Playing Musician

And the squeal, giggle, and grin that followed that pronouncement let Brigitte know their little conversation was firmly back on track.

* * *

It was very difficult to get Josh Redding angry.

He was, by nature, a very calm and composed guy, not prone to wild emotional swings, sadness or rage. He was fairly strong, he thought, having weathered the storm of obscurity throughout his high school years with poise and aplomb. It was tough being nobody, being so shy you rarely did anything that interested you for fear of the spotlight, but that was Joshua.

Which is why he was surprised to feel the anger welling within him as he hurried away from the circle of girls sitting on the grass beneath the old oak tree, the one place in school that he truly considered his own.

It was not the actual fact that they were there that bothered him; the girls could sit wherever they wanted and if they chose to sit there, so be it. But the cruelty in the eyes of Brigitte Erikson and the harshness of her words, the disdain and utter disregard in her voice, really pissed him off.

She did not know him. In four years, she had spoken maybe five words in total to him. She was self-absorbed and vain, and never conversed with social fringe-walkers, into which category Josh firmly fell. She had no right to treat him the way she had.

However, he would do nothing about it. What could he do, call her out? That would go over well. No longer would he just be ignored, he would be actively outcast. He did not want to be popular, but he did not want to be exiled, either.

He stopped walking suddenly when he realized his feet had taken him on auto-pilot to an out-of-the-way corner of the school he rarely visited, near the music labs. He could hear from somewhere nearby the soft chords of a guitar drifting on the wind.

He followed them and peered in through one of the windows of a small blue building, and was treated to the sight of two individuals, a bearded old teacher whose name he could not remember and a pretty girl Josh recognized from his biology class whose name was Addison Dawes, the latter of whom was strumming on an old acoustic guitar.

The music was beautiful; Addy, as she preferred to be called, was very good.

He had more than an hour before his mother arrived to pick him up (he had no car, which is why he spent so much time beneath the oak and considered the spot his) and decided he would be perfectly content to hang around the music lab and listen to the girl play.

As the sweet sounds washed over him, Josh wondered just how his high school life might have changed had he involved himself in the world of the music program. It was something no one at his school knew anything about: he was a freak for music. He took his first guitar lesson at age five and never looked back, and now spent much of his free time composing songs, arranging music, or just simply sitting and playing. He often went out into the city to sit and play in solitude, unburdened by others.

He was broken from his reverie by a voice next to him. "Can I help you?" the bearded old teacher asked, looking down at Josh curiously.

Josh jumped to his feet and hastened away, calling out, "No, no, just leaving."

And so he did, walking around aimlessly for forty minutes before he got the call from his mom, who was, thankfully and for once, actually early.

* * *

The boyfriend of Brigitte Erikson was little more than a lapdog, but most boys would (and did) jump at the opportunity; the pain of servitude was a small price to pay to sample the physical delights of a delectable creature like Brigitte.

While blowjobs were rare and sex was rarer still, her boyfriends were often allowed to play with her lovely breasts or fondle her luscious ass, or pleasure her with their mouths. She was a big fan of oral-induced orgasm, even if the boys who serviced her usually lacked significant talent.

Her boyfriend at the moment was Brent Thomas, a sophomore at UCLA. He was a good-looking guy and not too bright, which seemed to be her prerequisites. Her parents were out for the evening, as usual, and the two were lounging around her bedroom.

Brigitte was still wearing her purple crop top and black mini-skirt from her day at school, but the boots were long since discarded. She was not really in the mood to fool around, but she had been dangling action over Brent's head for weeks and reckoned it was time to give him a little, if only to keep him under control. She reached down and shimmied out of her skirt, which left her in only the shirt, socks and a pair of white cotton panties with lace fringe.

Brent was sitting on the chair at her desk, watching, practically drooling at the sight of her long tanned legs and tight body.

"Want to play with my body, baby?" she asked. "You've been such a good boy lately. Come get your reward."

And so Brigitte went to the bed and lay down on her back, her head propped up on some fluffy pink pillows, and waited.

