The Voxe: Number One

Bonus story-time again. Velette is back as the centerpiece of this one. If you enjoyed "The Voxe: A Girl And Her Music" and wanted more of our fictitious rock star heroine, then you're in luck; this is its sequel—again, written in first-person, from the P.O.V. of Velette, "the Voxe" herself. And this new Voxe narrative's dedicated to one very special, very lovely lebbi lady whom I've nicknamed "Debbers," who actually helped inspire it. She's been with me, giving me comments and support on stories since early August '14. Speaking of which, as you know, Readers, your feedback's always welcomed, valued and appreciated.

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"GOOD EVENING!!...DUDES AND CHICKS! LADIES AND GENTS! GALS AND PALS!..."

"SO!...LEMME ASK YA SOMETHIN': HOW THE HELL YA DOIN' TONIGHT, HUH?!..."

"LEMME ASK YA SOMETHIN' ELSE...ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?!!..."

Another night on the road, another two explosive hours on stage. The crowd's deafening roar was still spinning around my dizzy little head as I finished the encore, low-fived the front row, blew the audience a kiss, waved goodbye and slipped backstage. Once I got behind the curtain, safely shielded from view, I staggered in the general direction of my dressing room. I was so drained this late in the tour, by the time I finally finished the shows, I had just enough energy left to let Lisa-Anne get me into the dressing room, pat me down with a hot towel and soak my feet. There is a short modicum of time for her to revive me—if, that is, she lets me know we're doing meet-and-greets with the fans. However, at this point...after two insane hours literally rocking my Voxers' worlds, should Lisa-Anne inform me we won't be able to meet-greet, I'll feel disappointed, but also unpressured.

Please don't get me wrong. My disciples, the Voxers, are my world, along with the music itself. They're my life, my best friends. And doing a meet-greet is right up there with belting my way into their hearts. I'm inclined to say that it thrills me as much as it does them...but taking into account the screaming, the tears, the immense 'x's and 'o's...somehow, my enthusiasm doesn't quite hold a candle.

Here's the thing, though: the first two-hour Voxe-travaganza kicking off a new tour is exhilarating. A second is even wilder. A third is all but life-changing. Anything from fifty...to upwards of a hundred, night after night, back to back to back...is taxing. Especially for the nucleus, the Voxe herself, the eye of the hurricane, the forefront in the spotlight. Even the pre-show meditation, the stretching exercises, the massages, the physical and emotional nutrition, can only do so much eventually. And if anything has to suffer, it won't be the show. The fans deserve nothing less than the almighty dream they spent their hard-earned money to make come true. Similarly, the post-show meet-and-greets can neither be compromised. I realize this when I remind myself that the evening is not finished, and that as pumped as the Voxers are before and during the show, actually meeting me in person after takes them to a whole new level.

The meet-greets spark up some excitement in me as well, because the two-hour show is identical each night. And while every song is delivered with the utmost enthusiasm as has been since the day I wrote it, as an artist and entertainer, you and your band inevitably grow desensitized to the set. The songs themselves lose no magic, nor does the feeling of orchestrating the whole evening. But the performance, while intoxicating, is also repetitive. The songs are my babies, and I can't help but wish we could trot out more different ones here and again. We alternate the set slightly, swapping out one or two songs for another from show to show, but even so. Returning to the meet-greets, what these mean for me is getting to meet new people every night. Which is very refreshing after playing them the same twenty-some-odd songs I just played for another crowd in a different city.

The only challenge in the post-show fan-spree is the obligation of keeping myself going. As I say, doing all these repetitive shows is both magical and draining. And while I'm often just wrecked after a show (needing the hot towel, the water, the support from my own personal rock Lisa-Anne, my manager/agent/girlfriend), my die-hard, hardcore Voxers on the other side of that door are more jazzed than ever. They cannot believe they have been granted this opportunity to see me in person, to ask for my autograph, to hug me, to tell me what I mean to them. It really is what it's all about. Nothing in the world compares to that, for me or for them. All of which is why I'm compelled to keep it up and hold out the stamina until the last person has disappeared. It's my duty and privilege to give my disciples a heavenly night they aren't soon to forget, and the meet-and-greet is an equally important part. I can't and won't allow them to get the idea that their beloved rock star is too tired or wiped out to just hang out with them for a few minutes, or that doing so is some kind of supplemental chore—because I'm not, and it isn't. Disillusioning a fan is not in my job description.

