by Willow Sears
“I choose you and you,” she says, pointing to the singer and the rhythm guitarist. There is a burst of laughing, back-slapping and foreign cursing but just like that the danger seems to have passed. The two chosen guys are looking cocky and the others can bitch but not argue the decision. One pick and there might have been some contention but two picks ensures the other guys have to suck up their defeat and make a joke of it all. She was more in control than I thought possible. She leads her two guys out and I am just feeling the first alarm at being left here to deal with the rest of this roomful of seething testosterone when my arm is gripped and I am also dragged away from peril.
She has them side by side. Her dressing room is smaller than theirs; just a small couch and a dressing table with chair to sit at. Language barriers are not going to be a problem here. At the sight of her going onto her knees both men have their dungarees unfastened and dropping around their ankles. Neither of them have underwear on. It is clear that, as with proud Russell, nudity is their preferred state. The guitarist is already erect. I don’t like him. He has a shaved head but for a thin strip of dark hair running up the middle, ending in a spiked tuft just beyond the crown. He has harsh features and a long goatee threaded with a couple of silver beads. He reminds me too much of Russell. I don’t know why Sindee chose him; maybe because he was the second largest and the most senior-looking of them all, and that might have prevented further argument.
The other guy, the singer, requires more blood to fill him. He is the most muscular of them all, with shoulders like hams and a smooth torso unblemished by ink. I would have chosen him but for the shivers his menacing physique gives me. I am standing with camera in hand, my backside chastely pressed against the dressing table. They are all before me, side-on, so that I can capture everything. Sindee’s tongue curls up to touch the tip of the singer’s filling cock, encouraging his swell. Up he comes, growing impossibly big and rigid. Sindee is not fazed. She grins up at him as she teases his tip with a flickering tongue and then stretches open to engulf the exposed head. I feel my thighs squeeze together involuntarily and I let a gasp escape as I snap the moment.
All her porn industry experience is brought to bear. Her teasing expertise makes me tremble. She likes to grip one whilst sucking the other. She likes to grasp the balls and squeeze as she sinks down and takes the shaft deep. As she does so she likes to look up into their eyes, like a slut at their mercy when really she is the one getting exactly what she wants. I am almost too wet to stand. Inside the hot confines of my catsuit is an itching, swollen, saturated puss baying for attention. The singer is the prize; his prick silky smooth but surely too much for me. The other is average and venous, and I don’t like its owner’s grimaces as she goes to work. His prick will be in the photos but his face won’t. I’m increasingly sure he is only there to make up the numbers.
Sindee lets the singer go with a soft pop and looks up at him smiling.
“I choose you,” she says again, all sultry smiles. I wasn’t aware that the competition was still on. The singer sneers at his bandmate and says something disparaging. The bandmate utters something in return and calls Sindee something nasty in his native dialect. Then he looks at me.
“You suck?” he says, his face still stony after his rejection. Strange, I am not worried at all by this man now that he is out of his group and clutching a knobbly, very standard erection.
“I’m busy,” I say back, firmly. I get the same insult spat my way as he dealt Sindee. I expect him to leave but this is Rock World and the norm is always steadfastly ignored. Instead he plants himself unashamedly beside me, stiff prick in hand, nonchalantly leaning against the dressing table, stroking himself. The singer is pushed backwards by Sindee to sit upon the couch so that she can straddle him. With her thighs splayed wide she reaches down and undoes the chunky red zip under her crotch, the fabric parting as if torn, revealing the plump swell of her naked puss. I’ve seen it many times before but it still sends a fizzing sweep right through me. I don’t wear knickers in these costumes either, but my one doesn’t have a quick-release zip like hers.
