Joe and Maya hadn't seen each other since she dropped him at home the Saturday afternoon after the Friday night and Saturday morning reunion. Unfortunately only via speakerphone late Saturday night had Maya joined her lovers pleasuring each other. It had to be late since she worked stripping earlier. And she had to join them due to immense horniness albeit unfortunately in her bedroom miles away. When all had recovered their breath that night she invited him to her apartment after he worked Monday.
And so Monday evening Maya wrapped around Joe as soon as he arrived in her basement apartment, only separating to remove clothing before he held her firm round little butt cheeks in his hand and thrust deep as she could take and rapidly into her frothing cunt, banging her back against a wall that helped take some of her weight. As they climaxed together even the wall couldn't help hold her. They collapsed onto the floor still with him embedded in her shooting the last of his seed inside her, their mouths sealed together like their groins.
Only when his cock loosened in deflation becoming flaccid and slipping out letting the combined juices from her cunt ooze onto the floor did their lips part to allow their laughter to fill the room.
And then he stiffened up in all ways except for his penis.
"Joe," she murmured. "It's okay."
"I know," he replied softly and tightly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't make me slap you."
They chuckled, though his was noticeably stiff.
Sighing, she lifted off him, kissing the top of his head. "I have something for you," she said. "Why don't you get dressed?" She headed into her bedroom.
"Okay," he gulped.
When she returned fully clothed, he as well, she led him to her couch. "Sit," she ordered. She held a glass of water in one hand and two small round objects in the other and with beautiful grace managed to straddle his lap facing him. "Open," she told him, gesturing to his mouth. "Stick out your tongue." She placed the white pills onto it and handed him the water. "Drink."
After drinking, he asked what it was.
"Percocet," she told him.
"Oh."
"I got to like it when I used it to combat the pain of my boob job," she told him. "Insisted I had residual pain to renew the prescription, but figured it would get suspicious if I kept that up, so I weaned myself off it and only take it when I need a dose of lovely calm."
"I got prescribed Valium once," he told her. "When my muscles hurt from the tension, and I got chronic headaches. It left me feeling sort of cottony and even worse, it left me feeling even more uncomfortable when it wore off."
"This is different. This is an opiate," she explained.
"Oxycodone," he nodded. "I know."
"Come on then," she grinned, hopping off his lap. "Grab this." She handed him another guitar case, this one more slender though heavier. Darting away, she returned with a stuffed olive green soft bag with a shoulder strap she lifted onto his shoulder. "And this."
"What's going on?" he asked.
"A surprise," she smiled.
They stopped at a Middle Eastern restaurant on a prominent corner in South Minneapolis. "Guard the stuff," she said before kissing him quickly and darting into the restaurant. It seemed longer than the fifteen minutes it took her to return with a full white bag of food. She fed the meter and opened the trunk, pulling out her acoustic guitar case. "Lock the door and grab my stuff," she ordered him. "It's only a half block away." They crossed the two main streets and stopped at a non-descript screen door between storefronts. Setting down her guitar case, she opened the door and the wooden door behind it revealing a hallway angling around a large metal door. "Go on in," she said.
After she grabbed her guitar and set it by the metal door, she opened it to a set of steps. A splash of cymbals could be heard. "Go on down," she told him.
He recognized two of the players; Sean "Spike" O'Connor, a pretty boy blond in his thirties on bass, and Jake "Spoon" Spooner, the rugged, dark dreadlocked, muscular drummer, about the same age as Spike. Both had impressively colorful tattoos on their arms. Both had been journeyman musicians involved in many bands, most notoriously "Plaid Cab," that had featured a guitarist moonlighting from his internationally famous punk band, the "Reverants" AKA the "Vents" who had died from his weakness for narcotics, particularly a far too potent speedball, i.e. an injected mix of heroin and cocaine, a couple years before. Maya introduced them by their birth names.
"Hey Sean. Hey Jake. This is Joe." The musicians nodded and Joe returned the nod.
Spike's ever present smile widened. "Food," he exclaimed.
"Yes, you flesh eater, I got you two two gyros."
Spike put down his bass guitar and snapped the bag from her hands. She chuckled and shook her head. Spoon opened an old fridge and pulled out a handful of beer bottles.
"This is Annie," Maya informed Joe, walking up to the thin, cat's eye bespectacled girl standing behind a keyboard and kissing her briefly.
The strawberry blonde pale skinned girl nearly as tall as Carol but near skeletal responded with a shy, "Hi."
"Come share the hummus with us," Maya asked her.
"Okay," the shy blonde squeaked. Her simple blouse and long skirt revealed when she stepped out from behind her keyboards along with her ponytail that allowed wisps of her wavy hair to float in the breeze her walk caused and the old fashioned glasses gave her a shy librarian look that somehow made her sexy.
On the ratty, overstuffed coach they sat at, Maya was sandwiched between Joe and Annie holding the pint container of hummus between her knees. All three dipped the soft, warmed pita into it--pieces torn off the round bread--and consumed a good portion of the garlicky, smooth mix of ground up chickpeas and sesame paste. Between chews and swallows they gulped down the smooth local lager from clear long neck bottles.
"Where's Connie?" asked Maya.
"Fashionably late," grumbled Spoon in his rough baritone.
"Errand," Spike corrected in a much higher voice. "Should be here soon."
"Soon" turned out to be just after everyone finished their meals. They heard the metal door open and deep, bass curses and objects bumping against walls. The deep voice surprised Joe, expecting a female voice. A large man as tall as Joe with long dark greasy hair and a goatee emerged at the bottom of the stairs, his hands and one arm filled with three instrument cases for three horns, one immense, which he kneeled down to carefully release onto the ragged and thin carpet on the floor.
