tagGroup SexStanley Steamer Ch. 09: Ellise & Anny

Stanley Steamer Ch. 09: Ellise & Anny


Disclaimers: This vacuous stroker is fiction. Everyone is over 18 and shuns condoms. Tags: fuckfest, bisexual, pregnancy, fighting sperm. If you object, stop reading. Voices may be unreliable. Details may be incorrect. Opinions may not be the author's. Read prior chapters first. Enjoy!

Stanley Steamer 09: Ellise & Anathea
Steaming hot music and women




The sound quality was pretty good for a candid recording. Better than just a microphone held up in a club but not close-miked, nothing professional. They were obviously outdoors but in some sort of reverberant space, so the slight resonance told me. Wind, animal clickings, distant motors - those were there. They gave the music a context, a place.

The music. Soprano and mezzo voices, sometimes a sparse baritone, backed by one or two fretted instruments, not guitars. Mostly duets from baroque to modern with only the simple string accompaniment or the lower male voice. No talk between numbers, Only music.

There are jokes about a questioner being given answers that are very accurate and absolutely useless. Like what I just said. The music was more than two or three human voices with plucked strings. The music was a fucking marvel, almost impossible. So simple, so sweet, so magical. So erotic. I almost cried, almost came. What WAS this stuff?

Somebody who knew somebody said they got the recording from somebody who knew somebody. The source somebody turned out to be with a San Bernardino studio. She was Jeri and I had her number.

"Hi, I'm trying to find Jeri Barnes?" The phone line sounded clicky.

"You and everyone else today. Sorry, she's booked solid. Call again in a month or three." That curt reception guy was barely politely dismissive.

"I don't need her talents. I need to talk for about three minutes or less. Nothing to do with your business or hers, just a quick question."

"Umm... you are in the greatest of luck. She usually isn't here but here she is now. Jeri, someone wants to cut into your break time."

I heard an off-phone voice say, "Derzu can wait for me," and then on the phone, "Anything important? I only deal in crises."

"Hello, Ms Barnes, and no, there's no crisis, only professional curiosity. I'm Ellise Allison with the Ellipse Agency in Pasadena and I was told you're the source of a rough recording, of two women and a man making music."

"What? I only loaned that to Jules. He wasn't supposed to copy it. I'll have his balls for that. With garlic and butter."

"You might want tuna salad instead. That music is very, VERY good. I would like to talk to the musicians about representing them for recordings."

Off-phone I heard, "Hey Todd, get me a piroshki. Yeah, chicken." On-phone I heard, "Representing and recording? Like with money involved?"

"Yes, with money. Can you put me in touch with them?"

Off-phone: "No, a hot one." On-phone: "Can you leave Pasadena right now and drive east for three hours? We'll all be there. You might want to pack a bag to spend the night. We have guest rooms. The burritos will be great but the wine's cheap. Think fast; here comes Todd."

I thought fast. I always kept a weekend duffel in my Audi, just in case.

"Can you give me an address or GPS or something? A phone number at least?"

Off-phone: "Thanks, Todd. I'll let you live. Mmmm..." On-phone: "Are you taking notes? Here goes." Off=phone: sounds of eating.

She gave me strange directions between bites and swallows. The route from Metro Los Angeles out to and past Yucca Valley - Yucca fucking Valley! - was clear enough, but... look for a big rusty iron roadrunner on a dirt track leading into a pile of giant boulders? And do not expect cellphone service there?

"Gotta go. See ya this evening. Dress light." Click.

Dress light? What was I getting into?


I took "dress light" at a desert address to mean a white sundress over a lemon bikini, a red bandana tying my long blonde ponytail, and pragmatic sandals.

I left a message for my husband Arno that I would not be home tonight. This has happened before. I nourished myself with a chicken sandwich and diet soda, and braved the non-rush but still sloggy L.A. traffic in autumn 2002.

The sun had just dropped behind nearby two-mile-high mountains when I carefully drove that cruddy trail into the boulder-circled compound. I saw a big steel barn, various sheds and tanks, and a fieldstone house with a granite overhang and more boulders. Quartz monzonite, I was told later.

I parked at the end of the two cars in front of the house. I stepped out and saw four people in a galvanized water tank. A naked dark-haired young woman stood and waved at me. Did she look a bit pregnant?

"Come on in, the water's fine," she called. She sounded like the Jeri I had spoken to. Two women and a man in the tank showed bare chests. Was I expected to strip? I left my bags in the car and walked over.

"Ms Barnes? I'm Ellise Allison and I'm here to talk business. Music business."

