Sin Delicious

by Willow Sears

  I am so close now. I can smell Sindee’s sweet scent. I can see her oozing wetness, see the flickering tongue at work just below her piercing. Lips close tight upon her. Hands are grasping her soft thighs. I watch the girl lift her head a little higher, tongue stuck out. Then she rudely licks Sindee’s bum: a precious few wet, languid, upward laps that see my friend halted, having to pause to allow the shiver and sigh to pass through her. I felt that shiver also. I can’t say such rude things often enter my head but can you imagine going through life without having known this sublime treat?

  I could lick her now. Together we could send her into delirium so mind-spinning that afterwards I could deny any involvement. There would be no pictures of that as proof. They love each other’s sexiness and gorgeous smooth bodies but I am willing there to be more affection between them. I can’t help but think that they are performing exactly as Cas would want them to do if he were here watching instead of me. They are playing out a porno scene it seems, like they can’t do it any other way because of who they are. Sindee is once more fucking rather than making love. I wonder if she knows now how to do anything different.

  I am still on my knees, desperate for my own release, but I stay. I know I put myself through these agonies to prove to Elowen how much I loved her, how much she meant to me. Giving in now would throw all that away. I watch them twist and wrestle their way to greater pleasures. It is never less than delicious but the longer they don’t kiss the more impersonal it seems, until I no longer feel much envy. Sindee uses fingers and tongue to give the girl a wracking climax. She then bounces off the bed, comes to me and kisses me deeply, her lips and face wet with her lover’s pussy for me to taste.

  “I wish it was you I was licking,” she whispers – words designed to break me down. I am breathless and speechless. She knows I have no answer and returns to the fray to take her turn for bliss. Naturally, Cucumber Girl knows precisely how to give her this, and duly does. When it is all over, with Sindee still basking in her pleasure, the girl blows her a kiss and makes to leave. She doesn’t look anywhere near as exhausted as I feel. She gathers up her underwear but departs without bothering to put it on. Who knows which hotel room she plans to go to next?

  I climb onto the bed close to Sindee and hold her hand. In my head she tells me she wants to hold me and kiss me all night, all week, all year, forever, just us, always. She knows she can change her ways because what we have will always be enough. In reality she lets a big smile spread across her face. She moves some hair out of my eye and says:

  “Now that was one hell of a birthday present!”

  “I can’t think of a sweeter gift,” I reply, because I never want to rain on her parade.

  “It was from Cas – you know that, right? He sure knows how to treat a girl!”

  “And I thought romance was dead.”

  I can see it in her bright eyes, happy thoughts of him passing behind them. I’m here all wet and panting and defenceless and she is thinking of others, of new possibilities. I am no match for this. There will always be someone else on her mind, someone with a square jaw and rippling muscles and a nice stiff cock. She couldn’t make any promises to me without breaking them in an instant. Think of that crush when you knew that you weren’t first on her list, maybe not even the second or the third. Odd, I’d always assumed that females would be the ones to never let me down but on this trip across a continent I’ve yet to meet a single girl who didn’t have the same fuck-happy mentality as the males. Maybe I simply belong to a bygone age.

  Chapter Seven

  My Morning Song

  I am going to spank your bottom with my open palm. I thought I would dream of this. Instead I had a rather more unsettling one about Russell LeMuscle. He was face up and naked upon some kind of raised platform, his outstretched limbs held down at the wrists and ankles by irons. On his head was secured this kind of wooden box with a caged front. My subconscious clearly stole this from Bram Stoker’s Dracula – another film Elowen had me watch with her – in which guards at the asylum wear similar, to protect them from the mental gentlefolk residing therein. Anyway, the upshot was that this box-thing stopped Russell from moving his head and severely restricted his view, which meant that he couldn’t see me.

