Playing Musician

"Not a chance," he replied honestly; no one on earth was hotter than Kayden, although Brigitte Erikson came pretty damn close.

"If she wants it," Kayden advised simply, her voice firm, "then I say you fuck her brains out."

Josh sighed again. "Thanks, Kayden," he said softly, meaning it.

Another giggle. "I'll want details, mister," she told him. "Every last dirty little detail!"

"Sure thing," he said as he grinned again, an expression coinciding with his reaching the door to Room Nineteen. "Love you."

"Love ya, squirt."

And so Josh Redding closed his phone and shoved it into his pocket, and took a deep breath before the door, and having settled himself and resolved himself, he knocked on the door.

Part Five: An Opportunity Seized

In the presidential cabin of his private jet, Damien Taylor pondered his options.

First, there were the stewardesses, a pair of luscious brunettes in their late twenties who could easily pass for lingerie models. They'd been giving him looks all flight long; it would not, he figured, take much to get the curtains closed and the action going. But he figured it would be just as easy to have them come to his hotel room together in London, where he was headed, and with two of them the extra space and the comforts of a bed would be particularly important.

Second, there was the slut, a twenty-something brunette he brought along from Los Angeles for the hell of it. They had fucked several times before and she always satisfied him, but he was not in the mood for traveled ground at the moment. He wanted fresh pussy, which left only one person.

Tanya Barber was one of Rex's people. She was cute and blonde and young, no more than twenty-four. She was petite, giving her an even younger look. And she was engaged, which made her even more desirable and worthy of pursuit. The forbidden fruit, as it were.

He sent one of the stewardesses back to fetch her and she materialized a minute or so later, dressed in a comfortable pair of snug-fitting jeans and a light blue tank-top. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail. She looked absolutely edible, and Damien relished the thought of all the dirty, nasty things he would do to her.

"Yes, sir?" she asked with a helpful smile.

"Tanya, baby," he said languorously as he maneuvered his reclining chair to a more upright position, "I need some help and you're the only one who can give it to me."

Tanya nodded thoughtfully. "Certainly, Mr. Taylor," she said. "Whatever you need."

"I need you to come over and sit on my lap," he breathed, holding out his hands.

Tanya's smile vanished. "I'm sorry, Mr. Taylor," she said hesitatingly, "but I don't really feel that doing that is appropriate."

Damien put on his most charming face. "Sweetheart, I'm not looking for anything. I just need some companionship. I've been so lonely lately." He sighed and pouted. "Girls only ever want one thing from me. They just want me for my body. No one wants me for me."

Tanya's frown wavered, then melted into the same sort of fawning expression girls get when looking down upon puppy dogs. Damien laughed wickedly inside his mind; he was just a lost little puppy dog, waiting for her to comfort him.

She smiled and said, softly, "Alright, just for a minute."

And so the tight little blonde beauty crossed the cabin and perched herself in his lap, and his arms came around her and his head came to rest on her shoulder, and he inhaled the sweet scent of her, all orchids and berries.

"This is nice," he sighed, his fingers tracing little circles over the exposed skin between her upper shoulder blades. She was noticeably tense, not relaxed at all, but still willing to be in the position she was in. Her ass felt wonderfully firm against his groin and he could feel himself stirring.

"I hope it helps," she said quietly, unmoving.

His hand trailed lower to caress her tank-top-covered back. She inched away from his touch, but when he persisted she settled back against it. His other hand rested lightly on her thigh.

"Oh," he murmured, "it does."

And then his hand dropped down to the upper curve of the young woman's rump and squeezed it liberally, and an instant later she vaulted up and out of his lap.

"That's quite enough," she said coldly, her face like stone as she regarded him. It was clear she was very displeased. "Will there be anythingelse, sir?"

He grinned. "Sweet Tanya," he said confidently, rising to his feet, "you know what I want. I know how much you want it, too. I'm Damien Taylor, baby."

He did not see her fist, but he felt it. The impact of her knuckles square against his cheek spun him around and put stars in his eyes, and he flopped back onto the chair, stunned and dazed.

"I know exactly who you are," she said fiercely, "and if you touch me again, Damien Taylor, I'll hack off your balls with a buzz saw."

