Rock You Like a Hurricane
A/N: This piece of writing is inspired by the 2012 film Rock of Ages. It is purely an experiment and completely unrealistic. Either way, it was fun to write.
"My body is burning; it starts to shout. Desire is coming; it breaks out loud. Lust is in cages 'til storm breaks loose; just have to make it with someone I choose." – Scorpions
Los Angeles, 1988
My makeup wasn't cooperating again. Each stroke of black eyeliner was too shaky and refused to turn in the right direction. Each swipe of the blue-red lipstick Alice had insisted I wear ended with residue on my teeth. My foundation felt too heavy on my face; and my eyelashes looked far too dramatic for a Thursday afternoon.
I sighed with annoyance as I took the fluffy brush coated in a thick foundation and tapped it lightly against my forehead, still completely unsatisfied with the results. Angrily, I dropped the brush on the bathroom counter, huffing in aggravation. This was utterly hopeless! Damn Alice and her ridiculous demands!
"Almost time, B!" came an enthusiastic but slightly muffled voice from beyond the cracked bathroom door.
Alice was right of course. Unfortunately. It was almost time to leave for the interview, but I refused to go out looking like this. There was no way.
"Alice, I look like a clown! I'm not leaving this bathroom until the makeup comes off."
I heard a snicker as Alice pushed the door open and poked her head inside, "Oh Bella, you don't look like a clown; you just need a bit of touching up."
'More like a lot of touching up,' I thought to myself.
Alice walked up behind me, slowly turning my face to the side and reaching for the eyeliner.
"I thought you said I had to leave soon?" I asked her, my eyebrow raised.
Alice nodded, "You do. I'm just fixing this really quick."
"Why do I have to wear so much?" I questioned. In that moment, I couldn't have cared less if I was interviewing the President of the United States himself. I was a reporter, not a beauty queen. And apparently, Alice couldn't tell the difference.
"B, do you even know who you're interviewing today?"
I shook my head, again not giving a damn, "No, I don't. Mr. Watson didn't tell me – just threw the work in my face before stomping back to his lair."
Alice rolled her eyes. She hated Mr. Watson more than I did, though she worked on the opposite side of the floor with a different editor. Lucky bitch.
She and I had been with the same company for three years now, bonding over our love of music and chocolate chip ice cream. We had become roommates shortly after my father had passed away. Alice was my shoulder to cry on before, during, and after his funeral, whereas I had been her partner in crime when throwing eggs at her ex-boyfriend's house after he had broken up with her at Thanksgiving Dinner in front of her entire extended family.
Now here we were at the age of 26, working for Rolling Stone, single, but happier than we'd ever been.
"How can you not know? Did Mr. Watson at least tell you the guy's name?" Alice demanded, sounding much more interested in the assignment than I was.
"No, he didn't," I repeated, 'I just have the location, time, and list of questions. I didn't know why I was supposed to care in the first place. I had completed dozens of interviews with celebrities; and there was no doubt in my mind that this one would be any different.
Alice's eyes widened before she groaned in exasperation and disappeared from the bathroom, returning only moments later with a magazine in her hand.
"This is him," she grinned, thrusting the magazine in my face and pointing to the man on the cover. At first, with the picture so close to my eyes, all I saw was a giant blob of different colors.
I pushed the magazine further away and paused for a moment, my mouth slightly falling open. If pressured, I would've claimed it was due to a lack of oxygen. The truth was just so much more embarrassing – the fact that I was staring at someone so attractive it caused my heartbeat to stutter and butterflies to flutter in the pit of my stomach.
"See, isn't he gorgeous?" Alice asked excitedly.
Gorgeous.
That single word couldn't even begin to describe this man's appearance. His electric blue eyes and hair the color of rich honey were just a slim fraction of his attractiveness.
He was wearing next to nothing of course, lying on a black leather sofa with his arm hanging low to the ground, the other draped across his leg. He was built like an Adonis, with a lean frame similar to that of an Olympic swimmer. And even while stretched out in a photo, he appeared to be towering over me.
The words 'Rolling Stone' were printed at the top of the magazine in elegant block letters. After that, a name –
Jasper Whitlock
Damn.
"Alice," I began to say before I was cut off by a squeal.
"I am so fucking jealous you get to interview him! You have to tell me everything when you get home!"
I nodded in agreement as Alice finally finished with the eyeliner, then the lipstick, though I doubted there would be much to tell.
