anonymous
12-08-2007, 11:19 PM
Paradise Light
"There was that immediate kind of attraction, man."
I sat across from Petey, my old buddy since the days of grammar school, and listened to him wax his story. A lot of this I thought he was either embellishing or making up on the spot, but I didn't say anything. He was goddamn funny when it came to telling these type of stories.
"There she was. Musta been six feet tall, slim, slender, a juicy bit of baby for papa to bite into," Petey continued. I didn't let another word get out. I busted out a laugh at the idea of him managing to catch some six foot girl. Especially since Petey was a pimply-faced seventeen year old without a car. That was my problem, too -- the latter, about being seventeen and not having a car. My complexion's been clear since I was fifteen.
The name is Kevin. I'm black haired and brown eyed, and I'm a slim guy, some 130 pounds into about five and a half feet.
"What's so funny, man?" Petey asked.
"You're so full of shit, that's what," I replied. I took a sip of a mug of root beer taken from my cabinet.
The room around us was white. Wholly white, from the refrigerator to the oven to the TV in the corner. It's gaping hole of a blank screen was the biggest blotch of black. My mom and her strange attitudes towards home improvement and room design.
"Well, I know one thing I'm not full of shit on," he told me.
"What's that?" I asked. I stood up to get another fill of root beer into my mug.
"I got tickets to an Avril Lavigne concert, man."
I dropped the bottle, spilling brown onto the blank white.
I've been interesting in that Canadian girl since, well, mid-May. Petey provided me with the first introduction to her music, and what she looked like. I saw a gorgeous skater chick with some pretty good pop songs.
Then I picked up the album when it came out. And I saw a beautiful young woman with a good future in music ahead of her. She did have her mind set on making tunes that were quite a bit more realistic than the simplistic, sexual rhymes of a Britney. Not to mention, she wrote the lyrics, for good or for bad.
I think it was this one song, "Naked", that pulled me in and made me some great admirer of her's. It was unbelievable, falling into the fandom of an artist so quickly. But, when I heard "Naked" for the first time, it put so much together. She starts off by singing how life is messed up, and how she really can't fit in. Suddenly, verse two has a savior to it, and she sings his praises the rest of the song.
Y'know, almost corny. What really is corny is how I wish I was that guy -- which isn't irregular, as I've found many pop songs to fit my wishes of what I could be. Sad, right? I know. It wouldn't hurt that just saying Avril Lavigne's "Naked" happened to be quite the jolting experience around my body.
But, I didn't act like it bothered me that much. "I accidentally dropped the bottle," I said, to which Petey let out a good, north-of-Boston guffaw.
"I know you want to go, man."
"How'd you guess?" I asked him. "The fact that I have a section of my wall devoted to her pictures, or that I listen to her album almost as much as the new Bruce Springsteen one?"
"A little from column A, a little from column B. Sprinkles from either side." He smiled. "It's next Saturday."
I nodded. "You sure you don't want to take Helen...?"
"I've got four tickets. Of course, I doubt you'll be able to pull anyone into your life by next Saturday to take." Petey still smiled, but now it seemed to be a meaner grin.
I knew exactly what he was talking about. You see, in high school, jerks equal sex, and nice guys equal friends. The basic math that they never teach you about your adolescence. Funny. Or not, if you were a nice guy. Like I was, am, and probably will be. I blame my parents. It was a strict part of my upbringing.
"Fine. But don't rub it in," I said. I turned back to grab a paper towel and soak up the puddle of bitter-tasting soda on my mom's kitchen counter.
Petey was right; he was damn good at telling whether or not I could coerce a friend into going to a concert with me, seeing as girls wouldn't pick me as a boyfriend or even a one-shot date within a week, or within a month, or within a whole year -- like I told you. The Jerk and Nice Guy Equation. Never fails.
She was playing at the Paradise, down in Boston. The place where the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, The Beatles, U2, Nirvana, and so many other bands had made their opening mark in America. The club was tiny, and usually was overrun by the local big radio station, WFNX. They were the "New Rock Alternative", which sort of kicked Avril out of their song lineup, and their advertisements. However, the club itself was pretty packed, anyway, filled with a good amount of teenage girls who thought she was a Britney for them to look up to, who would tell them what to wear and how to shove their sex out while making themselves look innocent and virginal.
Opening acts come and go at concerts, big or small -- this one was no different. I wouldn't be expecting to hear these guys headlining a tour anytime soon, even in little piss clubs like this.
All at once, I wondered what Antonio "L.A." Reid was thinking about this. He was the guy who ran Arista, Avril's record label. I had to think that nobody else on his label really started out like this. This was so rock-and-roll for an R&B label, it was unbelievable.
Her band stepped out on stage. They looked to be cool enough guys. And then, out came Avril. Black Dickies, a pink tie, a green tank top. And instantly, they started into the music. Blaring through "Sk8er Boi", where Avril narrates a story about a punk who likes a prep, gets dumped, picks up a guitar to show her what he's made of, ends up on MTV, and ends up with Avril by the end (yes, I realize how, right now, this seems incredibly geeky -- but trust me, I've been through an experience that warrants this to an even heavier degree).
She was heaving, her chest bobbing up and down, shifting her tie back and forth between her breasts. The tank top was pretty tight on her upper half. "Hey, Boston," she said. There was a smattering of cheers in a couple areas. "I'm here for a couple nights. I like your energy... but I wanna feel more of it! C'mon!" she yelled.
The crowd didn't give much of a response. I felt bad for her. I could see her face as it scrunched up a little bit when the silence hit her.
"Well... anyway... here's 'Unwanted'. Let's rock!" she said. "Unwanted" began. This song sounds like a friggin' alt-rock song from any other band -- which is interesting for someone who's put under the label of "pop".
The reaction got a little warmer when they finished. Not very much, though. She stood there, keeled over, looking into the first few rows, and what she got back was quite a bit of apathy.
It had to hurt. Bad.
"Okay... a tough crowd, eh?" she said. I smiled. I'm part French, through Canadian relatives. So, when she said "eh", you just had to get that weird kinship when someone uses a piece of slang from their country and nowhere else. Kinda like being a Bostonian and using "pissah".
They went into "Complicated", and there was still no reaction.
She gave up, dropping the microphone back into the stand. She walked off stage, her head hunched over. I saw the drummer get up and walk after her, pretty damn quickly, too. "Well, this sucks," Petey spoke up. I looked over at him, noticed the cherry-red smacks of lipstick on his neck and jawline. "We get three songs from this bitch?"
"Shut up, Petey," I said, and pushed myself into the crowd, towards the side door of Paradise.
The "backstage" and playing area of the Paradise club is different like how Adam and Eve are different. There's little bits here and there that are similar, but nothing really concrete that makes them the same.
For one, there wasn't that many people. Label executives, who were probably saying that she wouldn't play clubs in this town for a while, until she got a little bigger, got a better, more seperated fanbase.
Me, I had a feeling that Britney overdosing of teenage girls had done a good part of it. The crowd was 75% of those type of teenybopper shits.
I kept on walking, passing people in suits, an occassional fan who had gotten back here only to discover that the Paradise really sucked when it came to being a big backstage area, and even a pair of bodyguards. I guess I didn't look like much of a threat; I slipped between them as one talked onto his cell phone to his wife/girlfriend/whoever, and the other flipped through the latest Rolling Stone and learned about how drunk Dave Matthews really was back before the Everyday album.