  I approached with stealth to remain incognito. In real life I assumed I would take such an opportunity to beat him to within an inch of his life, but in this dream my focus was somewhat surprisingly solely upon his privates. I carefully held and licked the smooth-shaved, heavy ball sack, feeling the movement within. I loosely gripped the prick as it filled and lengthened and hardened, always gentle with it, reverent even. I recall my quickening breaths as I pressed it warm to my cheek or brushed the exposed tip across my lips. I remember the pulse of it, the sleekness. I patiently used just a tongue-tip to play with his piercing, bringing him gasping and writhing at his irons. In the end my hunger got the better of me and although I sucked him softly, I remember how much my mouth watered from my hunger. It felt like an obsession. Thankfully he never discovered it was me.

  Where did Sindee get such a phrase from? It sounded like something she had heard rather than made up on the spot. Maybe it was from a script. Whatever, it did the trick for me. It sounded so purposeful, so forceful. And she said it in her real voice, which is actually more clipped that the one we usually hear now. She comes from a fairly well-to-do family and is a true rebel without a cause – although I think her waywardness sprung from a hatred of her father who routinely cheated on his wife with impunity. I think it might have been Daddy’s Girl’s way of getting one back on him on behalf of her mother. Vengeance will always be a part of her nature. Since turning wild, Sindee has been sounding increasingly more common, dotting her sentences with slang and profanities, sometimes even adopting that same Anglo-American hybrid that Russell uses. You wouldn’t catch me doing such things, goddammit!

  It is hard to know if Cucumber Girl’s backside enjoyed its rough treatment. She squealed gleefully sure enough, and held her bum out for more, but was this just her professional instincts coming through? Girls in that industry must presumably have to get used to such things – I know Sindee’s other scene in her film saw her getting her pussy smacked by the female lead. No one would ever think to do such things to Yours Truly. Most people seem too afraid of me, worried I might roundhouse kick them to the mush if they so much as lay a finger on me. I think it makes me even more insular and defensive.

  Even Sindee can seem wary. I’m now not sure if she resists ravishing me out of respect for my feelings or out of fear that I will knock her on her arse. Maybe it is a mix of the two and she doesn’t want to upset the one person she now considers a friend, and who can remind her just a little bit of who she is under that porn-star rock-bitch exterior. Only Elowen never treated me so. She saw how defenceless I was in her presence. She smoothed my rough edges and made a girl of me when I could so easily have turned urchin. I was her jewel and she had me body and soul. She could have spanked me to a screaming orgasm and I would have gone over her lap at her every behest. But such things were not for her. She was so into passion and tenderness, as if love was defined by exactly how un-kinky you were with your partner. Sexually, she made me in her image. I wonder sometimes what lies buried beneath.

  With our last gig in Holland the tour will now move into a new phase. High summer is upon us and the festival season is in full swing. We have a slightly less gruelling schedule ahead but the gigs are dotted here, there and everywhere. It means going back and forth across the continent, but at least there should be a couple of days R&R at each venue, to give you a sense of knowing where you are for once. The Thunderhed management have cleverly got their guys a base: a huge rented chateau somewhere outside of Paris which must be costing the band a fortune. A room there is currently been partially converted into a recording studio. New material is often penned in the empty hours of touring and there is a good tradition of rockers decamping into stately homes to make albums, so this should please Mr Casanov
e, who likes to do things the way the Rock Gods did them.

  For a change we have all of us woken up in the same grand hotel. Often our lowly band get stuck in a cheaper place in the same town but last night we were all put up in the same fabulous rooms of this classy establishment. I think this might very well have less to do with our management and more to do with the little crush Mr Casanove has on our singer, perhaps even for ease of sending to her room a certain cucumber-wielding porn star as a birthday treat – but what does our band care, as long as they are living the dream? Unwanted dream-boy Russell LeMuscle summed it up quite succinctly before we retired for costume-washing duties last night.

  “I ain’t never fucked nobody in a four-poster before,” he told us in that odd accent of his, and then high-fived bassist Vinnie. That, for him, was the major plus-point of getting a night in such sumptuous surroundings. It wasn’t to appreciate the grand architecture or fine decor. The groupie at his side was all black make-up and bubble gum. Down her arm was a tattoo of Betty Boop leaning forward and looking seductively back at us over her shoulder, and with that red dress of hers pulled up to reveal a bare behind. The girl grinned, seemingly delighted to be part of this impending first for our drummer.

