#Roadie

Standing by the stage door she waited. Endlessly. On and on. Didn’t have tickets. Just waited. For a glimpse of stardom.

Held her breath. Door opened. Frowned in pain. A roadie. Just a roadie. He lit a cigarette. Looked her up and down.

He rolled his eyes, but her blushing cheeks made him look again. Up and down. He smiled and appealed to her star-lust.

Would she like to see the bus? She grinned and followed. And he took her inside. Showed her ashtrays and empty bottles.

Showed her crumpled packets and rumpled bedding. And pulled her close. She let him slide his rough tongue between her lips.

She let him slide his hands over her ass. She let him pinch her flesh. She let him bite her skin. She let him pull her down.

Onto the star’s bed. Wrong man, right place. She’d take it. Slipped hands inside his shirt and kissed his neck.

And he leaned back. Pretended he was what he wanted. A star. She his groupie. They both made do.

Kissed, bit, pulled, pinched, rode. Undressed and showed, stranger to stranger, their hands exploring naked bodies.

She wrapped her hand around him, as he grew hard, whilst he pierced her cunt with his fingertips and strummed her clit.

And smiling, she knelt over him, astride him, and pulled him inside her. Arched her back and he grasped her hips.

Rough hands, stubbled cheek meeting white flesh and silken skin. Pink lips crushed beneath his power, as he pulled her down.

And they fucked. Rocked back and forth. In sync. Bodies grinding. He pierced her pussy again and again.

Rough, urgent lust flowed through them. On top, in control of her pleasure, she peaked fast, and he followed.

Her hungry cunt clasped his cock, and he filled her, meeting the wetness she gasped. And they collapsed.

Sweat clung, and the dream was over. They dressed and parted. And she went home. Without an autograph.

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I am currently collecting ideas for my Christmas podcast. What would you like to hear? It’s all in your hands. So come and listen. So you can listen and come.