Quite unexpectedly, as I walked by the TV set one Sunday afternoon, I caught a glimpse of an extraordinarily sexy man being interviewed. "Oh, my," I murmured, like Susan Sarandon in Bull Durham except throatier with more evil intentions. My roommate noticed my frenzied exit to my bedroom. "Hey Beavis, she shouted, using the code name we had for each other when we got too infantile or horny, "lock the door if you're wanking off in there." After I finished pleasuring myself, I discovered who had got me so hot in only a 10 second clip.
Doreen, my roommate, told me he was a musician who had been a minor rock star about 20 years ago. I vaguely recalled the name. Save for a goofy article I remembered reading in the National Enquirer about him swindling some model, I didn't know anything about him. But if he got me as hot in person as his TV image did, I vowed to give him the best sex of his life.
Doreen and her friends counseled me on where to met him. After being raised on classical music with a dash of Miles Davis and Sarah Vaughn, I had little knowledge of rock n roll M.O. Doreen recommended a club he often frequented. I sat at the bar, with the intent purpose of seducing him. I knew he'd be an easy lay from all the stories I'd heard.
I knew he'd show up, though I didn't expect him to be there so early. He held court at the back of the club, by the dressing room, carousing with two girls who looked like they were barely out of high school. I'd struck up quite a conversation with the bartender, who seemed to like me and had given me a free drink. Once I saw Michael, though, it was hard to concentrate on anyone else. My eyes must have burnt holes through him cause a minute later he walked up to the bar.
He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, not taking his eyes off me.
"Its not polite to stare."
"Was I staring? I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude."
"That’s quite all right. I rather like a sassy woman. What's your name, love?"
"Vanessa."
He kissed my hand. "Come with me, Vanessa."
He took me into a room in the back of the club where we could talk without screaming over the jukebox. We exchanged idle what do you do chit-chat for a few minutes, while our body language indicated much more. I ran my fingers through his hair as he told me about a guitar he'd just bought. He lifted me onto his lap while I told him about the movie set I was designing. I could feel his thick cock straining through his jeans.
He took me to his house in the hills. It was small by Hollywood standards, and tucked away in a remote corner with a breathtaking view of the city. Neither one of us had the strength left to unlock the door and get inside before we fucked. I peeled off his jeans and straddled him, watching his face contort with nasty satisfaction, bathed in the red light that illuminated his doorway. The three a.m. lights of Los Angeles shimmered below us.
We finally made it inside, where we left a trail of cum, pussy juice, baby oil, and sex everywhere in his domicile. When we stumbled outside the next morning, the whole house, not only the bed, reeked of sex. Now that we had fucked the hell out of each other, it was time for the games to start.
He slipped into the front seat of his Jag.
"Get in the back seat and leave your sunglasses on. "
"Is that an order?"
Just sit there, look hot and don't say anything."
