Playing Musician

Twenty thousand dollars cash.

* * *

He was looking at the lusciously rounded curve of a female bottom, nude and glorious, and high in the air. He followed it, slowly, as it slid into the small of her back and angled sharply downward, sloping into her spine and past to where it ended, just past her shoulders, in a nest of silken blonde hair.

Damien was stretched out on the mattress of the bed in his hotel suite, the girl perched perpendicular to him on her knees and elbows and forearms, beautiful, experienced, her head hovering over his groin, her mouth as warm and wet as the Peruvian rainforest as she suckled his penis. Her heavy breasts jiggled slightly as she worked, her torso twisting this way and that, putting significant body English on the cock in her mouth. His shaft pulsed and grew harder with each languorous swipe of her tongue.

The girl glanced up at him, gray eyes heavy with lust, and grinned when she saw him looking down at her. She moaned again, and Damien grunted: the vibration of the noise sent bullets of pleasure shooting through him. Her enthusiasm waxed and she began to use her hand on his shaft, pumping it up and down. Her tongue skittered schizophrenically across the head of his cock and the upper part of his shaft, while her off-hand slid over his thigh and grazed the wrinkled skin of his testicles with her nails.

The girl was very good: Damien was done.

"Here it comes, baby," he whispered and the beautiful blonde doubled her efforts, her lips sucking hard and her hand moving up and down the shaft at a frenzied pace.

He twitched violently and sperm shot from the head of his cock, and slammed into the roof of her mouth. The girl did not miss a beat; she swallowed everything, gulping the syrup down even as several more globs of white hot cum flowed over her tongue. Some of the last batch escaped through the cracks between her lips and his shaft, and slid down over her fingers, but she swallowed the rest like the champion cock-sucker she was.

Damien practically melted into the mattress and the girl, wonderfully, continued to pleasure him, her tongue lapping softly at his balls until the shaft was fully deflated.

Their eyes met and the girl grinned, and slurped one of his balls between her lips and rolled it around on her tongue. "Enjoy it?" she cooed as his testicle dropped out of her mouth.

He grinned. "One of the best," he said.

The girl rose up to her knees. Her breasts were fantastic: round and pear-shaped, and perfect. Damien admired them openly; the girl laughed and wiggled her tits at him. "Like what you see?" she asked.

"You know I do, baby doll," he told her, and at that exact moment his cell phone rang on the bed table beside him. He turned and checked the screen, and sighed. "Sorry, love. It's my agent." He flipped open the phone. "Rexy, baby, how are you?"

"You're in the clear, Damien," the man on the other end of the line informed him. "I've worked it out. You're booked on a private charter out of LAX on Saturday."

The girl giggled and pinched her own nipples, and Damien said, "Beautiful, just beautiful," and he was speaking about more than his new schedule as he gazed upon those lovely breasts. "I'll make it up to you somehow, Rexy. I always do."

"Perhaps," answered Rex.

And the line went dead, which was unusual in that Rex rarely cut short their conversations, but then again Rex was not really that happy with him at the moment so he could not really blame the guy. Ultimately, though, it did not matter; Damien had bigger and better things on his mind at the moment.

"Stacy?" he called out.

The girl on the bed frowned. "I'm Stacy," she pouted.

Damien shrugged. "That's what I meant," he said, then stopped. "What about . . .?"

"Darla?" the girl said with some displeasure.

Damien cried out, "Darla!"

And another exquisite blonde with luscious breasts and a tight body walked, fantastically naked, into the bedroom from the bathroom, prepped now and ready to join in the fun. Damien grinned as he saw her, but grinned even more when she went right to his head, straddled it, and lovely her glistening pink pussy onto his face, grinding her hips to illicit maximum pleasure.

And the other girl, Stacy the fantastic cock-sucker, her displeasure faded, watched with a wicked kind of grin as they situation played out before she, too, involved herself, straddling his waist and impaling herself on his cock.

And on and on it went into the depths of the night.

* * *

Rex set down the phone and sighed. It was clear, despite repeated attempts, that Damien Taylor would never change his ways. He was too caught up in the lifestyle, too close to the heart of the storm, and it would catch him and churn him up and spit him out at some point, sooner rather than later. It was almost inevitable: sex, booze, drugs. It was sad, really; at one point, Damien had been just another eager young kid, looking to make his way.

