Get Bent

by C. M. Stunich

  “Your friend is annoying as shit,” Naomi says, but she doesn't sound irritated, more … contemplative. I've never had a thoughtful blow job before. This should be fun. “Have you ever made love before, Turner?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me either.”

  Naomi wraps her fingers around me and tastes me with hot lips. I groan and grab onto the red leather cushions, feeling that electricity snake through my crotch and straight up to my brain. This is better than any dope, better than a wild acid trip. Naomi Knox is just … fucking hardcore. I let go of the sofa and bring my hands down, cup them under her chin and pull her face to mine. When we kiss, I taste my own sweat on her tongue and it drives me friggin' nuts.

  “You're turning down a BJ?” she asks as I bring my arms down and wrap one around her bare waist, feeling the beauty of her perfect skin, the gentle curve of her spine. My other hand finds the slit in her borrowed boxer shorts and strokes down the hair there, diving deep and finding that molten spot between her thighs.

  “Postponing it,” I whisper as I dip inside, watching her face in another flash of lightning as she tightens around my hand, washing me in juices and bringing a growl into my throat. I can't help it. I feel like a fucking animal around her. Naomi has got me stripped primal, baby.

  “You disgust me, Turner,” she says as she rides my hand, grinding herself against my knuckles, getting me in there nice and deep. “But you turn me on, too. I don't get it.” I try not to smirk. I don't think smirking would be appropriate here. One slips out anyway.

  “I thought we were supposed to be making love here?”

  “I didn't say that, asshole,” she groans against my forehead. Somehow, even in the dark, she manages to seek out all the star tats that are partially buried in my hair and licks the skin with long, slow strokes, hot as fucking fire. More thunder rattles the windows, but it's not a biggie. I could die in here with Naomi, leave a beautiful corpse, wrapped up inside of her. Man, I'd die happy.

  “Aren't you supposed to be telling me you love me and shit?” Naomi pauses the grinding rhythm of her hips and looks me straight in the face. She's serious as a heart attack when she next speaks.

  “Don't expect that out of me, Turner. If you go into this with that expectation, you might be disappointed.” I feel her body cooling, her spirit drawing back. I don't want her to dive into herself. I want her to burst free, drench me with that fiery devil-angel she tries to keep hidden. But I see it. I see it clear as fucking day.

  With a slow, wicked motion, I pull my hand away from Naomi's pulsing pussy and slide my wet fingers down my cock, making sure she sees, that she's watching my teeth when I bite my lip, that she knows I'm going to be covered in her, condom or no.

  “Put it on,” I whisper, and she throws the package at my face.

  “You put it on,” she growls back. “I don't like being told what to do.” Push and pull, back and forth. Neither of us knows how to be vulnerable without being an asshole right after. I don't let her bother me, just grab the square and rip it with my teeth. The condom rolls over me, nice and tight, fighting the straining hardness of my dick.

  “Ah, don't get pissy, beautiful. I'm just starting out.”

  “I don't want generic pussycat nicknames. Call me by my real name.”

  “Alright, Knox, just relax and I'll show you what I can do.” Without waiting for a response, I push her back and climb on top, sliding my tongue down her throat, pausing at her full breasts to nip and lick, hit her hardened nipples with my tongue ring. The warm metal teases the pink flesh into painful points, actually getting a rise out of my Rock Goddess. She groans a beautiful ugly groan, a growl that's pure music to my ears, tangling her fingers in my hair and pulling hard enough to hurt. I run my fingers down her sides and push her thighs up, sliding down her belly with hard kisses and nips. When I hit her hot cunt, I dive straight in.

  One hand wraps my cock and the other cups her firm ass while I pick up where we left off before, worshipping her with my body, giving myself up in a way I've never done before. I stroke my shaft and warm myself up for her body, making sure I won't disappoint, that I can take her to the end of the universe and back.