There was a door, a short hallway, and another door. I passed by a guy -- I think it was her drummer. Actually... I'm pretty sure it was the drummer, seeing as he tossed his drumsticks down and stormed away.
I stopped right in front of the door. She was probably on the other side, crying or something. I wasn't even supposed to be back here, let alone this far in. My feet felt like stone as I stood there. On one hand -- I open the door, and she might actually confide in me or something. On the other hand, I open the door, and she could swing a skateboard at my head and yell for security, who would finally wake up and drag my "crazed fan" ass out into the dingy streets of everybody's favorite Beantown district.
I thought to myself, fuck it. I've got a 50/50 chance, fuck it, what's the worst that could happen?
I gripped the door handle, and turned it.
About a quarter-way.
Fuck. She locked the thing. I heard the rattle as it hit the stopping point.
Well, out of a 50/50 chance, I got the one percent of neither happening. Oh well. I turned and walked away.
And the door opened. Accenting her words with a sniffle, Avril asked: "who are you?"
I stopped in my tracks, spun around on one heel, and turned my head to the side. She had peeked her little red-haired head out the door, and was giving me a blank stare.
"Kevin," I said.
"You somebody who's going to tell me I suck?" she asked, beginning to close the door already.
"No..." I said, my voice trailing off at the end. The door stopped just before it closed, and I saw one blue eye shine under the dirt of the Paradise lights.
I thought of that Meat Loaf song for a second, y'know. I don't know why. It just seemed to make sense, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." Considering the brightness of the goddamn hallway lights.
"Come in here, then," she said.
I walked through the door. Into what just felt like a dreamworld.
Her room here in the Paradise wasn't very big at all. I looked up, down, to the right and left. I couldn't fit more than two or three VW Beetles in here, at the most.
She was sitting in a beanbag, her tie stripped off her body and sitting in a stiff-looking wooden chair across from her. A small clump of tissues was in one hand. I sat in the chair.
This was definitely not the Avril Lavigne that Arista Records was attempting to market. The Avril Lavigne they had, was all punk and all tough, no soft-hearted, breakable emotion in her body. This one wiped a black tear from her eye, her makeup running because of her crying.
"So, who are you?" she asked, running a hand over her forehead, shoving all her hair back behind her, lifting her chin up to look me in the eye.
I opened my mouth to say I was her biggest fan, and then I realized her eyes were fucking amazing. Ridiculous, almost, in their beauty. I didn't expect that in person -- I had dismissed her eyes as "fixed" up in the pictures and videos I had seen of her.
I also figured she would get the 'biggest fan' comment so much in her career, however short or long it was.
"Just someone who doesn't like to see girls cry." That was a good one. A little fake, hokey, but also a good part genuine.
"You're kidding me." she flashed a smile for a second, though. I saw it.
"Maybe a little bit," I told her. "I'm just a guy who likes your music, and thinks you deserved more than what you got out there."
"Yeah, but they were all those teenybopper bitches I hated back at school," she said. "Just like them. All the girls that looked to get the 'cool guys' to take them to frat parties and get drunk."
"Some of them were from my school, I think," I said. "Freshmen."
"How old are you?" She asked.
"Seventeen."
She nodded. "So, what's it like being a high school kid in the US?"
"Well, it's not so bad -- except that the whole teenybopper craze really tends to stick it to me when it comes to getting a girlfriend."
"Oh, the jerk factor," she whispered.
"... The jerk factor?" I asked.
"You know. How we girls seem to always go for those big bad boys who have bouts of idiocy and sweetness, and never for the guys who are our friends."
“Makes for good music, though, right?" I said. She gave a little laugh -- she'd probably heard that a million times before.
After a few minutes of small talk, she suddenly rose out of the beanbag. She stepped over, slowly, calmly. She sat on my lap, crossed a leg, threw one arm behind my neck, and used the other one to rub my cheek playfully with her hand. "You're so laid back," she said. "So cool. How do you do it?". At this moment, there wasn't much else for me to think, except a simple question: I’m laid back?
Tell you the truth, there was something that wasn’t laid back at this very moment. I could smell her hair - reminded me of peaches. I could feel her body, at first frigid to the touch but quickly gaining warmth. And I could feel one hand’s fingertips rubbing across my collarbone.
“I’m just that way,” I told her.
She murmured a reply, and nuzzled her cheek against mine. I was holding my breath at this moment, and if you couldn’t feel my heart going past whatever speed limit there was for heartbeats, then…
You were probably planting a kiss on my neck. Like she was. All at once, though, it was over. Her arm slid away from me, she uncrossed her legs, she slid off of me and to her feet. She reached around me, grabbed her tie. “Tell you what,” she said. “You come to room 414 at the Hotel down the street. You might have to pass my boys” - her band, for those not in the know - “so, I’ll tell them to let the boy in the Strokes shirt and the tie past them. I’m gonna give them the excuse that I’m turning in early - they may not believe it. Hell, they’ll probably figure out what’s going on. Even…”
“Even what?” I asked.
“Well, this is rock star-ish, but I’ve never done something like this before. Mostly I’ve been sticking to the drinking, you know?” she said.
“Oh.” I nodded.
“But I’m gonna do this anyway.” She slid the tie over my head and tightened it. “See you soon.” With that, she leaned in, and pressed her lips against mine for a second. The smile she had as she pushed me out the door was something that was from the devil, I swear.
Outside, the crowd was demanding their money back. I found Petey and Helen at the front of the crowd, yelling for a refund.
“Dude! They’re not giving us back our… what’s with the tie?” His words came out in a stream-of-consciousness sentence.
“You guys think you can wait an hour or two?” I asked.
“An hour or two? What the fuck are you doing?”
An Arista limo pulled out from behind Paradise, going by the crowd. Girls screamed at it. I simply watched it as a hand came out of the moonroof, waving. It went down the street, and disappeared into the mixture of Boston traffic and nightlife. I turned back to Petey.
“No… yes?” he asked, seeing my face. “You son of a bitch. Yeah… for that… I’ll wait fifteen minutes.” He laughed, patted me on the shoulder. Then he turned back to keep on yelling at the front of the Paradise club to get his money back.
I saw the Boston streets as a blur as I walked down the road. The people seemed to be just barely human-looking, with my mind looking past them, past stoplights and past buildings, far down the block.
When the blur seemed to disappear, I turned my head and saw this was it. The hotel. I went up the steps, went inside, through the lobby.
Three guys, a little older than me, stood in my way. I flashed my shirt, held up the tie. The three of them stared at me for a second. The most likely thought in their heads was: this guy?
I ignored their looks and waited for them to slide apart, which they did, and I went forward into the elevator behind them. I pushed the button for floor 4. The doors closed, the elevator began to tug itself upward - and instantly, as my heart sunk, it’s bpm rose about three times. This was a celebrity - not a game-show celebrity, not a commercial celebrity, not some “I dieted and lost 400 pounds! You can too, you fat fuck!” infomercial celebrity. A musician, an entertainer, someone who has spots regularly on MTV and MuchMusic, who has songs on the radio.
Hell, you’d be nervous, too.
