Sin Delicious

by Willow Sears

  He slips off his shirt, expertly leaving the bandana on his head undisturbed. The tattoos on his torso are many and dirty-looking but I’ve seen it all before. He finishes each gig bare-chested, whether in a Marseilles heat wave or a Reykjavik freeze. His biceps and shoulders are large, as you’d expect from someone who hits things for a living. His hands are big and strong and make her look so soft. They grip and indent the pale flesh at her hips and he looks powerful and controlled, totally in his element. Suddenly he isn’t so ridiculous. He seems expert, perhaps even dangerous. With the thick chrome rings in his ears and the short goatee beard he could pass for a Hell’s Angel.

  The stupid words he usually utters are gone and now he is silent. He doesn’t do mock sex faces for the camera like a porn star would. Instead there is only concentration there, and a little bloom on the cheek from his desire. One could easily think him handsome, in a piratey-biker kind of way. Having earlier ridiculed his arse I now have to privately concede that it isn’t bad at all – rounded and taut, smooth-looking, and with a nice dimple in the side. It is rather mesmeric watching the change in the muscles beneath his skin as he moves back and forth; the clench and relaxation – especially in comparison to the effects his thrusts have on her softer behind.

  The two of them move in perfect unison, her slight backward thrust timed to allow the smooth entry of his curved prick. The depth he gets is tantalising. The noises her puss makes are wet and luscious and she coats his shaft with glistening cream. If you have never watched two people having sex in the flesh then you must. In some ways it is more exciting than doing it yourself, and incomparable to watching it on screen. Here there is no need for trite dialogue. No concessions to camera angles are required, despite my lens pointing at them. He can hold her as he wants and drive in deep to produce that most alluring sound of all: the sound of a man slapping against a woman’s bottom as he takes her from behind. Nothing here masks the raw lust and energy, the beauty of the bodies in harmony, the rhythm and the exquisite noises.

  In some ways I wish I was watching them covertly, just to accentuate the thrill of seeing them in dirty action. However, being performed for makes it ruder and thus more exciting. This way I get to see them up close, to be near enough almost to feel the heat of their lust, to smell it above the smoke in the air. The desire is palpable and it draws you in. I wonder what feelings are fizzling through her puss, what effect the drug has on her sensitivity, what unique thrills the metal of his piercing gives to her tingling insides. It must be good because she is so enraptured she can hardly make a sound. The evidence is all there in the cream she keeps leaching all over his shaven balls.

  Together they seem somehow professional. Russell might be generally inane but whilst he keeps his mouth shut this is only about bodies and heat, wetness and excitement. It is about primal needs and nothing more. I watch through the lens, zooming in to isolate just their two behinds, framing nothing but their fuck. It should be rude but it is only beautiful, like human kinetic art. Everything matches and is right: their fine-tuned movements; his power against her softness; his darker pink skin against her paleness. They know absolutely nothing of each other except that each needs a bone-shuddering orgasm and both want to do their damndest to ensure this happens. It is so erotic watching two people who want to please each other in dirty action. Until you do so you will never truly appreciate what a beautiful symmetry sex can be.

  He has built to a steady rhythm now, mid-pace and hard into her. I could watch her backside like this all day. With each slap against her I squeeze my thighs together, trying to get some pressure there, hoping I can resist doing anything more wanton to myself in his presence. It seems surreal to be so closely witnessing this most private of acts, having barged in uninvited, to casually watch something so personal whilst not even knowing for sure which country you are in. It is almost dream-like to be unapologetically sat there getting turned on by a man you generally do not like, whilst he pleasures a girl he cannot even name. But then this is the mad world I have been living in for weeks now, one in which anything seems possible and where most of the protagonists are hell bent on proving that point.

