A rough touch on soft skin is not always an unpleasant thing. A cat's tongue may scrape you on it's affectionate caress, but you are unharmed; both in body and mind. Occasionally you may enjoy it!
A rough touch that is a cement wall against your shoulder as you drag yourself out of a muddy alley, wiping the evidence of your messy business from your lips and chin too, like the cat's tongue, is a small thing when the stark contrast of ending a tedious affair hits you square in the mind.
My mind is in no position, mind you, to allow else but relief. It stood squarely and clicked pen, grasped paper, and wrote the number:
399
The last of the nasty wiped mostly from my face, I leaned against the wall alongside the street. The stones were cooler than they were rough, that is if you faced the street and consequently the moon. I have found that the moon, while comfortingly illuminating, seems to turn a night colder. It is more often than not, though, a pleasant lunar chill. This was the case on this particular evening: the day had crept into the heat of a veritable old-fashioned American oven; the whole city sweltered.
As the moon took charge, the air turned down to a balmy 85 degrees. I enjoyed the cool surface against which I could rest my back, and I pulled a joint from the case in my jacket. As I coaxed the last of my butane hero to life, with gentle promises and swearing to entice it to function, the man I had just been with walked out from the alley, smoothing his hair down.
He looked startled to see me, and paused.
"Want a hit?" I pointed the business end of the cigarette at him, but he declined with a polite head shake and turned, walking briskly in the opposite direction of me, fading away from the neon storefront across the street and into the moonlit night.
"Bye bye, three-ninety-nine."
My smoke break eventually ended, and I packed the roach away in my jacket pocket, and dusted off my knees, checking my tights for holes. My wardrobe was intact, unsurprisingly. Three-ninety-nine was a more docile type, mostly supporting his body weight on the wall and moving very little, only sheepish occasional touches to my hair. Not the most enthusiastic, but at least he didn't scuff my shoes or jacket.
Rolling my neck, with my traditional rationalization that stretching disperses the THC better, I stepped out onto the sidewalk and moved up the street to the corner. I had a great streetlight; it was so bright that it cast everything in its vicinity into utter blackness, so it was easy to run if I needed but the light advertised me quite well. Its chief attraction, however, was the fact that it was not claimed by any other companies. I was rarely approached in this location by any other ladies, and the pimps themselves only drove through the area, never giving me any trouble. Because of the perks, I had completed 150 through 399 at this location.
I was excited to hit 400 on this night, and I hoped my luck would maintain. I was under that light, bored out of my mind, for two and a half more hours. Six a.m. came around and I was losing hope, knowing day would come soon and my snazzy leather jacket would turn me into a pot-roast-style party dish in no time.
The skyscrapers in the distance began to betray me, their shadows losing a battle with the sun over the entire Valley. Sky lighting up, I was beginning to abandon hope when an American, luxury-style sedan rolled up to me, the chrome trimming and tinted windows caught my eye immediately, I was not in the part of town where the powerful and sinful typically turned to indulge themselves. Yet the expensive-looking car slowed, and rolled to a crawl as it approached me. I approached the passenger door, but the rear window rolled down as the car came to a stop, so I stepped back, brushing my hair out of my face as I leaned down, making sure the extra-support-style tank top under my jacket was doing its job.
"Hey sugar, you looking for a good time?"
"Baby girl, who isn't?" The words resonated from a pearly grin contrast with the decadent, trademark tan skin of someone living on the west coast with too much money or none at all. Assumption based on his wheels, likely the former.
I paused, lost in his aging features. "Do I know you?" I grabbed the open window, before he could respond I snapped my fingers. "You're Jess Harnell! You are a cartoon voice actor, aren't you?"
"Aww, dammit." He threw his head back in frustration. "They're all old enough to be hookers!"
"For your information, I'm not a hooker!" I took my hand off the car and crossed my arms.
He looked bewildered. "She's not a hooker," He patted the driver on the shoulder. "I said hooker, not dealer! Come on, man."
"I'm not a slinger either, dumbass. I'll get your motor going, but I'm not gonna charge."
"Yeah I don't fuck crazy fangirls, sorry babe." He was shaking his head, clearly annoyed and starting to roll up his window.
