Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I should fuck her right here on stage. I should spread her legs and thrust my cock deep inside her naughty little cunt. That would teach her a proper lesson about disobeying me. It would also satisfy the sexual intensity that has been left between us since we first slept together. This woman has not been fucked nearly enough.
I wonder, briefly, what Simon thinks of this. Will he be losing his mind seeing this? Or will he be looking for the marketing angle?
Of course I already know the answer. There will be Lyric Walker Bad Girl paddles for sale on the website before the concert ends, I bet.
But this isn’t about Simon, and it’s not about the public. This is entirely, one hundred percent about Lyric and what she needs. My cock is throbbing inside my pants. I want to be inside her so badly I can barely contain myself. For the moment, I have to content myself by letting the tips of my fingers occasionally make contact with her pussy, spanking that tight little pouch of hers as red as her cheeks.
Her voice is starting to sound huskier and more intense, and she’s beginning to moan more than yowl in the spaces between the words. I could spank her all the way through orgasm. I could force her to come here on stage, in front of the universe. I could show everybody what a filthy little brat she is.
“Please,” she whimpers.
“PLEASE!” The crowd hollers back.
I laugh at that. It is so very satisfying to see her hoist by her own petard, such as it is. The crowd she has used so many times to disobey me, has turned from being an ally of hers, to one of mine. They want to see some kind of climax or crescendo. They want her to come or to cry. I want that too.
I spank her until her hips dance over my thigh, until her cheeks writhe and squirm, and she rubs that hidden bud I know the secrets of well enough against my thigh. The audience has no idea, but I am focusing intensely on her naughty pussy. I am punishing those delicate yet swollen, wet lips and she is loving every moment of it because she is the kind of twisted that allows pain to be pleasure.
In between swats, I reach between her thighs and rub her clit briefly. This is now an explicit display, though I am trying to be surreptitious about it. The music is still playing, and she is still orgasmically wailing those breathless broken words as she finally gives in and comes against my fingers, squeezing her thighs, and trying to hide her blushing reaction as much as is humanly possible.
“Behave,” I growl in her ear as I tip her back up to her feet.
The crowd screams as she pulls her pants back up again, and I melt back into the shadows.
Lyric
I can’t fucking believe he did that. I am riddled with heat and shame and the perfect orgasm. My ass is aching and my pride is stinging, and I am pretty sure I just put on an impromptu sex show. My gigs are all eighteen plus, but still. Zayne just called my bluff and turned me into his public punishment slattern.
I have to regroup, and quickly. I can feel the energy of the audience surging in strange ways. They don’t know what to make of what they just saw, because what they just saw was me coming hard over the dominating thigh of my bodyguard.
Thankfully, the next lyrics allow me to regain some of my self-respect with their rebellious content.
“MONSTER. YOU’RE THE MONSTER OF MY HEART!”
The crowd goes wild as I make a rude gesture to Zayne’s retreating back. They’re super amped after seeing more of my anatomy than I intended. I play it up, rubbing my ass.
“Oh wow, that REEALLY hurts,” I croon into the microphone. “When a guy needs some ass, he needs some ass.”
They roar with laughter. It doesn’t matter what I say, really. That’s one of the best things about music. Writing has to make sense, or people start getting salty almost immediately. Songs, though? You can say whatever nonsense you want and it still counts. One of my favorite ancient songs poses the question to the audience How Much Is the Fish? in a song that is clearly not about fish at all.
I have to play this off like it’s part of the act, because I know the audience doesn’t know any different. Anything that happens on stage has to look like it was meant to happen, including having my butt turned to molten lava by the dragon who seems to be able to read my mind.
I guess I deserved that.
I also know there’s no way I am going to let him get the better of me. So he smacked my ass. Whatever. It’s not going to kill me to have a sore butt. I’m going to make contact with this audience regardless. I’m not going to let that warning thrashing actually warn me. I’m going to push harder than ever before.