The Guitar

ONE

Frankie served a fat, greasy looking man dinner at 3:15 in the afternoon, the time indicating he was a shift worker. He, she and the useless cook and a part-timer preparing vegetables and loading and unloading dishes were the only occupants in the diner.

Fat man kept eyeing Frankie's tits, but she didn't mind.

She followed a drill that sometimes worked - and it did.

Frankie shifted her position from leaning on the counter, bored to going round the other side and leaning back, facing fat man, with a big smile on her face.

He ate expressionlessly – except for his eyes; they'd narrowed and darkened.

Frankie occasionally brushed imaginary crumbs off each breast which could be interpreted by someone with that sort of inclination that she was brushing up her nipples to attention.

Fat man finished and left without every looking at her.

Yawning, with her nipples standing proud, Frankie went over grabbed his money with a disappointed sigh and collected his plate, knife and fork – the only thing on the plate was a serviette. Walking off she turned back to re-check the table, then saw it – it had been left under the plate, just for her!

Frankie crashed through the swing door into the kitchen whistling, the fifty dollars tucked into the top of her left stocking.

"Bet that fat bastard didn't leave a fat tip," groaned the cook. Frankie just looked at him, pathetically, to avoid telling a lie. "Thought so."

Finishing her shift Frankie rushed down to the junk shop, negotiated so stubbornly that Irma finally caved in just to get rid of the time-waster. Frankie walked away proudly with her $50 guitar.

Inside her room in her parent's apartment, Frankie sat and her bed and stroked the smooth and colorful body of the instrument as if she was assisting a lover to get an erection. She did everything but lick it – getting the most pleasure through puffing on it and then rubbing off the mist created on the cooler surface with the edge of a sheet; that done to the body of a male would certainly have aroused a limp dick.

Finally Frankie picked up the guitar and played it.

The result was a discordant strumming bearing no relationship to music as we know it today and no doubt in centuries back to the discovery of the first reed whistle.

Frankie realized she needed a teacher, and knew where to find him.

Mrs Petersen answered the door.

"Yes." "Hi, is Alfie in?"

"Yes."

"May I see him?"

"No, he's having a nap before he goes off to the club."

The disappointment on Frankie's face changed when Alfie pushed in beside his mom, scratching his hair and crotch which made Frankie think men can do more than one task simultaneously after all.

"Hi, Frankie," he said looking at her tits and then looking up at her face as if to verify that instance recognition. Actually he'd recognized her voice when coming to the door; they are close neighbors and had gone to school together.

"Hi, Alfie, how's the guitar?"

"Fine, how's yours babe?"

Mrs Petersen snorted "Disgusting!" and waddled off, thinking the way young people talk about sex today should not be allowed.

"My what, Alfie?" giggled Frankie, blushing, because at eighteen she was still shy at been directly addressed in sexual innuendoes by randy males, or males capable of getting randy any time soon.

"Just a conversation filler darling, but if you're intered...?

"In return for what, Alfie?"

"Huh, isn't the act enough, especially when being left with a big deposit?"

"Let's sit on the steps and negotiate, Alfie – bangs for lessons."

"Right, you're on."

"For fuck sake, Alfie, don't you know how to negotiate?"

"Not really, but ever since you began developing tits I've thought and thought about getting into your pants so I'm not wasting time talking now the opportunity is here."

"That's almost six years Alfie – a long time to wait."

"I didn't figure on waiting, but you kept pushing me away, saying you were saving it for Mr Right. Don't tell me Mr Wrong got it?"

Frankie shrugged.

"Oh Christ, Frankie. What a criminal waste."

"That is a point of view," she smiled diplomatically."

"Then what's the point of negotiating – let's hit the sack now, we can always talk later."

"Spoken like a rat bag, Alfie. Where's your class?"

"I save my class for when I play my guitar."

"That you do, Alfie. That you do."

The arrangement was Alfie would come to Frankie's apartment on Sunday at noon as her parents would be away lunching after attending church with some other parishioners inspired from the enlightenment spewed forth from the pulpit. They'd debate and eat and drink and debate until staggering homewards around dark.

TWO

Alfie entered the apartment and there was an awkward pause at the door. So they walked on, missing out on one kiss like so many people do.

"This is it, Alfie," Frankie said breathlessly, handing the instrument to him.

"Very nice," he said, strumming it. What else could a half-decent guy say to a nice-looking piece of guitar supermarket output owned by a sweet smiling babe with tits crafted – well, apparently as he'd not seen them bared – as his favorite Steinberger or Jet Earlewood guitars?

Fortunately, Alfie plays anything – even tightly strained wires on a farm fence. So he finished a trial piece and then started teaching, showing Frankie finger placement for a few elementary cords. She wasn't hopeless, he'd actually had worse one-lesson pupils, but she certainly lacked the something that most people who progress seemed to have.