I grabbed the window again and got closer to the car. "I'm not a fan, I just saw you on t.v. I was brained out and watching cartoon documentaries. I know almost nothing about you. Just let me suck your dick, free of charge, and we can both get what we want."
"Nice story. No thanks."
"You don't even know the story," I stood up. "Give me a chance. I'll tell you my story, if you like it, I get to suck your dick. If you don't, just kick me out and never come back to this corner. For booty or for coke."
He sighed exaggeratedly, resting his head against the seat. His voluminous hair scrunches around his face while he thought. He sighed, quieter this time, and slid over on the seat.
"Alright. Get in. Hurry up though, I don't wanna be here too long."
I pulled open the unlocked door and climbed in the car. Jess gestured to the driver and we started cruising down the empty streets, the city crawling with shadows from the sunrise.
"Okay cupcake, what's your story?"
"Mind if I smoke?" I pulled out my case and waved it.
"I guess not, uh. No, that's fine. Go for it."
"Thanks," I pulled out a smoke, lit it, and puffed while I spoke. "It's easier for me to put thoughts together with some green juice. Want a hit?" I only had to offer for Jess to eagerly take the pass. He took a deep breath while I started talking.
"So I guess my story starts at age fifteen," He raised his eyebrows, passed me the joint and waited while I took another hit and handed it back again. "Thank you. So at fifteen I discovered pop punk. And man, did I find the calling. I felt like God handed me my purpose in life, wrapped in leather and unity and individuality. It was nothing short of divine.
I started dedicating my life to this: this music, the life, the politics, or lack thereof. But it quickly became clear to me that, to fulfill my destiny, I would have to sing pop punk. And I do not mean soprano renditions of Green Day songs. I would have to write, and score, and sing my own music. I had found a more definitive outlet to focus on, and I drowned myself in information. I swallowed library books and internet articles on prose, timing, the soul of the music, the heart of the rhythm. I learned so many things, but do you know what I have failed to accomplish?" I paused, and Jess handed me the last hit, smoldering at the tip of the roach. I took a deep breath, and the stoned starlet shook his head at me.
"What have you not been able to do?"
I withered, looking out the window dramatically to make my case. "I cannot sing pop punk."
He stared at me as I put the roach away with my earlier one. "What do you mean? Everyone can sing. It takes years of practice but y—"
I cut him off, raising a hand and shaking my head. "No! I was doomed! Destined to wallow in mediocrity all my days! I was distraught! But then I met her."
Jess stared sardonically. "I'm not asking who. I know you're gonna fin—"
"JOAN JETT," I shouted, cutting him off for the second time in a row. I know that's annoying, but I rarely get to force my drama skills onto an actual established acting monolith. It was empowering.
"Joan Jett? Seriously?"
"Yes, Mr. Harnell. Joan Jett of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. I met her at a club downtown two weeks after watching your documentary. She was trashed on tequila and grenadine, but I partied with her and her body guards until the sun rose. And we ended up in the VIP suite, doing shots of champagne out of copper bullet casings, and she instilled a secret in me."
"Man I really hope you're not lying because I'm legitimately interested in this story." He changed his whole posture so that his right leg was on the seat, and he faced me as I spoke.
"This is true, Jess. Can I call you Jess? It's all true, it's why I'm here tonight."
He nodded reverently, and I was ecstatic to tell this whole story to someone moderately interesting to me, so I eagerly continued.
"So Joan and I were in the VIP suite, and as we were doing shots, I casually asked about her voice. I wanted to know if it was drinking, or smoking, or some sort of technique that gives her the husky, bad bitch sound she's known for. What she told me next, you can't spread around. This is not a recipe written for novice cooks, if you know what I mean. You really have to want the sound to get the sound."
"What's the secret, huh?"
I steepled my fingers and looked Jess dead in the eyes. "I have to suck one thousands dicks."
He paused, then busted up laughing. "You really got me there for a second!" He slapped the driver on the shoulder again. "Did you hear that? Good shit, hahaha!" He faced me, giggling, and wiped a tear from his eye. "Aw man. You really did get me. What's that, huh? That your story?"