Brent sidled over to sit next to her on the bed, looking as sheepish as he felt. He was so excited to be getting some, he could hardly stand it; this latest stretch had been three long weeks. He gazed down upon her with an immediate and almost painful erection, knowing exactly how lucky he was to have access, however limited, to the flesh of a girl as incredible as Brigitte, even if she had yet to take him all the way. She had promised to fuck him at some point, however, and he would wait around as long as he had to.

She lay on her back and splayed her legs out to the sides, those tiny panties barely covering the sacred place between her legs. "Touch me," she cooed.

Her legs were long and smooth and he ran his hands along them. Her skin was cool and taut, the legs leanly muscled. There was not an ounce of hair on her; he knew how neatly groomed she liked to keep herself (regular wax appointments). He ran his fingers along her calves and knees and thighs, and she wiggled around just a bit when his caresses tickled too much. Then his fingers trailed up and over the cotton panties, and Brent very nearly came in his pants as he gripped the elastic band and waited, asking for approval with his eyes.

"Alright," Brigitte said as she lifted her hips, and Brent nearly groaned as he tugged the panties down her legs and off to bare what splendors lay beneath.

Her pussy was light pink with tightly pursed lips; Brent had seen several pussies in his life and hers was easily the prettiest, and every time he saw it the thing amazed him. She kept it clean and fresh and neatly groomed with a narrow landing strip of thin blonde curls set a few inches above.

"Touch me," Brigitte said again, her voice a whisper.

He brought one of his fingers to the place between her legs and used it to pull one of her lips to the side, baring the brightest pink part of her to his hungry gaze; he wanted to make every moment of this count.

With the same hand a second finger spread the other side, his split fingers forming the shape of a letter "V" as they opened her wide. Brent could see both the little hooded nub of her clitoris and down somewhat into the hole that led into her depths. His off-hand stroked the inside of her thigh as he played with her pussy, pulling the lips this way and that, running his fingers up and down the labia, swirling them around the swollen nub, spreading the sex juice around, and as he did so the beautiful blue eyes of Brigitte Erikson fluttered shut with pleasure.

After several minutes of glorious exploration, he decided it was time for the main course: he leaned in and inhaled the lovely scent of her before flicking his tongue out to capture some of her juice. He drew closer and flicked his tongue again, and this time caught much of her left pussy lip with the flat of his tongue. She stirred, her hips shifting slightly.

And so Brent began eating his teenage high school girlfriend out, licking her with the flat of his tongue and sucking the swollen pink lips into his mouth. He swirled his tongue across her clit and she sighed.

"Want me on all fours?" Brigitte asked quietly after some time.

Brent could hardly believe his good luck. She knew how much he loved eating her when she was in that position, but rarely granted his request because she knew it meant he would go after her ass, too, which was strictly off-limits. Brigitte rolled over and got comfortable, rising to her hands and knees and arching her back downward to tilt the angle of her bottom back up.

Brent lowered his face between her legs and took a couple of leisurely swipes across the girl's glistening pink folds, but his hands were moving, too, sliding up her legs and over the firm cheeks of her ass, his fingers digging deep into her flesh as he relished the supple feel. He jiggled the cheeks of her ass, just enough to fuel his excitement but not enough to upset her, before he dipped his thumbs to the inside and took firm hold again, and spread those wonderful cheeks apart to view what lay within the lovely crack.

Brigitte's anus was pink and puckered and wrinkled and hairless, and no bigger than the size of a quarter. Brent gazed upon it for a long time; it was easily one of the sexiest things he had ever seen and he knew he would be jacking himself to the memory of the sight for years to come.

Without thinking he moved his head forward and touched the tip of his tongue to the tiny hole, but Brigitte wiggled her hips away.

"No," the girl said sharply, "not my butt."

And so Brent diverted his attention from her luscious back door and again spread the cheeks of her buttocks apart, granting himself access to her lovely pink pussy, and he dove right into it with gusto. He feasted upon the saturated folds until her every breath was a heavy husk and her limbs were twitching with the tell-tale sign of impending orgasm.

And then Brigitte came and flooded his mouth with juice, honey sweet and sticky, and when she was done she rolled over onto her back and looked down at him.

