Chapter One

Intro

 

I am framing random things around the smoky hotel room when suddenly the viewfinder is filled with swollen cock. I have to zoom out a little to get it all in. Although I knew it must be coming, I am easily distracted and thus failed to capture the making of this engorgement. Some recorder of events I am. The proud owner of the stiffy is busy sprinkling a line of coke along its upper side, pinching the powder off the mirror it has been chopped up on by the anonymous blonde who is now on her knees before him. He is wearing that hideous skull ring in silver, the one with the rubies for eyes. The lens picks up that his nails, as always, are grubby. He notices my focus upon him and turns to point his thing at me.

"Oh, you want this do you, baby?" he smirks. "You want to take some shots before I shoot right up that tight round ass of yours?"

My eyebrows arch as a sign of nonchalance, but I keep his erection framed, since that's essentially what I'm being paid for.

"You know damn well that thing's never going anywhere near me," I reply. "And don't say 'ass' - you aren't American however much you pretend to be. You're every bit as Welsh as daffodils and slag heaps."

I take my eyes off the camera to confirm that the slight has struck home. He should know better than to take me on but he can't help but try to act the big man in front of the adoring blonde.

"You wouldn't even know what to do with it," he sneers.

He is more right than he knows. It might be assumed, especially considering what I normally do for a living, that I am some kind of Goddess of Sex, one well schooled in the erotic arts. The truth is somewhat different. Eroticism and sexiness have always excited me but I could never be accused of over-indulging in naughty business. I'd like to say I'm merely fussy, but it's a bit more complicated than that. Despite my provocative looks I tend to give off an air of remoteness which is a bit of a passion killer. I have my reasons, as tenuous as they are, and I know that I'm more comfortable if the sexy business is going on around me and not with me at the heart. I seem to have resolved to be happy enough remaining on the outside looking in. Fortunately, I have the wits and gumption to fend off advances from the likes of Russell here, so my limits are seldom tested.

He is waving his thing gently from side to side at me, careful not to disrupt the little furrow of narcotic upon it. I cannot deny it is an impressive appendage, right from the shaved smooth ball sack up to the chrome, Prince Albert-pierced tip. The exposed head is bulbous and purple, always looking fit to burst with its shining, smooth skin. The shaft is both thick and long, with a sharp upward curve that puts me in mind of something bestial or satanic.

He is so enormously proud of it, enough for it to be exposed thus for what seems like ninety percent of his waking hours. At age thirty, if he were now flipping burgers or humping boxes as his intellect suggests he might only be good for, I doubt he would have spent so much of his day with his hardened prick poking out of his leather jeans for the attentions of undeniably pretty young things. However, he is a rock star, albeit a minor league one, and he can therefore rest safe in the knowledge that he is a magnet for a certain kind of girl, whether he deserves to be or not.

"I could pull it off for you," I say, with mock reverence. "As in 'pull it clean off and stuff it up your hairy, ancient backside'."

He just mutters something disparaging and points his thing back towards the blonde, who most definitely does want it. He grins at her, still chewing on gum in that annoying open-mouth way of his. He puts a hand on the top of her head and eases her forward. She closes her eyes and opens up and he feeds the fat exposed glans into her mouth. She looks like she has done this kind of thing before, possibly on countless occasions. Her throat seems bloated, like it is opening up for him. She wants to take enough of his length to reach the line of white powder upon it. The coke sticks to her top lip and she withdraws, leaving the top third of his erection coated in shining spit. She licks her lips and then runs her tongue-tip inside her mouth, up above her top teeth, to let her gums absorb the drug. Then she is back on him, going for more. I frame my shot and press the button, but I catch her with her eyes half shut and she looks like she is gagging to death. He must see me in action because he says, "You wanna snap do you, baby? I'd fucking snap you in half with this beauty!"

"Oh, put a sock in it, RoboCock," I say, still massively unperturbed. "Remember I know you, and I also know plenty of those image-killing little secrets you'd prefer to keep from the likes of Blondie here. Like that time you took a whole pint of piss to the head at your first festival gig, or when you once drunkenly tried to seduce a ladyboy - and got turned down. Most crucially, for all your professed brilliance, I also know that you were once described by a certain musical journal as the 'rhythm-less section' of the band. In short, cut out all the Rock God nonsense or I might be forced to burst your little bubble."

