I felt like an extra in Caribbean Heat.
It was the final weekend of my Jamaican vacation, and everybody who could get out of the city did so, a miles-long convoy of bikes, cars and buses streaming to the furthest reaches of the shore for as long as they could get away for, not only jamming every empty room for miles around, but crashing on beaches, sidewalks and doorways, any place where they thought they could get a few hours sleep in between the parties that seemed to last twenty-four hours at a stretch.
I was lucky. My hotel had an arrangement with another one by the sea, and not only that, but a helicopter too, charted to buzz the tourists down to the miles of sun and surf kissed paradise that encircles the island like... Like lips around a stiff cock, I giggled to myself as the image leapt unbidden to my mind, and that, with a few other incidentals that really aren't especially interesting, is how I wound up topless on stage in a night club, far from the usual tourist trail, dancing with a singer who had scored eight number one records at the end of the 1990s, then retired out here because he made more money selling goofy little animals that he made out of seashells and beads, than he ever earned from the local music industry.
Now he just sang for the fun of it, one offs around the hotels and casinos, and then late nights he'd head to what the tourists called the ghetto, to sing for his friends. And their friends, and their friends. I met him in the bar of the hotel I was staying in, when he sent a drink to the table where I was eating alone, then invited himself over to sit down beside me and sing old Bob Marley songs to an audience of one. Believe me, it's even more irresistible than it sounds.
He invited me to his gig that evening; I accepted. He asked me to dance; I agreed. He started his show and he beckoned me onto the stage. I joined him. And when his backing musicians kicked into an intro that even a thirty-something American would recognize, I didn't even think of resisting as he danced up behind me and, singing seduction into my ear, began unfastening the buttons of my blouse.
Did I mention that was a strong drink he sent me?
He slipped my blouse off me and threw it to the crowd; half a dozen guys leaped while it was still in mid-flight, and they tore it shreds before my eyes.
Have you ever been gang-banged by five hundred pairs of eyes? Have you ever been a fuck fantasy for a room full of hungry strangers? The dancehall was seething, and the kids who were squeezed up closest to the stage were already making grabs for my feet. Once my tits came out, their hands were on my legs and even if I jogged back a little, the way the stage was set up meant the longest arms still reached me. And Jamaican guys have long arms.
Besides, the band were having their fun as well, guitar necks that caught the hem of my skirt and accidentally-on-purpose raised it skywards with a flourish, to give the audience a glimpse of my panties and thighs.
A bottle of Red Stripe sat on an amplifier. I grabbed it and drained it, still gyrating to the music. The fourth or fifth time I felt my skirt go up, I didn't even flinch; and when the song shifted into an instrumental passage that just kept going on, I could not even separate my own body from the solid beat of the bass. I shivered out of my skirt.
Which is when my singer came over and, hands on my waist, started slowly twisting down my body, his entire frame swaying as he shimmied lower and lower. I felt a nip from his teeth as they grabbed the waistband of my panties. And then I was naked with this man at my feet, my underwear still clasped between two rows of bright white teeth, and the entire room howling and hooting for more.
He stood, his body pressing against my sweat drenched body, his hands on my hands as he positioned them on his hips. Now it was my turn, and I made the same moves, working my musical way down his body, my mouth brushing the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt as I descended, then down to my knees before him, with my hands on his ass cheeks, grinding his hips.
I could feel his cock through his dark blue slacks, hard and hot, straining to escape, and I let my cheek brush it as his hands grasped my head, twisting my hair in tight meaty fists, pushing my face harder in to his swaying, grinding hips. My mouth opened and I closed teeth over the bulge that begged for more than that, and he rocked against me, till my jaw was jerking him through his trousers. I was happy to oblige.
The band played on, settling into a groove that slipped into the rhythm of my bobbing head, or had I allowed my own movements to fall into the rhythm they’d created? But there was an urgency to the tempo now; without the music really speeding up, I could feel its growing insistence, and when my teeth tapped metal and my tongue discovered his zipper, I just grasped that sucker and tugged it down.
