tagHumor & SatireSveni, the Viking Rock Star

Sveni, the Viking Rock Star


(We all have our heroes. This is my homage to those brave pioneers who make mediocre rock music, and then have the audacity to brag about how good it is.)

He was a man of small stature, both physically and mentally. Perhaps that's why he chose the Viking name Sveni. He liked the sound of it. At first it was going to be 'Sven', but then he realized if he became world-famous, 'Sveni' would work better in a place like Italy. He considered himself the God of Songwriting, and he wanted the option of having a statue of himself erected in the Colosseum, perhaps during the next Olympics. (It would be a rather bland looking statue, since Sveni was a rather bland looking individual, with his narrow shoulders and wide waist, but Sveni knew the statue would do him justice, especially if he slipped the sculptor an extra couple of bucks.)

In spite of his un-Viking-like build, Sveni was proud of his pretend-Viking heritage. At least that's what it said in his bio on his MySpooge page.

"Sveni's Viking ancestry helps to explain his domineering presence in the world of rock & roll, where he is a domineering presence." (Sveni wrote his own bio. Obviously, the fact that he could write mediocre songs didn't mean he could also write copy for a bio.)

The bio didn't go on to explain that his real name was Alfred Penwick, and that he grew up in the North Hamptons, going to the most expensive private schools and consistently holding down the position of 'alternate' on the cheerleading squad. It also left out the part about how his recording career was financed entirely by his trust fund, since no one bought his CD's. But it did say that his website got more hits than any other website in the history of MySpooge, and that, due to the overwhelming number of requests from musical scholars and the like, he was going to have to start a blog explaining the intricate workings of his pedestrian songwriting.

Sveni's band photo on his MySpooge page was also quite impressive, if a person was partial to the Pirates of the Caribbean look. His billowy white pirate shirt, high boots, and gaudy concho belt made him appear as though he was out trick-or-treating on Halloween, but that was the image he wanted to portray. He knew, in the music business, it was all about perception, and he certainly wasn't going to be lax in that area, even though everything else about his pitiful career was either second-rate or half-assed.

To say that Sveni was full of himself would have been unfair, since someone with as much talent as Sveni possessed should certainly be obligated to share their gift with the world. At least that's how he saw it. And because of his importance in the music world, he expected, no, he demanded adoration from his rag-tag legion of fans. "Come here, you fine wench," Sveni would say to the nearest groupie. "Show me your tits. Now."

"Won't I get in trouble?" the frightened college dropout would say.

"How dare you question my judgment," he would bellow, spinning on his heels and stomping off in a tizzy. Sveni could go into a tizzy over the smallest things. Ask him to explain why all his songs sounded the same, and you would get an angry tirade for an answer.

"I have sold more free downloads of these songs than any other artist on MySpooge, so you can just go fuck yourself! How dare you question the integrity of my music."

There were a lot of people who questioned the integrity of Sveni's music; artists, managers, producers, critics, musical scholars. But Sveni, much like president Bush, was able to insulate himself from reality with his entourage of hangers-on and yes-men.

"They love you Sveni. It's a packed house" they would tell him, leaving out the part about how the show was almost cancelled until the local radio station gave away 85 percent of the tickets during a last-minute promotion. Sveni wouldn't like the kinds of numbers that would indicate he was anything but wildly successful, so he would ignore them, or better yet, just pull new numbers out of his ass.

"Those low numbers are bogus," he would say, on the verge of yet another tizzy. "They don't indicate anything, other than my dominance over every other musician who ever lived, or who ever will live."

Sveni's big hit was called 'Sister Loves It'. But it could get quite confusing, trying to keep track of all his songs, since they all had something to do with his sister; A Sister Like You, I Like You Sister, All-Night Sister, All-Day Sister, Rainy-Day Sister, My Sister's Rain, My Sister's Panties, My Sister's Bed, My Sister's Piehole, My Sister's Tampons, My Sister's Sister, ad nauseam.

