tagErotic CouplingsPlaying Musician

Playing Musician

bypseudonym2005©

Author's Note: This story is an original work of fiction. All characters appearing herein are at least eighteen, if not expressly stated. Future stories starring some or all of these characters might also be forthcoming based upon response and demand. Certain characters featured herein may also be found in other works by the authors. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.

Copyright 2009 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.

This story stars: Josh Redding and Brigitte Erikson, and also features Kayden James, Damien Taylor, Rex and Alexandra Jennings, and Michael Rowe.

This story contains: erotic male-female coupling, group sex, fellatio, cunnilingus, analingus, male dominance, teenagers, collegians, rock stars, jam sessions, an interesting proposition, and anal.

This story begins post-prologue on Tuesday, October 11th.


* * * * *

There were three of them: one blonde, one brunette, and one dark redhead.

The blonde was straddling his face in reverse, her tasty pink pussy perched above his mouth to let him to savor her folds and juices with his lips and tongue. Her back was arched and her knees were planted on the rug on either side of his torso, her feet down past his ears, her luscious bottom pushed out.

She was kissing and canoodling with the brunette, who was impaled upon the entirety of his cock, six inches buried in her hot velvety sheath as she straddled his waist in standard cowgirl style. She was not moving, having just recently acquired her position and thus content, for the moment, to enjoy the feel of being filled and the sensation of locking lips with another woman.

Of course, she was also enjoying the pleasurable experience of having her back door licked: the dark redhead was curled up between his legs, fingering herself as she lapped alternately at his testicles and the brunette's anus.

It was quite the scene and Damien Taylor was enjoying himself thoroughly, even if at the moment his visuals were somewhat impaired by the body of the blonde. Not that he cared, in truth: he was happy to gaze point-blank upon the wrinkled copper plot set in the center of the blonde girl's ass, which he would certainly become more acquainted with as the night wore on.

And then the brunette began to move, rocking her hips forward and back, lifting herself up and sliding back down, rolling his shaft around like she was working the joystick of an old Atari gaming system, doing her damndest to give him every conceivable ounce of pleasure.

Damien moaned into the pussy of the blonde and the vibrations coursed through the girl's body, the shuddering growing more and more pronounced until she exploded with a burst of juice over his face and a squeal into the mouth of the brunette, who shivered herself with pleasure and bucked her hips forcefully back and jammed her ass into the face of the redhead, whose tongue speared straight up the brunette's anus, causing her to jump again and squeal back into the mouth of the blonde, who was trembling violently now and mashing her pussy into his face.

It was chaos, pure and simple: a frenzied, beautiful, four-person orgy-chain of fucking.

Damien could feel the muscles of the brunette milking him and decided he did not care if he lasted that long on this first go-round. There would be plenty more time to sample other delights between the rest of that night and the next morning.

And so as he felt himself coming close to the edge he did three things in succession: first, he stuck his tongue as far up the pussy of the blonde as he could, trying to reach as deep into her crevice as possible; second, he brought his hand up, smacked the blonde on the ass, and drove his pointer finger into her asshole up to the second knuckle; and third, he released himself and exploded into the depths of the brunette, spilling his seed without warning.

The brunette screamed as she realized what was happening, knowing now that he was filling her up. The blonde screamed as well, but for an entirely different reason: never before had anything, anything, ever been inside her ass. The redhead, meanwhile, noticed little of what was happening beyond the sudden screams themselves, and was perfectly with nuzzling his balls.

Several long, luxurious moments later, the blonde and the brunette collapsed beside him in a heap, exhausted after tremendous orgasms, and the redhead quickly followed suit, climbing onto the pile of limbs even though she had not yet reached climax, nor was particularly tired.

Turning his head to the left to see an exquisite pair of breasts and turning his head to the right to find more of the same, Damien grinned. Ripe and ready for the taking, if only one had the courage to act . . . and Damien certainly did.

But first, he was in the mood to watch a little girl-on-girl while he recovered.

He rose and trudged to a plush leather couch off to the side of the room, and tumbled onto it, sighing as he settled into the leather. The redhead, eager for more action and not yet wearied by climax, took charge immediately, diving into the muff of the brunette to suck out his cum. The brunette obliged, splaying her legs out to the side.