My mouth tasted flesh. My mouth tasted cock. Fat cock, thicker and darker than even the Happy Valley dildo that a girlfriend once gave me for Christmas (thank God I didn't open that one in front of my parents). Naked on a stage before 500-plus people, I licked his prick and closed my teeth again. Raising my eyes, I saw that his were shut, lost in the music or lost in my movements, and emboldened, I used my jaw to tug at him, pulling his cock out of its unwanted bolt hole, and wondering whether anyone else heard the thwack as it sprung free and slapped me just below my right eye.
The crowd. It wasn’t silent because the whooping and yelling was still as loud as ever. But there was a mood of anticipation now, a sense that the show was really getting started, and when I flung my head backwards and looked out through the lights, it was as if every face was looking back at me, waiting and willing me to make the next move.
My hands did not move, but my fingers gripped tighter, nails pressing through the fabric into the flesh of his ass. Then ducking down slightly till it rested on my nose, I started to lick up the length of his prick, beginning at the balls and then up, up and up. And the band began to play a little faster now, sucking me into a solid wall of sound as I reached the tip of that hot, sweating cock and then closed my mouth over the tip of it.
The room exploded.
Now my hand moved, grabbing his meat and dragging back his foreskin, watching in wonder as it slid unwillingly away from the thick meaty helmet that I wanted to taste. I stretched it back hard, my tongue smearing wet across the unfolding black flesh, then I swooped down again to gobble my prize.
There are two basic ways of giving a blowjob. One, you use your mouth as a cunt and fuck him with tight lips and frenzy until he cannot take any more. And the other, you torment, you tease and you taste, engulfing then releasing, licking and loving, until there's not an inch of his cock that has not felt your hunger, and his entire shaft is slick with spit and precum.
Tonight was a night for the first. Alone together later, in a delicious 69, I suckled and savored him till I could take no more, and I twisted round and rode him as though I were the stud, and the look of astonishment in his eyes as I fucked him let me know that not many girls had treated him like that.
But on the stage before his fan club, this was his show, and he intended to perform.
Holding my head still, drawing himself back, for a moment I thought I might lose my prize, that he was withdrawing the treasure from my mouth altogether. But then he thrust forward and I fought against gagging as his full, fat length crashed forward and his helmet banged my throat. Out and then in again, deliberate low thrusts, and each one accompanied by the crash of a cymbal, while the bass drum beat a military tattoo, timing each lunge as he drew back and then pushed.
Slowly at first, but then faster and faster, my head still immobile as he fucked out my brains, and now he'd grabbed the microphone again, slipping into the verse of the song he'd begun long, so long, before all this started, but the words were changing from the ones that I recognized, abandoning the candlelit romance that had entranced a million slow dancers, into something lewd and filthy in which I played the central role.
He was fucking my mouth and singing about it, twisting my hair till it felt it might tear, rhyme after rhyme about the tightness of my lips and the softness of my throat, and how when he was finished my entire soul would float, on a sea of love, a sea of sperm, a sea, sea, sea and I would learn to drink his jizzum because he's John Chisum, he's John Wayne and he's gonna fuck that mouth again again again.
There was a hand on my cunt, fingers probing and then stretching me, and I felt hot breath scalding as a mouth pressed against me. I didn't move, I didn't care. Nothing mattered now, nothing apart from the rod that throbbed inside my head, and the promise of the flood that would fill me with his mud. Absurdly, I wondered if anyone was recording the show, a record company maybe, or just a fan with a cellphone. Would I search the star on YouTube one night, and see myself giving head to a man with eight number ones? Would I download an album from amazon.com and hear my cocksucking qualities being broadcast to the world? Jesus, I'd play ninety nine cents to hear that song.
The band had upped the tempo and so had he. My jaw screamed from the friction, my neck felt like it was breaking, his entire body was a blur before my half-opened eyes. And then he cried out into the microphone, the soundman hit the echo effect, and his ecstasy was ricochetting off the walls of that room as his sweet fiery cum pumped blast after blast into my waiting, gaping throat.
I fought to swallow, and he pulled his cock out, slapping my face with it and holding the mike there, so each sodden flesh contact echoed loud into the air, then whirling around without a word, he thrust his soft cock back into his pants and counted the band into one more song. And I picked myself up and, with my face splashed with cum, I started dancing again.
Wondering what he had planned for an encore.
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