  I'm not going to lie. I've never really cared about pleasuring a woman before. Whatever I did, it was all for my own enjoyment. If I fingered a girl, it was for fun. It wasn't to make her feel good. And I didn't do it because I'm a bad guy or because I hate women. I fucking love women. I did what I did because I didn't care. I was living for, striving for, respect, but I wasn't dishing it out. I'm not saying I'm suddenly cured, that I'll start saying please and thank you and shit. I'm still going to mark the stage up, piss on it and make it mine. I'm going to get angry at people for fucking with me, and I'm going to hit back. But I'm going to try. I'm going to try because I want Naomi to see me as a better person. That's it. Plain and simple.

  Now here I am, and for, like, what is probably the first time ever, I care how she feels, what's going through her mind, what she thinks of me.

  “I love your ass hardcore, Naomi,” I whisper, spreading her wide, not afraid to get my face wet. She doesn't respond, but her moans echo in time with another roll of thunder, a snarl from the sky that swears to fuck that we are not the most important things on this earth. Doesn't matter to me right now. All I know is that Naomi is my most important thing, and that's that. End of discussion. Mother Nature can suck my dick.

  I whisper words against Naomi as I taste her, the words to her song. When I said they gave her life, I wasn't kidding. These are slices of her soul, floating in space, poisoning crowds with hope and starry-eyed, glassy snippets of love songs long lost. Shit. Shit. Shit. I really do love this woman.

  “When I walk, I stumble. When I run, I fall.”

  “Turner,” she says, but I'm not sure if she likes it or wants me to stop or what. Her voice gets lost in another moan as I nip her clit, brush my lip rings over it and tease it to wild attention. I stop stroking myself and slip my fingers inside of her, feeling how ready she is for me, her pulses getting hotter and quicker and faster. It's more than I can take, so I slide up over her, pressing my abs against hers, rubbing our bodies together and grinding my hard-on against her pussy. “I hate your fucking guts,” she tells me, right before I find her opening and slide in, one, slow, cruel inch at a time.

  Naomi writhes beneath me as I grit my teeth and tense my muscles, holding myself in check, forcing my body to wait. It wants to explode inside of her, release a rush of manic heat, but I won't let it. I'm in fucking control.

  I press my mouth to her neck, kiss her exposed throat with tenderness, no teeth, no tongue, just lips and love.

  “'Cause it's the same mistake that will fool us all. I fell in love.”

  “Fuck you,” she says as I hit her pelvis hard with mine, brushing her cervix, filling her up. And right there, I know it inside and out. I am right where I'm meant to be.

  “Fuck you right back,” I say and then I start to thrust, planting my hands on either side of her face, looking down at her physically but looking up metaphorically. I curl my fingers tight, my knuckles tense as I hold myself up and move my hips, engaging my stomach in ways that are going to make me hurt sore as shit for days after this. I melt into Naomi, listening to the wet sound of our bodies sliding together play against the rushing screams of the rain and wind.

  “Die and rot,” she whispers. “Fucking die and rot in hell.” I let her curse me out, and I just smile. I smile and then I drop my mouth to hers and kiss her again. My cock struggles to move inside of her tightening body, sweat pouring down my flesh and dripping across hers. She holds me hostage and squeezes, clenching muscles owning me. I have never been owned by another woman like this. I never want to be. “Fuck!” she screams against my lips, clawing at my back, bloodying me, digging at the tattoo of her name across my skin.

  I keep smiling, and I fuck her hard.

  Pleasure crests and breaks and Naomi lets out a scream I'm proud to be a part of. My mind seizures and
the intensity in my body smacks hard against my brain, dragging out a growl of my own, a whimper, then a scream.

  Naomi's body spasms around mine and I come hard, hitting her flesh with a wild ferocity, forgetting where I am and what I'm doing. I spill my seed inside the condom, orgasm buried inside of her, and then I collapse.

  We lay there quietly for awhile, panting and breathing in time with one another. Her chest rises, mine falls. We go back and forth for a few minutes before she slowly, softly, tentatively, wraps her arms around me and holds me tight.

