F6: Slick's Swamp Shack

“I know it’s not as classy as your convertible.”

“Intact though.”

“Let’s see what we can do about that!” I reached for him, and kissed him. I pulled slowly away from his lips, and lowered myself onto the edge of the driver’s seat. My hands slid over his chest to his belt. “I wanna return the favor!” I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his khakis, letting them slide down the sculpted ebony pillars of his legs. The bulging pouch of a pair of maroon boxer briefs faced me.

I ran my fingertips over the shape, and he emitted a low, throaty groan. I brought my palm against the heat of his bulge and pressed onto it. He groaned once more. I wound my fingers into the side opening of his pouch and grasped his straining manhood. With my other hand I held the fabric agape, and pulled his dick through the opening. He was beautiful: hard, thick and twitching with expectation.

“You’ve had me hard since you first started singing tonight.”

I reached for him, pulling softly on his shaft, and bringing a bead of dew to his tip. I flicked my tongue over it, tasting its saltiness, and took his head between my lips. James moaned more loudly.

I pursed my lips together and plunged as far down his shaft as I could manage, then slowly sucked back up.

“My God, Gabby! You’ll make me come in no time if you do that.”

Encouraged, I repeated the action. I reached around him and seized his tight ass in both hands, pulling him into my mouth once again. I wrapped my tongue around the head of his dick, tasting more of his flavor, and he trembled against me. I looked up at his face, contorted with pleasure, and licked a wet trail up the underside of his quivering dick.

I was back to sucking him deeply, building up speed. My hands slipped down the back of his thighs, and then back under the leg elastic of his briefs to grasp his naked rump. I wound my tongue around him and dug my nails into his fleshly butt. His fingers plowed through my hair, caressing my scalp as I sucked his dick. I plunged down his shaft.

“Oh, that’s it!” His fingers pressed against the side of my head.

I increased speed, twirling my tongue around him. After a few minutes of that treatment, I could feel James’s sexual tension.

“No, Gabby! Stop! I’m going to come!”

I wanted to taste him, and pulled his dick into my mouth.

“Fuck! No!”

He exploded in my mouth in fountains of hot cum. I gulped down his salty seed. I was the sultry diva of my performance, sucking down my man’s juice.

He pulled his hands from my hair, and collapsed onto the hard top of the Toyota. I gave his beautiful dick one last lick, and looked up at his exhausted face.

“Sorry, Gabby, I couldn’t hold back.”

“No, I wanted to taste you.”

He sunk down on his knees in front of me, and leaned in for a passionate, grateful kiss, his hands caressing my breasts. I luxuriated in his touch for a long time.

“Miss Smuts!” It was Scissors calling out across the lot.

James stood up and waved.

“They be callin’ for an encore from the diva, if you’re up for it, li’l lady,” inquired Scissors.

I stood, smoothing down my dress, and locking the car behind me. “Yeah, I could manage that,” I told him. I was so high on the night, that I could go back and sing a whole bonus gig. I took a step in my heels, and added, “But I can’t walk across this lot in these shoes.”

James crossed his forearms, “How about a chair hoist?”

Scissors reached out and grasped James’s wrists, their arms forming a lattice, which they lowered for me. I sat on their hands, wrapping an arm around their shoulders, and my new friends hoisted smoothly back to Slick’s Swamp Shack.

Ole Bill was at the bar. “Time for a beer,” he said, putting two bottles on the counter for James and me.

“Why thank you!” said James, taking a slug from his bottle.

“Miss Smuts, are you up for givin’ us some more of your beautiful music?” asked Bill.

“Please!” cried Grace, hopping at the end of the bar.

“Sure, I’d love to sing a bit more,” I replied, sipping at my beer.

“Would you min’ a bit of accompaniment?” asked Ole Bill, as he pulled a violin and bow from below the bar. “Scissors done fetch it from the storeroom out back.”

“Sure, why not! Let’s have a jam session!” I answered.

“Not me, the han’some doctor.” Bill held out the fiddle for James.

I looked at James, nonplussed.

“How d’you know I played?” he said.

“I thought to m’se’f why some hot-shot doctor would have a hickey on his neck,” replied Bill.

Sure enough, as James held back his collar, there was a small welt on the left side of his neck, at just the height of a violin held in the crook of the neck.

I winked at him, “So, good doctor, are you up for a jam session?”

“The chance of making sweet music with my favorite blues singer?” he said, taking the fiddle and bow.

“Come on then, maestro!” I told him, slapping his ass as I passed him, before working my way between the tables to the stage.

“Sweetheart, I jus’ been prayin’ for more,” said Mama Jelly Roll as I passed her.

I stepped up on the stage and retrieved Geeshie, turning to see James join me.

“If it ain’t too much trouble, let me have your A.”

I played him the open string, and he tucked the fiddle under his chin and tuned to my note. He tuned the other strings from it, looked across at me and nodded.

I stepped up to the microphone. “Ladies and gentleman, for an encore, I present a jam session with my old school friend …”

“And new lover!” called Mama Jelly Roll.