Alfie decided to continue teaching for as long as she wanted, the agreement being one lesson, one fuck.

"Do you want it now?" she said, pressing her fingers together to get them straightened.

Alfie said no, a lesson was thirty minutes.

"I'm not going to make it, Alfie. It's like the piano, I was hopeless with my fingering."

Alfie said she just had to press on – who knows, something may just click and off she'll go. He also hoped she would be better at fucking that she was playing a guitar or apparently the piano.

"Play me something, Alfie."

He began playing Eric Clapton's 'Tears in Heaven' slyly knowing babes were a sucker for it after listening to that haunting song; he'd play it twice.

Occasionally he glanced at her; she was rapped – just a soft smile, hands on her lap, mouth moving as if singing the lyrics.

"That was dreamily beautiful."

"Huh?"

"Lovely."

Alfie began playing it again and suddenly crapped out on two cords in a row in surprise. She'd started to sing and had a voice; not a 'voice' but a really great voice.

They finished.

"Again I say lovely."

"Yeah, that was good. Do you sing much?"

"Not really, but there are no many songs I term 'softly lyrical' that I don't know – I don't like hard rock or half the other crap that the radio pounds out these days."

"These days? For fuck sake, Frankie, you're not yet nineteen."

"Surface music changes fast, Frankie, but below it is the stuff that just goes on and on – it's what I call the real pop music. It's like the best of classic, like 'Old Man River' is just keeos rolling on."

"You're beginning to lose my babe, but I get yah drift."

She said and told Alfie he played so beautifully.

He asked her if she knew "Kind Hearted Woman."

She did, so they did that.

They then did 'Help Me Make It Through the Night, 'Crazy' and "I Feel Pretty.'

Alfie put the guitar down, his pulse rate had soared.

"Are you doing anything tonight?"

"Depends – do you have something in mind."

"We get mainly older folk in at the club on Sunday nights. And they like their music slow and soft. I'd like you to accompany us and sing a few numbers."

"But I've never sung in public."

"Is that a problem?"

"No."

"You can always walk off if they don't like you."

"But we haven't rehearsed and what about the others in your band."

"They'll be too busy looking at your tits to argue and on-stage they'll be too busy looking at your ass to notice your singing. Besides, I'm their leader."

Alfie pulled open the doors to her wardrobe and went through the rack, pulling out a pair of hot pants and then found a three-quarter sleeved top with a deep-V neck.

"This is what you wear tonight, babe – your highest heels and no bra and I want you hair piled on top of your head. No jewelry."

Frankie giggled and said, "Yes master."

He kissed her, gently and said he was off and when Frankie protested, saying she hadn't paid for the lesson, Alfie grinned and said: "New singers get shafted in a car overlooking the beach. Sorry babe, you'll have to wait until late tonight because I'm not breaking tradition."

THREE

Backstage the five other 'boys' gathering round while Alfie told them Frankie had volunteered to be their singer for the evening.

"Come on, baby, show us what you've got," leered Roy, who looked about forty-five and never did his hair, or for that matter, never washed.

Frankie had a great desire to pull down her top and really show them whe she had, but Alfie was already playing the opening to 'Crazy.'

Frankie motioned to him to stop playing and sang unaccompanied.

"Far out," wheezed Roy as she was finishing, and the others just stared as if they'd just witness a star being born.

The band played its heart out that night and with the audience reacting so well, management upgraded the drinks to Alfie and The Boys as they were called, and juice for their new singer.

When the band went off for its midway break, Alfie called Frankie back because he didn't want her with the boys too long looking at her tits.

"Sit back a listen folk – here's lovely Frankie to sing something I've think will warm the hearts of your older folk," said Alfie, making the announcement. "Ladies and gentleman, I give you Frankie Layne!"

There was warm hand-clapping because Frankie had established herself as having a lovely voice, although rather drowned out by the band. This time, however, she virtually knocked them off their chairs with a glorious sweet-voiced rendition of 'Oh Mein Papa."

The auidence stomped, cheered and shouted.

"Well, just one more – what will it be?"

One choice rose from the vocal melee.

The boys of the band had come up from the cellar when hearing the stomping. They cringed when hearing suggested songs such as 'Irish Eyes Are Smiling' and unknown ones to them such as "Begin the Beguine'. They began trooping down the steps, only to return when the words of 'Memories' drifted down to them.

A little before midnight Frankie held her arms up as Alfie pulled off her top.

"I don't care what everyone said, Frankie. I just want to hear you tell me. Tell me again, Frankie. Please."

"You were the greatest debut singer the world has known."

"Oh Alfie, that's really going over the top. Now what are you going to do with these titties of mine?"

Alfie hadn't shaved that day, being Sunday with Monday a rest day, so he liked to have a little stubble to shave on Tuesday afternoons.

