by Willow Sears
I’ve never really considered this band’s musical merits before. To me it was all power and crash and adrenaline. Now I see that they are intrinsically gifted in a way alien to me. They seem like different people. Refinement and mature emotion can be witnessed for once. They all seem beautiful – these long-haired, tattooed, coarse macho-men. I realise that this is how all songs are written. They start as chords on piano or guitar. Even the heaviest, fastest of tracks begins as these bare-bones melodies. There is purity at the heart of it all. They speed up a little with some blues. Cas adds a new gruffness to his vocal and Sindee joins in to duet. They sound good together, which is ominous. People seem to be drawn in from everywhere, band and crew alike. Everyone taps their feet and joins in. Even me, with my voice like a barge, adds to the chorus. It feels exhilarating.
This atmosphere is different. I guess I’ve felt it before but never has it been this noticeable. Between songs the chatter and laughter continues. Warm contentment is in us all. Drinks are still drunk and cigarettes still smoked but gone is that air of empty expectancy and niggling boredom. This – this – is why they are in a band. It isn’t just the money and the adoration and the sex and the drugs. It is this creative magic; this togetherness. Just music, being able to play it and sing it and get it, brings life brilliance. If I could have one wish now it wouldn’t be for this house, or a helicopter of my own, or a footman called Françoise to bring me my toasties – it would be to be able to play the guitar, or the piano. I’d even accept being a plain old ‘-er’ if I could be gifted the ability to play the drums.
Sheen points out his kit, squeezed into a space up there on the gallery, where the acoustics are “frikkin awesome, dude.” There is so little space that it won’t all fit in, so he has to record the cymbal tracks completely separately. This, apparently, is a very hard skill, but has the happy outcome of allowing the drums to be turned up in the final mix for a beefier sound, without everything being spoiled by overbearing cymbal crash. Normally I don’t think I would give a monkey’s rump about any of this, but right now, in this mood, I realise that what goes on here could go into making one of the biggest-selling albums of all time, and this will be part of the legend. The album won’t be all about the catchy choruses or the guitar solos, but about the musicality that was behind it. And I was here when it happened. I felt the atmosphere, breathed it in.
Honey seems to be struggling to say anything that truly encapsulates the happy situation, so every now and then she just smiles at me and says, “Ain’t this a beautiful chateau?” She pronounces it as ‘beautiful shadow’. They all do, these Americans. I like this phrase, particularly in plural form, which I reckon would be a good title for Sindee’s Fuck Journal – better than the one she has in mind, possibly even an equal to Sin Delicious, which I planned to use whatever Sindee said. I mull over hastily contrived reasons for titling the book thus, other than that I just like the words.
I see the shadows as their music, the essence of them, their imprint on the world, spreading out to the listeners. It is what will make them first adored, and will be ever there and remembered and unspoilt. However, when you look back up at them you will find them much changed: all egocentric and tour-wizened; riddled with poisons and world-weary; smug with in-jokes and over-inflated notions of the quality and worth of their music. They will be like parodies of themselves – not beautiful and heroic any more but ridiculous and conceited. Fame and excess has sucked out their real selves, so the only trace of what was once there is in the shadows they cast. You wonder what they would have been, how different their characters if they hadn’t made it big, if they could always only stay in this wonderful bubble I see them in now, where music is everything.
I want the show to go on forever but Bag Man interrupts, presenting before us two young females, perhaps not yet even out of their teens. He’s not exactly dragging them by the scruff of the neck but they are clearly being propelled into our midst. One is a lanky and long-faced, and looks like she’s had her dyed blonde locks blasted by industrial hairspray whilst she was in a spin dryer. It’s all kind of swirly and everywhere, but rigid. The make-up was clearly applied at the same time. Not my type. Her companion just might be: the emo one with the little nose-ring. She is shorter and raven-haired. Her eyes are not large but are still compelling, being very dark and carrying a hint of defiance that I bet never leaves them. Her skin is porcelain white. Her pale lips are set in a little pout – another feature I imagine to be habitual. Whilst the blonde goes all weak-kneed and giggly, gushing French zut alors-y nonsense from the joy of beholding her musical heroes in the flesh, the raven girl doesn’t flinch.
