“Derek,” I whispered, my eyes closed, as I felt him kiss my clit… and again… over… and over…

He stopped only long enough to whisper, “Relax…”

And then he began to lick.

Gentle wet slidings of his tongue over my pussy, around my clit, in the valley between my lips, edging the tiniest bit deeper and deeper into my body.

I was so wet now.

His mouth was so wet, too.

And soft.

And hot.

He caressed me with his tongue, the rhythm hypnotic, the sensations so sensual.

And then the tip of his tongue entered me as deep as he could go.

This time, I said it out loud, or rather moaned it out loud: “Unnnnnhhhhh…”

The tip of his tongue ran along the inside of me, then back out, up to my clit… and began lapping, softly, quietly, gently.

Back when I was a kid, there were these pieces of sugary bubblegum I used to buy at the store. Little hard pink cylinders, individually wrapped and dusted with sugar. The best part was when you took it out of the wrapper and popped it in your mouth. With that first taste, all the sugar just burst out over your tongue, filling your mouth with unbelievable sweetness.

That’s what my pussy felt like now.



Soft and warm and wet with pleasure as his tongue lapped at me, caressed me, played with me, teased me, pleased me.

I could feel the tension building, that sugary-sweet high getting higher, even better, so gentle, so incredibly hot, as his tongue kept lapping at my clit, his wetness and mine one, slippery skin on skin –

And then I was coming.

It wasn’t the explosive fireworks of earlier, but a gently swelling wave that kept getting higher, and higher, and higher, and just when I didn’t think I could go any further, it came rushing down – not crashing, but like a gentle, powerful pulsing – all through my legs, up into my stomach, my chest, my head, like warm water infusing every part of my body, and I arched my back and moaned as he kept licking me so sweetly.

After the wave of pleasure dissipated, I lay there on the bed, melting into the sheets, my breath coming and going in quiet little sighs.

“…are you relaxed?” he whispered from between my thighs, grinning at me.

“…yes…” I whispered back, and smiled. “…but I think I need to relax some more…”

All told, he ‘relaxed’ me two more times before he slowly peeled off the rest of my clothes. I finally got to see him undress, to watch those muscles etched in shadow as he took off his shirt. To finally see his cock, long and thick and gorgeous – and which had entirely soaked through his underwear as he pulled it away, a single strand of pre-cum connected from the swollen head to his belly like a silver strand in the dim lamplight.

This time I didn’t have to ask, he just got a condom and rolled it down his entire length, then got on the bed and eased his weight on top of me. I shivered with delight as I felt him slowly, gently push his thickness into me, easing inside me. I moaned all over again as he completely filled me up. His kisses on my mouth were soft and sweet as he rocked back and forth, moving slowly, in and out, filling me, massaging me with his hardness and thickness the way he had caressed me earlier with his tongue. I could feel his body tensing, and I clutched his ass and sighed in his ear as I felt him suddenly strain and then spasm, his cock growing even larger in one short burst after another, him grunting and crying out, and then he slowed down and laid there, his face in the crook of my neck, breathing softly on my skin.

“…I like relaxing…” I whispered impishly.

He laughed, then kissed me.


And thus I found myself driving across the California desert the next afternoon in a 1969 Mercedes convertible with three of the four members of the hottest rock band in the world.

Joshua Tree is almost two hours due east of Los Angeles. Which means we had a good bit further to go from San Diego. Everybody got up late, as they always did, so we didn’t actually hit the road until 2PM.

Derek drove, and I sat beside him in the front seat. Ryan and Killian were in the back. Killian was plinking away on a guitar, as always.

“Beautiful car, mate,” he called out.

“It is, isn’t it?” Derek agreed.

“You’re welcome,” Ryan said playfully from the backseat.

Derek glanced in the rearview mirror. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”


“Did you pay yourself back yet?”

“I haven’t exactly had time, what with all the drug trips out to the desert,” Ryan deadpanned.

Their little exchange sparked a memory from the car dealership.

I turned around and looked at Ryan. “Derek said something when we bought it – do you really handle all his money?”


I looked over at Derek in shock.

“What?” he asked.

“You let him handle your bank account?!”

