Rim Shot by Julia Moore
I’ve always had a thing for musicians. Drummers, specifically. Maybe I secretly wanted to fuck “Animal” from The Muppet Show when I was younger. I don’t know. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve longed to play with the baddest boy in every rock band — the one with the sticks in his hands.
So when I saw Ty up on stage, poised and at the ready, just dying to wail on the skins, I got immediately wet. He was my ideal drummer, lean and tall, with short bleach-blonde hair and the kind of startling blue eyes that take your breath away. He had the prerequisite colorful tattoos crawling over his biceps — I think those are required when you join a rock band in L.A. — and an attitude of complete control.
I was dressed to get attention, myself, in a tight crimson skirt, black off-the-shoulder top, and plenty of teased-up 80s-style hair. I made sure to get a spot close to the stage, and when he winked at me and nodded his head, I knew we were going to get together.
He played like a dream, all wild motion and crazy electricity. He employed various percussion instruments to suit the songs, and for one crooning love ballad he even used wire brushes to stroke the rims of his drums. I know other girls in the crowd wanted him. Who wouldn’t? Yeah, the lead singer was hot, and the base player smoking, but the focus was Ty. He kept the band together, he drove them on. I would think about that later, when we were back in my tiny apartment, and he had me up against the wall, calling all the shots.
“Turn around and put your hands flat on the wall.”
I immediately obeyed and he bent at my side, unzipped my tight red skirt, and let it fall to the floor.
“Arch your hips. Just slightly. Just a little.”
I did as he said, and I felt his fingertips sliding my thong down my thighs.
Oh, I thought. He’s going to fuck me here, in my hallway. He’s going to pound against me while I’m still half-dressed. The thought turned me on intensely, but I was wrong.
Once Ty had my lacy black panties past my ankles, he bent behind me on the floor and started fondling my asscheeks. I felt how wet I was, and I pressed harder against the wall, arching my rear more seriously for him, begging him with my body. I wanted him to stand up and undo his button fly. I wanted him to pull down his faded Levis and press his cock into me. Ty was unconcerned with what I wanted. He was concerned only with my ass.
Slowly, he used his large, strong hands to part my rear cheeks, and then his thumbs began an intricate, rhythmic dance in the valley between. First one thumb brushed against my tender hole, then the other. My pussy spasmed as hard as if he’d stroked my clit. What was he doing to me? Foreplay had never felt like this before. And suddenly, I wanted something else. Not for him to slide his cock into my pussy, but for him to lube me up and fuck my ass.
But Ty was busy. His mouth now took over for his hands, and I felt a luscious, unexpected rush as the warm wetness of his tongue teased my rear hole.
“Oh, Jesus,” I moaned.
Ty responded by pulling me away from the wall and bending me forcefully over so that my palms were splayed flat on the runner carpet in the hall. He opened me up as wide as he could with his fingertips and began to slide his tongue deeper inside of me. I cried out each time his tongue thrust forward, but even as I was lost in his sensual caresses, I thought about the way he’d played the drums on stage. Sometimes delicate, sometimes with everything he had. He was being gentle with me now, but something told me that things would progress quickly.
In moments, Ty had me down on my hands and knees, and now he started licking in long, fierce strokes up the split between my cheeks. He used the flat of his tongue to do this, and I felt undone, touched everywhere. Truly, I felt as if some secret that I’d been keeping forever had suddenly been found out. My mouth opened in one long moan. My eyes shut tight. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore except for this: I didn’t want him to stop. He seemed to understand, and after several more licks, he brought one hand under my body and began to knowledgeably pluck my clit. With each touch of his tongue to my hole, his fingertips continued to work my pussy. Now, my moans grew in volume, and I was surprise to realize that I was saying words:
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me….”
Over and over again, I begged him, like an X-rated mantra.
“How, baby?” he asked. I was shocked. He’d been totally in control up until now, deciding every single movement. Yet here he was, asking for my input.
“You know–” I stammered.
“Just say it,” he insisted.
“Fuck my ass.”
“This pretty ass?” he slapped my bottom hard, and I cried out.
“Maybe,” he said. “When I’m done.”
“Done?” my voice was all wavery.
“Done making you come. I’m going to lick your lovely asshole until you cream like you never have before. Until your juices drench your thighs and your whole body is shaking all over.”
And then he went back to it, one hand playing with my clit, his other parting my cheeks so he could lick in there deep. The muscles in my whole body quivered with potential release. My back tightened, and my arms locked down. I bit into my lip and waited, rocking with him, seeing him up on the stage in my head. Feeling every bit an instrument that he was playing right now, playing for his own pleasure — and as he made me come exactly how he promised, I realized he was playing me for my pleasure, as well.
About the author:
Julia Moore is the co-author of the best-selling book “The Other Rules” (Masquerade, 1998), a spoof of the insane dating guide “The Rules.” Her erotic short stories have appeared in Sweet Life (Cleis), Naughty Stories from A to Z (PTP), and on the website goodvibes.com.