Luckily, with all this in mind, I have Lisa-Anne.

Lisa-Anne...Lucy...Brockton. The assortment of letters in her name alone makes my heart feel euphoric. Hell, I'm even turned on by the hyphen. Rolling it off the tongue makes my mouth water, makes me ache for her touch and affection. This is all part of just how very much I adore, admire and look up to her. The finest partner, most proficient manager, most devoted girlfriend, most passionate lover, best ever fluffer...as the old Gershwin standard puts it, who could ask for anything more?

Yes, by the way—I said "fluffer." She fluffs me. That's right, my friends, they're not just for the adult film biz. The cute little term "fluffer," in case you're unaware, is not someone who preps your pillow for sleepy-time. It's essentially—in my case—a professional boink girl, who goes on tour with you, joins you in the dressing room prior to show time, and, shall we say...takes care of you, to both settle your nerves—after briefly driving you wild—and put you in a good mood. A happy, positive frame of mind, to sweep aside all the debris and allow you to focus on your task at hand: hitting that stage and taking five thousand fans to heaven for a night.

Some performers tote along their fluffers to provide this one service, and one service only. Mine, as stated, is ever so much more. Lisa-Anne does it all and then some. I owe my love to my Voxers, but the success of my career to her. She schmoozes the record executives, engineers my releases, negotiates my contracts, steadies me when I get dizzy from it all, fluffs the fucking hell from me before my show, keeps my energy going for the meet-greets afterwards, gets me back to my hotel room, puts me to bed, tucks me in, and can somehow still find the cocoa. Diana Prince my ass; Lisa-Anne Brockton is Wonder Woman.

I don't know how she makes it so easy for me. I could not do half what she does to begin with, let alone maintaining a sexuoromantic relationship on top of it. I do know it helps that she's aware what I like in bed (and in the dressing room). She gets me to the venues extra early to accommodate both of my pre-show centering exercises: the meditation time, and the fluffing. The first time she brought the in-the-buff duff 'n' muffin fluffin' to my attention was the evening of a show in Detroit, MI. I was anxious to do this, to say the least. We were already sexually active, but I was used to fucking her behind the locked doors of a nice safe hotel room. Though harsh on myself, it was not inaccurate to say that I was such a pussy. I don't even know how long it took me to get my clothes off.

I do recall what she did to me, though. She went into her duffel and fished out a pillow and a generous-sized fluffy towel, to drape across the floor for what I could only presume was this purpose. I laid on my back, still clothed, as she began.

"Relax, baby," came Lisa-Anne's sensual whisper, blowing strands of hair from my ear with her breath. Her usually intoxicating perfume—which she knew I couldn't resist—dazed me as always. I let my eyes flutter shut to more intensely enjoy the sensations. I heard her talk to me again. "Juuuuust relax. Let me take care of the whole thing."

I liked this already. But I was still nervous about getting naked in this dressing room. Still, Lisa-Anne was and is the most loyal and trustworthy person I know...in show biz. I gave myself over to her.

She began by serenely kissing my ear, and letting her fingers slither underneath my shirt to caress my tummy. I responded by breathing her in, arching my back and turning to nuzzle her. She kissed my nose, the corner of my lips, my jaw, my cheek, my temple, and back to my ear. Through our past escapades, she's found out for herself—and for me—that I have an extremely weak spot behind my ear that melts me like the goddamned fucking sun, and it's one of the things I both hate her and love her for. She has this seemingly effortless ability to probe me, to creep her way into my psyche and detect my little tics, quirks and kinks, even more consciously than I can. She knows me better than I know myself. And I fucking hate her for it!

Of course I do not really hate or resent her for being able to manipulate or read me like a book. These are things you want in a manager/agent. And they aren't half bad in a lover either. It's very cunning on her part, holding the keys to keep me under her wings, as it were—to have me wanting and needing her all the time. She knows any differences or disagreements that may arise between us can't cut deep enough to sever our relationship, because I've got too much invested in her, and we've both got too much invested in my career. All these thoughts sprinted through my mind in a blur during my first fluffing, until she undid my pants and slid them down.