"Quite a show," said the man already seated on the couch, whose name was Rex Jennings.

Rex had been watching the entire time from the couch, fully clothed and abstaining from sex. He was an independent and very successful talent agent for musicians, and Damien Taylor was one of his biggest clients, a mega-famous pop rock star cut from very much the same cloth as Justin Timberlake, to whom he was often compared.

The girls, of course, were three of Damien's more-than-adoring fans. Like many successful musicians, the rock star was never one to pass up sexual opportunities, of which there were many, and relished multi-partner episodes. This particular set of star-struck girls were no-brainers, hot and uninhibited. Noticed in one of the front rows at a small-venue concert earlier that night, Damien had made certain they were brought back to his hotel suite.

Damien had also insisted Rex accompany them. Of course, there was the usual propositioning: take the blonde one, have the redhead, fuck two at once, no rules, it's all good here, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Rex, however, was not the usual music industry agent; he actually had a wife whom he loved and was faithful to. Their sex life was adventurous, yes, and sometimes they brought others into their marital bed, but Rex would never stoop to fucking the groupies of his clients, and certainly never without his wife's permission or involvement.

He was allowed to watch on occasion, however, when circumstance called for it. Damien had insisted and thus Rex had agreed, although he would not stay longer than absolutely necessary; it seemed now was the perfect opportunity to excuse himself, once a little business was attended to.

The groupies maneuvered themselves into a three-girl daisy chain, a triangle of limbs and bodies. The brunette was suckling the pussy of the redhead, who was eating the blonde, who was still relishing the cum-soaked snatch of the brunette. The girls were whimpering and purring, and continuously flashing looks over at Damien to ensure he was still interested in them, which he was, of course. They did not realize it yet, but Damien was like a machine (particularly when drugs were involved, which they almost always were, including at present) and would continue to be interested for several more hours.

"Oh, yes," Damien said with a wicked grin. "They are luscious."

Rex smiled, although it did not nearly touch his eyes. It was the kind of smile perfected over ten years of dealing with self-absorbed, diva-like musical talents. "They have no idea what they're in for tonight," he said with a hint of pity.

"Not a clue," Damien agreed.

It was fairly well-known inside the right kinds of circles that Damien Taylor was a bit of freak when it came to exploits in the bedroom. Kinky and nasty were two of his favorite words, and any groupie sharing his bed was absolutely sure to head home with well-fucked bowels.

"Mind if we talk a little business?" Rex asked, sensing the timing was right.

Damien rolled his eyes and waved an indicative hand at the women. Rex could practically hear him saying, talk about business with pussy in front of us? But he did not actually say anything, so Rex barreled forward.

"Five events this week, including two on Saturday," Rex stated, "and then Monday you're off to London. I have to remain here, so Tanya will be the point-person traveling with you overseas."

Damien was suddenly interested. "Tight little blonde?" Rex nodded. "Nice!"

"She's engaged," Rex informed him.

Damien grinned. "Doesn't matter," he said with a shrug. His eyes drifted back to the women on the floor as he began stroking his own cock. "What are the weekend gigs?"

"An autograph signing and a private corporate function," Rex revealed.

Damien groaned. "Seriously? No chance."

"The private party means big money. It's been on the schedule for weeks."

The redhead lifted her head from the cunt of the blonde. "Damien," she purred, her cheeks and chin slick with female fuck juice, "we need you. I want cock."

Damien grinned, then turned to Rex and looked him in the eye. "Cancel it," he ordered as he rose to his feet, "or work something else out. I have no interest in glad-handing mallrats or selling out to yuppies in suits."

"But, Damien . . ."

Damien turned his back on Rex and made his way towards the women. "Work it out, Rexy," he called over his shoulder. "You always do."

And so Rex Jennings rose from the couch and left the hotel room, happy to be leaving but quite unhappy with the most recent turn of events, and as the door swung shut the last thing he saw was Damien Taylor returning to his position on his back on the floor, the redhead lowering her breasts into his mouth as the blonde and brunette went to town on his cock.

Ah, Rex thought with a sigh, how nicely led were the lives of rock stars.