"Suck my dick!"

This is more likely aimed at me than her, but she happily complies nonetheless. Russell LeMuscle. A man as ridiculous as his stage name suggests. He always refuses point-blank to tell me his real surname and the other band members are on sentence of death if they do so. I'm hoping it is something laughably embarrassing, like Sprowt: Russell Sprowt, percussionist non-extraordinaire, skin-hitter for the heavy metal outfit Death in Venus. They think their band name is a clever play on words, but it ends up meaning nothing. It was born as a hidden tribute to the Dirk Bogarde film of nearly the same name. Not because of Bogarde or indeed the film itself, but because of Mahler's Adagietto from his Fifth Symphony, which forms part of the score and happens to be the classically-trained lead guitarist's favourite piece of music. What they overlooked is the tendency for others to shorten this name to D.I.V., pronounced div. For the record, 'div' - in lil' ol' England at least - is a slang term for a very stupid person. Like Russell. Even the word 'drummer' makes the protagonist sound dumb. They don't even qualify to be an '-ist' like a guitarist or a pianist or a saxophonist. Just give them something to bash and a couple of sticks to do it with and still all they can manage is to '-er' with it.

I squeeze off another shot of her with her mouth full but this one isn't much better than the last. The beauty of digital cameras is that you can just delete the crap without the worry of using up reels of film. And there are plenty of crappy shots since I am here almost entirely on false pretences, being no more professional photographer than I am racing car driver. Yes, I bought a shiny new SLR and yes, I once took a course with the aim of adding another string to my bow. However, I almost always had something better going on than the lessons, so short of picking up a few tips I pretty much just point and press the button the same as anyone else.

The blonde comes off him again, leaving a string of saliva sagging between her lips and his glans. I press instinctively and find I've captured a rather arty shot of her with closed eyes, her big hair back-lit by the dipping sun through the window behind, her tongue stuck out and curling up towards his tip, a silver thread of spit joining her to the chrome of his piercing. Convert that to black and white and I reckon there might be prizes coming my way. I lean over and show the room's other occupant my efforts. She is toking on a joint, one eye closed against the upward drift of stinging smoke. She sucks in as she examines my work and then nods in appreciation as she slowly exhales, adding even more noxious fumes to the already thick air.

I could complain but I'm well used to it now. Anyway, she is the only reason I am here at all: Sindee Liscious, real name Cindy Hemmingway, lead vocalist of Death in Venus and the sole generator of their modicum of fame. At age 24 she is the youngest of the band, poached by the aforementioned lead guitarist from an all-girl goth revival band, although he had no idea back then how fortuitous his poaching would be. She is every inch the rock chick. She is sassy as hell and constantly exudes energy and spirit. She is strong and spontaneous, going off like dynamite when she needs to fight either her corner or the band's. Yet she is disarmingly funny and unafraid to put herself out there. You have to love her. I challenge anyone to need more than a single day in her company to conclude that she is one of the best things since sliced bread, even if being with her can be a bit seat-of-the-pants. And that's without the fact that she is completely and utterly, hopelessly and unashamedly, addicted to sex - which is why she is here in her bandmate's hotel room, watching him getting blown by a girl whose name none of us know.

Sindee comes armed with the body and the looks, so beware. She is slim, with narrow hips and a flatter, smaller bottom than my own, but she is bigger up top, although her D-cups do come courtesy of silicone. She sports colourful tattoos down one whole arm and at certain other strategic parts of her body. Her left nostril is pierced, as are her nipples and her hood, for those in the know. Her hair is currently very long and peroxide blonde, although this changes like the weather. She is cat-eyed pretty but can look aggressive with all that stage make-up on. When you see her without she is a lot softer. Right now she looks like a minx and she already has her free hand sliding crotch-ward in readiness. She just can't help herself.