"Have fun, sweetie?" she asked with another half-smile.

Brent nodded dumbly. "Oh, yes," he answered.

"Want me to do you?" she asked, blue eyes sparkling despite her not seeming that excited.

"You know I would," Brent said enthusiastically, stoked by his good fortune.

And so they switched places and the girl wrapped her fingers and lips around his cock, and sucked him with every ounce of her skill, as always, to ensure he finished quickly.

Which, of course, he did.

* * *

The beach was a wonderful and mystical place when the sun went down, one of Joshua's favorite places in the world. The sky was a brilliant orange and the waters gentle and constant as they crashed upon the shore, the perfect kind of background accompaniment.

He was a little farther north than usual, closer to the pier and the masses, but still far enough away to remain unbothered, which is exactly what he wanted when he played his guitar. He was sitting on a little stone wall separating sand and concrete, the latter of which formed a modestly used boardwalk, plucking away at the strings, eyes closed, relishing the sound of the music he made. When he finished a particular piece, his mind quickly selected another and the songs seemingly never ceased, flowing from one to the next, endless as the ocean upon the horizon.

He was three songs deep, about to play an fourth, when a voice cut into his reverie. "Very nice," the voice said, and so Joshua opened his eyes.

The man standing before him was a kind-looking man, handsome and clean-cut, and he, too, carried an old guitar slung across his back. "Pardon?" Josh asked lamely, unsure what else to say.

"You're good," the man said as he sat down next to Joshua on the wall, "very good."

"Thanks," Joshua replied. "You play?"

The man nodded. "Oh, yes," he said with a smile and a sigh, as if he wanted nothing more in the world than to do exactly that. He lifted his arm and slid his guitar around, and planted it in his lap. "Few things in this world feel better."

Josh was beginning to like the guy. "True," he agreed with a grin.

"You look familiar. Do I know you?"

"I don't think so," Josh replied.

The man shrugged and looked down at his strings. "What's your name, friend?"

"Josh."

"Well, Josh, feel like jamming with me a little?"

Josh grinned again. "Love to," he replied eagerly.

"I'm Michael," the man revealed. "You just play. I'll follow your lead."

And so it went for over an hour as the two strangers strummed their instruments in time and tune with one another, no real rhyme or reason to the chords they played and yet somehow, some way, the sounds produced were musical and potent, and began attracting a crowd of pleased onlookers.

When Josh went high, Michael went low. When Michael riffed, Josh responded. The crowd got into it, bobbing and moving like a ripple through water, and Josh could not believe how good it felt to have them listening to him play. For far too long, his natural sense of shyness had restricted him from doing the things he wanted, but now, playing with Michael before the crowd, feeding from the energy created in that place, something inside him changed, a fundamental shift in his perception of the world around him.

Being in the limelight, he decided, wasn't too bad.

After a time, the onlookers dispersed; it was late, after all, and the sun was very nearly set. The air was cool, typical for a late September evening at the beach. At long last, Michael sighed and lifted his guitar, and Josh followed suit.

"It's been too long since I played for the sake of playing," the older man said. "Justplayed, you know? Too much lately, it's been more about the business than the music. Whatever you do, Josh, make sure you always make it about the music."

"Good advice."

It was not Josh who had spoken, nor Michael. The voice was a new one and belonged to an attractive man strolling down the boardwalk, smiling pleasantly. He wore slacks and a button down shirt, and managed to make the ensemble look effortlessly casual.

Michael grinned. "I wondered when I'd see you down here again," he called, "mingling with the little people. Josh, meet Rex Jennings, musical agent to the stars . . . and the sole remaining champion of a struggling guitarist named Michael Rowe. He's an old friend, but be careful: he runs in some pretty powerful circles these days."

Rex was grinning right along with Michael. "Quite a long way from your mom's garage in south Orange County," he admitted. Michael rose and the two men hugged, and Rex added, "It's good to see you, man. It's been too long."

"Yes," Michael agreed with a nod, "too long. Rex, this is Josh Redding, a significant young talent just waiting to be discovered. The base compositions of the songs we've been playing are his."