"It's true." I maintained eye contact, and his chuckle slowed.
"You're serious?" I nodded. "Damn. You're serious, haha. Well that's what you gotta do? Does it relax your throat muscles or something?"
"Something like that. So what do you think? Can I suck your dick?"
"Wait wait, hold on," He chuckled again and leaned up toward the chauffer. "Hey man, take me to the sunrise party. I gotta show this girl off around some fun people." He looked at me for approval. "Wanna meet some more potential customers?"
"Not a hooker," I put my hands up. "I only have friends, not customers."

We rolled up to a one-story brick building, spray painted black all around the outside with the club name and hours painted near the side door in white paint.
Jess and I exited the car and the driver left, presumably to park, as we walked toward the doors. Jess opened the first set of wooden barriers, courteously ushering me inside toward the behemoth of a man guarding the second set.
"We're closed for a private party."
"I'm VIP. Check under 'Spielberg'." Jess smiled his charming white grin at the bouncer.
The man grabbed a clipboard hanging from the wall and flipped a few pages. "Ah, hey Steven. Long time no see. Go on in." He opened the door for us. I gave Jess the weirdest look I could muster as we passed the guard and entered the moonscape of light and fog that was the interior of the club.
"You are definitely not Spielberg."
"Yeah but I been using that name here so long, no one really checks any more. Shots?" We started walking toward the bar.
"No thanks, I'm kind of on a time thing right now. My rate is dropping right now."
"Relax, you can't work in the daylight anyway right? I think. You have better chances here anyhow. You know any clubs open this early? Don't think so."
He wasn't wrong, so I grumbled for a moment, then let myself go quiet to take in my surroundings. A lot of the patrons were vaguely familiar, in a B-list actor sort of way. The silverscreen this was not. I jumped onto a barstool a few yards from where Jess placed his order, and made contact with a very drunk, yet friendly Swedish man. He told me he was a stunt man for a new movie coming out, only he legally couldn't tell me which one. Still exciting though, as was his drunk proclamation that all the women in this place were too snotty to have a go at him, but I looked like the type that might. He was not incorrect, and was pleased as I followed his drunken ass to the men's room.
Emerging not eight minutes later, still swishing tap water in my mouth to rinse out the must, Jess caught sight of me.
"Oh there you are. I got you a drink. You like martinis?"
"I have no idea." I took the martini and swallowed it in one gulp. "Apparently yes. I also just managed to hit four hundred! I'm almost halfway there!"
Jess's eyes widened. "Dude, just now? Aww, I could've been four hundred! Oh well, glad you're making progress." He saw the Swedish stunt man stumble out of the bathroom, his fly buttoned but unzipped. "Hey congrats man!"
"Your girl has some mad good head friend!"
"Aww thanks! She's not mine though!"
The Swede just nodded and plopped down in the closest chair, his head lolling.
Jess finished his drink. "Okay I want to wait to be last. First let's get you a few more, to make it worthwhile."
"Will you stop helping me once I get to you?" I didn't want to get thrown out of the club because my John got bored, it had happened before.
"Pfft!" He waved his hand, heavy with gaudy rings. "Nah we're friends, right? I just want to see you work your magic."
"Okay, hm. Well, tell me about the Mediterranean looking guy at the bar?"
"Oscar Isaacs. Little uptight if you ask me, and he's Armenian, I think."
"Eh, he's cute." I handed Jess my glass. "Check it."
I approached Isaacs, watching his body language. He was uptight, but his face was open and honest as he chatted happily with the bartender.
"Excuse me, I'm so sorry to bother you." I leaned down on the bar next to him, and he glanced over at me, then at my boobs, taking his time with the view.
"Mmm… yes?" He looked back up at my face, hooded eyes sultry. What a looker!
I rested my hand on the bar and leaned in over his shoulder, knowing my breath safely reeked of the grenadine from the martini. "Would you mind very much if I got under the bar here and gave you the time of your life?" I leaned far enough back to see his face. He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips as if considering very briefly, then nodded.
"Sure. Why not."
