Sin Delicious

by Willow Sears

  I have the image of him in my mind – not as he is now in his jeans, but back in his hunting gear. The smartness of this attire would take away some of his roughness, even with that smooth hard prick of his poking through the fly of those tight breeches. It has been a long time since I’ve allowed a man inside me. I feel almost virginal in this respect. I need to think that some of his wildness can be calmed, or trepidation will outstrip excitement. I want him, no question. He is the one that could make a loveless fling unforgettable and precious. I can almost imagine myself crying out for him, telling him that my friend isn’t trying to protect me; she simply wants to keep him for herself. But if she simply waylaid him with that sexual expertise of hers then I would just be lying here: a wailing, self-confessed hussy, my own desperate pleas ringing in my ears – and how guilty and wretched would that make me feel?

  I am breathing hard but her fingers won’t be enough to make me come this time. Anyway, she wants her turn. I am to perform. If I do it well it might make Cas forget what Sindee has told him about me and have him take me without asking. I never dreamed I would welcome a third party to judge my skill as a lover, my abilities to tease and arouse. In the cold light of day, I’m sure the whole idea of it would have me wanting to run a mile. Instead I find it exciting. Perhaps it is part of that same submissive streak that lurks within: taking pleasure from other people taking their pleasure from you. Honey told me that sometimes being watched was enough. I know that my inhibitions have melted away in these last few days and I seem capable of the kind of things Sindee takes as natural. I know I want more than her fingers inside me, that’s for sure. I’m in need of something bigger, stiffer and pulsing with raging blood.

  Her taste is sweetly subtle despite how wet she always gets. I am aware that many have been before me and some have been pros but I just stick to what always gave Elowen the most pleasure. I know for Sindee this is just a way to get her lover turned on. She isn’t after fireworks. I still show her the same passion I showed my last lover, and hope that somehow she remembers that I don’t mind if this thing between us is everything, even if I am finally learning to be a hussy who can separate love from meaningless flings. I should get on my knees if I am to entice him behind me but I’m just not wanton enough for that. I will just do as she says and hope that somehow she has a change of heart and decides to share.

  She won’t let me make her come although I take her close. I don’t know why. She puts her hand down there to stop me although she was previously gripping my hair and keeping me hard to her. Maybe she doesn’t want him to think I have anything like her oral expertise. She leads me to the couch and steers me to sit right beside him. I can smell him – not just his warm spice scent but also that of his aroused cock. The blindfold is slipped off but I keep my eyes closed. I’m trembling just from being at his side. My thighs are prised apart and her tongue laps at the crotch of my damp panties. My bare nipples are aching for his mouth but I can’t ask for it; it would mean too much compliance on my part. I open my eyes just a fraction and see her crouched there, tongue out, pressed to the tight fabric covering me, refusing to push it aside and give me what I need. Worse, his stiff cock is there too, her hand around it, claiming it, stroking it up and down while she teases me. Where do you learn such tricks? Then she turns her attentions to him. She moans as she takes him in to demonstrate how delicious his hard cock is in her mouth. This audible show of appreciation must be extra arousing for him. It’s not something I would ever have the harlot courage to do.

  She sucks him softly to start. I could do that. Then she shows him how deep she can go – way more than I could manage without gagging. Porn stars must learn on bananas or something, watching themselves in mirrors to get the lusty faces right. She leaves him slick with saliva, wanting more. Then I am taken from the sofa and guided to my knees. I think I am to have my turn on him and my nervous excitement unloads. However, it is just to give her another turn. She strips off her knickers right in front of us both and sits with legs parted, hand again gripping his shaft to show who owns it. She strokes herself before my eyes, pulling upwards to expose her clitoris for me to suck. My fingers go into her. I am less comfortable with this contrived wantonness but she feels so gorgeous inside that I try to blot out the porn element of it all. She presses to me, one hand again grasping my hair to hold me to her. My face is smeared with her. The juices run down my wrist. She gives little squeals and bucks against my fingers inside her but again stops short of taking a full-blown climax.