Quickly leading me by the arm, Alice led me into her bedroom and pointed to the black dress hanging in the closet's doorway.
'Shit,' I thought. I hated that dress. The V-neck was cut so low that it would leave my bra exposed for the entire world to see, and it was short enough that my ass would probably hang out of it.
I began to reach for another dress hoping that I could wear something more appropriate, before a loud, sharp smack echoed throughout the room. I could not believe Alice had slapped my hand. The fucking audacity she had!
I turned to her, "No way in hell am I wearing this! I'll look like a damned prostitute!"
"Oh yes you are!" Alice argued, "You'll be wearing my cardigan over it, so it's not like you'll be exposing yourself. Come on, please?"
"I want to look presentable," I stated, unconvinced that the cardigan would cover up much, if anything at all.
"You will look presentable, B," Alice smiled.
"You know, there's a huge difference between my idea of presentable and yours, which is looking like someone parading the streets of Las Vegas," I shot back.
Alice frowned, "You're wearing it, and that's final. It's not like you're going to get in trouble for it, and besides, you don't have time to keep arguing with me about it."
I rolled my eyes, "Fine, but I know you did that on purpose – taking so long with the makeup so that I'd have no other option without running late!"
Alice stuck out her tongue, "At least you'll keep him interested."
"I don't give a rat's ass if he's interested. I'm there to do my job; and that's it."
"I don't believe you, but seriously. You need to get going."
Alice was right again. I had to leave now. I didn't want to go, now s bit nervous after seeing the magazine. Alas, I threw the dress on over my head, Alice pulling the zipper up at the back.
I grabbed the cardigan as I made my way out the front door, purse and keys in tow. "I'll see you later Alice," I called out.
"Bye! Good luck!" Alice yelled back from her bedroom.
'Good luck," I thought. I had the feeling I would need luck this afternoon. A lot of it.
I arrived at the studio early, climbing out of my royal blue Ford Mustang. It had once been my father's before he had given it to me as a birthday gift almost ten years ago.
As I caught sight of the building, I couldn't help the cold shiver that ran down my spine. "It's okay," I whispered to myself, still nervous, "it's going to be okay."
Slowly walking towards the set of glass doors, I made sure not to trip in my one-inch heels. Even after practicing my walk in them for hours on end, I still felt wobbly and unstable as I finally managed to make it to the doors, pulling on one of the handles and entering.
The first thing I saw once I was inside was a wall of posters. Lots and lots of posters. They were all in black and white, the only color spelling out a name in bright red.
Jasper Whitlock.
I tried not to stare at them as I sat down in one of the leather chairs that faced another set of doors. I knew he was behind them. I wanted to leave in that moment and never look back, feeling as though I would never be the same if I were to enter that room.
"Miss Swan?" I heard a voice ask as a man with greying hair wearing a black dress shirt with matching pants approached me from around s corner.
I nodded, "That's me."
"You're early; that's good. I expect you already know what you're here for. Your interview with Mr. Whitlock should only take an hour maximum. I should warn you though, Mr. Whitlock doesn't take well to interviews."
My eyes widened slightly, "What do you mean?"
The man sighed, "Mr. Whitlock doesn't like the press, I guess you could say. And as of late, he's been extremely difficult to work with, now that he's leaving the band. He seems to think he's above everyone now. It's a shame though – he used to be pretty easygoing."
"I see," I said, my heart pounding, "and how do you two know each other?"
"I'm his manager, though I'm not really sure I want to be these days."
"Oh, um…okay. Am I allowed to go in yet, or does he need more time to get ready?"
"No, he's fine. Good luck with your interview," the man replied before hurrying out of the room.
'Good luck,' I thought to myself again. That was the most I had heard that phrase in the past year. I took another look at the doors, inhaling deeply and walking over to them. I pulled the handle, then stepped inside.
The room was dark, only lit by a few small lanterns in one of the corners. The walls were grey and the wooden flooring was the color of my espresso shots I drank each morning.
He sat on a large sofa, watching me. I hadn't even taken note of him until I heard his voice. "Come in Isabella. Close the door and lock it behind you, would you?"
My eyes widened. Lock the door? Why would I do that? And why did he use my full first name? "What?" I spluttered, unsure if I had misheard him.
"Don't make me repeat myself," I heard him sigh with annoyance.