Nailed it! I crawled beneath the bar, and Isaacs shielded me with his baggy pants and overshirt from excessive exterior view. I whipped him out of his pants and worked my 401 magic. You can only work so long before you're a pro, and I had the actor clenching my hair in his fist by the time he finally reached his peak and filled my mouth once again with the familiar but individual taste of the price of my dreams. I swallowed obediently, left him to zip himself up, and said thank you. Jess was agape, glued to the same spot in the room he must've been in for the past 15 minutes.
"Record. Timing! You had him like that!" He snapped his fingers. "You gotta teach me, hahaha!"
"It's a lot easier to pick up men than women, Jess. Men aren't as scared of getting murdered." I thought about it, then redacted. "I can teach you to pick up men if you want, I just assumed—"
"Yeah I'll stick to the free bj part of your services, thanks anyway sweetheart. Hey, I never got your name!" He offered his hand. "How rude of me, I'm sorry!"
"It's Basil." I shook his hand and laughed.
"Basil, like the herb. Cool."
"I'm all about herbs, Jess. Speaking of which, there a smoking section here?" I tapped my case, almost half empty. "I'm running on fumes. Fumes of fumes."
Shrugging, the large man gestured to our surroundings. "You're in the smoking section. Try the twins over there if you're dry." He laughed, and congratulated himself on the double entendre, but I was already halfway to the suggested destination. Within minutes I was under the table, taking a few hits while I riled up both the men. Identical twins, but oh-so-sadly unidentical ding-dongs, fortunately the size difference made my twofer easier, and I had moved up two spots for the price of one not long after.
"Four hundred and two! You go girl!" My companion high-fived me on my return. "Hey I thought it over, and I wanna be four oh five. Think we can do that?"
"Whatever you want, man. Just give me a while to find three more guys." We moved away from the front area of the club nearest the bar and toward the dj and crowd in the back, I was blown away at the sheer volume of socialites so dedicated to the scene that they were maxed out on expensive liquors and MDMA at eight in the morning.
Jess found a group of people similar to him, but younger and with more tattoos, who recognized him from the club. I on the other hand, found myself fully occupied as my Swedish friend from earlier had told his companions of his part in my quest. They were interested, and lucky for me and Jess, there were only three of them.
An hour later, I found Jess on the dance floor, sweet talking some girls near my age. He dropped the conversation immediately and disco-danced over to me as I reentered the checkered floor.
"So you making progress?" He yelled a bit to drown out the music. I nodded, and mouthed 404 to him. He lit up like a Christmas tree. "Already? Woohoo! I have some major wood from all this sick dancing and those babes. It's killer on the Wranglers. Let's get outta here."
"Do we have to leave?" I yelled over the bass drop. "I'm doing really well here!"
He gestured with his head, and led me toward the stage. In the corner of the room, a cordon rope and another hulk of a bouncer stood sternly, blending into the woodwork ominously.
"Spielberg," Jess shouted, and the bouncer nodded, unlatching the chain to the trap-door stairs. He led me down into the basement, which I quickly realized was just an extension of the club above. Purple lights instead of a tacky disco ball illuminated the room, and the smoke here was a haze of cigar smoke and marijuana smoke, undistilled by a fog machine. I noticed the rock stars first, lounging together on plush couches and sitting on rugs on the floor. There was a single pool table in the corner of the room, polished and set up to play.
"There's more privacy down here, c'mon." Jess nodded his head toward the hallway to our right, away from the sea of musical talent, and I followed him down the corridor to a room with a star on the door, like in cartoons. We entered, and the décor only elaborated on the exterior. A gaudy, canopy bed was shoved into the far left corner, and a gigantic vanity adorned the center of the wall. It sat a spinny, red chair with a velvet seat and headrest. Jess opted for the chair, and I kneeled between his legs, refocusing from the room to him.
