Rockstar Guest

Janice Griffith strolls down the street like she owns the block, bass player for the now-split Pussy Slayers. She thought New York would kill for them, but the rest of the band decided otherwise. Carmen spots her first, flips out, runs over like a groupie on Easter candy. Janice shrugs. 120 miles from any festival and no label wants the package deal anymore. Carmen? Fresh face, New Zealand name, sideways grin. She drums. Like, seriously. Bedroom kits, sound on the cheap little recorder. They bleed every wavelength. Upstairs in Carmen's tiny apartment. Skinny hallway, fewer clothes already. Jenna wants in—needs noise on sticks that lasts four bars longer than regular scenes. Janice leans across the rolled-up carpet over her lap, tugs the thin v-neck low. Carmen freezes, virgin territory flashing hot red behind her eyes. Janice smiles mean when she talks. Fuck now, drummer slot later, or drift. Carmen bites her lip, strips like extra loud on a cymbal line. Cotton sliding, goose bumps following every pass. Panties scoot sideways, Janice jerks the silky waistband farther still so it wedges against one muscle-ass cheek. Carmen dives tongue-first, nose-first, slathers dry from clit down over sopping folds until spit ribs glistening trails down Janice's spread. Janice's voice lashes "Harder," fingers framing Carmen's dark curls for leverage. Seconds later roles swap—the rockstar rocking her own legs back this time so sugary slick drips soak Carmen's lips. Janice nuzzles deeper, sucks the swelling hood, fingers testing reverb from the back wall. Now wet enough to test the truce, both tag-team in mirror but hotter, going for the 69 prize: mutual sharp toe-curling heat twenty ticks from boiling under-campus gasoline. Go-girl-abs pumping beneath, angel-gold tits brushing thighs while heads disappear between knees. Janice surges up before satisfaction pops, half-innocent glance swings wide open. Stage time itch—schedule tightening. Pants snapped tight, cell already pocketed with guarantees sublimated past vague. Cameo waving hand, nerve-auto-pilot winding like sound-checking cable. Later'nellas she rambles unstoppable destiny (music matching lies). Loved it bigger now at 213 bpm pulse speed than pussed-out filings, honestly. Clearly genuine hookup infused up highest gear despite not even closing add calls-yet.