They have been caught trying to sneak in. First they tried to gain access to the helicopter – to deal out surprise blow-jobs to the band en route to the next gig, no doubt. The raven-haired one doesn’t strike me as that kind of girl, but still. With that attempt failing Bag Man then apprehended them as they tried to gain access through a side window. He could have just ejected them from the premises, obviously, but the general rule is that all such groupies – and there are many trying similar stunts – should be first brought in front of the band entourage for inspection, just in case.
The ‘cool vibe’ atmosphere of their sing-along music session changes just a little, but noticeably so. Everyone in the room, from lead guitarists to diminutive nobody plugging wires into amplifiers, sizes the girls up as potential playmates to bring forth naughty fun for the next however long. They can’t help themselves. You can feel the leach of hormone into the air. Groupies are boredom breakers, entertainment makers, to be used or abused in whatever way suits the current mood. Real beauties might get treated with some respect, placed at the top of the pecking order, but naive young things like these two, wilfully putting themselves into our midst, are fair game for anything.
The fact that no one makes an instant claim for them bodes badly. If the bassist, say, had fancied a swift threesome he might have bagged them, leading them away for some private sexy fun. That hasn’t happened. In those instances of inaction, I know their fate is sealed. They might not have set out on this adventure dreaming of sucking off some guy in a smelly check shirt who loads heavy things on and off a lorry, but that might well be the outcome. I guess it is in my power to whisk the raven girl to safety but that doesn’t have time to be more than a half-pondered thought.
What did they think they would get from this, I wonder? How did they know we were here and what impelled them to find their way to the middle of this isolation just to clap eyes on hairy people? What is the emo girl’s name? These are questions I’d like an answer to but no one else seems bothered. Thunderhed’s manager strides in, busily stuffing something bready into his mouth. He stops and looks the captives up and down, even lifting his sunglasses to provide a better inspection. He says, almost as an afterthought, “If you wanna stay, one of you is going to have to get her clothes off, right now,”
“That’s right, bee-atch!” exclaims an excited Sheen. Smiles are breaking out and others join in backing up the manager’s statement. Grown-ups have become children again. All beam at the manager’s ingenuity. He could have sent them packing, job done. He could have made them both get naked, but why not compound the humiliation of one by allowing her friend to stay dressed? It is just a way of throwing a bit of extra weight around, a way of providing a touch more entertainment that might be stored in the brain for maybe thirty seconds longer than if they had both had to strip. Plus, you get to ascertain quickly which, if either of them, is the most up for saucy antics. It is petty and inane game-playing which I am a little embarrassed to be a part of. More shamefully, I’m hoping they stay and I’m hoping it’s the quiet emo girl who strips, however unlikely that is.
The girls have a hushed conflab, perhaps privately trying to ascertain what is required of them. The blonde is a bit wide-eyed; Raven Girl remains impassive. Just this pause starts to make the whole thing wearisome.
“You British chicks learn French,” says She
en through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Tell them what the fuck they gotta do or tell them to get the fuck out.”
Naturally it is Sindee who steps up to the plate, happy to help instigate any rude shenanigans.
“If you want to stay,” she tells the girls, talking slowly and loudly but not particularly Frenchly, “one of you – une of vous – has to remove-ay votre vêtements. Toot sweet.”
Sheen nods approvingly as if this was fluent Parisian. The girls remain in conflab. I bring all my powers of telepathy to bear upon Raven Girl and miraculously it works. With no further standing upon ceremony she wordlessly sheds her clothes. There is no attempt to do this erotically, as the audience might have liked. Off come her little denim shorts and the netted stockings beneath, crackling the air around her pale legs with static. Off comes the vest top – heavy metal girls love a vest top – to reveal a pink bra, not matching her white cotton knickers. I expect some hesitation but it doesn’t come. I don’t have this girl’s measure at all. The bra is immediately pinged off and the panties are not far behind. She stands there unabashed: small pert breasts; totally shaven and gorgeous down below; her skin milky-white like a china doll. My face might be turning blue from holding my breath too long. To them she might be just another bit of ‘groupie snatch’, but my heart is racing fast.