The man, who looked much like Jeri but rather craggier, gestured.

"Welcome, Ms Allison, or Ellise if you please. I'm Stan Ovshinsky. Welcome to my humble abode and its social circle. You have choices. You can leave papers with us. You can stand there and talk, but we might not pay attention. You can join us in your skin. Or you can do something totally else. Your call."

I saw sandals under an oak stool beside blocky steps to the tank. I thought, why not? My sandals went beside those; my dress and bikini bits went atop the stool. I sank into the tank of warm water. I keep my body in good shape; I do gym work; I did not look too bad.

"Glad to meet you, Stan. Ovshinsky? That's not a common name. Any relation to a swimmer? And Ovionic Devices?"

"Yeah, I'm Stan Junior. Mom isn't here now and Dad never leaves home up north, never quits inventing stuff, but yeah, you nailed me. You recognize that, you must know many names. Try some more. These lovely ladies beside me are Kaylee Yakamura and Nikki Krishnon."

I looked at the Indian face. "Krishnon? Like Hari the music producer?"

"Indeed," she said, "my grandpa is still churning them out."

"And Yakamura? Isn't Daryl concertmaster of the Pasadena Philharmonic?"

"Yeah, that's my dad," the other said, "and grandpa Yaz is at the L.A. Phil."

I was more than impressed. Why were these people out here in nowhere?

"What are you guys doing out here in podunk? I heard a recording-"

"I burnt a CD of one of the jams and fucking Jules passed it around. Who can I trust anymore? Besides you guys." She kissed each thoroughly.

"A jam? That wasn't rehearsed?" I was amazed.

"We all know stuff, so I sing or play a line, and they join in, and there we are. Like this," Stan said. He sang a low introduction; I recognized a Rossini duet figure. So did the girls. They hit notes. He started over. They sang with such clarity - I thought of bel canto singers at their best. Like the girls, my nipples were above water level; they stiffened. Theirs did, too. Holy fuck, that was hot!

"Holy fuck, that was great!" I said. "And you didn't plan this?"

"We just sing," the Japanese girl Kaylee said. "Stan starts off with his voice or a mandola and we just fit right in. It's telepathy. It's magic."

"HE is magic," the Indian girl Nikki said. "Or WE are magic. Whatever he does, we're right there. That's why we love him so much." She kissed his cheek. Her hand moved underwater. He smiled.

"Do you perform anywhere?"

"Nikki and I, we're still training, in Mattole's program at San Berdoo State," Kaylee said. "We've done some class recitals, is all. But we come out here when we want to SING. And stuff." Her underwater hand moved too.

"Don't forget politeness, ladies. Say hello."

Kaylee moved in front if me. "Hello, Ellise," She kissed my breasts.

Nikki took her place. "Hello, Ellise," She kissed my breasts, too.

"And you?" I looked at Stan. He smiled. He sucked my nipples longer.

I sighed. "Should I be polite?" I nipped his nips, and the girls. They were nice. Nobody rubbed my knees so I did not rub theirs.

"Okay," Stan said, "now that we're all introduced and everything, is anyone hungry? I've got carne asada burritos for meat-eaters and raw carrots for vegetarians. But remember, it doesn't take much of an IQ to sneak up on a carrot. There's plenty of bargain-basement wine in plain boxes, and/or water from the hand pump. Name your poisons, ladies. But inside, not here."

He stood. He was naked. He dripped. He was worth watching. He climbed from the bathing tank. That was worth watching, too - front, sides, and back.

The girls followed. All were beauties, and Jeri did look pregnant and fit. Feet slipped into sandals. No towels or clothes touched them. I thought, why not? I wore my own sturdy sandals and followed through a heavy wood door into an open kitchen space. Desert air had us pretty dry by then. Sandals were left inside the door. No outer footwear inside, I was told.

I stared at the house interior. Outer fieldstone walls and inner red-brick walls were mostly covered in bookshelves or hanging art or artifacts. One section looked like sheet music; stringed instruments lurked nearby. A kitchen area was bounded by a big island and long table. The greatroom was spotted with big soft club seating in varied widths - chairs, loveseat, sofa. A hall led away.

Naked Stan was already puttering in the kitchen. Food preparation was brief and the results looked and smelled spectacular. Nikki and Kaylee rubbed Stan's muscular ass while he worked. Jeri toted wine and tableware through a bedroom door. I followed her glowing form past a big bed to an outside rock sheltered nook with a stone table and benches. The girls followed carrying food trays; Stan carried two fretted instruments, too big for mandolins.

