Hi there! Thanks for clicking on my story. This one is rather short.
Some of the sexual themes I hit on are: cheating, non-monogamy, creampie, younger with older, power imbalance (maybe?)
All characters in the story are over the age of eighteen.
Summary: Detached Musician calls on a fan to sleep with him. Will the night be what either of them need?
*****
The final note rings like a specter. The death knell of a perfect night. Not for me. For all those in the audience. For me it's a night like any other. The speakers are too loud and the concert goers too rowdy. I'm certain Chuck got into a brawl with some idiot in the back.
None of that matters because in front of me is a pretty young thing in a red shirt. We lock eyes. She smiles. You never have to tell a man to smile back to a pretty girl. He'll do it without a thought.
There's a look in her eye. I recognize it, because I've seen it before. Perhaps a hundred times. It's a look of recognition. Of grandeur.
She lifts her shirt and I get a look at her chest. It's nice. Small. She's fairly boyish. Not much of hips on her... But what's there is enough.
The look, the smile, the flash, it is all a message to let me know one thing.
She's available.
I wave to the audience, blow them a kiss, each movement makes them cheer. They love me. Are unable to resist the allure that is my music.
On the way backstage I tap Chuck.
"Girl in the red top, first row. She flashed me. Can you find her?"
He nods.
Walking backstage isn't all that different from the scene up front. People are here, cheering for me. It's a meet and greet. These people, they want to be me. There is an electric energy that accompanies celebrity. One that you can't escape.
If you find the right demographic the energy of celebrity can get you laid all you want.
It becomes as easy as breathing. The trouble is building up the fanbase. The other trouble is making the fan base attractive—keeping it that way.
Late at night, when I listen to music, I am reminded of a lyric:
My band played here, a lot in the nineties
when we had, lots of female fans
and fuck they all were cute
now I just sign posters, for guys in tennis shoes
The audience ages and so do I. I'll miss the younger crowd. There's nothing quite like meeting the eyes of those innocent girls. Thirsty for affection. The knowledge that for one night they were the sexiest thing in my line of sight.
The meet and greet goes about as well as it could. You talk to the fans. You thank them. If they give you advice, you say, Man. I'd never thought of it like that. That's brilliant.
There is a practiced detachment. Performative caring is exhausting night after night. Person after person, conversations seem to echo forward and back.
My eyes are saying that this fan is the most important person in the room. I'll look them in the eyes, I'll shake their hands, our eyes will meet. They'll go on and rave about how amazing I am. They'll have paid for the privilege... But I am not there.
My mind is drifting towards the girl with the redshirt. Her small tits and my tongue on them.
I can envision Chuck pulling her aside. The conversation is as easy as playing in C major.
"Want to meet Rodrick Close?"
She'd hesitate. How would she know it's legit?
Chuck would show her a picture of us together. A video of me doing shots. Some dumb shit. She would eventually agree and she'd be in the car on the way to my hotel room.
My mind shifts back when I notice this fan has got wet hands. The fuck? Did he piss on them? Why am I still smiling? He hasn't let go. How much longer will we shake hands for? Fuck.
The moist hands bring me back to reality. The deception drops for just a moment. I reign it back and smile at him.
Man, you must be nervous.
He says, I sure am!
Mother fucker.
I wave goodbye to the meet and greet crowd. I promise them I'll be back soon. The promise I've made hundreds of times.
Unless they live in LA, probably won't be.
Chuck opens the door for me.
Before he closes it, "Did you get her?"
A smile. "She's waiting for you."
"Thanks Chuck."
The detachment starts to lift. It's the last mile that's the most exciting. Never does lose its charm.
There is one hesitation. I'm married. It's not a thing I try to hide. I post it in plain sight. On my social media, I refer to her as my wife. Somehow this never bothers the girls. The Fans. I bring it up. Sometimes they do that themselves.
A girl once asked me, "How does your cunt wife feel about you fucking my pussy?"
She was aggressive, but damn if I didn't love that.
I'd met her in Chicago.
Damn they all were cute.
I never asked my wife, but I know she wouldn't be a fan.
I met the girl several times after that. No moment was quite like our first, but damn if they didn't' get close.
When she had my cum all over her face and she begged me to send a picture to my wife.
I took the picture and sent it to Chuck.
He got a laugh out of that.
I put my keycard into the door handle.
There she was. A nervous little girl.
She jumped at the sight of me. She just stood there. Trying to decide if she should approach me. Or would that be too forward?
I walked past her, put my jacket on the chair besides the window.
I took the room in for the first time. It was average size. Only one bed, green sheets. Queen size, I think. The wallpaper was a yellow aberration.
I've travelled enough that I don't see it anymore.
She turned towards me. I got a better look at her. My initial assessment of her had been correct. She had brown eyes, black hair. A small, boyish, figure. Her curves were imperceptible, but they existed. I didn't mind that. Somehow, that was a part of the attraction.
I asked her, "Did you enjoy the show?"
"What?" She let out a desperate gasp. She had been holding her breath.
I smiled. Pulled my shirt off.
Her eyes looked me up and down. Taking their time along my chest.
Her foot attempted to move forward, but she quickly placed it back down.
I undid my belt buckle, but kept my pants on. Her eyes met mine. I smiled. She smiled, a weak one.
"Are you just going to stand there?" She didn't react. "Please—remember to breathe."
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thanks."
"Is this what you thought it would be?" She didn't respond. "How could I make it better?"
She stuttered. "You want to make it better?"
I nod, then lay my head back, staring at the ceiling fan. The mattress beneath me isn't comfortable, but if I didn't think about it... The uncomfortable feeling started to fade. I'd occasionally look at the girl. She was still just standing at the edge of my bed.
She was definitely beautiful. Her red shirt was tight against her skin, along with her white pants, and a blue bracelet on her right hand.
I crossed my hands over my chest.
"Lay with me."
This was the first concrete move she had made. Her body thudded next to me. She still wasn't touching me. She just laid there like a stick. She besides me, but not with me.
I reached my hand down to hers. I touch my fingers along the exterior of her hands. Exploring her smooth, moisturized skin. There's always something about a woman. The softness that seems to be perpetual. A clear sign that she cared for herself. The wafting of her shampoo and perfume. The experience of being with an attractive woman is always intoxicating.
I took hold of her hand. She gasped. We laid there for another hour. Not a word spoken between us.
I do wonder what she thought about. How close did the experience match up with her imagination?
She turned over and placed a hand on my chest. It was the first sign that she was here.
She ran her finger up and down my chest. I felt electricity. The kind that only a woman can provide.