  I am vaguely aware that Sindee beside me has actually given in and is clutching hard at her leather-clad crotch. I want her to do that to mine but I don’t want this degenerating into something I will regret. This could turn into anything now, such is this bizarre Band on Tour bubble we are currently living in. It could be a threesome, although I hope Sindee has the strength to stick to her principles. If she doesn’t it will be even harder not to make it a foursome, however much it would burn to finally give him the victory of getting me naked. It could be two separate couples, feeding off the excitement of watching each other, perhaps even swapping partners. Again, I don’t want to give him anything he could crow endlessly about afterwards. I’m on a knife-edge though.

  He is speeding up and I think he is going for the finish. Instead he gives one final big thrust and stays squashed against her, grinding into her backside as she gasps. Then he slowly withdraws and steers her around, lifting her effortlessly and plonking her atop the mini bar she was just leaning against. In this moment he seems almost heroic. She smiles and opens wide and he seamlessly slides back into her, going all the way in until their crotches meet. It is her turn to wriggle and writhe against him, using the crush to stimulate parts he had yet to reach. The bliss is immediately evident, trembling through her body as she screws up her eyes and bites her lip. Her hands come down to hold his tautened backside in place, keeping him close. She bucks and grinds against him whilst he fills her. I know she will be drenching him.

  I squeeze off another frame of him pressed to her, focussing on his hindquarters and her heels dug into the backs of his thighs. It is just an instant of their passion that can only hint at the hot straining rigidity of his cock inside her, and the shivering bliss coursing through her body. He is patient and happy to let her take this pleasure, even though his own lust must be more than ready to spill. He holds her and stays silent and motionless. It looks almost tender, despite the fact that his pants are still round his knees in a reminder of their dirty urgency. This indeed is relatively ‘normal’ sex compared to all that I’ve witnessed over the weeks – if you discount it being done in front of spectators. The blonde has no idea what levels of filth she could have gotten herself into here, though who knows if she would have welcomed it? You can see in her face this is a fantasy fulfilled for her, so maybe she is luckier than she knows.

  I feel a sudden pang inside. It’s not quite jealousy but it is near enough. I wish I had her freedom, her blissful ignorance. If I didn’t know what Russell was like outside of sex he would be so much more appealing. She doesn’t have these complications. Sometimes it astounds me what indignities these groupies will perform just to immerse themselves briefly in the depraved world of rock. One cannot believe there are so many young women willing to demean themselves in such a manner. Yet think more deeply and you see the attraction. They go anonymously into an environment of excess that must be seen to be believed. They can party as hard as they like, act with complete abandon without explanation or excuse, and then slip away again without anyone even noticing they have gone. And all of it is for free.

  There doesn’t have to be any conversation, any ties, or any regrets. They can live out their naughtiest dreams and no one will even care what their name is or where they come from. This scene can be so surreal you might assume it could only be made up by your dirty imagination. But this is a fantasy made solid, a moment of blissful rudeness actually performed, a genuine memory to get you hot forever – and no one in the ‘real world’ need ever know a thing about it. If you fantasise about being used by rough, muscular, egotistical men who don’t give a shit about you, about being passed between them, about being made to perform filthy acts with similar young girls, then you can have all this come true and much, much more. Assuming you can avoid alcohol poisoning, catching some nasty disease, or dying from a massive dr
ug overdose, the worst thing that can happen is that you bag yourself a rock star.

  So maybe this blonde – who has already had at least one delicious orgasm and now seems to be having more as he starts to slap hard in and out of her once again – maybe she is a slut, but then perhaps she is only a being a slut for the day. Most probably she will climb back out of that bathroom window having had one of her fantasies come true. She will go off smiling after a wonderful time with a physically exciting, big-cocked drummer of a heavy metal band, without having to find out what a gargantuan jerk he really is. It will be a memory to hold dear and keep her warm at night, and maybe only the closest of her friends will ever know what a naughty, filthy little girl she has been.