"Wait, we've gotta say grace. Grace!" Jeri said, and kissed Stan's mouth. "Grace! Grace!" Kisses for Nikki and Kaylee. "Grace!" And her tongue kissed mine. Not a brief kiss. She rubbed my shoulder. I did not object.

"Grace!" said Nikki, and kissed us all, Stan longest. "Grace!" said Kaylee, repeating. "Grace indeed," Stan said, with strong kisses. I thought, why not? "Grace! Grace!" I said, and gave serious kisses to all.

"Okay, food is icing over," Stan said. "Dig in before I have to recycle."

The wet burritos and spiced salad were superb. The wine was okay after the first glass. The hashish pipe before dessert flan was relaxing. Nikki and Kaylee sat at Stan's sides and touched him. Jeri sat beside me. Our knees touched.

"After-dinner showtime," Jeri said, returning from discarding dinner debris. The wine and hashish stayed.

"Ellise is here to hear you, and to offer you fame and fortune, right? So make her long trip worthwhile." Jeri sat close and rubbed my knee. "You could be the next Three Tenors you were tenors. And don't mind me," as she fondled my leg, "it's just my hormones talking."

I did not push her away. Especially not after the music started.

Stan plucked notes on the larger instrument. Eight strings, fifths tuning - a baritone mandola, sure. His notes rang. The girls' notes sang. Stan replayed the intro. Their voices flowed. My pussy got wet. Jeri's hand was gentle on me.

I recognized the music but had never heard it done better. I recognized the ambient sounds of wind, rustling, far-off engines, the outdoor feel. That earlier recording had happened right here, with naked musicians and audience after a meal with drink and puffs, surrounded by giant rocks, roofed by the sky.

Western male Stan and two Asian females did not talk. They looked into eyes, and kissed, and breathed, but went from one piece to another, Stan starting something, the girls joining in perfectly and provoking me like a lover biting my neck. Was I ovulating?

They paused to puff and sip. My hand stroked Jeri's thigh. What was this?

"You haven't said anything yet about fame, fortune, recording, representation, any of that," Jeri said, kissing my ear. "When do they get rich and famous?"

"Contracts are in the car," I managed to say. "I want to sign you guys. I want to record you, just as you are. Right here, if you want. If audiences react to you like I do, you'll be responsible for millions of unexpected births, just like the Fleetwoods long ago."

The Fleetwoods' sultry slow-dance songs likely drove scads of girls to spread eager thighs, birthing a generation of yuppies. These guys could cause another population bomb. I could write a book. But I had to sign them first.

"Nikki, Kaylee, Stanley - keep making those sounds and you'll sell on many platforms," I said, trying not to let Jeri's hormones distract me. "I've handled some good acts but you guys beat them all. I could shop your rough CD to a few labels with just minor engineering tweaks. You're so good..."

Both of Jeri's hands were on me. "Dammit, what do you want?" I turned on her. "I don't fuck the talent."

"I'm not talent. I'm just horny. So are you. Stan is background. I want him too."

"Sign kaylee and Nikki," Stan said. "I'll just be the session guy."

"I represent session players, too. A separate contract if you want."

And that is how I found myself in the big bed on my back with Stan expertly eating my pussy to heaven and Jeri and I slurping breasts. Then on my hands and knees with my mouth in Jeri's pussy while Stan held my blonde ponytail and fucked me doggy-style. It was inevitable.

I think Jeri had a good time. I know I did. The singers sat beside us, watched, commented, hummed, and puffed. Then Stan fucked them. Jeri and I watched.

I did not think of my husband Arno until later. I was too much in love here.

I woke around oh-dark-forty hours with a need to pee. I was centered in Stan's big bed with him on one side and Jeri on the other. I guess I was not surprised. I wondered why the singers were not here, too. They seemed slavishly devoted to the man.

I peed, washed, and fell into bed. My bedmates followed to drain and clean - it was that time of night, for sure. Back in bed, Jeri held me, sucked a nipple or two, and bit my neck. I sucked her breast, licked her navel, and went down on her. Stan slid his cock into me from behind. This felt familiar now.

Then the next move. I was on my back with my legs in the air. Stan fucked into me and kissed Jeri whose twat I tongued because she was juicily sitting on my face. I think I did her adequately. Stan came in me so he was happy. I was just overloaded with fucking and sucking.

We fell apart. I actually slept some more.

A clattering noise disturbed me. Dawn just washed a window. Jeri murmured, "That's only roadrunners on a steel roof. Ignore them." I went back to sleep.