The familiar ding-dong signal preceded the doors opening; I didn’t hear it. I walked out, into the hallway. The elevators separated 410 and 411, which was the first one I could see; which meant, basically, that she was to my right, and on that right, the second door down was for her room.
I looked both ways down the hall. It was empty. I was alone. And no more than ten feet away was Avril. Waiting. Jesus Christ, what was I doing here? I was in a Boston hotel hallway, about to rendezvous with one of the biggest stars in America. I looked up at the hallway lights - they were just as dim as the Paradise’s backstage ones. The slight smell of automated, recycled air - conditioned perfectly for guest comfort - filled my nose, and I could even taste a bit of it. I looked down at myself, and saw that I was still the Nice Guy, the person who is supposed to always be the “friend”.
Holy shit. Was this going to be strange.
I walked down the hallway, and knocked on the door.
No answer.
I knocked again, softer than before. My heart sunk as if it had stayed in the elevator as it went back to the ground floor.
Fucked it up, I thought. She had led me on. It was like a normal high school relationship. Somewhere, though, I felt so much of a weight drop down on me, holding me there for a second. Even though I was quite scared shitless, to be honest; I still had that damned itch for the whole thing to go down. I slid my glasses off, rubbed my eyes. It was ten of ten, and I had been gone for ten minutes, at most.
I guessed I would have to go back. I turned around, and there she was. Looking up at me, expecting something to be said.
“… You’re taller than you looked,” she said.
I looked down. “That’s because you’re not wearing shoes.”
She smiled, then pulled me down with her tie and kissed me. Her lips are thick, ladies and gents; soft, full lips that feel so good to have your’s around you could swear that you would rather be locked to them than to win a million dollars. Her bottom lip felt so smooth and almost delicate. Her tongue is indescribable, to tell the truth. It had power behind it, that was for sure. It slid in and out of my mouth like a dagger, quick strikes hitting me time and time again.
She pulled away, and slid the tie apart. She pulled the room key from her pocket, reached between my torso and arm, and unlocked the door. The popping sound as air released from the opening of the door secured us total privacy for whatever was going to go on in there.
I didn’t see much of the room - she had her hands full with the cotton of my shirt, pushing me back towards her bed. I was tossed down like a harlequin doll onto it, bouncing upward a bit in a rebound. Avril looked me over as she straddled. She took her hands and placed them on my shoulderblades, and stared right into me.
“Nice guys finish last, right?” she asked. “Well… this is your consolation prize.”
“For winning?” I queried.
“Whatever you want,” she replied. I put my hands on her hips, tossed her over, and rolled on top of her. “Have you ever even had sex?” I asked. She simply stared at me in response, her hair spilled over the comforter. You could see torrid black lace peeking out beneath one band of her tank top, on the edge of her shoulder.
“Have you?” was her spoken response.
“Well… if we’re gonna be like that… why bother asking?” I pointed out. I brought my head down and gave her a kiss, softly squeezing her bottom lip with the edge of my mouth. My hands rubbed the back of her neck from their spot I had slid them up to, and moved away from it, moving towards her bra straps, pulling them down onto her arms.
I had to stop at this moment, and look at her. Right into those eyes. It was kind of overwhelming, this moment, and her eyes didn’t do much to help the moment pass calmly. I could see everything in her eyes, from passion, to lust, to fear. Her green tank top still covering her body, her bra’s straps on her biceps, her Dickies beginning to roll up on her calves.
I smiled. “Your body is a wonderland…”
She shook her head, but I saw the grin. “Could you get on with it?” she asked.
“Good things come to those that wait.” I told her. I slid myself a kiss on her neck, and she shifted a little bit, nonverbally asking for a little more, please. So I pressed my lips against her neck again, pushing a bit, and one of her hands went down my back, scrunching up my shirt in a fist-shaped ball; her other hand ran through my hand. I kissed a pressure point, and she damn near tugged my hair back. Her breathing suddenly was a shudder, her chest heaved up, her breasts being pushed back by the wall of my chest. I wasn’t quite a Vin Diesel character, I’m still not; but then again, she’s small.
I brought my hands down to her waist, and slid the thumbs under her tank top. I kissed between her collarbone, at the top of her sternum, and lowered my head - bringing up the shirt, I kissed the top of her pale belly, and I could see the band of her underwear: “Perfect”. I pulled the tank top up and over her head, and pulled myself up once more to face her. I took her face between my hands, and lifted her up a bit, kissing her again. We went without air for what felt like forever - tongues going as far as they could, pushing against each other, sliding around one another, looking for the perfect spot to pet and stroke inside each other’s mouth. She tasted so good…
She pointed to my shirt and pointed up a few moments after we pulled away. I took this as an obvious direction to follow. She pushed me up, and away, though, after I removed my shirt.
“What…?” I was confused.
“Just a sec, Kev, geez.” She got onto her knees, reached behind herself, and I heard the clasps of her bra unsnap. Using one hand to hold it in place, she brought me forward, for another kiss - and I felt her other hand reach behind my head.
I looked down. Her chest, bare. Her breasts were as pale as the rest of her upper body. In the center of each, there was a nipple that was colored somewhere between pink and red. They jutted out just barely from her body. I took these hands of mine, and I slid my fingertips alongside the bottom of each one. They met in the space between. She was young. This was when she was still 17, if you care to know at this point. But the point is, her body still was strong and firm - her breasts were a prime example, perfect proof. They were small, not too small, rather; they were enough for me to bring a hand over and enclose, so long as I kept my fingers spread apart a little bit. I brought my thumbs from the inside of her cleavage, brought them to the outside, and brushed the backside of my hands over her nipples.
Her breathing heightened, held itself for a second as I passed over her nipples, leaving goosebumps in my wake. And then came the murmur of pleasure, the letter M spilled over a long moment, as if she had picked the cherry off a sundae and popped it in her mouth, when I brought my lips down to the beginning of the curve of her chest. I went down farther and farther, finally passing my bottom lip over the stub of her nipple, stopping when my top lip was on the upper curve of it. I closed my lips together, and my tongue pressed against her breast button like a hanging bit of stained-glass in a shattered church window. Her chest was up, out now, her body curving backward. One hand of mine kept her upright, against my lips, and against my free hand, which had fingertips circling her areola.
Then I felt her hand grab mine, guide it downwards, to that waistband. “Please,” she whispered. “Something to keep me from exploding.”
I didn’t see how this would stem the tide that was beginning to wash her over. But her hand pushed mine under the waistband, “Perfect” suddenly bulging outward, a proclamation shooting out in 3-D. I felt smoothness, warmth, dampness. Moisture between the cotton panties and her body, just so much heat. Her hand disappeared - mine was on it’s own, to explore. So it snaked forward, the middle finger floating down on the hump of her pelvis, going between her thighs. It slipped over her clitoris - and her entire body shook between my hand and my body outside of the dark depths of Avril Lavigne.
That hand stayed there for a few moments. Soft circles swam around the tiniest pocket on her petite body, causing her to grind and rub against me, wrapping her arms around my neck, her chin on my shoulder, and you knew her eyes were closed as she pushed against my middle finger, asking for more without speaking - of course, that’s because she was whispering sex-driven gibberish all over the place, using the words “please” and “more” approximately more often than the American public ever uses in a day. Sweat beads were forming on the curve of her spine as she leaned against me.