A breathy gasp behind him shook him from the depths of his reverie. He turned and felt his heart start to pound at what was before him.

His beautiful wife was leaning against the frame of his home office door, a powder blue silk robe covering her body, only covering was not the most optimal word: the robe was open in front and the whole of her delectable body was displayed.

His eyes traveled down her body. Alexandra was gorgeous: scintillating deep hazel eyes cast an intensely seductive gaze his way; wonderfully soft skin; a slender neck that sloped down into her shoulders and lower still into a pair of exquisite breasts, so round and full and real; a flat stomach; curved hips that were not too thin and not too wide, just perfect; and legs lean and lovely, and luscious.

And then his eyes focused in on what lay between those legs and his undoing was complete: the sight of the neatly groomed swath of fire-red curls set above hairless lips, freshly shorn and glistening with the evidence of her arousal, was more than he could stand, and his erection sprouted faster and harder than he could have possibly imagined.

"Ready for me, baby?" his lovely wife asked in a sultry voice.

And then she buried a finger in her pussy and Rex felt his jaw hit the floor as Alexandra trembled with pleasure as she masturbated herself. His wife giggled as she watched his reaction, then smiled dazzlingly, her eyes flashing with the kind of mischievous glint he fell in love with so many years earlier. She withdrew her finger and sauntered forward, then stopped, turned, leaned forward, and planted her hands on his desk, back arched, legs locked, feet spread.

Rex wasted no time, unbuckling his pants and letting the fall around his ankles as he rose. His cock waggled in the open air as he went to her and flipped the robe up her back, admiring the way his wife's taut bottom wiggled and swayed as it inched backward, looking for contact. Her pussy was pink and pretty and on prominent display, bald and achingly wet and ready for him.

He positioned himself at the entrance and fed his cock into her until his pelvis nestled snugly up against the cheeks of her ass, the whole of his sizable shaft buried inside her. He sighed happily.

"Fuck me!" Alexandra hissed.

She would not need to tell Rex twice: he pulled back and thrust forward brutally, pounding his cock into her again and again with near reckless abandon, relishing the incredibly loudthwackthat resulted when his hips bounced off her ass. One hand held onto her hip, the other reached under to clutch at one of her fleshy breasts as it bounced to the rhythm of their motion.

Rex looked down and grinned: the sight below was one of his favorites in the world. His cock was spreading the lips of his wife's pussy, the flesh of her ass was rippling and the wrinkled plot set between those cheeks was practically winking up at him. Dog-style was perhaps his favorite position, due in large part to the view.

Alexandra was a screamer, of course, and it was always easy to know when she neared orgasm: her whimpers and grunts turned to squeals and wails, and lastly to outright screams.

"I'm coming!" she cried, head dropping as pleasure wracked her body. "I'm close! I'm close! I'M CLOSE! I'M CLOSE! I'M FUCKING CUUUUUUMMMMMMIIINNNNGGGGG!"

And as her body twitched and quivered and quaked, Rex felt himself following her over the edge and into the abyss, and with a grunt and a groan of his own he unloaded his steaming mass of fuck syrup into the womb of his wife in a series of ropy white waves, filling her utterly.

And after long moments of settling, the two collapsed forward onto the desk, her breasts scattering papers before squishing into the surface, his weight coming to rest on hers. She turned her head and their lips met, softly, tenderly, the kind of moment only old lovers can share.

Part Three: A Remarkable Coincidence

Olaf Erikson, a successful senior partner with Harvey Clark Financial, enjoyed three leisurely things on Saturday mornings: his newspaper, his breakfast, and his workout. His busy work week allowed none of those things and his Sunday was often spent playing golf, which meant he was on the course early, which meant his only morning without pace of any kind was Saturday.

On this particular Saturday, which was Saturday the fifteenth of October and also the date of his company's fall charity gala, Ollie (as he was known to familiars) sat lounging on the lanai of his posh Beverly Hills home, newspaper in hand, waffles on a plate before him, black coffee steaming from a mug beside it, quite content with how his day was proceeding.

Until his daughter arrived, that is.

"Daddy?" he heard the girl's sweet and musical voice call, which was unusual, which meant she wanted something, and so Ollie girded himself.