Sveni's well-known fondness for his sister resulted in a strange phenomenon; all of his groupies tried to look like his sister. Unfortunately, the only information they had regarding the appearance of his sister was the fact that her tits were perfect orbs. That didn't give his groupies much to go on, but they would still try. They'd put their hair up in twin ponytails, and wear white blouses and plaid skirts, as if they'd just gotten out of a Catholic school, except it would have been a school with no air-conditioning, which would explain why their blouses were hanging open and their bras were showing.

The more adventurous girls would bring pillows, so they could attract his attention by having pillow fights in the front row. Of course, they would also rip each other's clothes off and go down on each other and such, but that wasn't a problem, since the venue would check ID's to make sure the concert-goers were all at least 18 years-of-age.

The problem with all the groupie action in the front row was the fact the Sveni very rarely noticed it. He always brought his own video crew to his concerts, (even if it was a free concert at the old-folks-home) and they would set up plasma screens on the floor of the stage, (or rec room) so he could watch himself perform while he was performing. He could easily spend the whole hour without once looking out at the audience. If the groupies had known about the plasma screens on the floor, they probably would have just saved their pillow fights for backstage, after the concert, but they didn't have a clue. They just thought Sveni was so focused on his performance, he didn't have time to notice them, and, come to think of it, they were right.

One night, after an especially loud, out-of-tune, and listless concert, Sveni was backstage with his gaggle of groupies, trying to decide which lovely young wench would receive the honor of swallowing his cum, when a cute little blonde caught his eye. Unlike the others who had been in the front row, her clothes weren't ripped to shreds, hanging off her like she'd just come from a Florida wet T-shirt contest. No, she was still dressed in her white blouse and plaid skirt, and Sveni was intrigued. He was into classy groupies, and this one looked like she'd just stepped out of an upscale magazine, a magazine like People, or US.

"You," he said, pointing his finger in her direction. Instantly, she was at his side, her arm around his puffy waist, her sparkling eyes looking up at him like a puppy waiting to get fed.

"Glenda," she said.

"Glenda eh?" Sveni pondered the significance of the name as they ambled down the hall to the dressing room with the big star on the door. (If the venue had no star on the dressing room door, one of Sveni's entourage would duct-tape a star to the door. It was in the rider of his contract, but it was often-times missed, which is why his entourage always carried a few spare stars for just such an occasion.

"Isn't Glenda a Swedish name?" he asked, mesmerized by her high cheekbones, wide smile, and the perfect orbs under her blouse.

"Why, yes, Sveni," the fake-Swedish Glenda replied.

Sveni's heart quickened. "Viking blood. I like that."

"You might also like my 2 sisters."

"Really?" Now Sveni was more than intrigued. He was downright fascinated. He'd written several songs about having 3 sisters at one time (My Sister's Sister's Sister was one title) but he'd never actually had 3 sisters in real life. "Are they over 18? Can you get them down here? I can give them eight-by-ten glossies."

"Yes, they're over 18, and they're waiting outside the stage door," Glenda replied, with a twinkle in her eye. Sveni made a quick phone call, and seconds later, Bobbie and Billie came skipping down the hall, holding hands.

"Holy Shit," Sveni gasped. They looked identical to Glenda; the same blonde hair, the same blue eyes, the same boyish build. He was in little-sister heaven, and, since they were all over the age of 18, he wouldn't have to worry about getting into trouble.

They trooped into the small dressing room and then Sveni excused himself to run into the bathroom and make sure his wig was secure. He certainly didn't want to be screwing three sisters and have his wig fall off right in the middle of the action. He was a very famous small-time local rock star wanna-be has-been, and he had an image to uphold.

When he emerged from the bathroom, the ladies had already begun their half-hearted pillow fight, and Glenda was losing badly. Her blouse was dangling open, and her left nipple was peeking out of the top of her small white bra.