My finger went inside her, swift, quick, simple. She practically fell onto it, letting go of all her inhibitions. She lifted her head back and let out several gasping yelps. Between them, only one word sounded out. “More, more.” I followed orders like a good soldier. My finger pulled back, out, and pushed in. It curved, going far in, going forward, looking to tickle one spot, the one spot. It missed the first shot, and the second - Avril didn’t care a bit. But the third one connected, and one tickle later, a gush of juices streaked between the knuckles of my hand, turning her panties slightly darker. She rocked back and forth, and with a kiss on my forehead, fell back onto the bed, her breasts bouncing up, down, jiggling. I pulled my hand free - her pants weren’t exactly loose enough to keep comfort.
So she lost them. She unbuttoned, unzipped, and I pulled them free. Her eyes were wild, dangerous now. Shining. She grabbed at my hands, her grip slipping slightly on my wet hand. She pulled me down against her, and we were back to how we started. Her lips sucked at mine softly as I ran my hands over her hips, rubbing the skin, kneading it with an open palm on each side. She slipped her panties partway down her pelvis, before stopping. She rose her hands, popped open the fly on my jeans, and slipped them down around my knees. Then, my boxer shorts were slipped off my body, and suddenly, I was more naked than she was.
She smiled at what she had revealed to herself. Reaching forward, she wrapped her fingers around it, holding it in a firm grip. She rose her head up to kiss me on my chest, and from there, she moved down - following the “treasure trail” as she went south of my abs. I felt her chin bump on the top of it - I felt the edges of her hair hanging in front of her eyes as they stroked across it. I could feel the warmth of her breath, the dampness of her saliva.
And I felt her tongue reach out and take a reconnaissance lick on the end of it.
Then I realized what she was doing, and within seconds, I had pulled her up straight on her knees. She was, no wonder, bewildered. “What did I do?” she asked. Her bottom lip was quivering. “What?”
“Nothing,” I told her after a short silence. “I just… I’ve never really liked that.”
“Well… what do you like?” she asked.
I tugged her panties down to the bed mattress. “Well… I’ll show you.” Following her lead, I kissed down her body, going farther and farther down - I found myself in front of the pearl of her world -- smooth, clean, musky, pink, bright pink with the quiet red overtones of real flesh.
Her clit was right there, awaiting another awakening. Awaiting another climax of pleasure. What could I do? I stroked my tongue forward, tickling the end of it - she tingled, and the more I pushed, the quick strokes and the slow, round rolls with that instrument, she seemed to almost roll inside out. I could hear her breathing thick through her nose, her mouth clamped shut as not to scream until the perfect moment. Her lips were thickened, juiced-up, quivering, asking for some attention. I traced up one side and down the other with the very edge of my tongue, gave it a soft, sweet, almost good-night kiss, blew some air on it. I went back to the clit, back to the labia, back to the clit. Avril’s arms were shaking. Her legs were threatening to clamp shut on my head. She was waiting for a release - any release. I pushed my tongue in, thickening it with blood, thinning and flattening it out, playing with the bare insides of a Canadian pop star. She whispered incomprehensible dirty words, one hand running over my hair. She was practically tearing it out when I hit the right spot - painful, yes, but I had so much else to concentrate on.
And then, I stopped. Rising back up to look at her face, she was flabbergasted. So she grabbed me, pulled me close as possible to her, fell back, and grabbed my dick. She took careful aim - and jammed it into herself, insantly groaning as the need was filled, more heat inside her than actually on the outside. I pulled out - she nearly followed it as I did so. And I jammed it back in, using my own hand to guide it. Her hands were busy, grabbing at my buttocks, and when I pushed back in, she squeezed, her nails digging into the skin. Her lips were over my neck, sucking at the skin; I could feel her teeth gnawing at a mouth-made fold. She was rough. When I pulled back and pushed in, the noise from her mouth was indecipherable, impossible to spell. It was a full, deep moan, low and freeing, rising in volume and note with each successful push deeper and deeper inside her. Her body rocked with mine, and finally, I pulled her up and she was on top of me, me on my knees, and she was bobbing up and down on my penis, rolling around from side to side, trying to get as much to fill her as possible, trying to put it in every crevice.
“Spank me,” she suddenly growled.
“What?” I hadn’t heard right. Did she want to be spanked?
“Spank me! Goddamnit, spank me!”
I brought my hand against her tiny little ass, hard. She squealed, and brought herself up and down for a few more pumps. “Again.” Another spanking. She squealed again. She suddenly rammed her pelvis forward after the second spank, bumping against me. She leaned back afterwards, ramming against me, her body at this exact angle that couldn’t be comfortable. But she was loving it. I pushed with her as she pushed down, and she screamed. She wasn’t going to be sated.
But I was nearing the end of the line in terms of control. I was about to let loose, unable to hold it back.
“I’m gonna…”
“Oh, shit!” she said. She was off of me in what seemed to be less than a second. But her hand was there to finish the job, that hand becoming sticky with the mixed juices of the two of us. A few jerks up and down, and then I saw globs of my jungle juice flip through the air, landing on her belly, one landing on the lower curve of her right breast, a bit landing in her long flowing hair. I took deep breaths; they were the only kind I could take.
And then I dove down onto my stomach. And crawled between her legs. Hey, it’s ungentlemanly to leave a woman unsatisfied.
I used my tongue to play with her clit. She jumped up when they first connected. She was back alive, and with the newfound space, I flipped onto my back, my dick already beginning to become hard again, and rose one arm to slip two fingers into her cunt. Her hips rolled forward and back, bucking against them.
From there, I slipped one hand onto her sweet small backside, and rubbed the middle finger against her butthole. And within a few threadbare seconds of those three mixed together, I could feel her nectar begin to drip off her nether regions as she let out a scream of sweet serenity. Nirvana in an orgasm. She wavered, her knees buckling as I pulled out, pulled away. She fell onto the bed, swung a thigh over my head. You could hear her breathing from down here. And I kissed every part of the back part of her body, her thighs, kissing every vertebrae up her spine. I wrapped my arms around her body; she curved into mine. Her hair was so soft. It reminded me of a place I would hide in as a child. But, after a few minutes curled together as one once more, I knew that this wasn’t going to last. This night was over, practically. I would have to leave. I leaned over her face - her beautiful eyes hidden beneath her closed eyelids, her sweet mouth shut. With one hand cupping under her breast, I leaned in and whispered that I had to go.
“Oh… don’t…” she said.
“I’ve gotta. I’ve got school tomorrow.” I explained.
“Drop out. I did.” Argument #2.
“Can’t,” was my rebuttal. “I’m not in your world. I can’t take that chance.”
She shook her head. “Well… if you do take that chance…” she reached forward, pulled the tie off the edge of the bed. “Wear this. And find me.”
“You haven’t gotten attached, have you?” I asked.
“… Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. But…” she pulled me to her, kissed me. “… I wouldn’t mind this again.”
“Neither would I.” I whispered, giving her another kiss. Neither would I.”
I began to get dressed. She slipped under the covers, peeked her head out as I slipped on my shoes and rolled the tie up to put in my pocket. “Bye, Kevin…” she said.
“Oh… c’mon. You know I’ll be back.” I rubbed her hair. “I’ll see you soon.”
I left the room.
Having just fucked Avril Lavigne.
Now you see why I know so much about her?
You would, too… if you had. You would, too.