Part One: An Average Young Man

John Smith had been teaching history at Mitchell High School for nearly twelve years, never once deviating from the curriculum or involving himself in any extra-curricular teaching activities. He oversaw no clubs, coached no teams, led no study groups, and never voiced his opinion on any administrative issue unless it was expressly and aggressively asked for, which it rarely was.

In short, he was as bland as his name.

He taught five classes every day with very little excitement. His students were often bored to tears during his lectures, some openly snoozing in the back of the classroom. He did not care, really; it was their prerogative to learn or not to learn. He rarely invested himself in what he was saying and rarely displayed any kind of enthusiasm for the material.

Except for eighth period, however, which was his last class of the day and the only class he cared anything about. The subject was American History, which was not what excited him, and neither was his enthusiasm derived from the knowledge that at the conclusion of eighth period, his work for the day was done.

No, the root of his excitement was much simpler . . . and far more primal.

He was forty-two, but his experience with members of the opposite sex was slight. He was a dork in high school and a nerd in college, and had thus only been with a handful of girls, and his age and lifestyle and personality, unfortunately, were not about to change that.

The closest he got to anything remotely attractive were the female teachers at the school (most of whom interacted with him little) and the girl students in his classes (of which, eighth period had by far the greatest quantity of quality). There were no fewer than six beautiful seniors in the class, all unafraid to flaunt their good looks and flirt with all comers.

He was more enlivened during those classes than any of the others, energizing his discourse and striving to engage the students on the off-chance such activity might entice said girls into in-class discussion, and thus prompt interaction with John himself.

As the students filed into the room on this day of days, a Tuesday as it happened to be, John was sitting in his usual place behind the desk, watching them enter. He was always sitting when his classes walked in; if one of the girls was wearing a particularly revealing outfit, it was sure to manifest itself physically in his trousers and he did not want the students to notice.

There were ten students in the class, all seniors, eight of whom funneled in as follows: Alexia Svetkova, a gorgeous blonde foreign exchange student; Bailey Cook, a strawberry redhead with the perfect cheerleader body, which was fitting since she was, in fact, a cheerleader; Darnell Aldridge, an athletic young black man and the starting cornerback for the varsity football team; Anthony Manning, a clownish stoner-surfer character; Chris Black, brooding and intense, very poetic and much connected to the English department; Ella Norris, a sassy black-haired girl with a tight and very youthful-looking figure; Abigail Wells, a smoldering brunette with unending legs and an insanely hot body; and Jessica Wilson, a bouncy blonde with fantastic tits.

The ninth member of the class arrived just as the bell was sounding, scurrying to his seat and trying his best to make no eye contact with anyone. Joshua Redding was the stereotypical invisible high school student; his clothes were a little too large, his hair a little too long and his personality a little too shy. A smart kid, yes, but socially speaking, the boy was a nobody.

And then the tenth member of the class arrived and the ninth was forgotten completely: Brigitte Erikson took the award that day for most scandalous outfit, and she won in a landslide. Brigitte was blonde and beautiful, clearly and proudly of Swedish descent, and popular, all but guaranteed a spot in the school's homecoming court, if not the title of queen itself. Her hair was perfect, her face flawless, her breasts large, and her body fantastic.

And on this day of days, her outfit showed all of it off: cropped purple shirt three sizes too small, quite obviously no bra, short black mini-skirt, and black Ugg boots. The ensemble was, in a word, ridiculous. John was instantly hard and realized that he would do very little moving around during that particular class session.

"Thank you for joining us, Brigitte," he said curtly, trying to steer his mind away from images of the girl naked, sucking his dick.

The girl smiled sweetly. "You're welcome, Mr. Smith," she purred, utterly oblivious to the fact that she was late. She plopped into the open chair in the front row and crossed her legs, but not before John saw the flash of lacey white panties between her inner thighs.

He met her eyes and she grinned at him, and he swallowed . . . hard.

"Alright, class," he said hurriedly, mind racing, "we've been talking about James Polk . . ."

And so it went for John during that last class, his furtive glances at the girl in the front row met always with that same sly little smile, her movements languid and always the width of a hair from revealing more as those white panties tantalizing out of sight.