I gasped. A chill disarmed me, as my panic resurfaced.

"Is...is the door locked?" I panted.

Smooch. "Yes." Peck. "Don't worry."

I settled back down. She said no more, simply returning to her task, lowering only my pants first. I did not ask if she'd taken any other precautions, such as placing a sign on the door that said, "Do not disturb; fluffing in progress." I didn't think I'd want to know if she had. I felt goosebumps rise as the cool air hit my legs, and the jeans left my feet. I'd chosen white panties that day, unaware I was to be fluffed. The imminent wet spots were very noticeable, but no matter; she'd had me in far more compromising and vulnerable positions.

She sent the next line of kisses down and up my thigh. Working her way back up, she planted one on the panties, at the side of my pelvis just adjacent to my awakening cunt. Fuck, she knew how to tease me. I began to lift my arms. She forced me back down by the wrists.

"Hands on the floor, baby. Pretend there's glue on your palms." She flashed me a smug, sneaky grin, proving to me once more that she could make anything sound kinky.

With that, she set to unbuttoning my plaid shirt, from the waist up. The next series of lipprints tingled me up the side of the belly, as her hair spilled all over me, swishing to and fro, supplementing her warmth with a light dusting of capillary love. All the sensations at once built up on me, turning my mind into momentary mush. When she reached two buttons from the collar of my shirt, she uncovered my lacy bra, kissed the right cup, smoothed a hand down my chest between the tits, and tickled my stomach before getting back to work.

The bra hugged me a little tighter as my nipples plumped. It then hugged less of me, as Lisa-Anne proceeded to take the cup in between her teeth and tug, coaxing the strap down from my shoulder. My right naked breast popped out.

I gave off another lust-hungry gasp. I felt her fold the cup under, brushing the back of her paw over my exposed girl, urging her up. My eyes were still innocently shut, so I could only feel her steady, capable, glorious woman-paws at their tasks: flipping open my fully unbuttoned flannel shirt, easing it too off my shoulders, drawing aimless fingertip trails along my chin, neck, collarbone, torso. Finally, out slipped the other caged girl, and so followed the verbal command.

"Now let me under there, baby."

I hoisted and turned over just long enough for her to unhook my bra, and let myself down. Lisa-Anne unglued my hands from the floor to guide my arms out of the sleeves, and finally the shirt and bra were taken away, laid aside with the jeans.

She had me to the panties. At last, down she came to drape herself over me, wrapped both legs around my right, drew it away from my left, and hissed one of her dozens of hot, spicy taunts in my ear.

"Welcome, sweet thing, to Lisa-Anne's water park...'Wet 'N' Wild.'"

There it was, almost as if on command: instant pussy-leak. My eyes snapped open to a glossy blur. Heat sizzled through me. I was still thinking semi-rationally. And one of the thoughts on my mind was, What time is it? I couldn't help wondering, even as she continued to fluff the living hell out of me. I'd already meditated, and was sure the house was filling up on the other side of that curtain. Deep down, I knew it wasn't a huge concern...at least it shouldn't be. We always had an opening act—be it a band, another solo artist, a deejay, a comic—who kept the crowd pumped till we got out there, and Lisa-Anne wouldn't let me let them down. Rock concerts never started till a while after they were supposed to anyway. Still, I felt an ingrained responsibility to m—

My rational mind went dead. Her sexy little hand snuck under my wet white panties.

Holy fucking hell.

Thank God she anticipated my sexual outbursts at this point, or we might've been in trouble.

"OHHHMMMMMMMMMMMPH!!" I began to shriek, before she gingerly but firmly clamped her other hand over my mouth. I was resigned to do my best breathing through the nose as she dug a hickey into my neck, keeping me suppressed at two of my lips while finger-banging me via the other two. Damn lucky thing my cunt couldn't scream.

My eyes went dizzy and fluttered back closed again. I thought I felt her somehow get my panties down...but my priorities were elsewhere. My legs were already apart, my paws were down...I'd surrendered. Lisa-Anne remained fully dressed, which was fine with me on a number of levels. My eyes were closed anyway, and I relished being submissive to her, naked, exposed and overpowered while she stayed clothed. Besides which, even if by chance someone had and used a key to the dressing room, she'd shield me from a real embarrassment.