The other blonde now has a steady rhythm going on Russell's muscle. Her pace and depth are commendable since she cannot use her hands to grip the length. The slurping noises coming from her mouth and throat are so distinctively dirty you'd instantly know a blow job was going on here even if you were blind. It is a disgusting, greedy noise and I can't help but get an internal fizzle from the filth of it. The deeper she takes him the more saliva she produces and the louder her slurps become. I feel a sudden twinge between my legs and I squeeze my thighs together and involuntarily press the shutter button once more. The shot doesn't capture the sound, which deserves posterity in its own right. It doesn't capture the ravenous lust of her guzzling or the artistry of her slick movement. Single frames aren't doing her justice. The camera has a video function on it but I don't want to get all Tommy Lee about things - especially as I'm only really supposed to be capturing singer Sindee in action.

More than half the coke has now been ingested and the blonde hasn't gagged once. The end of the mini mountain ridge of drug has collapsed like a tiny landslide and has darkened from the wet contact of her lips. It will soon be gobbled up. All of the white powder looks inexorably bound for absorption by this hungry slut. I realise with a shiver that she already has enough meat in her throat to kill the likes of me - and she's not finished yet. She puts in a special effort to reach the last of the ridge, slowing up and taking his length seemingly a millimetre at a time, stretching her lips forward as if she is making a desperate last lunge to grab at a cliff edge. Finally she closes upon him, pauses for dramatic effect, and then slides ever so slowly back, revealing his fat swell by fractions. It seems even bigger coming out than it did going in. I shudder again.

She gives the head of his cock a final affectionate suck and then releases him with a loud wet pop. He gasps and his prick bobs and jerks. She kneels there, a little smile of self-satisfaction on her face as if she has just executed a perfect handstand on command, rather than so openly performed an act of such proficient vulgarity. I realise my own expression is one of wide-eyed, open-mouthed awe, so I mentally slap myself round the face to bring back some normality. I raise the camera up again, to look like I'm unfazed by everything, and capture his glistening erection in isolation. I always think stiff pricks look so much more appetising when slippery wet with saliva. They look so much more take-able.

I glance sideways to gauge Sindee's reaction to all this. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright, despite the marijuana in her system. Anything rude takes priority in her senses. She looks hungry for the cock but she won't ever take it - not his. She has standards. Certainly nothing like as stringent as my own, but standards nonetheless, even if she was probably hating them right now. It's only because it's so unusually quiet that she is here at all. Tonight's gig has been cancelled due to massive unseasonal downpours here in - hang on, I don't even know which country we are in anymore - Slovenia or Slovakia, or somewhere. Anyway, it's all flooded out so we are stuck here waiting to see if it will clear, whilst the main group in our touring party, US metal giants Thunderhed, have zipped off back to Germany where their album has just gone to number one, to do some stuff for MTV Europe. Most of the fun went with them.

However, good old Russell still managed to bag himself a babe. We had been kicking about in the hotel bar most of the afternoon, trying not to die of boredom. The entrance here is by pass key only and the tour manager took the opportunity to confiscate all ours, presumably to keep everyone on site and cut down on the incidences of arrest for drunk and disorderly behaviour. Russell popped off to the bathroom where he found the blonde lodged fast in the window she was trying to climb through. He gallantly helped her in and, since band member/groupie trysts require no conversational foreplay whatsoever, he led her out by the hand and took her giggling straight to his room. Sindee spotted him and dragged me with her as she gave chase. If she wasn't going to be partaking in any sex, watching it would be the next best thing.

Russell pinches out another small line across the top of his glistening shaft. The blonde gives a little clap of excitement. Her face is all wide eyes and wide smiles in her glee.

"Let's see that ass of yours, baby," says the silly drummer in a contrived accent of hybrid Anglo-American. I don't care though, because I want to see the blonde's backside as much as he does. I'd prefer to have a finger inside me when I did but I cannot possibly do that here, although it's an act that wouldn't even make the Top 100 of this particular European Tour's Most Wanton. If I take enough pictures of her bare posterior it will give me adequate fuel for my imagination when I do later get myself alone. The blonde is still completely without reticence, turning away and giving him a little wiggle of the hips. Her hands are already sliding up her thighs, bringing up her short denim skirt. She is smiling back over her shoulder, batting her lashes and licking her lips provocatively. I wonder if she would be like this is we were three average strangers she had met in a bar, or whether it is specifically the rock band element that has brought out the porn star in her. One thing you very quickly learn about the world of rock music is that it strips away all previously held notions of morality.