And when the bell rang and the period ended, and the class filed out, John watched the rump of the girl swish its way out the door before he rose, locked it, and pumped his cock for all it was worth in the quiet security of the classroom, exploding all over her chair.

* * *

Everyone knew that Brigitte was the leader of her little gaggle of girls. She made the decisions, she ran the show, and few expressed opinions contrary to her own. She was the ruler of the clique, more powerful than god in the eyes of her followers.

Which is why when she announced that she had grown tired of their regular after-school meeting place at the tables near the senior lockers, and that a suitable new location would have to be found, no one disagreed with her.

In the end, Brigitte settled on a little swath of grass beneath on old oak tree, much more out of the way than usual, which was surprising considering the girl was very much about exposure and popularity, and being seen and admired.

"Mr. Smith was perving me again today," Brigitte announced smugly as the girls took their seats. There were three others with her, all of them very attractive for different reasons but none, she thought, as hot as Brigitte herself.

"Ewww!" squealed Betty Neal, a bubbly blonde with light blue eyes. "Gross!"

"What a horn-ball," said brown-eyed Jamie Rhodes, a brunette with the brightest mind of the bunch, and of the girls in the group, Brigitte would listen to Jamie more than any other.

The last girl, a ditzy blonde named Sarah Yeager whose intelligence quotient would likely not cross the three-digit mark, merely giggled.

"I love tormenting him," Brigitte informed them with a devilish grin. "He's so easy."

"You're bad," Jamie said with a sigh.

"Ewww!" Betty squealed.

Sarah continued to giggle.

Brigitte rolled her eyes; it was clear the conversation was going nowhere. She changed the subject and said firmly, "What are the options this weekend?"

Jamie opened her planner. "The game is Friday night," she read aloud, "with three possible after-parties: one Rembrandt, one Benton, and the usual football crowd at Sala's house. The mall on Saturday. Nothing Sunday."

"Rembrandt?" Brigitte inquired.

"Hosted by Blair Alderan," Jamie replied.

Brigitte grimaced. "That slut?" she groaned. "Pass."

"What about the football boys?" asked Sarah. "The new quarterback is really cute."

"Maybe an appearance is appropriate," Brigitte mused. "We haven't gone to a football party yet this year and I'd love to see that bitch Lexie's face when we show up."

"Any more concerts?" Betty asked. "Oh my god, last weekend was so much fun!"

The four girls had gone to see Damien Taylor perform at a sold-out show in a tiny theater on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. Brigitte was absolutely obsessed with Damien Taylor and went to see him every chance she got.

"No one we would want to see," Jamie replied.

Sarah sighed. "He's soooo hot!"

"Who?" asked Betty, oblivious.

"Damien Taylor," Jamie answered with an are you an idiot kind of look.

"Oh, he's gorgeous!"

"Yes, we're aware of that," Brigitte snapped. Sometimes, just sometimes, the stupidity surrounding her grew to be too much. She suddenly felt in a not-so-nice mood.

Which was unfortunate for the poor sap who happened to round a nearby corner, eyes on the ground as he made his way towards their little cluster beneath the oak tree without even noticing they were there, because when he raised his head and saw them, and stopped dead in his tracks with a dumbfounded look on his face, Brigitte could not help snapping at him, too.

"What do you want, dork?" she called curtly.

The guy seemed very familiar, but Brigitte could not place it. He was a senior, yes, but she had no idea what his name was. Outside those in her group or those popular enough to warrant remembrance, Brigitte cared little for the names and lives of others.

"Uh, uh, well, I, uh," he stammered, clearly frazzled.

"Get – get – get out of here, nerd," Brigitte mocked.

The boy stood there a moment longer, staring with wide deer-in-headlight eyes, then turned and fled as quickly as he had come.

"You're bad," Jamie said again, quietly this time, and this time she meant it for a different reason.

"You're so mean!" Betty squealed. "He's such a sweetie, that guy."

Brigitte fumed. "Shut up, Betty! I bet you don't even know his name."

Betty lowered her eyes. Clearly, Brigitte had been right.

The blonde queen of her clique steeled herself. "Whatever, forget him," she stated flatly, and changed the subject again. "Let's talk about boys."

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