“And SEP IRA, and Roth IRA, and investments, and life insurance…” Ryan rattled off.

I stared at Derek with my mouth wide open. “Seriously?!”

Derek shrugged. “I trust him.”

“Yeah, but – that’s crazy!”


“Why don’t you just get an accountant?”

“I already have one,” Derek grinned. “He plays bass in my band. And he’s on call 24/7.”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Ryan snorted.

“And you don’t mind?” I asked Ryan.

“I’d rather do it than see him blow all his money,” Ryan said, then added disapprovingly, “Which he tries to do anyway.”

Derek shook his head like Not THIS again. “Ninety-five grand is hardly all my money.”

“It is when you could’ve rented one for fifty bucks.”

“I am not going to ride around in a Ford Focus.”

“Then rent a Porsche.”

“I didn’t have a credit card.”

“Which is why I get weird calls at 2AM,” Ryan said to me, then did a pretty funny imitation of Derek’s rumbling voice. “‘Hey, man, I just ran up a three thousand dollar bar tab – can you spot me, bro?’”

Derek laughed. “Think of it as a financial booty call.”

“If it were a financial booty call, then I’d at least get something out of it.”

“I told you, dude, pay yourself a fee!”

Ryan waved him off. “I’m not going to do that.”

“You guys are crazy,” I said, shaking my head.

“One of us is,” Ryan agreed.

“Yeah, but who is it: the guy with the bitchin’ car, or the guy who gets calls at 2AM and does all the work paying for the bitchin’ car?” Derek joked.

Ryan considered, then nodded in agreement. “Touché.”

I looked over the seat at the lead guitarist. “You don’t handle Killian’s money, too, do you?”

“No way,” Ryan joked. “I couldn’t possibly keep up with the volume of pot sales. And I refuse to get involved in anything that might have the DEA banging down my door.”

“Ryan’s a bit uptight,” Killian said to me. “He needs to smoke once in a while, mellow him out.”

“Amen,” Derek agreed.

“Yeah, no thanks,” Ryan said.

“Speaking of which…” Killian said, and brought out a tiny little handheld object.

Since the convertible’s top was down and the hot desert air was rushing past us at 85 miles per hour, there was no way to keep a joint lit – so Killian was instead taking hits off a handheld vaporizer. It was a fancy-schmancy, beautifully crafted piece of metal and plastic that fit in the palm of his hand.

After he took a toke, he offered it to me with a look of Would you like some? He didn’t actually say it out loud, because he was holding his breath, letting the pot vapor work its magic in his lungs.

“No thanks,” I said hastily.

“Somebody else is a little uptight, too,” Derek joked.

I poked him playfully in the side. “Hey – who’s going out to do drugs in the desert for the first time?”

He laughed. “Yeah, to get an interview out of it.”

I looked back at Killian. “Speaking of which…”

“Ohhhh, why’d you have to go and do that?” Killian complained to Derek. “And here I was hoping she’d gone and forgot about it.”

“Not likely, dude.”

“More like not even remotely possible,” I said as I pulled out the Zoom recorder and turned it on. “Okay – let’s try this again. When did you start playing the guitar?”

“When I was a boy.”

“What age?”

“Five, I think.”

I waited.

He just looked back at me placidly.

“Killian – ” I warned him.

He sighed, resigned. “Me grandpop had a bunch of old 45s. You know, the little records? Bo Diddley, and Chuck Berry, and Muddy Waters. He was in a band back in the ‘60’s, back when the Stones were comin’ up, and back then they were all into the blues, so that’s what he had mostly. I used to sit in front of the record player and just listen to ‘em, over and over. I was obsessed. And so I asked for a guitar for my birthday. Didn’t get it. Said I was too little, hands wouldn’t fit right. And I basically said bollocks to that, and I nicked 20 quid from me mum’s pocketbook – it was payday, I remember that – and I walked down to the pawnshop and I said, ‘I want a guitar.’ And the pawn broker gave me the most rubbish one you’ve ever seen. Acoustic. Looked like somebody’d taken a hatchet to it, but I was so fuckin’ proud of it. Took it back home and hid it in the attic where nobody would look for it.

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