The knickers are sliding down now and you can feel the buzz of anticipation coming from all three of us witnesses. She pushes her backside out to help bring herself on display. If there is a more obvious way to silently say 'fuck me' then I cannot think of it: a pretty girl sticking her bare bottom in your direction as her underwear slowly comes down, the swell of her puss just visible between her pressed-together thighs, the dark line between her cheeks opening just slightly to give you a glimpse of the naughtiness between.

I had expected a tattoo somewhere on her behind, what with her being such a dirty-minded young lady, but the seemingly virginal perfection of her pale expanse adds an unexpected dimension and is some consolation. The bum is a good size and has a nice curve. I know it will be made of that lovely springy flesh that younger chubby-rumped girls can have. It will feel soft and cool to press into but there will be resistance. Slapping hard against it will not send juddering waves lolling through it but mere ripples, the cheeks quickly back to their lovely shape as soon as the forward press relents.

It must indeed be a gorgeous rear because Russell deigns to unbutton his jeans and drag them down around his knees, wanting to get his thighs and balls against the softness of her rather than just do her informally with his prick poking out of his zip. It must be love! He does this without disturbing the little ridge of coke along the top of his shaft, although her saliva no doubt helped bond the drug to his skin.

"You want me to give you my special 'sherbet dip', darlin'?" he leers.

She might not know of this, his trademark sex move, but it is pretty obvious what is on offer and she gives another little squeal of delight. He guides himself into her, pressing down at the very base of his erection and breaching her with the fat head. He begins an unhurried forward slide, the downward pressure on his shaft opening her puss to ensure the line of narcotic stays upon him as he goes inside her, rather than piling up and spilling off at her entrance. He sinks into her until he can go no further. Both give a sigh and throw their heads back. She will be clenching him within, her sensitive, saturated insides gripping at his meat and greedily absorbing the white powder upon it, drawing the high into her system. It is a perfect example of rock & roll excess. It didn't necessarily enhance the sex, nor was it apparently the most beneficial way to take the drug. It was done purely because it could be, because it was different from the norm, because it was a depravity that could be chalked up as done.

I expect his fuck to be instantly manic but instead he slides in and out of her at a measured pace, almost as if he wants her to enjoy it. He presses in and fills her and then gyrates his hips, wriggling his great prick within the confines of her young body. She exhales loudly and her mouth stays open. The withdrawal is slow. From side-on I see each shining fraction of the shaft re-emerge, the powder upon it all but gone. She pushes back as if desperate not to lose him. I can just see the darker shades of his swollen head at her entrance and I squeeze my hips together and clench down there, like I too am trying to keep a grip on him. He pauses and holds her still before his next forward push, a slightly faster slide than his out-stroke, gathering sudden pace just at the end to finish hard against her behind. He is all the way inside her and one can only guess how wonderful that feels.

He slips off his shirt, expertly leaving the bandana on his head undisturbed. The tattoos on his torso are many and dirty-looking but I've seen it all before. He finishes each gig bare-chested, whether in a Marseilles heat wave or a Reykjavik freeze. His biceps and shoulders are large, as you'd expect from someone who hits things for a living. His hands are big and strong and make her look so soft. They grip and indent the pale flesh at her hips and he looks powerful and controlled, totally in his element. Suddenly he isn't so ridiculous. He seems expert, perhaps even dangerous. With the thick chrome rings in his ears and the short goatee beard he could pass for a Hell's Angel.

The stupid words he usually utters are gone and now he is silent. He doesn't do mock sex faces for the camera like a porn star would. Instead there is only concentration there, and a little bloom on the cheek from his desire. One could easily think him handsome, in a piratey-biker kind of way. Having earlier ridiculed his arse I now have to privately concede that it isn't bad at all - rounded and taut, smooth-looking, and with a nice dimple in the side. It is rather mesmeric watching the change in the muscles beneath his skin as he moves back and forth; the clench and relaxation - especially in comparison to the effects his thrusts have on her softer behind.