“So, who have you chicks come here to see?” says Sheen, grinning lecherously and parting his legs as an invitation, not in the least bit worried that Cucumber Girl is draped all over him. I try to get into the head of the naked emo girl once more. Point to ME my thoughts say.
“Cas Casanove,” blurts the blonde, before my telepathy can work. Well, that’s not going to go down well. Honey is on her feet even faster than I’d envisaged, using me to help propel herself up from the squashy seat.
“You skanks think you can just come fuck my husband with me standing right here?” she yells, pointing at Raven Girl even though it was the blonde who said it. “Well, you’re going to learn to keep your hands where they ain’t wanted. Bag Man – do your stuff. Spank that bitch and do it hard!”
My insides flip. It’s that S-word again! It ratchets my pulse up another level. The girl still looks unabashed but maybe she hasn’t yet worked out what is coming her way. Bag Man has already undone his cuffs and is now attending to the buttons down the front of his tight-fitting, crisp shirt. There was no hesitation from him, no look of surprise. His response was immediate, as if this is a ritual they have performed before, although I’ve never yet seen it. Honey is still glowering but I bet her heart is beating as fast as mine. Off comes the Maori warrior’s shirt, leaving him bare-chested. He is covered in black tribal tattoos, all up his arms, on his back and neck. The torso is huge, all wide and solidly muscular. He could wrestle bulls. I’ve seen him pick up and hurl aside grasping, over-zealous fans two and three at a time. The massive hands could crush skulls. Raven Girl’s bum doesn’t stand a chance, but I don’t attempt to intervene.
This is going to be more than about punishment. Honey clearly gets off on such things and I am about to see why. Bag Man turns his victim so that her back is to us. Over her shoulder she gives Honey a last look of defiance. Then over she goes, forced to bend at the waist by a Maori hand at her back. He doesn’t put her over anything; she will have to keep herself there with hands on knees. The sight of her like this has me involuntarily squirming in my seat. She looks so innocent with her flawless white skin and that cute dark split. Maybe that’s what’s turning me on so much. Her bottom still has some puppy fat to upholster it but I doubt this will be adequate protection. Sheen lets out another nonchalant blast of grey smoke and I almost punch him in the face for daring to obscure my view.
Bag Man is more obliging, standing at her side so that we all have a fine view of proceedings. Even the blonde friend has moved in for a closer look. A huge tattooed arm goes over the pale girl’s body, almost encircling her at the waist so that she is held up. With fingers slightly splayed one giant hand goes back and then strikes sharply, rippling the soft flesh. The cheek pinks almost immediately, while it is still wobbling. The impact had me rather un-coolly jumping in my seat. It is as much her sound that has my thighs squeezing together – a gasp of shock and perhaps some panic, but not of pain necessarily, or of hatred for her abuser. It doesn’t sound like she wants it as such – or so my strange brain is telling me – more that she doesn’t want to say no to it.
The hand is almost large enough to cover every inch of the squashy buttock it lands upon. Slaps are dealt to each cheek in turn and with deliberately measured tempo: smack, smack, smack, then a pause; smack, smack, smack and pause again for the effect to be absorbed by all. Her vulnerable puss can be seen bulging between her thighs, looking ever more swollen and as wet as my own. Maybe one finger alone would be enough to finish her. It would me. I want all the accompanying whoops and encouraging comments to stop so that I can hear the noises properly – her noises. The buttocks are soon angry red with the skin seemingly shrinking against the flesh beneath. Although she squirms and her legs shake, she never tries to break his hold.