To Be Continued?
"There was that immediate kind of attraction, man."
I sat across from Petey, my old buddy since the days of grammar school, and listened to him wax his story. A lot of this I thought he was either embellishing or making up on the spot, but I didn't say anything. He was goddamn funny when it came to telling these type of stories.
"There she was. Musta been six feet tall, slim, slender, a juicy bit of baby for papa to bite into," Petey continued. I didn't let another word get out. I busted out a laugh at the idea of him managing to catch some six foot girl. Especially since Petey was a pimply-faced seventeen year old without a car. That was my problem, too -- the latter, about being seventeen and not having a car. My complexion's been clear since I was fifteen.
The name is Kevin. I'm black haired and brown eyed, and I'm a slim guy, some 130 pounds into about five and a half feet.
"What's so funny, man?" Petey asked.
"You're so full of shit, that's what," I replied. I took a sip of a mug of root beer taken from my cabinet.
The room around us was white. Wholly white, from the refrigerator to the oven to the TV in the corner. It's gaping hole of a blank screen was the biggest blotch of black. My mom and her strange attitudes towards home improvement and room design.
"Well, I know one thing I'm not full of shit on," he told me.
"What's that?" I asked. I stood up to get another fill of root beer into my mug.
"I got tickets to an Avril Lavigne concert, man."
I dropped the bottle, spilling brown onto the blank white.
I've been interesting in that Canadian girl since, well, mid-May. Petey provided me with the first introduction to her music, and what she looked like. I saw a gorgeous skater chick with some pretty good pop songs.
Then I picked up the album when it came out. And I saw a beautiful young woman with a good future in music ahead of her. She did have her mind set on making tunes that were quite a bit more realistic than the simplistic, sexual rhymes of a Britney. Not to mention, she wrote the lyrics, for good or for bad.
I think it was this one song, "Naked", that pulled me in and made me some great admirer of her's. It was unbelievable, falling into the fandom of an artist so quickly. But, when I heard "Naked" for the first time, it put so much together. She starts off by singing how life is messed up, and how she really can't fit in. Suddenly, verse two has a savior to it, and she sings his praises the rest of the song.
Y'know, almost corny. What really is corny is how I wish I was that guy -- which isn't irregular, as I've found many pop songs to fit my wishes of what I could be. Sad, right? I know. It wouldn't hurt that just saying Avril Lavigne's "Naked" happened to be quite the jolting experience around my body.
But, I didn't act like it bothered me that much. "I accidentally dropped the bottle," I said, to which Petey let out a good, north-of-Boston guffaw.
"I know you want to go, man."
"How'd you guess?" I asked him. "The fact that I have a section of my wall devoted to her pictures, or that I listen to her album almost as much as the new Bruce Springsteen one?"
"A little from column A, a little from column B. Sprinkles from either side." He smiled. "It's next Saturday."
I nodded. "You sure you don't want to take Helen...?"
"I've got four tickets. Of course, I doubt you'll be able to pull anyone into your life by next Saturday to take." Petey still smiled, but now it seemed to be a meaner grin.
I knew exactly what he was talking about. You see, in high school, jerks equal sex, and nice guys equal friends. The basic math that they never teach you about your adolescence. Funny. Or not, if you were a nice guy. Like I was, am, and probably will be. I blame my parents. It was a strict part of my upbringing.
"Fine. But don't rub it in," I said. I turned back to grab a paper towel and soak up the puddle of bitter-tasting soda on my mom's kitchen counter.
Petey was right; he was damn good at telling whether or not I could coerce a friend into going to a concert with me, seeing as girls wouldn't pick me as a boyfriend or even a one-shot date within a week, or within a month, or within a whole year -- like I told you. The Jerk and Nice Guy Equation. Never fails.
She was playing at the Paradise, down in Boston. The place where the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, The Beatles, U2, Nirvana, and so many other bands had made their opening mark in America. The club was tiny, and usually was overrun by the local big radio station, WFNX. They were the "New Rock Alternative", which sort of kicked Avril out of their song lineup, and their advertisements. However, the club itself was pretty packed, anyway, filled with a good amount of teenage girls who thought she was a Britney for them to look up to, who would tell them what to wear and how to shove their sex out while making themselves look innocent and virginal.
Opening acts come and go at concerts, big or small -- this one was no different. I wouldn't be expecting to hear these guys headlining a tour anytime soon, even in little piss clubs like this.
All at once, I wondered what Antonio "L.A." Reid was thinking about this. He was the guy who ran Arista, Avril's record label. I had to think that nobody else on his label really started out like this. This was so rock-and-roll for an R&B label, it was unbelievable.
Her band stepped out on stage. They looked to be cool enough guys. And then, out came Avril. Black Dickies, a pink tie, a green tank top. And instantly, they started into the music. Blaring through "Sk8er Boi", where Avril narrates a story about a punk who likes a prep, gets dumped, picks up a guitar to show her what he's made of, ends up on MTV, and ends up with Avril by the end (yes, I realize how, right now, this seems incredibly geeky -- but trust me, I've been through an experience that warrants this to an even heavier degree).
She was heaving, her chest bobbing up and down, shifting her tie back and forth between her breasts. The tank top was pretty tight on her upper half. "Hey, Boston," she said. There was a smattering of cheers in a couple areas. "I'm here for a couple nights. I like your energy... but I wanna feel more of it! C'mon!" she yelled.
The crowd didn't give much of a response. I felt bad for her. I could see her face as it scrunched up a little bit when the silence hit her.
"Well... anyway... here's 'Unwanted'. Let's rock!" she said. "Unwanted" began. This song sounds like a friggin' alt-rock song from any other band -- which is interesting for someone who's put under the label of "pop".
The reaction got a little warmer when they finished. Not very much, though. She stood there, keeled over, looking into the first few rows, and what she got back was quite a bit of apathy.
It had to hurt. Bad.
"Okay... a tough crowd, eh?" she said. I smiled. I'm part French, through Canadian relatives. So, when she said "eh", you just had to get that weird kinship when someone uses a piece of slang from their country and nowhere else. Kinda like being a Bostonian and using "pissah".
They went into "Complicated", and there was still no reaction.
She gave up, dropping the microphone back into the stand. She walked off stage, her head hunched over. I saw the drummer get up and walk after her, pretty damn quickly, too. "Well, this sucks," Petey spoke up. I looked over at him, noticed the cherry-red smacks of lipstick on his neck and jawline. "We get three songs from this bitch?"
"Shut up, Petey," I said, and pushed myself into the crowd, towards the side door of Paradise.
The "backstage" and playing area of the Paradise club is different like how Adam and Eve are different. There's little bits here and there that are similar, but nothing really concrete that makes them the same.
For one, there wasn't that many people. Label executives, who were probably saying that she wouldn't play clubs in this town for a while, until she got a little bigger, got a better, more seperated fanbase.
Me, I had a feeling that Britney overdosing of teenage girls had done a good part of it. The crowd was 75% of those type of teenybopper shits.
I kept on walking, passing people in suits, an occassional fan who had gotten back here only to discover that the Paradise really sucked when it came to being a big backstage area, and even a pair of bodyguards. I guess I didn't look like much of a threat; I slipped between them as one talked onto his cell phone to his wife/girlfriend/whoever, and the other flipped through the latest Rolling Stone and learned about how drunk Dave Matthews really was back before the Everyday album.