The two of them move in perfect unison, her slight backward thrust timed to allow the smooth entry of his curved prick. The depth he gets is tantalising. The noises her puss makes are wet and luscious and she coats his shaft with glistening cream. If you have never watched two people having sex in the flesh then you must. In some ways it is more exciting than doing it yourself, and incomparable to watching it on screen. Here there is no need for trite dialogue. No concessions to camera angles are required, despite my lens pointing at them. He can hold her as he wants and drive in deep to produce that most alluring sound of all: the sound of a man slapping against a woman's bottom as he takes her from behind. Nothing here masks the raw lust and energy, the beauty of the bodies in harmony, the rhythm and the exquisite noises.

In some ways I wish I was watching them covertly, just to accentuate the thrill of seeing them in dirty action. However, being performed for makes it ruder and thus more exciting. This way I get to see them up close, to be near enough almost to feel the heat of their lust, to smell it above the smoke in the air. The desire is palpable and it draws you in. I wonder what feelings are fizzling through her puss, what effect the drug has on her sensitivity, what unique thrills the metal of his piercing gives to her tingling insides. It must be good because she is so enraptured she can hardly make a sound. The evidence is all there in the cream she keeps leaching all over his shaven balls.

Together they seem somehow professional. Russell might be generally inane but whilst he keeps his mouth shut this is only about bodies and heat, wetness and excitement. It is about primal needs and nothing more. I watch through the lens, zooming in to isolate just their two behinds, framing nothing but their fuck. It should be rude but it is only beautiful, like human kinetic art. Everything matches and is right: their fine-tuned movements; his power against her softness; his darker pink skin against her paleness. They know absolutely nothing of each other except that each needs a bone-shuddering orgasm and both want to do their damndest to ensure this happens. It is so erotic watching two people who want to please each other in dirty action. Until you do so you will never truly appreciate what a beautiful symmetry sex can be.

He has built to a steady rhythm now, mid-pace and hard into her. I could watch her backside like this all day. With each slap against her I squeeze my thighs together, trying to get some pressure there, hoping I can resist doing anything more wanton to myself in his presence. It seems surreal to be so closely witnessing this most private of acts, having barged in uninvited, to casually watch something so personal whilst not even knowing for sure which country you are in. It is almost dream-like to be unapologetically sat there getting turned on by a man you generally do not like, whilst he pleasures a girl he cannot even name. But then this is the mad world I have been living in for weeks now, one in which anything seems possible and where most of the protagonists are hell bent on proving that point.

I am vaguely aware that Sindee beside me has actually given in and is clutching hard at her leather-clad crotch. I want her to do that to mine but I don't want this degenerating into something I will regret. This could turn into anything now, such is this bizarre Band on Tour bubble we are currently living in. It could be a threesome, although I hope Sindee has the strength to stick to her principles. If she doesn't it will be even harder not to make it a foursome, however much it would burn to finally give him the victory of getting me naked. It could be two separate couples, feeding off the excitement of watching each other, perhaps even swapping partners. Again, I don't want to give him anything he could crow endlessly about afterwards. I'm on a knife-edge though.

He is speeding up and I think he is going for the finish. Instead he gives one final big thrust and stays squashed against her, grinding into her backside as she gasps. Then he slowly withdraws and steers her around, lifting her effortlessly and plonking her atop the mini bar she was just leaning against. In this moment he seems almost heroic. She smiles and opens wide and he seamlessly slides back into her, going all the way in until their crotches meet. It is her turn to wriggle and writhe against him, using the crush to stimulate parts he had yet to reach. The bliss is immediately evident, trembling through her body as she screws up her eyes and bites her lip. Her hands come down to hold his tautened backside in place, keeping him close. She bucks and grinds against him whilst he fills her. I know she will be drenching him.