I don’t know how many she takes but I know my own cheeks are burning when footman Françoise enters to politely inform us that dinner will be served in an hour. He gives just the merest of glances towards the spanked bottom, his expression not changing. Lord knows what he has seen in his time in this household. Bag Man simply stops and reaches for his shirt, his task done as instructed. Honey’s bright eyes and sadistic sneer tell me she loved what she saw. Sindee looks ready for action too. Cucumber Girl strokes at Sheen’s crotch, so maybe she has detected something swelling inside his jeans. Surely this was just the start of things but everyone is already talking about dinner and all I want to do is see Raven Girl fucked so that I can ascertain just how close she is to orgasm. I almost demand it!
I want to see her face; detect signs of distress or rapture. Sheen is up, leading a mini exodus. Cucumber Girl is going to be filled very shortly, and that’s a fact. Honey already has Sindee by the hand and is reaching out for mine, telling us she will show us to our room so we can get ready for dinner. If Raven Girl has been warmed up for something it is a sad fact that I am not going to get to witness it. Such incidents are so ten a penny on this tour that no one else sees it as business that most definitely needs finishing. I glance back as I am led away but she is still head down in exactly the same position. I don’t know if she is too sore, too distressed to straighten up, or too much in rapture. I want it to be the latter: her head swimming with the joyous burn; her pussy bulging and desperate for any fingers or cock to see her taken over the edge.
Up a grand staircase we go and through more portrait-lined corridors. Honey squeezes my hand hard. Would a small palm like hers carry less of a sting or do larger hands spread the impact, regardless of the weight behind it? She shows us into our quarters. Once again we are to share, although in this case there is rather more comfort afforded than we are used to. I’m not talking some crappy broom cupboard like the room we got in the motel in Marseille last time we were in this country – this is a full-on guest suite. If we are in here imagine what the guys who are actually in the band have.
As we enter, Honey holds me back to whisper conspiratorially: “You know it was me who got you to come here today.” She bites her lip and raises her eyebrows so that I don’t miss her implications. How could I with the vision of Raven Girl still so strongly in my mind? I smile back, trying not to look encouraging. A thought occurs: Honey thinks that Sindee and I are lovers. This hasn’t stopped her from shamelessly hitting on me but it explains why she isn’t worried about having the potential threat of extra females within reach of her husband. Her efforts to bring me close are going to bite her in the tiny ass when Sindee makes her move on Cas – and she will.
Honey excitedly shows us the rack of gowns for us to choose from to wear at dinner. They are period style, to match the house, all beautiful shining silk and plunging necklines. It is a hell of a difference to what we usua
lly deck ourselves out in of an evening. There are corsets too – proper ones, not the fetish wear ones Sindee often sports on stage – to help boost the bust, as if my friend needs any of that!
“They didn’t wear panties back then,” winks Honey at me, “so don’t bother your pretty head about such things.”
I’m sure they wore something. Honey is very proud of herself for arranging all of this for us. She has also got us a whole range of cosmetics and pampering products, all thoughtfully listed so that we could want for nothing, and then procured, at the click of her fingers, by someone else. She leaves us, running her fingernails lightly down my bare arm as she goes, just as a reminder of what she wants to do to me. I’m feeling less and less like I know how to resist her. Sindee is doing little jumps of joy as she surveys the gowns.
“This is going to be awesome!” she says. “Christ, I need a wank – do you want to watch me?”
I almost hit the floor. She chucks such things so nonchalantly into our conversations I’m never sure how serious she is or how much her intention is simply to tease.
“No I do not!” I reply, trying to sound incredulous even though my head is telling me it is a great idea. I take myself off to the grand en suite and lock the door in case she senses how low my defences currently are. I don’t know if she is actually doing as she says or not – but I imagine that she is. I decide it is best to take my time and not risk walking in on her half way through the job. I should have a bath, since the deep claw-footed one looks so luxurious, but instead I opt for a long shower purely to save on hot water – or maybe it’s because jets of warm water are so effective when aimed correctly.