We were naked at Stan's breakfast - Huevos Mexicanos, fruit nibbles, strong coffee, no tequila in it for me, thanks. I put on sandals to walk to my car for my document bag. I came back and Jeri was surprisingly dressed in denim jeans and a floral blouse.

"Gotta go," she said, "The studio demands. Cousin Stan can read a contract better than me so he can finesse the details. Come back soon, okay?" She kissed me. And Stan. And Kaylee. And Nikki. And me again. Then she left.

Cousin? She was in bed with her cousin? Well, they had not actually fucked...

As her car crunched away on the dirt track, another approached. A rangy, dark-haired woman in paramedic uniform stumbled in the front door.

"Hi guys. Oh, you got a new one, Stan. Hi to you too. Hey guys, the usual now. Food later." She was already stripping off the uniform as she walked to the door across from Stan's. A minute later she walked out naked. She looked about as pregnant as Jeri. She slugged the drink Stan made her and stumbled down the hall. I heard a shower running.

"That's Pam," Kaylee said, "Her ambulance shifts are always bad."

Stan, Kaylee, and Nikki, still naked like me, went to his bedroom. I followed. Stan waved me to a soft chair. Pam came in a minute later, slightly damp, and fell face-down in the center of the bed. She groaned.

The three massaged her. Kaylee and Nikki started at her feet and worked up. Stan worked deep into her shoulder and back muscles. She rolled over. The singers started at her outstretched hands and worked down. Stan fingered into her calves and thighs. They looked like they had done this before.

"That was great, guys. See ya tonight. Take care of the new one, Bro."

Bro? She just had a naked massage by her brother and friends? The group dynamics looked interesting. Her butt looked good as she staggered off, too. But I was here for business.

"This is a standard agency contract. You perform and record; we arrange everything and take our cut."

We sat naked at the kitchen table. My papers were spread out. The nudists read them closely. Stan was marking changes to the text.

"Exclusive, sure, but for one year, renewable by common consent, and..."

And many details, some trivial, some not.

"My name won't be on this except I'll sign as a witness. You're contracting the ladies to sing, with accompaniment of their choice - me, hopefully - paid standard rates. All performances and recordings are with their approval."

Et cetera. They had control. I could live with those changes.

"And I'll expect credit for my own arrangements. That's part of the 'their approval' understanding."

I shrugged. His royalties would not affect me.

"I'll book studio time," I started, but was interrupted.

"We like to sing in that space out back," Nikki said. "Can we record here?"

A list of names and faces whizzed behind my eyeballs. I picked one.

"I have an engineer, Dov Danson, who specializes in small-venue and outdoor sessions. Your nook is bigger than a walk-in closet and I think he's recorded in one so this should be easy. When can we do it?"

We talked. Yesterday and today made a brief break in their weekday class schedule - still at a podunk state college, what the fuck? - but they could be here this coming weekend. Stan said he could delay a business trip if needed.

No cellphone coverage here so I used Stan's landline and yes, Dov was luckily available. At his usual rate, plus mileage and honest expenses. To be paid for eventually by the contractors, Kaylee and Nikki, not from the Ellipse Agency's percentage. But if the music sold as I expected, they would not feel the cost.

"You think they're really hot, huh Ellise? But you're an agent, not a producer. How about I bring Vlad? No extra charge up front. He can sign on later if he and your team agree. And this will be an over-nighter so I'd like him along."

Vlad Wozzak was an indy producer at a few minor labels. And Dov's bedmate. Good - they would keep each other busy during off-hours. I would book them a room at the nearest motel.

We agreed on times and terms. Dov's "sonic van" sound truck would arrive Saturday morning. And I would burn a copy of the candid CD to drop off at his place to give him a preview. Stan would not let me post online - too easy to hack. The year might as well be 1992, not 2002. Gag me with a time machine.

I hung up. We went over the papers again, initialed in places, and signed. We decided on separate contracts for each. Recording deals would come later.

"Now, about Saturday. Do you have a set list? What do you want to record?"

"We haven't tried that," Nikki said. She jiggled nicely when she went to refresh our mochas. She settled into the kitchen chair beside Stan. Kaylee sat at his other side. "We just do something and it happens."

"Do you need much rehearsal time? And how long have you been doing this?"

"We only met Stan a few weeks ago," Kaylee said, rubbing a bare breast against his upper arm. "And we're telepathic so we don't rehearse."

She pulled his face to hers and kissed him. Nikki pulled him away and kissed him. The girls looked at each other, nodded, and turned to me.

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