Initially Frankie felt the cutting edge of tiny whiskers on the white satin-like finish of her breasts but as his wet tongue attempted to encircle her stiffening left nipple her emotional arousal heightened her spirit as well as her pain level. She was soaring through the stars, oblivious to the fact that the best was still to come or her skin was being sandpapered.

Alfie moved on to her right breast and emitting tiny moans Frankie took her orb in both hands and attempted to force the whole breast into Alfie, wanting him to have it all. Alfie then decided it was kissing time and ran tiny kisses over her cheeks, eyes and had her ready to scream when kissing her ears, especially just under them.

Then his lips hovered over hers – she groaned and pulled his head down and their tongues met and did some exquisite dancing and they both were aware that lower down a cunt and a cock were screaming silently for them to hurry along.

Frankie's patience shortened first; she trailed her hand down his body and grasped his cock, the size of which made her gasp – not that it was enormous but it just seemed rather large for Alfie who was not tall, a tad shorter than her in fact. He was also thinner and lighter, which was rather unfair, but she guessed the adequacy of his cock was the thing to focus on.

It seemed to be something in need of tender loving care, so she released it by pulling down the zip then digging it out of the briefs doing their best to confound her intentions but Frankie finally got the warm and very slightly pulsating length of Alfie into her equally warm hand.

They'd come up for air so she said, "It fits like a glove," meaning her hand, but Alfie said slightly bemused, "But I haven't got it into you yet."

At that Frankie shuddered into a beautiful orgasm as it flowed through her body like a song.

The fuck itself came awkwardly and fast.

There was no need to play round to lubricate, because by then there was an excess of moisture everywhere – precum from him which Frankie smeared around his cock and she was running like a leaky tap. But the bucket seats of his low-slung car were really not built for fucking, worried Frankie. Had car manufacturers – who surely have been young themselves – forgotten one of the purposes of being in a car?

But they got there, and obviously Alfie had done this before. He pulled her over until her ass was resting on the storage box between the seats and hooked her right leg behind the steering wheel. He then came on to her like a shuttle docking into a space station, pushing her other leg away as he moved forward.

Thinking that some minor gymnastics would be required to complete docking, Frankie was amazed how effortlessly it was accomplished without her having to move an inch. Perhaps the car designers were more aware of car-users' needs than she'd thought.

Alfie sank on to her right breast, catching the nipple lightly in her teeth and began plowing.

She did her best to rock back on him and soon they both sweated into a climax with mutual satisfaction.

"How was that doll?"

"Pretty good; on the scale of one to ten I'd give it a five, but remember it is in a car."

"Yeah, a five sounds good to me. I like the feel of your cunt."

What a horrid thing to say, thought Frankie at the time.

But for the next six days, not seeing Alfie because he and the boys went up north to a low-paying fixture, she went about thinking at least three times a day, "I like the feel of your cunt."

The truth was nobody else had ever said such a thing to her; she now realized it was a supreme endearment from a guy who wasn't overly communicative but he knew what he liked and expressed it in terms she easily understood.

Alfie arrived back from up north just in time to grab dinner and his mom's house and rush over to collect Frankie to drive to the Sunday evening gig.

The place was illegally filled to overflowing.

The club owner came rushing over, ignoring Alfie and handing Frankie a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice topped with soda to reduce the acidity.

"Sing beautifully tonight my songstress," he purred. "We've got a sellout."

During the midway remission, Alfie introduced Frankie to the crowd and stayed on stage, to gently strum and accompaniment. Within five minutes the bass player and drummer had joined him, playing almost ghostlike.

The audience gave a clear message of what they wanted, so Frankie gave them an Irish selection, beginning with 'When Irish Eyes of Smiling' and ending with the tear-jerking 'Take Me Home Again Kathleen."

There was a hush when she ended, broken only by sobbing.

Then the clapping and stomping started, rattling bottles and glasses in the bar.

Alfie took Frankie home after she's being bailed up by a talent scout. Albert told her she'd been fabulous and that she should not sign any contract without him reading it first to ensure she wasn't being short-changed.

They sneaked into her bedroom and within the hour Frankie knew what guitarists also used their fingers for – confessing to Alfie, "I've been strummed into exhaustion so divinely."

EPILOGUE

These days Frankie is working a concert circuit and has just completed her first CD which is due out at the end of this month. Whenever she's home she still sings at the club on Sunday evenings for approximately 100th of what she earns for a concert, but Frankie thinks that just fine.

Everyone says she'd going to be a star – filling the gap left by Ella Fitzgerald as her preference is now cool jazz.

Frankie is married to Alfie; she knew before marrying him that he was only a run-of-the mill guitarist but he found her musically and she found him sexually. She's never found anyone who can work his fingers like Alfie.

THE END