"Oh yeah," Sveni snarled, sitting down on a chair by the snack table. He could already feel his manly bulge responding to the sight of poor little Glenda getting her blouse and skirt ripped off by her naughty sisters.

"Nooooooo!" she giggled, as her bra fluttered to the floor.

"Yesssssss," Sveni grinned, watching as the sisters yanked Glenda's white panties down her slender legs. Then she stood naked before him, her little A-cup breasts hidden behind her skinny arms, her blonde bush giving scant cover to her dripping wet slit. The sisters shoved her towards him, like a sacrifice, and he licked his lips.

"God, you're beautiful," he said, his heart filling with desire for the sweet young waif. He wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her stiff nipples, the space between her breasts, her flat tummy. He felt her firm ass, like a pair of fresh melons from the produce section of the market.

"Do you want to play a little game?" Glenda asked him, while she fiddled with the giant buckle of his Halloween trick-or-treat concho belt.

"What kind of game?" Sveni asked, all excited about the challenge. "A word game? I'm quite good with words, you know. I've sold more free downloads of my songs than any other artist on MySpooge."

"It would be more of a guessing game," Glenda said, as she fished his smaller-than-average hard-on out of his shorts.

"What kind of guessing game," Sveni asked, his mouth hanging open, his eyes bugging out. That's when he realized the touch of Glenda's small hands had reawakened a yearning in him, a yearning from long ago, a yearning that went back to the dawn of time, a yearning to shoot his jizz into anything wearing a dress. (Not including dolphins, or other mammals.)

"Me and my sisters are all going to take turns giving you head, and you have to guess which one is doing it."

"Cool" he said, trying to decide which girl's mouth looked the most pleasurable. But his looking was cut short when Bobbie, (or was it Billie?) started wrapping his official Aerosmith scarf around his head like a blindfold. At that same moment, Glenda was taking his fat (but skinny) cock into her mouth. That's when he realized what they said about blind people was true; it was like all his senses had been magnified to make up for his lack of sight.

He marveled at the feeling of Glenda's hot mouth sucking on his throbbing tool. He jumped when he felt her hand sneak up under his balls. He inhaled the sweet odor of her womanhood, like vanilla from his mother's kitchen. (His mother, with the heaving breasts like perfect orbs.) Then he felt hands jerking at his tight leather pants. He was glad to oblige by raising his ample butt off the chair.

"Over here," a voice said in his ear, and they led him to the couch. Suddenly, he was naked, with a mouth on his dick, and a pussy in his face.

"Oh shit!" he moaned. "That's Glenda's cunt, right?" He lapped at it hungrily, savoring the little-sister taste of her sweet tapioca-pudding pussy. Meanwhile, the mouth on his cock changed, and then there were wet fingers playing with his asshole.

"Do you like that baby?" a feminine voice whispered in his ear. Before he could even answer, he felt a slippery finger ease it's way into his anus. He was going to protest, but it felt so good, he couldn't say no. In fact, the feeling was so overpowering, it made him wonder if perhaps the Viking gods were pulling some strings for him, making his number-one fantasy finally come true. (People had been pulling strings for him all his life. In fact, it was surprising he hadn't been selected as a presidential candidate on the Republican ticket.)

As if taking their cue from the Viking gods, the sisters ratcheted up their molestation of poor, helpless, sight-deprived Sveni. One girl started chewing on his nipples like a dog on a bone, another was sucking him off with such expertise, he couldn't have done it better himself, and the third was giving his asshole such a delicate, and yet forceful reaming, he could hardly stand the pleasure. In fact, at that moment he made an important career decision. He would take these three lovely sisters out on the road with him when he did his tri-county tour. This was the best sex of his life, and surely his accountants would let him buy an extra burger to feed the girls during the one-day excursion. It would be well worth it.