I squeeze off another frame of him pressed to her, focussing on his hindquarters and her heels dug into the backs of his thighs. It is just an instant of their passion that can only hint at the hot straining rigidity of his cock inside her, and the shivering bliss coursing through her body. He is patient and happy to let her take this pleasure, even though his own lust must be more than ready to spill. He holds her and stays silent and motionless. It looks almost tender, despite the fact that his pants are still round his knees in a reminder of their dirty urgency. This indeed is relatively 'normal' sex compared to all that I've witnessed over the weeks - if you discount it being done in front of spectators. The blonde has no idea what levels of filth she could have gotten herself into here, though who knows if she would have welcomed it? You can see in her face this is a fantasy fulfilled for her, so maybe she is luckier than she knows.

I feel a sudden pang inside. It's not quite jealousy but it is near enough. I wish I had her freedom, her blissful ignorance. If I didn't know what Russell was like outside of sex he would be so much more appealing. She doesn't have these complications. Sometimes it astounds me what indignities these groupies will perform just to immerse themselves briefly in the depraved world of rock. One cannot believe there are so many young women willing to demean themselves in such a manner. Yet think more deeply and you see the attraction. They go anonymously into an environment of excess that must be seen to be believed. They can party as hard as they like, act with complete abandon without explanation or excuse, and then slip away again without anyone even noticing they have gone. And all of it is for free.

There doesn't have to be any conversation, any ties, or any regrets. They can live out their naughtiest dreams and no one will even care what their name is or where they come from. This scene can be so surreal you might assume it could only be made up by your dirty imagination. But this is a fantasy made solid, a moment of blissful rudeness actually performed, a genuine memory to get you hot forever - and no one in the 'real world' need ever know a thing about it. If you fantasise about being used by rough, muscular, egotistical men who don't give a shit about you, about being passed between them, about being made to perform filthy acts with similar young girls, then you can have all this come true and much, much more. Assuming you can avoid alcohol poisoning, catching some nasty disease, or dying from a massive drug overdose, the worst thing that can happen is that you bag yourself a rock star.

So maybe this blonde - who has already had at least one delicious orgasm and now seems to be having more as he starts to slap hard in and out of her once again - maybe she is a slut, but then perhaps she is only a being a slut for the day. Most probably she will climb back out of that bathroom window having had one of her fantasies come true. She will go off smiling after a wonderful time with a physically exciting, big-cocked drummer of a heavy metal band, without having to find out what a gargantuan jerk he really is. It will be a memory to hold dear and keep her warm at night, and maybe only the closest of her friends will ever know what a naughty, filthy little girl she has been.

The sound of him fucking her hard is driving me to distraction. He had better come soon or I am going to be in trouble. His arse looks fabulous driving back and forth. This is when men look most powerful. Her face reveals that her climax is ongoing, a long drawn-out pleasure rather than a hard single hit. Her eyes are shut but not tightly, her mouth is open and wet, the cheeks flushed. I know before he spurts that he is going to do it inside her. He isn't famous enough yet to care about being served with million-dollar paternity suits. He is still at the level whereby he can let the girls worry about the STDs and the unwanted pregnancies.

His pace reaches a crescendo and then he suddenly stops hard against her, letting out a curse as he does so. It is thankfully the only word he has said throughout his whole performance. She beams at the heat of his spray inside her and grips him tightly. She is one happy groupie. They stay like this as he empties into her, each clench of his buttocks signifying another spurt. His shoulders drop from the exertion and her hands slip down his back to playfully squeeze his behind. They touch foreheads and grin at each other and for one moment I think they are going to kiss. Instead he slides out of her, giving her one last shiver, and he reaches down to drag his leathers back up. He pulls his T-shirt back on and she sits there smiling with eyes glazed and his seed seeping from her. He then turns his back to her and reaches for the cigarettes on the low table. She is young and pretty and sexier than any girl he could have got if he wasn't on this tour, but that is the last he will see of her.

"I need whisky and pizza," he declares, already heading out. "If you girls are going to have a pussy-munching session then go do it in your own room, not mine."

The blonde looks at us as if the idea appeals.

"You have coke?" she asks.

And there, encapsulated, is this wonderful, weird world I'm living in of sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll.