking kill it. Send the crowd into a delirium by smacking
the first pitch over the wall in straightaway center field to win the game.
I chose the latter.
Fearless was a song I’d performed in my bedroom, in the shower, in Shelby’s car, so many times I could sing it in my sleep, something Shelby claimed I’d done at sleepovers.
More than once, she’d shaken me awake at my house or hers, to tell me to stop talking in my sleep. It scared the shit out of her. Sometimes, she claimed that I even sang in my sleep.
Hey, I’m a weirdo. I admit it.
I sang my heart out, and by the second line, my nerves had evaporated completely. If Travis left the stage at that point, I’d have been more than happy to finish the concert on his behalf. I danced like nobody was watching and I sang like a whole host of angels had commandeered my throat.
I sounded good. And I knew it. Against my better judgement, since I knew what I’d laid down was too heavy for him to pick up, I handed the song back off to Travis at the same spot we’d swapped in the dressing room before the show. He did his best, but the song, the Music Pavilion, the night, were mine.
I cranked the bridge to a place I’d never taken it before, finding an octave in my range that I didn’t know I had.
Travis had a look of bemused joy on his face that told me I’d done even better than he’d hoped I could. He took a gamble on me and struck gold.
I laughed, the only thing I could think to do, once the song ended. Travis hugged me, and stepped away, pointing at me. “Lia Morris!”
I sheepishly waved and headed back for the side of the stage so I could climb back down to my friends.
“You forgot something.”
I stopped and realized I was still holding the wireless mic. I walked back over to hand it to him, but he put his hands up, refusing to touch it.
“That’s a murder weapon,” he joked. “I’m not getting my fingerprints on it!” As the crowd laughed, he covered his mic and said, just loud enough for me to hear, “Drop that shit, babe!”