I didn't hesitate to obey this time, pressing down on the lock until I heard it click. Turning to face him, I kept my gaze downward.
Another audible sigh swept past me, catching me off guard. I knew I should look him in the eye, but I was too embarrassed. He was just so damn attractive.
"Sit down Isabella," he said, "I don't have all day."
Finally, my eyes snapped to his. I didn't like his telling me what to do, but listened nonetheless. I sat down on the sofa opposite him, taking in every feature on his face, then moving my eyes further down. He still wore next to nothing.
"Do you like what you see?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
My face reddened and my eyes returned to his again. I couldn't believe I had been caught staring like that! Damn hormones! And damn him for noticing!
I took another deep breath. This was going to be the longest hour of my life. "Mr. Whitlock—" I began before I was rudely interrupted.
"No. Call me Jasper, not Mr. Whitlock."
"Fine," I ground out after a short and awkward pause. He was already pissing me off.
"Fine, what?" he pressed.
"Fine…Jasper."
"Good girl."
I shot him a dirty look before continuing, "My first question is why are you going solo? I mean, with the amount of success you've had with your band, do you really think that is the wisest decision?"
Jasper stared at me until I was finished but didn't seem as though he really cared about the question I was asking. Instead, his gaze had begun to travel down the length of my body, stopping in certain places.
"Well?" I asked after several long moments of no response, "I don't have all day." I mocked his previous statement.
His eyes narrowed into daggers. "I don't care to answer that question, Isabella."
"But you have to answer. That's why I'm here," I protested.
"No, I actually don't. I would like to say however, that your dress looks absolutely striking on you. It's a shame you're still so covered up."
I gaped at him in shock. How could he say something like that!?
"Speechless again I see," Jasper noted, amused once again, before standing up from the sofa and moving closer to me.
I couldn't respond, instead choosing to slide further away from where he was approaching. He sat down next to me anyway. The scent of his cologne was everywhere. Now I could barely remember what I had been trying to ask.
"If—if you could describe yourself in just a sentence, what would it be?" I questioned, deciding to move on from the first question, desperately trying to ignore the fact that Jasper was moving even closer to me.
He leaned into my ear and gently exhaled against my skin, whispering, "Why don't you answer that one?"
"What do you mean?" I asked in a weak voice, "I'm not supposed to answer the questions. You are."
"I know, but I want you to tell me what you think that sentence should be."
"Again, this isn't about me. Clearly, you're not listening, or you don't care that I could lose my job if I don't get this interview done," I snapped.
I was so angry I could scream. Who the hell did this jackass think he was!?
"Such a sharp tongue you have," Jasper teased, "and such a shame you won't put it better use…"
"This is ridiculous!" I exclaimed, "I'm not going to continue sitting here while you avoid my questions and make suggestive comments towards me! I'm leaving!"
"You are not leaving until we're finished."
"Says you! I'm done with this!"
I found myself pinned to the sofa with Jasper bracing his arms on either side of my head faster than I could say 'Rock and Roll.' I gulped, looking into his eyes. He looked almost frightening. He was pissed now too, his lips a tight, thin line.
"I'm not going to tolerate this shit, Isabella. You can either finish this interview, going by what I've asked you to do, or I will call your editor myself and tell him how unreasonable you've been."
"I've been unreasonable?" I asked in disbelief, "you're the one who –"
"Do you really think he would believe you over me? I have all the connections in the world to get you fired, and even if he didn't believe me, I have plenty of ways to convince him otherwise."
"What do you mean by that?"
Jasper smirked wickedly, "I don't mean anything other than the truth, which is that money talks."
"You – you would bribe him into firing me? Just because I refuse to go along with whatever stupid game you're trying to play?"
I was speechless. I couldn't believe this man was such an ass. The power he held must've really gotten into his head. "What do you want from me," I asked, "I'm just trying to do my job."
"First, I want you to apologize for the way you've spoken to me. Then, I want you to answer my question. If I'm going to help you with your interview, it's only fair you help me. Is that understood?"
"…Yes," I sighed in resignation.
"Now, apologize."
I didn't want to apologize. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself with a sharp stick, but instead I said, "I – I'm sorry for the way I've been speaking to you. It won't happen again."
"Good. Now, I am going to ask you again. If you could describe me in a single sentence, what would it be?"
'I could think of a lot more than just a sentence,' I thought to myself. I was so close to blurting out the nastiest things I could think of. At least they would've been honest.