There was a door, a short hallway, and another door. I passed by a guy -- I think it was her drummer. Actually... I'm pretty sure it was the drummer, seeing as he tossed his drumsticks down and stormed away.
I stopped right in front of the door. She was probably on the other side, crying or something. I wasn't even supposed to be back here, let alone this far in. My feet felt like stone as I stood there. On one hand -- I open the door, and she might actually confide in me or something. On the other hand, I open the door, and she could swing a skateboard at my head and yell for security, who would finally wake up and drag my "crazed fan" ass out into the dingy streets of everybody's favorite Beantown district.
I thought to myself, fuck it. I've got a 50/50 chance, fuck it, what's the worst that could happen?
I gripped the door handle, and turned it.
About a quarter-way.
Fuck. She locked the thing. I heard the rattle as it hit the stopping point.
Well, out of a 50/50 chance, I got the one percent of neither happening. Oh well. I turned and walked away.
And the door opened. Accenting her words with a sniffle, Avril asked: "who are you?"
I stopped in my tracks, spun around on one heel, and turned my head to the side. She had peeked her little red-haired head out the door, and was giving me a blank stare.
"Kevin," I said.
"You somebody who's going to tell me I suck?" she asked, beginning to close the door already.
"No..." I said, my voice trailing off at the end. The door stopped just before it closed, and I saw one blue eye shine under the dirt of the Paradise lights.
I thought of that Meat Loaf song for a second, y'know. I don't know why. It just seemed to make sense, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." Considering the brightness of the goddamn hallway lights.
"Come in here, then," she said.
I walked through the door. Into what just felt like a dreamworld.
Her room here in the Paradise wasn't very big at all. I looked up, down, to the right and left. I couldn't fit more than two or three VW Beetles in here, at the most.
She was sitting in a beanbag, her tie stripped off her body and sitting in a stiff-looking wooden chair across from her. A small clump of tissues was in one hand. I sat in the chair.
This was definitely not the Avril Lavigne that Arista Records was attempting to market. The Avril Lavigne they had, was all punk and all tough, no soft-hearted, breakable emotion in her body. This one wiped a black tear from her eye, her makeup running because of her crying.
"So, who are you?" she asked, running a hand over her forehead, shoving all her hair back behind her, lifting her chin up to look me in the eye.
I opened my mouth to say I was her biggest fan, and then I realized her eyes were fucking amazing. Ridiculous, almost, in their beauty. I didn't expect that in person -- I had dismissed her eyes as "fixed" up in the pictures and videos I had seen of her.
I also figured she would get the 'biggest fan' comment so much in her career, however short or long it was.
"Just someone who doesn't like to see girls cry." That was a good one. A little fake, hokey, but also a good part genuine.
"You're kidding me." she flashed a smile for a second, though. I saw it.
"Maybe a little bit," I told her. "I'm just a guy who likes your music, and thinks you deserved more than what you got out there."
"Yeah, but they were all those teenybopper bitches I hated back at school," she said. "Just like them. All the girls that looked to get the 'cool guys' to take them to frat parties and get drunk."
"Some of them were from my school, I think," I said. "Freshmen."
"How old are you?" She asked.
"Seventeen."
She nodded. "So, what's it like being a high school kid in the US?"
"Well, it's not so bad -- except that the whole teenybopper craze really tends to stick it to me when it comes to getting a girlfriend."
"Oh, the jerk factor," she whispered.
"... The jerk factor?" I asked.
"You know. How we girls seem to always go for those big bad boys who have bouts of idiocy and sweetness, and never for the guys who are our friends."
“Makes for good music, though, right?" I said. She gave a little laugh -- she'd probably heard that a million times before.
After a few minutes of small talk, she suddenly rose out of the beanbag. She stepped over, slowly, calmly. She sat on my lap, crossed a leg, threw one arm behind my neck, and used the other one to rub my cheek playfully with her hand. "You're so laid back," she said. "So cool. How do you do it?". At this moment, there wasn't much else for me to think, except a simple question: I’m laid back?
Tell you the truth, there was something that wasn’t laid back at this very moment. I could smell her hair - reminded me of peaches. I could feel her body, at first frigid to the touch but quickly gaining warmth. And I could feel one hand’s fingertips rubbing across my collarbone.
“I’m just that way,” I told her.
She murmured a reply, and nuzzled her cheek against mine. I was holding my breath at this moment, and if you couldn’t feel my heart going past whatever speed limit there was for heartbeats, then…
You were probably planting a kiss on my neck. Like she was. All at once, though, it was over. Her arm slid away from me, she uncrossed her legs, she slid off of me and to her feet. She reached around me, grabbed her tie. “Tell you what,” she said. “You come to room 414 at the Hotel down the street. You might have to pass my boys” - her band, for those not in the know - “so, I’ll tell them to let the boy in the Strokes shirt and the tie past them. I’m gonna give them the excuse that I’m turning in early - they may not believe it. Hell, they’ll probably figure out what’s going on. Even…”
“Even what?” I asked.
“Well, this is rock star-ish, but I’ve never done something like this before. Mostly I’ve been sticking to the drinking, you know?” she said.
“Oh.” I nodded.
“But I’m gonna do this anyway.” She slid the tie over my head and tightened it. “See you soon.” With that, she leaned in, and pressed her lips against mine for a second. The smile she had as she pushed me out the door was something that was from the devil, I swear.
Outside, the crowd was demanding their money back. I found Petey and Helen at the front of the crowd, yelling for a refund.
“Dude! They’re not giving us back our… what’s with the tie?” His words came out in a stream-of-consciousness sentence.
“You guys think you can wait an hour or two?” I asked.
“An hour or two? What the fuck are you doing?”
An Arista limo pulled out from behind Paradise, going by the crowd. Girls screamed at it. I simply watched it as a hand came out of the moonroof, waving. It went down the street, and disappeared into the mixture of Boston traffic and nightlife. I turned back to Petey.
“No… yes?” he asked, seeing my face. “You son of a bitch. Yeah… for that… I’ll wait fifteen minutes.” He laughed, patted me on the shoulder. Then he turned back to keep on yelling at the front of the Paradise club to get his money back.
I saw the Boston streets as a blur as I walked down the road. The people seemed to be just barely human-looking, with my mind looking past them, past stoplights and past buildings, far down the block.
When the blur seemed to disappear, I turned my head and saw this was it. The hotel. I went up the steps, went inside, through the lobby.
Three guys, a little older than me, stood in my way. I flashed my shirt, held up the tie. The three of them stared at me for a second. The most likely thought in their heads was: this guy?
I ignored their looks and waited for them to slide apart, which they did, and I went forward into the elevator behind them. I pushed the button for floor 4. The doors closed, the elevator began to tug itself upward - and instantly, as my heart sunk, it’s bpm rose about three times. This was a celebrity - not a game-show celebrity, not a commercial celebrity, not some “I dieted and lost 400 pounds! You can too, you fat fuck!” infomercial celebrity. A musician, an entertainer, someone who has spots regularly on MTV and MuchMusic, who has songs on the radio.
Hell, you’d be nervous, too.
The familiar ding-dong signal preceded the doors opening; I didn’t hear it. I walked out, into the hallway. The elevators separated 410 and 411, which was the first one I could see; which meant, basically, that she was to my right, and on that right, the second door down was for her room.