  Then she leaves me there. She takes him by the hand and leads him to the bed and I am left on my knees. I should get up and follow, press my claim to be there, let him get his hands on me. I watch her go back down upon him, giving her greedy moans as if for the camera. I can’t think to take any pictures. She swivels around and plants her bottom onto his face, jiggling it back and forth as her hand goes up and down his stiff pole. I could have got in there first. Imagine being dirty enough to do such a thing! Her crotch is smothering him and more than half his shaft is in her mouth. It’s like she wants to absorb him all.

  She comes off him again, hauling him further up the bed, pressing him into the corner, like she is trying to ensure he can’t be got at by anyone. She is astride him, squatting on feet rather than knees, hands on his chest to help her hover over his prick, ready to descend. I watch with breath held as she slowly sinks down and impales herself upon him. It is audibly sublime for them both. If any thoughts of me had persisted they will now have been driven out. She wants to control things and come all over him. By staying on her knees she has much greater up and down purchase. Strength in the calves and thighs is needed for this but she is well practised. Her weight takes her all the way down and then her muscles force her up, milking his whole length. She can take him as deep as she wants and at whatever speed she chooses, all the time taunting me with that pushed-out rear of hers. There is no way in there for me. He doesn’t even need to thrust upwards. Best of all it won’t hurry him towards his finish. She does this in the film she made, the one that had him hooked. I wonder how many more of those positions they will copy tonight to honour that.

  Where so recently I would have been glad to be there as a voyeur only, this time I feel robbed. She is wilfully keeping him from me, pinning him down. I can’t see his face or much of his body. Most of his cock she keeps buried inside her as she writhes upon it. She has moved his big hands to her rump and they practically cover it. This is not posing for camera snaps or performing for an audience. This is her telling me to get out and leave them alone. But I have let her make love to me and I want to feel some of that love back. I have shared more of myself with him than I thought I would share with any man again and I want to share in him too. Since that time he spanked me I have been hurtling towards the stars and suddenly I have hit the ceiling. I need to break through, to allow the building momentum to rid me of my ghosts and let be as normal as everyone else. He is the one I won’t regret.

  I had my chance. Whilst I was on my knees I could have sucked on his cock even as she grasped it for him. Imagine if I had. She would have gone wild and spanked the arse off me. She is no different to Honey now. She has her man and wants no one else to touch him. She used me to help ensnare him and now I am seemingly surplus to requirements. The foreplay I am good for, but not the meat of their rude games. I should be outraged but it is so hard to be when the betrayers are so sensually fucking right before your eyes and making your molten pussy beg for attention. I have to go, even though I’m not sure I can take such another near miss. They have made me ready to give myself again by turning me into a submissive, but if they won’t now take it from me what am I to do?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cometh The Hour...

  Again she breezes in as if nothing has happened. She even gives me a swift hug and a smack on the jean-covered arse. It’s only playful but she knows what effect such things have on me.

  “I think you should let me use a dildo on you next time,” she
scurrilously whispers into my ear. “You should go and get us some from somewhere.”

  That would be about right: me off out doing her dirty work so that she can entertain her lover to the max before giving me the cold shoulder. Sadly, I’m already thinking about doing exactly as she asked. I guess you have to admire her brazenness. It doesn’t bother her in the slightest that I wasn’t there last night when she turned around. I once assumed the way she took control of her men was partly to keep me safe from them but last night it was most definitely to ensure I kept my hands of him. Maybe it was always like this.

  “Well, perhaps this lesbian doesn’t think a dildo will do the job,” I say. “Maybe she is after the real thing.”