  The sound of him fucking her hard is driving me to distraction. He had better come soon or I am going to be in trouble. His arse looks fabulous driving back and forth. This is when men look most powerful. Her face reveals that her climax is ongoing, a long drawn-out pleasure rather than a hard single hit. Her eyes are shut but not tightly, her mouth is open and wet, the cheeks flushed. I know before he spurts that he is going to do it inside her. He isn’t famous enough yet to care about being served with million-dollar paternity suits. He is still at the level whereby he can let the girls worry about the STDs and the unwanted pregnancies.

  His pace reaches a crescendo and then he suddenly stops hard against her, letting out a curse as he does so. It is thankfully the only word he has said throughout his whole performance. She beams at the heat of his spray inside her and grips him tightly. She is one happy groupie. They stay like this as he empties into her, each clench of his buttocks signifying another spurt. His shoulders drop from the exertion and her hands slip down his back to playfully squeeze his behind. They touch foreheads and grin at each other and for one moment I think they are going to kiss. Instead he slides out of her, giving her one last shiver, and he reaches down to drag his leathers back up. He pulls his T-shirt back on and she sits there smiling with eyes glazed and his seed seeping from her. He then turns his back to her and reaches for the cigarettes on the low table. She is young and pretty and sexier than any girl he could have got if he wasn’t on this tour, but that is the last he will see of her.

  “I need whisky and pizza,” he declares, already heading out. “If you girls are going to have a pussy-munching session then go do it in your own room, not mine.”

  The blonde looks at us as if the idea appeals.

  “You have coke?” she asks.

  And there, encapsulated, is this wonderful, weird world I’m living in of sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.

  Chapter Two

  Gothic Angels

  To think that I have a kick to the head to thank for my current position. I am primarily a designer of clothes by trade, although I do a bit of painting on the side – portraits and landscapes that is, not walls and ceilings. None of this should be too surprising when you consider that I studied Art and Design at college. At age fifteen I thought I was set to become a world-renowned taekwondo-ist. Not a taekwondo-er, note. I was at a level where competing abroad in the juniors was becoming a distinct possibility. I rather fancied the prospect, even if it did mean a life of wearing what amounted to a stiff pyjama suit, and having one’s hair always tied back tightly and unflatteringly, with perhaps a few stray strands plastered to your sweaty, ruddy, puffed-out cheeks. Still, there is something intrinsically adrenaline-pumping and even romantic about kicking people willy-nilly whilst having Korean barked at you.

  Then one day, stupidly, my trainer came to the party minus his head protector, and with a rather too exuberant jumping reverse hook kick I managed to break my big toe upon his jaw, thus rendering myself inactive for weeks. My recovery might have been speedier if I hadn’t declared myself fit enough, if not for fighting then certainly for partying, and worn a particularly challenging shoe on a night out. Indeed, the footwear failed to rise to the challenge of getting me to the bottom of a flight of stairs in one piece, and I was back to square one. I hadn’t intentionally hung up my dobok but other things just got in the way.

  During my incapacitation I looked to my art as a means to escape tedious hours normally spent fighting. I used to do a lot of pencil sketches, primarily of female forms. In truth it became something of an obsession. Having been caught doing this once or twice I contrived a hasty cover story, claiming it was for my clothing designs, explaining that you had to understand the female figure perfectly before you put one’s garments upon it. Quite why I needed such intricate pussy detail remained unexplained. So, anyway, I then took to overlaying coloured clothing designs over my pencil nudes almost as an excuse to keep drawing them. After a while the clothing bit started to take over and I decided it was clearly where my future lay. If it hadn’t been for my trainer’s selfish decision not to wear protective garments, I would still be wearing thick white pyjamas to this day and I’d probably be the proud owner of a shiny gold Olympic medal or two.

  During my last year at college I was doing work experience for a small freelance design team in the city, and that is where fate visited the incomparable Elowen upon me. She was a little older than I, infinitely more awesome, and exquisitely feminine in a way that had me rapidly and permanently consigning any of those remaining tomboyish tendencies of mine straight to the rubbish bin. Her speciality was fetish-wear, particularly in rubber and latex. She had carved out a particular niche, being the go-to designer music video producers called on when they wanted their nubile singers or dancers to look beyond outstanding. Nothing she created was ever less than stunning. See her outfits and you saw her very spirit.