I looked both ways down the hall. It was empty. I was alone. And no more than ten feet away was Avril. Waiting. Jesus Christ, what was I doing here? I was in a Boston hotel hallway, about to rendezvous with one of the biggest stars in America. I looked up at the hallway lights - they were just as dim as the Paradise’s backstage ones. The slight smell of automated, recycled air - conditioned perfectly for guest comfort - filled my nose, and I could even taste a bit of it. I looked down at myself, and saw that I was still the Nice Guy, the person who is supposed to always be the “friend”.
Holy shit. Was this going to be strange.
I walked down the hallway, and knocked on the door.
No answer.
I knocked again, softer than before. My heart sunk as if it had stayed in the elevator as it went back to the ground floor.
Fucked it up, I thought. She had led me on. It was like a normal high school relationship. Somewhere, though, I felt so much of a weight drop down on me, holding me there for a second. Even though I was quite scared shitless, to be honest; I still had that damned itch for the whole thing to go down. I slid my glasses off, rubbed my eyes. It was ten of ten, and I had been gone for ten minutes, at most.
I guessed I would have to go back. I turned around, and there she was. Looking up at me, expecting something to be said.
“… You’re taller than you looked,” she said.
I looked down. “That’s because you’re not wearing shoes.”
She smiled, then pulled me down with her tie and kissed me. Her lips are thick, ladies and gents; soft, full lips that feel so good to have your’s around you could swear that you would rather be locked to them than to win a million dollars. Her bottom lip felt so smooth and almost delicate. Her tongue is indescribable, to tell the truth. It had power behind it, that was for sure. It slid in and out of my mouth like a dagger, quick strikes hitting me time and time again.
She pulled away, and slid the tie apart. She pulled the room key from her pocket, reached between my torso and arm, and unlocked the door. The popping sound as air released from the opening of the door secured us total privacy for whatever was going to go on in there.
I didn’t see much of the room - she had her hands full with the cotton of my shirt, pushing me back towards her bed. I was tossed down like a harlequin doll onto it, bouncing upward a bit in a rebound. Avril looked me over as she straddled. She took her hands and placed them on my shoulderblades, and stared right into me.
“Nice guys finish last, right?” she asked. “Well… this is your consolation prize.”
“For winning?” I queried.
“Whatever you want,” she replied. I put my hands on her hips, tossed her over, and rolled on top of her. “Have you ever even had sex?” I asked. She simply stared at me in response, her hair spilled over the comforter. You could see torrid black lace peeking out beneath one band of her tank top, on the edge of her shoulder.
“Have you?” was her spoken response.
“Well… if we’re gonna be like that… why bother asking?” I pointed out. I brought my head down and gave her a kiss, softly squeezing her bottom lip with the edge of my mouth. My hands rubbed the back of her neck from their spot I had slid them up to, and moved away from it, moving towards her bra straps, pulling them down onto her arms.
I had to stop at this moment, and look at her. Right into those eyes. It was kind of overwhelming, this moment, and her eyes didn’t do much to help the moment pass calmly. I could see everything in her eyes, from passion, to lust, to fear. Her green tank top still covering her body, her bra’s straps on her biceps, her Dickies beginning to roll up on her calves.
I smiled. “Your body is a wonderland…”
She shook her head, but I saw the grin. “Could you get on with it?” she asked.
“Good things come to those that wait.” I told her. I slid myself a kiss on her neck, and she shifted a little bit, nonverbally asking for a little more, please. So I pressed my lips against her neck again, pushing a bit, and one of her hands went down my back, scrunching up my shirt in a fist-shaped ball; her other hand ran through my hand. I kissed a pressure point, and she damn near tugged my hair back. Her breathing suddenly was a shudder, her chest heaved up, her breasts being pushed back by the wall of my chest. I wasn’t quite a Vin Diesel character, I’m still not; but then again, she’s small.
I brought my hands down to her waist, and slid the thumbs under her tank top. I kissed between her collarbone, at the top of her sternum, and lowered my head - bringing up the shirt, I kissed the top of her pale belly, and I could see the band of her underwear: “Perfect”. I pulled the tank top up and over her head, and pulled myself up once more to face her. I took her face between my hands, and lifted her up a bit, kissing her again. We went without air for what felt like forever - tongues going as far as they could, pushing against each other, sliding around one another, looking for the perfect spot to pet and stroke inside each other’s mouth. She tasted so good…
She pointed to my shirt and pointed up a few moments after we pulled away. I took this as an obvious direction to follow. She pushed me up, and away, though, after I removed my shirt.
“What…?” I was confused.
“Just a sec, Kev, geez.” She got onto her knees, reached behind herself, and I heard the clasps of her bra unsnap. Using one hand to hold it in place, she brought me forward, for another kiss - and I felt her other hand reach behind my head.
I looked down. Her chest, bare. Her breasts were as pale as the rest of her upper body. In the center of each, there was a nipple that was colored somewhere between pink and red. They jutted out just barely from her body. I took these hands of mine, and I slid my fingertips alongside the bottom of each one. They met in the space between. She was young. This was when she was still 17, if you care to know at this point. But the point is, her body still was strong and firm - her breasts were a prime example, perfect proof. They were small, not too small, rather; they were enough for me to bring a hand over and enclose, so long as I kept my fingers spread apart a little bit. I brought my thumbs from the inside of her cleavage, brought them to the outside, and brushed the backside of my hands over her nipples.
Her breathing heightened, held itself for a second as I passed over her nipples, leaving goosebumps in my wake. And then came the murmur of pleasure, the letter M spilled over a long moment, as if she had picked the cherry off a sundae and popped it in her mouth, when I brought my lips down to the beginning of the curve of her chest. I went down farther and farther, finally passing my bottom lip over the stub of her nipple, stopping when my top lip was on the upper curve of it. I closed my lips together, and my tongue pressed against her breast button like a hanging bit of stained-glass in a shattered church window. Her chest was up, out now, her body curving backward. One hand of mine kept her upright, against my lips, and against my free hand, which had fingertips circling her areola.
Then I felt her hand grab mine, guide it downwards, to that waistband. “Please,” she whispered. “Something to keep me from exploding.”
I didn’t see how this would stem the tide that was beginning to wash her over. But her hand pushed mine under the waistband, “Perfect” suddenly bulging outward, a proclamation shooting out in 3-D. I felt smoothness, warmth, dampness. Moisture between the cotton panties and her body, just so much heat. Her hand disappeared - mine was on it’s own, to explore. So it snaked forward, the middle finger floating down on the hump of her pelvis, going between her thighs. It slipped over her clitoris - and her entire body shook between my hand and my body outside of the dark depths of Avril Lavigne.
That hand stayed there for a few moments. Soft circles swam around the tiniest pocket on her petite body, causing her to grind and rub against me, wrapping her arms around my neck, her chin on my shoulder, and you knew her eyes were closed as she pushed against my middle finger, asking for more without speaking - of course, that’s because she was whispering sex-driven gibberish all over the place, using the words “please” and “more” approximately more often than the American public ever uses in a day. Sweat beads were forming on the curve of her spine as she leaned against me.
My finger went inside her, swift, quick, simple. She practically fell onto it, letting go of all her inhibitions. She lifted her head back and let out several gasping yelps. Between them, only one word sounded out. “More, more.” I followed orders like a good soldier. My finger pulled back, out, and pushed in. It curved, going far in, going forward, looking to tickle one spot, the one spot. It missed the first shot, and the second - Avril didn’t care a bit. But the third one connected, and one tickle later, a gush of juices streaked between the knuckles of my hand, turning her panties slightly darker. She rocked back and forth, and with a kiss on my forehead, fell back onto the bed, her breasts bouncing up, down, jiggling. I pulled my hand free - her pants weren’t exactly loose enough to keep comfort.
So she lost them. She unbuttoned, unzipped, and I pulled them free. Her eyes were wild, dangerous now. Shining. She grabbed at my hands, her grip slipping slightly on my wet hand. She pulled me down against her, and we were back to how we started. Her lips sucked at mine softly as I ran my hands over her hips, rubbing the skin, kneading it with an open palm on each side. She slipped her panties partway down her pelvis, before stopping. She rose her hands, popped open the fly on my jeans, and slipped them down around my knees. Then, my boxer shorts were slipped off my body, and suddenly, I was more naked than she was.
She smiled at what she had revealed to herself. Reaching forward, she wrapped her fingers around it, holding it in a firm grip. She rose her head up to kiss me on my chest, and from there, she moved down - following the “treasure trail” as she went south of my abs. I felt her chin bump on the top of it - I felt the edges of her hair hanging in front of her eyes as they stroked across it. I could feel the warmth of her breath, the dampness of her saliva.
And I felt her tongue reach out and take a reconnaissance lick on the end of it.
Then I realized what she was doing, and within seconds, I had pulled her up straight on her knees. She was, no wonder, bewildered. “What did I do?” she asked. Her bottom lip was quivering. “What?”
“Nothing,” I told her after a short silence. “I just… I’ve never really liked that.”
“Well… what do you like?” she asked.
I tugged her panties down to the bed mattress. “Well… I’ll show you.” Following her lead, I kissed down her body, going farther and farther down - I found myself in front of the pearl of her world -- smooth, clean, musky, pink, bright pink with the quiet red overtones of real flesh.
Her clit was right there, awaiting another awakening. Awaiting another climax of pleasure. What could I do? I stroked my tongue forward, tickling the end of it - she tingled, and the more I pushed, the quick strokes and the slow, round rolls with that instrument, she seemed to almost roll inside out. I could hear her breathing thick through her nose, her mouth clamped shut as not to scream until the perfect moment. Her lips were thickened, juiced-up, quivering, asking for some attention. I traced up one side and down the other with the very edge of my tongue, gave it a soft, sweet, almost good-night kiss, blew some air on it. I went back to the clit, back to the labia, back to the clit. Avril’s arms were shaking. Her legs were threatening to clamp shut on my head. She was waiting for a release - any release. I pushed my tongue in, thickening it with blood, thinning and flattening it out, playing with the bare insides of a Canadian pop star. She whispered incomprehensible dirty words, one hand running over my hair. She was practically tearing it out when I hit the right spot - painful, yes, but I had so much else to concentrate on.
And then, I stopped. Rising back up to look at her face, she was flabbergasted. So she grabbed me, pulled me close as possible to her, fell back, and grabbed my dick. She took careful aim - and jammed it into herself, insantly groaning as the need was filled, more heat inside her than actually on the outside. I pulled out - she nearly followed it as I did so. And I jammed it back in, using my own hand to guide it. Her hands were busy, grabbing at my buttocks, and when I pushed back in, she squeezed, her nails digging into the skin. Her lips were over my neck, sucking at the skin; I could feel her teeth gnawing at a mouth-made fold. She was rough. When I pulled back and pushed in, the noise from her mouth was indecipherable, impossible to spell. It was a full, deep moan, low and freeing, rising in volume and note with each successful push deeper and deeper inside her. Her body rocked with mine, and finally, I pulled her up and she was on top of me, me on my knees, and she was bobbing up and down on my penis, rolling around from side to side, trying to get as much to fill her as possible, trying to put it in every crevice.
“Spank me,” she suddenly growled.
“What?” I hadn’t heard right. Did she want to be spanked?
“Spank me! Goddamnit, spank me!”
I brought my hand against her tiny little ass, hard. She squealed, and brought herself up and down for a few more pumps. “Again.” Another spanking. She squealed again. She suddenly rammed her pelvis forward after the second spank, bumping against me. She leaned back afterwards, ramming against me, her body at this exact angle that couldn’t be comfortable. But she was loving it. I pushed with her as she pushed down, and she screamed. She wasn’t going to be sated.
But I was nearing the end of the line in terms of control. I was about to let loose, unable to hold it back.
“I’m gonna…”
“Oh, shit!” she said. She was off of me in what seemed to be less than a second. But her hand was there to finish the job, that hand becoming sticky with the mixed juices of the two of us. A few jerks up and down, and then I saw globs of my jungle juice flip through the air, landing on her belly, one landing on the lower curve of her right breast, a bit landing in her long flowing hair. I took deep breaths; they were the only kind I could take.
And then I dove down onto my stomach. And crawled between her legs. Hey, it’s ungentlemanly to leave a woman unsatisfied.
I used my tongue to play with her clit. She jumped up when they first connected. She was back alive, and with the newfound space, I flipped onto my back, my dick already beginning to become hard again, and rose one arm to slip two fingers into her cunt. Her hips rolled forward and back, bucking against them.
From there, I slipped one hand onto her sweet small backside, and rubbed the middle finger against her butthole. And within a few threadbare seconds of those three mixed together, I could feel her nectar begin to drip off her nether regions as she let out a scream of sweet serenity. Nirvana in an orgasm. She wavered, her knees buckling as I pulled out, pulled away. She fell onto the bed, swung a thigh over my head. You could hear her breathing from down here. And I kissed every part of the back part of her body, her thighs, kissing every vertebrae up her spine. I wrapped my arms around her body; she curved into mine. Her hair was so soft. It reminded me of a place I would hide in as a child. But, after a few minutes curled together as one once more, I knew that this wasn’t going to last. This night was over, practically. I would have to leave. I leaned over her face - her beautiful eyes hidden beneath her closed eyelids, her sweet mouth shut. With one hand cupping under her breast, I leaned in and whispered that I had to go.
“Oh… don’t…” she said.
“I’ve gotta. I’ve got school tomorrow.” I explained.
“Drop out. I did.” Argument #2.
“Can’t,” was my rebuttal. “I’m not in your world. I can’t take that chance.”
She shook her head. “Well… if you do take that chance…” she reached forward, pulled the tie off the edge of the bed. “Wear this. And find me.”
“You haven’t gotten attached, have you?” I asked.
“… Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. But…” she pulled me to her, kissed me. “… I wouldn’t mind this again.”
“Neither would I.” I whispered, giving her another kiss. Neither would I.”
I began to get dressed. She slipped under the covers, peeked her head out as I slipped on my shoes and rolled the tie up to put in my pocket. “Bye, Kevin…” she said.
“Oh… c’mon. You know I’ll be back.” I rubbed her hair. “I’ll see you soon.”
I left the room.
Having just fucked Avril Lavigne.
Now you see why I know so much about her?
You would, too… if you had. You would, too.
To Be Continued?