  “I’m totally gonna Fifty Shades your ass,” he loudly informed her as he led her away. It made the mind boggle.

  This morning, since we have no pressing urgency to get to anywhere, it is a reasonably late start. Of our band only Sindee is there with me in the breakfast room overlooking the large landscaped lawns. Two of the All Stars are here, plus a couple of execs and various unidentified members of the entourage, and nearly all of Thunderhed. Drummer Sheen is the last of their number to arrive, making his entrance wearing cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, aviator shades, and a long fur coat of some kind. He has nothing else on except a pair of small, blue briefs, which are barely containing his famously substantial package.

  The open fur means we also get to see all his chains and tats and muscles and hairiness. He has the ever-present lit cigarette draping from his thick lips and he is grasping a cut-glass tumbler containing what looks like at least a quadruple measure of bourbon. It is eleven in the morning. He never drinks it with ice or Coke because he says it waters it down, but I’ve already twigged it is actually so that everyone can see exactly how much alcohol he is putting away. He likes the reputation, although I suspect his liver thinks otherwise. He flops himself down incongruously onto one of the regency-style carved framed settees. He sticks his booted feet up onto an antique coffee table and splays his legs, and then raises one large, silver-ring-festooned hand to his mouth, drawing hard upon his ciggie. Once the smoke has made a slow trip around his lungs, he blasts it all back out through his nostrils, like a laid-back dragon. Come noon and he’ll be on the weed. I’d like to say this is real cool rock star stuff, but actually I think it’s all too stereotypical, a little clichéd.

  A strained, zonked, after-battle atmosphere pervades our tour breakfast gatherings. Heads are slunk low, sunglasses indoors are seemingly essential, coughs are throaty and alarming. There is little or nothing said at these times and even less eaten – unless it is something seemingly purposefully crazy, like fried chicken, just because. Usually it is only coffee and cigarettes, which is a little rank for the few non-smokers amongst us. I must be passively on over a hundred a day. I’ve made a mental note, should I be smitten by any hideous lung diseases later in life, to round up any of these guys still left alive and very impassively cut them all to pieces with a massive rusty machete.

  I watch for the tell-tale looks between Sindee and Cas but the missus is present and my friend gives another faultless performance in pretending there is nothing between them. It is too early and heads are too brittle to think to question her absence during any partying the night before. Her cucumbery lover of last night is still up in a room somewhere and not here to spill any beans. It might be a dangerous game these would-be cheaters are entering but so far they are playing it well. Things are going to explode if Mrs Casanove gets wind of it, and I doubt Sindee is going to come out of it thinking she has won. I suspect this tour won’t last as long for her as she expected and she won’t go home as smugly contented as she is now. Storms are most certainly a-coming.

  I hear the whirring chock-chock-chock of the helicopter outside but I don’t pay it much heed until it is suddenly there, landing on the manicured lawn out front. It is glossy black, emblazoned on its flank with silver lettering in the font used on the current Thunderhed album with the words ‘Mutha One’. It is, their tour manager announces with theatrically thrown-out arms and a big grin because he knows he has done something heroic, his band’s new chopper, to whisk them from festival A to festival B, and in between back for recording sessions in the chateau. You can’t really tell their reaction because all eyes are hidden behind shades, but Cas nods whist dragging on his cigarette to confirm that this is a righteous turn of events. And expensive, I’ll wager.

  “I thought this was the band chopper,” says Sheen, pulling the front of his briefs down to display the thick cock-sausage languishing on his thigh. Seriously, he could use that thing to measure basketball players’ boots. There are some low sniggers around the room and a couple of pairs of saucer eyes, mine included. Generally, though, everyone has seen all this before. It doesn’t even raise a whoop. The manager informs his guys that they are outta there and they simply get up and leave, just like that, no further preparations taken. There is no checking out or dashes to rooms to collect particular items. They have Bag Man, a brick-wall fellow of Maori extraction covered in tribal tats to ensure the personal possessions of each band member end up in the right place.