The camera is still up in front of my face but I am peering over it, wanting the real view as she stretches herself open upon the fat head and then lets her weight take her down in one long, nerve-sizzling impalement. She has to be patient, to let her slippy wetness coat him. She wriggles in his lap, gyrating her hips to allow her muscles time to adjust to him. I snap away but you can’t digitally capture the electric excitement of this, the rapture already seizing her, the blissful fullness she is experiencing. She rides him, still slow. He grasps at her latex-covered behind, perhaps wanting to control the pace, surely wanting to have handfuls of her soft naked flesh. I fear he might rip the costume to pieces to get to her.
It’s the glisten upon him that gets me most: her cream covering him and pooling at his crotch and squashed-up balls. It tells of how slippery she will be inside, how velvet-smooth, how tight and clenching. I am all hot and tingling and desperate for something in me. The cock at my side is still being stroked. The owner of it mutters things from time to time. Perhaps he is asking me to do it for him, to suck it for him. I could. I could just give in because blow jobs in this world of ours are ten a penny; an everyday thing. But I don’t like him. I wish I had his total lack of shame in masturbating openly to this scene, but I don’t like him. I wonder if she would stop him if he chose to force his way back into the action, going into her from behind whilst his friend held her open.
Sindee turns fully around. She is ever the porn star and wants to give me another angle to shoot, to get her happy face in alongside her new lover’s. She leans back and displays the lewdness of her stuffed pussy in all its glory. I see the little silver hoop through her hood and wonder how it must feel on her throb as she writhes upon him. She wants me to see her like this, to lure me too. Maybe I could just rub the cock next to me, grasping and tossing it until the seed bubbled and spurted. But I don’t want his clenched-teeth, nasty grimace aimed at me whilst I do it. I don’t want that vision burned into my memory, whatever my body is calling out for.
She’s looking straight at me as she rides him, looking down the camera lens. She wants me to know her pleasure. She wants me to shake off all my inhibitions and weird values about not giving myself away too cheaply. How much would it cost me to just close my eyes and get on my knees for that cock beside me, or just unzip my costume so that he could see me whilst he had his finish? Why wouldn’t I be able to forgive myself? Sindee decides that she needs something more and switches position again, raising herself up and taking the singer with her so that she is now standing, bent at the waist with him at her rear, still buried deep. She puts her arms back behind her and with one large hand he takes her by the wrists, holding her fast and helping her to stay at right angles. Someone barging in now might think that it was this giant macho man using the helpless girl as he saw fit, but I know better.
He pumps her, not too fast but hard enough to see her gasp aloud with every thrust. She looks gorgeous: cheeks flushed; mouth open and wet; her eyes with those long lashes closed. I wish she was naked. Next to me the pace has increased, seen in my periphery. Still he keeps saying things I can’t understand, perhaps telling my friend what a dirty bitch she is, or maybe asking me to spit on it, squeeze his balls, do anything to send the spurts gushing out. It proves too much for him. Forward he shuffles, rigid prick straight out in front of him, aiming for her open mouth. I don’t even try to stop him.
His bulk hides her from view. I need to see her so I move round, going to their side to witness everything – and what I see is her full at both ends. I’m pretending I’m merely there to capture shots of the action as is my brief, but I doubt I manage to press the button more than twice. I am close enough to be pulled in. None of the sounds or smells can be missed. My legs are weak from shaking and I know my cheeks are burning. My heart could not pound harder without bursting. It seems somehow dirtier to be seeing this so close than to actually be i
nvolved.
The guitarist starts to grunt and Sindee gives a long moan. The picture can’t capture the whole story and when we look back over them there will be nothing to signify that this was the moment he unloaded into her mouth. Perhaps she will remember later that it sparked her climax. She drains the guitarist with her last efforts at concentration but then lets him go as the singer thrusts extra hard and fast to fuck the orgasm right through her. The guitarist doesn’t even wait for his friend to finish, pulling his crumpled dungarees back up to his waist, his cock already softening. He is off, brushing past me to go and search out other stimuli, maybe to boast of his exploits to those who missed out.