And then the girl appeared in the doorway . . . and Ollie nearly fell off his chair: his daughter had decided to prance around the house in nothing more than a tight white crop-top and tiny gray panties. The wordswhat the hell was she thinkingdid not even do the situation justice.

His daughter was beautiful, yes, it was easy to see even for a father who strove not to notice such things. Brigitte was tall at 5'10 and slender at little more than 120 pounds, with seemingly unending legs and a breathtaking figure. She looked exactly like Serena, her mother and Ollie's ex-wife, had thirty years ago: high cheekbones, full lips, piercing blue Nordic eyes, the perfect example of classic Swedish beauty.

Beauty, however, did not mean Brigitte could strut around with her tight teenage body on virtual display. The bottom of her shirt was cropped so high it barely covered her nipples and allowed easy viewing of the full round curve of the lower half of her breasts, as well as her smooth flat stomach. The waistline of her miniscule panties dipped what must have been a full half foot below her navel, revealing far too much skin for a father's acceptance. The panties clung to her smooth skin so snugly it seemed they were practically sprayed on.

"Brigitte!" the man croaked. "What are you wearing? Cover yourself this instant!"

The girl grinned, much like a patient parent might grin at a three year-old child. "Don't be silly, daddy," she giggled. "I'm just wearing what I wore to bed last night."

The girl walked over to him and Ollie swiftly averted his eyes, but not before (much to his dismay) his eyes noted how his daughter's breasts jiggled beneath the cotton fabric of her shirt, tantalizingly close to slipping out. She stopped less than two feet from her father, standing over him, utterly unaware that if he were so inclined, which he was not, she was offering him a generous view up her shirt at the cleavage between her ample breasts.

"You're parading around in your underwear!" he said in a strangled voice.

"Don't be such a prude, daddy," she said dismissively, and held out her hand. "I need some money for tonight. It's a cash only club so my credit cards won't work."

Ollie sighed, defeated, knowing it was impossible to argue with the headstrong and spoiled eighteen year-old girl. If Brigitte wanted to walk around in next-to-nothing, she would. But then his brain seized on what she had said.

"Tonight?" he asked suddenly. "You have family obligations tonight."

One delicate eyebrow arched and Ollie could feel the battle lines being drawn. "Excuse me?" she said ominously.

"You will tell your friends you are not available tonight," he said, his resolve strong. Where business was concerned, his will was indomitable. "You and your stepmother and I will be attending my company's charity event at the Four Seasons."

Brigitte's eyes narrowed. "Another one already?" she whined.

"Twice a year," Ollie said. "I'm sorry, my dear, but you cannot miss it."

His daughter's face was flat and icy, and he could see the wheels turning in her mind, and then her face softened dramatically as she went into her patented and very effectivelittle girl mode.

"Daddy," she pleaded in a sweet, soft voice as she launched herself forward and plopped down into his lap, "please, please, please can I miss the charity thingy and go to the club with my friends? Pretty please?"

Unfortunately, jumping into her father's lap had been a significant tactical error on Brigitte's part: having his nubile and half-naked daughter wiggling around on his crotch absolutely terrified Ollie. He was barely staving off an incestuous erection as it was; any further stimulation and he was certainly done for. He pushed her away and affected his hardest stare.

"Brigitte," he announced, "you are coming tonight. No excuses, no exceptions. My business is the most important thing in your life, whether you realize it or not."

The girl was shocked by his tone, but at least she recognized he would not (on this rare occasion) relent. She looked at him a moment longer, then giggled, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Daddy," she mewed, "you're kind of cute when you put your foot down."

And she turned then to leave the room . . . and Ollie's eyes almost fell out of his head: the tiny gray panties she wore were not true panties after all. It was actually a thong, the thin sliver of material deposited deep between the tanned cheeks of his daughter's supple ass.

"Brigitte!" he cried.

His daughter giggled again. "Sorry, daddy," she called in an incredibly soft and submissive voice as she bounced out of the room, granting one last look at her wiggling thong-hugging rump.

Which meant holding back was out of the question: his cock sprang to life in his shorts.

* * *

Thursday and Friday passed faster than any two days had passed in the whole of Joshua's life. His classes, not particularly exciting, were a whirl and his free time, not particularly chalk full of things to do, was a blur. His mind was almost perpetually on the coming Saturday and his role to play in the plan of Rex Jennings.