But none of that bullshit mattered. I was on the fucking moon. Lisa-Anne Brockton—or the wild L.A.B. Animal, as I'd begun affectionately thinking of her—had parted my reddened, blood-swelling pussy lips, and once more staked her territory. I blazed up. My head flew back, yanking Lisa-Anne's hand along with it, still silencing my kisser. Then came her guiding advice to keep me in line.

"Preserve the pipes, princess."

She was right. I did still have an entire show to do after this. Screaming my ass off would not benefit me. However, this was a bit of a tough spot for her to put me in. This rollercoaster ride to bountiful and beyond compelled me to screech my bloody guts out, but I was forced, practically by contract, to suppress it, or risk my performance suffering. Being a singer can get tough.

By now, my beloved green-eyed Jodie Foster's digits found their way into my soaked, sopping snatch. I clenched down on them as they so brilliantly fucked me, culling out sexual electricity from them with each deliberate, methodical thrust. I lurched down with all my ability as she pushed up inside me, driving me in-goddamn-sane. All twenty of my fingers and toes balled into tight little fists as I banged my knuckles and heels on the floor. Part of me thought, she'd better make sure there was time left to compose me after we were done so I looked normal, but every other part told that single part to go straight to hell in a handbasket. I couldn't get over it. The woman was a vagenius. Of course, now actually about to hit forty—while remaining as spry, muliebral and explosively sexy as ever—she'd naturally be a good little bit wiser, with a few tricks up her sleeve. I still found it amazingly hot that she was six years older than I—and only getting better with age—the cougarish siren who I'd always wanted to take advantage of me like her little girl.

And take advantage she did. She may've been the cougar, but I was the one who wanted to roar like Katy Fucking Perry. Faster and faster, her fingers plunged me, curling up in unpredictable patterns each time. Her arm had to have begun getting tired, but she wouldn't let me know that. I felt her slide her thumb up my hood to massage my clit, and I almost bit through her other hand. My eyes crossed and rolled straight back. I did my best—which wasn't very good—to keep mum through the finesse of this handjob from the future. I had to let out my aggression some way, and while not allowed to scream, I pounded and hammered the dressing room floor ever more violently. Lisa-Anne and I'd been together professionally for something like thirteen years, sexually active the latter half of those years, and she still had a way of making every sexcapade put those before it to shame. Don't ask me how; maybe that was just how much I loved, lusted and longed for her. She had more moves, techniques and tricks than I knew existed. And she never failed to surprise me. Just when I thought it could get no hotter, she pinned my right arm and leg with her torso, leaned down over my tit, took my nipple between her teeth, and ground.

I officially lost it. I heaved, grimaced and squeezed my eyes shut, lifting my extremities into the air high as I could, and slamming them down in the most suppressed tantrum I've ever let off. I actually tried to bite straight through her hand just so she'd let go of my mouth. She would allow still naught but muffled yells, the bitch. Finally, I surrendered and dropped my head again. The room turned into a cave of stalactites and hot icicles, which detached, fell and pierced me, sparking crackling s-e-x with each ongoing thrust. It was unbearable and unbelievable. I couldn't take it anymore. I took the deepest breath I could manage through my flared nostrils, sank my teeth until I felt palm flesh, sent my left arm and leg on one more trip into the air and back down, and came like the fucking animal she'd turned me into.

"Chickabee, baby," she hissed into my ear, enjoying the knowledge that she owned me.

"FFFMMMMMMM!! FFFFFMMMMMMMMMM!! FFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!" I proclaimed, wondering how in the world she could stand me gnawing into her paw like this. The 'o' ran its volatile course. The waves wouldn't seem to stop, picking me up off the ground to crest and body-slam me back on land. Finally, another fifteen seconds later—I'm totally just guessing—I felt her completely drain my cunt, making me spew Velette-cum like...like...oh, who the hell cared; I was out of similes.

I don't know if I actually fell asleep afterwards or not, or for how long. Eventually, I felt her start nudging me back to life.