Damien nodded groggily, and groaned.

"Since there is nothing else,sir," she said coldly, her voice once more controlled, "I'll take leave of you and send in the slut, instead."

And the last Damien saw of her before he closed his eyes to block out the pain was her tight little denim-clad butt swishing as she strode purposefully away.

* * *

About the same time Damien Taylor was taking a punch to the head high above the Atlantic Ocean, the young man hired to impersonate him was standing eight thousand miles away with his own fist raised, preparing to strike what lay before him, and rapped three times on the door.

"Come in," a muffled voice called from behind it.

And so Josh Redding pulled the hotel keycard from his pocket and inserted it in the horizontal slot, and after a click and a green light, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the dimness of the room; what few lights were on were set to low levels. The second thing he noticed was the size of the room: huge, which meant it was not just a hotel room but a hotel suite, and likely very expensive, with an entry hall that opened into a massive living room area complete with a dining table and chairs, plasma television, desk, and wet bar. The third thing he noticed was the drumbeat of his heart as it pounded in his chest, anxious and excited; not since his first night in the arms of Kayden James had its beating been so noticeable.

"Hello?" he called, not seeing anyone.

"I'm here," an airy voice called out from nearby.

And then the dimness diminished as three lights brightened in tandem, and in that moment Josh noticed the second level of the main living room, behind and down three steps from the main level of the floor, and just big enough for three plush white couches and an ornate circular rug set in their center.

And seated upon the nearest of those couches, still wearing her exceptional black dress and sipping from a glass in her hand, was Brigitte Erikson.

"I'm happy you came," the girl purred, with lingering emphasis on the last word.

Josh shrugged, a decidedly un-rock-star-like maneuver. "You invited me," he said, and he would be the first person to admit he sounded lame.

"Yes," Brigitte said with a pointed stare. She sipped again, then smiled. "I've heard about you, you know."

"What have you heard?" he asked.

"I've heard you have very particular tastes," she told him softly, eyes fluttering.

Joshua did not really know how to respond to what she said, nor how to proceed, and so he said the first thing that popped into his head, something he remembered Kayden saying to him during their first sexual encounter. "I have quite an appetite, yes."

"How exciting," she murmured.

"For someone as tasty as you, yes," he answered without thinking, and could not believe the words came out of his mouth. He was so surprised by himself that it nearly broke his carefully kept outward composure. Where were these statements coming from? This was Kayden talk, almost like the naughty sorority girl had downloaded herself into his brain.

Brigitte also seemed taken aback by the answer. She blushed and lowered her eyes, and quietly sipped again from her glass.

He looked to the bar. "It seems you've started without me," he said, indicating an uncorked bottle of champagne set beside another glass.

Brigitte rose slowly to her feet, the black material of her cocktail dress settling into place as she stood. She was magnificent, the hem ending well above the middle of her thigh, the neckline plunging low and past the end of her sternum, revealing ample flesh and abundant cleavage, showing clearly generous size and the fabulous shape of her body. Her shoulders curved into a slender neck, and the head above held both beauty of face and bounty of hair, blonde and perfectly coiffed.

In short, the girl was hot, hot, hot.

Which Josh already knew, of course, having watched her the past month in their last period history class, where she sat two seats in front of him in a tiny classroom, not to mention for three previous years of high school.

She floated over to the bar, moving leisurely and gracefully, and poured him a flute of champagne, then topped off her own half-empty glass. She offered it and he took it, and both of them drank deeply. This was a decidedly un-high-school-like exchange, he thought wryly.

And as Josh lowered his glass he met the gaze of her bright blue eyes, wide and wondrous, and something more, and in that moment an important and exhilarating realization flowered in the depths of his mind: she was just as nervous as he was.

He was used to seeing her in positions of power: toying with teachers, bossing around followers, lording over the meek and unpopular. Her confidence rarely wavered, certainly never on the grounds of the school, her turf, and certainly never around those she considered inferior, who were many, but it was wavering now. After all, despite wealth and power and exceptional beauty, she was still, in the context of the larger world, a sheltered high school teenager.

Who was now face-to-face withDamien Taylor, rock über-star, and putty in his hands.