  I don't have awkward morning afters. That would imply having some sort of emotion or feeling pertaining to the sex the night before. Whether it was embarrassment or shame or … whatever else. I don't have sex with emotion. Or I didn't. Not until Turner.

  Now I'm sitting here with his shirt draped over my shoulders, legs up against my chest, and I have no clue what to say or do. I feel asleep feeling pretty good last night and woke up with a massive panic attack in my chest. I feel … off. I don't know what it is, but when I look at him, I get … weird. My heart is fluttering and I feel like a fucking fangirl, gazing up at my idol with starstruck eyes. But I won't play that apart again. We're equals, both rock stars now. He can suck my clit. Oh, but that's right. He did that last night and it was fucking ah-maz-ing. So now what?

  “Show tonight,” Turner says, standing naked and proud in the bathroom, washing his face with his hands and showing off his fucking tight perfect ass. He wants me to look at him, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

  “Hope we don't get a tornado,” I say randomly. There hasn't been an official warning, but when I gazed out at the sky this morning, I saw it was just a wall of solid gray clouds and icy wind. Even our fans are wary. The crowd is half the size today it was yesterday, but twice as hardcore. I can hear their screams from here. Guess only the ultra loonies will show up in the middle of a massive storm. Turner doesn't respond right away, and I wonder if he's suffering from any of the same feelings I am. The confusion, the fear, the trepidation. I don't have a clue what I'm doing, not with him, not with Hayden, Eric, whoever. “I'm going to reveal myself tonight,” I blurt.

  Turner wipes off his face with a towel and turns to look at me with a wild grin on his face.

  “Hell to the fuck yeah,” he says, tilting his head to the side and moving forward on soft feet. His fingers find my chin and lift my face to his. Disgusted with myself, I actually let him. I look into his brown eyes and watch him lick his lips. “Make it epic, Knox. Kill that fucking crowd and come roaring back with a vengeance. We'll destroy these cock suckers either way. I'm not afraid.”

  “But you should be,” I tell him as I pull my face away and he steps back. “Obviously, there are a couple of screws loose here. Don't let your guard down, alright?” I rise to my feet and he takes another step back. Still, we're close enough to touch. Our toes brush and the temperature in the room skyrockets. He's acting weird now, too. It's not just me. Good.

  I step around him and reach for the door.

  “What are you doing?” he asks as I slide it open and find myself face to face with his friend. Treyjan I think it is? His brown hair is spiked and pretty and he's wearing a shredded shirt collar and bow tie, leaving his chest and stomach bare. He stares at me like I'm a ghost.

  “You tell anyone about me before tonight and I will fuck you up. Is the shower free?”

  “I … uh. Fuck.” I push past the guy and open the second bathroom door, banging my fist on the frosted glass. My awkwardness is pushing me forward, making me bold. Or maybe it's the odd feeling of my crumbled foundation being repaired, slathered with fresh concrete, drilled through with steel support beams. How, why, I don't know. Because of some hot sex?

  “Fuck you, Turner, I'm … ” The door opens and another one of Turner's friends peeks out at me, halting his angry retort and standing there naked and dripping wet. I don't know this one's name, but I don't care. I tell him the same thing I told the other guy.

  “Naomi Knox. Pleasure to meet you. Can you keep a fucking secret?” I slide my finger across my lips. “Don't tell anybody you've seen me.” I start to turn away, glancing over my shoulder briefly to give him another look. “But hurry with the shower, would you?”

  Ronnie winks at me when I march into the kitchen, and that blonde kid, the one I made out with to screw with Turner, stands up and gawps. I move over to the door and lock it, glad the driver isn't onboard. She and Kash have a thing going on that I don't want him to know I'm here yet.

  “When you commit to something, you go all the way, don't you?” Ronnie asks. I smile at him and turn to face Milo, their manager. He's a short man with blonde hair and a face creased with worry, but I could see how someone might find him handsome. It's the kindness in his eyes, I guess. This is a guy that doesn't fuck around, that's easy to understand. Not like Turner Campbell whose moods flip-flop like a fish out of water.