  They don’t ask exactly where it is they are going, or whether they should nip for a quick pee before they go, or whether anything more substantial than underwear and a fur coat need to be worn. They just go. They allow themselves to be shepherded around, not caring about certain things, assuming that other things will get taken care of by someone else. It all seems unfettered and cool, watching them throwing open the fire doors and striding out, still clutching glasses of bourbon, but you know there is a zombified passivity to their behaviour, an erosion of thought or resistance due to exhaustion. But marching across that lawn together to a waiting helicopter, a bitchin’ posse of cowboy boot-wearing rockers plus a sexy wife or girlfriend here and there – you’d want to be part of it if you could, wouldn’t you?

  With more than half the room suddenly departed we are left to ponder the tedium of these daylight hours. Sleep is trying to take us over but allowing it to do so leaves you wrecked all day. Often pranks proliferate – the kind that could normally only entertain the most bored and frustrated of school kids. Sex would seem like an obvious distraction but it’s a little early even for Sindee. It has also to be said that since Thunderhed’s arrival on tour, a couple of sneaky episodes aside, her sexy ways do indeed seem to have been reduced, or at least modified. Now I wonder – is this so that Mr Casanove doesn’t get turned off by her dalliances with other men?

  We watch their departure, a little jealous at how awesome it looks, a little glad we don’t have to be heading anywhere with purpose. Sindee is soon curled up on a couch with her eyes closed. She has on a black Ramones T-shirt and tight jeans, not much make-up. She looks peaceful but hot, if such a combination is possible. Rather than sitting here watching others twiddling their thumbs, too lethargic to even twiddle my own, I could be elsewhere, with her, starting the greatest romance of my life, the one that makes everything worthwhile. These are my danger times, when I pang to scoop her up and take her off to my room. I fear for my heart in these moments. Can the dead read your thoughts? If so I’ve already betrayed my Elowen.

  A brief dose of Sindee, her looks aside, might leave one assuming there was nothing beyond her brashness and unashamed rudeness for anyone to fall in love with. I have seen more. I see the little things. It’s her happiness, the way she does those little dances of joy, the unheralded quips and t
he abstract way her brain works. You know something odd is always going on in her mind. I have a mental list of things that I find worryingly endearing, which I often find myself adding to. Examples of such include:

  She likes to invent words, just like I do. Specifically, she likes to invent insults. Her current favourite is ‘slot’, aimed particularly at certain bandmates. It sounds benign and is used freely. However, when firing it at victims, in her mind is a certain area of the female anatomy, and she certainly means it to carry all the vindictive crudeness of the C-word.

  Whenever we share a room she wakes me in the same way: with a song. She gets on top of me, using her knees on my arms or pressing on the bed covers to pin me down. Then she sings a different made-up ditty using a tune from her head or borrowing one from a nursery rhyme: hey, little lady, how did you sleep? Did you drift off slowly, counting sheep? It is inane and always sung sweetly. Sometimes she then makes to dribble spit on me, perhaps letting it string down before sucking it back up in the nick of time. I have to thrash to get her off me and she yells “Giddy up!” or “Go on, toss me off!” It’s all a little bizarre and makes me struggle and panic just a little, but I know it’s a special thing she only does for me, so I can’t help but treasure my morning song.

  She is a mental terrorist, as in she terrorises deserving people mentally. She once she took a piece of paper and drew a stick man in a stance with one hand on hip and the other bent floor-wards at the end of a crooked arm – a sign of apparent gayness. The stick man had a speech bubble with ‘I’m coming to get you’ written in it. She folded it up and secreted it in Russell’s jacket pocket for him to find later, knowing full-well his avid spliff-smoking often gave him bouts of paranoia. She never mentioned it again, never sought out his reaction. It was enough to know that it would spook him for days. Another time she took a cold piece of spare breakfast bacon and wrote the word ‘Revenge’ upon it in marker pen. She then put it in one of those envelopes you find in your hotel room, meant for leaving suggestions or comments about your stay, and asked room service to leave it at reception for Russell’s attention. Again, she didn’t seek out his thoughts on all this. I find all this I find brilliantly random.