Copyright 2002, 2003. All Rights Reserved.
I didn't know anything about him except that his name was Brent, and that he was cute, funny, played the guitar and wore tight black pants. I liked his butt, and giggled about it to my girlfriends after track practice, on the plane, or on the bus on the way to competitions. They laughed at me, and went out on dates with their overachieving athletic boyfriends from UCLA or some obscure college in Oregon. But I had the last laugh
I didn't come right out and say I wanted to meet Brent. That would be a curse. Having dealt with famous men quite a bit, I knew groupies, fans and starlets hit them on all the time. An attractive woman coming on to him would mean nothing.
I heard they would be filming a TV special in Spain, so I took the first flight to Madrid that was available. I didn't tell my parents, manager or coach where I was going. No one knew about my plans except my best friend Teresa. After I checked into the same hotel where the band was staying, I asked around and found Brent by the patio bar with his friends. I walked up to them-the old guy who was with him saw me first. But then I saw him all dressed in leather pants, an elaborate belt buckle, and a loose satin shirt. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or drool. So I smiled, an unmistakable invitation that belied my innocence. There were no other women around. Good, I thought, he has to notice me.
But his blond friend, the bass player, approached me first. "Hey, I know you…you're that track star girl who plays the flute. I saw you on TV last week."
"That's right! Ashley Juniper! I thought it was you." The old guy, whom I figured was a bodyguard, said. "But then I thought what the hell would a nice girl like that be doing around a buncha sleazy bastards like us."
“Maybe I like to live dangerously.” I smiled and looked past him at Brent.
"Who's this?" Brent moved toward me with a purpose. I had been warned that he was no gentleman, though I hoped against hope that he would surprise me. He didn't. "You're real clean looking, a little doll. "Nice tits. Small but perky." He reached out to pinch my nipples, which protruded beneath my halter-top.
His friend stopped him. "Be cool, man. She's not some skank groupie. She was in the Olympics."
"You'll have to excuse him. We rarely let him out of the cave." The old guy laughed.
I moved closer to Brent. "I tried to met you at your concert in New York, but there was to much going on. Your manager wouldn't let anyone get near you."
"Yeah, New York was all fucked up - listen, you wanna go get a drink? You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”
"C’mon, I just graduated from Stanford. I’m almost 22 - one teensy drink is no problem”
“Hmm. I don’t think I’ve even met a college girl before – except for our publicist.” He seemed intrigued by this revelation.
"Let’s go, George," the old guy said to the blond, "I know a cabaret here where we can get ourselves a few strippers. We're not needed here."
After his friends disappeared into the parking lot, Brent slipped his arms around my waist and pulled me up against his chest. Up close, I saw that he had blue eyes, very deep and expressive. Onstage, they seemed a neutered brown. His hair was thick and dark brown; his body slim beneath the rock star trappings.
He slipped one of his big, rough guitarist’s hands into mine. His skin felt so rough and comforting against my delicate palm.
“There’s a quiet little bar down the beach a bit. They have the best margaritas.” We took our shoes off and walked barefoot on the beach til we got to the bar, which was nothing more than a quaint little wood shack a few paces off the shore.
We settled down and ordered two huge margaritas. “Why me?” Brent asked. “I’m sure you could have gone after any guy you wanted. ” He seemed amazed that I had even heard of him.
" I don’t want to marry my high school sweetheart like my girlfriends. I want to be in movies and TV - but not like the squeaky clean shows my manager wants. I want to do sexier stuff - not like porno - but sexy stuff. I hate the guys my manager and parents want me to date. They're so…boring."
“Well, you never have to be bored again.” He nuzzled my neck playfully and blew sweet spearmint breath into my ear. I caught a glimpse of an older woman at the next table eyeing us scornfully. In a weird way, it made me proud – like I was that much closer to achieving my goal.
We sat and talked, lingering over our margaritas til the rest of the customers were gone. He told me a lot about his band and his music, but very little about his family or his life before the band. When I mentioned how my Dad had paid for my music lessons as a kid, his smile disappeared; then he tensed up and changed the subject. That’s when I knew his brash demeanor was hiding something very sad.
The staff watched us anxiously, waiting for us to finish. Brent tipped them with a hundred-dollar bill.
He took me to his hotel suite and ordered the most expensive champagne from room service, but we didn't drink any. He tore my top off and poured the champagne over my tits. He licked it off me, tweaking and licking my hard nipples. Then he poured the remainder of the bottle on my pussy. He played with it, fingering me gently at first. "You tell me if I get to rough. I don't wanna hurt you. I'm not used to being with.. ummm.. inexperienced women".
"I'm not a fragile little doll. I can take it."
He slipped one finger inside me. "Does that hurt?"
"No, it feels good. Keep doing it." Slowly, he explored me, slipping another finger inside me and
"You're sooo wet"
"You know, I masturbated over you." I purred.
"Yeah - and what did you think about when you played with yourself?"
"Your cock - big, hard and wet inside me."
