Sin Delicious

Chapter One Intro I am framing random things around the smoky hotel room when suddenly the viewfinder is filled with swollen c**k. 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 s*x, 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 f*****g 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 d**k!” 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 s*x – 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 n*****s 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 c**k 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.