I rubbed up the outside of his pantleg to be sure, and discovered he hadn't been lying about the dancing boner. I unzipped his jeans, pulled them down far enough with his assistance, and pulled his erect penis out of his boxers. He was huge, and I knew I'd need leverage to get the job done, so I pulled his ballsack out as well. I gave him enough to make the wait worthwhile, spending a few important moments caressing the tip of his erection with my tongue, glancing up for the eye-contact-effect. We met gazes once, but the second time I looked up his eyes were closed and his mouth partially opening. The time to play had passed, now it was down to the business. I took as much of him in as I could, despite his height I hadn't imagined this issue coming up, but my deepthroating lacked polish at the time and despite knowing it was the key to my success, I occasionally struggled when a guy was particularly girthy. I pressed on, shoving the hot member into the constricting muscles of my throat, and then sliding him out, past my lips, and down again once more. I repeated for several moments until his hips began to move with me, and I grabbed hold of him with more vigor and started applying suction versus the depth I started with. He moved faster, wrapped his massive hand around the back of my head and started letting loose, his dick growing harder as he forced it repeatedly down my throat. I stayed stationary, speeding up his process until he went from cupping my hair to gripping it, yanked me close and blew his load, surpassing my mouth entirely and pumping down as I swallowed with each thrust. He released his grip and I eased away from him.
Jess wiped his forehead, pulled up his boxers and looked at me. "Fuck."
"What?" I stood up, stretching my jaw.
"You're fucking great. You're gonna do great. I bet that drunk guy didn't even appreciate that."
Four hundred and five! I scratched my shoulder as Jess composed himself, smoothing down his wild hair. "So can I socialize on this floor as well?"
"Yeah, go for it." Jess wiped off more sweat, making a "whew" noise. "They'll love you down here."

I spent the next few hours making friends, and reporting back to Jess every so often to smoke a joint and update him on my number. He was having a great time with the munchies available at the gourmet bar, and shared a few with me on my check-ins.
At one such check-in, I ate tuna and salmon off of lettuce as I regaled my experience with could-have-been number 414 but the singer, renowned for his high vocals and original artist of the ear-wormiest songs of the eighties, couldn't get it up for me. Evidently Jess had a small beef with the musician, and took a lot of pleasure in his infirmity.
"I'm recharged, I could be four hundred fourteen." I was charmed that he was back for seconds, but I shook my head.
"I already did you tonight."
"Whoa whoa, Basil. When did Joan say you couldn't blow the same guy twice? She said a thousand dicks, not a thousand different dicks."
"Jess, when I started, I had a boyfriend. I sucked his dick 76 times in a week and a half and he dumped me. It's a waste of time to rely on one guy more than once."
"Just… one more. Then you can hunt again. Let me take one for Separate Ways over there."
"Ooookayyy." I sighed dramatically, but I hid my excitement. A big one like him had to be ideal for my vocal cords, and he was clean and everything.

I had him cumming in six minutes or less the second time around; he was in my mouth faster than I was on the floor and relishing every second of it. We emerged victorious from the room, and caught the tail end of a swell caused by new arrivals. A cloud of glowstick-clad groupies—official groupies, the ones you can bring places and use to ward off the crazies- swarmed near the pool table in the back. Jess and I made our way to the back of the small crowd and sat down with them. A little hopped up now, I lit a joint and Jess and I shared it with the two guys sitting at the table.
"You guys having a good night?" Jess sucked in a small atmosphere of smoke, gesturing at the groupies.
"Oh totally!" One of the men answered over the hubbub, eagerly hitting my joint. "I've gotten two numbers tonight!"
Jess smirked at me, then back at the boys. "How'd you like to get your jollies off with no strings attached?"
The other male spoke up, watching the joint rotate toward him again. "Thanks man, but we're both straight. I think." He looked at the other man, who nodded. "Yeah."
"Sure guys, that's why my girlfriend, Basil, here," He grabbed my shoulders supportively. "Would love to eat your meat tonight. No charge."
"I enjoy making new friends." I smiled earnestly, looking from one man to the other. They stared at each other, then at me.
"Uh. Okay."
That's how I hit 414 and 415. Right at the table. A few more groupies, of varying ages and ethnicities, to my delight, gathered around to watch the small show. I counted up to 418 before someone finally asked why. Jess got excited about my journey, so I gave him permission to tell the story. As he talked, the entire flock had essentially migrated from their benefactors to our table, where Jess spun the most exaggerated version of my tale. He hit all the essential points though, so I was content. The fans began expressing their support for me, and I got a whooole lot of volunteers stepping up to help my cause. Of course I knew that they had ulterior motive, but that was the best part. Regardless of their sincerity, real or fake, I knew a fair portion of them would ultimately stick around for free, quality whoopee.
The benefactors, as it were, gradually lost interest in their pool match—from what I could tell—and pushed their way through the audience to see what the fuss was. They heard a good portion of the story on their way through, and I heard a few dominant voices ask what was going on, getting the missing details from groupies.
When they made their way through the crowd, Jess reveled in his campaign and the onlookers nodded and voiced enthusiasm for me, but all the noise faded away from me when I saw him.
His serious, squinting gaze on par with Eastwood, he was small, but by no means thin or short, just sleight of stature. Well-defined, tattooed arms cascaded out from a black tank top, tucked into his jeans. I swore I felt the aftershock of my jaw hit the floor, though in reality my face did not move, at the sight of his rippling arms. I was entranced. The noise came back to me when a new voice cut through it, gentle, but authoritative. It originated from beside the man of my dreams, a clean-cut Eurasian man was smiling at Jess, responding to something he said. I forced myself to focus.
"I actually heard this story from Joan once. She said though, to me, the key was 365 days of pussy."
"Because it's so much more potent?"
"Yes!" The dude agreed with enthusiasm, clapping his godsent companion on the back. "I heard the same thing from Chas too, but he said if it's someone sucking guys off, they only have to make it to 420."
I gasped. Loudly. A few people, including Jess, turned to look at me. "It all makes sense."
"Yeah?" Jess and the Eurasian man both quieried.
"Weed is my life. Helped my voice, too. Maybe I really do need to suck only four hundred and twenty dicks. I haven't even tried to sing since I started!"
"Well shit, get to it babe!" Jess goaded happily, taking a joint that was newly in circulation. "You got this, we believe in you!"
I stood up, rejuvenated. "I only need two more! Volunteers?" Countless hands shot in the air, including Jess, but the one that caught my attention was the attractive and talkative band member.
"Really? I get to blow the guy who founded one of the greatest rock bands of this generation?"
"Don't forget my rap band!"
I pointed at him as I approached. "Fort Minor, killin' it!" I dropped to the ground and made sure his slacks came with me to meet his tennis shoes. With a bigger audience, and a more auspicious partner, I put on a show, taking my sweet time knowing how close to the end I was, and almost not wanting it to ever be over. I teased him with my tongue, my fingers, nose and lips. He was harder than steel by the time he was fed up with me and went put me into a feeding frenzy. I don't know which of us exerted more, but by the time he came he had yanked out of my mouth, grabbed his swollen dick and made a sticky mess of my face, in a room full of people. I licked my lips and wiped my cheeks and nose, satisfied as the musician helped me off the floor.
"Last one! Who will it be?" I started scanning the eager faces, looking for someone cute. I knew I could be picky now that I was nearly done. Out of my peripheral, I saw the smaller man lean toward his mess-making partner and whisper something.
I turned to face them, curious, and Jess pointed at Chas, nodding to me with his eyebrows raised. My heart raced. Is he interested? Oh, god, he's too pretty. I couldn't.
He stepped forward and put his hand on my arm.
"Can we go somewhere private?"
Oh, angel. His voice was so soft, and kind. I could only nod, and he moved his hand down my arm to interlock fingers. We walked past the purple bar lights, into a room in the star hallway. My heart was pounding; I could feel blood rushing all over my body for the first time in a long time. He led me into a room and locked the door behind us, turning to face me.
"Hello. I'm Chester." He waved his fingers, smiling.
I giggled nervously, an ugly noise, and waved back. "I'm Basil. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Oh I'm sure the pleasure will be all…" He traced his fingers over my cheek, brushing it with his thumb. "All mine."
I swallowed, which for the first time that night was hard, as he stepped back. I waited for him to go around me and sit, or lay, but he just stood there, staring at me.
"Um," I started awkwardly. "What would you like?"
He answered immediately. "I'd actually like you to take all your clothes off, if you don't mind."
"Oh." I froze. I had been asked to show my chest before, bare, but not bare all for a number. But it was the last one, and I couldn't help myself, I was lost in his tight, kind smile. I peeled off my jacket and laid it on the floor next to me, followed in suit by my shirt, shoes, jeans, underwear and socks until I stood, bare, in front of Chester. He swept me over with a critical gaze, and then nodded, as if to himself.
"Okay. Lie down." He gestured to the bed, and I obliged. He pulled the black shirt over his head, revealing more tattoos and more decadent muscles. It was like he was sculpted out of marzipan, and boy did I have a sugar craving. He pulled his pants down, took off his shoes and socks and climbed into the bed next to me, eyeing me up and down more and caressing my arm with his fingertips. I opened my mouth to speak, God knows what I would have said, because it poofed out from my mind when he pulled me toward him and buried his face in my neck, sucking and biting me and generally succeeding in soaking the area between my legs with just his nuzzling, before his strong hand crept down the front of my body, over my breasts and stomach to the warm pool he had activated down below. He rubbed me gently with his fingers, increasing friction gradually and pulling me to the edge of my sanity. I arched into him until pleasure rippled through my body like raindrops on a puddle. The second I came, he grabbed me and pulled me into a new position, flipping me over onto my stomach and grabbing a rubber from the table near the bed. He slapped that sucker on before I knew what was happening, and plunged himself right into my unsuspecting ass. I yelped, partially out of surprise and partially out of discomfort, but he shoved my head into the pillow with one hand, and used the other one to wrangle both my hands and held them firmly behind my back while he thrust vigorously against my unprepared body. I wasn't in pain, but I was by no means in a comfortable position, I had to yelp through the pillow, distorting my vocalizations.
"You fucking like that? Huh?"
"Yes!" I shouted through the pillow as best I could. "Don't stop!"
"That's… what… I… thought!" He leaned down and bit my shoulder, still pinning me in my awkward position. He beat into me with everything he had, my legs trembled and my pussy dripped at his vigor. He started making little moaning sounds between breaths, and I felt his rhythm tighten. Instead of finishing himself off, he pulled out of my ass, ripped the condom off and turned me over, then flipped around so his face was buried in my crotch. He went to town on me, his tongue accomplishing things I could never do myself, let alone explain to a man. I moaned, once, before he shoved his precum dripping dick into my mouth, and we matched pace, laying into each other like our lives depended on it. We stayed like that for what felt like ages, instead of singular events, my orgasms felt like waves in the ocean, appearing, subsiding, and appearing again. I lost track of how many times I came, and he felt constantly on the edge of finding his pleasure, but pulling back each time he came close.
I could have sworn an hour passed. My body was exhausted and trembling, finally drained, and the moments after I pulled my hips away from his face, he came down hard on me, orgasm pumping into my mouth. I had never worked so hard, or received so much, for completion. Chester crawled off of the top of me, flopping down on his back. We laid like that, toe-to-head, head-to-toe, for a few minutes as I admired him in the canopy mirror of the bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady. His face was amazing; I wished I had coaxed more sound out of him. As I thought these things, he opened his eyes, making contact with me in the mirror.
"That's my singing exercise for the year. Three hundred and sixty-five."
"Wow." I had lost track, but I didn't doubt his counting. "Make sure you call me on leap year."
He laughed, a beautiful sound, and patted me on the leg. "Come on, get your clothes back on." I obliged, as he did the same, and he walked me back to the club lobby. Jess, all the groupies and the Eurasian man, Mike, the Swedish stunt men and Oscar were all upstairs, having a round of beers. When we arrived, Jess let out a cheer and got everyone else started as well.
"So we're dying to find out! Can you sing?"
"Let's find out." Mike swigged his beer, grabbed Chester and me and dragged us up to the stage, where he relieved the d.j. of his duty and put on a familiar song for us. Chester and I sang to the club, and I can't tell you if I was decent. If we were decent. But I can tell you this, I had no regrets about the 419 dicks I sucked before his, and Chester was just the icing on the face.