  I wasn’t prepared for love. I had been kicked in the chest a fair few times but I had never known anything there like this impact. I felt like one of those Mexican cliff divers, leaping hundreds of feet down into the blue waters of Acapulco, except that I was plummeting into a sea of infatuation. Spectacular and breath-stopping it most certainly was, but no matter how expert the entry, it was always going to hurt – and by golly it did. She was a lithe goth firecracker, all jet-black hair and make-up and tattoos. My goodness – those tattoos! All down her arms; a stunning Japanese scene in red and black down her side to her hip; Audrey Hepburn above Beatrice Dalle on her right shoulder blade and Bardot as a young sleek brunette on her left. It was like her body was alive. The pièce de résistance was the tiny, ever-so intricate black scorpion on the top of her left cheek, just diagonally down from her eye. The memory alone of this still has my belly fluttering.

  That diminutive arachnid remains the most dazzling, most effecting inch of artwork I have yet to see. Each look quadrupled my pulse within a second and it didn’t stop there. I can’t say what it did to me down below but phrases like ‘desperate tingling’ and ‘urgent saturation’ wouldn’t be overstatements. She was the only one ever to tie my tongue or pull the rug from beneath my feet. She opened my eyes to possibilities, and to myself. In essence she created me. She injected excitement and passion and daring into everything. From the time I first set eyes upon her, she was all I could see. I don’t think I can truthfully profess to being a lesbian but I can’t say I’ve ever ‘got’ a member of the male sex the way I got her.

  “Because of your looks no man will ever be able to be normal around you,” she once told me. “Most will think you out of their league and simply stay away. Others will be all macho and brash and nasty, thinking you there to conquer. Others may fawn and flatter, but they will doubtless be slurring due to alcohol by the time they pluck up the courage. Almost none of them will ever be able to see past your beauty. It wouldn’t even register to them if you were the greatest living artist – their instincts wouldn’t let them focus beyond your looks.”

  Of course I clung to every word she said. She was the sexiest living creature and a genius of design to boot, so why wouldn’t I? I might have got away with it if she hadn’t fancied me right back. I reminded her of a young Marissa Tomei, or so she told me – an actress she seemed to have a particular crush upon.
Indeed, my then girlfriend remains the only person I know to have openly confessed to getting off to the film My Cousin Vinny. I never could fully see the resemblance, as flattering as it was. I have more rump for sure. I certainly have the raven hair, since, as I have been reliably informed, I am ‘one quarter Mediterranean’, although no one has told me which quarter of me it is, nor indeed which part of the Med. I think it has something to do with a scandalous holiday taken by Grandma, before Grandpa was around.

  There is a scene in that aforementioned movie in which Ms Tomei’s character appears wearing one hell of a catsuit, perhaps fashioned from stretch Lycra. It is original to say the least. The background of dark blue is overlaid in a large floral design in whites, pinks, oranges, all colours. It zips right to the throat but has a cut-away at the back, revealing a large oval of her flawless creamy-white skin. She teams it with a pair of high-heeled ankle boots in black. It is not your standard everyday attire, except for that character. Elowen counted it as the sexiest two minutes of any film she had seen.

  As a treat to her, I recreated my own version and surprised her by modelling it on the catwalk during a small private showing for some industry people. In the crowd was one Sindee Liscious, at that time just starting out on the road to being noticed by those who mattered. She gushed almost literally over the outfit and ordered versions to wear on stage, and thus I became acquainted with my current employer. That outfit of mine might have been the direct cause of me being here today, but really it was always down to Elowen. She was simply one of a kind. I remember a posh model at a party once remarking upon her scorpion tattoo.