  She studies me, careful not to let her expression change. She searches for an answer but I know she is trying to keep her tongue in check. I have the vaguest inkling that I might just have sealed my own fate. Really I should be glad not to get involved with them again. I am being used and the torture of it is exhausting me. Feelings have grown strong between them and I am getting none of it. They have dragged me free from my celibacy and forced me to change what was not a particularly healthy state of mind, but am I destined to regret this? I should be glad of this new strength they have imparted to get on with my life, but I sense I want to cling to them, hoping for some kind of emotional connection so that I can feel less guilty about what I have let them do to me.

  “We are leaving for the airport in ten,” is all she says to me.

  Bag Man drives us there in the drug dealer car and then goes off to return it to the rental company whilst we check into First Class. I’ve never flown this poshly before. It will spoil me forever. Sindee seems to quietly resent me being here. I think she wants to have me downgraded to Peasant Class at the very least. Our luggage is minimal, which always looks pretty cool. I came with little but made sure I kept the riding gear bought for me, more out of appreciation for the gift than from plans to wear it again. Sindee left hers behind. I reckon she thinks she has a life of utter profligacy ahead of her. I’m not sure how I’m going to cope once I’m dumped back into the real world.

  It’s only a comparatively short flight for us seasoned travellers and we spend most of it at the little bar and its attached lounge area – not too dissimilar to the one Thunderhed have on their tour bus, if a little less pimp-friendly. Sindee is all over him. He looks just a little more conscious that he is in a public place with someone other than his wife on his arm. He also seems more aware of the fact that I might be getting frozen out and continues to try and keep me part of the conversation. Sindee, who might well have notions of trying out some kind of Mile High Club adventure, wants to do all her talking in whispers in his ear. Fortunately, he won’t let her cut me out and I like him even more for it.

  “I’m going to get me a big house in the country surrounded by acres of land and with stables,” Cas muses, his eyes glazing, “I’m gonna fill it with shit-loads of great art and spend my evenings sipping fine wine in front of a huge open fire. By day I will fish from my own lakes or shoot in my own woods. And I’ll have my own hunt with hounds ‘n’ shit for all my buddies to come join me on.”

  This is another subtlety. He spends all his time and effort trying to make people crowd around and adore him and now he has them in their droves all he wants to do is withdraw into isolation, as far from these fans as he can be, no doubt with security to stop them getting anywhere near him. The masses he craves drive him to seclusion. Already he lives a life separate from the real world – this rough, tough rebel from the streets. I think he was a loner who fought to gain some recognition and give himself a hint of self-worth. His charisma ensured he got so much he now has to remove himself from it. I find that very ironic. Would he now swap it for a normal life? I very much doubt it.

  It’s a key question I find myself coming back to when I think of him: what would he be like without the fame and fortune? By all accounts he has always been mean and confrontational, but a fighter for his cause rather than a bully. He is a drinker and a drug taker. He swears in front of ladies and he spits on stage. He is a cheat in love. He is somehow Neanderthal and yet it is this that adds to his attraction. Without the fame, thousands upon thousands of women would not dream of him in their bed, but then without his fame they wouldn’t know of him to desire or otherwise, so that’s a moot point.

  His charisma he was born with; it wasn’t created. His fame is therefore a product of his charisma. So maybe it was written in the stars that he would turn out this way and his character is what it was always going to be, not a product of an over-inflated ego created by fame. If so, add up the flaws and bad points of his nature and subtract the rugged-if-not-bad-when-you-get-used-to-them looks and you have someone you shouldn’t particularly like. And yet I do, more and more. Sheen is arguably better looking but he is simply vulgar and vacuous. Cas has more depth to him. It is like he is striving to gain some class. He ultimately wants the country estate, not the Playboy mansion he met his wife in. I think he is trying to leave the rough-mannered fighter behind. I think he is striving to be decent, and when he has enough money he will do just that: depart the spotlight and go and quietly be a gentleman somewhere. The trouble is, in the meantime, he has all that drink and those drugs and spats and women to get through, so will he ever make it to the other side?

  “Well, you’ve certainly got some fit foxes around for you to chase,” Sindee jokes, reminding him that she should be present in this proposed paradise of his.