  “Can you call the cops for me?” I ask him. “I'm ready to talk.”

  I don't feel ballsy talking to the police, just … unsure. At least I'm freshly showered and dressed in another set of Turner's clothes. My tits are starting to ache like hell, desperate for a fucking bra. Unlike Hayden, I'm packing a bit more than mosquito bites around. I hold my arm under my breasts and keep them pushed up while a pair of detectives from Denver ask me a bunch of questions while another man watches silently. I think he might be from the FBI, but I don't ask. He's wearing a suit, not a uniform, and his eyes take in everything with careful, frightening precision. From the look on his face, I can guess he'd like to tear this bus apart. I bet there's at least a half dozen misdemeanors and a few felonies floating around here. When Turner was getting socks this morning, I saw him finger an eight ball of coke in buried in a weird drawer. But he didn't snort any and that says something.

  Turner stands close behind me, teasing my bare neck with his warm fingers. I kind of want to punch him in the face, but then I'd probably get arrested for assault and that wouldn't look very good. I think he did it on purpose though, gave me a T-shirt that said Mrs. Turner Campbell across the front of that.

  “So you didn't see anyone at all?” Jim asks, sounding perplexed. I fed him the exact same story that Hayden gave the cops, about waking up on the ground outside the venue. I told them all I could remember about getting hit on the head, waking up in the darkness, the needle pricks, the rope. I told them as much as I could about the trailer, too. And Eric. Not that I know he was involved, but that he sought me out, asked me questions about Katie and the scissors. I told them I didn't know anything about it and had asked him to leave, that he'd gotten enraged and stormed off. It looks like they're buying most, if not all, of it. After all, people believe what they want to and they already think Eric's guilty as charged. It's just a matter of time until they lock him up. And that's good for me in so many ways. Of course, if he knows my secret, which it seems like he does, he could talk. But I'm done running from this. I'm going to try this plan, trip the web and call the spider, and if it doesn't work, so be it. I need to be empty and free. That's it. That fucking simple.

  “I'm sorry, sir,” I respond lamely. I smoke a cigarette and blow the white tendrils into the detectives' faces. The Darnell guy wrinkles his nose at me, but I don't even give him the satisfaction of a smile. I just sit there and stare with blank eyes, tired eyes, eyes that say I'm just an innocent bystander caught up in all of this.

  “So, let me just reconfirm your previous statement,” Mr. Valentine says, peering at some notes he's made on a pad of paper. This guy's super old school, doesn't use his iPhone to write shit down. These are the kind of cops that get stuff done, that don't believe old fashioned detective work should be thrown by the wayside for technology, that the two should work in harmony with one another. I make sure he doesn't catch my gaze directly. “You waited to talk to us until now because you were scared. Of what? Hayden Lee spoke with us right away, and she's doing just fine.” I shrug and reach my hand up to tangle my fingers wit
h Turner. It's an act, but he doesn't know that. He steps closer to me and borrows the cigarette from my fingers.

  “I just didn't know who to trust, officer. I think it's this weather. It's making me paranoid.” As if on cue, some golf ball sized hail pelts the side of the bus. Jim jumps, but neither Darnell or that FBI dude make a sound. They stay frozen, like mannequins.

  “Could have a tornado on our hands,” Darnell says, closing his notebook with a grudging finality that tells me he knows I've given him all I'm going to.

  “Yes, sir,” I tell him, hiking my knee up to my chest and dropping my shades from my hair to my face. I pause and pull them off, examining the label. I haven't thought about this before, but … my shades are gone, thrown against the wall of that bathroom and shattered. These must be another gift from my stalker. I look at the for a moment and then set them aside. I look good in sunglasses, but I don't need them to hide behind. Not anymore. “I grew up in Tulsa, so I've seen a few myself. They always start just like this: wild fury, then unnerving stillness, and then devastation.” I hold up my hand and Turner places the smoke between my fingers.