I smirked at her, and then at James, who returned the smirk. “… Dr. James Singer.” I stepped back, turning to him, “What shall we start with?”

“How about a slow twelve-bar?”

“D major good for you?”

He nodded.

I began a slow finger-picking blues. One bar in, James’s fiddle entered, singing the line just as I would sing it. I picked through the accompaniment, and his fiddle sang a simple, unadorned blues melody.

We returned to the beginning, and James made the fiddle wail just as I would Geeshie. These and the next twelve bars were more improvised, James’s fiddle soaring and singing, allowing me to throw some simple suspensions and sevenths into the rhythm part below him. Then he brought his melody down low and slow, and mirrored my rhythm part.

“Play it, Gabby!” he said.

I moved my fingers up Geeshie’s fretboard, bending the notes like a howl. James bowed the slow rhythm part below me, and I played off it, soaring, singing, wailing.

I looked out over the room. Colonel Seersucker and Mama Jelly Roll were kissing and canoodling up front. The Bimmer girl was being twirled as she danced with her beau. Ole Bill was to one side of the bar, raising another glass of whiskey to our performance.

Scissors was leaning back behind the bar, smiling up at me. It was only from the raised stage that I could spot the top of Grace’s head bobbing against her big man’s crotch. The rest of the room was full of people doing similar things – kissing, cuddling, dancing, drinking, and perhaps more intimate things.

I became aware that James had left the rhythm part behind and had risen to improvise round my own playing. I turned to him and smiled, hammering on that G in a suspension. He answered with a long glissando onto a G, giving me a wink. The game was on: I twisted and turned, and he followed, improvising off me. Then he slipped down an octave, and I followed him.

I turned to face him, and he me. I upped the tempo, the duel was on. I threw fast fingerpicking, note bending, hammering and sliding. I felt my panty-less crotch get wet again as I played with my man. His boyish smile beamed at my over his sawing bow, mud stains still on the knees of his pants. He responded with a series of rapid tremolos played up near the bridge of the violin, producing an impassioned plea.

I bent some squealing blues notes, and James responded with a series of ethereal harmonics that made my hair pop. My body was on fire, deeply aroused. Our eyes met, registering satisfaction of each other’s playing.

I dropped back to the slow, twelve-bar rhythm part, and James mirrored me with a double-stopped drone that filled out my part. Hollers and whoops erupted around the shack. Starting with Scissors, as Grace stood up beside him, wiping her chin. Maybe his climax had corresponded with ours. We brought the music way down low, to an exhausted diminuendo of an ending. Applause broke out. James held aloft his fiddle and bow in his left hand and took my hand with his right, leading us in a bow to the enraptured house.

Suddenly, Grace was there before the stage with an old Polaroid camera. “May I?” she asked us.

I nodded, and, before I knew it, Ole Bill and Scissors were on the stage beside us. My old Geeshie and I, James and his borrowed fiddle, the man-mountain Scissors, and the half-blind, but so perceptive, Bill huddled together for two shots.

“Memories of one blissful night. One for behin’ the bar, an’ one for the diva lady!” declared Grace.

The huddle broke, and Ole Bill handed me a stuffed envelope. “It more than I done promise your manager, but less than what you did give us.”

I could only smile into his cloudy eyes as I took the money.

Scissors handed James one of the polaroids from Grace. “For your li’l lady there.”

I smiled at the possessive turn of phrase.

“You two lovebirds can use the backroom for the night. I gonna fix you a royal breakfas’ come mornin’,” beamed Bill.

Without hesitation, I took James’s hand and led him off through the stage door and back round to the ‘green room’. I tossed the money on the table, and James his fiddle beside it, standing the slowly developing photograph between its strings. I stowed Geeshie back in her case, closed the lid and its catches, and leaned it against the wall.

That was enough: our hands and lips were exploring each other hungrily. I took James’s wrist and lowered his hand down my back to the zip of my dress. As he moved the zip slowly down its track, my breasts heaved free against the loosened fabric. He slid the dress over my shoulders, kissing the exposed rise of my breasts in their blue lace cups. I placed my hands on his shoulders, and eased my feet down out of my shoes.

I stepped back, and wriggled out of my dress. James knelt before me, kissing the thick crop of my pubic hair as I revealed it. I pushed him back, so I could step out of the dress and hang it in its bag. He stood and caressed my breasts from behind as I reached to hang the dress. His hands rounded my back and unhitched my bra strap, easing me free of my last constraint, kissing across my shoulder blade. He turned me slowly in his arms, and as I turned I saw the developed photo.

“James, look!”

He peered over my shoulder, following my pointing hand to the photograph. There were the five us: me, James, Ole Bill, Scissors, and the man I knew from the other pictures, the man I thought must be Slick.

James whispered, “Ole Bill did say that Slick put a whole lotta love into this place.”

We all had felt his presence tonight. I leaned against James chest, letting his hands cup my breasts, smelling his cologne. I whispered to him, “Fuck me!”