  “So you would buy an estate here in Europe, in England?” I ask him.

  “Fuck no – back in Cali. I want a vineyard!”

  Sindee smiles, her eyes glazing, dreaming dreams of this life in the sun. But California is where Honey is, where his child will be.

  Instead of a cab from the airport Cas instructs Bag Man to hire a car, just in case we need one for the duration of our stay. Bag Man opts for a Mercedes MPV, because it is black and has tints: the sure way to get otherwise unfazed members of the public curious as to who’s inside. Along with the flights and other sundries, this must be ten grand that’s gone on the Amex today alone, without an eyelid being batted. The extravagance doesn’t stop there. Sindee and I, along with the Death in Venus guys, are booked into a cheaper hotel half a mile from the swish one Cas and the others will call home for the next few nights. We drive straight past ours and onto his. He then books out a lounge area so that we girls have somewhere to chill in privacy this afternoon, whilst he sound checks at the venue. He also orders Bag Man to drive me to my hotel to pick up stuff for me and Sindee, and tells him to take me anywhere I want to go if I need to buy anything else. Sindee can’t go with me because she is needed in his suite for a pre-gig shag. I am clearly not required but I hold out hopes for later.

  In the foyer of my much less salubrious lodgings I find guess who? It seems like a lifetime since I’ve seen Russell, Vinny and poor Ben, when in reality it has only been a couple of days. No surprises, Beavis and Butthead are hanging around looking clueless and bored as always, just as they were when I left them. Poor Ben is curled up on another sofa with eyes shut and hands over his ears, presumably having been driven mad at last by his bandmates’ inane wittering. I stand before them, surveying the scene. They look rough.

  ‘“Christ, it’s like Waiting for Godot in here,” I say. Russell gives me a filthy look and completely ignores me, continuing with another of his bullshit stories.

  “So I walk into the lav,” he tells an ever gormlessly interested Vinny, “and this chick is sat there with her knickers round her ankles, tinkling away whilst talking to her mate on the phone. She’s telling her that the place is full of rock stars and that she thinks one of them has just walked in on her, looking for a fuck. I tell her I’m the drummer and get my cock out and she sucks away on it while her mate is still on the phone. She sucking me and telling her mate how lovely it is and sending pictures to her while she’s wanking me off. I come in her mouth and then scram and she’s going ‘Wo
w! I just sucked off one of the All Stars!’ I didn’t bother telling her she’d got her bands mixed up!”

  I shake my head in dismay and incredulity and resignation. No wonder Ben has turned catatonic. I go up to my room to get some stuff together. All our possessions have indeed been transferred here by our unknown servant. How will I ever manage again without people magically doing everything for me? Fortunately, having been whisked to England, we still have some of the fetish gear purchased in Berlin as yet unworn. I opt for the lilac corset in latex and pick out something for my no-good friend. Despite the fact that Bag Man is waiting patiently for me downstairs like a slave, I still shower in case I don’t get time later, even though I had one this morning. You can never be too clean or too dirty, as Sindee says. I am going to leave but I spot that Ben has stirred. He really does look a state: hair everywhere, pasty-faced and glum.

  I slide in beside him and nudge his shoulder with mine as a sign of friendship. I feel terrible for leaving him like this.

  “Backgammon?” I ask him. Bag Man can wait.

  “I can’t stand any more of this,” he says quietly, staring ahead as if dazed. “I could be doing something way more worthwhile. I could be writing film scores, composing rather than turning out shite for a shite band with a singer who is never here to rehearse anything new.”

  “What if I told you there was a proper singer looking for a guitarist and songwriter – a lovely, level-headed, supremely talented girl who wants to sing proper lyrics and not ones about hellfire bitches on speed?”

  I’m not sure he’s heard me. His glazed-eye expression remains the same, looking into the distance as if the answers to his problems are there somewhere.

  “I just want to cut off this greasy mop so I can see clearly for once.”