And in that moment as his confidence soared, echoing across the canvas of his mind were simple words given to him by Rex Jennings:Damien Taylor is always in charge.

Yes, Josh thought, he intended to be.

* * *

It was not until she rounded the corner and got out of his sight that Brigitte Erikson finally allowed herself a chance to breathe. She slumped against the wall, thrilled and elated, but likewise suddenly and acutely anxious.

She had just propositioned Damien Taylor. Damien Taylor, the hottest rock star on the planet!

She set about making preparations the moment she deduced he would be the surprise guest, bribing her stepmother into renting her a room for the night, arranging an alibi with Jamie to evade her father's questions, stealing champagne from the bar at the party and getting a bellman to deliver it to the room ahead of her; everything went off without a hitch. She even went to her hotel room to get herself ready in the span of time before his performance at the party, wiping down every inch of her skin with a wash cloth, taking great care to doubly cleanse every single inch of her body. She wanted to be perfect for him, and felt it as she re-dressed: long blonde hair framed her perfectly made-up face; thin waist, tight ass, and huge tits stuffed into a sleek, tight dress; blue eyes that sparkled and knew how to melt a man.

She returned just in time for the show, and when it ended and the crowd died down, Brigitte made her move, striding with confidence and certainty to his side, speaking the words, brushing him, teasing him, all with her usual aplomb . . . until she walked away from him and doubt began to creep into her mind, doubt and the first hints of nervousness.

It was unfamiliar ground for her: Brigitte Erikson did not get nervous. She twirled the men in her life around her little finger like puppets on a string, and women did not fare much better. She did not get nervous, not ever.

Until now, anticipating the arrival of her current celebrity crush.

At eighteen years old and spoiled in any and all ways, she was not above such obsessions, and hot rock stars with reputations for sexual extravagance were foremost in her fantasies, Damien Taylor chief among them, which is why she was already two glasses of champagne deep when he arrived, and feeling significantly buzzed.

When she joined him at the bar and poured him a drink, her ears were burning and her heart was trying to leap from her chest, fueled by booze and the situation itself, and the hotness and fame of the man standing before her, the rock star whom every girl in the world would kill to be with.

Still, she had been aggressive at the beginning, as was her way, and he had called her on it and then some, and now, she realized with equal parts exhilaration and trepidation, she was putty in his hands.

* * *

She's putty in my hands,Josh was thinking in that same moment, unaware of similar thoughts in the mind of the girl across from him.Damien Taylor is always in charge.

"We need music," he said suddenly, and went to the sound system built into the wall behind the bar. He fiddled with some knobs, and moments later soothingly soft rhythm and blues music echoed through the room. He smiled and returned to her, and offered her his hand.

Which she took, her small and delicate fingers folding into his as he led her back down to the lower-level couches and bade her stand in the center of the rug, which she did without complaint. He seated himself in the place she had occupied when he arrived and looked up at her, looked up at Brigitte Erikson, beauty queen and queen bitch, and grinned.

The girl who had teased and tortured so many nice, friendly, unassuming guys over her high school career, including himself just a few days before, was about to get her comeuppance. She would not know it for what it truly was, of course, not really, but that fact mattered little to Josh in that moment, who decided with ultimate finality to act in honor and in the name of all of her victims, young and old. Payback's a bitch, he thought.

And with a stern voice ushered a one word command.

"Dance."

* * *

Things were happening fast and her head was spinning, but in the end the one thing to which Brigitte Erikson held firm was the fame and fortune of the man she was with, the greatness of his celebrity, which was, in truth, the one thing most apt to disarm her.

And which already had.

"Dance," he ordered, and something in his voice took hold of her, would not let her disobey.

And so, woozy from booze and pulsing with adrenaline, Brigitte began to dance to the music. She closed her eyes and swayed her hips, rocking them back and forth. She was not what you might call a fantastic dancer, but she was a girl who knew how to handle her body to great effect.

"Come closer," he said, and while the command was softly spoken, so, too, was it firm.