Suddenly, the girl reaming his asshole found the magic spot, and he couldn't hold back any longer. "Oh my God!" he moaned. "I'm cummminnnnnnnnnnnnng!" He shot his hot load into a mouth, and at that very same instant, his face was inundated with girl-cum, splatting on him like in a porn video, when the girl loads up with liquid and then squirts it out her pussy.

While Sveni was savoring the tangy taste of the girl-cum on his lips, he realized that, although he'd written about girl-cum in his songs (cryptically - as in 'My Sister's Rain') he'd never actually seen a squirter in real life, so he whipped off his blindfold.

"What the fuck?" he gasped, staring at the sister named Bobbie, who was actually a guy, jacking off onto his face. "Nooooooooooooooo!" he yelled, trying to get up off the couch. But he was stuck there, impaled by the sister named Billie, who was actually a guy with his dick all the way up Sveni's ass. And if that wasn't bad enough, Glenda was capturing the whole thing on her cellphone, which had the expanded memory card, allowing for higher resolution video.

Bobby (Bobbie) finished shooting his load onto Sveni's face, and Billy (Billie) finished shooting his load into Sveni's ass, and Glenda finished shooting the video, and then the fake-sisters got up off the couch and started collecting their clothes. Sveni just lay there, satiated, humiliated, (he wasn't sure which,) wiping the semen off his face with a pillow, and wishing he could find some tissues to stop the dribble that was running down his ass-crack.

"So," Glenda said, holding the cellphone in one hand and her panties in the other. "How much is this video worth to you?"

Sveni pondered for a moment. Of course he'd like to watch the video. He loved watching himself on video, or mirrors, or store windows, whatever was handy. But, for this video he'd have to digitally alter the penises to look like large clits, and that seemed like a lot of hassle, so he shrugged. "Like I said before, I can give you each an eight-by-ten glossy."

He watched Glenda pull her panties on, and then it dawned on him. If this video got out, his career could be finished. The evil little bitch had tricked him! But Sveni always did have a knack for making a purse out of a sow's ear. (An old Viking expression - according to Sveni.) He realized he had just stumbled upon a new plot-line for a song, and that could be a blessing in disguise.

(He had been in a rut lately, writing the same song over and over, and even the most dedicated of his entourage had hinted around that perhaps he might consider exploring new avenues in his pursuit of musical genius, new avenues that wouldn't lead to his sister's, or his mom's bed.)

He watched Glenda getting dressed, and it appeared she was not the least bit interested in his generous offer to buy the video back, so he decided to up the ante. "I suppose I could throw in an autographed copy of my latest CD, which has sold more free downloads than any CD on MySpooge," he said, confident that this valuable gift would be enough to placate the adoring groupie psycho-bitch, who obviously just wanted a little attention.

"Sveni?" Glenda said, cupping his pudgy face in her hands. "You've got to get over yourself. This video is worth at least a hundred dollars. In fact, it's probably worth double that on the gay market." She turned to leave and he grabbed at her wrist, hoping to snag the cellphone. He missed.

"Do you want my leather pants?" he asked politely, covering his shriveling member with the sticky pillow. "They're special order from Leathers R Us."

Glenda laughed. "You just don't get it, do you?" She snagged a finger full of guacamole on her way out the door. "I'll call you in a couple of days and let you know what the highest offer is, and then, if you don't match it, you can kiss your pretend-career goodbye." She strutted out the door, followed by Bobbie and Billie.

"Waaaaaiiiiiiiiiit!" Sveni pleaded, jumping up from the couch. He couldn't let it end this way. Lucky for him, he still had an ace up his sleeve. He grabbed something off the table. "You forgot your free eight-by-ten glossies" he stammered, "and if you'll give me the video, I'll sign them."

The three fake sisters stopped in their tracks, turned, and flipped him the bird.

(To be continued.)

(I joke. Why continue? Sveni's career is over, because he's too cheap to buy back the video, and too vain to consider the consequences. And anyway, this story sucks so bad, who would read it if it was continued?)

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