As the singer clenches and presses hard to her I realise that he might be one of the best-looking partners she has on this whole trip, if you don’t mind a little brutishness in your men. In minutes he will be gone and that will be that. He won’t want to kiss her, not after where her dirty mouth has been. Nothing but this short time will be shared between them; so fleeting it might later be mistaken for just another imagined fantasy. They won’t have lain together naked and close, or whispered sweet nothings. They won’t know anything of each other’s likes, what makes them laugh or cry, whether they were in fact perfect for each other. However, she will have had the glorious feel of his cock inside her, spraying her insides, making her come, and when I am very soon sat in that bone-shaker van, driving through the night all flustered and frustrated and with miles to go before I can even think about taking the itch away, I shall ask myself again whether I still think my attitude to life and love has any merit at all.
Chapter Six
Dutch Cucumber Action
Two things of note happened in the last day or so: Sindee had her hair dyed totally pink, as it was during her porn days, and we arrived in the Netherlands. The first thing makes me think that Sindee might be trying to send certain hunky rock singers subtle come-get-me messages. The second thing should be of no real consequence except that it produced lots of jokes aimed my friend’s way. Just crossing the border brought a mass of whoops and wolf-whistles from our fellow travellers. This was due to Russell and Vinny being aware of Sindee’s porno past, and their running joke of telling everyone else that the film she was in was entitled Dutch Cucumber Action.
Someone was clearly sent ahead to buy a huge consignment of these phallic fruit so that pranks could be played. In a bar at lunchtime Sindee is told she will be treated to a cocktail and Russell returns offering a large glass of beer with a cucumber in it. Stuck in the exposed end of the fruit is a tiny umbrella. This raises far more mirth than it should. If she gets up, cucumbers are there waiting on her seat for her return. In her dressing room later, someone has gaffer-taped cucumbers all the way down her mirror. In the hotel room she and I are sharing, a multitude of the fruit has been secreted under the covers, all with condoms upon them, for us to discover only as we climb in. Sindee tuts but then grins at me with the possibilities. I’m more worried at the proof that unwanted people have ways to gain access to our locked bedroom almost at will.
The joke goes on way longer than it should. While we are here it will continue, because it allows a new dimension to the boredom-breaking. Sindee plays along, but if it was me I would be less patient of all the ribbing. It seems a little too personal at times; a reminder that she may be pretty and becoming ever more famous but others close to home have her measure and are of the opinion that she was once a skank. I think it gives certain guys amongst us – those who haven’t had the delight of being chosen to share her bed – a little something to make them feel superior to her. If they can highlight her previous dirty ways, it’s like they are demonstrating that they could have had her any time they liked, but choose not to for their own dignity. Just the insinuation makes my blood boil but Sindee is stronger than me so for her it is just water off a duck’s back.
En route to our final gig in this country, Sindee gets a surprise first invitation to the Thunderhed tour bus. I’m her bodyguard so I have no choice but to join her. It is not clear who issued the invitation but I am pretty sure I know who was behind it, and I think Sindee does too, judging by her excitement. Their wheels are even swankier than those we’ve been riding on. There are plusher seats and a proliferation of shining chrome. It is like the Formula One of tour transport. As you go up to the top deck there is a special gold plaque above the stairs, etched with the legend ‘No Crapping on This Bus’. Yep, we know that maxim. It has meant to a couple of sneaky visits to our bus by Thunderhead members, ostensibly on the search for ciggies or drugs, before they suddenly make a break for the toilet, lock themselves in and guffaw heartily as they do their foul business and stink out our whole top floor. That’s the joys of rock and roll touring for you right there.
Up on this top floor there is the thick smell of illegal substances and various perfumes. Right at the very back is a really swish bar and lounge area. They have a tall, glossy black fridge with sliding shelves to house the beer, plus a line of optics, mainly whiskey-filled, screwed to the wall. Then there is a long sumptuous couch in black leather along the back and maybe teen feet along both sides, going around a low chrome and black oval table with a centre pedestal bolted to the floor. It’s like a VIP section of a nightclub. The table top is already littered with glasses and empty bottles and has little white lines chopped out in readiness upon it. Some of the seats further up the bus contain slumbering occupants but we ignore these and head straight to the back where the action is.