Which is why when Saturday actually did arrive and, at half past nine in the morning, Josh waited outside his house for Rex to pick him up, all the anticipation and excitement and apprehension he felt very nearly bubbled over, and Josh felt himself start to fret.

And at the exact moment when his fears began to get the better of him, the silver sports car rounded the corner at great speed and screeched to a halt in front of Josh, and the passenger window rolled down to reveal a gorgeous redheaded woman whose deep hazel eyes were pointedly sizing him up.

"Get in, stud," the woman said, and Josh did as he was told.

Rex was in the driver's seat. "How you doing, Josh? Ready for this?"

He shrugged. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess," he admitted.

The woman was still staring critically at him. "You're right, baby," she said quietly. "The resemblance is there, if you look past . . . certain things."

Rex grinned. "Josh," he said, "I'd like you to meet my wife, Alexandra. She also happens to be the head of my professional style team. Her people are going to work with you this afternoon."

"Hello," Josh said.

"Hi, sweetie," the woman said with a smile. "By the time we're done with you, the girls won't know what hit them."

Twenty minutes later they reached their destination: a small blue building near the beach in Santa Monica. The sign over the door readStyle Studioand was very unadorned. The whole building, in fact, seemed understated, which was not what Josh expected.

"Come and meet the team," Alexandra said as they entered, hooking her arm though his and tugging him forward. Josh tried not to think about the way her breasts squished against his arms.

There were four individuals standing in a line inside the main room of the studio, which was complete with backdrops and wardrobe racks and a barber's chair and mirrors everywhere. It looked very formidable and professional, and not for the first time Josh felt uneasy.

"This is our team, Josh," Rex said with a smile and a wave at the others in the room. "They are very good at what they do and have made-over many of my clients. Trust them, let them work their magic, and you'll be very happy with the result."

A cute blonde stepped forward. She could not have been past the middle of her twenties, so fresh-faced and youthful she seemed. "I'm Danica," she told him, smiling. "I'm the tanning specialist and manicurist."

"And Danica works closely with me," said the brunette to her left. "I'm Paulina, the hygiene consultant."

"I'm Cora," said the woman who looked to be the oldest of the bunch along with Alexandra, whom Josh had come to learn was thirty-three. "I'll be handling your hair and make-up, and maybe crafting your wig, if necessary."

Which left the only male on the team, who with his tight stylized jeans and flashy purple shirt was quite clearly the queen of the bunch. "Saving the best for last, are we?" he said with a girlish laugh. "My name is Francis. I'll be your fashion consultant this afternoon . . . and my, do we have our work cut out for us, people."

"Well, then," Rex said, heading back to the door, "I'll leave you to it."

Alexandra grinned. "Let's get to work!' she said as she clapped her hands.

* * *

Five hours after he dropped the kid off at Alexandra's shop, Rex returned to survey his wife's handiwork. He knew what she was capable of, what her team was capable of, and so he expecting to see something spectacular when he arrived.

And still he was completely and utterly blown away: if his mind had not been telling him it was Josh Redding standing before him, his eyes would've been totally fooled into thinking it was Damien Taylor.

There had been three major differences, outside of fashion (which had been its very own issue), between the physical attributes of Josh and Damien: skin color (Damien was far more tan), hair color and style (Damien had bleach-tips and funky highlights all swirled together in a very particular pattern) and eye color (Damien had dark blue eyes).

There were no differences now and Rex was flabbergasted.

"Amazing," he breathed.

"Isn't it?"Alexandra said softly.

"How did you do it?" he asked, watching as Josh chatted with Danica across the room.

"It was much easier than I thought," she admitted. "The kid's got a nice body underneath those grungy clothes. Very little grooming was necessary. The tanning was easy; a simple case of spray-on and Danica knows what she's doing. The hair took the longest, but wasn't really difficult because his hair was long to begin with and easy to trim down to match. The highlights and color touches will wash out easily in the shower. All in all, honestly, it was an easy day at the office." She grinned suddenly. "And Josh is great, really sweet and really funny. We all adore him."

"He looks exactly like Damien," Rex said. "I mean, it's . . . it's . . ."

Alexandra nodded and finished for her husband. "Uncanny."