"Isabella," Jasper warned, "answer me."
In that moment, something seemed to shift, and I lost it. "You are the most arrogant, entitled asshole I've ever met! You say I've been unreasonable? You're the one who has been so misogynistic and disgusting that I cannot even get through a single fucking question without you making some comment about my appearance or the fact that I won't 'put my mouth to better use!' Well, you know what? Fuck you! Fuck you and the high horse you rode in on!"
"Watch it," Jasper hissed.
"Or what?" I asked, "I'll bet your band got so sick of you that they kicked you out themselves. You're absolutely pathetic!"
A loud growl resonated in my ears, and within seconds, I was thrown over Jasper's lap, my ass on display for him to look at and my dress hiked up over my hips.
"You've run your mouth long enough, Isabella," Jasper whispered menacingly, his hand running up my thigh and pinning my arms behind my back. "Now, I'm going to punish you for mouthing off to me. I don't need to tell you what it is I'm going to do – I'm sure you already know."
I was speechless again. Was he going to spank me? Who the hell did he think he was!?
"I will give you fifteen lashes. You are to count each one aloud. If you stutter – even just once – we will start over. Remember that you still have a 'job to do,' as you've put it. Is that clear?"
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I was mortified, but I assumed my lack of response set Jasper off. He smacked my upper thigh as a warning. Hard.
"I said is that clear?"
"…Yes."
"Good girl," he murmured, raising his hand once more and ordering me to start counting.
Smack!
"One!" I cried out, surprised by how much it hurt.
Smack!
"Two!" I continued to count as Jasper spanked me over and over again. Tears of pain ran down my face. I knew I could never report this to anyone. Jasper had been right. They would never believe me; and if they did, he would simply pay them off. I was helpless, but at the same time, so, so turned on.
I couldn't believe it! How the hell could I be turned on by this? Had I any – and I mean any – common sense at all, I'd be pushing against him and calling for help, not encouraging him by my counting!
I didn't even realize that Jasper had suddenly stopped, again running his hand across my back. He leaned down to my ear, whispering, "You liked that, didn't you?"
I exhaled shakily. I was now soaked through my underwear. I could actually feel myself dripping onto his pants. Jasper seemed to notice too. He moved his hand lower towards my underwear, dipping a finger beneath the elastic band pressing against my inner thigh.
"You did enjoy it. Just feel how wet you are."
I cringed, utterly humiliated.
Jasper trailed his finger even lower; and before I could tell him to stop, he pushed his finger inside me. I gasped at the contact as he added another finger.
He began to move his fingers in and out, curling them. I could no longer do anything, feeling completely helpless to my situation. Never did I expect this when I came to the studio for a simple interview. Now here I was, still lying across Jasper Whitlock's lap – of all people – while he fingered me. What the fuck!?
"You're so tight," Jasper murmured, "are you…nervous?" He was taunting me. I could hear it in his voice.
"Yes," I whispered back, my body trembling. I was surprised I had actually just admitted that. Something had to be wrong with me.
A low sound tearing out of my throat alerted Jasper to how much I was enjoying this. I could no longer keep quiet; it just felt so good.
"Do you want more?" I heard Jasper ask, adding a third finger.
"…No…" I whispered. A total lie.
"Liar," Jasper teased, moving his fingers faster.
This was so embarrassing! How could I allow him to keep doing this!? There was something wrong with me! Like, for real!
"You feel so good around my fingers," Jasper said, bringing his thumb to press down on the nerves at the apex of my thighs, and just as I felt like I might reach some kind of peak – just as I felt like I was going to fall off the edge of a very high cliff, Jasper pulled his fingers away. I felt an ache at the void he had created.
"What – what are you doing?" I managed to whisper. Was he really going to stop?
"Tell you what Isabella," Jasper leaned down to murmur against my ear, "I'll continue if you say you want this. It's just three words. I'm sure you can do it."
'Say I want this?' I questioned to myself. I did, but should I actually say it aloud? He was so arrogant, and I was sure he'd never let me live it down afterwards. But then again, it wasn't like I'd ever see him again either.
"…Fine," I said after a moment.
"Fine, what?" Jasper asked.
"I – I want this. Please."
And just like that, Jasper pushed his fingers back in, my body starting to shake uncontrollably, before everything went black…
To be continued
A/N: As I said, this is just an experimental piece, but I might continue it depending on the feedback.