There are less sat there than I would have guessed, so the schedule is taking its toll even on the hardened veterans. Most notable amongst those present is that cooched-up, never-to-be-parted couple, the Casanoves. Their tour manager is alongside a blonde I think to be his current girlfriend. The lead guitarist is there, as is lanky drummer Sheen, plus an attractive if overly made-up female whom I cannot recall seeing before. If I was a betting girl, and I’m not, I would put most or all of my meagre savings on this girl being a locally-sourced member of the pornographic film industry. I’m not sure who she is with but she seems to be liberally sharing the drugs chopped up on the table in front of Sheen, so perhaps she belongs to him for tonight.
We get a hearty welcome with smiles coming almost all round, with perhaps the exception of Mrs Casanove, who looks a bit suspicious, and Sheen, who has a freshly snorted nostril-full of cocaine to deal with. Mr Casanove looks particularly bright at our arrival. We are invited to sit and get asked what our poison is. ‘Poison’ really is the appropriate word but our poor internal organs aren’t going to be spared tonight. Some light-hearted quips get tossed around but it is difficult not to seem like a newcomer to a royal court. You can’t help but feel privileged and beholden, even though all we are doing is drinking on a bus with people we now see every day. It’s the closeness that does it, the fraternisation. I bet the suspected local porn star’s head was in a whirl the moment they plucked her from wherever it was, before she even took any drugs. She will be easy meat for one of them tonight.
“So I hear it’s your birthday tomorrow,” says Cas to Sindee with a smile. I didn’t know this. I know that we are going away for long enough for a great many of us to become a year older, and some will seem to have aged far more than this by the tour’s end. However, as close as I am to Sindee, I wasn’t aware that her turn was coming so immediately. If it isn’t general knowledge, and Sindee hasn’t been chatting privately with this singer, it means he has made a special effort to seek this information out.
“Any particular gift you were hoping for?” asks their manager.
“What, apart from her?” says Sindee, indicating the porn star. There are smiles and sniggers all around and I don’t doubt some jumping hearts. She knows any hints of girl on girl naughtiness hits all straight males right in the front of their pants. She also knows that pangs of jealousy would have been delivered with her singling out this girl. I get it every time. Even though I’m relieved whenever her attentions are distracted away from me I am fully aware th
at my silly heart still harbours secret hopes that she will ride roughshod all over my reservations. As if not wanting these jealousies to fester too long she looks back at Cas and suggests that a suitable gift might be for him to help produce her next album. Next to him, Mrs Casanove sports an as if that’s going to happen expression.
“We’ll see,” says Cas noncommittally, clearly for the benefit of his wife. “But in the meantime we have this.”
A box with a bow is produced from under the table as Sheen and the suspected porn star take another snort of coke. Sindee grins widely and hasn’t even finished saying “you shouldn’t have” before she is wrestling with the knot in the bow. The top comes off and lots of individually wrapped gifts spill out. They are all the same, all long and phallic, all with their own little bow tied around their middle. Sindee dutifully plays along with a big smile but we all know before she even starts ripping any paper that they are cucumbers. Someone nonetheless has gone to great lengths to ensure this weak joke has the greatest effect.
I catch Cas sending a look in Sindee’s direction during the laughter. The best way I can describe it is a shrug of the face. I decode this expression instantly, because I’m aware that these two have something developing between them. It is more than an acceptance of the lameness of the gifts and the joke; it is him facially informing her that making her the butt of this feeble ribbing is the only way he can get her close to him without raising suspicion. That’s a lot for one face to say in such a short time but believe me, it does. With the prank over but the wheels on the bus now going round and round they can’t send us away again, and so she and I have to stay aboard on the short journey to our next hotel.