Rex turned to Josh with more than a little curiosity. "Really? That's impressive, I heard some of it and liked . . ." The man trailed off, his eyes narrowing, almost squinting, and then widening as if he was seeing something for the first time. "You know, you have the most familiar face."

"That's what I said!" Michael exclaimed.

Rex did not take his eyes off Josh, who at this point was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. "You look very much like someone I know," Rex said thoughtfully.

Josh shrugged and rose to his feet. "Maybe," he said, not sure what else to say, then turned to Michael. "Thanks for playing with me. I really enjoyed it."

"Not as much as I did, Josh," the man replied. "Trust me."

Josh nodded his head. "Nice to meet you, Mister Jennings," he said politely.

"Sure thing, kid. You take care."

And so Josh left the two men behind on the beach and headed home, the music from the afternoon and evening still swirling around his brain, just waiting to be consolidated and composed, and memorized. He would need to add lyrics next, which was always the most difficult part, and which also meant it was time to visit with Kayden.

Which was awesome, as those visits always ended in very happy ways.

Part Two: An Interesting Idea

Sitting in fading light of his lush Beverly Hills office, Rex Jennings replayed over and over the many different facets and possibilities, advantages and disadvantages, best-case and worst-case scenarios of what he was considering.

The phone rang and broke him from his reverie, startling him just enough to draw him back out of the depths of his mind. He hit the speaker phone button and the beautiful voice of his wife echoed through the room.

Alexandra Jennings was not afraid. "Come home, baby," she cooed. "I need to be fucked."

Despite the fact that it was eight o'clock on a Wednesday evening and everyone in the office was already gone, Rex still scrambled to pick up the receiver. Stupid, he thought; that would teach him to put his wife, may god bless her filthy and unfiltered brain, on speakerphone. Truly, he never knew what would come out of the woman's mouth; of course, it was part of made her so exciting.

"Certainly you've got something lying around the house to help you out," Rex said nonchalantly, working hard to conceal his amusement. "A corona bottle maybe, or some zucchini, or that twelve-inch black rubber cock you love so much."

His wife huffed. "I've got the kid next door," she shot back. "I'm sure he could satisfy me at least until you get home."

"If he lasts that long. Eighteen years equals eighteen seconds inside that pretty little mouth of yours, and less elsewhere."

Alexandra whined and began to pout. "Come home, sweetie, please? I'm so horny!"

"I will, baby," Rex replied in a soft and serious voice, "but I need to do something first. Something important. I'll tell you when I get home. Save some for me?"

"Fine," the woman said reluctantly, "but you'd better fuck me good tonight or you're in big trouble, mister."

"As long and as hard as you want it," he promised.

And so the call ended and Rex rose to his feet, and grabbed his suede jacket where it hung on a hook on the wall, and as he readied himself to leave he wondered two things: first, where and how he would make love to his wife later that night; and, second, whether or not he could pull off what it was he was planning.

* * *

School had been another uneventful affair. Joshua eased through the day without leaving the fringes of the student populace, without speaking to anyone in particular, without interacting in any meaningful way with anyone except his English teacher, Miss Rawlins, who kept him after to discuss his last paper, which she had found very intriguing and insightful.

After school, however, Joshua knew things would get significantly better: earlier that morning he had placed a call to Kayden James, an old friend of his who also happened to be a smoking hot sorority girl at the University of Southern California.

Josh met Kayden at the beach two years earlier, another fruit fallen from the tree of his musical talent. She was a senior in high school at the time and a big music-lover; she heard him playing his guitar while bike-riding, followed the sound of the music, and stayed all day to listen to him play. The two became very good friends.

Kayden was blonde and beautiful, and utterly uninhibited with significant sexual abandon. She loved three things in the world outside her family: music, sex, and the beach. She was a family girl who cherished and doted on two younger sisters, and lavished love on her parents, but there was another person beyond blood whom she cared for a great deal: Josh himself, whom she had come to love almost like a brother. She had often told Josh that very thing herself.

Every day, Josh thanked his lucky stars for leading him to Kayden, who was almost solely responsible for whatever confidence he currently had, not to mention the sole source of the bulk of his experience when it came to members of the opposite sex.