She moved forward, stopping just close enough for him lean forward and reach to touch her, still moving provocatively to the rhythm of the blues. Her hands dropped to her thighs and rose with smooth languor up and over her hips, above the cloth of her dress, her fingers splaying out in soft circles as they went. She sucked in a nervous sort of breath as her palms cupped her breasts and pressed them together, pushing them so far they nearly popped out of the low-cut neckline.

Damien Taylor watched her without moving, his dark blue eyes intense, an unreadable expression on his face. She wondered fleetingly how many girls he'd gotten into this position, what with women throwing themselves at him all the time. Strangely enough, that notion actually loosened her up a great deal; he would be less likely to judge her and more likely to be looking for a good time. The man did have an amazing reputation, after all.

Brigitte began to get more into it as those thoughts swirled in her head, and grinned as she spun around, her back to him, and swung her hips from side to side. She wiggled her tight bottom in little circles as she circled back to face him, and she noticed then two things almost at once: a new expression on his face and a large lump in his jeans.

"Stop," he said hoarsely, and slowly rose to his own feet.

She was thrilled, she was terrified, she was horny, and she was inebriated, all of which led to an extremely heightened state of anticipation. The bulge in his pants twitched as he moved. He was ready for her, that much was clear, and it was also quite clear to both that he was in charge.

"You will do what I say."

It was not a question, and it laid bare her own thoughts. Brigitte swallowed hard and, after a pause, nodded. Where her anxiety ended and excitement began, it was impossible to tell.

"Take off your dress."

It was then that Brigitte noticed for the first time the incredible wetness between her legs, like a lake had settled in the silk of her panties. She marveled at that, but only a moment before she obeyed him again: reaching down, crossing her arms, and grasping the hem of her dress at mid-thigh.

"Slowly," he commanded as she tugged it up.

Inch by deliberate inch, the black fabric of the dress rose to reveal what lay beneath: her thighs, tanned a golden brown; her hips, and the saturated black thong silk panties covering her most sacred places; her stomach, hard and flat; and then, finally, the fleshy mounds of her breasts. She wore no bra, not needing one with her significant size and supple shape, and when the dress passed them by, her breasts plopped down into view, full and round and succulent.

"Stop."

The word was a bullet, hard and fast, and Brigitte stopped moving immediately despite her awkward position. The dress was up over her head, her arms extended upward, her vision completely obstructed by the black material now covering her face.

"Don't move," he said firmly.

She stood there for a long moment, keeping her balance. Nothing moved and no one spoke. She was lewdly displayed, her black pumps and panties the only items still on beneath her neck, her arms up over her head, her breasts thrust out. The air was cool upon them and she felt the pink nipples shrivel into stiff little nubs.

She heard him move, and her knees nearly buckled when she felt his hand cup her left breast. His hand was cold and rough, but a warm flush spread over her skin as he squeezed her flesh with utmost gentility. He grabbed her other breast, holding her now with both hands, and squeezed.

She was past the point of return, now, with his hands on both her breasts, and yielded to her place and role this night as a rock star's sexual plaything. She smiled in spite of herself; the other girls would be sooo jealous when they found out.

She sucked in a ragged breath as a stab of pleasure lanced through her; even though she could not see him, his touch was working wonders on her. Brigitte felt a fresh wave of juice dribble over the folds of her nether region as Damien tugged at her nipples. Her breasts were very sensitive and the sensations always seemed to shoot straight to her pussy.

He let go suddenly. "Turn around," he stated flatly.

Again, she obeyed, turning around deftly until he back was facing him, and she knew instinctively where his eyes were and what was coming next. He bottom was a heart-shaped bubble of perfection, its flesh firm yet supple, and had long been regarded as one of the finest in the school. She had, she knew, often gotten what she wanted from others with little more than an opportunely timed bend of her knees.

"Spread your legs," was the next order, and she willingly and obediently complied, spreading her long limbs until her body formed a perfect upside-down letter 'Y'.

She still could not see, which is why she gasped when she felt his hands upon her again, this time stroking the cheeks of her bottom with the fingers of his hands, dancing the tips feather-light across her flesh. She sighed and unconsciously wiggled her hips beneath his touch, and received the next instant a stinging smack to her left buttock, so hard and unexpected it forced her forward a tiny step. She stifled a cry.